“Brutus both fosters and harbors his fortune.”
“An excellent thing in Rome’s wealthiest young man,” agreed Caesar gravely.
*
Marcus Crassus returned to Rome after a long absence overseeing his various business enterprises just after that memorable day in the Forum, and eyed Caesar with new respect.
“Though I can’t say that I’m sorry I found good excuse to absent myself after Tarquinius accused me in the House,” he said. “I agree it’s been an interesting interlude, but my tactics are very different from yours, Caesar. You go for the throat. I prefer to amble off and plough my furrows like the ox I’m always said to resemble.”
“Hay tied well in place.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, as a technique it certainly works. It’s a fool tries to bring you down, Marcus.”
“And a fool tries to bring you down, Gaius.” Crassus coughed. “How far in debt are you?”
Caesar frowned. “If anyone other than my mother knows, you do. But if you insist upon hearing the figure aloud, about two thousand talents. That’s fifty million sesterces.”
“I know that you know that I know how many sesterces there are in two thousand talents,” said Crassus with a grin.
“What are you getting at, Marcus?”
“You’re going to need a really lucrative province next year, is what I’m getting at. They won’t let you fix the lots, you’re too controversial. Not to mention that Cato will be hovering like a vulture above your carcass.” Crassus wrinkled his brow. “Quite frankly, Gaius, I can’t see how you’ll do it even if the lots are favorable. Everywhere is pacified! Magnus has cowed the East, Africa hasn’t been a danger since—oh, Jugurtha. Both the Spains are still suffering from Sertorius. The Gauls have nothing much to offer either.”
“And Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica aren’t worth mentioning,” said Caesar, eyes dancing.
“Absolutely.”
“Have you heard I’m going to be dunned at law?”
“No. What I do hear is that Catulus—he’s much better, so they say, he’ll be back making a nuisance of himself in Senate and Comitia shortly—is organizing a campaign to prorogue all the current governors next year, leaving this year’s praetors with no provinces at all.”
“Oh, I see!” Caesar looked thoughtful. “Yes, I should have taken a move like that into consideration.”
“It might go through.”
“It might, though I doubt it. There are a few of my fellow praetors who wouldn’t take at all kindly to being deprived of a province, particularly Philippus, who might be a bit of an indolent Epicurean, but knows his worth too. Not to mention me.”
“Be warned, is all.”
“I am, and I thank you.”
“Which doesn’t take away from your difficulties, Caesar. I don’t see how you can begin to pay your debts from a province.”
“I do. My luck will provide, Marcus,” said Caesar tranquilly. “I want Further Spain because I was quaestor there, and I know it well. The Lusitani and the Callaici are all I need! Decimus Brutus Callaicus—how easily they award those empty titles!—barely touched the fringes of northwestern Iberia. And northwestern Iberia, in case you’ve forgotten—you shouldn’t, you were in Spain—is where all the gold comes from. Salamantica has been stripped, but places like Brigantium haven’t even seen a Roman yet. But they’ll see this Roman, so much I promise!”
“So you’ll stake your chances on your luck in the lots.” Crassus shook his head. “What a strange fellow you are, Caesar! I don’t believe in luck. In all my life I’ve never offered a gift to Goddess Fortuna. A man makes his own luck.”
“I agree unconditionally. But I also believe that Goddess Fortuna has her favorites among Roman men. She loved Sulla. And she loves me. Some men, Marcus, have Goddess-given luck as well as what they make for themselves. But none have Caesar’s luck.”
“Does your luck include Servilia?”
“Come as a surprise, did it?”
“You hinted at it once. That’s playing with a firebrand.”
“Ah, Crassus, she’s marvelous in bed!”
“Huh!” grunted Crassus. He propped his feet up on a nearby chair and scowled at Caesar. “I suppose one can expect nothing else from a man who publicly talks to his battering ram. Still and all, you’ll have more latitude to exercise your battering ram in the months to come. I predict people like Bibulus, Cato, Gaius Piso and Catulus will be licking their wounds for a long time.”
“That,” said Caesar, eyes twinkling, “is what Servilia says.”
