Sure enough, Pompey was at home—if a tent could be called a home. His senior legates Afranius and Petreius were with him, looked at Caesar searchingly; they had heard a little about him—pirates and the like—and knew that he had won the Civic Crown at twenty years of age. All things which made viri militares like Afranius and Petreius respect a man mightily; and yet this dazzling fellow, immaculate enough to be apostrophized a dandy, didn’t look the type. Togate rather than clad in military gear, nails trimmed and buffed, senatorial shoes without a scuff or a smear of dust, hair perfectly arranged, he surely could not have walked from Crassus’s quarters to Pompey’s through wind and sun!
“I remember you said you didn’t drink wine. Can I offer you water?” asked Pompey, gesturing in the direction of a chair.
“Thank you, I require nothing except a private conversation,” said Caesar, seating himself.
“I’ll see you later,” said Pompey to his legates.
He waited until he saw the two disappointed men well out of hearing down the path toward the Via Recta before he directed his attention at Caesar. “Well?” he asked in his abrupt manner.
“I come from Marcus Crassus.”
“I expected to see Crassus himself.”
“You’re better off dealing with me.”
“Angry, is he?”
Caesar’s brows lifted. “Crassus? Angry? Not at all!”
“Then why can’t he come to see me himself?”
“And set all of Rome chattering even harder than it already is?” asked Caesar. “If you and Marcus Crassus are to do business, Gnaeus Pompeius, better that you do so through men like me, who are the soul of discretion and loyal to our superiors.”
“So you’re Crassus’s man, eh?”
“In this matter, yes. In general I am my own man.”
“How old are you?” asked Pompey bluntly.
“Twenty-nine in Quinctilis.”
“Crassus would call that splitting hairs. You’ll be in the Senate soon, then.”
“I’m in the Senate now. Have been for almost nine years.”
“Why?”
“I won a Civic Crown at Mitylene. Sulla’s constitution says that military heroes enter the Senate,” said this dandy.
“Everyone always refers to Rome’s constitution as Sulla’s constitution,” said Pompey, deliberately ignoring unwelcome information like a Civic Crown. He had never won a major crown himself, and it hurt. “I’m not sure I’m grateful to Sulla!”
“You ought to be. You owe him your various special commissions,” said Caesar, “but after this little episode, I very much doubt that the Senate will ever be willing to award another special commission to a knight.”
Pompey stared. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. You can’t force the Senate into letting you become consul and expect the Senate to forgive you, Gnaeus Pompeius. Nor can you expect to control the Senate forever. Philippus is an old man. So is Cethegus. And when they go, who will you use in their stead? The seniors in the Senate will all be men of Catulus’s persuasion—the Caecilii Metelli, the Cornelii, the Licinii, the Claudii. So a man wanting a special commission will have to go to the People, and by the People I do not mean patricians and plebeians combined. I mean the Plebs. Rome used to work almost exclusively through the Plebeian Assembly. I predict that in the future, that is how she will work again. Tribunes of the plebs are so enormously useful—but only if they have their legislating powers.” Caesar coughed. “It’s also cheaper to buy tribunes of the plebs than it is the high fliers like Philippus and Cethegus.”
All of that sank in; impassively Caesar watched it vanish thirstily below Pompey’s surface. He didn’t care for the fellow, but wasn’t sure exactly why. Having had much childhood exposure to Gauls, it was not the Gaul in him Caesar objected to. So what was it? While Pompey sat there digesting what he had said, Caesar thought about the problem, and came to the conclusion that it was simply the man he didn’t care for, not what he represented. The conceit, the almost childish concentration on self, the lacunae in a mind which obviously held no respect for the Law.
“What does Crassus have to say to me?” demanded Pompey.
“He’d like to negotiate a settlement, Gnaeus Pompeius.”
“Involving what?”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you put forward your requirements first, Gnaeus Pompeius?”
“I do wish you’d stop calling me that! I hate it! I am Magnus to the world!”
