‘I shall be proud to help you to govern Rome; and together we shall govern Rome worthily.’
‘That’s true, Junia,’ said Caesar. ‘There’s no call to snigger. On great occasions I’m all for the expression of noble sentiments; it’s just my misfortune that my genius always puts flippancies into my mouth instead. With Lepidus as colleague I shall rule more worthily than if I shared power with anyone else. You see, I suffer from bright ideas. If I tell them to the Antonius brothers, or to Pollio or any other of the boys, they encourage me to go ahead and upset all the ways of the ancestors. I need the ballast of an educated patrician like your husband; otherwise when I have finished with the City it will be like any other town in Europe or Asia. I can never remember that some things are part of Rome, and must never be altered.’
‘Then my Marcus is the man for you,’ Junia answered. ‘He doesn’t hold with innovation. Do you, darling?’
‘Rome has done very well in the past,’ said Lepidus stiffly. His sense of tradition was dear to him, and he did not care to hear it mocked. ‘While the City continues to prosper I see no reason for any change.’
‘Then you are the colleague I need. I’m sorry our Consulship can only last for one year. You should always be beside me to advise me.’ Caesar paused, though Junia guessed that every move in this discussion had been planned beforehand.
‘Yes,’ Caesar continued, ‘we must work together even after our year is up. In Africa I must settle with poor Cato, even though he is dear Junia’s brother’s father-in-law, and when I have a moment to spare there are the Parthians to be conquered. I shall be abroad a lot during the next few years. I had thought of leaving Marcus Antonius in command of Italy; he’s a thief, but a loyal thief. Yet he’s a young man, who has never held curule office, and a plebeian. It would be better to appoint a patrician and Consular. That’s it. As Dictator I can appoint a Master of the Horse to rule Rome as my deputy in my absence. You will be Master of the Horse, Aemilius Lepidus. But Antonius must command the troops in Italy outside Rome, because he commanded a wing at Pharsalus and I can’t put a public slight on him. Will that suit you?’
In all the glory of purple cloak and golden wreath, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus stood beside the smoking altar of Jupiter the Greatest and Best. At the foot of the stairs his four-horse chariot awaited him, and the people of Rome stood massed to cheer his greatness. This sacred spot was the quintessence of the City; he had been granted the highest honour that could come to a Roman citizen; this actual moment, as he sacrificed to the supreme guardian of Rome, must be the crowning moment of his life. In his youth his teacher of philosophy had advised him to analyse his emotions on great occasions, and he was pleased to recognize that he felt the correct sentiments; no pride, but gratitude and love of the City overflowed his breast. But under the patriotism, lurking below the pride which justifiably came next, was an element of surprise. Here he stood, Triumphator and Imperator and Consul-elect; and he seemed to have done very little to deserve these honours. It proved that, for one of his birth and education, it was quite easy to become a great man.
The lady Clodia was complaining again, to the young man who sat in her bedroom and quizzed the three maids arranging her hair.
‘Quintus darling, they had roped off the Sacred Way for a triumphal procession, and I couldn’t get near the scent-shop. They ought to warn us before they do these things. Who is being honoured, and why? It can’t be Caesar. Isn’t he in Africa?’
‘It’s the Triumph of Marcus Aemilius Lepidus Imperator, duly voted by the Senate. But his exploits, my dear, are a well-kept secret. They say he won great victories in Spain. I haven’t met anyone who was on the losing side, so perhaps he killed them all. Otherwise, he’s just another Caesarian. They like Triumphs.’
‘Oh, him. He’s not a real man. As I told poor Catullus before he turned so horrid, this Lepidus is only a wax figure, left over from a funeral. Come and kiss my ear, before it’s covered.’
4. Tyrannicide
44 BC
In the Aemilian mansion they were preparing for a great dinner. There would be only nine couches, the minimum for a formal party, and the kitchen was easily capable of dealing with such a number. But the host was Master of the Horse, the second magistrate in Rome; and one of the guests would be the Dictator himself. Everything must be at the same time easy and splendid.