2
Publius Vatinius was a Marsian from Alba Fucentia. His grandfather was a humble man who had made a very wise decision and emigrated from the lands of the Marsi well before the Italian War broke out. Which in turn meant that his son, a young man then, was not called upon to take up arms against Rome, and consequently upon the conclusion of hostilities could apply to the praetor peregrinus for the Roman citizenship. The grandfather died, and his son moved back to Alba Fucentia possessed of a citizenship so shabby it was hardly worth the paper it was written on. Then when Sulla became Dictator he distributed all these new citizens across the thirty-five tribes, and Vatinius Senior was admitted into the tribe Sergia, one of the very oldest. The family fortunes prospered mightily. What had been a small merchant business became a large landholding one, for the Marsian country around the Fucine Lake was rich and productive, and Rome close enough down the Via Valeria to provide a market for the fruits, vegetables and fat lambs the Vatinius properties produced. After which Vatinius Senior went in for growing grapes, and was shrewd enough to pay a huge sum for vine stock yielding a superb white wine. By the time Publius Vatinius was twenty, his father’s lands were worth many millions of sesterces, and produced nothing save this famous Fucentine nectar.
Publius Vatinius was the only child, and Fortune did not seem to favor him. When he was a lad he succumbed to what was called the Summer Disease, and emerged from it with the muscles below the knees of both legs so wasted that the only way he could walk was to pinch his thighs together tightly and fling his lower legs to each side; the resulting gait was reminiscent of a duck’s. He then developed swelling lumps in his neck which sometimes abscessed, burst, and left terrible scars. He was therefore not a pretty sight. However, what had been denied his physical appearance was given instead to his nature and his mind. The nature was truly delightful, for he was witty, joyous, and very hard to ruffle. The mind was so acute it had early perceived that his best defense was to draw attention to his unsightly diseases, so he made a joke of himself and allowed others to do the same.
Because Vatinius Senior was relatively young to have a grown son, Publius Vatinius was not really needed at home, nor would he ever be able to stride around the properties the way his father did; Vatinius Senior concentrated upon training more remote relatives to take over the business, and sent his son to Rome to become a gentleman.
The vast upheavals and dislocations which followed in the wake of the Italian War had created a before-and-after situation which saw these newly prosperous families—and there were many of them—patronless. Every enterprising senator and knight of the upper Eighteen was looking for clients, yet prospective clients aplenty went unnoticed. As had the Vatinius family. But not once Publius Vatinius, a little old at twenty-five, finally arrived in Rome. Having settled in and settled down in lodgings on the Palatine, he looked about for a patron. That his choice fell on Caesar said much about his inclinations and his intelligence. Lucius Caesar was actually the senior of the branch, but Publius Vatinius went to Gaius because his unerring nose said Gaius was going to be the one with the real clout.
Of course Caesar had liked him instantly, and admitted him as a client of great value, which meant Vatinius’s Forum career got under way in a most satisfactory manner. The next thing was to find Publius Vatinius a bride, since, as Vatinius said, “The legs don’t work too well, but there’s nothing wrong with what hangs between them.”
Caesar’s choice fell on the eldest child of his cousin Julia Antonia, her only daughter, Antonia Cretica. Of dowry she had none, but by birth she could guarantee her husband public prominence and admission to the ranks of the Famous Families. Unfortunately she was not a very prepossessing female creature, nor was she bright of intellect; her mother always forgot she existed, so wrapped up was she in her three sons, and perhaps too Antonia Cretica’s size and shape proved a maternal embarrassment. At six feet in height she had shoulders nearly as wide as her young brothers’, and while Nature gave her a barrel for a chest, Nature forgot to add breasts. Her nose and chin fought to meet across her mouth, and her neck was as thick as a gladiator’s.
Did any of this worry the crippled and diminutive Publius Vatinius? Not at all! He espoused Antonia Cretica with zest in the year of Caesar’s curule aedileship, and proceeded to sire a son and a daughter. He also loved her, his massive and ugly bride, and bore with perpetual good humor the opportunities this bizarre alliance offered to the Forum wits.
