He understood most idiocies, but could not, even in his most pessimistic moods, believe that a small group of Roman senators would actually prefer to precipitate civil war rather than face the inevitable and permit Caesar what was, after all, no more than his due. Legally consul for the second time, free of prosecution, the First Man in Rome and the first name in the history books. These things he owed to his family, to his dignitas, to posterity. He would leave no son, but a son wasn’t necessary unless the son had the ability to rise even higher. That didn’t happen; everyone knew it. Great men’s sons were never great. Witness Young Marius and Faustus Sulla…
In the meantime there was the new Roman province of Gallia Comata to think about. To craft, to settle down, to sift through for the best local men. And a few problems to solve of a more prudent nature. Including getting rid of two thousand Gauls who Caesar didn’t think would bow to Rome for longer than his tenure of the new province. A thousand of them were slaves he didn’t dare sell for fear of bloody reprisals, either on their new owners or in armed insurrections reminiscent of Spartacus. The second one thousand were free Gauls, mostly thanes, who had not even been cowed by the production of the handless victims of Uxellodunum.
He ended in having them marched to Massilia and loaded on board transports under heavy guard. The thousand slaves were sent to King Deiotarus of Galatia, a Gaul himself and always in need of good cavalrymen; no doubt when they arrived Deiotarus would free them and press them into service. The thousand free Gauls he sent to King Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia. Both lots of men were gifts. A little offering on the altar of Fortuna. Luck was a sign of favor among the Gods, but it never hurt to make one’s luck for oneself either. A trite judgement, to attribute success to luck. No one knew better than Caesar that behind luck lay oceans of hard work and deep thinking. His troops could boast of his luck; he didn’t mind that in the least. While they thought he had luck, they feared little as long as he was there to throw the mantle of his protection over them. It was luck beat poor Marcus Crassus; his days were numbered from the first moment his troops decided he was unlucky. No man was free from some sort of superstition, but men of low birth and scant education were inordinately superstitious. Caesar played on that deliberately. For if luck came from the Gods and a great man was thought to have it, he acquired a kind of reflected godhead; it did no harm for one’s soldiers to deem the General just slightly below the Gods.
*
Just before the end of the year a letter came from Quintus Cicero, senior legate in the service of his big brother, the governor of Cilicia.
I need not have left you so early, Caesar. That’s one of the penalties of working for a man who moves as swiftly as you do. Somehow I assumed my brother Marcus would hustle himself to Cilicia. But he didn’t. He left Rome early in May, and took almost two months to get as far as Athens. Why does he fawn so over Pompeius Magnus? Something to do with the days when he was seventeen and a cadet in the army of Pompeius Strabo, I know, but I think the debt Marcus fancies he owes Pompeius Magnus for his protection then is grossly exaggerated. You will perceive from this that I had to suffer two days in Magnus’s house at Tarentum en route. I cannot, try though I do, like the man.
In Athens (where we waited for Marcus’s military legate, Gaius Pomptinus, to show up—I could have generaled for Marcus far more competently, you know, but he didn’t trust me) we learned that Marcus Marcellus had flogged a citizen of your colony at Novum Comum—a disgrace, Caesar. My brother was equally incensed, though most of his mind was preoccupied with the Parthian threat. Hence his refusal to leave Athens until Pomptinus arrived.
Another month saw us cross the frontier into Cilicia at Laodiceia. Such a pretty place, with those dazzling crystal terraces tumbling down the cliffs! Among the warm pure pools on the top the local people have built luxurious little marble havens for such as Marcus and me, exhausted from the heat and the dust we encountered from Ephesus all the way to Laodiceia. It was delicious to spend a few days soaking in the waters—they seem to help one’s bones—and frolicking like fish.
But then, journeying on, we discovered what kind of horror Lentulus Spinther and then Appius Claudius had wreaked on poor, devastated Cilicia. My brother called it “a lasting ruin and desolation,” and that is no exaggeration. The province has been plundered, exploited, raped. Everything and everyone has been taxed out of existence. By, among others, the son of your dear friend Servilia. Yes, I am sorry to say it, but Brutus appears to have worked extremely closely with his father-in-law, Appius Claudius, in all sorts of reprehensible ways. Much though he shies away from offending important people, my brother told Atticus in a letter that he considered Appius Claudius’s conduct in his province contemptible. Nor was he pleased that Appius Claudius avoided him.