Lepidus himself supervised the decoration of the dining-room while Junia had a last word with the cook. Though there was nothing to worry about, only personal supervision kept servants up to the mark. In March it was always difficult to get decent flowers, but the full-blown African roses ought to last until midnight. Lepidus inspected the ornate centre-piece on the serving table, and passed it as adequate. A massy silver vase rose from the back of a solid silver elephant, and the sight of his family badge always reassured him. After all, the Aemilii were one of the six greater patrician houses, and the elephant had been granted to them in recognition of eminent services in the Punic Wars. In the presence of that reminder of his high descent, and of his present prosperity, it would be absurd to feel nervous.
His wife joined him, pleased with what she had seen in the kitchen. ‘The food will be worthy of us, Marcus,’ she said placidly. ‘Caesar never notices what he eats, so I’ve stuck to roast peacock for the main course. It’s unadventurous, but no one can fault it. Marcus Antonius is more difficult to please; though nowadays he has a poor appetite, and I’m not at all surprised. Decimus Brutus knows about food, but with Caesar at the next table he’ll be so busy making a good impression that he won’t be able to tell octopus from mullet. What a toady that man has become! The rest don’t matter. Just ordinary Caesarians, who should feel flattered to be received in a respectable house.’
‘You will sit with us, my dear, until we have finished eating. I think young Marcus might be present at the beginning, though he must leave when the ladies retire. Little Quintus is definitely too young; he would repeat anything he heard. He must dine in the nursery. And I have one piece of bad news for you. Marcus Antonius has sent word that he will be bringing Fulvia. They have been formally betrothed. So afterwards you will be stuck with that harridan in the drawing-room all the time we are drinking.’
‘Never mind. Antonius always brings a girl, and it might have been someone even worse. Do you remember Cytheris? They say she used to lie on a couch like a man, and stay drinking with the men until all hours.’
‘Never in this house. I wouldn’t have it. I didn’t wish to distress your feelings by letting you know, but once he actually proposed to bring her here. I put my foot down. As a matter of fact Antonius is behaving rather more discreetly now Caesar is back in Rome.’
‘I wish I’d seen him in all his glory,’ said Junia with a youthful giggle. ‘When you and Caesar were abroad, the story got round that he travelled about Italy in a chariot drawn by lions. Seven litters full of boys and girls followed him, with Cytheris in a litter all to herself.’
‘That’s the story, certainly. I heard it too. But they may have exaggerated. Cytheris certainly was with him, and it’s bad enough that a propraetor should take an actress in his train when he travels on official business. All the same, there must be something in the man, though I can’t see it. Caesar seems to be able to get good work out of ruffians, and from all his ruffians he has chosen this Antonius to be his lieutenant.’
‘Our dear Caesar is a bit of a ruffian himself, that’s why. Is he bringing a girl? I would like to have a chat with the Queen. I have only seen her in public.’
‘Calpurnia is not well enough to dine out, so Caesar will come alone. He would never bring a foreign mistress to this house. In any case, it’s impossible to invite Cleopatra to a formal dinner. She insists on her precedence as Queen of Egypt. You may call on her, if you wish, and talk with her in her boudoir; or she might visit your private apartments, where there is no etiquette. I won’t have her in the public rooms; it would make endless difficulties. And for all that she’s a genuine Que
en you should remember she’s a whore also.’
‘No, I won’t call on the Queen. Her guests are expected to grovel before her, as though they were her subjects. Since she won’t call on me until I have called on her, I suppose we shall never meet. A pity. But there are other remarkable sights in Rome.’
‘Spoken like a true matron, my dear. In any case, tonight we shall have at our table the ruler of the world. In comparison, Macedonian Queens matter not at all. Well, the butler will only lose his head if we fuss over him any longer. We may as well go and dress for the party. I shall wear a toga. That synthesis affair may look all right on the couch; but it’s a sloppy compromise, and Greek into the bargain. Besides, I must stand to receive my guests, and everyone would spot it.’
