The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  “They’re elderly, terrifically experienced warriors of the battlefield and the Forum. As long as Rome and Italy are fed, and we can buy grain for our forces, they don’t really care what I do. Or with whom I dicker, Sextus Pompeius. May I ask you a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Sicily,” said Sextus. “I want Sicily. Without a fight.”

  The golden head nodded sagely. “A practical ambition for a maritime man positioned on the grain route. An achievable one.”

  “I’m halfway there,” said Sextus. “I own the coasts and I’ve forced Pompeius Bithynicus to—er—hail me as his co-governor.”

  “Of course he’s a Pompeius,” Octavian said smoothly.

  The olive skin flushed. “Not one of my family!” he snapped.

  “No. He’s the son of Junius Juncus’s quaestor when Juncus was governor of Asia Province and my father brought Bithynia into the Roman fold. They made a deal. Juncus took the loot, Pompeius took the name. The first Pompeius Bithynicus wasn’t much either.”

  “Am I correct in thinking that, were I to assume command of the Sicilian militia and spill Pompeius Bithynicus Filius, you would confirm me as governor of Sicily, Caesar?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” said Octavian blandly. “Provided, that is, that you agree to sell Sicily’s grain to Rome of the Triumvirs for ten sesterces the modius. After all, you’ll completely eliminate the middlemen if you own the latifundia and the transports. I do trust that’s what you aim for?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll own the harvest and the grain fleet.”

  “Well then…You’ll have so few overheads, Sextus Pompeius, that you’ll make more selling to the Treasury for ten sesterces the modius than you currently do selling to all and sundry for fifteen sesterces the modius.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Another, very important question—is there going to be a harvest in Sicily this year?” Octavian asked.

  “Yes. Not an enormous harvest, but a harvest nonetheless.”

  “Which leaves us with the vexed question of Africa. Should Sextius in the New province manage to overcome Cornificius in the Old province and African grain flows to Italy again, naturally you will intercept it. Would you agree to sell it to me for the same ten sesterces the modius?”

  “Provided that I’m left alone in Sicily, and that the veteran colonies around Vibo and Rhegium in Bruttium are abolished, yes,” said Sextus Pompey. “Vibo and Rhegium need their public lands.”

  Out went Octavian’s hand. “Done!”

  Sextus Pompey took it. “Done!”

  “I’ll write to Marcus Lepidus at once and have the veteran colonies relocated on the Bradanus around Metapontum and the Aciris around Heracleia,” said Octavian, very pleased. “We tend rather to forget these lands in Rome—the instep’s so remote. But the locals are of Greek descent, and lack political power.”

  The two young men parted on the best of terms, each aware that this amicable verbal treaty had a tenuous time span; when events permitted, the Triumvirs (or the Liberators) would have to strip Sicily from Sextus Pompey and drive him off the seas. But for the moment, it would do. Rome and Italy would eat for the old grain price, and sufficient grain would come to keep them eating. Abetter bargain than Octavian had envisioned in a time of such terrible drought. For the fate of Aulus Pompeius Bithynicus he cared not a fig; the man’s father had offended Divus Julius. As for Africa, Octavian had been busy there too, written off to Publius Sittius and his family in their Numidian fief and begged, for Divus Julius’s sake, that Sittius aid Sextius, in return for which, Sittius’s brother would come off the proscription list and see his property fully restored. Cales could open its gates.

  Having released the four hostages, Sextus Pompey sailed.

  “What do you think of him?” Octavian asked Agrippa.

  “That he’s a worthy son of a great man. His downfall as well as his advantage. He won’t share power, even if he considered any of the Triumvirs or the assassins his equal on the sea.”

  “A pity I couldn’t make a loyal adherent out of him.”

  “You’ll not do that,” Agrippa said emphatically.

  “Ahenobarbus has disappeared, where to or for how long I can’t find out,” said Calvinus to Octavian when he arrived in Brundisium. “That leaves Murcus’s sixty ships on blockade. They’re very good, and so is Murcus, but Salvidienus is in the offing, just out of sight. We have reason to believe that Murcus doesn’t know. So I think, Octavianus—and Antonius agrees—that we should load every transport we have to the gunwales and make a run for it.”

