His wife was sitting in the garden, contemplating the peaches ripening on a tree. When she heard him she turned, face alight with pleasure, and held out her hands. Oh, Porcia, I do love you so much! My pillar of fire.
* * *
“What do you think about it?” Servilia demanded of Cassius.
“I can certainly understand why you object, Servilia, but in many ways Brutus and Porcia suit each other,” said Cassius. “Yes, I know you hate to admit there are similarities, but that doesn’t mean to say they don’t exist. They’re a rather humorless pair, very earnest, boringly narrow. That’s the real reason why I’ve given up Stoicism. I just couldn’t stand the narrowness.”
Servilia eyed her favorite male relative with complete love. He was so martial, so manly, so crisp and decisive. How glad she was to have him in the family! Vatia Isauricus, married to Junia Major, and Lepidus, married to Junia Minor, were a pair of stiff, punctilious aristocrats who never seemed to be able to reconcile their adherence to Caesar with their mother-in-law’s adultery with Caesar. Whereas Cassius, more immediately affected thanks to Tertulla’s paternity, didn’t let it interfere with his liking.
“Tertulla says you’re off to see Caesar,” she said.
“Yes, I am. With Brutus, I hope, if Porcia doesn’t change his mind.” Cassius grinned. “I can’t credit that she’ll approve of Brutus’s smarming to Caesar.”
“Oh, he’ll just go without telling her,” said Servilia. “But why exactly is it necessary?”
“Munda,” he said simply. “I was so relieved when Caesar won. I’ve always detested the uncrowned King of Rome, but at least he forced a final decision. The Republican cause is now too dead to be resurrected. As a pardoned man who has never put a foot wrong since Caesar implied that pardon—he was far too clever to speak the actual words—I intend to have my share of the perquisites, much though it sticks in my throat to be civil to him. I want to be praetor next year, so does Brutus, but by the time the Great Man reaches Rome, all the jobs will be gone.” He eyed Servilia ironically; they had no secrets. “As—er—Caesar’s unofficial son-in-law, I think I deserve a good job. In fact, I think that I deserve Syria more than Dolabella does. Don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Go with my blessing.”
6
While Caesar and Octavius, talking incessantly, made their way up the coast of Nearer Spain to cross the Pyrenees, the seaport of Narbo was experiencing more excitement than it had since Lucius Caesar had used it as his base while Cousin Gaius fought the Long-haired Gauls. An attractive city at the mouth of the Atax River, it was famous for its seafood, particularly the world’s most succulent fish, a very flat creature that lived on the estuary sea floor and had to be dug out of hiding: hence its name, dugmullet.
However, Narbo didn’t really think that the sixty-odd Roman senators who descended upon it at the end of June were visiting in order to dine on dug-mullets. Narbo knew that Caesar was coming, and that these important men were there to see him. That they had chosen Narbo lay in the fact that there was no other place of sufficient size to accommodate so many in a proper degree of comfort. Senators like Decimus Brutus, Gaius Trebonius, Marcus Antonius and Lucius Minucius Basilus were well known from the days of Caesar’s Gallic War; arriving first, the four promptly moved into Lucius Caesar’s mansion, which he had kept in the hope that one day he would have a chance to return to a place he loved dearly. The rest distributed themselves around the better inns or begged shelter with some prosperous Roman merchant; Narbo had a good many, as it served as the port for a lush hinterland that stretched as far as Tolosa, a fine inland city downstream from the headwaters of the Garumna River.
Recently Narbo’s status had risen even higher; Caesar had created a new province, Narbonese Gaul, which extended from west of the Rhodanus River to the Pyrenees, and from Our Sea to Oceanus Atlanticus where the Duranius and the Garumna met at the Gallic oppidum of Burdigala. It thus incorporated the lands of the Volcae Tectosages and the Aquitani. As the capital, Narbo had a fine new governor’s palace where Caesar and his staff would stay after they arrived. Its first incumbent, already in residence, was Caesar’s brave and scholarly legate, Aulus Hirtius.
