The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  So Caesar shit a fleet of class

  Between the kingly linen sheets

  He’s never lost a single battle

  Though his tally’s about fifty

  He rounds ’em up like mooing cattle

  Our King of Rome neat and nifty!”

  Caesar called to Fabius and Cornelius, tailing the seventy-two lictors ahead of him.

  “Go tell the Tenth that if they don’t stop singing that song, I’ll strip them of their share of the booty and discharge them minus their land!” he snapped.

  The message was conveyed and the ditty promptly ceased, but many were the debates in the College of Lictors as to which of the verses gave Caesar the most offense; the conclusion Fabius and Cornelius reached was that the reference to selling his arse had gotten under Caesar’s skin, but a few of the other lictors were in favor of the “King of Rome” phrase. Certainly it wasn’t the bawdiness of the Tenth’s song; that was standard practice.

  * * *

  By the time the long business had ended, night was falling. Division of the spoils would have to wait until the morrow. The Field of Mars turned into a camp, for all the retired veterans were there too, having watched the triumph from the crowds. Aman’s share had to be collected in person unless, as happened in the case of Caesar’s triumph, many of the veterans lived in Italian Gaul. Groups of them had clubbed together and armed one representative with an authorizing document, which would contribute to the difficulties the legion pay-masters inevitably suffered.

  The rankers each received 20,000 sesterces (more than the pay for twenty years of service); junior centurions received upward of 40,000 sesterces, and the top centurions 120,000 sesterces. Huge bonuses, more than any army’s in history, even the army of Pompey the Great after he conquered the East and doubled the entire contents of the Treasury. Despite this bounty, the soldiers of all ranks went away angry. Why? Because Caesar had set aside a small percentage and given it to the free poor of Rome, who each received 400 sesterces, 36 pounds of oil, and 15 modii of wheat. What had the free poor done to deserve a share? Though the free poor were ecstatic, the army was anything but.

  The general military consensus was that Caesar was up to something, but what? After all, there was nothing to stop a free poor man from enlisting in the legions, so why was Caesar gifting men who hadn’t?

  The triumphs for Egypt, Asia Minor and Africa followed in quick succession, none as spectacular as Gaul, but nonetheless above the standard of nine out of ten triumphs. The Asia triumph contained a float of Caesar at Zela surrounded by all his crowns: above the scene was a large, beautifully lettered placard that read VENI, VIDI, VICI. Africa was last, and the least approved of by Rome’s elite, for Caesar let his anger destroy his common sense and used the floats to deride the Republican high command. There was Metallus Scipio indulging in pornography, Labienus mutilating Roman troops, and Cato guzzling wine.

  The triumphs were not the end of the extra entertainments that year. Caesar also gave magnificent funeral games for his daughter, Julia, who had been very much loved by the ordinary Roman people; she had grown up in the Subura, surrounded by the ordinary people, and never held herself above them. Which was why they had burned her in the Forum Romanum, and why her ashes lay in a magnificent tomb on the Campus Martius—unheard of.

  There were plays in Pompey’s stone theater and in temporary wooden ones erected wherever there was space enough; the comedies of Plautus, Ennius and Terence were popular, but everyone liked the simple Atellan mime best. This was a farce stuffed with ludicrous stock characters and played minus masks. However, all tastes had to be catered for, so one small venue was reserved for highbrow drama by Sophocles, Aeschylus and Euripides.

  Caesar also instituted a competition for new plays, and offered a generous prize for the best effort.

  “You really ought to write plays as well as histories, my dear Sallustius,” he said to Sallust, whom he liked very much. As well for Sallust that he did; Sallust had been recalled from his governorship of Africa Province after he plundered the place unashamedly. The matter had been hushed up when Caesar personally paid out millions in compensation to aggrieved grain and business plutocrats; yet here was Caesar, still liking Sallust.

  “No, I’m not a playwright,” said Sallust, shaking his head in revulsion at the mere thought. “I’m too busy writing a very accurate history of Catilina’s conspiracy.”

  Caesar blinked. “Ye gods, Sallustius! Then I hope that you’re lauding Cicero to the skies.”

