Fronto spotted Cassius on his way to the meeting and swiftly backtracked, finding another corridor. The last thing he wanted was another bitter lecture on the importance of the republic from the man. He liked Cassius, and certainly respected his ideals, but there came a time when it all became repetitive noise. And almost two months of idleness in the city had done little to improve that.
Some of the officers, men like Hirtius and Salvius, itched to move on to Africa and put an end to the war. Others, like Cassius, believed that Rome’s job here was done, and that a peaceful solution could be found, that a return to Rome was now the way.
Caesar was determined to stay for now, though. Reasons were cited, and they were all good reasons. The country had suffered a year of war, and the disruption to the infrastructure had been dreadful. The presence of Roman legions full of engineers held the promise of getting the country back on its feet much faster than without. And in return for the military helping put Aegyptus right, the queen had pledged grain and gold for the republic. Besides, with the cessation of hostilities, the city was once more a hub for produce, and the legions were living well, better than they had done for half a year, so none of the common soldiery was complaining.
And throughout the days that had followed the victory at the Nilus, Caesar and his officers had aided the queen’s government in removing anyone who posed a continuing threat or stood against her, securing their army and reorganising it under new officers of certain loyalty.
Plus, of course, it took time to recover supplies and call in all the ships of the fleet.
There were many very good reasons to stay.
And only one that no one mentioned.
The queen’s condition became more and more pronounced as the days wore on, and it was the private view of all concerned that Caesar had no intention of leaving the country until his offspring was born. In a way, Fronto could understand. The man had never had a son, and celebrated only one child through three marriages. Moreover, Julia, too, had died a few years ago. Oh, the consul still had family, and Fronto had seen how close he had been at times with his precocious great nephew Octavian, but the notion that he might sire an offspring here, and soon, would be a central factor in everything he now did.
How that ate away at Cassius, Fronto could see every day.
Nothing had annoyed the man as much, though, as the triumph. Cassius had been set against it in conversation with all others, though he had at least learned now to keep his mouth shut in the presence of the queen and the consul. But he had almost exploded holding in his opinions as the triumph was planned. A triumph, he had spat in private, was held in Rome. It was voted by the senate. And it was only given when deserved. For Caesar to vote himself and his bitch a triumph in this godsforsaken latrine of a country – Cassius’ words – was unacceptable.
Yet he had stayed and frowned and sneered throughout, as the consul and the queen, with their retinues and armies, had paraded through Aegyptus on vast, luxurious barges. They had sailed upriver as far as Memphis to the adulation of the people, where they gathered the youngest of the siblings, yet another Ptolemy. Their captives were paraded in chains along the bank, including the princess Arsinoë. When it was finally over, and the ships deposited them all back in Alexandria, the decision had been made about the younger princess’ fate. Despite Cleopatra’s demands that she be executed, the consul sent her with a solid military escort aboard a ship for Ephesus, where she was to spend the rest of her life in the sisterhood of the temple of Artemis.
None of it did anything to diminish Cassius’ rantings, and Fronto had begun to avoid him as far as possible.
The meetings of the officers that had been held every market cycle had become little more than civilian planning meetings, deciding how best the Roman forces based here could improve matters for the locals and their queen. The meetings had, in fact, become so mundane and humdrum that many officers had stopped attending regularly, which was why it seemed so worrying and important that the entire officer corps had been summoned to today’s gathering.
There had to be news of import.
Couriers came in every now and then from Rome or Syria, or other odd locations, including Pergamon since the prince had taken his army and departed. It was usually dismal news, too, but nothing enough to stir Caesar from his intention to stay in Alexandria.
Fronto entered the room and found somewhere to stand safely far away from Cassius, awaiting the last of the invitees. Once Salvius Cursor nodded to show he was the last and closed the door behind him, Caesar straightened behind his table. He picked up a scroll tube and tapped it meaningfully, then indicated another lying nearby.
‘Gentlemen, we are presented with a troubling quandary.’
