Growth of Rome’s provinces and profits had long rendered Saturn too small for its fiscal purpose, but Romans were loath to give up anything once designated as a place for some governmental enterprise, so Saturn floundered on as the Treasury. Subhoards of coined money and bullion had been relegated to other vaults beneath other temples, the accounts belonging to years other than the current one had been banished to Sulla’s Tabularium, and as a consequence Treasury officials and underlings had proliferated. Another Roman anathema, civil servants, but the Treasury was, after all, the Treasury; the public moneys had to be properly planted, cultivated and harvested, even if that did mean abhorrently big numbers of public employees.
While his entourage hung back to watch bright-eyed and proud, Caesar strolled up to the great carved door in the side wall of Saturn’s podium. He was clad in spotless white toga with the broad purple stripe of the senator on the right shoulder of his tunic, and he wore a chaplet of oak leaves around his head because this was a public occasion and he had to wear his Civic Crown on all public occasions. Whereas another man might have gestured to an attendant to ply the knocker, Caesar did that himself, then waited until the door opened cautiously and a head appeared around it.
“Gaius Julius Caesar, quaestor of the province of Further Spain under the governorship of Gaius Antistius Vetus, wishes to present the accounts of his province, as law and custom demand,” said Caesar in a level voice.
He was admitted, and the door closed behind him; all the clients remained outside in the fresh air.
“I believe you only got in yesterday, is that right?” asked Marcus Vibius, Treasury chief, when Caesar was conducted into his gloomy office.
“Yes.”
“There isn’t any hurry about these things, you know.”
“As far as I’m concerned there is. My duty as quaestor is not ended until I have presented my accounts.”
Vibius blinked. “Then by all means present them!”
Out from the sinus of Caesar’s toga came seven scrolls, each one sealed twice, once with Caesar’s ring and once with Antistius Vetus’s ring. When Vibius went to break the seals on the first scroll, Caesar stopped him.
“What is it, Gaius Julius?”
“There are no witnesses present.”
Vibius blinked again. “Oh well, we don’t usually worry too much about trifles like that,” he said easily, and picked up the scroll with a wry smile.
Caesar’s hand came out, wrapped itself around Vibius’s wrist. “I suggest you commence to worry about trifles like that,” said Caesar pleasantly. “These are the official accounts of my quaestorship in Further Spain, and I require witnesses throughout my presentation. If the time isn’t convenient to produce witnesses, then give me a time which is convenient, and I will come back.”
The atmosphere inside the room changed, became frostier. “Of course, Gaius Julius.”
But the first four witnesses were not to Caesar’s taste, and it was only after some twelve had been inspected that four were found who did suit Caesar’s taste. The interview then proceeded with a speed and cleverness which had Marcus Vibius gasping, for he was not used to quaestors with a grasp of accounting, nor to a memory so good it enabled its owner to reel off whole screeds of data without consultation of written material. And by the time that Caesar was done, Vibius was sweating.
“I can honestly say that I have rarely, if ever, seen a quaestor present his accounts so well,” Vibius admitted, and wiped his brow. “All is in order, Gaius Julius. In fact, Further Spain ought to give you a vote of thanks for sorting out so many messes.” This was said with a conciliatory smile; Vibius was beginning to understand that this haughty fellow intended to be consul, so it behooved him to flatter.
“If all is in order, I will have an official paper from you to say so. Witnessed.”
“I was about to do it.”
“Excellent!” said Caesar heartily.
“And when will the moneys arrive?” asked Vibius as he ushered his uncomfortable visitor out.
Caesar shrugged. “That is not in my province to control. I imagine the governor will wait to bring all the moneys with him at the end of his term.”
A tinge of bitterness crept into Vibius’s face. “And isn’t that typical?” he exclaimed rhetorically. “What ought to be Rome’s this year will remain Antistius Vetus’s for long enough for him to have turned it over as an investment in his name, and profited from it.”
“That is quite legal, and not my business to criticize,” said Caesar gently, screwing up his eyes as he emerged into bright Forum sunshine.
