All of Rome knows you’ll be senior consul. Even if we leave aside the fact that you always come in at the top of the polls, your popularity is growing in leaps and bounds. Marcus Crassus is going around telling every knight in the Eighteen that when you’re senior consul the tax-farming business will soon be sotted out. From which I gather that he knows he’s going to need your services—and knows he’ll get them.
Well, I need your services too, Caesar. Far more than Marcus Crassus does! All he has at stake is his damaged clout, whereas I need land for my veterans and treaties ratifying my settlements in the East.
There’s a good chance of course that you’re already on your way home—Cicero certainly seems to think so—but my bones tell me you’re like me, prone to stay until the very last moment so that every thread is woven into place and every tangle combed away.
The boni have just struck, Caesar, and extremely cunning they have been. All candidates for the consular elections have to declare themselves by the Nones of June at the latest, even though the elections will not take place until the usual five days before the Ides of Quinctilis. Egged on by Celer, Gaius Piso, Bibulus (a candidate himself, of course, but safely inside Rome because he’s like Cicero, never wants to govern a province) and the rest of the boni, Cato succeeded in passing a consultum putting the closing date at the Nones of June. Over five nundinae before the elections instead of the three nundinae custom and tradition have laid down.
Someone must have whispered that you travel like the wind, because they then produced another ploy to frustrate you—this one in case you arrive in Rome before the Nones of June. Celer asked the House to set a date for your triumph. Very affable he was, full of praise for the splendid job you’ve done as governor. After which he suggested that the date of your triumph be set as the Ides of June! Everyone thought that a splendid idea, so the motion was carried. Yes, you are to triumph eight days later than the closing of the consular candidates’ booth. Wonderful, eh?
So, Caesar, if you do manage to reach Rome before the Nones of June, you will have to petition the Senate to run for consul in absentia. You can’t cross the pomerium into the city to lodge your candidacy in person without giving up your imperium and thereby your right to triumph. I add that Celer was very careful to point out to the House that Cicero had passed a law forbidding consular candidates to stand in absentia. A gentle reminder I took to mean that the boni intend to oppose your petition to run in absentia. They have got you by the balls, just as you said—with perfect truth!—they’ve got me. I will be working to persuade our senatorial sheep—why do they let themselves be led by a mere handful of men who are not even anything special?—to have you allowed to stand in absentia. So will Crassus, Mamercus Princeps Senatus and many others, I know.
The main thing is to get to Rome before the Nones of June. Ye gods, can you, even if the winds blow my hired ship to Gades in record time? What I’m hoping is that you’re already well on your way down the Via Domitia. I’ve sent a messenger to meet you if you are, just in case you’re dawdling.
You have to make it, Caesar! I need you desperately, and I am not ashamed to say so. You’ve hauled me out of boiling water before in a way which preserved the legalities. All I can say is that if you’re not on hand to help me this time, I might have to stamp my foot. I don’t want to do that. If I did, I’d go down in the history books as no better than Sulla. Look how everyone hates him. It’s really uncomfortable to be hated, though Sulla never seemed to mind.
Pompey’s letter reached Gades on the twenty-first day of May, a remarkably swift passage. And Caesar happened to be in Gades to receive it.
“It’s fifteen hundred miles by road from Gades to Rome,” he said to Lucius Cornelius Balbus Major, “which means I can’t get to Rome by the Nones of June even if I average a hundred miles a day. Rot the boni!”
“No man can average a hundred miles a day,” said the little Gadetanian banker, looking anxious.
“I can in a fast gig harnessed to four good mules, provided I can change teams often enough,” Caesar said calmly. “However, the road isn’t feasible. It will have to be Rome by ship.”
“The season is wrong. Magnus’s letter proves that. Five days in front of a northeasterly gale.”
“Ah, Balbus, but I have luck!”
