Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

  "Yes, Caesar," said Lepidus.

  "Marcus Crassus,” said Caesar in a softer voice. This was one legate he prized, the last living link with his friend Crassus, and a loyal subordinate in Gaul. "Marcus Crassus, to you I hand my province of Italian Gaul. Care for it well. You will also begin a census of all those inhabitants of Italian Gaul who do not as yet hold the full citizenship. As soon as I have the time, I will be legislating the full citizenship for everyone. Therefore a census will shorten the procedure."

  "Yes, Caesar," said Marcus Crassus.

  "Gaius Antonius," said Caesar, voice neutral. Marcus he thought a good man provided his duties were spelled out and dire punishment promised if he failed, but this middle of the three Antonian brothers he couldn't care for at all. Almost as large as Marcus, but not nearly as bright. An untutored oaf. Family, however, was family. Therefore Gaius Antonius would have to be given a job with some responsibility. A pity. Whatever he was given would not be done well.

  "Gaius Antonius, you will take two legions of locally recruited troops and hold Illyricum for me. When I say hold, I mean just that. You will not conduct assizes or function as governor—Marcus Crassus in Italian Gaul will look after that side of Illyricum. Base yourself at Salona, but keep your communications with Tergeste open at all times. Do not tempt Pompeius; he's fairly close to you. Understood?"

  "Yes, Caesar."

  "Orca," said Caesar to Quintus Valerius Orca, "you will go to Sardinia with one legion of local recruits and hold it for me. Personally I wouldn't care if the whole island sank to the bottom of Our Sea, but the grain it produces is valuable. Safeguard it."

  "Yes, Caesar."

  "Dolabella, I'm giving you the Adriatic Sea. You'll raise a fleet and defend it against any navy Pompeius may have. Sooner or later I'll be using the crossing from Brundisium to Macedonia, and I expect to be able to use it."

  "Yes, Caesar."

  Now came one of the more surprising Caesareans, the son of Quintus Hortensius. He had gone to Caesar in Gaul as a legate after his father's death, and proved a good worker in the short time his duties lasted. Liking him and learning that he possessed good diplomatic skills, Caesar had found him very useful in settling the tribes down. Present with Caesar in Italian Gaul, he had been a part of the group who had crossed the Rubicon in their commander's wake. Yes, a surprise. But a very pleasant one.

  "Quintus Hortensius, I'm giving you the Tuscan Sea. You'll raise a fleet and keep the sea lanes open between Sicily and all the western ports from Rhegium to Ostia."

  "Yes, Caesar."

  There remained the most important of the independent commands; every pair of eyes turned to the cheerful, freckled face of Gaius Scribonius Curio.

  "Curio, good friend, huge help, faithful ally, brave man... you'll take all the cohorts Ahenobarbus had in Corfinium, and recruit sufficient extra men to form four legions. Levy in Samnium and Picenum, not in Campania. You will proceed to Sicily and eject Postumius, Cato and Favonius from it. Holding Sicily is absolutely essential, as you well know. Once Sicily is secured and properly garrisoned, you'll go on to Africa and secure it too. That will mean the grain supply is completely ours. I'm sending Rebilus with you as second-in-command, and Pollio for good measure."

  "Yes, Caesar."

  "All commands will carry propraetorian imperium."

  Mischief nudged the elated Curio's tongue, made him ask, "If I'm propraetor, I have six lictors. May I wreath their fasces in laurels?"

  The mask slipped for the first time. "Why not? Since you assisted me to conquer Italia, Curio, of course you may," said Caesar with venomous bitterness. "What a thing to have to say! I conquered Italia. But there was no one to defend her." He nodded brusquely. "That is all. Good day."

  Curio tore home to the Palatine whooping, whirled Fulvia off her feet and kissed her. Not confined to the Campus Martius as Caesar was, he had been home now for five days.

  "Fulvia, Fulvia, I'm to have my own command!" he cried.

  "Tell me!"

  "I'm to lead four legions—four legions, imagine it!—to Sicily and then to Africa! My own war! I'm propraetore, Fulvia, and I'm to wreath my fasces in laurels! I'm in command! I have six lictors! My second-in-command is a hoary Gallic veteran, Caninius Rebilus! I'm his superior! I've got Pollio too! Isn't it wonderful?"

