Well, Caesar, what a campaign. Both the kings rolled up and everything looking good. I can’t understand why Lucullus took so long. Mind you, he couldn’t control his troops, yet here I’ve got every man who served under him, with never a peep out of them. Marcus Silius sends his regards, by the way. A good man.
What a strange place Pontus is. I now see why King Mithridates always had to use mercenaries and northerners in his army. Some of his Pontic people are so primitive that they live in trees. They also brew some sort of foul liquor out of twigs, of all things, though how they manage to drink it and stay alive I don’t know. Some of my men were marching through the forest in eastern Pontus and found big bowls of the stuff on the ground. You know soldiers! They guzzled the lot, had a fine time of it. Until they all fell over dead. Killed them!
The booty is unbelievable. I took all those so-called impregnable citadels he built all over Armenia Parva and eastern Pontus, of course. Not very hard to do. Oh, you mightn’t know who I mean by “he.” Mithridates. Yes, well, the treasures he’d managed to salt away filled every one of them—seventy-odd, all told—to the brim. It will take years to ship the lot back to Rome; I’ve got an army of clerks taking inventory. It’s my reckoning that I’ll double what’s in the Treasury and then double Rome’s income from tributes from now on.
I brought Mithridates to battle in a place in Pontus I renamed Nicopolis—already had a Pompeiopolis—and he went down badly. Escaped to Sinoria, where he grabbed six thousand talents of gold and bolted down the Euphrates to find Tigranes. Who wasn’t having a good time of it either! Phraates of the Parthians invaded Armenia while I was tidying up Mithridates, and actually laid siege to Artaxata. Tigranes beat him off, and the Parthians went back home. But it finished Tigranes. He wasn’t in a fit state to hold me off, I can tell you! So he sued for a separate peace, and wouldn’t let Mithridates enter Armenia. Mithridates went north instead, headed for Cimmeria. What he didn’t know was that I’ve been having some correspondence with the son he’d installed in Cimmeria as satrap—called Machares.
Anyway, I let Tigranes have Armenia, but tributary to Rome, and took everything west of the Euphrates off him along with Sophene and Corduene. Made him pay me the six thousand talents of gold Mithridates filched, and asked for two hundred and forty sesterces for each of my men.
What, wasn’t I worried about Mithridates? The answer is no. Mithridates is well into his sixties. Well past it, Caesar. Fabian tactics. I just let the old boy run, couldn’t see he was a danger anymore. And I did have Machares. So while Mithridates ran, I marched. For which blame Varro, who doesn’t have a bone in his body isn’t curious. He was dying to dabble his toes in the Caspian Sea, and I thought, well, why not? So off we went northeastward.
Not much booty and far too many snakes, huge vicious spiders, giant scorpions. Funny how our men will fight all manner of human foes without turning a hair, then scream like women over crawlies. They sent me a deputation begging me to turn back when the Caspian Sea was only miles away. I turned back. Had to. I scream at crawlies too. So does Varro, who by this was quite happy to keep his toes dry.
You probably know that Mithridates is dead, but I’ll tell you how it actually happened. He got to Panticapaeum on the Cimmerian Bosporus, and began levying another army. He’d had the forethought to bring plenty of daughters with him, and used them as bait to draw Scythian levies—offered them to the Scythian kings and princes as brides.
You have to admire the old boy’s persistence, Caesar. Do you know what he intended to do? Gather a quarter of a million men and march on Italia and Rome the long way! He was going to go right round the top end of the Euxine and down through the lands of the Roxolani to the mouth of the Danubius. Then he intended to march up the Danubius gathering all the tribes along the way into his forces—Dacians, Bessi, Dardani, you name them. I hear Burebistas of the Dacians was very keen. Then he was going to cross to the Dravus and Savus, and march into Italia across the Carnic Alps!
