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We knew we would be venturing into lawless country, full of roaming bands of armed men, and so we travelled in a closed carriage escorted by a large retinue of guards and attendants. Once across the Mulvian Bridge we turned left along the bank of the Tiber and joined the Via Cassia, a road I had never travelled before. By noon we were climbing into hilly country. Atticus had promised me spectacular views. But the dismal weather Italy had endured ever since Caesar’s assassination continued to curse us, and the distant peaks of the pine-covered mountains were draped in mist. For the entire two days we were on the road it barely seemed to get light.

Cicero’s earlier ebullience had faded. He was uncharacteristically quiet, conscious no doubt that the future of the republic might depend on the coming meeting. On the afternoon of the second day, as we reached the edge of the great lake and our destination came into view, he began to complain of feeling cold. He shivered and blew on his hands, but when I tried to cover his knees with a blanket, he threw it off like an irritable child and said that although he might be ancient, he was not an invalid.

Atticus had bought his property as an investment and had only visited it once; still, he never forgot a thing when it came to money and he quickly remembered where to find it. Large and dilapidated – parts of it dated back to Etruscan times – the villa stood just outside the city walls of Volsinii, right on the edge of the water. The iron gates were open. Drifts of dead leaves had rotted in the damp courtyard; black lichen and moss covered the terracotta roofs. Only a thin curl of smoke rising from the chimney gave any sign it was inhabited. We assumed from the deserted grounds that Octavian had not yet arrived. But as we descended from the carriage, the steward hurried forward and said that a young man was waiting inside.

He was sitting in the tablinum with his friend Agrippa and he rose as we entered. I looked to see if the spectacular change in his fortunes was reflected at all in his manner or person, but he seemed exactly as before: quiet, modest, watchful, with the same unstylish haircut and youthful acne. He had come without any escort, he said, apart from two chariot drivers, who had taken their teams to be fed and watered in the town. (‘No one knows what I look like, so I prefer not to draw attention to myself; it is better to hide in plain sight, don’t you think?’) He clasped hands very warmly with Cicero. After the introductions were over, Cicero said, ‘I thought Tiro here could make a note of anything we agree on and then we could each have a copy.’

Octavian said, ‘So you’re empowered to negotiate?’

‘No, but it would be useful to have something to show to the leaders of the Senate.’

‘Personally, if you don’t mind, I would prefer it if nothing were written down. That way we can talk more freely.’

There is therefore no verbatim record of their conference, although I wrote up an account immediately afterwards for Cicero’s personal use. First Octavian gave a summary of the military situation as he understood it. He had, or would have shortly, four legions at his disposal: the veterans from Campania, the levies he was raising in Etruria, the Martian and the Fourth. Antony had three legions, including the Larks, but also another entirely inexperienced, and was closing in on Decimus, whom he understood from his agents had retreated to the city of Mutina, where he was slaughtering and salting cattle and preparing for a long siege. Cicero said that the Senate had eleven legions in Further Gaul: seven under Lepidus and four under Plancus.

Octavian said, ‘Yes, but they are the wrong side of the Alps and are needed to hold down Gaul. Besides, we both know the commanders are not necessarily reliable, especially Lepidus.’

‘I shan’t argue with you,’ said Cicero. ‘The position boils down to this: you have the soldiers but no legitimacy; we have the legitimacy but no soldiers. What we do both have, however, is a common enemy – Antony. And it seems to me that somewhere in that mixture must be the basis for an agreement.’

Agrippa said, ‘An agreement you’ve just told us you have no authority to make.’

‘Young man, take it from me, if you want to make a deal with the Senate, I am your best hope. And let me tell you something else – it will be no easy task to convince them, even for me. There’ll be plenty who’ll say, “We didn’t get rid of one Caesar to ally ourselves with another.”’

‘Yes,’ retorted Agrippa, ‘and plenty on our side who’ll say, “Why should we fight to protect the men who murdered Caesar? This is just a trick to buy us off until they’re strong enough to destroy us.”’

Cicero slammed his hands on the armrests of his chair. ‘If that is how you feel, then this has been a wasted journey.’