Caesar's Women

by Colleen McCullough

  Allied with his fellow custodians of Rome's other crossroads colleges, he had successfully fought Gaius Piso's attempt to close down all the crossroads colleges because Manilius had exploited them. Gaius Piso and the boni had therefore been forced to look elsewhere for a victim, and chose Manilius himself, who managed to survive a trial for extortion, then was convicted of treason and exiled for life, his fortune confiscated to the last sestertius.

  Unfortunately the threat to the crossroads colleges did not go away after Gaius Piso left office. The Senate and the knights of the Eighteen had got it into their heads that the existence of crossroads colleges provided rent-free premises wherein political dissidents might gather and fraternize under religious auspices. Now Lucius Caesar and Marcius Figulus were going to ban them.

  Which led to Lucius Decumius's wrathful appearance at Caesar's rooms on the Vicus Patricii.

  "It isn't fair!" he repeated.

  "I know, dad," said Caesar, sighing.

  "Then what are you going to do about it?" the old man demanded.

  "I'll try, dad, that goes without saying. However, I doubt there's anything I can do. I knew you'd come to see me, so I've already talked to my cousin Lucius, only to learn that he and Marcius Figulus are quite determined. With very few exceptions, they intend to outlaw every college, sodality and club in Rome."

  “Who gets excepted?'' Lucius Decumius barked, jaw set.

  “Religious sodalities like the Jews. Legitimate burial clubs. The colleges of civil servants. Trade guilds. That's all."

  "But we're religious!"

  "According to my cousin Lucius Caesar, not religious enough. The Jews don't drink and gossip in their synagogues, and the Salii, the Luperci, the Arval Brethren and others rarely meet at all. Crossroads colleges have premises wherein all men are welcome, including slaves and freedmen. That makes them potentially very dangerous, it's being said."

  "So who's going to care for the Lares and their shrines?"

  "The urban praetor and the aediles."

  "They're already too busy!"

  "I agree, dad, I agree wholeheartedly," said Caesar. "I even tried to tell my cousin that, but he wouldn't listen."

  "Can't you help us, Caesar? Honestly?"

  "I'll be voting against it and I'll try to persuade as many others as I can to do the same. Oddly enough, quite a few of the boni oppose the law too—the crossroads colleges are a very old tradition, therefore to abolish them offends the mos maiorum. Cato is shouting about it loudly. However, it will go through, dad."

  "We'll have to shut our doors."

  "Oh, not necessarily," said Caesar, smiling.

  "I knew you wouldn't let me down! What does we do?"

  "You'll definitely lose your official standing, but that merely puts you at a financial disadvantage. I suggest you install a bar and call yourselves a tavern, with you as its proprietor."

  "Can't do that, Caesar. Old Roscius next door would complain to the urban praetor in a trice—we've been buying our wine from him since I was a boy."

  "Then offer Roscius the bar concession. If you close your doors, dad, he's severely out of purse."

  "Could all the colleges do it?"

  "Throughout Rome, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't see why not. However, due to certain activities I won't name, you're a wealthy college. The consuls are convinced the colleges will have to shut their doors because they'll have to pay ground-floor rents. As you will to my mother, dad. She's a businesswoman, she'll insist. In your case you might get a bit of a discount, but others?" Caesar shrugged. “I doubt the amount of wine consumed would cover expenses."

  Brows knitted, Lucius Decumius thought hard. "Does the consuls know what we does for a real living, Caesar?"

  "If I didn't tell them—and I didn't!—then I don't know who would."

  "Then there's no problem!" said Lucius Decumius cheerfully. "We're most of us in the same protection business." He huffed with great content. "And we'll go on caring for the crossroads too. Can't have the Lares running riot, can we? I'll call a meeting of us custodians—we'll beat 'em yet, Pavo!"

  "That's the spirit, dad!"

  And off went Lucius Decumius, beaming.