Oh, I forgot to say that when he got to Panticapaeum he forced Machares to commit suicide. Bloodthirsty for his own kin, can never understand that in eastern kings. While he was busy raising his army, Phanagoria (the town on the other side of the Bosporus) revolted. The leader was another son of his, Pharnaces. I’d also been writing to him. Of course Mithridates put the rebellion down, but he made one bad mistake. He pardoned Pharnaces. Must have been running out of sons. Pharnaces repaid him by rounding up a fresh lot of revolutionaries and storming the fortress in Panticapaeum. That was the end, and Mithridates knew it. So he murdered however many daughters he had left, and some wives and concubines and even a few sons who were still children. Then he took an enormous dose of poison. But it wouldn’t work; he’d been too successful all those years of deliberately poisoning himself to become immune. The deed was done by one of the Gauls in his bodyguard. Ran the old man through with a sword. I buried him in Sinope.
In the meantime, I was marching into Syria, getting it tidied up so Rome can inherit. No more kings of Syria. I for one am tired of eastern potentates. Syria will become a Roman province, much safer. I also like the idea of putting good Roman troops against the Euphrates—ought to make the Parthians think a bit. I also settled the strife between the Greeks displaced by Tigranes and the Arabs displaced by Tigranes. The Arabs will be quite handy, I think, so I did send some of them back to the desert. But I made it worth their while. Abgarus—I hear he made life so hard in Antioch for young Publius Clodius that Clodius fled, though exactly what Abgarus did I can’t find out—is the King of the Skenites, then I put someone with the terrific name of Sampsiceramus in charge of another lot, and so forth. This sort of thing is really enjoyable work, Caesar; it gives a lot of satisfaction. No one out here is very practical, and they squabble and quarrel with each other endlessly. Silly. It’s such a rich place you’d think they’d learn to get on, but they don’t. Still, I can’t repine. It does mean that Gnaeus Pompeius from Picenum has kings in his clientele! I have earned that Magnus, I tell you. The worst part of it all turns out to be the Jews. A very strange lot. They were fairly reasonable until the old Queen, Alexandra, died a couple of years ago. But she left two sons to fight out the succession, complicated by the fact that their religion is as important to them as their state. So one son has to be High Priest, as far as I can gather. The other one wanted to be King of the Jews, but the High Priest one, Hyrcanus, thought it would be nice to combine both offices. They had a bit of a war, and Hyrcanus was defeated by brother Aristobulus. Then along comes an Idumaean prince named Antipater, who whispered in Hyrcanus’s ear and then persuaded Hyrcanus to ally himself with King Aretas of the Nabataeans. The deal was that Hyrcanus would hand over twelve Arab cities to Aretas that the Jews were ruling. They then laid siege to Aristobulus in Jerusalem, which is their name for Hierosolyma.
I sent my quaestor, young Scaurus, to sort the mess out. Ought to have known better. He picked Aristobulus as the one in the right, and ordered Aretas back to Nabataea. Then Aristobulus ambushed him at Papyron or some such place, and Aretas lost. I got to Antioch to find that Aristobulus was the King of the Jews, and Scaurus didn’t know what to do. The next thing, I’m getting presents from both sides. You should see the present Aristobulus sent me—well, you will at my triumph. A magical thing, Caesar, a grapevine made of pure gold, with golden bunches of grapes all over it.
Anyway, I’ve ordered both camps to meet me in Damascus next spring. I believe Damascus has a lovely climate, so I think I’ll winter there and finish sorting out the mess between Tigranes and the King of the Parthians. The one I’m interested to meet is the Idumaean, Antipater. Sounds like a clever sort of fellow. Probably circumcised. They almost all are, the Semites. Peculiar practice. I’m attached to my foreskin, literally as well as metaphorically. There! That came out quite well. That’s because I’ve still got Varro with me, as well as Lenaeus and Theophanes of Mitylene. I hear Lucullus is crowing because he brought back this fabulous fruit called a cherry to Italia, but I
’m bringing back all sorts of plants, including this sweet and succulent sort of lemon I found in Media—an orange lemon, isn’t that strange? Ought to grow well in Italia, likes a dry summer, fruits in winter.
Well, enough prattle. Time to get down to business and tell you why I’m writing. You’re a very subtle and clever chap, Caesar, and it hasn’t escaped my notice that you always speak up for me in the Senate, and to good effect. No one else did over the pirates. I think I’ll be another two years in the East, ought to fetch up at home about the time you’ll be leaving office as praetor, if you’re going to take advantage of Sulla’s law letting patricians stand two years early.
