Which struck everyone as funny; the meal proceeded merrily. Piso had not brought his new wife, and Cotta was a widower, but Philippus’s wife attended. So did her thirteen-year-old son, Gaius Octavius.
“And what do you think of it all, young Gaius Octavius?” asked Cotta, his great-great-uncle. The boy, whom he knew from many visits (Atia worried about her great-uncle, who lived alone), fascinated him. Not in the same way as Caesar had when a child, though there were similarities. The beauty, certainly. What good luck for young Gaius Octavius, however, that his ears stuck out! Caesar had had no flaw at all. The boy was very fair too, though his eyes were more widely opened and a luminous grey—not eerie eyes like Caesar’s. Frowning, Cotta sought for the correct word to describe their expression, and settled upon “careful.” Yes, that was it. They were careful. At first one thought them innocent and candid, until one realized that they never really told one what the mind behind them was thinking. They were permanently veiled and never passionate.
“I think, Uncle Cotta, that Caesar will win.”
“In which we agree. Why do you think so?”
“He’s better than they are.” Young Gaius Octavius found a bright red apple and sank his even white teeth into it. “In the field he has no equal—Pompeius is second rate as a general. A good organizer. If you look at his campaigns, he always won because of that. There are no brilliant battles, battles wherein his strategy and tactics will inspire another Polybius. He wore his opponents down; that was his strength. Uncle Caesar has done that too, but Uncle Caesar can boast of a dozen brilliant battles.”
“And one or two, like Gergovia, that were not brilliant.”
“Yes, but he didn’t go down in them either.”
“All right,” said Cotta, “that’s the battlefield. What else?”
“He understands politics. He knows how to manipulate. He doesn’t tangle himself in lost causes or associate with men who do. He’s quite as efficient as Pompeius off the battlefield. A better speaker, a better lawyer, a better planner.”
Listening to this analysis, Lucius Piso became conscious that he disliked its author. Not proper for a boy of that age to speak like a teacher! Who did he think he was? And so pretty. Far too pretty. Another year, and he’d be offering his arse; he had that smell about him. A very precious boy.
*
Pompey, the consuls and a good part of the Senate reached Teanum Sidicinum in Campania on the twenty-second day of January, and here halted to bring a little order out of the chaos of evacuating the capital. Not all the senators had tacked themselves onto Pompey’s cometish tail; some had scattered to invade their shut-up villas on the coast, some preferred to be anywhere other than wherever Pompey was.
Titus Labienus was waiting; Pompey greeted him like a long-lost brother, even embraced him and kissed him on the cheek.
“Where have you come from?” Pompey asked, surrounded by his senatorial watchdogs—Cato, the three Marcelli and Lentulus Crus—and bolstered by a mournful Metellus Scipio.
“Placentia,” said Labienus, leaning back in his chair.
Though all present knew Labienus by sight and remembered his activities as tribune of the plebs, it was ten years since any of them (including Pompey) had set eyes on him, for he had left Rome to take up duties in Italian Gaul while Caesar was still consul. They gazed at him now in some dismay; Labienus had changed. In his early forties, he looked exactly what he had become: a hard-bitten, ruthlessly authoritarian military man. His tight black curls were peppered with grey; his thin, liver-colored mouth bisected his lower face like a scar; the great hooked nose with its flaring nostrils gave him the look of an eagle; and his black eyes, narrow and contemptuous, gazed upon all of them, even upon Pompey, with the interest of a cruel boy in a group of insects owning potentially detachable wings.
“When did you leave Placentia?” asked Pompey.
“Two days after Caesar crossed the Rubicon.”
“How many legions has he got in Placentia? Though no doubt they’re already marching to join him.”
The greying head reared back, the mouth opened to display huge yellow teeth; Labienus laughed heartily. “Ye Gods, you are fools!” he said. “There are no legions in Placentia! There never were. Caesar has the Thirteenth, which he sent to Tergeste and back on a training exercise which appears to have escaped your notice. Most of the time he was in Ravenna he was without troops of any kind. He’s marched with the Thirteenth, and he has no other legions coming to help him. Ergo, he thinks he can do the job with the Thirteenth. From what I’ve seen, he is probably right.”