  “Anything but,” said the unrepentant looter of his province cheerfully. “I blame the whole affair on Cicero. He manufactured a crisis to distinguish his consulship above banality.”

  “Rome might become as hot as Utica when you publish.”

  “Publish? Oh no, I daren’t publish, Caesar.” He giggled. “At least, not until after Cicero’s dead. I hope I don’t have to wait twenty years!”

  “No wonder Milo horsewhipped you for philandering with his darling Fausta,” said Caesar, laughing. “You’re incorrigible.”

  Plays were not the entirety of Julia’s funeral games. Caesar tented in the whole of the Forum Romanum and his own Forum Julium and gave gladiatorial games, wild-beast shows, combats between condemned prisoners of war, and exhibitions of the latest martial craze, fencing with long, whippy swords useless in a battle.

  After which he gave a public banquet for all of Rome on no less than 22,000 tables. Among the delicacies were 6,000 fresh water eels he had to borrow from his friend Lucilius Hirrus, who refused to sell them; his price was replacement. The wines flowed like water, the tables groaned with food, and there was enough left over to enable the poor to heft home sacks of goodies to augment their menu for some time to come.

  * * *

  Cicero was still writing to Brutus in Italian Gaul.

  I know I’ve already told you about Caesar’s disgraceful lampooning of the Republican heroes in Africa, but I am still fulminating about it. How can the man have such excellent taste when it comes to things like games and shows, yet make a mockery out of worthy Roman opponents?

  However, that is not why I write. I have divorced that termagant Terentia at last—thirty years of misery! So I am now an eligible sixty-year-old bachelor, a very strange and freeing sensation. So far I have been offered two widows, one the sister of Pompeius Magnus, the other his daughter. You do know that Publius Sulla died very suddenly? It upset the Great Man, who always liked him—why escapes me. Anyone whose father was adopted by a man like Sextus Perquitienus Senior and was brought up in that household cannot help but be a cur. So his Pompeia is a widow. However, I prefer the other Pompeia—for one thing, she’s thirty years younger. For another, she seems to be a fairly sanguine widow, isn’t mourning Faustus Sulla overmuch. That’s probably because the Great Man permitted her to keep all her property, which is vast. I shall not marry a poor woman, my dear Brutus, but nor, after Terentia, will I marry a woman who is in complete control of her own fortune. So perhaps neither Pompeia Magna is a good choice. We Romans allow women too much autonomy.

  There has been another divorce in the ranks of the Tullii Cicerones. My darling Tullia has finally severed her union to that rabid boar Dolabella. I requested that her dowry payments be returned, as I am entitled to when the wife is the injured party. To my surprise, Dolabella said yes! I think he’s trying to get back into favor with Caesar, hence the promised repayment. Caesar is a stickler for women being treated properly, witness his concern for Antonia Hybrida. Then what happens? Tullia informs me that she is with child by Dolabella! Oh, what is the matter with women? Not only that, but Tullia is so terribly downcast, doesn’t seem to be interested in the coming baby, and has the temerity to blame me for the divorce! Says I nagged her into it. I give up.

  No doubt Gaius Cassius has written to tell you that he is coming home from Asia Province. I rather gather that he and Vatia Isauricus have nothing in common save their wives, your sisters. Well, Vatia hewed to Caesar and cannot be pried lo
ose. From what Cassius tells me in his letter, Vatia is a very strict governor, has regulated the taxes and tithes of Asia Province (not due to be enforced for several more years) to make it impossible for a publicanus or any other sort of Roman businessman to make one sestertius of profit from the Amanus to the Propontis. I ask you, Brutus, what does Rome have provinces for, if not to let Romans make a sestertius or two out of them? Truly, I think Caesar believes Rome should pay her provinces, not the other way around!

  Gaius Trebonius has arrived in Rome—driven out of Further Spain by Labienus and the two Pompeii, it seems. He was struggling after Quintus Cassius’s deplorable conduct when he was governor—a regular Gaius Verres, they say. The three Republicans landed to hysterical joy, and have been raising legions with marked success. Having moored his many ships in Balearic waters, Gnaeus Pompeius is now living in Corduba as the new Roman governor. Labienus is the commander of military matters.

  I wonder what Caesar plans to do?

