“You wish to speak?” asked Caesar.
“I do.”
“Then speak.”
Piso rose to his feet. “Before committing us to a war, Gaius Caesar, might it not be politic to approach Gnaeus Pompeius and ask for peace negotiations?”
Vatia Isauricus answered, and tartly. “Oh, Lucius Piso!” he said, making a rude noise with his lips. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for that? Pompeius has been living high in the palace at Thessalonica for months, with plenty of time to sue for peace. He doesn’t want peace. Even if he did, Cato and Bibulus wouldn’t permit it. Sit down and shut up!”
“I loved it!” chuckled Philippus over dinner that afternoon. ” ‘Sit down and shut up!’ So delicately put!”
“Well,” said Caesar, grinning, “I suppose he thought it was time he said something. Whereas you, you reprobate, sail on as serenely as Ptolemy Philopator’s barge.”
“I like the metaphor. I’d also love to see that barge.”
“The biggest ship ever built.”
“Sixty men to an oar, they say.”
“Rubbish!” said Caesar, snorting. “With that many men on an oar, it would act like a ballista.”
Young Gaius Octavius, grey eyes wide, sat listening raptly.
“And what do you say, young Octavius?” asked Caesar.
“That a country which can build a ship that big and cover it in gold must be very, very rich.”
“Of that there is no doubt,” said Caesar, assessing the boy coolly. Fourteen now. There had been some changes associated with puberty, though the beauty had not diminished. He was beginning to have an Alexandrine look to him, and wore his luxuriantly waving golden hair long enough to cover the tips of those jutting ears. More worrying to Caesar, sensitive on that subject, was a certain—not precisely effeminacy, more a lack of the adolescent version of masculinity. To his surprise, he found that he cared about the future of this lad, didn’t want to see him set off in a direction which would make his public career painfully difficult. No time now to speak privately with young Gaius Octavius, but somewhere in his crowded schedule he would have to make that time a fact.
*
His last call in Rome was upon Servilia, whom he found alone in her sitting room.
“I like those two white ribbons in your hair,” he said, easing himself into a chair after kissing her lips like a friend.
“I had hoped to see you somewhat sooner,” she said.
“Time, Servilia, is my enemy. But clearly not yours. You don’t look a day older.”
“I’m well serviced.”
“So I hear. Lucius Pontius Aquila.”
She stiffened. “How do you know that?”
“My informants constitute a positive ocean.”
“They must, to have prised that little item out of hiding!”
“You must miss him now he’s gone to help Pompeius.”
“There are always replacements.”
“I daresay. I hear that Brutus has also gone to help the good Pompeius.”
Her small, secretive mouth turned down at its corners. “Hah! I don’t understand it in him. Pompeius murdered his father.”
“That was a long time ago. Perhaps his uncle Cato means more to him than an old deed.”
“Your fault! If you hadn’t broken off his engagement to Julia, he’d be in your camp.”
“As are two of your three sons-in-law, Lepidus and Vatia Isauricus. But with Gaius Cassius and Brutus on the other side, you can’t very well lose, can you?”
She shrugged, disliking this cold conversation. He was not going to resume their affair; his every look and movement showed it. And, setting eyes on him again for the first time in almost ten years, she found herself impaled again on his power. Yes, power. That had always been the great attraction. After Caesar, all other men were insulsus. Even Pontius Aquila, a scratch for an itch, no more. Immeasurably older, yet not one day older, that was Caesar. Graven with lines speaking of action, life in hard climes, obstacles conquered. The body as fit and workmanlike as ever. As no doubt was that part of him she couldn’t see, would never see again.
“Whatever happened to that silly woman who wrote to me from Gaul?” she asked harshly.
His face closed. “She died.”
“And her son?”
“He disappeared.”
“You don’t have much of that luck with women, do you?”
“Since I have so much of it in other, more important areas, Servilia, I don’t find that surprising. Goddess Fortuna is a very jealous mistress. I propitiate her.”
“One day she’ll desert you.”
“Oh, no. Never.”
“You have enemies. They might kill you.”
“I will die,” said Caesar, getting to his feet, “when I am quite ready.”