Mark Antony slept in Lucius Caesar’s house only the one night before Hirtius invited him to the governor’s palace. Which left Gaius Trebonius, Decimus Brutus and Basilus in Lucius Caesar’s house, a state of affairs that suited Trebonius, relieved him. He had decided that it was time to start feeling out certain men on the subject of an untimely death for Caesar.
He started with Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, sustained by that little chat in Murcius’s tavern.
“The only way we’re ever going to have that fighting chance in the elections you talked of, Decimus, is if Caesar no longer rules Rome,” he said as they walked the busy quayside.
“I am aware of that, Trebonius.”
“If you are, then how do you think we can end Caesar’s rule?”
“There’s only one way. Kill him.”
“Once upon a time,” Trebonius said in his mournful voice, staring at a ship anchoring in the roads, “Caesar prosecuted Antonius’s uncle Hybrida for atrocities he committed in Greece. It created a bit of an uproar because of Caesar’s connection to the Antonii, but the Great Man—not so great in those days—said it didn’t infringe the unwritten tenets of families because the connection was through marriage only.”
“I remember the case. Hybrida invoked tribunician protection and halted proceedings, but Caesar had rendered him so odious that he had to go into exile anyway,” Decimus said. “My connection to the Julii is by blood, but it’s quite remote—through a Popillia who was the mother of Catulus Caesar’s father.”
“Is that remote enough to consider joining a group of men dedicated to killing Caesar?”
“Oh, yes,” said Decimus Brutus without hesitation. He walked on, wrinkling his nose at the smell of fish, seaweed and ships. “However, Trebonius, why do you need a group of men?”
“Because I have no intention of sacrificing my own life and career in the cause,” Trebonius said frankly. “I want enough very important men involved to make it seem a patriotic act, one that the Senate won’t have the courage to punish.”
“So you’re not thinking of doing it here in Narbo?”
“All I intend to do in Narbo is sound people out—but only after a lot of listening and observation. I’m asking you here and now because that makes two of us to listen and observe.”
“Ask Basilus, and there will be three of us.”
“I had thought of him. Do you think he’ll be in it?”
“In a flash,” said Decimus. His lip curled, but not from the smells. “He’s another Hybrida, he tortures his slaves. I heard that his activities have come to Caesar’s ears, and that he’ll have no further advancement. Caesar paid him out instead.”
Trebonius frowned. “A history like that won’t add any distinction to our group.”
“Very few know. To senatorial sheep, he’s important.”
Which was true enough. Lucius Minucius Basilus was a Picentine landowner who claimed that his family could trace its origins back to the days of Cincinnatus, though he could offer no proof beyond a flat statement. Having discovered that a flat statement was all that most of his fellow First Class required as proof, he had gone far. A Caesar-appointed praetor this year, he had looked forward to the consulship until word leaked back to him that his secret vice had been reported to Caesar. With a tortured slave to testify. When he had received Caesar’s curt letter informing him that his public career was over, Basilus turned from a Caesar worshiper to a Caesar hater. After four years as one of Caesar’s legates in Gaul, a rude shock to find himself excluded from the inner circle. He had come to Narbo to plead his case, but with little hope.
When Trebonius and Decimus Brutus sounded him out, he agreed to join what Decimus had nicknamed the Kill Caesar Club with alacrity, even jubilation.
Three. Now who else?
<
br /> Lucius Staius Murcus had come to Narbo confidently, for he knew he stood high in Caesar’s favor; his talents lay on the sea, and he had admiraled fleets for Caesar with flair. However, he had sided with Caesar for the most basic of reasons: he knew that Caesar would win, and he wanted to be on the winning side. The trouble was that he disliked Caesar intensely, and sensed that the emotion was reciprocated. Therefore standing high in Caesar’s favor was a state of being that could change, especially now that there were no more battles to be fought. He had been praetor, he wanted to be consul, yet was edgily aware that, with only two consuls each year, and many men high in Caesar’s favor, his own chances were slender.
Basilus suggested him, but they agreed not to approach Staius Murcus in Narbo. Narbo was for noting names, not approaching.
Certain others in Narbo went on the list of potential Kill Caesar Club members, but all mere pedarii senators, backbenchers with little clout. Decimus Turullius, the brothers Caecilius Metellus and Caecilius Buciolanus, the brothers Publius and Gaius Servilius Casca were noted down. So was a very angry Caesennius Lento, the beheader of Gnaeus Pompey.
