But his first visit was to the Regia, tiny temple of the Pontifex Maximus; there he entered alone, saw to his satisfaction that the hallowed place was clean and free from vermin, its altar unstained, its twin laurel trees thriving. A brief prayer to Ops, then it was out and across to his home, the Domus Publica. Not a formal occasion; he went in through his own entrance and closed its door upon the sighing, satiated crowd.
As Dictator he could wear armor within the pomerium, have his lictors bear the axes; when he disappeared within the Domus Publica they nodded genially to the people and walked to their own College behind the inn on the corner of the Clivus Orbius.
But the formalities were not over for Caesar, who had not set foot inside the Domus Publica on that hasty visit in April; he had now as Pontifex Maximus to greet his charges, the Vestal Virgins. Who waited for him in the great temple common to both sides of that divided house. Oh, where had the time gone? The Chief Vestal had been little more than a child when he had departed for Gaul—how Mater had railed at her liking for food! Quinctilia, now twenty-two and Chief Vestal. No thinner, but, he saw now with relief, a jolly young woman whose good sense and practical disposition shone out of her round, homely face. Beside her, Junia, not much younger, quite pretty. And there was his blackbird, Cornelia Merula, a tall and fine young lady of eighteen. Behind them, three little girls, all new since his time here. The three adult Vestals were clad in full regalia, white robes, white veils perched upon the mandatory seven sausages of wool, their bulla medallions upon their breasts. For the children, white robes but no veils; they wore wreaths of flowers instead.
“Welcome, Caesar,” said Quinctilia, smiling.
“How good it is to be home!” he said, longing to embrace her, knowing he could not. “Junia and Cornelia, grown up too!”
They smiled, nodded.
“And who are the little ones?”
“Licinia Terentia, daughter of Marcus Varro Lucullus.”
Yes, she had that look—long face, grey eyes, brown hair.
“Claudia, daughter of the Censor’s eldest son.”
Dark and pretty, very Claudian.
“Caecilia Metella, of the Caprarian Metelli.”
A stormy one, fierce and proud.
“Fabia, Arruntia and Popillia, all gone!” he marveled. “I have been away too long.”
“We have kept Vesta’s hearth burning,” said Quinctilia.
“And Rome is safe because of you.”
Smiling, he dismissed them and turned then to enter his own half of the great house. An ordeal without Aurelia.
It was indeed a reunion full of tears, but these were tears that had to be shed. They had all come to see him who belonged to the days in the Subura—Eutychus, Cardixa and Burgundus. How old they were! Seventies? Eighties? Did it matter? They were so glad to see him! Oh, all those sons of Cardixa and Burgundus! Some of them were grizzled! But no one was allowed to remove the scarlet cloak, the cuirass and the skirt of pteryges save Burgundus; Caesar had to fight to remove the sash of his imperium himself.
Then finally he was free to find his wife, who had not come to him. That was her nature, to wait. Patient as Penelope weaving her shroud. He found her in Aurelia’s old sitting room, though it bore no sign of his mother anymore. Barefoot, he moved as quietly as one of her cats; she didn’t see him. Sitting in a chair with fat orange Felix in her lap. Had he ever realized she was lovely? It didn’t seem so, from this distance. Dark hair, long and graceful neck, fine cheekbones, beautiful breasts.
“Calpurnia,” he said.
She turned at once, dark eyes wide. “Domine,” she said.
“Caesar, not domine.” He bent to kiss her, the perfectly correct salutation for a wife of scant months not seen for many years: affectionate, appreciative, promising more. He sat down in a chair close to her, where he could see her face. Smiling, he pushed a strand of hair off her brow; the dozing cat, sensing a foreign presence, opened one yellow eye and rolled onto its back, all four feet in the air.
“He likes you,” she said, surprise in her voice.
“So he should. I rescued him from a watery grave.”
“You never told me that.”
“Didn’t I? Some fellow was about to toss him into Father Tiber.”
“Then he and I are grateful, Caesar.”