  And she, so loyal, so wholehearted a supporter, beamed, kissed him all over his dear freckled face, hugged him and exulted for him. "My husband the propraetor," she said, and had to kiss his face again many times. "Curio, I'm so pleased!" Her expression changed. "Does that mean you have to leave at once? When will your imperium be conferred?"

  "I don't know that it ever will be," said Curio, undismayed. "Caesar gave all of us propraetorian status, but, strictly speaking, he's not authorized to. So I daresay we'll have to wait for our leges curiatae."

  Fulvia stiffened. "He means to be dictator."

  "Oh, yes." Curio sobered, frowned. "It was the most amazing meeting I've ever attended, meum mel. He sat there and he dished out the jobs without, it seemed, drawing breath. Crisp, succinct, absolutely specific. Over and done with in mere moments. The man's a phenomenon! Fully aware that he has no authority whatsoever to depute anyone to do anything, yet—for how long has he been thinking of it? He's a complete autocrat. I suppose ten years in Gaul as master of everyone and everything would have to change a man, but—ye Gods, Fulvia, he was born a dictator! If I don't understand any aspect of him, it's how he ever managed to hide what he is for so long. Oh, I remember how he used to irritate me when he was consul—I thought him royal then! But I actually believed that Pompeius pulled his strings. I know now that no one has ever pulled Caesar's strings."

  "He certainly pulled my Clodius's strings, little though my Clodius would care to hear me say that."

  "He won't be gainsaid, Fulvia. And somehow he'll manage to do it without spilling oceans of Roman blood. What I heard today was the dictator sprung fully armed from the brow of Zeus."

  "Another Sulla."

  Curio shook his head emphatically. "Oh, no. Never Sulla. He doesn't have Sulla's weaknesses."

  "Can you continue to serve someone who will rule Rome as an autocrat?"

  "I think so. For one reason. He's so eminently capable. What I would have to do, however, is make sure that Caesar didn't change our way of looking at things. Rome needs to be ruled by Caesar. But he's unique. Therefore no one can be permitted to rule after him."

  "A mercy then that he has no son," said Fulvia.

  "Nor any member of his family to claim his place."

  Down in the damp and shady cleft which was the Forum Romanum stood the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, a huge and chilly structure without architectural distinction or physical beauty. With winter just arriving, the courtyards were too cold to permit their being used, but the mistress of the house had a very nice sitting room well warmed by two braziers, and here she ensconced herself cozily. The suite had belonged to the mother of the Pontifex Maximus, Aurelia, and in her days its walls had been impossible to see for pigeonholes, book buckets and accounts. All of that impedimenta had gone; the walls once more shone dully crimson and purple, the gilded pilasters and moldings glittered, the high ceiling was a honeycomb of plum and gold. It had taken considerable persuasion to coax Calpurnia down from her suite on the top floor; Eutychus the steward, now into his seventies, had managed it by hinting that all the servants were too decrepit these days to climb the stairs. So Calpurnia had moved down, and that had been almost five years ago— long enough by far not to feel the presence of Aurelia these days as anything more than an additional warmth.

  Calpurnia sat with three kittens in her lap, two tabby and one black-and-white, her hands lying lightly on their fat bodies. They were asleep.

  "I love the abandonment of their sleep," she said to her visitors in a grave voice, smiling down. "The world might end, and they would dream on. So lovely. We of the gens Humana have lost the gift of perfect sleep."

  "Have you seen Caesar?
" asked Marcia.

  The large brown eyes lifted, looked sad. "No. I think he is too busy."

  "Haven't you tried to contact him?" asked Porcia.

  "No."

  "Don't you think you ought?"

  "He's aware I'm here, Porcia." It wasn't said with a snap or a snarl; it was a simple statement of fact.