“This is a formal negotiation, Gnaeus Pompeius. Custom and tradition demand that I address you by praenomen and nomen. Are you not willing to put forward your requirements first?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” snapped Pompey, not sure exactly why he could feel his temper fraying, except that it had to do with this smooth, polished fellow Crassus had sent as his representative. Everything Caesar had said so far made eminent good sense, but that only made the situation more maddening. He, Magnus, was supposed to be calling the tune, but this interview wasn’t coming up to expectation. Caesar behaved as if it were he had the power, he the upper hand. The man was prettier than dead Memmius and craftier than Philippus and Cethegus combined—and yet he had won the second highest military decoration Rome could award—and from an incorruptible like Lucullus, at that. So he had to be very brave, a very good soldier. Had Pompey also known the stories about the pirates, the will of King Nicomedes and the battle on the Maeander, he might have decided to conduct this interview along different lines; Afranius and Petreius had heard some of it, but—typical Pompey!—he had heard nothing. Therefore the interview proceeded with more of the real Pompey on display than would otherwise have been the case.
“Your requirements?” Caesar was prompting.
“Are purely to persuade the Senate to pass a resolution that will let me run for consul.”
“Without membership in the Senate?”
“Without membership in the Senate.”
“What if you do persuade the Senate to allow you to run for consul, and then lose at the elections?’’
Pompey laughed, genuinely amused. “I couldn’t lose if I tried!” he said.
“I hear the competition is going to be fierce. Marcus Minucius Thermus, Sextus Peducaeus, Lucius Calpurnius Piso Frugi, Marcus Fannius, Lucius Manlius—as well as the two leading contenders at this stage, Metellus Little Goat and Marcus Crassus,” said Caesar, looking amused.
None of the names meant much to Pompey except the last one; he sat up straight. “You mean he still intends to run?”
“If, as seems likely, Gnaeus Pompeius, you are going to ask him to withhold the use of his army from the Senate, then he must run for consul—and must be elected,” said Caesar gently. “If he isn’t consul next year, he’ll be prosecuted for treason before January has run its course. As consul, he cannot be made to answer for any action until his consulship and any proconsulship which follows are over and he is once more a privatus. So what he has to do is to succeed in being elected consul, and then succeed in restoring full powers to the tribunate of the plebs. After that he will have to persuade one tribune of the plebs to pass a law validating his action in withholding his army from the Senate’s use—and persuade the other nine not to veto. Then when he does become a privatus again, he can’t be prosecuted for the treason you are asking him to commit.”
A whole gamut of expressions chased each other across Pompey’s face—puzzlement, enlightenment, bewilderment, total confusion, and finally fear. “What are you trying to say?’’ he cried, out of his depth and beginning to feel an awful sense of suffocation.
“I am saying—and very clearly, I think!—that if either of you is to avoid prosecution for treason due to the games you intend to play with the Senate and two armies which actually belong to Rome, both of you will have to be consul next year, and both of you will have to work very hard to restore the tribunate of the plebs to its old form,” said Caesar sternly. “The only way either of you can escape the consequences is by procuring a plebisc
ite from the Plebeian Assembly absolving both of you from any guilt in the matter of armies and senatorial manipulation. Unless, that is, Gnaeus Pompeius, you have not brought your own army across the Rubico into Italy?”
Pompey shuddered. “I didn’t think!” he cried.
“Most of the Senate,” Caesar said in conversational tones, “is composed of sheep. No one is unaware of that fact. But it does blind some people to another fact—that the Senate has a certain number of wolves in its fold. I do not number Philippus among the senatorial wolves. Nor Cethegus, for that matter. But Metellus Little Goat should rightly be cognominated Big Wolf, and Catulus has fangs for tearing, not molars for ruminating. So does Hortensius, who might not be consul yet, but whose clout is colossal and whose knowledge of the law is formidable. Then we have my youngest and brightest uncle, Lucius Cotta. You might say even I am a senatorial wolf! Any one of the men I’ve named—but more likely all of them combined—is quite capable of prosecuting you and Marcus Crassus for treason. And you will have to stand your trial in a court juried by senators. Having thumbed your nose at a great many senators. Marcus Crassus might get off, but you won’t, Gnaeus Pompeius. I’m sure you have a huge following in the Senate, but can you hold it together after you’ve dangled the threat of civil war in its face and forced it to accede to your wishes? You may hold your faction together while you’re consul and then proconsul, but not once you’re a privatus again. Not unless you keep your army under its eagles for the rest of your life—and that, since the Treasury won’t pay for it, would not be possible, even for a man with your resources.”
