The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  “Done!” Antony made a purring noise. “But Oppius dies. I know he pinched Caesar’s war chest.”

  “We don’t touch any of the bankers or top plutocrats,” said Octavian, tones uncompromising.

  “What? But that’s where the big money is!” Antony objected.

  “Precisely, Antonius. Think about it, please. Proscription is a short-term measure to fill the Treasury, it can’t go on forever. The last thing we want is a Rome deprived of her money geniuses. We’re going to need them forever. If you believe that a Greek freedman like Sulla’s Chrysogonus is a replacement for an Oppius or an Atticus, you’re touched in the head. Look at that freedman of Pompeius Magnus’s, Demetrius—rolling in wealth, but not Atticus’s bootlace when it comes to turning money over. So we proscribe Demetrius, but we don’t proscribe Atticus. Or Sextus Perquitienus, or the Balbi, or Oppius, or Rabirius Postumus. I grant you that Atticus and Perquitienus play both ends against the middle, but the bankers I’ve mentioned have been Caesareans ever since Caesar became a force in politics. No matter how tempting the size of their fortunes, we do not touch our own. Especially if they have the ability to keep money turning over. We can afford to proscribe Flavius Hemicillus, and perhaps Fabius—both are Brutus’s banking minions. But those Rome will need in the future must be sacrosanct.”

  “He’s right, Antonius,” said Lepidus feebly.

  Antony had listened; now he thought, lips moving in and out, auburn brows meeting. Finally, “I see what you mean.” His head hunched into his shoulders, he gave a mock shudder. “Besides, if I touched Atticus, Fulvia would kill me. He’s been very good to her since the decree outlawing me. But Cicero goes—and I mean head from neck, understood?”

  “Completely,” Octavian said. “We concentrate on the rich, but only some of the fabulously rich. If enough men are proscribed, the amount of cash will add up quickly. Of course when it comes to property, we won’t garner anything like the actual worth of the property we auction. Caesar’s auctions have proven that as much as Sulla’s did. But we’ll be able to pick up some good estates for ourselves and our friends dirt cheap. Lepidus has to be compensated for the loss of his villas and estates, so he ought not to have to pay a sestertius for anything until his losses have been remedied.”

  The appalled Lepidus began to look less appalled; this was an aspect of proscription that hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Land for our veterans,” said Antony, who loathed agrarian activity. “I suggest we confiscate the public lands of towns and municipia we can classify as inimical to Caesar or that made overtures of friendliness to Brutus and Cassius when they were issuing their edicts. Venusia, dear old Capua yet again, Beneventum, a few other Samnite nests. Cremona hasn’t pulled its weight in Italian Gaul, and I know how to prevent Bruttium from offering aid to Sextus Pompeius. We’ll put some soldier colonies around Vibo and Rhegium.”

  “Excellent!” Octavian exclaimed. “I recommend too that we don’t discharge all the legions after the war against Brutus and Cassius is over. We should retain a certain number of them as a standing army, have the men sign up for, say, fifteen years. This business of having to recruit every time we need troops may be the Roman way and a part of the mos maiorum, but it’s a costly nuisance. Every time a man is discharged, he gets a piece of land. Some men have been in and out so many times over the last twenty years that they’ve accumulated a dozen plots of land which they rent out to tenant farmers or graziers. A standing army can garrison the provinces, be there to be called into service when and where it’s needed without the perpetual expenses of recruiting and equipping fresh legions, or finding land on discharge.”

  But that dissertation was a little much for Mark Antony, who shrugged, bored; his attention span was not the equal of the painstaking, minutiae-fixated Octavian’s. “Yes, yes, but time is getting on, and I want to finish this business today, not next month.” He assumed a crafty expression. “Of course we’ll have to have some evidence of each other’s good faith. Lepidus and I have affianced two of our children. You’re single, Octavianus. How about a marriage bond with me?”

  “I’m engaged to Servilia Vatia,” Octavian said woodenly.

  “Oh, Vatia won’t care if you break it off! My Fulvia’s eldest girl, Claudia, is eighteen. How about her? Terrific set of ancestors for your children! Julian, Gracchan, Claudian, Fulvian. You can’t do better than a girl of Fulvia’s and Publius Clodius’s, now can you?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Octavian without hesitation. “Consider me betrothed to Claudia, provided Vatia consents.”