Caesar did indeed have luck, Balbus reflected. No matter how badly matters appeared to have gone wrong, somehow that magical—and it was magical—luck came to his rescue. Though he seemed to manufacture it himself out of sheer willpower. As if, having made up his mind, he could compel natural and unnatural forces to obey him. The past year and more had been the most exhilarating, the most stimulating experience of Balbus’s entire life, toiling and panting in Caesar’s wake from one end of Spain to the other. Who could ever have thought he would sail before an Atlantic Ocean wind in pursuit of foes convinced they had eluded the reach of Rome? But they hadn’t. Out came the ships from Olisippo, down came the legions. Then more voyages to remote Brigantium, untold treasures, a people feeling for the first time a wind of change, an influence from the Middle Sea that would never again go away. What did Caesar say? It wasn’t the gold, it was the lengthening of Rome’s reach. What did they have, that small race from a little city on the Italian salt route? Why was it they who swept all before them? Not like a gigantic wave, more like a millstone grinding patiently, patiently at whatever was thrown down as grist. They never gave up, the Romans.
“And what will Caesar’s luck consist of this time?”
“To begin with, one myoparo. Two teams of the best oarsmen Gades can furnish. No baggage and no animals. As passengers, just you and me and Burgundus. And a strong sou’wester,” said Caesar, grinning.
“A piddling order,” said Balbus without answering that smile. He rarely smiled; Gadetanian bankers of impeccably Phoenician lineage were not prompted to take life or circumstances lightly. Balbus looked what he was, a subtle, placid man of extraordinary intelligence and ability.
Caesar was already halfway to the door. “I’m off to find the right myoparo. Your job is to find me a pilot capable of navigating out of sight of land. We’re going the direct route—through the Pillars of Hercules, a stop for food and water at New Carthage, then Balearis Minor. From there we head directly for the strait between Sardinia and Corsica. We have a thousand miles of water to cover, and we can’t hope for the kind of winds which blew Magnus’s letter here in five days. We have twelve days.”
“Something over eighty miles between sunrise and sunrise. Not so piddling,” said Balbus, rising to his feet.
“But possible, provided there are no adverse winds. Trust to my luck and the Gods, Balbus! I shall make magnificent offerings to the Lares Permarini and Goddess Fortuna. They’ll listen to me.”
*
The Gods listened, though how Caesar managed to squeeze all that he did into five short hours before he set sail from Gades was more than Balbus could fathom. Caesar’s quaestor was a most efficient young man who swung with enormous enthusiasm into organizing the shipping of the governor’s possessions along the land route from Spain to Rome, the Via Domitia; the booty had long gone, accompanied by the single legion Caesar had chosen to march with him in his triumphal parade. Somewhat to his surprise, the Senate had acceded to his request for a triumph without a murmur from the boni, but that mystery was fully explained in Pompey’s letter. No reason to refuse what they had every intention of making sure would be a dismal affair. Dismal it would be. His troops were due to arrive on the Campus Martius by the Ides of June—an ironic twist, given that Celer had assigned that day for the triumph. Were Caesar allowed to run for consul in absentia and the triumph went ahead, it would be a poor triumph indeed. Weary soldiers, no time to manufacture sumptuous floats and displays, booty thrown higgledy-piggledy into wagons. Not the sort of triumph Caesar had bargained for. However, getting to Rome before the Nones of June was the first problem. Pray for a stiff sou’wester!
And indeed the winds did blow out of the so
uthwest, though they were gentle rather than stiff. A very slight following sea helped the oarsmen, as did a small push from the sail, but it was backbreaking work almost all the way. Caesar and Burgundus rowed a full shift of three hours four times in each sunrise to sunrise, which appealed to the professional oarsmen as much as Caesar’s cheerful friendliness did. The bonus would be worth it, so they put their shoulders to the task and rowed while Balbus and the pilot busied themselves bearing amphorae of water weakly flavored with a good fortified Spanish wine to those who called for it.
When the pilot brought the myoparo into sight of the Italian coast and there in front of them was the mouth of the Tiber, the crew shouted themselves hoarse, then paired up on each oar and sprinted the trim little monoreme into Ostia Harbor; the voyage had taken twelve days, and the port attained two hours after dawn on the third day of June.