  “Whatever you wish,” said Octavian. Now, he realized, was not the moment to trumpet his successful negotiations with Sextus; he took himself off to write again to Lepidus in Rome to make sure that slug got the message.

  The port of Brundisium had a wonderful harbor containing many branches and almost limitless wharfage, so the groaning, whining soldiers were put aboard the four hundred available transports in the space of two days. Somehow the cursing centurions managed to stuff eighteen of the twenty legions into them; men and mules were packed so tightly that the less seaworthy vessels lay too low in the water to survive a minor gale.

  In the absence of Ahenobarbus, Staius Murcus’s technique was to hide behind the island at the harbor’s narrow mouth and pounce on any ships venturing out. It gave him the advantage of the wind at this time of year, for the only wind that would have benefited the Triumvirs was a westerly, and it was not the season of the Zephyr, it was the season of the Etesians.

  The transports sailed in their literal hundreds on the Kalends of Sextilis, swarming out of the harbor just as far apart as their oars permitted. At the same moment as the mass exodus began, Salvidienus brought his fleet in from the northeast ahead of a good wind and swung it in a semi-circle around the island to pen Murcus up. He could get out, yes, but not without a naval battle, and he wasn’t at Brundisium to engage in naval battles—he was there to sink transports. Oh, why had Ahenobarbus rushed off on the hunt for a rumored second Egyptian expedition?

  Impotent, Murcus had to watch while four hundred transports streamed out of Brundisium all day and far into the night, their way lit by bonfires atop tall rafted towers Antony had originally built as offensive weapons—a vain business, but they came in handy now. Western Macedonia was eighty miles away; half the ships were destined for Apollonia, half for Dyrrachium, where, with any luck, the cavalry, heavy equipment, artillery and the baggage train, all sent from Ancona earlier in the year, would be waiting.

  If Italy was dry, Greece and Macedonia were far worse, even on this notoriously wet Epirote shore. The rains that had so dogged other generals from Paullus to Caesar hadn’t fallen, wouldn’t fall, and the hooves of Antony’s cavalry horses plus the oxen and spare mules had trodden whatever grass there was into superfine chaff that the Etesians picked up and blew in the direction of Italy.

  Their transport hadn’t shaken free of the harbor before the shrinking Octavian began to wheeze loudly enough to be heard as one more component of the noises aboard a rickety ship on a perilous voyage. The hovering Agrippa decided that seasickness was not contributing to Octavian’s malady; the water was board-flat and the vessel so overloaded that it sat like a cork, hardly rolling even after it heeled to bear northeast under oar power. No, all he suffered was the asthma.

  Neither young man had wanted to seem unduly exclusive when their ship was stuffed with ranker soldiers, so their accommodation was limited to a tiny section of deck just behind the mast, out of the way of the tillers and the captain, but surrounded by men. Here Agrippa had insisted that Octavian place a peculiar-looking bed that had one end sloping upward at a sharp angle. It bore quite a few blankets to cushion the hard wood, but no mattress. Under the frightened eyes of legionaries he didn’t know (Legio Martia had been one of the two units left behind in Brundisium), Agrippa propped Octavian in a sitting position on the bed to help him catch his breath. An hour later, sa
iling free on the Adriatic, held now within Agrippa’s arms, he labored fiercely and stubbornly to draw enough air into his lungs, his hands clenched around Agrippa’s so strongly that it was to be two days before all the feeling came back. The spasms of coughing racked him until he retched, which seemed to give him a slight temporary relief, but his face was both livid and grey, his eyes turned inward.

  “What is it, Marcus Agrippa?” asked a junior centurion.

  They know my name, so they know who he is. “An illness from Mars of the Legions,” said Agrippa, thinking quickly. “He’s the son of the god Julius, and it’s a part of his inheritance to take all your illnesses upon himself.”

  “Is that why we’re not seasick?” asked a ranker, awed.

  “Of course,” lied Agrippa.

  “How about we promise offerings to Mars and Divus Julius for him?” someone else asked.

