He paused while two senators passed. “The oath you swore to Fulvia can’t be broken, so I’m not asking you to belong to the Kill Caesar Club. Decimus thought of the name, which could be a joke as easily as a conspiracy—walls have ears? What I’m going to do is to ask you to help in ways that don’t affect your oath. Namely, by making it seem as if Caesar is about to don the diadem. There are people already saying that, but it’s generally held to be spite invented by Caesar’s avowed enemies, so it hasn’t impressed people like Flavius Hemicillus and Atticus, any of the other real plutocrats. As Decimus says, someone close to Caesar has to make the King of Rome option look a foregone conclusion.”
Two more senators passed by; Trebonius was overheard talking eagerly about Antony’s new Public Horse.
“Now, the rumor is out that next year you will be consul,” Trebonius resumed, “and that when Caesar leaves Rome for the war against the Parthians, you’re to stay in Rome to govern until the end of the year, then start a campaign into Dacia with Vatinius—don’t ask me how I know, just believe I do. I imagine you’re not as pleased as maybe Caesar thinks you are, and I understand why. Booty will be hard to come by. There’s no German treasure like the one in Atuatuca, nor is there a Druid center of worship full of gold votives. You’ll have to force the barbarians to reveal the sites of their burial mounds, and you’re not a Labienus, are you? As for the sale of slaves, who’s going to buy them? The biggest market is the Kingdom of the Parthians, and they’re not going to be buying any slaves while Caesar’s breathing down their necks. But if Caesar is dead, all that changes, doesn’t it?”
Antony stopped, bent to tie his boot; his fingers, Trebonius noted, were trembling. Yes, the message was being absorbed.
“Anyway, as consul-elect for the rump of this year and consul in fact next year, you’re in a perfect position to perform little acts that will make it appear as if Caesar intends to be Caesar Rex. There’s talk of putting a statue of Caesar in Quirinus’s, but what if the Senate voted to give Caesar a palace on the Quirinal alongside Quirinus’s, and put a temple pediment on it? What if there was to be a cult to Caesar’s clemency, only it looked more like a god cult? If you were the flamen, people would have to take it seriously, wouldn’t they?”
Trebonius paused to draw breath, then went on. “I have a great many ideas along those lines, and I’m sure you’re capable of thinking of plenty for yourself. What we have to do is make it seem as if Caesar will never step down, never abrogate his power, and is aiming at being a god on earth. The first step to that is to be a king, so the two can be worked together. You see, none of the members of the Kill Caesar Club wants to be tried for perduellio treason, or even to be castigated for the deed. We aim to be heroes. But that requires the generation of a mood in the First Class, which is the only Class that matters. Anyone lower than that thinks Caesar is a god and a king already, and they love it and love him. He gives them work, opportunities, prosperity—do they care who rules them, or how? No, they don’t. Even the Second Class. What we have to do is turn the First Class implacably against Caesar Rex.”
They were approaching Lucius Caesar’s mansion. “Don’t say a word, Antonius. Your actions are all the answer we need.”
Trebonius nodded and smiled as if they had just enjoyed a meaningless conversation, and slipped inside. Mark Antony walked on to the governor’s palace. He too was smiling.
When the huge cavalcade departed from Narbo the next day at dawn, Caesar invited Antony to share his gig. Not at all put out, Gaius Octavius joined Decimus Brutus in another gig.
“We’re remote relatives, young Octavius,” Decimus Brutus said, settling himself into his seat with a sigh of weariness. The time in Narbo had been a strain, and the strain was going to continue until he could be sure that Antony had not tattled.
“Indeed we are,” said Octavius sunnily.
The exchange constituted the prelude to a journey of innocuous talk that ended three days later in Arelate, where Caesar stayed a nundinum to get the Fifth Alauda organized. When the gigs commenced the haul up the Via Domitia to the Mons Genava Pass, Octavius was back in Caesar’s gig, and Mark Antony traveled with Decimus Brutus. No, he hadn’t tattled. The relief!
“Out of favor already?” Decimus asked. “Truly, Antonius, you need a muzzle.”