“Then,” said Pompey slowly, beginning to revise his plans to quit Italia in favor of Macedonia and Greece, “I can move to contain him in Picenum. If Lentulus Crus and Attius Varus haven’t already done that. He split the Thirteenth, you see. Antonius is holding Arretium and the Via Cassia with five cohorts, and”—Pompey winced—”Curio has ejected Thermus from Iguvium with three more cohorts. All Caesar has at present are two cohorts.”
“Then why are you sitting here?” demanded Labienus. “You ought to be halfway up the Adriatic coast by now!”
Pompey cast a look of burning reproach at Gaius Marcellus Major. “I was led to believe,” he said with great dignity, “that Caesar possessed four legions. And though we did hear that he was marching with no more than one, we assumed the others were doing things in his rear.”
“I don’t think,” said Labienus deliberately, “that you want to fight Caesar at all, Magnus.”
“I don’t think so either!” said Cato.
Oh, was he never going to be free of this carping criticism? Wasn’t he the officially appointed commander-in-chief? Hadn’t he informed them that democracy was over, that he’d do things his way, that they’d better pipe down? Now here was another critic, Titus Labienus, feeding lines to Cato!
Pompey drew himself up in his chair, expanded his chest until his leather cuirass creaked. “Listen, all of you,” he said with commendable restraint, “it’s my command, and I will do things my way, do you hear? Until my scouts inform me exactly what Caesar is doing whereabouts, I’ll bide my time. If you’re right, Labienus, then there’s no problem. We’ll advance into Picenum and finish him off. But the most important thing in my agenda is the preservation of Italia. I have sworn not to fight a civil war on her soil if it assumes anything like the dimensions of the Italian War. That ruined the country for twenty years. I won’t have my name associated with that kind of odium! So until I hear what’s happening in Picenum, I’ll continue to bide my time. Once I know, I’ll make my decision whether to attempt to contain Caesar inside Italia, or whether to remove myself, my armies and the government of Rome to the East.”
“Leave Italia?” squeaked Marcus Marcellus.
“Yes, just as Carbo should have when Sulla threatened.”
“Sulla beat Carbo,” said Cato.
“On Italian soil. That’s my whole point.”
“Your whole point should be,” said Labienus, “that you are indeed in Carbo’s position. Handicapped by troops who’ll be too old or too raw to deal with an army of veterans who’ve just emerged from a long and grueling foreign war. Caesar is in Sulla’s shoes. He’s the one with the veterans.”
“I have the Sixth and the Fifteenth in Capua,” said Pompey, “and I very much doubt anyone can call them either too old or too raw, Labienus!”
“The Sixth and the Fifteenth belonged to Caesar.”
“But they’re seriously disaffected with Caesar,” said Metellus Scipio. “Appius Claudius told us!”
They’re like children, thought Labienus in wonder. They’ve made not one single effort to establish a good intelligence force, and they’re still believing whatever they’re told. What has happened to Pompeius Magnus? I served with him in the East and he wasn’t like this. He’s either past it or intimidated. But who is doing the intimidating? Caesar or this motley crew?
“Scipio,” Labienus said very slowly and distinctly, “Caesar’s troops are not di
saffected! I don’t care how august the man is who told you, nor what evidence you’ve actually seen to confirm it. Just take it from one who knows—Caesar’s troops are not disaffected.” He turned to Pompey. “Magnus, act now! Take the Fifteenth, the Sixth and whatever other troops you can scrape together, and march to contain Caesar now! If you don’t, other legions will arrive to reinforce him. I said there were none in Italian Gaul, but that won’t last. The rest of Caesar’s legates are his men to the death.”
“And why aren’t you, Labienus?” asked Gaius Marcellus Major.
The dark, oily skin took on a purple hue; Labienus paused, then said evenly, “I think too much of Rome, whichever Marcellus you might happen to be. Caesar is acting treasonously. I refuse to commit treason.”
Whereabouts this turn in the conversation might have led was never known; the two envoys, Lucius Caesar Junior and Lucius Roscius, reported in.
“How long is it since you left?” asked Pompey eagerly.