  “I think Caesar will be going to Spain as soon as his present legislation is done with,” said Calpurnia to Marcia and Porcia.

  Porcia’s eyes lit into a blaze, her face suffused with hope. “This time it will be different!” she cried, smacking her right fist into her left palm jubilantly. “Every day that passes sees Caesar’s legions more disaffected, and since the time of Quintus Sertorius, the Spanish have produced legionaries every bit as good as those Italy produces. You wait and see, Spain will be the end of Caesar. I pray for it!”

  “Come, Porcia,” Marcia said, her eyes meeting Calpurnia’s ruefully, “remember our company.”

  “Oh, really!” Porcia snapped, her hand going out to clench Calpurnia’s. “Why should poor Calpurnia care? Caesar spends all his time across the Tiber with That Woman!”

  Very true, thought Calpurnia. The only nights he occupies his Domus Publica bed are those before a meeting of the Senate at dawn. Otherwise, he’s there with her. I’m jealous and I hate feeling jealous. I hate her too, but I still love Caesar.

  “I believe,” she said with composure, “that the Queen is extremely knowledgeable about government, and that very little of his time with her is devoted to love. From what he says, they talk of his laws. And political matters.”

  “You mean he has the gall to mention her name to his wife?” Porcia demanded incredulously.

  “Yes, often. That’s why I don’t worry very much about her. Caesar doesn’t act one scrap differently toward me than he ever has. I am his wife. At best, she’s his mistress. Though,” said Calpurnia wistfully, “I would love to see the little boy.”

  “My father says he’s a beautiful child,” Marcia offered, then frowned. “The interesting thing is that Atia’s boy, Octavius, detests the Queen and refuses to believe that the child is Caesar’s. Though my father says the child undoubtedly is Caesar’s, he’s very like him. Octavius calls her the Queen of Beasts because of her gods, which apparently have the heads of beasts.”

  “Octavius is jealous of her,” said Porcia.

  Calpurnia’s eyes widened. “Jealous? But why?”

  “I don’t know, but my Lucius knows him from the drills on the Campus Martius, and says he makes no secret of it.”

  “I didn’t know Octavius and Lucius Bibulus were friends,” said Marcia.

  “They’re the same age, seventeen, and Lucius is one of the few who doesn’t sneer at Octavius when he goes to the drills.”

  “Why should anyone sneer?” asked Calpurnia, puzzled.

  “Because he wheezes. My father,” Porcia went on, transfigured at the mere mention of Cato, “would say that Octavius ought not to be punished for an infliction of the gods. My Lucius agrees.”

  “Poor lad. I didn’t know,” said Calpurnia.

  “Living in that house, I do,” Marcia said grimly. “There are times when Atia despairs for his life.”

  “I still don’t understand why he should be jealous of Queen Cleopatra,” Calpurnia said.

  “Because she’s stolen Caesar,” Marcia contributed. “Caesar was spending considerable time with Octavius until the Queen came to Rome. Now, he’s forgotten Octavius exists.”

  “My father,” Porcia brayed, “condemns jealousy. He says that it destroys inner peace.”

  “I don’t think we’re terribly jealous, yet none of us enjoys inner peace,” said Marcia.

  Calpurnia picked up a kitten wandering around the floor and kissed its sleek, domed little skull. “I have a feeling,” she said, cheek against its fat tummy, “that Queen Cleopatra is not at peace either.”

  A shrewd guess; having learned that Caesar was going to Spain to deal with the Republican rebellion there, Cleopatra was filled with a rather royal dismay.

  “But I can’t live in Rome without you!” she said. “I refuse to let you leave me here alone!”

  “I’d say, go home, except that autumnal and winter seas are perilous between here and Alexandria,” Caesar said, keeping his temper. “Stick it out, my love. The campaign won’t be long.”

  “I heard that the Republicans have thirteen legions.”

  “I imagine at least that many.”

  “And you’ve discharged all but two of your veteran legions.”

  “The Fifth Alauda and the Tenth. But Rabirius Postumus, who has consented to act as my praefectus fabrum again, is recruiting in Italian Gaul, and a lot of the discharged veterans there are bored enough to re-enlist. I’ll have eight legions, sufficient to beat Labienus,” Caesar said, and leaned to kiss her with lingering enjoyment. She’s still miffed. Change the subject. “Have you looked at the census data?” he asked.