Antony grinned. “No, I’m standing well with the Great Man. The trouble is that I’m too big for him to have a secretary there too. The pretty little pansy bum-boy doesn’t take up much room. He’s something, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” said Decimus instantly, “but not in the way you mean it. Gaius Octavius is very dangerous.”
“You’re joking! The strain of waiting to see if I’d tattle has warped your thinking, Decimus.”
“Far from it, Antonius. Do you remember the tale of Sulla’s remark to Aurelia when she begged for Caesar’s life? He wasn’t much older then than Octavius is now. ‘Very well, have it your own way! I will spare him! But be warned! In this young man I see many Mariuses.’ Well, in this boy I see many Mariuses.”
“You’re definitely touched in the head,” said Antony with a rude noise, and changed the subject. “Our next stop’s Cularo.”
“What happens there?”
“A gathering of the Vocontii. The Great Man is bestowing the traditional Vocontii lands on them for their absolute own in honor of old Gnaeus Pompeius Trogus.”
“That’s one thing I have to grant Caesar,” said Decimus Brutus. “He never forgets a good turn. Trogus was a wonderful help to us through all the years in Gaul, and the Vocontii have earned Friend and Ally status. After Trogus joined the staff, they stopped those awful raids on us. Never joined Vercingetorix either.”
“I’m going ahead when we reach Taurasia,” Antony announced.
“Why’s that?”
“Fulvia’s due and I’d like to be there.”
Decimus Brutus burst out laughing. “Antonius! You’re under the cat’s foot at last! How many children have you got already?”
“Only the one in wedlock, and she’s a dolt. All Fadia’s died with her in that epidemic, don’t forget. Not that they were any loss, with a Fadia for a mother. Fulvia’s different. This sprog will be able to say he’s the great-grandson of Gaius Gracchus.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Fulvia says she’s carrying a boy, and she’d know.”
“Two boys and two girls by Clodius, a boy by Curio—you’re right, she’d know.”
The Via Domitia came down to the vast river plain of the Padus at Placentia, which was the capital of Italian Gaul and the seat of the governor, Gaius Vibius Pansa, one of Caesar’s loyalest clients. He had succeeded Brutus, so when Brutus and Cassius arrived in Placentia, he hailed them delightedly.
“My dear Brutus, you did a brilliant job,” he said warmly. “To succeed you has left me with practically nothing to do beyond follow your edicta. Here to see Caesar?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, which means you’ll be crowded out with boarders,” Brutus said, a little astonished at so much praise. “Gaius Cassius and I will stay at Tigellius’s inn.”
“Nothing of the kind! No, no, I won’t hear of it! I’ve had a message from Caesar that says his party will consist of himself, Quintus Pedius, Calvinus, and three contubernales. Decimus Brutus and Gaius Trebonius are traveling straight on to Rome, so are the others who’ve managed to keep up with Caesar,” said Pansa.
“Then thank you, Pansa,” Cassius said briskly. “I hope,” he said to Brutus when they took possession of a suite of four rooms, “that we don’t have a long wait. Pansa is tedious.”
“Um,” said Brutus absently; his mind was on Porcia, whom he was missing badly. Not to mention that he was suffering from guilt because he hadn’t dared tell her whereabouts he was going.
The wait was minimal; Caesar turned up the next day in time for dinner. His reaction to their presence was perhaps a little too imperious for Cassius’s taste, but his gladness was genuine.
S
even of them reclined to take the meal: Caesar, Calvinus, Quintus Pedius, Pansa, Brutus, Cassius and Gaius Octavius. In accordance with tradition, Pansa’s wife, Fufia Calena, had not accompanied him to his province, so there were no women present to slow the conversation down with small talk.
“Where’s Quintus Fabius Maximus?” Pansa asked Caesar.
“Gone ahead with Antonius. He did very well in Spain, so he will be triumphing. As will Quintus Pedius.”
Cassius’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. The idea of holding triumphs for victories over purely Roman foes had not occurred to him—surely Caesar wasn’t going to call it a Spanish revolt! Not enough of the Further province had risen for that, and the Nearer one hadn’t participated at all.
“You’ll be triumphing yourself?” Pansa asked.
“Naturally,” said Caesar with a slightly malicious smile.
He’s not even going to bother trying to disguise the fact that the enemy was Roman, thought Cassius. He’s going to revel in this pathetic victory! I wonder did he pickle Gnaeus Pompey’s head so he can display it in his parade?