4
While Caesar conquered in the West, Pompey the Great contended with Epirus, a wet, rugged and mountainous land which was a small enclave of territory between western Macedonia to the north and western Greece to the south. Not, as Pompey soon discovered, an easy place to assemble and train an army. He had headquartered himself on fairly flat land near the prosperous port city of Dyrrachium, convinced now that he would not see Caesar for some time to come. Caesar would attempt to neutralize the Spanish army first. It would be a titanic struggle between one veteran force and another—but fought on Pompeian ground in Pompeian country. Nor would Caesar have all nine legions at his disposal; he would have to garrison Italia, Illyricum, Gallia Comata—and find enough troops to equip someone to wrest the grain provinces from the true government. Even with whatever soldiers he had managed to persuade to change sides after Corfinium, he’d be lucky to be able to match the five legions of Afranius and Petreius.
This mood of optimism about the outcome in the West was to last for some months yet, and was bolstered by the enthusiastic response Pompey received from all over the East; no one from King Deiotarus of Galatia and King Ariobarzanes of Cappadocia to the Greek socii of Asia could imagine the great Pompeius losing a war. Who was this Caesar? How could he equate some miserable victories over miserable foes like Gauls with the glorious career of Pompeius Magnus, conqueror of Mithridates and Tigranes? Kingbreaker, kingmaker, sovereign in all but name himself. The promises of armies came in, together with a little—a very little—money.
It had been a Herculean act of self-control to be civil to Lentulus Crus, who had left the Treasury for Caesar to plunder. Where would he be without the two thousand talents Gaius Cassius had managed to squeeze out of Campania, Apulia and Calabria? But it was going nowhere. Dyrrachium was making hay in more ways than in its fields, autumnally replete; every bale of the stuff cost ten times its value, not to mention every medimnus of wheat, every side of bacon, every pea and bean, every pig and chicken.
Off went Gaius Cassius to see what might be found in the great temple sanctuaries all over Epirus, especially at holy Dodona, while Pompey called his “government” into session.
“Do any of you doubt that we’ll win this war?” he demanded very aggressively.
Murmurs of protest, mutters of not liking the tone of voice. Finally, from Lentulus Crus: “Of course not!”
“Good! Because, Conscript Fathers, you are going to have to put some money on our war chariot.”
Murmurs of surprise, mutters of inappropriate metaphors for a senatorial meeting. Finally, from Marcus Marcellus: “What do you mean, Pompeius?”
“I mean, Conscript Fathers, that you’re going to have to send to Rome for all the money your bankers will advance you, and when it isn’t enough, start selling land and businesses.”
Murmurs of horror, mutters of what intolerable presumption. Finally, from his son’s father-in-law, Lucius Scribonius Libo: “I can’t sell my land! I’d lose my senatorial census!”
“At the moment, Libo,” said Pompey through his teeth, “your senatorial census is not worth a fart in a flagon! Make up your minds to it: every last one of you is going to have to stick his fing
ers down his financial throat and spew up enough money to keep this enterprise going!”
Murmurs of outrage, mutters of such language, such language. Finally, from Lentulus Crus: “Rubbish! What’s mine is mine!”
Pompey lost his temper, launched into his variation on the traditional diatribe of insults. “You,” he roared, “are entirely responsible for the fact that we have no money, Crus! You ingrate, you leech, you ulcer on the brow of Jupiter Optimus Maximus! You pissed yourself in fear and shot out of Rome like a bolt from a catapulta, leaving the Treasury stuffed to the gills! And when I instructed you to go back to Rome and rectify that— that gross dereliction of your consular duty, you had the temerity to answer that you’d do so when I advanced into Picenum to meet Caesar and rendered him unable to touch your fat, pampered capon of a carcass! You, to tell me that I’m talking rubbish? You, to refuse to share in the funding of this war? I shit on your prick, Lentulus! I piss in your ugly face, Lentulus! I fart up your snobby nostrils, Lentulus! And if you’re not very careful, Lentulus, I’ll slit you up the middle from guts to gizzard!”
Of murmurs there were none, of mutters there were none. Frozen to stone, ears ringing at a saltiness few if any of them had ever heard from a commanding officer in the days of their military service, so sheltered and indulged had they been, the senators stood, jaws dropped, bowels gone liquid with fear.