We stayed in Tarsus only a very few days; Marcus was anxious to utilize the campaigning season, so was Pomptinus. The Parthians had been raiding along the Euphrates, and King Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia was in dire straits. Due largely to an army almost as skeletal as the two legions we found in Cilicia. Why were both armies so skeletal? Lack of money. One gathers that Appius Claudius garnished most of the army’s wages for himself, and didn’t care to increase the strength of either legion as he was paying about half the number of men his books said he was. King Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia didn’t have the money to pay for a decent army, chiefly due to the fact that young Brutus, that pillar of Roman rectitude, had lent him money at an astronomical compound interest. My brother was extremely angry.
Anyway, we spent the next three months campaigning in Cappadocia, a wearying business. Oh, Pomptinus is a fool! It takes him days and days and days to reduce a pathetic fortified village you would have taken in three hours. But of course my brother doesn’t know how war should be waged, so he’s well satisfied.
Bibulus dallied dreadfully getting to Syria, which meant we had to wait until he got himself into order before we could start our joint campaign from both sides of the Amanus ranges. In fact, we are about to commence that business now. I gather he arrived in Antioch in Sextilis, and speeded young Gaius Cassius on his way back to Rome very coldly. Of course he had his own two young sons with him. Marcus Bibulus is in his early twenties, and Gnaeus Bibulus about nineteen. All three Bibuli were most put out to discover that Cassius had dealt with the Parthian menace very deedily, including an ambush down the Orontes which sent Pacorus and his Parthian army home in a hurry.
This martial fervor is not much to Bibulus’s taste, I think. His method of dealing with the Parthians is different from Cassius’s, certainly. Rather than contemplate war, he has hired a Parthian named Ornadapates, and is paying the fellow to whisper in the ear of King Orodes to the effect that Pacorus, the favorite son of Orodes, is aiming at usurping his father’s throne. Clever, but not admirable, is it?
I miss Gallia Comata very much, Caesar. I miss the kind of war we fought, so brisk and practical, so devoid of machinations within the high command. Out here I seem to spend as much time placating Pomptinus as I do at anything more productive. Please write to me. I need cheering up.
Poor Quintus Cicero! It was some time before Caesar could sit to answer this rather sad missive. Typical of Cicero, to prefer a smarming nonentity like Gaius Pomptinus to his own brother. For Quintus Cicero was right. He would have proven a far more capable general than Pomptinus.
ROME
from JANUARY until
DECEMBER of 50 B.C.
1
When Gaius Cassius Longinus returned home after his extraordinary career as a thirty-year-old governor of a major Roman province, he found himself much admired. Very shrewdly he had declined to ask the Senate for a triumph, though his men had hailed him imperator on the field when he had trounced the Galilaean army near Lake Gennesarus.
“I think people like that as much as anything you actually did in Syria,” said Brutus.
“Why draw attention to myself in a way the senatorial dotards would deplore?” asked Cassius, shrugging. “I wouldn’t g
et a triumph anyway. Better then to pretend I don’t want one. The same people who would have condemned me for my brashness now have no choice other than to praise me for my humility.”
“You loved it, didn’t you?”
“Syria? Yes, I did. Not while Marcus Crassus was alive, but after Carrhae it was terrific.”
“What happened to all the gold and treasures Crassus took from the temples in Syria? Did he take them with him on his march to Mesopotamia?”
For a moment Cassius looked blank, then realized that Brutus, though a mere four months his junior, knew little about the logistics of provincial government beyond its monetary side. “No, they stayed in Antioch. When I left I brought them home with me.” Cassius smiled sourly. “Why do you think I was so unpopular with Bibulus? He maintained they were in his charge and ought to remain until he came home. Though if I had given in, what actually arrived in Rome would have been considerably less. I could see his sticky fingers twitching at the prospect of prowling through the money chests.”