Leaving Balbus and Burgundus to reward the myoparo pilot and oarsmen, Caesar threw himself across a good hired horse and rode for Rome at the gallop. His journey would end on the Campus Martius, but not his travail; he would have to find someone to hurry into the city and locate Pompey. A conscious decision which would not please Crassus, yet the correct decision. Pompey was right. He needed Caesar more than Crassus did. Besides which, Crassus was an old friend; he would settle down once matters were explained.
*
The news that Caesar had arrived outside Rome reached Cato and Bibulus almost as quickly as it did Pompey, for all three were in the House enduring yet another session debating the fate of the Asian tax-farmers. The message was given to Pompey, who whooped so loudly that dozing backbenchers almost fell off their stools, then leaped to his feet.
“Pray excuse me, Lucius Afranius,” he chortled, already on his way out. “Gaius Caesar is on the Campus Martius, and I must be the first of us to welcome him in person!”
Which somehow left those remaining in the poorly attended meeting feeling as flat as an Asian publicanus. Afranius, who held the fasces for June, dismissed the assembly for the day.
“Tomorrow an hour after dawn,” he said, well aware that he would have to hear Caesar’s petition to stand in absentia, and that tomorrow was the last day before the Nones of June, when the electoral officer (Celer) would close his booth.
“I told you he’d do it,” said Metellus Scipio. “He’s like a piece of cork. No matter how you try to hold him under, up he pops again hardly wet.”
“Well, there was always a very good chance he’d turn up,” said Bibulus, lips tight. “After all, we don’t even know when he set out from Spain. Just because we heard he was planning to remain in Gades until the end of May doesn’t mean he actually did. He can’t know what’s in store for him.”
“He will the moment Pompeius reaches the Campus Martius,” Cato said harshly. “Why do you think the Dancer convened another meeting for tomorrow? Caesar will be petitioning to stand in absentia, nothing surer.”
“I miss Catulus,” said Bibulus. “It’s times like tomorrow his clout would be extremely useful. Caesar did better in Spain than any of us thought he would, so the sheep will be inclined to let the ingrate stand in absentia. Pompeius will urge it, so will Crassus. And Mamercus! I wish he’d die!”
Cato simply smiled and looked mysterious.
Whereas Pompey on the Campus Martius had nothing to smile about and no mysteries to contemplate. He found Caesar leaning against the rounded marble wall of Sulla’s tomb, his horse’s bridle over one arm; above his head was that famous epitaph: NO BETTER FRIEND NO WORSE ENEMY. It might, thought Pompey, have been written as much for Caesar as for Sulla. Or for himself.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Pompey demanded.
“It seemed as good a place as any to wait.”
“Haven’t you heard of a villa on the Pincian?”
“I do not intend to be here long enough.”
“There’s an inn not far down the Via Lata, we’ll go there. Minicius is a good fellow, and you have to put a roof over your head, Caesar, even if it is for a few days only.”
“More important to find you before I thought about where to stay, I thought.”
That melted Pompey’s heart; he too had dismounted (since he had resumed his seat in the Senate he kept a small stable inside Rome), and now turned to stroll down the perfectly straight and wide road which actually was the commencement of the Via Flaminia.
“I suppose nine months of kicking your heels gave you plenty of time to find out where the inns are located,” said Caesar.
“I found that out back before I was consul.”
The inn was a fairly commodious and respectable establishment, its proprietor well used to the sight of famous Roman military men; he greeted Pompey like a long-lost friend, and indicated with some charm that he was aware who Caesar was. They were ushered into a comfortable private parlor where two braziers warmed the smoky air, and were served immediately with water and wine, together with such goodies as roast lamb, sausages, fresh crusty bread and an oil-laced salad.
“I’m ravenous!” Caesar exclaimed, surprised.
“Tuck in then. I confess I don’t mind helping you. Minicius prides himself on his food.”
Between mouthfuls Caesar managed to give Pompey a bald outline of his voyage.
