Three's Company

by Alfred Duggan

  As it fell out, this resolution was not put to the test. At the last moment the soldiers of Lucius Antonius refused to march on Rome. Instead they called a peace-conference.

  This was an unheard-of development. Every politician must sit down and reconsider his position. In the past legions had deserted their commanders, or changed sides on the battlefield. Never before had soldiers remained loyal to their leader, willing to follow him in anything except civil war – just because there was nothing to fight about. It was as though the pieces on a chess-board had developed minds of their own. From the Rhine to Calabria armies mobilized and baggage-animals were impressed; but nowhere did a legate give the order to march.

  For one Antonian there had to be war. Lepidus was surprised in his office by an early visit from Junia. In these days she seldom came to talk with him alone.

  ‘I have news of a dear friend of yours.’ Her voice had something of its old gaiety.

  ‘Indeed?’ He must not sound too welcoming. That would be unworthy of a paterfamilias. Junia hurried on in her unnoticing way.

  ‘Fulvia has flown to arms. Yes, literally. She is stumping all over Campania hung round with her husband’s old swords. What an enormous baldric she’ll need to go over that great bust of hers. She’s supposed to be inspiring the troops. I got it all from Crastinus.’

  Lepidus composed his face to an expression of gravity, which he hoped would mask the confusion of his thoughts. Fulvia’s behaviour did not much surprise him, but Junia’s did. She seemed positively friendly, and nearly as light-hearted as of old. She had listened to gossip from Crastinus too. Ever since the unfortunate affair of Paullus she had taken a dislike to Crastinus, refusing to speak of him except as ‘your tame butcher’or ‘the official assassin’; and then only to complain that he hung about the buttery or molested the maids. But he must say something.

  ‘What an extraordinary story.’

  ‘No, Marcus, not so extraordinary for Fulvia, at least not nearly so extraordinary as the rest of it. Crastinus says she is bellowing all over the provinces that you have been plotting the murder of her darling babes!’

  ‘Babes? But Clodia is ready for marriage! Oh, of course, she has two boys by Antonius; not that I’ve ever seen them. Junia, you surely don’t believe that I was planning child-murder?’

  ‘Of course not. I just thought the whole story rather funny. Everyone, even Fulvia, knows you are not cut out to be a baby-killer – or a lady-killer either.’

  The lady Junia left the room with an air of satisfaction. Lepidus was left to marvel uneasily at the network of intelligence that enmeshed the boudoirs of Rome.

  Young Caesar paid a flying visit to the City, and then was off to raise more troops in the countryside. His manner to Lepidus was distant, in fact barely civil to a Consular old enough to be his father. Caesar’s normal manner was stiff and awkward, and now he had many worries. Lepidus regretted that he had been forced into alliance with such an unsympathetic young man; but he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least he had chosen the stronger side.

  For now it was war in earnest, and the pitiful remnant of the Optimates rallied to Lucius Antonius. His brother’s veterans, anxious for their promised farms, joined him also; and he had the authority to levy troops inherent in his office of Consul. He was soon at the head of six legions, reinforced by a mob of brigands, gladiators, runaway slaves, and other loafers who would rather fight than work. In Italy Caesar had only four legions; but they were the men who had fought at Philippi.

  Lepidus was still in control of Rome, with two legions under his orders. It seemed to him, as he bustled about supervising the digging of earthworks, that this was the Argenteus all over again. Once more every Roman soldier was on the march, and once more his headquarters was the goal they strove to reach. Lucius Antonius pushed up from the south, Salvidienus hastened from Gaul to oppose him; on the heels of Salvidienus came Plancus, Ventidius Bassus, and Pollio. These last were loyal adherents of Marcus Antonius, though whether they would obey his brother was uncertain.

  In such a situation the obvious tactics for the man at the centre of the knot was to shut himself up on the defensive, waiting for the dust to settle. That was just what Lepidus could not do, for Rome was an unwalled city. Only two courses were open to him; he might offer battle in the field, or he might withdraw northward without fighting.