“You’re all green with envy,” he would say, laughing. “How many of you climb into your beds knowing you’re going to conquer Italia’s highest mountain? I tell you, when I reach the peak, I am as filled with triumph as she is with me!”
In the year of Cicero’s consulship he was elected a quaestor, and entered the Senate. Of the twenty successful candidates he had polled last, no surprise given his lack of ancestry, and drew the lot for duty supervising all the ports of Italy save for Ostia and Brundisium, which had their own quaestors. He had been sent to Puteoli to prevent the illegal export of gold and silver, and had acquitted himself very respectably. Thus the ex-praetor Gaius Cosconius, given Further Spain to govern, had personally asked for Publius Vatinius as his legate.
He was still in Rome waiting for Cosconius to leave for his province when Antonia Cretica was killed in a freak accident on the Via Valeria. She had taken the children to see their grandparents in Alba Fucentia, and was returning to Rome when her carriage ran off the road. Mules and vehicle rolled and tumbled down a steep slope, breaking everything.
“Try to see the good in it, Vatinius,” said Caesar, helpless before such genuine grief. “The children were in another carriage, you still have them.”
“But I don’t have her!” Vatinius wept desolately. “Oh, Caesar, how can I live?”
“By going to Spain and keeping busy,” said his patron. “It is Fate, Vatinius. I too went to Spain having lost my beloved wife, and it was the saving of me.” He got up to pour Vatinius another goblet of wine. “What do you want done with the children? Would you rather they went to their grandparents in Alba Fucentia, or stayed here in Rome?”
“I’d prefer Rome,” Vatinius said, mopping his eyes, “but they need to be cared for by a relative, and I have none in Rome.”
“There’s Julia Antonia, who is also their grandmother. Not a very wise mother, perhaps, but adequate for such young charges. It would give her something to do.”
“You advise it, then.”
“I think so—for the time being, while you’re in Further Spain. When you come home, I think you should marry again. No, no, I’m not insulting your grief, Vatinius. You won’t ever replace this wife, it doesn’t work that way. But your children need a mother, and it would be better for you to forge a new bond with a new wife by siring more. Luckily you can afford a large family.”
“You didn’t sire more with your second wife.”
“True. However, I’m not uxorious, whereas you are. You like a home life, I’ve noticed it. You also have the happy ability to get on with a woman who is not your mental equal. Most men are built so. I am not, I suppose.” Caesar patted Vatinius on the shoulder. “Go to Spain at once, and remain there until at least next winter. Fight a little war if you can—Cosconius isn’t up to that, which is why he’s taking a legate. And find out all you can about the situation in the northwest.”
“As you wish,” said Vatinius, hauling himself to his feet. “And you’re right, of course, I must marry again. Will you look out for someone for me?”
“I most certainly will.”
*
A letter came from Pompey, written after Metellus Nepos had arrived in the Pompeian fold.
Still having trouble with the Jews, Caesar! Last time I wrote to you I was planning to meet the old Queen’s two sons in Damascus, which I did last spring. Hyrcanus impressed me as more suitable than Aristobulus, but I didn’t want them to know whom I favored until I’d dealt with that old villain, King Aretas of Nabataea. So I sent the brothers back to Judaea under strict orders to keep the peace until they heard my decision—didn’t want the losing brother intriguing in my rear while I marched on Petra.
But Aristobulus worked out the right answer, that I was going to give the lot to Hyrcanus, so he decided to prepare for war. Not very smart, but still, I suppose he didn’t have my measure yet. I put the expedition against Petra off, and marched for Jerusalem. Went into camp all around the city, which is extremely well fortified and naturally well placed for defense—cliffy valleys around it and the like.
No sooner did Aristobulus see this terrific-looking Roman army camped on the hills around than he came running to offer surrender. Along with several asses loaded down with bags of gold coins. Very nice of him to offer them to me, I said, but didn’t he understand that he’d ruined my campaigning plans and cost Rome a much bigger sum of money than he had in his bags? But I’d forgive all if he agreed to pay for the expense of moving so many legions to Jerusalem. That, I said, would mean I wouldn’t have to sack the place to find the money to pay. He was only too happy to oblige.