  “It will help,” said Agrippa gravely. He looked about. “So would some kind of shield against the wind, I believe.”

  “But there’s no wind,” the junior centurion objected.

  “The air’s laden with dirt,” said Agrippa, improvising again. “Here, take these two blankets”—he wrenched them from under himself and the oblivious Octavian—“and hold them up around us. It will stop the dirt getting in. You know what Divus Julius always used to say—dirt is a soldier’s enemy.”

  It can’t do any harm, Agrippa thought. The important thing is that these fellows don’t think any the worse of their commander for being ill—they have to believe in him, not dismiss him as a weakling. If Hapd’efan’e is right about dirty air, then he’s not going to get much better as this campaign goes on. So I’m going to harp about his being Divus Julius’s son—that he’s set himself up as the universal victim in order to bring the army victory, for Divus Julius is not only a god to the People of Rome, he’s a god to Rome’s armies.

  Toward the end of the voyage and after a long night afloat in a vast nothingness, it seemed, Octavian began to recover. He came out of his self-induced trance and gazed at the ring of faces, then, smiling, held out his right hand to the junior centurion.

  “We’re almost there,” he wheezed. “We’re safe.”

  The soldier took his hand, pressed it gently. “You brought us through, Caesar. How brave you are, to be ill for us.”

  Startled, the grey eyes flew to Agrippa’s. Seeing a stern warning in their greenish depths, he smiled again. “I do whatever is necessary,” he said, “to nurture my legions. Are the other ships safe?”

  “All around us, Caesar,” said the junior centurion.

  Three days later, every legion safely landed because, rumor had it, Caesar Divi Filius had offered himself up in their place, the two Triumvirs realized that communication with Brundisium had been cut.

  “Probably permanently,” said Antony, visiting Octavian in his house on top of Petra camp’s hill. “I imagine that Ahenobarbus’s fleet has returned, so nothing is going to get out, even a small boat. That means news from Italy will have to come through Ancona.” He tossed Octavian a sealed letter. “This came for you that way, along with letters from Calvinus and Lepidus. I hear you’ve cut a deal with Sextus Pompeius that guarantees the grain supply—very clever!” He huffed irritably. “The worst of it is that some fool of a legate in Brundisium held the Legio Martia and ten cohorts of stiffening troops until last, so we don’t have them.”

  “A pity,” said Octavian, clutching his letter. He was lying on a couch propped up with cushions, and looked very sick. The wheezing was still present, but the height of his house in Petra camp had meant some relief from the chaffy dust. Even so, he had lost enough weight to look thinner, and his eyes were sunk into two black hollows of exhaustion. “I needed the Legio Martia.”

  “Since it mutinied in your favor, I’m not surprised.”

  “That’s water under the bridge, Antonius. We are both on the same side,” said Octavian. “I take it that we forget what’s still in Brundisium, and head east on the Via Egnatia?”

  “Definitely. Norbanus and Saxa are not far to the east of Philippi, occupying two passes through the coastal mountains. It seems Brutus and Cassius are definitely on the march from Sardis to the Hellespont, but it will be some time before they encounter Norbanus and Saxa. We’ll be there first. Or at least, I will.” The reddish-brown eyes studied Octavian shrewdly. “If you take my advice, you’ll stay here, O good luck talisman of the legions. You’re too sick to travel.”

  “I’ll accompany my army,” said Octavian in mulish tones.

  Antony flicked his thigh with his fingers, frowning. “We have eighteen legions here and in Apollonia. The five least experienced will have to stay to garrison western Macedonia—three in Apollonia, two here. That gives you something to command, Octavianus, if you stay.”

  “You’re implying that they have to be from my legions.”

  “If yours are the least experienced, yes!” snapped Antony.

  “So of the thirteen going on, eight will belong to you and five to me. As well then that Norbanus’s four legions up ahead are mine,” said Octavian. “You’re in the majority.”

  Antony barked a short laugh. “This is the oddest war since wars began! Two halves against two halves—I hear that Brutus and Cassius don’t work any better in tandem than you and I.”