A wave of uncertainty washed through the room. It had been so long since anything important had happened, it seemed strange now. Caesar looked around the room, then picked up the leather tubes, one in each hand.
‘Neither of these missives represents Aegyptus, where we reside and where in the perfect world we would continue to do so into the winter, allowing full settlement of this client state into the position we require, and securing the queen as our link with it. Neither, equally, represents Africa, where Cato now gathers our enemies, creating a redoubt against us, filled with men of military strength and intelligence. Both of those are places where our presence is required in the best situation. Neither of those is one of the options now upon the table.’
He waved the scroll case in his right hand.
‘Rome. Tidings from Antonius are far from encouraging. It is one thing to have enemies gathering in Africa, at the edge of empire, but it seems that Rome begins to seethe once more. The decision to confirm my dictatorship going onwards to deal with the continuing threat, it appears, was not universally popular, and Antonius compounding it, by extending his own position as Master of the Horse, has enraged many.’
Fronto could imagine it well. It would be seen as an attempt to extend personal power, especially as he seemed to be dallying in Aegyptus and not dealing with that threat for which the dictatorship had been conferred.
‘Moreover, Cornelius Dolabella, along with Pollio and Trebellus, have been making trouble, attempting to secure the cancellation of debts owed. Had I been present, perhaps I might have managed to play down the situation, but unfortunately Antonius is a man of action, and charisma is no replacement for political wit. His rather heavy-handed approach did more than just fail to put an end to their trouble; it exacerbated it, and has driven many a senator to their side. Senators who owe their career and wealth to me alone are becoming my naysayers.’
His voice had become bitter. This was not good news, and they all knew it. Left alone, Rome would fester and more and more voices would be raised against the consul. He needed to be there. Cassius had been right about that, at least. And Antonius might be able to persuade people of many things with his glib tongue, but he also had a temper, which worked against him in political circles as much as his charisma worked for him.
‘Finally, there seems to be trouble among those legions we sent back to Italia after Dyrrachium and Pharsalus. A triumph is seemingly expected in Rome, and those legions who fought so hard in Achaea wish to be publically recognised. It seems that our little display here for the benefit of the queen has been seen as an affront by many an officer and soldier who fought at Pharsalus.’
Fronto winced, turning to look at Cassius. The man’s face was a picture as he bit down on all the ‘I told you so’s he’d built up over the weeks of complaining about that lavish triumph on the barges. Cassius looked as though he might burst at any moment and shower them all with anger and bile. How he managed to remain silent, Fronto could never guess.
Caesar sighed. ‘Rome, you see, demands my presence, and the continuing support of my own legions requires us.’
‘And the other scroll, Caesar?’ Hirtius muttered, pointing.
Caesar looked at his left hand and gently shook its contents.
‘The on
ly reason we are not already planning the journey to Rome. The news that might be considered more urgent.’
There was a tense silence, all breath held as they waited.
‘Pharnaces the Second. The situation in the east continues in decline, though now at a sharp angle. Domitius Calvinus, along with several of Rome’s allies and clients, has been defeated rather disastrously and fled back to Syria to lick his wounds. While Calvinus simmers in Tarsus, Pharnaces rolls over the entire east in a war of conquest. Styling himself the king of Pontus, he appears to be trying to pull together all the territories that Pontus once held.’
There was a collective intake of breath. Such a move, way beyond defeating Calvinus, was a direct challenge to Rome.
‘Yes,’ Caesar said. ‘I can see by your faces that you understand the importance of this. Pharnaces has seized large areas of Cappadocia and Armenia, parts of Syria and other local states. He has bludgeoned the allies of Rome, overrun our loyal client kings, and even seized cities that belong to the republic. Left unchecked, which it seems he is since Calvinus’ defeat, we may be watching the rise of a new empire in the east.’
Cassius finally spoke, and Fronto was impressed at how controlled he sounded.
‘Then you must go east, Caesar.’
