for
Margaret Mitchell
my mother
Characters
Marcus (Marcus Oppius Sabinus) The Narrator
Gaius (Gaius Oppius Sabinus) Older cousin of Marcus’s, associate of Julius Caesar’s
Caesar (Julius Caesar) Up-and-coming politician in Rome
Cicero Consul of Rome, rival of Julius Caesar
Pompey (Pompey the Great) Roman Admiral, rival of Julius Caesar
Paulla (Aemilia Lepida Paulla) Aristocratic Roman girl, betrothed to Marcus
Tullia, Fulvia, Spurius Friends of Marcus’s and Paulla’s in Rome
Spurinna (Aulus Lucinus Spurinna) Young man from Etruria, friend of Cicero’s
The Captain Carthaginian merchant, captain of the Star of Carthage
Homer (Aulus Lucinus Homerus) Greek publisher and freedman of Spurinna’s
Brasidas Exiled Spartan landowner in Laconia
Anaxilaus Greek philosopher in Athens
Atticus Roman knight, resident in Athens, and close friend of Cicero’s
Contents
1. Bread for Caesar
2. The Mission to Greece
3. The Stowaway
4. The African Wind
5. The Barren Shore
6. The Plantation
7. The Tragic Stage
8. The Manuscript
9. The City of Philosophy
10. The Cilician Sword
11. The Forgotten Isle
12. The Battle of Miletus
Historical Note
Acknowledgments
Bread for Caesar
o one in Rome could bribe you like my cousin Gaius. He was the greatest briber in the City, and that’s saying quite a lot.
“Marcus, my lad,” he declared, when I first went to live with him, “you’ve come here at the right time. This is the Golden Age of Bribery. Corruption is rife. The Republic of Rome is crumbling. You stick with me. You’ll learn all you need to know.”
I wasn’t much more than a boy at the time, and I had just come of age. My parents had noticed how bored I was with life in Reate, our little town in the Sabine country, which was very perceptive of them, so they sent me off to live in the City with Gaius. Gaius was actually my father’s second cousin but, as far as my parents were concerned, he was family: a successful lawyer, a friend of Senators and Judges, an admirer of poetry, and overall just the right person to show a young fellow how Rome worked. What they didn’t know was that he was also the most cynical person in Italy.
Gaius’s job was to buy elections. Of course, he didn’t put it like that. In his own eyes, he was merely helping Rome achieve its destiny, or something. In any case, once a month a heavy chest full of treasure – ten slaves could barely lift it – would arrive on his doorstep and Gaius would personally wrap the money up in discreet little bundles, covered with linen cloth, and quietly deliver those bundles to influential voters. He called the process “politics,” and he loved it.
Gaius had just started working for Julius Caesar. Every one would come to know that name in time, of course, but in those days, Caesar was no more than a young Temple-keeper with a lot of ambition. Naturally, most young Temple-keepers are ambitious: you can’t get much lower, as a magistrate, than looking after temples and sewers, so there’s nowhere to go but up. But Caesar was aiming for the stars, even if he was young and poor and despised by the nobles. To get ahead, he had turned to people like my cousin Gaius.
“Caesar is my kind of politician,” Gaius would often remark, as he relaxed in the garden at the end of a hard day of bribing. “No qualms, no dithering, no invoking the glory of the ancestors: just cold hard cash. Mark my words, lad, Caesar is our future.”
So indeed it seemed. With help from Gaius and others like him, Caesar was on the rise. With no money of his own, he borrowed left and right, and then he spent it all on politics – a magnificent gladiator show here, an expensive wedding there. He was making a name for himself, and the people noticed. Still, everyone was amazed when he chose to run in the election for High Priest of Rome. That lifelong post always went to an old aristocrat, since it was the most important religious office in the Republic: the High Priest looked after the Divine Law, a very complex subject, and was the final authority on the Will of the Gods. Not exactly a job for an impoverished thirty-seven-year-old Temple-keeper. But nothing scared Caesar and Gaius. This time they got serious, and the borrowing and the bribing reached unheard-of levels.
That was how I got involved.
It was about noon, in the summer before the election for High Priest. I was at home after school, pacing up and down the front hall as I tried to memorize a speech. I was going to recite it in class the next day. Suddenly, Gaius burst through the front door. He was alone, which was strange: usually half a dozen of his gang would be hanging round. He came straight up to me.
“Marcus!” he cried. “Stop talking to yourself like that, it makes you look like the village idiot. Listen, we need your help!”
“What’s that?” I asked, breaking off my speech. “Where’s the gang?”