  A peculiar trio, some intruder might have thought, coming upon Caesar's wife entertaining Cato's wife and Cato's daughter. But she and Marcia had been friends ever since Marcia had gone to be wife to Quintus Hortensius, into an exile of the spirit and the flesh. Not unlike, Marcia had thought then, the exile poor Calpurnia dwelled in. They had found each other's company very pleasant, for each was a gentle soul without much liking for intellectual pursuits and no liking at all for the traditional women's occupations—spinning, weaving, sewing, embroidering; painting plates, bowls, vases and screens; shopping; gossiping. Nor was either woman a mother.

  It had started with a courtesy call after the death of Julia, and another after Aurelia's death not much more than a month later. Here, thought Marcia, was an equally lonely person: someone who would not pity her, someone who would not find fault with her for acceding so tamely to her husband's actions. Not all Roman women were so compliant, no matter what their social status. Though, they found as the friendship prospered, they both envied the lot of women in the lower classes—they could be professionally qualified as physicians or midwives or apothecaries, or work in trades like carpentering or sculpting or painting. Only the upper-class women were constrained by their status into ladylike homebound activities.

  Not a cat fancier, Marcia had found Calpurnia's chief hobby a little unbearable at first, though she discovered after some exposure to them that cats were interesting creatures. Not that she ever yielded to Calpurnia's pleas that she take a kitten for herself. She also shrewdly concluded that if Caesar had given his wife a lapdog, Calpurnia would now be surrounded by puppies.

  Porcia's advent was quite recent. When Porcia had realized after Marcia's return to Cato's household that she was friendly with Caesar's wife, Porcia had had a great deal to say. None of it impressed Marcia, nor, when Porcia complained to Cato, was he moved to censure his wife.

  "The world of women is not the world of men, Porcia," he shouted in his normal way. "Calpurnia is a most respectable and admirable woman. Her father married her to Caesar, just as I married you to Bibulus."

  But after Brutus had left for Cilicia a change had come over Porcia— the stern Stoic who had no truck with the world of women lost her fire, secretly wept. Dismayed, Marcia saw what Porcia herself was trying desperately to hide, would not speak about: she had fallen in love with someone who had refused her when offered her, someone who had now gone away. Someone who was not her husband. With her young stepson moving out of her ken, Porcia needed a warmer kind of stimulus than philosophy and history. She was moldering. Sometimes Marcia worried that she was dying the subtlest death of all—she mattered to no one.

  Thus, badgered into consenting and under solemn oath not to embark upon political talk or speak scathingly of her father's and her husband's most hated enemy, Porcia too began to visit. Miraculously, she enjoyed these outings. As both were good people at heart, Porcia found herself quite unable to despise Calpurnia. Goodness recognized goodness. Besides which, Porcia liked cats. Not that she had ever seen one at close quarters before; cats slunk through the night, yowled for mates, ate rodents or lived around kitchens begging for scraps. But from the moment Calpurnia held out her enormously fat and complacent orange Felix and Porcia found herself holding this soft, cuddly, thrumming creature, she liked cats. Friendship with Calpurnia aside, it kept her coming back to the Domus Publica, for she knew better than to think that father or husband would approve of enjoying the company of an animal, dog or cat or fish.

  Loneliness, Porcia began to see, was not her own exclusive province. Nor was unrequited love. And in these two things she grieved for Calpurnia as much as for herself. No one to fill her life, no one to look at her with love. Except her cats.

  "I still think you should write," Porcia persisted.

  "Perhaps," said Calpurnia, rolling one kitten over. "And yet, Porcia, that would be an intrusion. He is so busy. I don't understand any of it, and I never will. I just make offerings to keep him safe."

  "So do we all for our men," said Marcia.

  Old Eutychus staggered in with steaming hot sweet wine and a plate loaded with goodies; no one save he was allowed to wait on this last living one of the beloved Domus Publica ladies.

  The kittens were returned to the padded box with their mother, which opened its green eyes wide and looked at Calpurnia reproachfully.

  "That was unkind," said Porcia, sniffing the mulled wine and wondering why Bibulus's staff never thought of it on these cold, misty days. "Poor mama cat was enjoying a little peace."

  The last word fell, echoed, lay between them.

  Calpurnia broke off a piece of the best-looking honey-cake and took it across to the shrine of the Lares and Penates.