So many ramifications! The awful sense of suffocation was increasing; for a moment Pompey felt himself back on the field at Lauro, helpless to prevent Quintus Sertorius from running rings around him. Then he rallied, looked tough and absolutely determined. “How much of what you’ve said does Marcus Crassus himself understand?”
“Enough,” said Caesar tranquilly. “He’s been in the Senate a long time, and in Rome even longer. He’s in and out of the law courts, he knows the constitution backward. It’s all there in the constitution! Sulla’s and Rome’s.”
“So what you’re saying is that I have to back down.” Pompey drew a breath. “Well, I won’t! I want to be consul! I deserve to be consul, and I will be consul!”
“It can be arranged. But only in the way I’ve outlined,” Caesar maintained steadily. “Both you and Marcus Crassus in the curule chairs, restoration of the tribunate of the plebs and an exculpatory plebiscite, followed by another plebiscite to give land to the men of both armies.” He shrugged lightly. “After all, Gnaeus Pompeius, you have to have a colleague in the consulship! You can’t be consul without a colleague. So why not a colleague laboring under the same disadvantages and suffering the same risks? Imagine if Metellus Little Goat were to be voted in as your colleague! His teeth would be fixed in the back of your neck from the first day. And he would marshal every reserve he could to make sure you didn’t succeed in your attempts to restore the tribunate of the plebs. Two consuls in a very close collaboration are extremely difficult for the Senate to resist. Especially if they have ten united, rejuvenated tribunes of the plebs to back them up.”
“I see what you’re saying,” said Pompey slowly. “Yes, it would be a great advantage to have an amenable colleague. All right. I will be consul with Marcus Crassus.”
“Provided,” said Caesar pleasantly, “that you don’t forget the second plebiscite! Marcus Crassus must get that land.”
“No problem! I can get land for my men too, as you say.”
“Then the first step has been taken.”
Until this shattering discussion with Caesar, Pompey had assumed that Philippus would mastermind his candidacy for the consulship, would do whatever was necessary; but now Pompey wondered. Had Philippus seen all the consequences? Why hadn’t he said anything about prosecutions for treason and the necessity to restore the tribunate of the plebs? Was Philippus perhaps a little tired of being a paid employee? Or was he past his prime?
“I’m a dunce about politics,” said Pompey with what he tried to make engaging frankness. “The trouble is, politics don’t fascinate me. I’m far more interested in command, and I was thinking of the consulship as a sort of huge civilian command. You’ve made me see it differently. And you make sense, Caesar. So tell me this—how do I go about it? Should I just keep on lodging letters through Philippus?’’
“No, you’ve done that, you’ve thrown down your challenge,” said Caesar, apparently not averse to acting as Pompey’s political adviser. “I presume you’ve given Philippus orders to delay the curule elections, so I won’t go into that. The Senate’s next move will be aimed at trying to get the upper hand. It will give you and Marcus Crassus firm dates—you for your triumph, Marcus Crassus for his ovation. And of course the senatorial decree will instruct each of you to disband your army the moment your celebrations are over. That’s quite normal.”
He sat there, thought Pompey, not a scrap differently from the way he had the moment he arrived; he displayed no thirst, no discomfort in that vast toga from the heat of the day, no sign of a sore behind from the hard chair or a sore neck from looking at Pompey slightly to one side. And the words which gave voice to the thoughts were as well chosen as the thoughts were well organized. Yes, Caesar definitely bore watching.