But I’m making it my policy to have at least one tribune of the plebs in my Roman camp until after I get home. The next one is Titus Labienus, and I know you know him because you were both on Vatia Isauricus’s staff in Cilicia ten or twelve years ago. He’s a very good man, comes from Cingulum, right in the middle of my patch. Clever too. He tells me the pair of you got on well together. I know you won’t be holding a magistracy, but it might be that you can lend Titus Labienus a hand occasionally. Or he might be able to lend you a hand—feel free. I’ve told him all this. The year after—the year of your praetorship, I imagine—my man will be Mucia’s younger brother, Metellus Nepos. I ought to arrive home just after he finishes his term, though I can’t be sure.
So what I’d like you to do, Caesar, is hold a watch for me and mine. You’re going to go far, even if I haven’t left you much of the world to conquer! I’ve never forgotten that it was you who showed me how to be consul, while corrupt old Philippus couldn’t be bothered.
Your friend from Mitylene, Aulus Gabinius, sends you his warm regards.
Well, I might as well say it. Do what you can to help me get land for my troops. It’s too early for Labienus to try, the job will go to Nepos. I’m sending him home in style well before next year’s elections. A pity you can’t be consul when the fight to get my land is on, a bit too early for you. Still, it might drag out until you’re consul-elect, and then you can be a real help. It isn’t going to be easy.
Caesar laid the long letter down and put his chin in his hand, having much to think about. Though he found it naive, he enjoyed Pompey’s bald prose and casual asides; they brought Magnus into the room in a way that the polished essays Varro wrote for Pompey’s senatorial dispatches never did.
When he had first met Pompey on that memorable day Pompey had turned up to claim Mucia Tertia at Aunt Julia’s, Caesar had detested him. And in some ways he probably never would warmly like the man. However, the years and exposure had somewhat softened his attitude, which now, he decided, contained more like than dislike. Oh, one had to deplore the conceit and the rustic in him, and his patent disregard for due process of the law. Nonetheless he was gifted and so eminently capable. He hadn’t put a foot wrong very often, and the older he became, the more unerring his step. Crassus loathed him of course, which was a difficulty. That left him, Caesar, to steer a course between the two.
Titus Labienus. A cruel and barbarous man. Tall, muscular, curly-headed, hook-nosed, snapping black eyes. Absolutely at home on a horse. Quite what his remote ancestry was had flummoxed more Romans than merely Caesar; even Pompey had been heard to say that he thought Mormolyce had snatched the mother’s newborn babe out of its cradle and substituted one of her own to be brought up as Titus Labienus’s heir. Interesting that Labienus had informed Pompey how well he had gotten on with Caesar in the old days. And it was true enough. Two born riders, they had shared many a gallop through the countryside around Tarsus, and talked endlessly about cavalry tactics in battle. Yet Caesar couldn’t warm to him, despite the man’s undeniable brilliance. Labienus was someone to be used but never trusted.
Caesar quite understood why Pompey was concerned enough about Labienus’s fate as a tribune of the plebs to enlist Caesar in a support role; the new College was a particularly weird mixture of independent individuals who would probably fly off in ten tangents and spend more time vetoing each other than anything else. Though in one respect Pompey had erred; if Caesar had been planning his assortment of tame tribunes of the plebs, then Labienus would have been saved for the year Pompey started to press for land for his veterans. What Caesar knew of Metellus Nepos indicated that he was too Caecilian; he wouldn’t have the necessary steel. For that kind of work, a fiery Picentine without ancestors and nowhere to go save up yielded the best results.
Mucia Tertia. Widow of Young Marius, wife of Pompey the Great. Mother of Pompey’s children, boy, girl, boy. Why had he never got round to her? Perhaps because he still felt about her the way he had about Bibulus’s wife, Domitia: the prospect of cuckolding Pompey was so alluring he kept postponing the actual deed. Domitia (the cousin of Cato’s brother-in-law, Ahenobarbus) was now an accomplished fact, though Bibulus hadn’t heard about it yet. He would! What fun! Only—did Caesar really want to annoy Pompey in a way he understood Pompey particularly would loathe? He might need Pompey, just as Pompey might need him. What a pity. Of all the women on his list, Caesar fancied Mucia Tertia most. And that she fancied him he had known for years. Now… was it worth it? Probably not. Probably not. Conscious of a twinge of regret, Caesar mentally erased Mucia Tertia’s name from his list.
