I write this from Aquileia, having dealt with Illyricum. From now on I move westward through Italian Gaul. The cases have piled up in the local assizes; not surprising, since I was obliged to remain on the far side of the Alps last winter. Enough chatter. You're as busy as I am, I know. Magnus, my informants in Rome are insisting that our old friend Publius Clodius intends to distribute the freedmen across all thirty-five tribes of Roman men once he is elected praetor. This cannot be allowed to happen, as I am sure you agree. Were it to happen, Rome would be delivered into Clodius's hands for the rest of his days. Neither you nor I nor any other man from Cato to Cicero would be able to withstand Clodius short of a revolution. Were it to happen, there would indeed be a revolution. Clodius would be overpowered, executed, and the freedmen put back where they belong. However, I doubt you want this sort of solution any more than I do. Far better and far simpler if Clodius never becomes praetor at all. I do not presume to tell you what to do. Only rest assured that I am as much against Clodius's being elected a praetor as you and all other Roman men. I send you greetings and felicitations.
Pompey went to bed a contented man.
The following morning brought the news that Plancus Bursa had done precisely as instructed, and used the veto his office as a tribune of the plebs gave him; when Messala Rufus tried to cast the lots to see which of the patrician prefects of each decury of ten senators would become the first Interrex, Bursa vetoed. The whole House howled its outrage, Clodius and Milo loudest of all, but Bursa could not be prevailed upon to withdraw his veto. Red with anger, Cato began to shout. "We must have elections! When there are no consuls to enter office on New Year's Day, this House appoints a patrician senator to serve as interrex for five days. And when his term as first Interrex is over, a second patrician is appointed to serve for five days. It is the duty of this second Interrex to organize the election of our magistrates. What is Rome coming to when any idiot calling himself a tribune of the plebs can stop something as necessary and constitutional as the appointment of an interrex? Condone the appointment of a dictator I will not, but that does not mean I condone a man's blocking the traditional machinery of the State!" "Hear, hear!" shouted Bibulus to thunderous applause. None of which made any difference to Plancus Bursa. He refused to withdraw his veto. "Why?" demanded Clodius of him after the meeting ended. Eyes shifting rapidly from side to side to make sure that no one could hear, Bursa made himself look conspiratorially furtive. "I've just discovered that Pompeius Magnus is backing Milo for consul after all," he whispered. Which appeased Publius Clodius, but had no effect on Milo, who knew very well that Pompey was not backing him. Milo marched out to the Campus Martius to ask Clodius's question of Pompey. '"Why?" he demanded. "Why what?" asked Pompey innocently. "Magnus, you can't fool me! I know whose creature Bursa is yours! He didn't dream up a veto out of his own imagination, he was acting under orders yours! Why?" "My dear Milo, I assure you that Bursa wasn't acting on any orders of mine," said Pompey rather tartly. "I suggest you ask your why of someone else with whom Bursa associates." "You mean Clodius?" asked Milo warily. "I might mean Clodius." A big, brawny man with the face of an ex-gladiator (though he had never been anything as ignoble as a gladiator), Milo tensed his muscles and grew even larger. A display of aggression quite wasted on Pompey which Milo knew, but did from force of habit. "Rubbish!" he snorted. "Clodius thinks I won't get in as consul, so he's all for holding the curule elections as soon as possible." "I think you won't get in as consul, Milo. But you might find Clodius doesn't share my opinion. You've managed to ingratiate yourself very nicely with the faction of Bibulus and Cato. I've heard that Metellus Scipio is reconciled to having you as his junior colleague. I've also heard that he's about to announce this fact to all his many supporters, including knights as prominent as Atticus and Oppius." "So it's Clodius behind Bursa?" "It might be," said Pompey cautiously. "Bursa's certainly not acting for me, of that you can be sure. What would I have to gain by it?" Milo sneered. "The dictatorship?" he suggested. "I've already refused the dictatorship, Milo. I don't think Rome would like me as Dictator. You're thick with Bibulus and Cato these days so you tell me I'm wrong." Milo, too large a man for a room stuffed with precious relics of Pompey's various campaigns golden wreaths, a golden grapevine with golden grapes, golden urns, delicately painted porphyry bowls took a turn about Pompey's study. He stopped to look at Pompey, still sitting tranquilly behind his gold and ivory desk. "They say Clodius is going to distribute the freedmen across the thirty-five tribes," he