“They’re all off delivering packages. We’re shorthanded. I need you to take something to the Roman Market.” He handed me a letter sealed in red wax and gave me the name of a Roman knight. A tall fellow, he said, with curly hair.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Obviously, it’s a letter,” Gaius replied sharply. “You deliver it and make sure the knight reads it. Then come back and report what he says. Quick now!”
I put on my sandals and my new toga in a rush and hurried down to the Roman Market, which wasn’t far off. It was one of those incredibly hot August days when the citizens all retreat to the deep shade of the colonnades, and the slaves are busy fanning everybody. I found my Roman knight sitting on a bench, alone. The edge of his toga was dirty and he looked depressed.
“Pardon me,” I said, “but I think I have something for you.”
He looked up without a word, and took the letter as a matter of course. When he saw who it was from, however, he scowled.
“This is from Gaius Oppius?”
I said it was.
The knight finished reading, but said nothing. He stared across the sun-baked Market.
“Can he have it ready by tomorrow?” he asked at last.
I hesitated. I had no idea what he was talking about. But Gaius did seem in a rush and he always had lots of everything.
“Of course he can,” I replied.
The knight stood up and looked me over. He noticed my bright new toga and it seemed to depress him. But he managed a smile.
“Does this get me alone, or does it include my brothers too?” he inquired.
Again I had no idea. I picked one answer. I wanted to return home and practice my speech.
“Your brothers too,” I said, as firmly as I could.
The knight seemed disappointed, but he put the letter carefully away.
“Give my greetings to Gaius Oppius and tell him he can count on us,” he said, and walked off quickly.
Back home, I made my report to Gaius. He was writing at his desk. In the corner, the secretary was also scribbling away like mad.
“Marcus! Did you deliver the letter?” Gaius demanded. “What did he say?”
I told him.
“Good, good, that’s another knight we’ve got.” He smiled. “And for only five gold pieces! Old Roman family, you see, and worth a lot more than that when the voting starts. Now we just need to see about his brothers –”
“Oh no,” I broke in, “I told him it included his brothers.”
Gaius dropped his pen. The secretary stopped scribbling and looked up.
“You said that?” cried Gaius. “And he a
greed? You mean – do you mean the whole clan is voting with us? For just five gold pieces? Marcus, the man has six brothers! How? How did you do that?” He seemed torn between shock at my boldness and admiration for the result.
“Well, I just looked him in the eye, you know,” I mumbled. “It seemed like he needed your help.”
My cousin grinned. “That’s right, he does, doesn’t he? But to get the whole clan! Well, well, you sized him up.” He took a deep breath and walked me to the garden at the back of the house.
“I’ve been overlooking you, Marcus,” he began. “Never thought a lad like you from Reate could make a politician, but you seem to have an instinct for it.” He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. “You’ve been keeping your eyes open, eh? Just like I predicted.”
I never did deliver that speech in class, because the next day Gaius informed me that I was no longer going to school and would now be working for Julius Caesar.
“Believe me, you’ll pick up more doing this anyway,” he claimed. “Giving speeches, writing letters, geography, the law – you speak Greek, don’t you?”
I said yes, quite well. I’d had a Greek nurse when I was small.
“Good, that’s a big asset. Do you like bread?”
Bread, it transpired, was my new job. That is, I spent the next month delivering bread around the City. Every morning, Gaius’s slaves would pile two dozen loaves of it into a hand-cart; after that, one of Gaius’s gang, a rather scrawny person from the outskirts, would push the cart through various neighborhoods while I walked in front and did the talking. Gaius made me memorize where to go and how many loaves to give each customer. I was supposed to bow, hand over the bread, and say, “With the compliments of Caesar.” The cart-pusher would wait nervously in the street while I made my deliveries.
Looking back, I suppose I was a bit naive. For the first ten days I couldn’t understand what this wretched bread had to do with politics or Julius Caesar or anyone being High Priest of Rome, and I wished I was back in school. Nevertheless, the whole operation was suspicious. For starters, the scrawny cart-pusher was constantly peeping over his shoulder, even when I was with him. At the end of each day he would mop his brow, slap me on the back, and exclaim, “Home again, safe and sound! Thank the gods!”
Then there was the fact that, even though the bread was black, heavy, coarse-grained, and unappetizing, our customers always greeted me with huge enthusiasm. They would shake my hand, thank me heartily, and send the loaves back to their kitchens right away. Some of them even wanted to drink my health, though our busy schedule rarely allowed time for it.
Finally, it seemed that the wealthier you were, the more of the horrible bread you ordered. One old gentleman was even disappointed that he couldn’t get an extra loaf, and he kept eyeing the cart hungrily as I said good-bye.