‘It is a difficult decision,’ the consul replied, with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
‘No, Consul, it is not. Not for the man made dictator for the safety of the republic.’
‘Oh?’ Caesar seemed genuinely interested.
‘Of course. Rome displays troubles and political difficulties, and the legions feel ignored and disenfranchised. But these are all affronts to you personally. They are matters that concern your place in the republic. The invasion of Cappadocia is a challenge to that republic by an enemy of Rome. That automatically takes precedence. That is of far greater import. If you cannot see that, Caesar, then you do not deserve the imperium of dictatorship that has been granted to you.’
There was a shocked silence, even from Fronto. Few people had ever been so brazen and near insulting to the general. Oh, Fronto had, but only in private. This was public. Cassius had upbraided his own commander in front of everyone.
Eyes, nervous and twitchy, slid from the general to Cassius and back, awaiting the response.
Caesar stood silent and still, his arms gradually lowering until the scroll cases touched the table.
‘Cassius,’ said Hirtius, disapproval in his tone, but Cassius waved him down. ‘No, Hirtius. I am only saying what you all think. If our general has the good of the republic at heart then his decision is simple and this is no insult. If self-aggrandisement is more important than the republic, then it becomes an insult, and it is one I will stand by.’
He narrowed his eyes and pointed at Caesar. ‘If you march on Pharnaces of Pontus, then you can count on my sword arm by your side and my utmost loyalty, Caesar, but if you turn away from the republic’s enemy to deal with your own opponents, then I was wrong to bend the knee last year at the Hellespont, and I shall follow you no further.’
The tense silence returned, and Caesar stood regarding Cassius with an unreadable expression.
Finally, he nodded, dropping the scroll case from his right hand.
‘You are, of course, entirely correct, Cassius, and I am forced to thank you for reminding me of my duty. Rome must wait. I will send a few men there to support Antonius in his efforts and, at times, restrain him if necessary. Then we shall march on Cappadocia and Pharnaces, the enemy of Rome.’
There was a sense of deflation and relief in the room. Cassius stood silent for a moment longer, gaze locked on Caesar, as if willing him to change his mind. Then finally he nodded.
‘It will take perhaps a week to gather sufficient ships to move the army,’ he said.
‘That will not be necessary.’
‘What?’
‘This place is still unsettled and Rome will soon become reliant upon Aegyptian grain, with Cato in control of the African wheat supply. We cannot leave Aegyptus free to do as they please. The queen rules only with Roman support. The Gabiniani might renege upon their oath, after all. No, we shall leave the Twenty Seventh and the Thirty Seventh here to continue the work of securing Aegyptus.’
Fronto blinked. ‘That’s dangerous, Caesar,’ he said. ‘You mean to take only the Sixth?’
‘And the cavalry, yes.’
‘Calvinus had five times that number, and still lost to Pharnaces.’
Caesar peered across at Fronto, and an odd smile crossed his face. ‘But Calvinus lacked something we do not.’
‘And what is that?’ demanded Cassius.
‘Me,’ replied the general, without a hint that he recognised the hubris he displayed.
Chapter Twenty Three
Tarsus, July 17th 47 BC
Fronto rubbed his sore rump and shifted slightly between the saddle horns as Bucephalus plodded stoically towards the walled city, which lay at the northern edge of the plain in the shadow of the mountains beyond – a smudge of blue-grey that rippled with the heat haze. He had to remove his helmet for a moment and wipe the sweat from his head, with his only slightly less sodden scarf. He’d thought that leaving Aegyptus would mean an end to the steaming heat they had suffered for more than half a year. What he had not counted upon was that winter in Alexandria was not a great deal hotter than Syria in high summer.
He reminded himself, and not for the first time, that he should stop complaining and think himself lucky. Bucephalus was probably suffering under his weight and in this heat every bit as much as Fronto himself, but at least they weren’t at sea.