Later that night, his head comfortably cushioned between her breasts, Caesar sighed and stretched. “I am very glad, wife,” he said, “that Pompeius refused to let me marry that battle-axe of a daughter of his. I’m fifty-one, a little old for tantrums and power tactics in my home as well as my public life. You suit me well.”
If perhaps in the very depths of her that wounded Calpurnia, yet she was able to see both the sense of it and the lack of malice in it. Marriage was a business, no less so in her own case than it would have been in the case of the strapping, pugnacious Pompeia Magna. Circumstances had conspired to keep her Caesar’s wife, stave off the advent of Pompeia Magna. Which had delighted her at the time. Those nundinae between her father’s informing her that Caesar wished to divorce her in order to marry Pompey’s daughter and the news that Pompey had turned Caesar’s offer down had been fraught with anxiety, with terrible misgivings. All Lucius Calpurnius Piso, her father, had seen was the huge endowment Caesar was willing to give Calpurnia in order to be free of her; all Calpurnia had seen was another marriage which her father would, of course, arrange. Even had love not formed a part of Calpurnia’s attachment to Caesar, she would have hated it—the moving, the loss of her cats, the adjusting to a completely different kind of life. The cloistered style of the Domus Publica suited her, for it had its freedoms too. And when Caesar did visit, it was a visitation from some god who knew so perfectly how to please, how to make love comfortable. Her husband was the First Man in Rome.
*
Publius Servilius Vatia Isauricus was a quiet man. Loyalty ran in the family; his father, a great plebeian aristocrat, had cleaved to Sulla and remained one of Sulla’s greatest supporters until that difficult, contrary man died. But because the father too had been a quiet man, he adjusted to life in a post-Sullan Rome with grace and some style, did not lose the massive clout which an old name and a huge fortune brought with it. Probably seeing something of Sulla in Caesar, the father before his death had liked him; the son simply carried on the family tradition. He had been a praetor in the year Appius Claudius Censor and Ahenobarbus were consuls, and had soothed boni fears by prosecuting one of Caesar’s legates. Not an aberration but a deliberate ploy; Gaius Messius was not important to Caesar.
In the years since he was always to be found on Caesar’s side of any senatorial division, nor could he be intimidated. No surprise then that when Pompey and the bulk of the Senate fled, Vatia Isauricus remained in Rome. Caesar, it was clear, mattered more to him than the alliances his marriage to Servilia’s eldest daughter, Junia, might have predicated. Though when Cicero blabbed all over Rome that Junia’s portrait was one of those in the baggage of a lowbred scoundrel, Vatia Isauricus did not divorce her. A loyal man remains loyal in all respects.
The day after Caesar arrived in Rome, Mark Antony sent word that he was waiting on the Campus Martius in Pompey’s villa, and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, who had secured the dictatorship for Caesar, waited in the Domus Publica for an interview. But it was Vatia Isauricus whom Caesar saw first.
“I can’t stay long, alas,” said Caesar.
“That I expected. You’ll have to get your army to the other side of the Adriatic before the equinoctial gales.”
“And lead it myself. What do you think of Quintus Fufius Calenus?”
“You had him as a legate. Don’t you know?”
“In that respect, a good man. But this campaign against Pompeius necessitates that I restructure my high command—I won’t have Trebonius, Fabius, Decimus Brutus or Marcus Crassus, yet I do have more legions than ever. What I need from you is an assessment of Calenus’s ability to handle high command rather than a legion.”
“Asi
de from his role in the regrettable affair of Milo and Clodius, I think him ideal for your purpose. Besides, in all fairness to poor Calenus, he accepted a ride in Milo’s carriage without any knowledge of what Milo was planning. If anything, Milo’s selecting him is a very good reference. Calenus is probably unimpeachable.”
“Ah!” Caesar settled back in his chair and gazed at Vatia Isauricus intently. “Do you want the job of running Rome in my absence?” he asked.
Vatia Isauricus blinked. “You want me to act as your Master of the Horse?”
“No, no! I don’t intend to remain Dictator, Vatia.”
“You don’t? Then why did Lepidus organize it?”
“To give me dictatorial clout for long enough to start things moving again. Really, just until I can have myself and one other man of my choice elected consul for the coming year. I’d like you as my consular colleague.”