Brutus looked shocked. “Cassius! Marcus Bibulus is above reproach! Cato’s son-in-law to pilfer what belongs to Rome? It would never happen!”
“Rubbish,” said Cassius scornfully. “What a wet fish you are, Brutus! It’s what anyone would do, given half an opportunity. That I didn’t was simply due to my age and my burgeoning career. After I’m consul I want Syria for my province, and I’ll get it because I intend to establish myself as an expert on Syria. Had I been there as a mere quaestor, no one would remember I had been there at all. But since the quaestor turned into the governor—and made a wonderful success out of his tenure as governor— all of Rome will remember. Therefore I defended my right to bring Crassus’s ill-gotten hoard back to Rome as his quaestor. Legal, and Bibulus knew it. Besides, he dithered so long in getting to Syria that I had everything crated and loaded on board a fleet of hired ships before he set foot in Antioch. How he wept to see me sail away! I wish him joy of Syria, him and those two spoiled sons of his.”
Brutus said no more on the subject of Bibulus; though Gaius Cassius was the best of good fellows, he was a martial type who thought poorly of certain among the boni who were famous for not wanting the onus of provincial governorships, with their inevitable wars and perils. Born to the consulship though he was, Cassius would never be a political type; he lacked subtlety, tact, and the ability to win men to his way of thinking by smooth words. In fact, he looked what he was: a sturdy, close-cropped, energetic and soldierly man with scant patience for intrigue.
“I’m pleased to see you, of course,” said Brutus, “but is there any reason for your coming round so soon after your return?”
Cassius’s rather humorous mouth turned up at the corners; his brown and snapping eyes crinkled closed. Oh, poor Brutus! He really was a wet fish. And was there nothing would ever cure that hideously acneous skin? Or his appetite for making money in unsenatorial ways? “Actually, I’m here to see the head of the family,” Cassius said.
“My mother? Why didn’t you ask for her?”
Sighing, Cassius shook his head. “Brutus, you’re the head of the family, not Servilia. I came to see you in that capacity.”
“Oh! Oh, yes. I suppose I am the head of the family. It’s just that Mama is so competent, and she’s been a widow for so long. I suppose I’ll never think of myself as superseding her.”
“Until you do, Brutus, you won’t.”
“I’m comfortable,” said Brutus. “What do you want?”
“I want to marry Junia Tertia—Tertulla. We’ve been betrothed for years, and I’m not getting any younger. It’s time I thought of starting my family, Brutus, now that I’m in the Senate and heading for great things.”
“But she’s barely sixteen,” said Brutus, frowning.
“I know that !” Cassius snapped. “I also know whose daughter she really is. Well, all of Rome does. And since Julian blood is somewhat higher than Junian blood, I don’t object in the least to marrying Caesar’s offspring. Little though I like the man for what he is, by this stage in his career he’s proven that Julian blood hasn’t yet achieved senility.”
“My blood is Junian,” said Brutus stiffly.
“But Brutus, not Silanus. There’s a difference.”
“And on our mother’s side, both Tertulla and I are patrician Servilians,” Brutus went on, face becoming absorbed.
“Well, that’s enough of that,” said Cassius hastily, knowing the signs. “May I marry Tertulla?”
“I’ll have to ask my mother.”
“Oh, Brutus, when will you learn? It’s not Servilia’s place to make that decision!”
“Which decision?” asked Servilia, walking into Brutus’s study without knocking. Her large dark eyes rested not on her son (whom she found so unsatisfactory that she tried not to look at him at all), but on Cassius. Beaming, she walked to him and took his strong, tanned face between her hands. “Cassius, how lovely to see you back in Rome!” she said, and kissed him. She liked Cassius enormously, always had done since the days when he and Brutus had gone to the same school. A warrior, a doer. A young man with a knack for making a name for himself.
“Which decision?” she repeated, seating herself in a chair.
“I want to marry Tertulla immediately,” said Cassius.