“Ave, Gaius Julius!” snapped Vibius, and shut the door.
During the hour that this interview had consumed, the lower Forum had filled up a little, people scurrying about to complete their tasks before midafternoon and dinnertime arrived. And among the fresh faces, noted Caesar with an inward sigh, was that belonging to Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, whom he had once lifted effortlessly and put on top of a lofty cupboard in front of six of his peers. Then apostrophized as a flea. Not without reason! They had taken but one look at each other and detested each other; it did happen that way from time to time. Bibulus had offered him the kind of insult which called for physical retaliation, secure because his diminutive size prevented Caesar’s hitting him. He had implied that Caesar obtained a magnificent fleet from old King Nicomedes of Bithynia by prostituting himself to the King. In other circumstances Caesar might not have let his temper slip, but it had happened almost immediately after the general Lucullus had implied the same thing. Twice was once too many; up went Bibulus onto the cupboard, with some pungent words accompanying him. And that had been the start of almost a year living in the same quarters as Bibulus while Rome in the person of Lucullus showed the city of Mitylene in Lesbos that it could not defy its suzerain. The lines had been divided. Bibulus was an enemy.
He hadn’t changed in the ten years which had elapsed since then, thought Caesar as the new group approached, Bibulus in its forefront. The other branch of the Famous Family Calpurnius, cognominated Piso, was filled with some of Rome’s tallest fellows; yet the branch cognominated Bibulus (it meant spongelike, in the sense of soaking up wine) was physically opposite. No member of the Roman nobility would have had any difficulty in deciding which Famous Family branch Bibulus belonged to. He wasn’t merely small, he was tiny, and possessed of a face so fair it was bleak—jutting cheekbones, colorless hair, invisible brows, a pair of silver-grey eyes. Not unattractive, but daunting.
Clients excluded, Bibulus was not alone; he was walking side by side with an extraordinary man who wore no tunic under his toga. Young Cato, from the coloring and the nose. Well, that friendship made sense. Bibulus was married to a Domitia who was the first cousin of Cato’s brother-in-law, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Odd how all the obnoxious ones stuck together, even in marriage. And as Bibulus was a member of the boni, no doubt that meant Cato was too.
“In search of a little shade, Bibulus?” asked Caesar sweetly as they met, his eyes traveling from his old enemy to his very tall companion, who thanks to the position of the sun and the group did actually cast his shadow across Bibulus.
“Cato will put all of us in the shade before he’s done” was the reply, uttered coldly.
“The nose will be a help in that respect,” said Caesar.
Cato patted his most prominent feature affectionately, not at all put out, but not amused either; wit escaped him. “No one will ever mistake my statues for anyone else’s,” he said.
“That is true.” Caesar looked at Bibulus. “Planning to run for any office this year?” he asked.
“Not I!”
“And you, Marcus Cato?”
“Tribune of the soldiers,” said Cato tersely.
“You’ll do well. I hear that you won a large collection of decorations as a soldier in Poplicola’s army against Spartacus.”
“That’s right, he did!” snapped Bibulus. “Not everyone in Poplicola’s army was a coward!”
“You didn’t have to. You chose Crassus to campaign with.”
“I had no choice in the matter, any more than Marcus Cato will have a choice when he’s elected a tribune of the soldiers. As military magistrates, we go where Romulus sends us.”
Whereupon the conversation foundered and would have ceased except for the arrival of another pair far more congenial to Caesar at least: Appius Claudius Pulcher and Marcus Tullius Cicero.
“Barely here, I see, Cato!” said Cicero merrily.
Bibulus had had enough, and took himself and Cato off.
“Remarkable,” said Caesar, watching the diminishing Cato. “Why no tunic?”
“He says it’s part of the mos maiorum, and he’s trying to persuade all of us to go back to the old ways,” said Appius Claudius, a typical member of his family, being a dark and medium-sized man of considerable good looks. He patted Cicero’s midriff and grinned. “All right for fellows like himself and Caesar, but I can’t think exposure of your hide would impress a jury,” he said to Cicero.