  Caesar sent a message bidding him stand firm; Rome must be held at all costs. Salvidienus would soon arrive to restore the situation. Deputations of frightened Senators begged him to withdraw; if Lucius defeated him outside Rome the City would be sacked by a victorious horde of bandits. Apparently everyone took it for granted that if he fought he would be beaten; indeed the odds were more than three to one against him. But it would have been more tactful of the Senators to conceal their opinion.

  Meanwhile, Marcus Antonius, the ostensible cause of the quarrel, was enjoying himself in Alexandria, boating and picnicking with Queen Cleopatra. He sent no orders to his followers; without word from him the provincial commanders hesitated to make war on Caesar.

  In this dilemma Lepidus decided that if he did nothing he could do nothing wrong. He sat tight. Perhaps Lucius Antonius would be killed by a thunderbolt.

  What he wanted was sound advice. If someone would speak to him at length, marshalling his reasons properly and clothing them in correct rhetorical form, he could pick holes in the argument and arrive at a sensible decision; every Senator was trained in that intellectual exercise. Junia was more friendly now, and of course Crastinus eagerly volunteered his counsel. But neither of them would examine matters from the correct point of view.

  He wanted to know what would be best for Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. They kept on telling him what would be best for Rome.

  At last the crisis was upon him. Late on a blustery December afternoon a young knight galloped through the crowded streets to the Aemilian mansion. Riding was prohibited in the streets of the City, so this in itself was enough to show that the time of decision had arrived. When the courier entered the hall he found the Triumvir struggling into his armour.

  ‘Antonian horse at the Capua gate, sir,’ he blurted out as soon as he had saluted. ‘They are in contact with our outposts. In the distance we can see one Eagle, though the immediate supports are light infantry, probably gladiators. Our tribune ordered me to inform you without delay.’

  ‘The Capua gate? What force have we there? Three cohorts, isn’t it? They are well dug in. Cavalry can’t harm them, unless they dismount to attack on foot. Very well. I shall come at once, with two cohorts from the reserve. You have identified one Eagle, but we know Antonius has six legions. Your three cohorts must stand fast until the enemy has developed his strength.’

  This last bit of professional jargon made Lepidus feel more warlike for saying it. The young knight saluted and rode off.

  Crastinus appeared, with his special large shield. A war-horse circled outside the door. There seemed no chance of more delay. In a moment the Triumvir, twice Triumphator, twice Imperator, must assume command in his first action. Crastinus exerted himself to soothe his nervous master.

  ‘Only gladiators, and peacocking cavalry. I’d like to see them charge a regular cohort, dug in. Loose off arrows at long range and then straggle away to plunder the suburbs, that’s more their mark. When it comes to the point, the Antonian legionaries won’t want to fight. Why should they kill old comrades, just to please the lady Fulvia? I’ll bet there is less blood shed today than in one of the old election-riots. You’ll see, my lord; no need to hurry. Here, let me buckle that greave properly.’

  Her eyes shining, the lady Junia stood before him with a cup of wine. She was taking this crisis seriously, but her husband was annoyed to see that she enjoyed the excitement. ‘Off you go, Marcus,’ she cried cheerfully. ‘Here’s a last drink, old wine with no water at all. Father used to say that makes the enemy look smaller. Remember, your brother died gloriously, within a mile of this house. There ought to be an om
en in that; as Pontifex Maximus you should know whether it’s a good one. What’s the phrase? “Come back with your shield, or upon it.” Oh, but you can’t. No shield for an Imperator. It seems silly to say it to Crastinus.’

  There was no escape. Pulling his face into a resolute frown, Lepidus loosened his sword in its scabbard. ‘Thank you, my dear, for your good wishes. You had better drink that wine yourself, or give it to Crastinus. Wine after dinner always makes me drowsy.’

  Then there was more galloping in the street, and the great entrance-door was blocked by a horse and rider. It was the young knight again. Without dismounting, he leaned over to call into the echoing hall. ‘Sorry, Imperator. Those cohorts at the Capua gate have just gone over to Lucius. My kit’s with them, and my servant, and all the ready cash I have in the world; so I can’t very well fight against them. I’m just off to join them, but I thought it only decent to give you a start before the Antonians come to arrest you.’