On the third day of Quinctilis, Caesar’s party descended on Narbo at last, accompanied by the remnants of the Tenth Legion and the somewhat plumper Fifth Alauda.
Caesar, noted Mark Antony, was looking in the pink of health.
“My dear Antonius,” said Caesar cordially, kissing his cheek, “what a pleasure to see you. And Aulus Hirtius, of course.”
Antony didn’t notice what Caesar went on to say, his eyes on the slender figure emerging from Caesar’s gig. Young Gaius Octavius? Yes, it was! But there had been big changes. He’d never really taken any notice of his second cousin, dismissed him as a future bum-boy who’d be one of the family disgraces, but the lad, though as precious and pretty as ever, now exuded a quiet confidence that said he was doing very well as Caesar’s cadet.
Caesar turned to Octavius with a smile and drew him forward. “As you see, I have just about the entire family with me. All we needed to be complete was Marcus Antonius.” Caesar slipped an arm about Octavius’s shoulders and gave him a slight hug. “Go inside, Gaius, and see where they’ve put me.”
Octavius smiled at Antony unself-consciously and did as he was told. Quintus Pedius was approaching; Antony had to act fast, and did. “I’m here to apologize, Caesar. And beg forgiveness.”
“I accept the one and grant the other, Antonius.”
The next thing they were all there, from Quintus Pedius to young Lucius Pinarius, Caesar’s other great-nephew, a contubernalis with his cousin, Pedius. Plus Quintus Fabius Maximus, Calvinus, Messala Rufus, and Pollio.
“I’d better move out,” said Antony to Hirtius, counting the entourage. “I can stay at Uncle Lucius’s place.”
“There’s no need,” said Caesar genially. “We’ll put Agrippa, Pinarius and Octavius together in a cupboard somewhere.”
“Agrippa?” asked Antony.
“There,” said Caesar, pointing. “Did you ever see a more promising military man in all your life, Antonius?”
“Quintus Sertorius with a face,” Antony said instantly.
“Exactly what I thought. He’s a contubernalis with Pedius, but I’m transferring him to my own staff when I leave for the East. And one of Pedius’s military tribunes, Salvidienus Rufus. He led the cavalry charge at Munda, and did brilliantly.”
“Nice to know that Rome’s still producing good men.”
“Not Rome, Antonius. Italy! Think more broadly, do!”
“I’ve counted sixty-two senators come to bow and scrape,” said Antony as they went indoors together. “Most of them are your own appointees, pedarii lobby fodder, but Trebonius and Decimus Brutus are here, so are Basilus and Staius Murcus.” He stopped to look at Caesar quizzically. “You seem mighty fond of that young saltatrix tonsa, Octavius,” he said abruptly.
“Don’t let appearances fool you, Antonius. Octavius is far from a barbered dancing girl. He has more political acumen in his little finger than you have in your entire hulking body. He’s been my constant companion since shortly after Munda, and I don’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a young fellow so much. He’s sickly and he’ll never be a military man, but the head on his shoulders is old and wise. A pity his name’s Octavius, really.”
A stab of alarm pierced Antony; he stiffened. “Thinking of making his name Julius Caesar by adoption, are you?” he asked.
“Alas, no. I told you, he’s sickly. Too sickly to make old bones,” Caesar said lightly.
Octavius appeared. “Up the stairs, the suite right at the end of the corridor, Caesar,” he said. “You won’t need me now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll see where Agrippa and Pinarius are stowing their gear. Is it all right if I stay with them?”
“I had planned it thus. Enjoy Narbo, and don’t get into any trouble. You’re on leave.”
The large, beautiful grey eyes rested on Caesar’s face with patent adoration, then the lad nodded and vanished.
“He thinks the sun shines out of your arse,” said Antony.
“It’s very pleasant to know that someone does, Antonius. Particularly a member of my own family.”
“Go on! Pedius doesn’t fart unless you tell him to.”
“What of your farts, cousin?”
“Treat me well, Caesar, and I’ll treat you well.”
“I’ve accepted your apology, but you’re on probation, and it would be wise to remember that. Are you out of debt?”
