The tribunus aerarius swallowed. “Marcus Cuspius,” he said.
“How much is here?”
“Thirty million sesterces in minted coin. Thirty thousand talents of silver in talent sows. Fifteen thousand talents of gold in talent sows. All stamped with the Treasury seal.”
“Excellent!” purred Caesar. “More than a thousand talents in coin. Sit down, Cuspius, and make out a paper. The urban praetor and these two tribunes of the plebs will bear witness. Record on your paper that Gaius Julius Caesar, proconsul, has this day borrowed thirty million sesterces in coin to fund his legitimate war in the name of Rome. The terms are for two years, the interest ten percent simple.” Caesar perched himself on the edge of the desk as Marcus Cuspius wrote; when the document was complete he leaned over and put his name to it, then nodded to the witnesses.
Quintus Cassius wore a peculiar expression.
“What’s the matter, Cassius?” Caesar asked, handing his pen to Lepidus.
“Oh! Oh, nothing, Caesar. Just that I never realized gold and silver have a smell.”
“Do you like the smell?”
“Very much.”
“Interesting. Personally I find it suffocating.”
The document signed and witnessed, Caesar handed it back to Cuspius with a smile. “Keep it safe, Marcus Cuspius.” He lifted himself off the desk. “Now listen to me, and mark me well. The contents of this building are in my care from this day forward. Not one sestertius will leave it unless I say so. And to make sure my orders are obeyed, there will be a permanent guard of my soldiers at the Treasury entrance. They will allow no one access save those who work here and my designated agents, who are Lucius Cornelius Balbus and Gaius Oppius. Gaius Rabirius Postumus—the banker, not the senator—is also authorized as my agent when he returns from his travels. Is that understood?”
“Yes, noble Caesar.” The tribunus aerarius wet his lips. “Er—what about the urban quaestors?”
“No urban quaestors, Cuspius. Just my named agents.”
*
“So that’s how you do it,” said Antony as the group walked back to Pompey’s villa on the Campus Martius.
“No, Antonius, that’s not how you do it. It’s how I’ve been forced to do it. Lucius Metellus has put me in the wrong.”
“Worm! I should have killed him.”
“And martyred him? Certainly not! If I read him correctly—and I think I do—he’ll spoil his victory by prating of it to all and sundry night and day. It isn’t wise to prate.” Suddenly Caesar thought of young Gaius Octavius’s words on the subject of keeping one’s counsel, and smiled. He might go far, that boy. “Men will grow tired of listening to him, just as men grew tired of Marcus Cicero and his struggle to prove Catilina a traitor.”
“It’s a pity all the same,” said Antony. He grimaced. “Why is it, Caesar, that there’s always a man like Lucius Metellus?”
“If there were not, Antonius, this world might work better. Though if this world worked better, there’d be no place in it for men like me,” said Caesar.
At Pompey’s villa he gathered his legates and Lepidus in the huge room Pompey had called his study.
“We have money,” he said, sitting in Pompey’s chair behind Pompey’s desk. “That means I move tomorrow, the Nones of April.”
“For Spain,” said Antony with pleasure. “I’m looking forward to that, Caesar.”
“Don’t bother, Antonius. You’re not coming. I need you here in Italia.”
Brow darkening, Antony scowled ferociously. “That’s not fair! I want to go to war!”
“Nothing is fair, Antonius, nor do I run things to keep you happy. I said I needed you in Italia, so in Italia you’ll stay. As my—er—unofficial Master of the Horse. You’ll take command of everything outside the first milestone from Rome. Particularly those troops I intend to leave behind to garrison Italia. You will recruit—and not like a Cicero. I want results, Antonius. You’ll be required to make all the executive decisions and all the dispositions necessary to keep this entire country peaceful. No one of senatorial status may leave Italia for a foreign destination without first obtaining permission from you. Which means I want a garrison in every port capable of harboring ships for hire. You will also be required to deal with the Italian end of the grain supply. No one can be let go hungry. Listen to the bankers. Listen to Atticus. And listen to the voice of good sense.” The eyes grew very cold. “You may junket and carouse, Antonius—provided the work is done to my satisfaction. If it is not, I’ll strip you of your citizenship and send you into permanent exile.”