“Pure affectation,” said Cicero. “He’ll grow out of it.” The dark, immensely intelligent eyes rested on Caesar and danced. “Mind you, I remember when your sartorial affectations upset a few of the boni, Caesar. Those purple borders on your long sleeves?’’
Caesar laughed. “I was bored, and it seemed like something bound to irritate Catulus at the time.”
“It did, it did! As leader of the boni, Catulus fancies himself the custodian of Rome’s customs and traditions.”
“Speaking of Catulus, when does he plan to finish Jupiter Optimus Maximus? I can’t see any progress at all.”
“Oh, it was dedicated a year ago,” said Cicero. “As to when it can be used—who knows? Sulla did leave the poor fellow in severe financial difficulties over the job, you know that. Most of the money he has to find out of his own purse.”
“He can afford it, he sat comfortably in Rome making money out of Cinna and Carbo while Sulla was in exile. Giving Catulus the job of rebuilding Jupiter Optimus Maximus was Sulla’s revenge.”
“Ah, yes! Sulla’s revenges are still famous, though he’s been dead ten years.”
“He was the First Man in Rome,” said Caesar.
“And now we have Pompeius Magnus claiming the title,” said Appius Claudius, his contempt showing.
What Caesar might have said in answer to this was not said, for Cicero spoke.
“I’m glad you’re back in Rome, Caesar. Hortensius is getting a bit long in the tooth, hasn’t been quite the same since I beat him in the Verres case, so I can do with some decent competition in the courts.”
“Long in the tooth at forty-seven?” asked Caesar.
“He lives high,” said Appius Claudius.
“So do they all in that circle.”
“I wouldn’t call Lucullus a high liver at the moment.”
“That’s right, you’re not long back from service with him in the East,” said Caesar, preparing to depart by inclining his head toward his retinue.
“And glad to be out of it,” said Appius Claudius with feeling. He snorted a chuckle. “However, I sent Lucullus a replacement!”
“A replacement?”
“My little brother, Publius Clodius.”
“Oh, that will please him!” said Caesar, laughing too.
*
And so Caesar left the Forum somewhat more comfortable with the thought that the next few years would be spent here in Rome. It wouldn’t be easy, and that pleased him. Catulus, Bibulus and the rest of the boni would make sure he suffered. But there were friends too; Appius Claudius wasn’t tied to a faction, and as a patrician he would favor a fellow patrician.
But what about Cicero? Since his brilliance and innovation had sent Gaius Verres into permanent exile, everyone knew Cicero, who labored under the extreme disadvantage of having no ancestors worth speaking of. A homo novus, a New Man. The first of his respectable rural family to sit in the Senate. He came from the same district as Marius had, and was related to him; but some flaw in his nature had blinded him to the fact that outside of the Senate, most of Rome still worshiped the memory of Gaius Marius. So Cicero refused to trade on that relationship, shunned all mention of his origins in Arpinum, and spent his days trying to pretend that he was a Roman of the Romans. He even had the wax masks of many ancestors in his atrium, but they belonged to the family of his wife, Terentia; like Gaius Marius, he had married into the highest nobility and counted on Terentia’s connections to ease him into the consulship.
The best way to describe him was as a social climber, something his relative Gaius Marius had never been. Marius had married the older sister of Caesar’s father, Caesar’s beloved Aunt Julia, and for the same reasons Cicero had married his ugly Terentia. Yet to Marius the consulship had been a way to secure a great military command, nothing else. Whereas Cicero saw the consulship itself as the height of his ambitions. Marius had wanted to be the First Man in Rome. Cicero just wanted to belong by right to the highest nobility in the land. Oh, he would succeed! In the law courts he had no peer, which meant he had built up a formidable group of grateful villains who wielded colossal influence in the Senate. Not to mention that he was Rome’s greatest orator, which meant he was sought after by other men of colossal influence to speak on their behalf.