That was very evidently good news; Vatia Isauricus beamed. “Caesar, a great honor!” He frowned, not in anxiety but in thought. “Will you do as Sulla did and nominate two candidates only for the consular elections?” he asked.
“Oh, no! I don’t mind how many men want to run against us.”
“Well, you’ll get no opposition from the Senate, but the men of the Eighteen are terrified of what you might do to the economy. The election results might not be what you want.”
Which statement provoked a laugh. “I assure you, Vatia, that the knights of the Eighteen will scramble to vote for us. Before I hold elections, I intend to bring a lex data before the Popular Assembly to regulate the economy. It will quieten all those fears that I intend a general cancellation of debts, not to mention other, equally irresponsible acts. What Rome needs is proper legislation to restore faith in business circles and enable people on both sides of the debt fence to cope. My lex data will do that in the most sensible and moderate way. But the man I leave behind to govern Rome has to be a sensible and moderate man. That’s why I want you as my colleague. With you, I know Rome will be safe.”
“I won’t destroy your faith in me, Caesar.”
Next came Lepidus, a very different sort of man.
“In two years, Lepidus, I expect you’ll be consul,” said Caesar pleasantly, eyes never leaving that handsome and vaguely disquieting face; a man of great hauteur, riddled with weaknesses.
Lepidus’s face changed, twisted in disappointment. “Not any sooner than two years, Caesar?” he asked.
“Under the lex Annalis, it can’t possibly be sooner. I do not intend that Rome’s mos maiorum be disturbed any more than is necessary. Though I follow in Sulla’s footsteps, I am no Sulla.”
“So you keep saying,” said Lepidus bitterly.
“You have a very old patrician name and high ambitions to enhance it,” said Caesar coolly. “You’ve chosen the winning side, and you’ll prosper, that I promise you. But patience, my dear Lepidus, is a virtue. Practise it.”
“I can practise it as well as the next man, Caesar. It’s my purse is impatient.”
“A revealing statement which doesn’t augur well for Rome under your authority. However, I’ll make a bargain with you.”
“What?” asked Lepidus warily.
“Keep me informed of everything, and I’ll have Balbus pop a little something in your hungry purse regularly.”
“How much?”
“That depends on the accuracy of the information, Lepidus. Be warned! I don’t want the facts warped to suit your own ends. I want exact transcriptions of the truth. Yours won’t be my only sources of information, and I am no fool.”
Mollified yet disappointed, Lepidus departed.
Which left Mark Antony.
“Am I to be your Master of the Horse?” was Antony’s first question, asked eagerly.
“I won’t be Dictator long enough to need one, Antonius.”
“Oh, what a pity! I’d make a terrific Master of the Horse.”
“I’m sure you would, if your conduct in Italia these past months is anything to go by. Though I must protest strongly against lions, litters, mistresses and mummers. Luckily next year you won’t have any chance to behave like the New Dionysus.”
The heavy, pouting face lowered. “Why?”
“Because, Antonius, you’re going with me. Italia will be stable without you because Italia will have a praetor peregrinus, Marcus Caelius. I need you as a member of my high command.”
The red-brown eyes lit up. “Now that’s more like it!”
And that, Caesar reflected, was one man he had managed to please. A pity the Lepiduses of this world were choosier.
*
Caesar’s lex data found immediate favor with the knights of the eighteen senior Centuries—and with many, many thousands more of lower status in Rome’s commercial sphere. Its scope was wider than merely the city; it provided for Italia as well. Property, loans and debts were regulated through a series of provisos which favored neither creditors nor debtors. Those creditors who classified their debts as hopeless were directed to take land as settlement, but the value of the land was to be assessed by impartial arbitrators supervised by the urban praetor. If the interest payments on loans were up to date, the debtors received a deduction from the capital sum owed of two years’ interest at twelve percent. No one was allowed to have more than sixty thousand sesterces in cash. The ceiling on all new loans was to be ten percent simple interest. And, most enormous relief of all, Caesar’s lex data contained a clause which severely punished any slave who sought to inform on his master. As Sulla had encouraged slave informers and paid them well with money and freedom, this clause told Rome’s businessmen that Caesar was no Sulla. There would be no proscriptions.