Antony swallowed, nodded.
Now came Lepidus’s turn.
“Lepidus, as urban praetor you’ll govern the city of Rome. It won’t be as difficult for you as it has been for me these last few days, because you won’t have Lucius Metellus to veto you. I have given instructions to some of my troops to escort Lucius Metellus to Brundisium, where they will put him on a boat and send him, with my compliments, to Gnaeus Pompeius. You will make use of the guard outside the Treasury should you need it. Though the normal rule allows the urban praetor to be absent from the city for up to ten days at a time, you will never be absent. I expect full granaries, a continuation of the free grain dole, and peace on Rome’s streets. You will persuade the Senate to authorize the minting of one hundred million sesterces in coin, then hand the Senate’s directive to Gaius Oppius. My own building programs will continue—at my own expense, of course. When I return I expect to see Rome prosperous, well cared for and content. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Caesar,” said Lepidus.
“Marcus Crassus,” said Caesar in a softer voice. This was one legate he prized, the last living link with his friend Crassus, and a loyal subordinate in Gaul. “Marcus Crassus, to you I hand my province of Italian Gaul. Care for it well. You will also begin a census of all those inhabitants of Italian Gaul who do not as yet hold the full citizenship. As soon as I have the time, I will be legislating the full citizenship for everyone. Therefore a census will shorten the procedure.”
“Yes, Caesar,” said Marcus Crassus.
“Gaius Antonius,” said Caesar, voice neutral. Marcus he thought a good man provided his duties were spelled out and dire punishment promised if he failed, but this middle of the three Antonian brothers he couldn’t care for at all. Almost as large as Marcus, but not nearly as bright. An untutored oaf. Family, however, was family. Therefore Gaius Antonius would have to be given a job with some responsibility. A pity. Whatever he was given would not be done well.
“Gaius Antonius, you will take two legions of locally recruited troops and hold Illyricum for me. When I say hold, I mean just that. You will not conduct assizes or function as governor—Marcus Crassus in Italian Gaul will look after that side of Illyricum. Base yourself at Salona, but keep your communications with Tergeste open at all times. Do not tempt Pompeius; he’s fairly close to you. Understood?”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“Orca,” said Caesar to Quintus Valerius Orca, “you will go to Sardinia with one legion of local recruits and hold it for me. Personally I wouldn’t care if the whole island sank to the bottom of Our Sea, but the grain it produces is valuable. Safeguard it.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“Dolabella, I’m giving you the Adriatic Sea. You’ll raise a fleet and defend it against any navy Pompeius may have. Sooner or later I’ll be using the crossing from Brundisium to Macedonia, and I expect to be able to use it.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
Now came one of the more surprising Caesareans, the son of Quintus Hortensius. He had gone to Caesar in Gaul as a legate after his father’s death, and proved a good worker in the short time his duties lasted. Liking him and learning that he possessed good diplomatic skills, Caesar had found him very useful in settling the tribes down. Present with Caesar in Italian Gaul, he had been a part of the group who had crossed the Rubicon in their commander’s wake. Yes, a surprise. But a very pleasant one.
“Quintus H
ortensius, I’m giving you the Tuscan Sea. You’ll raise a fleet and keep the sea lanes open between Sicily and all the western ports from Rhegium to Ostia.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
There remained the most important of the independent commands; every pair of eyes turned to the cheerful, freckled face of Gaius Scribonius Curio.
“Curio, good friend, huge help, faithful ally, brave man… you’ll take all the cohorts Ahenobarbus had in Corfinium, and recruit sufficient extra men to form four legions. Levy in Samnium and Picenum, not in Campania. You will proceed to Sicily and eject Postumius, Cato and Favonius from it. Holding Sicily is absolutely essential, as you well know. Once Sicily is secured and properly garrisoned, you’ll go on to Africa and secure it too. That will mean the grain supply is completely ours. I’m sending Rebilus with you as second-in-command, and Pollio for good measure.”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“All commands will carry propraetorian imperium.”