  Crastinus began a string of military obscenities, realized he was in the presence of a matron, and fell silent. Lepidus stood dazed, his chief emotion relief that after all he would not have to command troops in action. Junia was the first to recover her wits.

  ‘Ride for it, Marcus, across the river and out to the north. Make for Caesar’s army. I shall hide, with the boys. Don’t stand gaping. Get mounted.’

  It was the Ides of March, the fourth anniversary of the terrible murder. But this scene was more terrible by far. On the hill the ancient city of Perusia flamed to the heavens; in the valley, among the huts of the victorious Caesarians, an altar of turf had been constructed on the parade ground. It was an altar for sacrifice to the Gods Below, as the deep drainage-trench proved, the trench that would soon be filled with blood. Three hundred Roman knights and Senators stood in rank, the victims who would furnish that blood. In the stillness of attention Caesar’s praetorian cohorts were drawn up to witness the atrocity. They were veterans, motionless on parade; though some were almost too drunk to stand upright, and others were wounded, in witness that the Perusians had defended their homes.

  Young Caesar advanced at the head of a little group. He wore armour, but his head was bare; as he came forward he veiled it with the end of his military cloak. Lepidus, also in the splendid armour of a Consular and Imperator, plucked timidly at his wrist.

  ‘You’ve given them a good fright,’ he whispered. ‘Surely you won’t go through with it? You allowed Fulvia and Lucius to go free, and these men are not dangerous without Antonian support. They are very small fry, not worth the trouble of killing.’

  ‘But I shall take the trouble to kill them,’ Caesar answered. ‘Don’t mistake me for my deified father, who pardoned his enemies over and over again until at last they murdered him. He may be a god, or he may not. This sacrifice may give pleasure to his spirit, or there may be no spirit of Caesar anywhere. But this I know: these Optimates have disturbed the firm peace we brought to Rome. They deserve no mercy. If I kill them thus, publicly, I strike terror into my remaining enemies.’

  ‘You drive to desperation opponents who might otherwise submit.’

  ‘I do not fear any opponent, anywhere. All must submit to me, or die as these traitors die.’ He fixed his colleague with a cold grey eye. ‘Whatever his rank, no one is safe from my justice. Which reminds me; I want to see you afterwards, in my office.’

  No further word was spoken until Caesar intoned the ritual prayer dedicating this sacrifice to the spirit of his deified father. Then the slaughter began.

  All the victims were Roman citizens; they were treated as cattle. Instead of the honourable decapitation which was their privilege, these men were pole-axed; then they were ripped open, and their livers removed for inspection. Their executioners were victimarii, the hefty acolytes whose task was the ritual slaughter of oxen, men whose naked torsos accentuated their workmanlike, their butcherlike, appearance. Lepidus, watching with fascinated eyes, thought the denial of human dignity even more appalling than Caesar’s ruthless cruelty.

  There was one thing to be said for it; it was quickly over. In ten minutes the squad of victimarii had done their work, and three hundred eviscerated corpses lay on the verge of the reddened trench. A trumpet pealed the merry signal that marked the end of every public sacrifice; the watching cohorts turned smartly to the right and marched off to share in the plunder of Perusia; and Lepidus, queasy and shaken, walked stiffly, on legs that did not quite tremble, to Caesar’s private office.

  There he found himself alone. A polished shield hung on the wall, and he busied himself in adjusting his baldric, tightening his belt, and smoothing his epaulettes before this mirror. By the time Caesar entered he looked every inch an Imperator.

  The boy strolled in casually, dressed only in the padded tunic which protected his ribs from the chafing of the corselet. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said carelessly. ‘My armour was splashed with blood, and I want it clean for tomorrow. Sit down, and have a drink. Now then, what shall I do with you?’

  ‘Do you wish to consult with me concerning the welfare of the republic?’ asked Lepidus, so angry at the insolence of this tone that fear was driven from his mind.

  ‘I do not. I don’t value your advice. Once you had an army, and then you were important. Your soldiers have deserted you, so you don’t matter any more.’

  Lepidus gobbled, too furious to find words.

