Imperium: A Novel of Ancient Rome

Robert Harris

55 pages 1-hour read

Robert Harris

Imperium: A Novel of Ancient Rome

Fiction | Novel | Adult | Published in 2006

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Themes

The Corrupting Price of Ambition

Tiro frames the entire memoir with a warning: “Power brings a man many luxuries, but a clean pair of hands is seldom among them” (3). The line establishes the book’s moral premise. Harris arranges Cicero’s career as a sequence of small, defensible bargains whose cumulative weight is the real subject. Each compromise is justified as a step toward a greater goal, but each leaves a mark, as Cicero sacrifices more and more of his integrity to advance.


From the start, Cicero is highly conscious of his status as a “new man”—one without a long aristocratic pedigree—and determined to overcome it through sheer excellence. However, the snub at Puteoli in Roll I, where Cicero returns from Sicily expecting recognition and is mistaken for a man back from Africa, signals the first hardening of this broad ambition into something ruthless. The scene closes on Cicero’s resolution: “Very well, his expression seemed to say, you fools can frolic; I shall work” (11). “Work” thus becomes bound up in Cicero’s resentment and desire for revenge, which taints even his more ethical endeavors. In the Verres case, for instance, the Sicilian victims supply Cicero with the occasion to upstage an aristocratic rival; indeed, he only decides to prosecute the case once he has decided that it will be a boon to his career.


Cicero’s motivations degrade further as the novel progresses. Initially, Cicero justifies his ambitions with reference to all that he could achieve once in power; at the Stone Quarries, for instance, he tells Lucius that he must seek political office to curb similar atrocities. By Roll XII, Cicero is less concerned with the common good but still driven by a sense of personal honor, telling Tiro he would “sooner never be consul than feel that [he] had only achieved it because of Crassus” (198). Six rolls later, he has abandoned both his pride and his commitment to populism, striking a deal with the aristocrats Hortensius and Catulus to block land reform and award triumphs to Pompey’s rivals. While Cicero rationalizes this action on the grounds that the reform measure were a disguised power grab, Quintus’s question becomes an indictment of the whole climb: “‘I had to win.’ ‘But to win what, exactly?’” (304). Cicero has no answer for it. The book’s argument is that he cannot have one because the price of imperium is the gradual reorganization of every principle around acquiring it.

Eloquence as Political Weapon

Tiro’s prologue states plainly that Cicero, lacking armies, fortune, and ancestors, possesses only his voice, which “by sheer effort of will he turn[s] […] into the most famous voice in the world” (4). Oratory in the late Republic is the one form of capital available to a man without legions or estates, and Cicero hones it during his time with Molon, where he learns a basic creed: “Only three things count in oratory. Delivery, delivery, and again: delivery” (7). Every later courtroom victory is built on his foundation: Cicero achieves his goals not because of what he says but because of how he says it. Truth is therefore irrelevant, and through Cicero’s career, the novel shows that oratory is as capable of subverting legal procedure and manipulating political outcomes as it is of defending justice.


The Verres trial in Roll IX, the novel’s first extended demonstration of Cicero’s talent, underscores the importance of form over content. The political maneuvering surrounding the trial makes the typical long oration impractical, so Cicero waives the speech and goes straight to witnesses. The cry he extracts from Numitorius, recounting Gavius’s death, finishes the case. “I am a Roman citizen” (142), repeated in Cicero’s mimed reconstruction of the flogging, reframes the provincial extortion suit as a constitutional crisis. While the novel depicts the prosecution of Verres as just, it does not pretend that this is why Cicero prevails. Rather, his strategic subversion of norms and emotional and patriotic appeals secure an outcome that happens to be just.


That Cicero’s persuasive abilities do not hinge on the truth or morality of what he is discussing becomes clearer still as he applies himself to increasingly dubious causes—for instance, securing the lex Gabinia for Pompey. However, the novel complicates this point by introducing a second principle of oratory, articulated while he prepares the Fonteius defense in Roll X: “What convinces is conviction” (161). The line means that he must believe his own argument before he can move others; the performance of honesty matters, even if honesty itself does not. For this reason, Cicero persuades himself that defending the corrupt Fonteius is patriotism, persuades himself that Catilina’s prosecution falls outside his honor to undertake, and so on. In all of this, Cicero effectively turns his powers of oratory on himself so that he can do what is politically expedient. The irony reaffirms the novel’s contention that style matters more than substance, as Cicero’s persuasive skills allow him to deceive even himself.

The Republic’s Slow Surrender to Strongmen

Set in the final days of the Roman Republic, Imperium traces the gradual concentration of power in fewer and fewer hands. Cicero registers this process and its likely endpoint. At the Villa Publica in Roll IV, watching Pompey and Crassus extort the joint consulship, he turns to Tiro and says: “We are witnessing the beginning of the end of the republic, Tiro, remember my words!” (58). The narrative vindicates Cicero’s claim, even as it shows him participating in the Republic’s unraveling. More specifically, the novel points to longstanding tensions between the aristocracy and common people, or plebeians, as a reason for the decline. Paradoxically, the Roman aristocracy is far more invested in democracy than the population at large; Rome’s constitutional norms work to their advantage. By contrast, those who have the vote but little money or power are easy marks for cynical politicians who highlight the system’s injustice for their own ends.


The lex Gabinia sequence in Roll XI is a case study. Cicero sees the danger immediately, telling Pompey at the Alban Hills conference that the proposal is unprecedented in the history of the republic. He then drafts the strategy that gets it passed, including Pompey’s feigned retirement and the threat to depose the obstructing tribune Trebellius. Tellingly, the latter relies on a precedent set by the populist politician Gracchus, which Tiro digs out of the National Archive. However, where Gracchus sought a tribune’s removal to pass land reform that would benefit ordinary citizens, the novel is clear that the lex Gabinia serves little but Pompey’s career. Rather, Pompey and his allies have stoked fears about the pirate threat to justify their power grab, as Cicero himself recognizes: “He shook his head in dismay at the ease with which a timorous population can be molded by unscrupulous politicians” (178). Meanwhile, the largely aristocratic Senate recognizes that the danger is overblown but cannot say as much without seeming “complacent”—that is, without ignoring the common good and popular will as it has repeatedly in the past.


Crassus’s scheme in Roll XVI further exposes the Republic’s underlying tensions and the role those tensions play in its collapse. Quintus’s gasp in the Subura tavern in Roll XVI, “Crassus is trying to buy the entire government!” (263), already marks a significant escalation of the bribery that has long plagued the system. As more details emerge, however, it becomes clear to Cicero that Crassus’s actions are an attempt to yoke the interests of a few elite individuals to those of the population at large, consolidating their own power via the mechanism of land reform: “[I]t is a coup d’état disguised as an agrarian reform bill! […] This commission of ten, led by Crassus and Caesar, will be the real masters of the country; […] And their domination at home will be maintained in perpetuity by the proceeds of extortion abroad” (277).


Cicero’s response is to expose the conspiracy in the In toga candida speech. The exposure is itself a transaction; Cicero buys the aristocrats’ support for his consular campaign in revealing the scheme. While the novel does not excuse this, it suggests that the contradictions underpinning Roman democracy have placed Cicero, and the Republic itself, in an impossible position. With popular sentiment increasingly harnessed by demagogues, those seeking to preserve Rome’s republican traditions must ally themselves with a corrupt aristocracy, which in and of itself hastens the Republic’s demise.

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