  “Not betrothed, married,” Antony said firmly. “Lepidus can conduct the ceremony as soon as we return to Rome.”

  “If you wish.”

  “You’ll have to step down from the consulship,” said Antony, riding high.

  “Yes, I rather imagined I’d have to do that. Whom do you suggest as suffect consuls for the rump of the year?”

  “Gaius Carrinas for senior, Publius Ventidius for junior.”

  “Your men.”

  Ignoring this, Antony swept on. “Lepidus for a second term next year, with Plancus as his junior.”

  “Yes, we’ll definitely have to have one of the Triumvirs as senior consul next year. And the year after?”

  “Vatia as senior, my brother Lucius as junior.”

  “I am sorry about Gaius Antonius.”

  Eyes filling with tears, Antony swallowed convulsively. “I will make Brutus pay for killing my brother!” he said savagely.

  Privately Octavian thought that Brutus had done efficiency and success a great service in ridding Rome of Gaius Antonius, bungler supreme, but he looked grieved and sympathetic, then changed the subject. “Have you thought how best to legislate our triumviral syndicate?” he asked.

  “Through the Plebs, it’s become custom. Supra consular powers—imperium maius, even inside Rome—for five years. Together with the right to nominate the consuls. Inside Italy we should all three have equal powers and govern equally, but outside Italy I think we should divide the provinces up. I’ll take Italian Gaul and Further Gaul. Lepidus can have Narbonese Gaul and both the Spains, because I’m going to use Pollio as my legate in my provinces, let him do the actual governing.”

  “Which leaves me,” said Octavian, looking particularly sweet and humble, “the Africas, Sicily, Sardinia and Corsica. The—er—grain supply. Not a happy group of provinces, from what I hear. The governor of Africa Vetus is having a little private war with the governor of Africa Nova, and Sextus Pompeius has been using all those ships the Senate gave him to raid our grain fleets since well before Pedius’s court condemned him.”

  “Not pleased with your lot, Octavianus?” Antony asked.

  “Put it this way, Antonius. I won’t complain about my lot provided that I have full and equal co-command with you when we go east to deal with Brutus and Cassius.”

  “No, I won’t agree to that.”

  “You don’t have any choice in the matter, Antonius. My own legions will insist on it, and you can’t go east without them.”

  Antony leaped out of his chair and strode to the water’s edge, Lepidus following in alarm.

  “Come, Antonius,” Lepidus whispered to him, “you can’t have it all your own way. He’s made big concessions. And he’s right about his legions, they won’t follow you.”

  A long pause ensued, Antony scowling at the river, Lepidus with one hand on Antony’s arm. Then Antony swung about, returned.

  “All right, you can have full co-command, Octavianus.”

  “Good. Then we have a pact,” Octavian said cordially, and held out his hand. “Let’s shake on it to show the men that we’ve reached accord and there’ll be no battle.”

  The three walked to the very middle of the island, there to shake hands with each other. Cheers erupted from the throat of every watcher; the Triumvirate was a reality.

  Only one other difference of opinion arose, on the next day: namely, the order in which the Triumvirs would enter Rome
.

  “Together,” said Lepidus.

  “No, on three succeeding days,” Antony contradicted. “I go first, Octavianus goes second, you go third, Lepidus.”

  “I go first,” Octavian said firmly.

  “No, I do,” said Antony.

  “I go first, Marcus Antonius, because I am the senior consul and no laws have as yet been passed that give you or Marcus Lepidus any rights whatsoever. You’re still public enemies. Even if you weren’t, the moment you cross the pomerium into Rome, you give up your imperium and become mere privati. It is inarguable. I must go first, to preside over the removal of your outlaw status.”

  Very put out he might be, but Mark Antony had no choice other than to agree. Octavian must enter Rome first.