  ‘Yes, you are an Imperator without legions, and that’s a horrible thing to be,’ the insufferable youth continued. ‘Your men left you for a better leader. Since I have just defeated that better leader I must be far above you.’ His tone changed, as his own anger rose to match his listener’s. ‘You fool, you utter fool! You couldn’t hold the City even against the gladiators and freed slaves who made up the comic army of that other fool, Lucius Antonius! I very nearly had you hauled out to the altar just now, to make the three hundred and first victim. There was nothing to stop me; I could have done it if I chose. But there’s an old superstition that it brings bad luck to kill the Pontifex Maximus; certainly my father’s murderers have met with ill-fortune. So I held my hand. You are useless alive, but your death might bring me bad luck. What shall I do with you? I ask it again.’

  Lepidus felt death very near, and that made everything easier. At once he became the master of himself. His education had left him in doubt about the survival of the spirit; though he feared the ghosts of others he could not picture any kind of future life for himself. But one tiling his teachers had impressed on him: that it is the duty of a nobleman to make a good end. For more than forty years he had been preparing for his last hour. He knew what to say.

  ‘Octavius of Velitrae, you may slay Lepidus of Rome, but you cannot make him fear you. My father died for the people; my brother also. I suppose that was about the time your father set up in business as a money-lender; you are too young to remember it. If I too must die for the people, I am ready.’

  ‘My name is not Octavius,’ the other answered, ‘though indeed I come from Velitrae. The Roman people have made me Caesar.’ He paused, and continued more quietly, smiling as though admiration were mingled with amusement. ‘But in everything else you are quite right. I can’t frighten Aemilius Lepidus, and Rome would be in a bad way if I could. I shall not kill you. All the same, what shall I do with you? Or, if you prefer it, what will you do with the rest of your life? You don’t know how to lead an army, and you can’t go back to govern Rome as though nothing had happened. Would you like to retire from politics?’

  ‘I shall die a Triumvir, or else a public enemy,’ said Lepidus proudly. ‘If you strip me of my offices I shall go into rebellion. All Italy is discontented with your rule. Both Antonians and Optimates would rally to my Eagles.’

  ‘They would; and of course that’s the trouble. You have been a very great man, though an incapable one. If I leave you to wander at large you will become a focus of revolt. By the way,’ he shot out, ‘what were you up to, intriguing with Sextus Pompeius? I know all about i
t. I have agents everywhere. Do you think he would prove a faithful ally, against me or against Marcus Antonius? Do you recall what he did to Bithynicus, his own cousin? Sextus is becoming important. All the Optimate stragglers from Philippi have joined him. He’s too important to be second string to a Lepidus, a man who can’t hold the Capitol with two legions. He will be my ally. I have divorced young Clodia, and I shall marry the lady Scribonia, his aunt. You see? I surpass you in intrigue, as in war.’

  He continued in a friendly tone. ‘I think that gives us a way out. I want this government to remain an alliance of three men. If I am left alone to face Marcus Antonius we shall be at war within a month. This is what I propose. I am sending an army to mop up the Optimates of Africa. That won’t take long. They are the only Optimates left in the world, and they have no allies. After they have been conquered, and not before, I shall make you governor of Africa. You will still be a Triumvir, Imperator, Consular, all the rest of it. The ostensible reason for sending you from Rome to Utica will be, not your incompetence, but the suspicion that you have intrigued with Sextus. Now will you accept that, and continue as a loyal Triumvir? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t make a success of it. In Africa there will be no fighting, so your army can’t desert you; and you have shown that in peacetime you can govern well. Besides, you are Aemilius Lepidus. We need a man of your rank in the government, to demonstrate that all Populars are not money-lenders from Velitrae.’ With a charming smile he added: ‘After all, your birth imposes on you an obligation to serve the republic. Africa needs sound government, and you can supply it. Besides, by remaining in the Triumvirate you prevent a civil war between myself and Antonius, which might do great harm to the world. Come now, will you accept?’

  ‘If I do, I shall govern without human sacrifice. Perhaps Antonius, who pole-axed Hortensius on the tomb of his brother, and yourself, who sacrifice so piously to your adoptive father, will think me an unworthy colleague.’