Cicero - Anthony Everitt [183]
He now put himself in the hands of his servants and they took him by sea to his villa about sixty miles south at Caeta, near Formiae, which in happier days he had used as a refreshing retreat in the heat of summer. In Plutarch’s account, as the boat was being rowed to land, a flock of crows approached, cawing loudly. They perched on both ends of the yardarm and pecked at the ends of the ropes. Despite the fact that everyone thought this to be a bad omen, Cicero disembarked and went to the house to lie down and rest. He is reported to have said, rather grandly: “I will die in the country I have so often saved.” According to Plutarch:
Then most of the crows perched around the window, making a tremendous cawing. One of them flew down to the bed where Cicero was lying with his head all covered up, and little by little began to drag the garment away from his face with its beak. When the servants saw this they reproached themselves for standing by as spectators waiting for their master to be murdered, and doing nothing to defend him, while these wild brute creatures were helping him and caring for him in his undeserved ill fortune. So partly by entreaty and partly by force, they took him up and carried him in his litter towards the sea.
They were too late. A small party of men, led by a Military Tribune, Popillius Laenas, whom Cicero had once successfully defended in a civil case, and a centurion, Herennius, arrived at the villa. Finding the doors bolted, they broke them down, but those inside disclaimed all knowledge of their master’s whereabouts.
Then a young freedman of Quintus named Philologus, whom Cicero had educated, told Popilius that Cicero’s litter was being carried towards the sea along a path hidden by trees. In a flanking movement, Popilius went around to the shore where he could meet the party when it came out of the woods. Meanwhile Herennius hurried along the path. Cicero heard him coming and told his servants to put down the litter. This was the end and he was no longer going to run away.
He was reclining in a characteristic posture, with his chin resting on his left hand. He had a copy of Euripides’ Medea with him, which he had been reading. He would have been familiar with this drama of bitter revenge, in which a woman kills her children to spite her faithless husband. His eyes may have fallen on lines near the beginning of the play: “But now everything has turned to hatred and where love was once deepest a cancer spreads.”
He looked terrible: he was covered in dust, his hair was long and unkempt, his face pinched and worn with anxiety. He drew aside the curtain of his litter a little and said: “I am stopping here. Come here, soldier. There is nothing proper about what you are doing, but at least make sure you cut off my head properly.” Herennius trembled and hesitated. Cicero added, supposing that the man had already killed other victims and should by now have perfected his technique: “What if you’d come to me first?” He stretched his neck as far as he could out of the litter and Herennius slit his throat. While this was being done, most of those who were standing around covered their faces. It took three sword strokes and some sawing to detach the head