“A sou’wester at this time of year!” said the Great Man.
“No, I don’t think I’d call it a noble wind like that. But it was enough to give me a push in the right direction. I gather the boni didn’t expect to see me so soon?”
“Cato and Bibulus got a nasty jolt, certainly. Whereas others like Cicero seem simply to have assumed you would be well on your way as a matter of course—however, they didn’t have spies in Further Spain to keep them informed of your intentions.” Pompey scowled. “Cicero! What a poseur that man is! Do you know he had the gall to stand up in the House and refer to his banishment of Catilina as an ‘immortal glory’? Every speech he makes contains some sort of sermon on how he saved his country.”
“I heard you were thick with him,” said Caesar, mopping up his salad oil with a piece of bread.
“He would have it so. He’s frightened.”
“Of what?’’ Caesar leaned back with a sigh of content.
“The change in Publius Clodius’s status. The tribune of the plebs Herennius had the Plebeian Assembly transfer Clodius from the Patriciate to the Plebs. Now Clodius is saying he intends to run for the tribunate of the plebs and exile Cicero for good for the execution of Roman citizens without trial. It’s Clodius’s new purpose in life. And Cicero is white with fear.”
“Well, I can understand a man like Cicero being terrified of our Clodius. Clodius is a force of nature. Not quite mad, but not quite sane either. However, Herennius is wrong to use the Plebeian Assembly. A patrician can only become a plebeian by adoption.”
Minicius bustled in to remove the dishes, creating a pause in the conversation Caesar found welcome. Time to get down to business.
“Is the Senate still stalled among the tax-farmers?” he asked.
“Eternally, thanks to Cato. But as soon as Celer closes his electoral booth I’m sending my tribune of the plebs Flavius back to the Plebs with my land bill. Emasculated, thanks to that officious fool Cicero! He managed to remove any ager publicus older than the tribunate of Tiberius Gracchus from it, then said that Sulla’s veterans—the very ones who allied themselves with Catilina!—must be confirmed in their land grants, and that Volaterrae and Arretium must be allowed to keep their public lands. Most of the land for my veterans will therefore have to be purchased, and the money is to come out of the increased tributes from the East. Which gave my ex-brother-in-law Nepos a terrific idea. He suggested that all port duties and taxes be removed from the whole of Italia, and the Senate thought that was wonderful. So he got a consultum from the Senate and passed his law in the Popular Assembly.”
“Clever!” said Caesar appreciatively. “That means the State’s income from Italia has gone down to two items only—the five percent tax on
manumission of slaves and the rents from ager publicus.”
“Makes me look good, doesn’t it? The Treasury will end in seeing not one extra sestertius from my work, between the loss of port revenues, loss of the ager publicus when it’s deeded to my veterans, and the cost of buying in extra land as well.”
“You know, Magnus,” said Caesar, looking wry, “I am always hoping that the day comes when these brilliant men think more of their homeland than they do of getting back at their enemies. Every political move they make is aimed at some other fellow or done to protect the privileges of a very few, rather than for the sake of Rome and her domains. You’ve exerted yourself mightily to extend Rome’s reach and plump out her public purse. Whereas they extend themselves mightily to put you in your place—at poor Rome’s expense. You said in your letter that you needed me. And here I am at your service.”
“Minicius!” Pompey bellowed.
“Yes, Gnaeus Pompeius?” asked the innkeeper, appearing with great alacrity.
“Fetch us writing materials.”
“However,” said Caesar as he completed his short letter, “I think it would be better if Marcus Crassus presented my petition to stand in absentia for the consulship. I’ll send this to him by messenger.”
“Why can’t I present your petition?” Pompey asked, annoyed that Caesar preferred to use Crassus.
“Because I don’t want the boni to realize that we’ve come to any kind of agreement,” said Caesar patiently. “You will already have set them wondering by dashing out of the House announcing that you were off to see me on the Campus Martius. Don’t underestimate them, Magnus, please. They can tell a radish from a ruby. The bond between you and me must be kept secret for some time to, come.”
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