“There’s not one of you here apart from Labienus could fight a room full of feathers! Nor one of you has the remotest idea what waging war entails! Therefore,” said Pompey, taking a long, deep breath, “it’s time you found out. The major item you need to wage a war is money. Do any of you remember what Crassus used to say, that a man ought not to dare call himself rich if he couldn’t afford to fund and maintain a legion? When he died he was worth seven thousand talents, and that was probably half what he was worth before he buried some where we’ll never find it! Money! We need money! I’ve already started liquidating my assets in Lucania and Picenum, and I expect every man here to do the same! Call it an investment against the rosy future,” he said chattily, a great deal happier now that he had them where any decent commander ought to have them—under his heel. “When Caesar is beaten and Rome belongs to us, we’ll reap what we put in now a thousandfold. So open up the purse strings, all of you, and empty the contents into our communal war chest. Is that understood?”
Murmurs of assent, mutters of if only they’d known, if only they’d thought a little harder. Finally, from Lentulus Spinther: “Gnaeus Pompeius is right, Conscript Fathers. When Rome belongs to us, we’ll reap what we put in now a thousandfold.”
“I’m glad we sorted that out,” said Pompey pleasantly. “Now comes the division of labor. Metellus Scipio is already on his way to Syria, where he will gather what money he can, and what troops he can. Gaius Cassius, once he returns from seeing what he can get from the Epirote and Greek temple treasures, will follow Scipio to Syria and there gather a fleet. Gnaeus, my son, you’ll go to Egypt and commandeer a fleet, transports and grain from the Queen. Aulus Plautius in Bithynia will need a little prodding—it’s your job to apply the goad, Piso Frugi. Lentulus Crus, you’ll go to Asia Province and proceed to raise money, troops and a fleet. You can have Laelius and Valerius Triarius to help with the ships. Marcus Octavius, levy ships from Greece. Libo, levy ships from Liburnia—they’re nice little galleys. I want fast ships, decked ships big enough to take artillery, but no monstrosities—triremes for main preference, biremes not bad, quadriremes and quinqueremes if they’re trim and maneuverable.”
“Who’ll be commanding what?” asked Lentulus Spinther.
“That remains to be seen. First, round up the flocks. Then worry about the shepherds.” Pompey nodded. “You can go.”
Titus Labienus lingered. “That was very good,” he said.
“Pah!” said Pompey contemptuously. “A more incompetent, addled lot I’ve never seen! How did Lentulus Spinther ever think he could lead an army to Egypt while he was governor of Cilicia?”
“There is no Trebonius, Fabius or Decimus Brutus, to be sure.” Labienus cleared his throat. “We have to move from Dyrrachium before winter makes Candavia impassable, Magnus. Relocate ourselves somewhere on the plains near Thessalonica.”
“I agree. It’s the end of March. I’ll wait out April to make sure Caesar does head west. Then it’s off to a sunnier climate than rain, rain, rain in Epirus.” Pompey looked gloomy. “Besides, if I wait here a bit longer, some better men might turn up.”
Labienus lifted his lip. “I suppose you mean Cicero, Cato and Favonius?”
Pompey closed his eyes, shuddered. “Oh, Labienus, pray all the Gods, not! Let Cicero stay in Italia, and Cato and Favonius in Sicily. Or Africa. Or the land of the Hyperboreans. Or anywhere!”
*
This prayer was not answered. At the middle of April, Cato and Favonius, with Lucius Postumius in tow, arrived in Dyrrachium to tell of their ejection from Sicily by Curio.
“Why didn’t you go on to Africa?” asked Pompey.
“It seemed better to join you,” said Cato.
“I am ecstatic,” said the commander-in-chief, secure in the knowledge that irony would pass straight over the top of Cato’s head.
Two days later, however, a more useful man did turn up: Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, who had dallied in Ephesus on his way home from governing Syria until events shaped themselves enough for him to perceive a proper course. Not that he was any more deferential or understanding than Cato, simply that his resolution to oppose Caesar was allied to a strong desire to be genuinely helpful rather than needlessly critical.