“Four days,” said young Lucius Caesar.
“In four days,” said Labienus, drawing attention to himself, “anyone working for Caesar would have covered four hundred miles. What have you covered, less than a hundred and fifty?”
“And who,” said young Lucius Caesar in freezing tones, “are you to criticize me?”
“I’m Titus Labienus, boy.” He looked young Lucius Caesar up and down scornfully. “Your face says who you are, but it also says you’re not in your father’s league.”
“Yes, yes!” snapped Pompey, temper fraying. “What was going on when you left?”
“Caesar was in Auximum. Which welcomed him with open arms. Attius Varus and his five cohorts fled before we got there, but Caesar sent his lead century after them, and caught them. There was a small engagement. Attius Varus was defeated. Most of his men surrendered and asked to join Caesar. Some scattered.”
A silence fell, which Cato broke. “Caesar’s lead century,” he said heavily. “Eighty men. Who defeated over two thousand.”
“The trouble was,” said Lucius Roscius, “that Varus’s troops didn’t have their hearts in it. They were shivering in their boots at the very thought of Caesar. Yet once Caesar had charge of them, they cheered up and began to look like soldiers. Remarkable.”
“No,” said Labienus, smiling wryly. “Normal.”
Pompey swallowed. “Did Caesar issue terms?”
“Yes,” said young Lucius Caesar. He drew a long breath and launched into a carefully memorized speech. “I am authorized to tell you, Gnaeus Pompeius, the following: One, that you and Caesar should both disband your armies. Two, that you should withdraw at once to Spain. Three, that Italia should be completely demobilized. Four, that the reign of terror should come to an end. Five, that there should be free elections and a return to properly constitutional government by both Senate and People. Six, that you and Caesar should meet in person to discuss your differences and reach an agreement to be ratified by oath. Seven, that once this agreement is reached, Caesar should hand over his provinces to his successors. And eight, that Caesar should contest the consular elections in person inside Rome, not in absentia.”
“What rubbish!” said Cato. “He doesn’t mean a word of it! A more absurd set of conditions I’ve never heard!”
“That’s what Cicero said when I told him,” said young Lucius Caesar. “Manifestly absurd.”
“And where,” asked Labienus dangerously, “did you encounter Marcus Cicero?”
“At his villa near Minturnae.”
“Minturnae… What an odd route you took from Picenum!”
“I needed to visit Rome. Roscius and I were with Caesar for much longer than we’d thought. I stank!!”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” asked Labienus wearily. “You stank. Did Caesar stink? Or his men?”
“Not Caesar, no. But he bathes in freezing cold water!”
“That’s how you keep smelling sweet on campaign, true.”
Pompey attempted to regain control of proceedings. “Well, there are his terms,” he said. “He’s issued them officially, no matter how absurd. But I do agree. He doesn’t mean them, he’s just buying time.” He opened his mouth and shouted. “Vibullius! Sestius!”
Two of his prefects entered the room. Lucius Vibullius Rufus belonged to the engineers, Sestius to the cavalry.
“Vibullius, go at once to Picenum and find Lentulus Spinther and Attius Varus. Urge them to come to grips with Caesar as soon as possible. He has two cohorts, therefore they can beat him—if they manage to explain that fact to their soldiers! Instruct them from me to do so.”
Vibullius Rufus saluted and left.
“Sestius, you’re ordered to proceed as an envoy to the camp of Gaius Caesar. Tell Gaius Caesar that his terms are unacceptable until he gives up the towns he is currently occupying in Picenum and returns across the Rubicon into Italian Gaul. If he does all that, I’ll take it as evidence of his good faith, and then we shall see. Emphasize that there’s no deal while he’s on the Italian side of the Rubicon, because that means the Senate cannot return to Rome.”
Publius Sestius, prefect of cavalry, saluted and left.
“Good!” said Cato, satisfied.
“What did Caesar mean, ‘reign of terror’? What reign of terror?” asked Metellus Scipio.
“We think, Roscius and I,” said young Lucius Caesar, “that Caesar was referring to the panic inside Rome.”
“Oh, that!” sniffed Metellus Scipio.