Mischief nudged the elated Curio’s tongue, made him ask, “If I’m propraetor, I have six lictors. May I wreath their fasces in laurels?”
The mask slipped for the first time. “Why not? Since you assisted me to conquer Italia, Curio, of course you may,” said Caesar with venomous bitterness. “What a thing to have to say! I conquered Italia. But there was no one to defend her.” He nodded brusquely. “That is all. Good day.”
*
Curio tore home to the Palatine whooping, whirled Fulvia off her feet and kissed her. Not confined to the Campus Martius as Caesar was, he had been home now for five days.
“Fulvia, Fulvia, I’m to have my own command!” he cried.
“Tell me!”
“I’m to lead four legions—four legions, imagine it!—to Sicily and then to Africa! My own war! I’m propraetore, Fulvia, and I’m to wreath my fasces in laurels! I’m in command! I have six lictors! My second-in-command is a hoary Gallic veteran, Caninius Rebilus! I’m his superior! I’ve got Pollio too! Isn’t it wonderful?”
And she, so loyal, so wholehearted a supporter, beamed, kissed him all over his dear freckled face, hugged him and exulted for him. “My husband the propraetor,” she said, and had to kiss his face again many times. “Curio, I’m so pleased!” Her expression changed. “Does that mean you have to leave at once? When will your imperium be conferred?”
“I don’t know that it ever will be,” said Curio, undismayed. “Caesar gave all of us propraetorian status, but, strictly speaking, he’s not authorized to. So I daresay we’ll have to wait for our leges curiatae.”
Fulvia stiffened. “He means to be dictator.”
“Oh, yes.” Curio sobered, frowned. “It was the most amazing meeting I’ve ever attended, meum mel. He sat there and he dished out the jobs without, it seemed, drawing breath. Crisp, succinct, absolutely specific. Over and done with in mere moments. The man’s a phenomenon! Fully aware that he has no authority whatsoever to depute anyone to do anything, yet—for how long has he been thinking of it? He’s a complete autocrat. I suppose ten years in Gaul as master of everyone and everything would have to change a man, but—ye Gods, Fulvia, he was born a dictator! If I don’t understand any aspect of him, it’s how he ever managed to hide what he is for so long. Oh, I remember how he used to irritate me when he was consul—I thought him royal then! But I actually believed that Pompeius pulled his strings. I know now that no one has ever pulled Caesar’s strings.”
“He certainly pulled my Clodius’s strings, little though my Clodius would care to hear me say that.”
“He won’t be gainsaid, Fulvia. And somehow he’ll manage to do it without spilling oceans of Roman blood. What I heard today was the dictator sprung fully armed from the brow of Zeus.”
“Another Sulla.”
Curio shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no. Never Sulla. He doesn’t have Sulla’s weaknesses.”
“Can you continue to serve someone who will rule Rome as an autocrat?”
“I think so. For one reason. He’s so eminently capable. What I would have to do, however, is make sure that Caesar didn’t change our way of looking at things. Rome needs to be ruled by Caesar. But he’s unique. Therefore no one can be permitted to rule after him.”
“A mercy then that he has no son,” said Fulvia.
“Nor any member of his family to claim his place.”
*
Down in the damp and shady cleft which was the Forum Romanum stood the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, a huge and chilly structure without architectural distinction or physical beauty. With winter just arriving, the courtyards were too cold to permit their being used, but the mistress of the house had a very nice sitting room well warmed by two braziers, and here she ensconced herself cozily. The suite had belonged to the mother of the Pontifex Maximus, Aurelia, and in her days its walls had been impossible to see for pigeonholes, book buckets and accounts. All of that impedimenta had gone; the walls once more shone dully crimson and purple, the gilded pilasters and moldings glittered, the high ceiling was a honeycomb of plum and gold. It had taken considerable persuasion to coax Calpurnia down from her suite on the top floor; Eutychus the steward, now into his seventies, had managed it by hinting that all the servants were too decrepit these days to climb the stairs. So Calpurnia had moved down, and that had been almost five years ago— long enough by far not to feel the presence of Aurelia these days as anything more than an additional warmth.