  “I have, and they’re brilliant,” she said warmly, diverted. “When I return to Egypt, I shall institute a similar kind of census. What fascinates me is how you managed to school thousands of men to take it door-to-door.”

  “Oh, men love to ask nosy questions. The training lies more in teaching them how to deal with people who resent nosy questions.”

  “Your genius staggers me, Caesar. You do everything so efficiently, yet so swiftly. The rest of us toil in your wake.”

  “Keep paying me compliments, and my head won’t fit through your door,” he said lightly, then scowled. “At least yours smack of sincerity! Do you know what those idiots put on that wretched gold quadriga they erected in Jupiter Optimus Maximus’s porticus?”

  She did know. While she approved of it and agreed with it, she knew Caesar well enough by now to understand why it had so angered him. The Senate and the Eighteen had commissioned a gold sculpture of Caesar in a four-horse chariot atop a globe of the world, another of the honors they heaped upon him against his will.

  “I am on the horns of a dilemma about these honors,” he had said to her some time ago. “When I refuse them, I’m apostrophized as churlish and ungrateful, yet when I accept them, I’m apostrophized as regal and arrogant. I told them I refused to condone this awful construction, but they’ve gone ahead with it anyway.”

  He hadn’t seen the “awful construction” until this morning, when it was unveiled. The sculptor, Arcesilaus, had done well; his four horses were superb. Pleasantly surprised, Caesar had toured around it with equanimity until he noticed the plaque affixed to the front wall of the chariot. It said, in Greek, exactly what the statue of him in the Ephesus agora said—GOD MADE MANIFEST and all the rest.

  “Take that abomination off!” he snapped.

  No one moved to obey.

  One of the senators was wearing a dagger on his belt; Caesar snatched it and used it to dig into the chased gold surface until the plaque came off. “Never, never say such things about me!” he said, and walked out, so furious that the plaque, thrown away, was crushed and crumpled into a ball of metal.

  So now Cleopatra said pacifically, “Yes, I know about it. And I am sorry it offended you.”

  “I do not want to be the King of Rome, and I do not want to be a god!” he snarled.

  “You are a God,” she said simply.

  “No, I am not! I am a mortal ma
n, and I will suffer the fate of all mortal men, Cleopatra! I—will—die! Hear that? Die! Gods don’t die. If I were to be made a god after my death, that would be different—I’d be sleeping the eternal sleep, and not know I was a god. But while I am mortal, I cannot be a god. And why,” he demanded, “do I need to be King of Rome? As Dictator, I can do whatever has to be done.”

  “He’s like a bull being tormented by a crowd of little boys safely on the other side of the stall railings,” said Servilia to Gaius Cassius with great satisfaction. “Oh, I am enjoying it! So is Pontius Aquila.”

  “How is your devoted lover?” Cassius asked sweetly.

  “Working for me against Caesar, but very subtly. Of course Caesar doesn’t like him, but fair-mindedness is one of Caesar’s weaknesses, so if a man shows promise, he’s advanced, even if he is a pardoned Republican—and Servilia’s lover,” she purred.

  “You’re such a bitch.”

  “And I always was a bitch. I had to be, to survive Uncle Drusus’s household. You know Drusus confined me to the nursery and forbade me to leave the premises until I married Brutus’s tata, don’t you?” she asked.

  “No, I didn’t. Why would a Livius Drusus do that?”

  “Because I spied for my father, who was Drusus’s enemy.”

  “At what age?”

  “Nine, ten, eleven.”

  “But why were you living with your mother’s brother instead of your own father?” Cassius asked.

  “My mother committed adultery with Cato’s father,” she said, her face twisting hideously even at so old a memory, “and my father chose to deem all his own children by her as someone else’s.”

  “That would do it,” said Cassius clinically. “Yet you spied for him?”

  “He was a patrician Servilius Caepio,” she said, as if that explained it all.

  Knowing her, Cassius supposed it did.

  “What happened with Vatia in Africa Province?” she asked.

  “He wouldn’t let me collect my or Brutus’s debts.”

  “Oh, I see.”