Which turned out to be just as well. With the year drawing to its close, Labienus returned from his estates in Picenum and moved into the very modest house he had recently bought on the Palatium, which was the less settled and more unfashionable side of the Palatine. And the very next day hied himself off to see Caesar just sufficiently too late for anyone left in Aurelia’s apartment to assume he was Caesar’s client.
“But let’s not talk here, Titus Labienus,” said Caesar, and drew him back toward the door. “I have rooms down the street.”
“This is very nice,” said Labienus, ensconced in a comfortable chair and with weak watered wine at his elbow.
“Considerably quieter,” said Caesar, sitting in another chair but not with the desk between them; he did not wish to give this man the impression that business was the order of the day. “I am interested to know,” he said, sipping water, “why Pompeius didn’t conserve you for the year after next.”
“Because he didn’t expect to be in the East for so long,” said Labienus. “Until he decided he couldn’t abandon Syria with the Jewish question unsettled, he really thought he’d be home by next spring. Didn’t he tell you that in his letter?”
So Labienus knew all about the letter. Caesar grinned. “You know him at least as well as I do, Labienus. He did ask me to give you any assistance I could, and he also told me about the Jewish difficulties. What he neglected to mention was that he had planned to be home earlier than he said he was going to be.”
The black eyes flashed, but not with laughter; Labienus had little sense of humor. “Well, that’s it, that’s the reason. So instead of a brilliant tribunate of the plebs, I’m going to have no more to do than legislate to allow Magnus to wear full triumphal regalia at the games.”
“With or without minim all over his face?”
That did provoke a short laugh. “You know Magnus, Caesar! He wouldn’t wear minim even during his triumph itself.”
Caesar was beginning to understand the situation a little better. “Are you Magnus’s client?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. What man from Picenum isn’t?”
“Yet you didn’t go east with him.”
“He wouldn’t even use Afranius and Petreius when he cleaned up the pirates, though he did manage to slip them in after some of the big names when he went to war against the kings. And Lollius Palicanus, Aulus Gabinius. Mind you, I didn’t have a senatorial census, which is why I couldn’t stand as quaestor. A poor man’s only way into the Senate is to become tribune of the plebs and then hope he makes enough money before the next lot of censors to qualify to stay in the Senate,” said Labienus harshly.
“I always thought Magnus was very open-handed. Hasn’t he offered to assist you?”
&n
bsp; “He saves his largesse for those in a position to do great things for him. You might say that under his original plans, I was on a promise.”
“And it isn’t a very big promise now that triumphal regalia is the most important thing on his tribunician schedule.”
“Exactly.”
Caesar sighed, stretched his legs out. “I take it,” he said, “that you would like to leave a name behind you after your year in the College is over.”
“I would.”
“It’s a long time since we were both junior military tribunes under Vatia Isauricus, and I’m sorry the years since haven’t been kind to you. Unfortunately my own finances don’t permit of a trifling loan, and I do understand that I can’t function as your patron. However, Titus Labienus, in four years I will be consul, which means that in five years I will be going to a province. I do not intend to be a tame governor in a tame province. Wherever I go, there will be plenty of military work to do, and I will need some excellent people to work as my legates. In particular, I will need one legate who will have propraetorian status whom I can trust to campaign as well without me as with me. What I remember about you is your military sense. So I’ll make a pact with you here and now. Number one, that I’ll find something for you to do during your tribunate of the plebs that will make your year a memorable one. And number two, that when I go as proconsul to my province, I’ll make sure you come with me as my chief legate with propraetorian status,” said Caesar.
Labienus drew a breath. “What I remember about you, Caesar, is your military sense. How odd! Mucia said you were worth watching. She spoke of you, I thought, with more respect than she ever does of Magnus.”
“Mucia?”
The black gaze was very level. “That’s right.”
“Well, well! How many people know?” asked Caesar.
“None, I hope.”
“Doesn’t he lock her up in his stronghold while he’s away? That’s what he used to do.”
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