By the time dessert was on the table Lepidus regretted the formality of his dress, for a toga was never comfortable while its wearer reclined. All his guests had come in the new synthesis, a flowing robe which could be arranged to look like toga and tunic combined; it fastened securely with brooches, instead of being wrapped tightly round the waist. Yet the party itself was a success, and Caesar was behaving most affably.
Of course the great man had begun with a little teasing of his hostess. He inquired why her brother was absent; though he knew very well that Marcus Brutus held him to be a tyrant, and declined any invitation that might compel him to be civil to the Dictator. It was less than a year since he had gone out of his way to marry into the ranks of Caesar’s enemies, choosing as his wife Porcia, the daughter of poor old Cato, who was also the widow of Bibulus who had commanded the Pompeian fleet. The match had led to a furious quarrel among the children of Servilia, who herself refused to speak to her disloyal son. A considerate guest would have avoided the topic, but Caesar was always amused by the embarrassment of the respectable.
Decimus Brutus seemed jumpy and short-tempered, drinking too much and too fast, and continually changing the subject of conversation. Lepidus did not know him very well, and guessed that he was merely too anxious to impress his leader at close quarters. Rather surprisingly, the raffish Marcus Antonius saved the situation. He could, after all, be charming when he tried; and tonight he was trying his hardest.
When the ladies had withdrawn there was a political discussion; or rather, Caesar expounded his plans to his subordinates.
‘In a few days I start for Parthia,’ he said casually. ‘I must pay just one formal visit to the Senate, so that the fathers can receive my civil powers and invest me with military authority. Then I join the army in Macedonia and we march on Seleucia as fast as infantry can cover the ground. Even if all goes well it’s bound to be a long job, and while I am away the citizens may grow restive. That’s why I am leaving Gaul and all the west in hands I can trust. Decimus here has Cisalpine Gaul, with the army nearest to Rome; you, Lepidus, can back him from Narbo, with Plancus and Pollio behind you. If there should be serious trouble you can all get together. The combined armies of the three Gauls and the two Spains should be able to crush any levy my foes can raise in Italy. So mind you keep in touch with one another.’
‘What about young Sextus Pompeius?’ asked Lepidus. ‘They say he’s keeping Pollio pretty busy. In a crisis Spain may be unable to spare troops.’
‘Then let Sextus Pompeius overrun all Spain, if he must; provided you keep Rome obedient. But young Sextus has no cause and no programme; nothing but a great name and the goodwill of his father’s veterans. What he wants is money. If I can’t suppress him I shall have to buy him.’
‘Rome will be faithful. You can depend on us,’ Lepidus answered. ‘But any campaign may bring unfortunate incidents. The Parthians will be beaten in the end, but something may happen to you, Caesar. In that case, to whose cause do we keep Rome faithful?’
It was a question no other Caesarian would have dared to ask; but Lepidus was not in the least overawed by a fellow-patrician of ancestry no more distinguished than his own.
‘I have thought even of that,’ Caesar answered easily. ‘My will is deposited with the Vestals. Just for the present it’s a confidential document. If you want to know what’s in it you must ask the holy ladies. My other papers are safe in the hands of Marcus Antonius. He’s not much of a one for reading, and he doesn’t know what’s in them.’
‘There have been bad omens, they tell me,’ Lepidus continued. ‘There seems to be a curse on these wars with Parthia. Do you remember the terrible portents before poor Crassus set out? They proved true enough.’
‘You can’t frighten me with omens,’ Caesar replied. ‘You’ve heard the story about the sacrifice before I fought at Munda? The ox fled bellowing from the altar, and escaped through the whole army. Of course the diviners pointed out that the gods were rejecting my sacrifice, and that I must retreat at once. Instead we all charged at the double, without any sacrifice offered; and by the end of the day it had been proved that the gods love me more than they love the Pompeians.’
‘And you fought all day in the front rank, on foot, without a scratch,’ put in Brutus. ‘Didn’t they bother to throw javelins at you?’