“I’m so glad to see you!” said Pompey fervently, wringing his hand. “There’s no one here apart from Labienus and me with any idea of how to go about this war.”
“Yes, that’s obvious,” said Bibulus coolly. “Including my esteemed father-in-law, Cato. Put a sword in his hand and he does well. But a leader he is not.” He listened while Pompey summarized his preparations, nodding approval. “An excellent idea, to get rid of Lentulus Crus. But what’s your strategy?”
“To train my army to think like an army. Spend the winter and spring, possibly also the early summer, near Thessalonica. It’s closer to Asia Minor, a shorter march for troops sourced there. Nor will Caesar deal with me until he’s tried to deal with my Spanish army. After he loses in Spain he’ll regroup and come after me—he has to, or else submit, and he won’t do that until he’s not got a man left. It’s mandatory that I control the seas. All the seas. Ahenobarbus has set himself up to take over Massilia, which has told me that it respects its ties with our government. That will slow Caesar down and oblige him to split his forces even more. I want him to experience the old, familiar Roman headache—a shortage of grain in Italia. We must dominate the seas between Africa, Sicily, Sardinia and the Italian coast. I also have to deny Caesar passage across the Adriatic at whatever time he decides to come east.”
“Ah, yes,” purred Bibulus, “pen him in and starve Rome out. Excellent, excellent!”
“I have you in mind as admiral-in-chief of all my fleets.”
That came as a surprise. Immensely gratified, Bibulus put out his right hand and clasped Pompey’s with unusual warmth. “My dear Pompeius, an honor you will not find misplaced. I give you my word that I’ll do the job properly. Ships are strange, but I’ll learn. And learn well.”
“Yes, I think you will, Bibulus,” said Pompey, beginning to believe that this decision was the right one.
Cato was not so sure. “To love my son-in-law is a right act,” he said in his usual hectoring tones to Pompey. “However, he knows absolutely nothing about boats.”
“Ships,” said Pompey.
“Things that float on water and are rowed. His nature is Fabian, not Marian. Impede, stall, delay, stalk, but never engage. You need a more aggressive admiral-in-chief.”
“Like you?” asked Pompey with deceptive mildness.
Cato reared back in horror. “No! No! I was thinking of Fav
onius and Postumius, actually.”
“Good men, I do agree. However, they’re not consulars, and the admiral-in-chief must be a consular.”
“Yes, that is in keeping with the mos maiorum.”
“Would you prefer that I appoint Lentulus Spinther, one of the Marcelli, or perhaps recall Ahenobarbus?”
“No! No!” Cato sighed. “Very well, it must be Bibulus. I’ll spend a lot of time talking to him about developing considerably more aggression. And I must talk to Lentulus Spinther and both the Marcelli. And Labienus. Ye Gods, that man is dirty and untidy!”
“I have a better idea,” said Pompey, holding his breath.
“What?”
“Hie yourself off—I’ll have the Senate give you propraetor’s imperium—to southern Asia Province and raise a fleet for me. I imagine Lentulus Crus, Laelius and Triarius will have enough to do in the north. Go to Rhodes, Lycia, Pamphylia.”
“But—I won’t be at the center of things, Pompeius. I’m needed at the center of things! Everyone is so disorderly! You need me here with you to smarten everyone up,” said Cato, dismayed.
“Yes, but the trouble is that you’re so famous in places like Rhodes, Cato. Who, other than the wise, incorruptible and much respected Cato, can persuade the Rhodians to back us?” Pompey patted Cato’s hand. “I tell you what. Leave Favonius behind with me. Give him instructions. Depute him to do what you’d do.”
“That might work,” said Cato, brightening.
“Of course it will!” said Pompey heartily. “Off you go, man! The sooner, the better.”
“It’s terrific to be rid of Cato, but you’ve still got that fart Favonius around your neck,” said Labienus, displeased.
“The Ape is not the equal of the Master. I’ll sool him onto those who need a boot up the arse. And those,” said Pompey with a huge smile, “whom I personally detest.”
*
When the news came that Caesar was sitting before Massilia and that Ahenobarbus was confident he would get no further, Pompey decided to pull stakes and march east. Winter was upon him, but his scouts were confident that the highest passes through Candavia were still negotiable.
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