Overnight the world of commerce began to right itself, for debtors used Caesar’s law as much as creditors, and both kinds of man vowed the law was an excellent one. Sensible and moderate. Atticus, who had been saying ever since the Rubicon that Caesar was no radical, preened himself, said “I told you so!” to everyone, and blandly accepted congratulations on his perspicacity.
Little wonder then that when the elections were held for all ranks of magistrates—the curule men in the Centuries, the quaestors and tribunes of the soldiers in the People’s tribes, and the tribunes of the plebs and plebeian aediles in the tribal Plebs—Caesar’s candidates, discreetly indicated, were all returned. The consular elections saw several candidates other than merely Caesar and Vatia Isauricus, but Caesar was returned as senior consul and Vatia as his junior. The Eighteen’s way of saying thank you, thank you, thank you!
Vacancies in the priestly colleges were filled and a belated Latin Festival held on the Alban Mount. Things happened. But then, men were remembering, didn’t things always happen when Caesar was in government? And this time he had no Bibulus to retard his progress.
Because he would not assume the consulship until the first day of the New Year, Caesar retained his dictatorship until then. Under its auspices he legislated the full citizenship for every man of Italian Gaul; the old, bitterly resented wrong was gone.
He restored the right to stand for public office to the sons and grandsons of Sulla’s proscribed, then brought home those exiles whom he chose to repatriate as improperly banished. With the result that Aulus Gabinius was once more a Roman citizen in good standing, whereas Titus Annius Milo and Gaius Verres, among others, were not.
By way of thanks to the People, he gave an extra free grain dole to every Roman citizen man, paying for it out of a special treasure stored in the temple of Ops. The Treasury was still very full, but he would have to borrow another large sum from it to fund his campaign in Macedonia against Pompey.
*
On the tenth day of this sojourn in Rome, he finally had the leisure to summon a full meeting of the Senate, which he had convened on two earlier days in such a hurry that he left the senators quite winded; many of them had forgotten what Caesar in a hurry was like.
“I leave tomorrow,” he said from the curule dais in Pompey’s curia, a deliberate choice of venue
; it amused him to stand below that hubristic statue of the man who was no longer the First Man in Rome. There were those who had pressed him to remove it; he had firmly declined, saying that Pompeius Magnus should witness the doings of Caesar Dictator.
“You will note that I have instituted no laws to remove their citizen status from that group of men who wait for me across the Adriatic. I do not regard them as traitors because they have chosen to oppose my occupation of the consuls’ chair, nor because they sought to destroy my dignitas. What I have to do is show them that they are wrong, misguided, blind to Rome’s welfare. Without, I sincerely hope, much if any bloodshed. There is no merit in shedding the blood of fellow citizens, as my conduct so far in this difference of opinion has conclusively shown. What I find hardest to forgive in them is that they abandoned their country to chaos, that they left it in no condition to continue. That it is now in good condition is due to me. Therefore the reckoning must be paid. Not to me, but to Rome.
“I have given Enemy of the People status to only one man, King Juba of Numidia, for the foul murder of Gaius Scribonius Curio. And I have given Friend and Ally status to Kings Bocchus and Bogud of Mauretania.
“How long I will be away I do not know, but I go secure in the knowledge that Rome and Italia, and their provinces in the West, will prosper under proper and sensible government. I also go with the intention of returning to Rome and Italia their provinces in the East. Our Sea must be united.”
Even the fence-sitters were there that day: Caesar’s uncle Lucius Aurelius Cotta, his father-in-law Lucius Calpurnius Piso, and his nephew-in-law Lucius Marcius Philippus. Looking very stern and above such things as internecine strife. Excusable in Cotta, still rather crippled by two strokes, and excusable perhaps in Philippus, constitutionally incapable of taking sides in anything. But Lucius Piso, so tall, so dark and so ferocious looking that Cicero had once had a fine old time describing him as a barbarian, was irritating. A complete self-server whose daughter was far too nice to deserve him as a father.
Lucius Piso cleared his throat.
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