A silence fell while everybody concentrated upon the food; Cassius was not the only one rendered uncomfortable by the fact that the enemy had been Roman.
“Been writing anything lately, Brutus?” Caesar asked.
Brutus’s sad brown eyes lifted to Caesar’s face, startled out of his reverie about Porcia. “Why, yes,” he said. “No less than three dissertations, as a matter of fact.”
“Three.”
“Yes, I like to keep several projects going at once. As luck would have it,” he went on before his mind could stop him, “the manuscripts were at Tusculum, so didn’t perish in the fire.”
“Fire?”
Brutus went scarlet, bit his lip. “Er—yes. There was a fire in my study in Rome. All my books and papers were burned.”
“Edepol! Is your house in ashes?”
“No, the house is intact. Our steward acted very promptly.”
“Epaphroditus. Yes, a gem, as I remember. You say that all your books and papers perished? I mean, a man’s books and papers are scattered around the four walls of his study, not to mention the tables and desk,” said Caesar, munching on nuts.
“True,” said Brutus, his misery visibly increasing.
The intelligence behind the pale eyes had clearly grasped at a mystery—may even, Cassius decided, have divined what really happened. But Brutus was unworthy prey for this big cat, so the subject was dropped with a lordly command:
“Do tell us about the manuscripts at Tusculum.”
“Well, one dissertation is on virtue, one is on submissive endurance, and one on duty,” said Brutus, recovering.
“What do you have to say about virtue, Brutus?”
“Oh, that virtue alone is sufficient to ensure a happy life. If a man be truly virtuous, then poverty, sickness or exile cannot destroy his happiness, Caesar.”
“Do tell! You amaze me, considering the wealth of your experience. A Stoic’s argument that should please Porcia. My most sincere congratulations on your marriage,” said Caesar gravely.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
“Submissive endurance—is it a virtue?” Caesar asked, then answered his own question. “Absolutely not!”
Calvinus laughed. “A Caesarean answer.”
“A man’s answer,” said a voice from the end of the far couch. “Endurance is a genuine virtue, but submissiveness is a quality admirable only in women,” Octavius declared.
Cassius’s eyes went from Brutus’s discomfiture to the lad, their brown depths surprised. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he didn’t consider anyone as womanish as this presumptuous sprig an authority on men’s answers, but again he suppressed his impulse. What stopped him was Caesar’s face. Ye gods, our ruler is proud of this pansy ninny! What’s more, respects his opinion!
The last course was carried out; only the wine and water remained. What a curious dinner, how fraught with hidden tensions. Cassius found it difficult to decide exactly where the source of these stresses was located. At first, inevitably, he had blamed Caesar, but the longer the meal went on, the more he thought that young Gaius Octavius was the guilty party. He stood on incredibly good terms with his great-uncle, so much was evident. What he said—when he said anything—was listened to as if he were a legate, not a lowly cadet. Nor was it Caesar alone; Calvinus and Pedius hung upon Octavius’s lips too. Yet Cassius couldn’t call the youth impudent, rude, forward, even conceited. Most of the time he lay among the shadows, left the conversation to his elders. Except for those sudden, uncannily prescient, occasionally barbative, remarks. Uttered quietly but firmly. You, Gaius Octavius, said Cassius to himself, are a deep one.
“Now to business,” said Caesar, so unexpectedly that Cassius was jerked out of his ruminations about Gaius Octavius.
“Business?” Pansa asked, startled.
“Yes, but not provincial business, Pansa, so relax. Marcus Brutus—Gaius Cassius—I have praetorships going begging next year,” Caesar said. “Brutus, I’m offering you praetor urbanus. Cassius, I’m offering you praetor peregrinus. Will you accept?”
“Yes, please!” cried Brutus, lighting up.
“Yes, I accept,” said Cassius, less joyfully.
“I believe that urban praetor best suits your talents, Brutus, whereas foreign praetor suits Cassius better. With your love of meticulous work, you’ll issue the right kind of edicta and stick to them,” said Caesar to Brutus. He turned then to Cassius. “As for you, Cassius, you’ve had a great deal of experience with non-citizens, you travel hard and fast, and you think on your feet. Therefore, foreign praetor.”