  "Dear Gods of the Household," she prayed, "grant us peace."

  "Grant us peace," prayed Marcia.

  "Grant us peace," prayed Porcia.

  THE WEST, ITALIA AND ROME, THE EAST

  from APRIL 6 of 49 b.c. until

  SEPTEMBER 29 of 48 b.c.

  [Caesar 492.jpg]

  1

  Because the winter in the Alps was a snowy one, Caesar marched his legions to the Province along the coast road, and moved with his customary speed. Having left Rome on the fifth day of April, he arrived outside Massilia on the nineteenth day. The distance covered on that tortuously winding road was closer to six than to five hundred miles.

  But he marched in a mood of profound gladness; the years away from home had been too many, and the difficulties when he finally returned home too exasperating. On the one hand he could see how desperately a strong and autocratic hand was needed. The city itself was more sloppily governed than ever—not enough notice or respect was given to the commercial sector—not enough had been done to safeguard, let alone improve, everything from the grain supply to the grain dole. Were it not for his own many building projects, Rome's workmen would have gone wanting. Temples were shabby, the cobbles of city streets were lifting, no one was regulating the chaotic traffic, and he suspected that the State granaries along the cliffs below the Aventine were rat infested and crumbling. The public moneys were being hoarded, not spent. On the other hand he didn't honestly welcome the job of putting it all to rights. Thankless, mined with obstacles, an intrusion into duties more properly those of other magistrates—and Rome the city was a minute problem compared to Rome the institution, Rome the country, Rome the empire.

  He was not, Caesar reflected as the miles strode by, a city-bound man by temperament. Life on the road at the head of a fine strong army was infinitely preferable. How wonderful, that he had been able to assure himself in all truth that he couldn't afford to waste time in Rome, that Pompey's army in the Spains had to be contained and rendered ineffectual very quickly! There was no life like it, marching at the head of a fine army.

  The only true city between Rome and the Spains was located on a superb harbor about forty miles to the east of the Rhodanus delta and its marshes: Massilia. Founded by the Greeks who had roamed Our Sea establishing colonies centuries before, Massilia had maintained its independence and its Greekness ever since. It had treaties of alliance with Rome, but governed its own affairs—had its own navy and army (purely for defense, said the treaty) and sufficient of the hinterland to supply itself with produce from market gardens and orchards, though it bought in grain from the Roman Province, which surrounded its borders. The Massiliotes guarded their independence fiercely, despite the fact that they could not afford to offend Rome, that upstart interloper in the previously Greek and Phoenician world.

  Hastening out of the city to Caesar's camp (carefully sited on unused ground), the Council of Fifteen which governed Massilia sought
an audience with the man who had conquered Gallia Comata and made himself the master of Italia.

  Caesar received them with great ceremony, clad in the full regalia of the proconsul, and wearing his corona civica upon his head. Aware too that in all his time in Further Gaul, he had never been to Massilia nor intruded upon Massiliote affairs. The Council of Fifteen was very cold and very arrogant.

  "You are not here legally," said Philodemus, leader of the Council, "and Massilia's treaties are with the true government of Rome, as personified in Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and those individuals who were forced to flee at your advent."

  "In fleeing, Philodemus, those individuals abrogated their rights," said Caesar evenly. "I am the true government of Rome."

  "No, you are not."

  "Does this mean, Philodemus, that you will give aid to Rome's enemies in the persons of Gnaeus Pompeius and his allies?"

  "Massilia prefers to give aid to neither side, Caesar. Though," said Philodemus, smiling complacently, "we have sent a delegation to Gnaeus Pompeius in Epirus confirming our allegiance to the government in exile."

  "That was impudent as well as imprudent."

  "If it was, I don't see what you can do about it," Philodemus said jauntily. "Massilia is too strongly defended for you to reduce."

  "Don't tempt me!" said Caesar, smiling.

  "Go about your business, Caesar, and leave Massilia alone."

  "Before I can do that, I need better assurances that Massilia will remain neutral."

  "We will help neither side."

  "Despite your delegation to Gnaeus Pompeius."