said. "I've heard the rumor, yes." "He'd own Rome." "True." "What if he didn't stand for election as a praetor?" "Better for Rome, definitely." "A pestilence on Rome! Would it be better for me?" Pompey smiled sweetly, got up. "It couldn't help but be a great deal better for you, Milo, now could it?" he asked, walking to the door. Milo took the hint and moved doorward too. "Could that be construed as a promise, Magnus?" he asked. "You might be pardoned for thinking so," said Pompey, and clapped for the steward. But no sooner had Milo gone than the steward announced yet another visitor. "My, my, I am popular!" cried Pompey, shaking Metellus Scipio warmly by the hand and tenderly depositing him in the best chair. This time he didn't retreat behind his desk; one wouldn't treat Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica like that! Instead, Pompey drew up the second-best chair and seated himself only after pouring wine from the flagon containing a Chian vintage so fine that Hortensius had wept in frustration when Pompey beat him to it. Unfortunately the man with the grandest name in Rome did not have a mind to match its breathtaking sweep, though he looked what he was: a patrician Cornelius Scipio adopted into the powerful plebeian house of Caecilius Metellus. Haughty, cool, arrogant. Very plain, which was true of every Cornelius Scipio. His adopted father, Metellus Pius Pontifex Maximus, had had no sons; sadly, Metellus Scipio had no sons either. His only child was a daughter whom he had married to Crassus's son Publius three years before. Though properly a Caecilia Metella, she was always known as Cornelia Metella, and Pompey remembered her vividly because he and Julia had attended the reception following her wedding. The most disdainful-looking female he had ever seen, he had remarked to Julia, who had giggled and said Cornelia Metella always reminded her of a camel, and that she ought really to have married Brutus, who had the same sort of pedantic, intellectually pretentious mind. The trouble was, however, that Pompey never quite knew what someone like Metellus Scipio wanted to hear should he be jovial, distantly courteous, or crisp? Well, he had started out jovial, so it might as well be jovial. "Not a bad drop of wine, eh?" he asked, smacking his lips. Metellus Scipio produced a faint moue, of pleasure or pain was impossible to tell. "Very good," he said. "What brings you all the way out here?" "Publius Clodius," Metellus Scipio said. Pompey nodded. "A bad business, if it's true." "Oh, it's true enough. Young Curio heard it from Clodius's own lips, and went home to tell his father." "Not well, old Curio, they tell me," said Pompey. "Cancer," said Metellus Scipio briefly. "Tch!" clucked Pompey, and waited. Metellus Scipio waited too. "Why come to see me?" Pompey asked in the end, tired of so little progress. "The others didn't want me to" from Metellus Scipio. "What others?" "Bibulus, Cato, Ahenobarbus." "That's because they don't know who's the First Man in Rome." The aristocratic nose managed to turn up a trifle. "Nor do I, Pompeius." Pompey winced. Oh, if only one of them would accord him an occasional "Magnus"! It was so wonderful to hear himself addressed as "Great" by his peers! Caesar called him Magnus. But would Cato or Bibulus or Ahenobarbus or this stiff-rumped dullard? No! It was always plain Pompeius. "We're not getting anywhere yet, Metellus," he said. "I've had an idea." "They're excellent things, Metellus." Plebeian name again. Metellus Scipio cast him a suspicious glance, but Pompey was sitting back in his chair, sipping soberly at his translucent rock-crystal goblet. "I'm a very wealthy man," he said, "and so are you, Pompeius. It occurred to me that between the two of us we might be able to buy Clodius off." Pompey nodded. "Yes, I've had the same idea," he said, and sighed lugubriously. "Unfortunately Clodius isn't short of money. His wif
e is one of the wealthiest women in Rome, and when her mother dies she'll come into a great deal more. He also profited hugely from his embassage to Galatia. Right at this moment he's building the most expensive villa the world has ever seen, and it's going ahead in leaps and bounds. Near my little place in the Alban Hills, that's how I know. Built on hundred-foot-high columns at its front, jutting over the edge of a hundred-foot cliff. The most stunning view across Lake Nemi and the Latin Plain all the way to the sea. He got the land for next to nothing because everyone thought the site unbuildable, then he commissioned Cyrus and now it's almost finished." Pompey shook his head emphatically. "No, Scipio, it won't work." "Then what can we do?" asked Metellus Scipio, crushed. "Make a lot of offerings to every God we can think of" was Pompey's advice. Then he grinned. "As a matter of fact, I sent an anonymous donation of half a million to the Vestals for Bona Dea. That's one lady doesn't like Clodius." Metellus Scipio looked scandalized. "Pompeius, the Bona Dea is not in the province of men! A man can't give Bona Dea gifts!" "A man didn't, said Pompey cheerfully. "I sent it in the name of my late mother-in-law, Aurelia." Metellus Scipio drained his rock-crystal goblet and got up. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "I could send a donation in the name of my poor daughter." Concern being called for, Pompey displayed it. "How is she? A terrible thing, Scipio, just terrible! To be widowed so young!" "She's as well as can be expected," he said, walking to the door, where he waited for Pompey to open it for him. "You're recently widowed too, Pompeius," he went on as Pompey ushered him through to the front door. "Perhaps you should come and dine with us one afternoon. Just the three of us." Pompey's face lit up. An invitation to dine with Metellus Scipio! Oh, he'd been to formal dinners there in that rather awful and too-small house, but never with the family! "Delighted any time, Scipio," he said, and opened the front door himself. But Metellus Scipio didn't go home. Instead, he went to the small and drab house wherein lived Marcus Porcius Cato, who was the enemy of all ostentation. Bibulus was keeping Cato company. "Well, I did it," Metellus Scipio said, sitting down heavily. The other two exchanged glances. "Did he believe you'd come to discuss Clodius?" asked Bibulus. "Yes." "Did he take the bait on your real purpose?" "I think so." Stifling a sigh, Bibulus studied Metellus Scipio for a moment, then leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Scipio," he said. "It's a right act," said Cato, draining his plain pottery cup at a gulp. Since he kept the plain pottery flagon close by his elbow on the desk, it was an easy matter to refill it. "Little though any one of us loves the man, we've got to nail Pompeius to us as firmly as Caesar did to himself." "Must it be through my daughter?" asked Metellus Scipio. "Well, he wouldn't have my daughter!" said Cato, neighing with laughter. "Pompeius likes patricians, make him feel terribly important. Look at Caesar." "She'll hate it," said Metellus Scipio miserably. "Publius Crassus was of the noblest stock; she liked that. And she quite liked Publius Crassus, though she didn't know him for very long. Off to Caesar almost straight after the wedding, then off to Syria with his father." He shivered. "I don't even know how to break the news to her that I want her to marry a Pompeius from Picenum. Strabo's son!" "Be honest, tell her the truth," advised Bibulus. "She's needed for the cause." "I don't really see why, Bibulus," said Metellus Scipio. "Then I'll go through it again for you, Scipio. We have to swing Pompeius onto our side. You do see that, don't you?" "I suppose so." "All right, I'll explain that too. It goes back to Luca and the conference Caesar held there with Pompeius and Marcus Crassus. Almost four years ago. April. Because Caesar's daughter held Pompeius in thrall, Caesar was able to persuade Pompeius to help legislate a second five-year command in Gaul for him. If Pompeius hadn't done that, Caesar would now be in permanent exile, stripped of everything he owns. And you'd be Pontifex Maximus, Scipio. Do remember that. He also persuaded Pompeius and Crassus, though that was never as hard to bring in a law which forbids the Senate to discuss Caesar's second five-year command before March of two years' time, let alone remove his command from him! Caesar bribed Pompeius and Crassus with their second consulship, but he couldn't have done that without Julia to help things along. What was to stop Pompeius's running for a second consulship anyway?" "But Julia's dead," objected Metellus Scipio. "Yes, but Caesar still holds Pompeius! And as long as Caesar does hold Pompeius, there's the chance that he'll manage to prolong his Gallic command beyond its present end. Until, in fact, he steps straight into a second consulship. Which he can do legally in less than four years." "But why do you always harp on Caesar?" asked Metellus Scipio. "Isn't it Clodius who's the danger at the moment?" Cato banged his empty cup down on the desk so suddenly that Metellus Scipio jumped. "Clodius!" he said contemptuously. "It isn't Clodius who will bring the Republic down, for all his fine plans! Someone will stop Clodius. But only we boni can stop the real enemy of the boni, Caesar." Bibulus tried again. "Scipio," he said, "if Caesar manages to survive unprosecuted until he's consul for the second time, we will never bring him down! He'll force laws through the Assemblies that will make it impossible for us to arraign him in any court! Because now Caesar is a hero. A fabulously wealthy hero! When he was consul the first time, he had the name and little else. Ten years later, he'll be let do whatever he likes, because the whole of Rome is full of his creatures and the whole of Rome deems him the greatest Roman who ever lived. He'll get away with everything he's done even the Gods will hear him laughing at us!" "Yes, I do see all of