‘It wasn’t all day, just for half an hour to get the boys into the right frame of mind for the final assault. The Spaniards threw plenty of javelins; but I had a good orderly, and they are rotten shots anyway. It’s a mistake to give Roman arms to barbarians; they don’t keep cool enough to use them properly. Don’t imagine that I think myself invulnerable, or under the special protection of heaven. I know when I’m in danger, and I never run a risk unless it’s worth it. If the common soldiers believe that steel can’t harm me, that’s all to the good. I myself remain sane.’
‘Then you don’t put faith in the mysterious prophecy, that only a King of Rome can conquer the Parthians?’ asked Brutus.
‘I am Pontifex Maximus, and considered pretty good at ritual and divination. I never heard of that prophecy until a few months ago. Let’s see, who’s the youngest here? Antonius, did you learn it at school?’
Antonius scowled and grunted, while the others smiled. It was generally supposed that he had invented the bogus prophecy.
‘All the same, the omens have been bad,’ Lepidus persisted. ‘Perhaps you ought to go straight to the army in Macedonia. You have no more to do in Rome, except this ceremonial meeting.’
‘That’s what Calpurnia advises, but I don’t agree. Tomorrow’s meeting of the Senate may be only a ceremony, but ceremonies are important. I want to fight the Parthians as the duly-accredited commander of the Roman army. Don’t let’s cross an unnecessary Rubicon.’
‘Yes, you-don’t want to lead another unlawful campaign, and the Senate alone can give you legal authority,’ said Brutus. ‘Have the omens really been bad?’
‘Well, this morning, when I sacrificed as usual on behalf of the Roman people, the diviner told me the dead ox had no heart at all. I answered that in that case it had never been alive. One’s no more absurd than the other. Can you imagine a worse omen? I suppose the diviner had been bribed by some stout Optimate, perhaps dear Junia’s brother Brutus. If he had not looked so carefully the heart would have been easy to find; it was probably in his bosom when he told me. Anyway, tomorrow I go to the Senate, and the next day I march against the Parthians. So much for omens.’
‘What’s the use of being forewarned of death if you can’t avoid it?’ said Antonius. ‘Croesus gave an enormous offering to Apollo at Delphi, and Apollo told him he would destroy a great empire. Apollo didn’t say the empire was Croesus’s own realm of Lydia. Oracles and omens only make fools of us.’
Brutus jumped from his couch and strode jerkily across the room to the nearest chamber-pot. Lepidus frowned. It would be a nuisance if the young man got noisily drunk while the other guests were still sober.
Meanwhile there had begun a general discussion on the subject of the least unpleasant kind of death, a topic well fitted to a decorous dinner-party. Everyone joined in, upholding the theories of his favourite philosophy, except Caesar, who was busy scribbling his initials on a sh
eaf of papers brought in by a footman. As he scanned the dispatches the Dictator listened with half an ear, and then threw a single sentence over his shoulder. ‘The only good death is unexpected – no time to be afraid.’
Silence hung for a moment over the room. It was broken by a ludicrous hiccup from Brutus, who leapt from his couch to vomit into a convenient basin.
That spoiled the evening. One drunken man can make eight sober diners unpleasantly self-conscious. As early as politeness permitted Caesar called for his litter, and once the guest of honour was gone the others hastened to take leave. It was earlier than he had expected when Lepidus entered his wife’s boudoir for a final chat.
‘Thank heaven they’ve gone,’ Junia greeted him. ‘That Fulvia! We all tried to draw her out about her married life with Clodius the gangster. I am sure she had the most amusing adventures. But she would talk of nothing but the happy day, soon to come, when Marcus Antonius will be ruler of Rome. The insufferable woman believes that her intended has been named Caesar’s heir, and that Caesar will die soon. She patronized me in my own drawing-room until I could have scratched her face.’
‘I suppose Antonius rules Rome at this moment,’ her husband answered mildly. ‘He’s this year’s Consul, and there’s nothing higher than that. But Caesar is good for a long time yet; he’s only ten years older than I am, not much over fifty. Certainly Antonius hopes to be his heir. He hinted as much this evening, but Caesar wouldn’t rise; he gave no definite answer. He has all Rome to choose from; why should he choose one of the Antonius brothers? Anyway, isn’t there some incredibly dim great-nephew?’
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