No snob, Caesar was happy to accept Cicero for his own merits, and hoped to woo him into that Caesar faction. The trouble was that Cicero was an incurable vacillator; that immense mind saw so many potential hazards that in the end he was likely to let timidity make his decisions for him. And to a man like Caesar, who had never let fear conquer his instincts, timidity was the worst of all masters. Having Cicero on his side would make political life easier for Caesar. But would Cicero see the advantages allegiance would bring him? That was on the lap of the Gods.
Cicero was besides a poor man, and Caesar didn’t have the money to buy him. His only source of income aside from his family lands in Arpinum was his wife; Terentia was extremely wealthy. Unfortunately she also controlled her own funds, and refused to indulge Cicero’s taste for artworks and country villas. Oh, for money! It removed so many difficulties, especially for a man who wanted to be the First Man in Rome. Look at Pompey the Great, master of untold wealth. He bought adherents. Whereas Caesar for all his illustrious ancestry did not have the money to buy adherents or votes. In that respect, he and Cicero were two of a kind. Money. If anything could defeat him, thought Caesar, it was lack of money.
*
On the following morning Caesar dismissed his clients after the dawn ritual and walked alone down the Vicus Patricii to the suite of rooms he rented in a tall insula located between the Fabricius dye works and the Suburan Baths. This had become his bolt-hole after he returned from the war against Spartacus, when the living presence of mother and wife and daughter within his own home had sometimes rendered it so overpoweringly feminine that it proved intolerable. Everyone in Rome was used to noise, even those who dwelled in spacious houses upon the Palatine and Carinae—slaves shouted, sang, laughed and squabbled as they went about their work, and babies howled, small children screamed, womenfolk chattered incessantly when they weren’t intruding to nag or complain. Such a normal situation that it scarcely impinged upon most men at the head of a household. But in that respect Caesar chafed, for in him resided a genuine liking for solitude as well as little patience for what he regarded as trivia. Being a true Roman, he had not attempted to reorganize his domestic environment by forbidding noise and feminine intrusions, but rather avoided them by giving himself a bolt-hole.
He liked beautiful objects, so the three rooms he rented on the second floor of this insula belied their location. His only real friend, Marcus Licinius Crassus, was an incurable acquisitor of estates and properties, and for once Crassus had succumbed to a generous impulse, sold Caesar very cheaply sufficient mosaic flooring to cover the two rooms Caesar himself used. When he had bou
ght the house of Marcus Livius Drusus, Crassus had rather despised the floor’s antiquity; but Caesar’s taste was unerring, he knew nothing so good had been produced in fifty years. Similarly, Crassus had been pleased to use Caesar’s apartment as practice for the squads of unskilled slaves he (very profitably) trained in prized and costly trades like plastering walls, picking out moldings and pilasters with gilt, and painting frescoes.
Thus when Caesar entered this apartment he heaved a sigh of sheer satisfaction as he gazed around the perfections of study-cum-reception-room and bedroom. Good, good! Lucius Decumius had followed his instructions to the letter and arranged several new items of furniture exactly where Caesar had wanted. They had been found in Further Spain and shipped to Rome ahead of time: a glossy console table carved out of reddish marble with lion’s feet legs, a gilded couch covered in Tyrian purple tapestry, two splendid chairs. There, he noted with amusement, was the new bed Lucius Decumius had mentioned, a commodious structure in ebony and gilt with a Tyrian purple spread. Who could guess, looking at Lucius Decumius, that his taste was quite up there with Caesar’s?
The owner of this establishment didn’t bother checking the third room, which was really a section of the balcony rimming the interior light well. Either end of it had been walled off for privacy from the neighbors, and the light well itself was heavily shuttered, allowing air but forbidding prying eyes any sight of its interior. Herein the service arrangements were located, from a man-sized bronze bath to a cistern storing water to a chamber pot. There were no cooking facilities and Caesar did not employ a servant who lived in the apartment. Cleaning was in the care of Aurelia’s servants, whom Eutychus sent down regularly to empty the bath water and keep the cistern filled, the chamber pot sweet, the linen washed, the floors swept, and every other surface dusted.
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