  Autumn that year brought torrential rains to the Apennines, and the Tiber flooded its valley for two hundred miles. It had been some generations since the city of Rome had suffered so badly. Only the seven hills protruded out of the waters; the Forum Romanum, Velabrum, Circus Maximus, Forums Boarium and Holitorium, the whole of the Sacra Via out to the Servian Walls and the manufactories of the Vicus Fabricii drowned. The sewers back-washed; buildings with unsafe foundations crumbled; the sparsely settled heights of Quirinal, Viminal and Aventine became vast camps for refugees; and respiratory, diseases raged. Miraculously the incredibly ancient Wooden Bridge survived, perhaps because it lay farthest downstream, whereas the Pons Fabricius between Tiber Island and the Circus Flaminius perished. As this happened too late in the year to stand for next year's tribunate of the plebs, Lucius Fabricius, who was the current promising member of his family, announced that he would stand next year for the tribunate of the plebs. Care of bridges and highways into Rome lay with the tribunes of the plebs, and Fabricius was not about to allow any other man to rebuild what was his family's bridge! The Pons Fabricius it was; and the Pons Fabricius it would remain.

  And Caesar received a letter from Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, conqueror of the East.

  Well, Caesar, what a campaign. Both the kings rolled up and everything looking good. I can't understand why Lucullus took so long. Mind you, he couldn't control his troops, yet here I've got every man who served under him, with never a peep out of them. Marcus Silius sends his regards, by the way. A good man.

  What a strange place Pontus is. I now see why King Mithridates always had to use mercenaries and northerners in his army. Some of his Pontic people are so primitive that they live in trees. They also brew some sort of foul liquor out of twigs, of all things, though how they manage to drink it and stay alive I don't know. Some of my men were marching through the forest in eastern Pontus and found big bowls of the stuff on the ground. You know soldiers! They guzzled the lot, had a fine time of it. Until they all fell over dead. Killed them!

  The booty is unbelievable. I took all those so-called impregnable citadels he built all over Armenia Parva and eastern Pontus, of course. Not very hard to do. Oh, you mightn't know who I mean by "he." Mithridates. Yes, well, the treasures he'd managed to salt away filled every one of them—seventy-odd, all told—to the brim. It will take years to ship the lot back to Rome; I've got an army of clerks taking inventory. It's my reckoning that I'll double what's in the Treasury and then double Rome's income from tributes from now on.

  I brought Mithridates to battle in a place in Pontus I renamed Nicopolis—already had a Pompeiopolis—and he went down badly. Escaped to Sinoria, where he grabbed six thousand talents of gold and bolted down the Euphrates to find Tigranes. Who wasn't having a good time of it either! Phraates of the Parthians invaded Armenia while I was tidying up Mithridates, and actually laid siege to Artaxata. Tigranes beat him off, and the Parthians went back home. But it finished Tigranes. He wasn't in a fit state to hold me off, I can tell you! So he sued for a separate peace, and wouldn't let Mithridates enter Armenia. Mithridates went north instead, headed for Cimmeria. What he didn't know was that I've been having some correspondence with the son he'd installed in Cimmeria as satrap—called Machares.

  Anyway, I let Tigranes have Armenia, but tributary to Rome, and took everything west of the Euphrates off him along with Sophene and Corduene. Made him pay me the six thousand talents of gold Mithridates filched, and asked for two hundred and forty sesterces for each of my men.

  What, wasn't I worried about Mithridates? The answer is no. Mithridates is well into his sixties. Well past it, Caesar. Fabian tactics. I just let the old boy run, couldn't see he was a danger anymore. And I did have Machares. So while Mithridates ran, I marched. For which blame Varr
o, who doesn't have a bone in his body isn't curious. He was dying to dabble his toes in the Caspian Sea, and I thought, well, why not? So off we went northeastward.

  Not much booty and far too many snakes, huge vicious spiders, giant scorpions. Funny how our men will fight all manner of human foes without turning a hair, then scream like women over crawlies. They sent me a deputation begging me to turn back when the Caspian Sea was only miles away. I turned back. Had to. I scream at crawlies too. So does Varro, who by this was quite happy to keep his toes dry.

  You probably know that Mithridates is dead, but I'll tell you how it actually happened. He got to Panticapaeum on the Cimmerian Bosporus, and began levying another army. He'd had the forethought to bring plenty of daughters with him, and used them as bait to draw Scythian levies—offered them to the Scythian kings and princes as brides.