Calpurnia sat with three kittens in her lap, two tabby and one black-and-white, her hands lying lightly on their fat bodies. They were asleep.
“I love the abandonment of their sleep,” she said to her visitors in a grave voice, smiling down. “The world might end, and they would dream on. So lovely. We of the gens Humana have lost the gift of perfect sleep.”
“Have you seen Caesar?” asked Marcia.
The large brown eyes lifted, looked sad. “No. I think he is too busy.”
“Haven’t you tried to contact him?” asked Porcia.
“No.”
“Don’t you think you ought?”
“He’s aware I’m here, Porcia.” It wasn’t said with a snap or a snarl; it was a simple statement of fact.
A peculiar trio, some intruder might have thought, coming upon Caesar’s wife entertaining Cato’s wife and Cato’s daughter. But she and Marcia had been friends ever since Marcia had gone to be wife to Quintus Hortensius, into an exile of the spirit and the flesh. Not unlike, Marcia had thought then, the exile poor Calpurnia dwelled in. They had found each other’s company very pleasant, for each was a gentle soul without much liking for intellectual pursuits and no liking at all for the traditional women’s occupations—spinning, weaving, sewing, embroidering; painting plates, bowls, vases and screens; shopping; gossiping. Nor was either woman a mother.
It had started with a courtesy call after the death of Julia, and another after Aurelia’s death not much more than a month later. Here, thought Marcia, was an equally lonely person: someone who would not pity her, someone who would not find fault with her for acceding so tamely to her husband’s actions. Not all Roman women were so compliant, no matter what their social status. Though, they found as the friendship prospered, they both envied the lot of women in the lower classes—they could be professionally qualified as physicians or midwives or apothecaries, or work in trades like carpentering or sculpting or painting. Only the upper-class women were constrained by their status into ladylike homebound activities.
Not a cat fancier, Marcia had found Calpurnia’s chief hobby a little unbearable at first, though she discovered after some exposure to them that cats were interesting creatures. Not that she ever yielded to Calpurnia’s pleas that she take a kitten for herself. She also shrewdly concluded that if Caesar had given his wife a lapdog, Calpurnia would now be surrounded by puppies.
Porcia’s advent was quite recent. When Porcia had realized after Marcia’s return to Cato’s household that she was friendly with Caesar’s wife, Porcia had had a great deal to say. None of it impres
sed Marcia, nor, when Porcia complained to Cato, was he moved to censure his wife.
“The world of women is not the world of men, Porcia,” he shouted in his normal way. “Calpurnia is a most respectable and admirable woman. Her father married her to Caesar, just as I married you to Bibulus.”
But after Brutus had left for Cilicia a change had come over Porcia— the stern Stoic who had no truck with the world of women lost her fire, secretly wept. Dismayed, Marcia saw what Porcia herself was trying desperately to hide, would not speak about: she had fallen in love with someone who had refused her when offered her, someone who had now gone away. Someone who was not her husband. With her young stepson moving out of her ken, Porcia needed a warmer kind of stimulus than philosophy and history. She was moldering. Sometimes Marcia worried that she was dying the subtlest death of all—she mattered to no one.
Thus, badgered into consenting and under solemn oath not to embark upon political talk or speak scathingly of her father’s and her husband’s most hated enemy, Porcia too began to visit. Miraculously, she enjoyed these outings. As both were good people at heart, Porcia found herself quite unable to despise Calpurnia. Goodness recognized goodness. Besides which, Porcia liked cats. Not that she had ever seen one at close quarters before; cats slunk through the night, yowled for mates, ate rodents or lived around kitchens begging for scraps. But from the moment Calpurnia held out her enormously fat and complacent orange Felix and Porcia found herself holding this soft, cuddly, thrumming creature, she liked cats. Friendship with Calpurnia aside, it kept her coming back to the Domus Publica, for she knew better than to think that father or husband would approve of enjoying the company of an animal, dog or cat or fish.
Loneliness, Porcia began to see, was not her own exclusive province. Nor was unrequited love. And in these two things she grieved for Calpurnia as much as for herself. No one to fill her life, no one to look at her with love. Except her cats.
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