I sent Aulus Gabinius to pick up the money and order the gates opened, but Aristobulus’s followers decided to resist. They wouldn’t open the gates to Gabinius, and did some pretty rude things on top of the walls as a way of saying they were going to defy me. I arrested Aristobulus, and moved the army up. That made the city surrender, but there’s a part of the place where this massive temple stands—a citadel, you’d have to call it. A few thousand of the die-hards barricaded themselves in and refused to come out. A hard place to take, and I never was enthusiastic about siege. However, they had to be shown, so I showed them. They held out for three months, then I got bored and took the place. Faustus Sulla was first over the walls—nice in a son of Sulla’s, eh? Good lad. I intend to marry him to my daughter when we get home, she’ll be old enough by then. Fancy having Sulla’s son as my son-in-law! I’ve moved up in the world nicely.
The temple was an interesting place, not like our temples at all. No statues or anything like that, and it sort of growls at you when you’re inside. Raised my hackles, I can tell you! Lenaeus and Theophanes (I miss Varro terribly) wanted to go behind this curtain into what they call their Holy of Holies. So did Gabinius and some of the others. It was bound to be full of gold, they said. Well, I thought about it, Caesar, but in the end I said no. Never set foot inside, wouldn’t let anyone else either. I’d got their measure by then, you see. Very strange people. Like us the religion is a part of the State, but it’s also different from us. I’d call them religious fanatics, really. So I issued orders that no one was to offend them religiously, from the rankers all the way up to my senior legates. Why stir up a nest of hornets when what I want from one end of Syria to the other is peace, good order, and client kings obedient to Rome, without turning the local customs and traditions upside down? Every place has a mos maiorum.
I put Hyrcanus in as both King and High Priest, and took Aristobulus prisoner. That’s because I met the Idumaean prince, Antipater, in Damascus. Very interesting fellow. Hyrcanus isn’t impressive, but I rely on Antipater to manipulate him—in Rome’s direction, of course. Oh yes, I didn’t neglect to inform Hyrcanus that he’s there not by the grace of his God but by the grace of Rome, that he’s Rome’s puppet and always under the thumb of the Governor of Syria. Antipater suggested that I sweeten this cup of vinegar by telling Hyrcanus that he ought to channel most of his en
ergies into the High Priesthood—clever Antipater! I wonder does he know I know how much civil power he’s usurped without lifting a warring finger?
I didn’t leave Judaea quite as big as it was before the two silly brothers focused my attention on such a piddling spot. Anywhere that Jews were in a minority I drafted into Syria as an official part of the Roman province—Samaria, the coastal cities from Joppa to Gaza, and the Greek cities of the Decapolis all got their autonomy and became Syrian.
I’m still tidying up, but it begins to near the end at last. I’ll be home by the end of this year. Which leads me to the deplorable events of the last year and the beginning of this one. In Rome, I mean. Caesar, I can’t thank you enough for your help with Nepos. You tried. But why did we have to have that sanctimonious fart Cato in office? Ruined everything. And as you know, I haven’t got a tribune of the plebs left worth pissing on. Can’t even find one for next year!
I am bringing home mountains of loot, the Treasury won’t even begin to hold Rome’s share. There were sixteen thousand talents given in bonuses to my troops alone. Therefore I absolutely refuse to do what I’ve always done in the past, give my soldiers tenure of my own land. This time Rome can give them land. They deserve it, and Rome owes it to them. So if I die trying, I’ll see they get State land. I rely on you to do what you can, and if you happen to have a tribune of the plebs inclined to think your way, I would be happy to share the cost of his hire. Nepos says there’s going to be a big fight over land, not that I didn’t expect it. Too many powerful men leasing public land out for their latifundia. Very shortsighted of the Senate.
I heard a rumor, by the way, and wondered if you’d heard it too. That Mucia’s being a naughty girl. I asked Nepos, and he flew so high I wondered if he was ever going to come down again. Well, brothers and sisters do tend to stick together, so I suppose it’s natural he didn’t like the question. Anyway, I’m making enquiries. If there’s any truth in it, it’s bye-bye to Mucia. She’s been a good wife and mother, but I can’t say I’ve missed her much since I’ve been away.
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