It had taken longer than expected to leave Alexandria. There were many official and very rational reasons for this, yet a person only had to be in Cassius’ company for a short time before he began to suspect the general was simply struggling to leave his exotic queen behind. But leave her behind they had. The queen now had all of Aegyptus subjugated, and with no strong opposition. Her army was supported by the Twenty Seventh and Thirty Seventh legions, and a cadre of very sensible Roman officers, who had been tasked not only with securing Rome’s favoured ruler, but also with remaining loyal directly to Caesar, and not sliding into local politics as the Gabiniani had done. To legitimise the royal house once more and prevent the insidious Aegyptian worry over the sole female ruler, Cleopatra had agreed to marry her youngest brother, the boy now known as Ptolemy the Fourteenth, and rule with him. It was a formality, for there could be no doubt who truly commanded in that relationship.
Fronto had initially been somewhat surprised at how easily Caesar had handed his lover over in marriage to another, but had quickly shaken off notions of propriety. After all, Caesar was already married himself, and there was no romance in this royal match, especially with Ptolemy not yet old enough to lose the bulla of childhood, or whatever the Aegyptian equivalent was.
So, finally, they had been ready to depart, with Aegyptus settled and safe.
Taking only the Sixth Legion, which, when allowing for the dead of the past few months, the number of wounded after the dreadful fight by the Nilus, and their being below strength in the first place, put their numbers now at less than two thousand, the consul and his staff had finally left Alexandria. Despite her wonders, Fronto was quietly glad about that, and even more so that there was very little chance that he would ever be called upon to return to the place.
To his relief they had decided not to travel by ship after all. Though it would be swifter and less bothersome to most, Caesar as always had practical reasons for choosing a land route. Rome had allies in the east, many of whom had joined with the army of Mithridates and helped the general win his war. When that same army had departed, those allies had gone with the prince, unaware that Caesar might have to call upon them for another campaign. Given the need for manpower, the consul had elected to travel along the coast with the legion and his cavalry, collecting units as he went. It were not a vast horde of men that they collected, but even small units of missi
le troops could make a big difference in the field.
Finally, after weeks of travelling, the army had moved into northern Syria and arrived at Tarsus, the great ancient city at the crossroads of the world. A thriving trade city on the silk route, and a metropolis brought under Rome’s wing by Pompey just twenty years ago, Tarsus had swiftly been transformed into the heart of the Roman east, a suitable capital from which the Roman governor could maintain control. Thus it was that this walled city by the Cilician shore had been the place to which Calvinus had retreated, licking his wounds after his latest defeat.
Caesar had been tight-lipped on the subject of Calvinus. The man had, after all, lost huge numbers of troops and important land in a failed war against a foreign king, and it was only a combination of the ability he had shown commanding the centre at Pharsalus, and his clear, known and unswerving loyalty to Caesar, that kept him from disgrace.
Now, as Fronto rolled his shoulders and anticipated the rest they would enjoy tonight in a real bed, he could see the small detachment of well-dressed men riding out from the city’s great square gates to meet them. As they neared, the scouts ahead of the column signalling that nothing untoward awaited them, the officers kicked their horses into speed and moved ahead of the army.
Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus sat astride a white mare, half a dozen officers at his back, as well as a few local dignitaries seated on litters and wrapped in togas. Two centuries of legionaries stood in lines to the sides – an honour guard for the commander.
As they converged, Fronto noted with interest a scar across Calvinus’ cheek, which looked relatively fresh. It seemed that despite his loss at Nicopolis, Calvinus had not withdrawn without a fight. Caesar had also noted the wound, and Fronto could see the consul reappraising the man with this fresh insight.
‘Consul,’ Domitius Calvinus said, bowing his head. ‘Welcome to Tarsus.’
Caesar nodded. ‘Domitius, thank you for the welcome. We shall not be tarrying more than a single night here, however. Pharnaces of Pontus must be made to pay for his presumption, and his territorial gains returned to Roman control. We march on in the morning, and other than leaving an appropriate garrison in this city, I need you and your forces to join us. How many men can you muster, excluding walking wounded?’
Sands of Egypt Page 34