  You have to admire the old boy's persistence, Caesar. Do you know what he intended to do? Gather a quarter of a million men and march on Italia and Rome the long way! He was going to go right round the top end of the Euxine and down through the lands of the Roxolani to the mouth of the Danubius. Then he intended to march up the Danubius gathering all the tribes along the way into his forces—Dacians, Bessi, Dardani, you name them. I hear Burebistas of the Dacians was very keen. Then he was going to cross to the Dravus and Savus, and march into Italia across the Carnic Alps!

  Oh, I forgot to say that when he got to Panticapaeum he forced Machares to commit suicide. Bloodthirsty for his own kin, can never understand that in eastern kings. While he was busy raising his army, Phanagoria (the town on the other side of the Bosporus) revolted. The leader was another son of his, Pharnaces. I'd also been writing to him. Of course Mithridates put the rebellion down, but he made one bad mistake. He pardoned Pharnaces. Must have been running out of sons. Pharnaces repaid him by rounding up a fresh lot of revolutionaries and storming the fortress in Panticapaeum. That was the end, and Mithridates knew it. So he murdered however many daughters he had left, and some wives and concubines and even a few sons who were still children. Then he took an enormous dose of poison. But it wouldn't work; he'd been too successful all those years of deliberately poisoning himself to become immune. The deed was done by one of the Gauls in his bodyguard. Ran the old man through with a sword. I buried him in Sinope.

  In the meantime, I was marching into Syria, getting it tidied up so Rome can inherit. No more kings of Syria. I for one am tired of eastern potentates. Syria will become a Roman province, much safer. I also like the idea of putting good Roman troops against the Euphrates—ought to make the Parthians think a bit. I also settled the strife between the Greeks displaced by Tigranes and the Arabs displaced by Tigranes. The Arabs will be quite handy, I think, so I did send some of them back to the desert. But I made it worth their while. Abgarus—I hear he made life so hard in Antioch for young Publius Clodius that Clodius fled, though exactly what Abgarus did I can't find out—is the King of the Skenites, then I put someone with the terrific name of Sampsiceramus in charge of another lot, and so forth. This sort of thing is really enjoyable work, Caesar; it gives a lot of satisfaction. No one out here is very practical, and they squabble and quarrel with each other endlessly. Silly. It's such a rich place you'd think they'd learn to get on, but they don't. Still, I can't repine. It does mean that Gnaeus Pompeius from Picenum has kings in his clientele! I have earned that Magnus, I tell you. The worst part of it all turns out to be the Jews. A very strange lot. They were fairly reasonable until the old Queen, Alexandra, died a couple of years ago. But she left two sons to fight out the succession, complicated by the fact that their religion is as important to them as their state. So one son has to be High Priest, as far as I can gather. The other one wanted to be King of the Jews, but the High Priest one, Hyrcanus, thought it would be nice to combine both offices. They had a bit of a war, and Hyrcanus was defeated by brother Aristobulus. Then along comes an Idumaean prince named Antipater, who whispered in Hyrcanus's ear and then persuaded Hyrcanus to ally himself with King Aretas of the Nabataeans. The deal was that Hyrcanus would hand over twelve Arab cities to Aretas that the Jews were ruling. They then laid siege to Aristobulus in Jerusalem, which is their name for Hierosolyma.

  I sent my quaestor, young Scaurus, to sort the mess out. Ought to have known better. He picked Aristobulus as the one in the right, and ordered Aretas back to Nabataea. Then Aristobulus ambushed him at Papyron or some such place, and Aretas lost. I got to Antioch to find that Aristobulus was the King of the Jews, and Scaurus didn't know what to do. The next thing, I'm getting presents from both sides. You should see the present Aristobulus sent me—well, you will at my triumph. A magical thing, Caesar, a grapevine made of pure gold, with golden bunches of grapes all over it.

  Anyway, I've ordered both camps to meet me in Damascus next spring. I believe Damascus has a lovely climate, so I think I'll winter there and finish sorting out the mess between Tigranes and the King of the Parthians. The one I'm interested to meet is the Idumaean, Antipater. Sounds like a clever sort of fellow. Probably circumcised. They almost all are, the Semites. Peculiar practice. I'm attached to my foreskin, literally as well as metaphorically. There! That came out quite well. That's because I've still got Varro with me, as well as Lenaeus and Theophanes of Mitylene. I hear Lucullus is crowing because he brought back this fabulous fruit called a cherry to Italia, but I'm bringing back all sorts of plants, including this sweet and succulent sort of lemon I found in Media—an orange lemon, isn't that strange? Ought to grow well in Italia, likes a dry summer, fruits in winter.