that, Bibulus, but I also remember how hard we worked to stop him when he was consul the first time," said Metellus Scipio stubbornly. "We'd hatch a plot, it usually cost us a lot of money, and every time you'd say the same thing it would be the end of Caesar. But it never was the end of Caesar!" "That's because," said Bibulus, hanging on to his patience grimly, "we didn't have quite enough clout. Why? Because we despised Pompeius too much to make him our ally. But Caesar didn't make that mistake. I don't say he doesn't despise Pompeius to this day who with Caesar's ancestry wouldn't? but he uses Pompeius. Who has a huge amount of clout. Who even presumes to call himself the First Man in Rome, if you please! Pah! Caesar presented him with his daughter, a girl who could have married anyone, she was so highborn. A Cornelian and a Julian combined. Who was betrothed to Brutus, quite the richest and best-connected nobleman in Rome. Caesar broke that engagement. Enraged Servilia. Horrified everyone who mattered. But did he care? No! He caught Pompeius in his toils, he became unbeatable. Well, if we catch Pompeius in our toils, we'll become unbeatable! That's why you're going to offer him Cornelia Metella." Cato listened, eyes fixed on Bibulus's face. The best, the most enduring of friends. A very tiny fellow, so silver of hair, brows and lashes that he seemed peculiarly bald. Silver eyes too. Sharp-faced, sharp-minded. Though he could thank Caesar for honing the razor edge on his mind. "All right," said Metellus Scipio with a sigh, "I'll go home and talk to Cornelia Metella. I won't promise, but if she says she's willing, then I'll offer her to Pompeius." "And that," said Bibulus when Cato returned from escorting Metellus Scipio off the premises, "is that." Cato lifted the plain pottery cup to his lips and drank again; Bibulus looked dismayed. "Cato, must you?" he asked. "I used to think the wine never went to your head, but that isn't true anymore. You drink far too much. It will kill you." Indeed Cato never looked well these days, though he was one of those men whose figure hadn't suffered; he was as tall, as straight, as beautifully built as ever. But his face, which used to be so bright, so innocent, had sunk to ashen planes and fine wrinkles, despite the fact that he was only forty-one years old. The nose, so large that it was famous in a city of large noses, dominated the face completely; in the old days his eyes had done that, for they were widely opened, luminously grey. And the short-cut, slightly waving hair was no longer auburn more a speckled beige. He drank and he drank. Especially since he had given Marcia to Hortensius. Bibulus knew why, of course, though Cato had never discussed it. Love was not an emotion Cato could cope with, particularly a love as ardent and passionate as the love he still felt for Marcia. It tormented him, it ate at him. Every day he wor
ried about her; every day he wondered how he could live were she to die, as his beloved brother Caepio had died. So when the addled Hortensius had asked, he saw a way out. Be strong, belong to himself again! Give her away. Get rid of her. But it hadn't worked. He just buried himself with his pair of live-in philosophers, Athenodorus Cordylion and Statyllus, and the three of them spent each night plundering the wine flagons. Weeping over the pompous, priggish words of Cato the Censor as if Homer had written them. Falling into a stuporous sleep when other men were getting out of bed. Not a sensitive man, Bibulus had no idea of the depth of Cato's pain, but he did love Cato, chiefly for that unswerving strength in the face of all adversity, from Caesar to Marcia. Cato never gave up, never gave in. "Porcia will be eighteen soon," said Cato abruptly. "I know," said Bibulus, blinking. "I haven't got a husband for her." "Well, you had hoped for her cousin Brutus...." "He'll be home from Cilicia by the end of the month." "Do you intend to try for him again? He doesn't need Appius Claudius, so he could divorce Claudia." Came that neighing laugh. "Not I, Bibulus! Brutus had his chance. He married Claudia and he can stay married to Claudia." "How about Ahenobarbus's son?" The flagon tipped; a thin stream of red wine trickled into the plain pottery cup. The permanently haemorrhage-pinkened eyes looked at Bibulus over the rim of the cup. "How about you, old friend?" he asked. Bibulus gasped. "Me?" "Yes, you. Domitia's dead, so why not?" "I I I never thought ye Gods, Cato! Me?" "Don't you want her, Bibulus? I admit Porcia doesn't have a hundred-talent dowry, but she's not poor. She's well enough born and very highly educated. And I can vouch for her loyalty." Down went some of the wine. "Pity, in fact, that she's the girl and not the boy. She's worth a thousand of him." Eyes filling with tears, Bibulus reached out a hand across the desk. "Marcus, of course I'll have her! I'm honored." But Cato ignored the hand. "Good," he said, and drank until the cup was empty.
5. Caesar Page 17