  2

  Most of Italian Gaul was a flat alluvial plain watered by the Padus River and its many tributaries; when rain didn’t fall, the local farmers could irrigate extensively, so the region had crops, full granaries. The most exasperating thing about the country, so close to Italy proper, was that it couldn’t feed Italy proper. The Apennine mountain chain crossed the top of the leg from east to west and fused with the Maritime Alps in Liguria, thus forming a barrier too formidable for the transport of freight by land. Nor could Italian Gaul’s grains and pulses be sent by sea; the winds were always contrary shipping from north to south. For this reason, the Triumvirs decided to leave their legions in Italian Gaul, and set out for Rome accompanied only by a few hand picked troops.

  “However,” said Octavian to Pollio (they were sharing a gig), “since feeding Rome and Italy has fallen to me, I shall start sending wagon trains of wheat from the west of the province through Dertona to travel down the Tuscan coast. The gradients are not impossible on that route, it just hasn’t been done.”

  Pollio eyed him with fascination, having realized since they started out from Bononia that the young man never stopped thinking. His mind, Pollio decided, was precise, factual, preoccupied with logistics ahead of logic—what interested him was how to get ordinary things done. If you gave him a million chickpeas to count, thought Pollio, he would stick at it until he did it—and not make a mistake in his count. No wonder Antonius despises him! While Antonius dreams of military glory and of being the First Man in Rome, Octavianus dreams of how to feed people. While Antonius spends money profligately, Octavianus looks for the cheapest way to do things. Octavianus isn’t a plotter, he’s a planner. I do hope I live long enough to see what he ultimately becomes.

  So Pollio led Octavian on to speak on many subjects, including the fate of Rome.

  “What’s your greatest ambition, Octavianus?” he asked.

  “To see the whole Roman world at peace.”

  “And what would you do to achieve that?”

  “Anything,” said Octavian simply. “Anything at all.”

  “It’s a laudable objective, but hardly likely to happen.”

  The grey eyes turned to look into Pollio’s amber orbs, their expression genuinely surprised. “Why?”

  “Oh, perhaps because war is ingrained in Romans. War and conquest add to Rome’s revenues, most men think.”

  “Her revenues,” said Octavian, “are already great enough for her needs. War drains the Treasury dry.”

  “That’s not Roman thinking! War plumps the Treasury out—look at Caesar and Pompeius Magnus, not to mention Paullus, the Scipios, Mummius,” said Pollio, enjoying himself.

  “Those days are over, Pollio. The great treasures have all been absorbed into Rome already except for one.”

  “The Parthian treasures?”

  “No!” Octavian said scornfully. “That’s a war only Caesar could have contemplated. The distances are enormous and the army would have to live on forage for years, surrounded on all sides by enemy and formidable terrains. I mean the Egyptian treasure.”

  “And would you approve of Rome’s taking that?”

  “I will take it. In time,” said Octavian, sounding smug. “It’s a feasible objective, for two reasons.”

  “And they are?”

  “The first, that it isn’t necessary for a Roman army to get far from Our Sea. The second, that, apart from the treasure, Egypt produces grain that our growing population will need.”

  “Many say the treasure doesn’t exist.”

  “Oh, it exists,” said Octavian. “Caesar saw it. He told me all about it when I was with him in Spain. I know where it is and how to get it. Rome will need it because war drains her dry.”

  “Civil war, you mean.”

  “Well, think about it, Pollio. During the last sixty or so years, we’ve fought more civil wars than properly foreign ones. Romans against Romans. Conflicts over ideas of what constitutes the Roman Republic. Ideas of what constitutes liberty.”

  “Wouldn’t you be Greek and go to war for an idea?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “What about going to war to ensure peace?”

  “Not if it means warring against fellow Romans. The war we fight against Brutus and Cassius must be the last civil war.”

  “Sextus Pompeius might not agree with you. There’s no doubt he flirts with Brutus and Cassius, but he won’t commit himself to them entirely. He’ll end in waging his own war.”

  “Sextus Pompeius is a pirate, Pollio.”

  “So you don’t think he’ll gather the remnants of Liberator forces after Brutus and Cassius are defeated?”

  “He’s chosen his ground, and it’s water. That means he can never mount a full campaign,” said Octavian.

  “There’s another prospect of civil war,” said Pollio slyly. “What if the Triumvirs should fall out?”

  “Like Archimedes, I will shift the globe to avoid that. I assure you, Pollio, that I will never go to war against Antonius.”

  And why, asked Pollio of himself, do I believe that? For I do.