  “Equal co-commands tend to be like that, Antonius. Some halves are bigger than others, is all. When do you plan to move?”

  “I’ll take my eight in one nundinum’s time. You’ll follow me six days later.”

  “How are our supplies of food? Our grain?”

  “Adequate, but not for a long war, and we won’t get any from Greece or Macedonia, there’s no harvest whatsoever. The locals are going to starve this winter.”

  “Then,” said Octavian thoughtfully, “it behooves Brutus and Cassius to wage Fabian war, doesn’t it? Avoid a decisive battle at all costs and wait for us to starve.”

  “Absolutely right. Therefore we force a battle, win it, and eat Liberator food.” A brusque nod, and Antony was gone.

  Octavian turned his letter over to study the seal, which was Marcellus Minor’s. How peculiar. Why would his brother-in-law need to write? Came a stab of anxiety: Octavia must surely be due to have her second child. No, not my Octavia!

  But the letter was from Octavia.

  You will be happy to know, dearest brother, that I have given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy. I suffered hardly at all, and am well.

  Oh, little Gaius, my husband says that it is my duty to write before someone who loves you less gets in first. I know it should be Mama to write, but she will not. She feels her disgrace too much, though it is more a misfortune than a disgrace, and I love her just the same.

  We both know that our stepbrother Lucius has been in love with Mama ever since she married Philippus. Something she either chose to ignore or else genuinely didn’t see. Certainly she has nothing to reproach herself with through the years of her marriage to Philippus. But after he died, she was terribly alone, and Lucius was always there. You were so busy, or else not in Rome, and I had little Marcella, and was expecting again, so I confess I was not attentive enough. Therefore what has happened I must blame on my neglect. I am to blame. Yes, I am to blame.

  Mama is pregnant to Lucius, and they have married.

  Octavian dropped the letter, conscious of a creeping, awful numbness in his jaws, of his lips drawing back from his teeth in a rictus of disgust. Of shame, rage, anguish. Caesar’s niece, little better than a whore. Caesar’s niece! The mother of Caesar Divi Filius.

  Read the rest, Caesar. Finish it, and finish with her.

  At forty-five, she didn’t notice, dearest brother, so when she did notice, it was far too late to avoid scandal. Naturally Lucius was eager to marry her. They had planned to marry anyway when her period of mourning for Philippus was over. The wedding took place yesterday, very quietly. Dear Lucius Caesar has been very good to them, but though his dignitas is undiminished among his friends,
he has no weight with the women who “run Rome,” if you know what I mean. The gossip has been malicious and bitter, the more so, my husband says, because of your exalted position.

  Mama and Lucius have gone to live in the villa at Misenum, and will not be returning to Rome. I write this in the hope that you will understand, as I do, that these things happen, and do not indicate depravity. How can I not love Mama, when she has always been everything a mother ought to be? And everything a Roman matron ought to be.

  Would you write to her, little Gaius, and tell her that you love her, that you understand?

  When Agrippa came in some time later he found Octavian lying on his couch, propped against the pillows, his face wet with tears, his asthma worse.

  “Caesar! What is it?”

  “A letter from Octavia. My mother is dead.”

  2

  Brutus and Cassius moved westward from the Gulf of Melas in September, not expecting to meet the Triumviral armies until they reached Macedonia proper, somewhere between Thessalonica and Pella. Cassius was adamant that the enemy would not advance east of Thessalonica in this terrible year, for to do so would stretch their supply lines intolerably, given that the Liberator fleets owned the seas.

  Then, just after the two Liberators crossed the Hebrus River at Aenus, King Rhascupolis appeared with some of his nobles, riding a beautiful horse and clad in Tyrian purple.

  “I came to warn you,” he said, “that there is a Roman army about eight legions strong divided between two passes through the hills east of Philippi.” He swallowed, looked miserable. “My brother Rhascus is with them, and advising them.”

  “What’s the nearest port?” Cassius asked, not perturbed about what couldn’t be remedied.

  “Neapolis. It’s connected to the Via Egnatia by a road that meets it between the two passes.”

  “Is Neapolis far from Thasos Island?”

  “No, Gaius Cassius.”