Caesar continued. “The first move will have to come from you. When you get the date for your triumph, you must throw up your hands in horror and explain that you’ve just remembered you can’t triumph until Metellus Pius comes home from Further Spain, because you and he agreed to share one triumph between the two of you—no spoils worth speaking of, and so forth. But the moment you give this excuse for not disbanding your army, Marcus Crassus will throw his hands up in horror and protest that he cannot disband his army if that leaves only one fully mobilized army inside Italy—yours. You can keep this farce going until the end of the year. It won’t take the Senate many moons to realize that neither of you has any intention of disbanding his army, but that both of you are to some extent legalizing your positions. Provided neither of you makes a militarily aggressive move in Rome’s direction, you both look fairly good.”
“I like it!” said Pompey, beaming.
“I’m so glad. It’s less strain to preach to the converted. Now where was I?” Caesar frowned, pretended to think. “Oh, yes! Once the Senate understands that neither army is going to be disbanded, it will issue the appropriate consulta to allow both of you to stand for the consulship in absentia—for of course neither of you can enter Rome to lodge your candidacies in person to the election officer. Only the lots will show whether the election officer will be Orestes or Lentulus Sura, but I can’t see much difference between them.”
“How do I get around the fact that I’m not in the Senate?” asked Pompey.
“You don’t. That’s the Senate’s problem. It will be solved with a senatus consultum to the Assembly of the People allowing a knight to seek election as consul. I imagine the People will pass it happily—all those knights will consider it a tremendous win!”
“And Marcus Crassus and I can disband our armies when we’ve won election,” said Pompey, satisfied.
“Oh, no,” said Caesar, shaking his head gently. “You keep your armies under their eagles until the New Year. Therefore you won’t celebrate triumph and ovation until the latter half of December. Let Marcus Crassus ovate first. Then you can triumph on the last day of December.”
“It all makes perfect sense,” said Pompey, and frowned. “Why didn’t Philippus explain things properly?”
“I haven’t any idea,” said Caesar, looking innocent.
“I think I do,” said Pompey grimly.
Caesar rose, pausing to arrange the folds of his toga just so, utterly absorbed in the task. Finished, he walked with his graceful, straight—shouldered gait to the flap of the tent. In the entrance he paused, looked back, smiled. “A tent is a most impermanent structure, Gnaeus Pompeius. It
looks good for the general awaiting his triumph to set up an impermanent structure. But I don’t think it’s quite the impression you should be striving to make from now on. May I suggest that you hire an expensive villa on the Pincian Hill for the rest of the year? Bring your wife down from Picenum? Entertain? Breed a few pretty fish? I will make sure Marcus Crassus does the same. You’ll both look as if you’re prepared to live on the Campus Martius for the rest of your lives if necessary.”
Then he was gone, leaving Pompey collecting composure and thoughts. The military holiday was over; he would have to sit down with Varro and read law. Caesar seemed to know every nuance, yet he was six years younger. If the Senate had its share of wolves, was Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus going to be a sheep? Never! By the time New Year’s Day came around, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus would know his law and his Senate!
*
“Ye gods, Caesar, you’re clever!” said Crassus feebly when Caesar had ended his tale of Pompey. “I didn’t think of half that! I don’t say I wouldn’t have worked it all out eventually, but you must have done it between my tent and his. A villa on the Pincian, indeed! I have a perfectly good house on the Palatine I’ve just spent a fortune redecorating—why spend money on a villa on the Pincian? I’m comfortable in a tent.”
“What an incurable cheeseparer you are, Marcus Crassus!” said Caesar, laughing. “You’ll rent a villa on the Pincian at least as expensive as Pompeius’s and move Tertulla and the boys into it at once. You can afford it. Look on it as a necessary investment. It is! You and Pompeius are going to have to seem like bitter opponents for the next almost six months.”
“And what are you going to do?’’ asked Crassus.
“I’m going to find myself a tribune of the plebs. Preferably a Picentine one. I don’t know why, but men from Picenum are attracted to the tribunate of the plebs, and make very good ones. It shouldn’t be difficult. There are probably half a dozen members of this year’s college who hail from Picenum.”
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