Ah! thought Cassius, lying back limply. It has been worth the trip. So Dolabella thinks to have Syria, does he?
Brutus was in a state of exaltation. Urban praetor! The top job! Oh, Porcia will understand, I know she will!
They look, thought Octavius, like cats in a lake of cream.
7
When Caesar left Placentia, he traveled alone; even Gaius Octavius was told that he would have to make his own way back to Rome. Thus the little clutch of gigs which galloped off down the Via Aemilia Scauri to the coast and the Via Aurelia of Etruria contained Caesar’s secretaries, servants, and Hapd’efan’e.
Well into Sextilis already, which meant less than seven months before he departed for Syria and a decent war. That meant two lots of work: what still had to be done for Rome and Italy, as well as the myriad preparations that went into planning a five-year campaign involving fifteen legions of infantry and ten thousand German, Gallic and Galatian cavalry. Gaius Rabirius Postumus was acting as praefectus fabrum, and the trusty old muleteer, Publius Ventidius, was busy recruiting and training. This campaign would see no raw troops; luckily a year of retirement was about as much peace and quiet as any old legionary could stomach, so the re-enlistment ratio was very high. With Ventidius supervising, the re-enlisting veterans would be carefully culled and juggled so that the very best of them went into making six crack legions, while the rest were apportioned to make the other nine legions uniformly experienced. Artillery. A hundred pieces per legion, not counting the small stuff. Artificers and skilled noncombatants of all kinds…
The time on the road passed swiftly, spent in dictating to shuffled arrays of secretaries, now about military matters, now about Rome, now about Italy, now about public works crying out to be done, from that canal through the Isthmus of Corinth to a new harbor at Ostia. Drain the Pomptine marshes, build more aqueducts into Rome, divert the Tiber so that the Campus Martius and the Campus Vaticanus were both on Rome’s side of the river. Italy owned no Via Julia Caesaris, so one must be constructed between Rome and Firmum Picenum to open up the least accessible parts of the Apennines…
Get those wretched land commissioners off their arses so that those of his veterans being settled in Italy weren’t kept around waiting years for their land. He had legislated to protect them from the depredations of greedy
wives, confidence tricksters and gobbling landowners by forbidding them to sell their portions for twenty years. Something Brutus had said to him in Placentia had annoyed him, for Brutus knew so little of human nature (“submissive endurance” indeed!) that he actually believed Caesar had instituted the twenty-year prohibition to stop the soldiers selling their land to buy wine and whores. That’s how Brutus thought the lower classes behaved. Brutus, who knew nothing of poverty, sickness or exile, yet could dismiss them as incapable of destroying happiness! The entire Palatine ought to grow up amid poverty, as Caesar had. Not desperately poor himself, as Sulla had been, but witness to the suffering poverty brought in its train, the lives it blighted…
Fascinating, that a year governing Italian Gaul had cured Brutus’s pimples. Authority had freed him from his own miseries—and freed him from Servilia at last. So much so that upon his return he had divorced his Claudia and married Cato’s daughter. Caesar knew as surely as if he had been present how that fire in Brutus’s study had started…
It was time that Italian Gaul was made a part of Italy, ceased to be governed as a province. Every inhabitant was now a full citizen, so why was there an artificial barrier in existence? Why did Rome send it a governor, instead of governing it directly? Sicilians ought to be granted the full citizenship, though that would be bitterly opposed, even by his own creatures. Too many of Greek descent—but wasn’t that equally true of Italy south of Rome? Smaller and darker…
It wasn’t right that Alexandria had a library of close to a million copies, while Rome had no public library at all. Varro! The perfect job for Marcus Terentius Varro, to collect multiple copies of all the books extant and put them under one roof…
The problem he didn’t share with his secretaries through the medium of dictation was the fate of Rome in his absence. It had plagued him from the moment the situation in Syria had informed him that, if the world of Our Sea was to remain Occidental, the Kingdom of the Parthians would have to be eliminated. The fact that he knew he was the only man capable of invading and crushing the Parthian empire was not evidence of overweening conceit, but simple knowledge of himself—of his will, abilities, genius. The truth was not conceit.