“No,” said Antony gruffly, “but I was able to pay the usurers enough to shut them up. Once Fulvia’s flush again, they’ll get more, and I’m counting on a share of the Parthian booty to finish the business.”
They had reached Caesar’s suite, where Hapd’efan’e was paring some fruit. Antony eyed the Egyptian physician with revulsion.
“I have other plans for you,” Caesar said, swallowing a peach.
Antony stopped dead and glared at Caesar furiously. “Oh, no, not again!” he snapped. “Don’t expect me to sit on Rome for you for five years, because I won’t! I want a decent campaign with some decent booty!”
“You will have it, Antonius, but not with me,” Caesar said, keeping his voice level. “Next year you will be consul, and after that you’ll go to Macedonia with six good legions. Vatinius will remain in Illyricum, and the two of you will fight a joint campaign north into the lands of the Danubius and Dacia. I have no desire to see Rome’s frontiers threatened by King Burebistas while I’m absent. You and Vatinius will conquer from the Savus and Dravus all the way to the Euxine Sea. And your share of the booty will be the general’s, not a legate’s.”
“But it won’t be Parthian booty,” Antony growled.
“If the puny campaigns of the previous governors of Macedonia are anything to go by, Antonius,” said Caesar, keeping his temper, “I predict you’ll emerge from the campaign as rich as Croesus. The Danubian tribes are gold-rich peoples.”
“I’ll still have to share with Vatinius,” said Antony.
“You’d have to share the Parthian spoils with two dozen men of equal rank. And have you forgotten that as the general, you take all the proceeds from the sale of slaves? Do you know how much I made out of the sale of Gallic slaves? Thirty thousand talents!” Caesar eyed him mockingly. “You, Antonius, are a glaring example of a Roman boy who never did his homework and never mastered arithmetic. You’re also a born glutton.”
Caesar remained in Narbo for two nundinae, setting up the new province of Narbonese Gaul and allocating generous, fertile portions of land to the few survivors of the Tenth Legion; the Fifth Alauda was to march east with him to the Rhodanus valley, where he intended to settle its men on equally good land. They were a priceless gift for Gaul, these matchless legionaries, who would marry Gallic women and commingle the blood of two superlative warrior peoples.
“He’s always been royal,” said Gaius Trebonius to Decimus Brutus as they watched Caesar move among the fawning senators, “but it grows in leaps a
nd bounds. Caesar Rex! If we convince all the Romans who matter that he intends to crown himself King of Rome, we’ll get away free, Decimus. Rome has never punished regicides.”
“We need someone closer to him to convince the Romans who matter that he will crown himself King of Rome,” Decimus said thoughtfully. “Someone like Antonius, who I hear is to be one of next year’s consuls. I know Antonius won’t do the deed, but I always have a feeling that he’ll not condemn the deed either. Perhaps he’d go as far as making the deed look respectable?”
“Perhaps,” said Trebonius, smiling. “Shall I ask him?”
As Antony was making a huge effort to stay sober and be of some use to Caesar, it wasn’t easy to get him on his own, but on their last evening in Narbo, Trebonius managed by inviting Antony to look at a particularly beautiful horse.
“The beast’s up to your weight, Antonius, and well worth what the owner’s asking. I know you’re in to the bloodsuckers for millions, but the consul needs a better Public Horse than your old fellow, which must be due for retirement. The Treasury pays for a Public Horse, don’t forget.”
Antony took the bait, and was delighted when he saw the animal, tall and strong without being lumbering, and a striking mixture of light and dark grey dapples. The deal concluded, he and Trebonius walked back to the town.
“I’m going to do some talking,” said Trebonius, “but I don’t want you to answer me. All I ask is that you listen. Nor do you need to tell me that I’m putting my life in your hands by broaching this particular subject. However, whether you agree with me or not, I refuse to believe that you’ll tattle to Caesar. Of course you know what the subject is. Killing Caesar. There are now a number of us who are convinced that the deed must be done if Rome is ever to be free again. But we can’t hurry, because we have to appear to the First Class as the champions of liberty—as truly patriotic men doing Rome a great service.”
The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra Page 52