Pompey cleared his throat. “Well, noble friends, we’ve come to the parting of the ways,” he said with more satisfaction than Cato and Metellus Scipio combined. “Tomorrow Labienus and I are heading for Larinum. The Sixth and the Fifteenth are already en route. Consuls, you’ll go to Capua and whip up the recruitment rate. If and when you see Marcus Cicero, tell him to stop dithering and start producing. What’s he doing in Minturnae? Not enlisting men, I’ll warrant! Too busy scribbling to Atticus and the Gods know who else!”
“And from Larinum,” said Cato, “you’ll march north toward Picenum and Caesar.”
“That,” said Pompey, “remains to be seen.”
“I can see why the consuls are needed at Capua,” said Cato, warming up, “but the rest of us will be with you, of course.”
“No, you won’t!” Pompey’s chin trembled. “You’ll all remain in Capua for the time being. Caesar has five thousand gladiators in a school there, and they’ll have to be broken up. It’s times like this I wish we owned a few prisons, but as we don’t, I’ll leave it to all you couch experts how to solve the situation. The only one I want to accompany me to Larinum is Titus Labienus.”
*
It was true that Cicero dithered, and also true that he was not occupying himself in recruitment duties, either in Minturnae or at his next stop on that round of beautiful villas he owned from one end of the Campanian coast to the other. Misenum was next to Minturnae, therefore Misenum was his next stop. He wasn’t alone; Quintus Cicero, young Quintus Cicero and his own son, Marcus, were with him; and so too were his twelve lictors, their fasces wreathed in laurels because Cicero was a triumphator who had not yet held his triumph. A big enough nuisance to have the male members of the family in attendance, but not half the nuisance those wretched lictors were! He couldn’t move without them, and since he still held his imperium and his imperium was a foreign one, the lictors were clad in all the glory of crimson tunics broadly belted in black leather studded with brass emblems, and bore the axes in their fasces among the thirty rods. Imposing. But not to a man burdened with as many cares as Cicero.
He’d been visited by none other than his protégé, that most promising young advocate Gaius Trebatius Testa, who had been released from service with Caesar so thoroughly indoctrinated to Caesar’s way of thinking that he would hear not one word against him. Trebatius came, podgy as ever, to beg that Cicero return at once to Rome, which desperately needed, said Trebatius, the genuine stability of a knot of consulars.
“I will not go
anywhere at the behest of an outlaw!” said Cicero indignantly.
“Marcus Cicero, Caesar is no outlaw,” pleaded Trebatius. “He has marched to retrieve his dignitas, and that is proper. All he wants is to ensure its continuance. After that—and in concert with that—he wants peace and prosperity for Rome. He feels that your presence in Rome would be a calming one.”
“Well, let him feel what he likes!” snapped Cicero. “I will not be seen to betray my colleagues who are dedicated to the cause and preservation of the Republic. Caesar wants to be a king, and candidly, I believe Pompeius Magnus wouldn’t refuse if he were asked to reign as King Magnus. Hah! Magnus Rex!”
Which reply left Trebatius with no alternative other than to litter himself away.
Next came a letter from Caesar himself, its brevity and off-the-point paragraph symptomatic of Caesar’s exasperation.
My dear Marcus Cicero, you are one of the few people involved in this mess who may have the foresight and the courage to choose an intermediate path. Night and day I worry over the plight of Rome, left rudderless by the deplorable exodus of her government. What kind of answer is it to cry tumultus and then desert the ship? For that is what Gnaeus Pompeius, egged on by Cato and the Marcelli, has done. So far I have received no indication that any of them, including Pompeius, are thinking of Rome. And that despite the rhetoric.
If you would return to Rome, it would be a great help. In this, I know, I am supported by Titus Atticus. A great joy to know him recovered from that terrible bout of the ague. He doesn’t take enough care of himself. I remember that Quintus Sertorius’s mother, Ria— she cared for me when I almost died of the ague without a rhythm— sent me a letter after I returned to Rome advising me which herbs to hang and which herbs to throw on a brazier to avoid contracting the ague. They work, Cicero. I haven’t had the ague since. But though I told him what to do, Atticus can’t be bothered.
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