  Octavian entered Rome toward the end of November, on foot and togate, escorted by singers and dancers hymning peace between the Triumvirs, and surrounded by hordes of cheering, delighted people, at whom he smiled Caesar’s smile, waved Caesar’s wave, his feet in those high-soled boots. He went straight to the rostra and there announced the formation of the triumviri rei publicae constituendae in a short, moving speech that gave the crowds no doubt of his pivotal role in reconciling all parties in the pact. He was Caesar Peacemaker, not Caesar Warmaker.

  Then he went to the Senate, waiting in the Curia Hostilia to hear this news in more comfort and privacy. Publius Titius was instructed to convene the Plebeian Assembly immediately and revoke the legislation outlawing Antony and Lepidus. Though Quintus Pedius thus learned publicly that his consulship was about to end, Octavian saved the news of the proscriptions to tell him afterward.

  “Titius will enact the laws setting up the Triumvirate in the Plebs,” he said to Pedius in Pedius’s study, “but he’ll also pass other, equally necessary measures.”

  “What other, equally necessary measures?” Pedius asked warily, misliking the expression on his cousin’s face, which was set.

  “Rome is bankrupt, therefore we proscribe.”

  Flinching, Pedius put up his hands to ward off some invisible menace. “I refuse to condone proscription,” he said, voice thin. “As consul, I will speak against it.”

  “As consul, you will speak in favor. Oppose it, Quintus, and yours will be the first name on the list Titius will post upon the rostra and the Regia. Come, my dear fellow, be sensible,” said Octavian softly. “Do you want a Valeria Messala widowed and homeless, her children prohibited from inheriting, from taking their rightful places in public life? Caesar’s great-nephews? Quintus Junior will soon be standing for election as a tribune of the soldiers. And if you are proscribed, we’ll have to proscribe Messala Rufus too.” Octavian got up. “Think well before you say anything, cousin, I do implore you.”

  Quintus Pedius thought well. That night, after his household was asleep, he fell on his sword.

  Summoned at dawn, Octavian had firm words to say to Valeria Me
ssala, weeping and distraught. And to her augur brother. “I will give out that Quintus Pedius died in his sleep, worn out by his consular duties. Please understand that I have cogent reasons for wanting his death so described. If you value your lives, the lives of your children, and your property, obey my wishes. You’ll know why soon enough.”

  Antony entered the city in more state than Octavian, aware that his thunder was stolen. He wore his ornate armor and his leopard-skin cloak and tack on his new Public Horse, Clemency, was escorted by his guard of German cavalry, and was extremely pleased at his reception. Octavian had been right; the Roman people wanted no military conflict between factions. So when Lepidus entered the next day, he too was greeted joyously.

  Toward the end of November, Octavian resigned his consulship and was succeeded by two grizzled victims of the Italian War, Gaius Carrinas and Publius Ventidius. The moment the suffect consuls were installed, Publius Titius went to the Plebs. First he legislated the Triumvirate into official existence with the consent of every tribe, then enacted public-enemy laws that echoed Sulla’s in almost every detail, from the rewards for information to the publicly posted list of the proscribed. One hundred and thirty names were on the first list, headed at Antony’s request by Marcus Tullius Cicero. Most of the other men on it were already dead or fled; Brutus and Cassius were also named. The reason for proscription was “Liberator sympathies.”

  The First and Second Classes were caught unawares and flew into a panic fueled by the arrest and execution of the tribune of the plebs Salvius as soon as the comitial meeting was over. The heads of the victims were not displayed, simply dumped with the bodies in the lime pits of the Campus Esquilinus necropolis. Octavian had persuaded Antony that a climate of terror was more endurable if visible reminders were not in evidence. The sole exception would be Cicero, if he was found still in Italy.

  Lepidus had proscribed his brother Paullus, Antony his uncle Lucius Caesar and Octavian cousins, though none was executed. A proviso not made for Pollio’s father-in-law or Plancus’s praetor brother, both killed. Three other proscribed praetors died, as did the tribune of the plebs Publius Appuleius, not as lucky as Gaius Casca, fled with his brother to the East. Vatinius’s old legate, the unflagging Quintus Cornificius, went on the list and was executed.