“Then let us ask her what she thinks of that idea,” said Servilia smoothly, thereby removing the decision from her son. She clapped her hands to summon the steward. “Ask the lady Tertulla to come to the study,” she said then. And to Cassius, “Why?”
“I’ll soon be thirty-three, Servilia. Time to start my family. I realize Tertulla is underage, but we’ve been betrothed for a good many years, it isn’t as if she doesn’t know me.”
“And she’s nubile,” said her mother with detachment.
A statement reinforced a scant moment later when Tertulla knocked and entered the room.
Cassius blinked; he hadn’t seen her for close to three years, and they were three years which had wrought great changes. She had gone from thirteen to sixteen, from child to young woman. And how beautiful she was! She looked like Caesar’s dead daughter, Julia, though she lacked Julia’s frosty fairness and slight build. Her big, well-spaced eyes were a greyish yellow, her thick hair dark gold, her mouth kissable to the point of distraction. Gold skin without flaw. A pair of exquisite breasts. Oh, Tertulla!
When she saw Cassius she smiled in delight and held out her hands to him. “Gaius Cassius,” she said in Julia’s husky voice.
He went to her, smiling too, and took the hands. “Tertulla.” Then turned to Servilia. “May I ask her?”
“Of course,” said Servilia, pleased to see that they were falling in love.
Cassius’s clasp on her hands tightened. “Tertulla, I’ve asked to marry you now. Your mother”—he gave up on Brutus; why bother so much as mentioning him?—”says the decision is yours. Will you marry me now?”
Her smile changed, became seductive; it was suddenly easy to see that she also sprang from Servilia, a most seductive lady. “I would like that very much, Gaius Cassius,” she said.
“Good!” said Servilia briskly. “Cassius, take her somewhere that you can kiss her without half the house and all her relatives looking. Brutus, take care of the wedding details. It’s an auspicious time of year to marry, but choose the day carefully.” She frowned direfully at the happy pair. “Go on, shoo!”
They went out holding hands, which left Servilia with no other face to look at save her only son’s. Pimply as ever, intolerably swarthy because he couldn’t shave, with eyes as mournful as a deer hound’s and lips slack from want of decision.
“I didn’t know you had Cassius with you,” she said.
“He’d only just arrived, Mama. I would have sent for you.”
“I came to see you.”
“What about?” asked Brutus, uneasy.
“Certain allegations about you. They’re flying all over the city. Atticus is most distressed.”
Brutus’s face
twisted, looked suddenly a great deal more impressive, hinted perhaps at what actually lived inside him when his mother was not there. “Cicero!” he hissed.
“Exactly. Old Loosemouth himself. Who rails at your money-lending activities in his province, in Cappadocia and in Galatia. Not to mention Cyprus.”
“He can’t prove a thing. The money is lent by two of my clients, Matinius and Scaptius. All I’ve done is exert myself to protect my clients’ interests, Mama.”
“My dear Brutus, you forget that I was there long before you were old enough to control your fortune! Matinius and Scaptius are your employees. My father set the firm up, along with many, many others. Well disguised, it’s true. But you can’t afford to give someone with Cicero’s wit and acumen any ammunition.”
“I will deal with Cicero,” he said, and looked as if he could deal with Cicero.
“Better, I hope, than your esteemed father-in-law has dealt with his problems!” Servilia snapped. “He left a trail of evidence of his peculations while governor of Cilicia that a blind man could follow. With the result that he’s arraigned in the Extortion Court. And you, Brutus, were his accomplice. Do you think all of Rome doesn’t know about your little rackets?” She smiled humorlessly, displaying small, perfect white teeth. “Appius Claudius would threaten to billet the army on some hapless Cilician town, then you would come along and hint that a gift of one hundred talents to the governor would avoid this fate, after which the firm of Matinius and Scaptius would offer to lend the town one hundred talents. Appius Claudius popped the money in his purse, and you made even more from lending it.”
“They may try Appius Claudius, but he’ll be acquitted, Mama.”
“I have no doubt of it, my son. But the rumors are not going to do your public career any good. Pontius Aquila says so.”
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