  Well, enough prattle. Time to get down to business and tell you why I'm writing. You're a very subtle and clever chap, Caesar, and it hasn't escaped my notice that you always speak up for me in the Senate, and to good effect. No one else did over the pirates. I think I'll be another two years in the East, ought to fetch up at home about the time you'll be leaving office as praetor, if you're going to take advantage of Sulla's law letting patricians stand two years early.

  But I'm making it my policy to have at least one tribune of the plebs in my Roman camp until after I get home. The next one is Titus Labienus, and I know you know him because you were both on Vatia Isauricus's staff in Cilicia ten or twelve years ago. He's a very good man, comes from Cingulum, right in the middle of my patch. Clever too. He tells me the pair of you got on well together. I know you won't be holding a magistracy, but it might be that you can lend Titus Labienus a hand occasionally. Or he might be able to lend you a hand—feel free. I've told him all this. The year after—the year of your praetorship, I imagine—my man will be Mucia's younger brother, Metellus Nepos. I ought to arrive home just after he finishes his term, though I can't be sure.

  So what I'd like you to do, Caesar, is hold a watch for me and mine. You're going to go far, even if I haven't left you much of the world to conquer! I've never forgotten that it was you who showed me how to be consul, while corrupt old Philippus couldn't be bothered.

  Your friend from Mitylene, Aulus Gabinius, sends you his warm regards.

  Well, I might as well say it. Do what you can to help me get land for my troops. It's too early for Labienus to try, the job will go to Nepos. I'm sending him home in style well before next year's elections. A pity you can't be consul when the fight to get my land is on, a bit too early for you. Still, it might drag out until you're consul-elect, and then you can be a real help. It isn't going to be easy.

  Caesar laid the long letter down and put his chin in his hand, having much to think about. Though he found it naive, he enjoyed Pompey's bald prose and casual asides; they brought Magnus into the room in a way that the polished essays Varro wrote for Pompey's senatorial dispatches never did.

  When he had first met Pompey on that memorable day Pompey had turned up to claim Mucia Tertia at Aunt Julia's, Caesar had detested him. And in some ways he probably never would warmly like the man. However, the years and exposure had somewhat softened his attitude, which now, he decided, contained more like than dislike. Oh, one
had to deplore the conceit and the rustic in him, and his patent disregard for due process of the law. Nonetheless he was gifted and so eminently capable. He hadn't put a foot wrong very often, and the older he became, the more unerring his step. Crassus loathed him of course, which was a difficulty. That left him, Caesar, to steer a course between the two.

  Titus Labienus. A cruel and barbarous man. Tall, muscular, curly-headed, hook-nosed, snapping black eyes. Absolutely at home on a horse. Quite what his remote ancestry was had flummoxed more Romans than merely Caesar; even Pompey had been heard to say that he thought Mormolyce had snatched the mother's newborn babe out of its cradle and substituted one of her own to be brought up as Titus Labienus's heir. Interesting that Labienus had informed Pompey how well he had gotten on with Caesar in the old days. And it was true enough. Two born riders, they had shared many a gallop through the countryside around Tarsus, and talked endlessly about cavalry tactics in battle. Yet Caesar couldn't warm to him, despite the man's undeniable brilliance. Labienus was someone to be used but never trusted.

  Caesar quite understood why Pompey was concerned enough about Labienus's fate as a tribune of the plebs to enlist Caesar in a support role; the new College was a particularly weird mixture of independent individuals who would probably fly off in ten tangents and spend more time vetoing each other than anything else. Though in one respect Pompey had erred; if Caesar had been planning his assortment of tame tribunes of the plebs, then Labienus would have been saved for the year Pompey started to press for land for his veterans. What Caesar knew of Metellus Nepos indicated that he was too Caecilian; he wouldn't have the necessary steel. For that kind of work, a fiery Picentine without ancestors and nowhere to go save up yielded the best results.