I could have asked Gaius, of course. But he was so pleased with me that, after the first few days of bread delivery, I didn’t want to let on that I had no idea what I was doing. In the end, I didn’t find out how deeply involved in his schemes I really was, until I nearly got arrested.
It was the end of a long morning of pushing the cart uphill (for I helped out on the steep slopes), and I was visiting my third customer of the day. I forget the Senator’s name, but he had a large and rather run-down mansion at the top of the Esqualine Hill. As usual, I left the cart-pusher in the street. I was so worn out, however, that I somehow forgot to bring the loaves of bread inside.
In the front hall, the Senator was there waiting for me. He wasn’t alone. A rather ordinary-looking man, with a round head and graying hair, was arguing with him. I didn’t need the thick purple edge of his toga to tell me who he was: Cicero, the Consul of Rome, the highest magistrate in the City. He was flanked by two bodyguards, each one holding an ax. He and the Senator seemed on the point of raising their voices just as I walked in.
Noticing me, they fell silent. Cicero gave me a hostile smile. Then he turned squarely back to the Senator.
“Well, now. Precisely who might your guest be, exactly? A friend of Julius Caesar? A friend of Gaius Oppius?”
The Senator was looking at me with horror. I bowed politely.
“My name is Marcus Oppius Sabinus,” I began. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m just here with the bread delivery.”
The Senator was trembling visibly.
“Ah yes, the bread!” exclaimed Cicero triumphantly. “Five days till the election, and you’ve come about the bread. I see. Well, aren’t you going to deliver it?”
Only then did I notice I had left the bread back in the cart. I stuttered a quick apology, and the Senator looked relieved. I started back toward the door.
“Just a moment,” said Cicero in a booming voice. “Guards, I think we will all accompany this young man outside – you too, Senator – and we will see just what sort of bread Julius Caesar has sent the Senator today.”
At last, I realized something was terribly wrong: the frightened Senator, the gleam in the Consul’s eye, the very broad shoulders of the bodyguards carrying their axes. I suddenly felt sick. What had Gaius gotten me into? There was nothing to do but shuffle out into the street behind Cicero. When the Consul makes a suggestion, he expects to be obeyed.
“I can only think of five laws against corruption, Senator,” he was saying bitterly as we emerged from the house, “but I promise that the guilty will answer to every one of them, of that you may be sure. It is too early to speak of fines, or exile, but you understand that justice must -Now, where is your bread, young man?”
This last was directed to me, most impatiently. Cicero was looking left and right, and our eyes followed his. But the street was deserted. I had left the cart-pusher and our cart, which was quite full, loitering under the shade of a fruit tree, not ten paces off. There was no sign of them now. We stood together awkwardly for some moments in silence. Cicero’s face was turning deep red.
“It was just here!” I protested at last. “There was a cart, and my assistant!”
“Oh, there was, was there?” said Cicero. “Well, your cart and your assistant have vanished, and your wonderful bread’s gone with them! Very convenient, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know where he’s gone, I tell you! Anyway, it’s just a bit of harmless bread!”
“Of course, of course,” answered Cicero, grinning through clenched teeth. “Harmless to everyone but the Republic of Rome.” He swallowed hard. He was on the point of losing his dignity, his most precious possession, and it infuriated him. “Well,” he said, “I can only declare that you – both of you – should thank heaven. Don’t think I don’t know what happened here, Senator. You may be safe today, but I won’t forget. And you, young man, give my greetings to Gaius Oppius, and tell him his bread is getting stale.”
With that, he stalked off with his bodyguards. The Senator called a hasty good-bye and fled back into his disheveled mansion. I was left alone to catch my breath. As there was still no sign of the cart-pusher, I adjusted my toga and began walking back to Gaius’s house.
At the first intersection, however, the cart-pusher magically reappeared. His eyes were staring wide.
“Are they gone? Are they gone?” he babbled at me.
“You mean the Consul? Yes, he left.”
“Thank the gods! Thank the blessed, immortal gods! I was sure you were done for, sir. I saw the guards through the door when you went in and I legged it!”
“Where is the cart?”
He led me to a back alley, where the cart, piled with random bits of garbage, was hidden. I wasted no time. I seized a loaf and took a bite. At once, my tooth struck something hard inside, and I pulled the lump out of my mouth. It was a bit sticky, but it gleamed.
“Gold,” I said dully. I had tasted a small gold coin.
“Yessir, the silver was last month,” the cart-pusher put in. “I think it’s going to be gems soon, before they start voting.”
I put the bread back and stared at the coin in my hand. I was shaking. How far had
I gone in personally undermining the Roman State? Why had I ever left Reate? How many millions had I been dispersing?
“Just enough,” Gaius said later on that evening in answer to my question. “Or so we hope. Otherwise it could get a bit expensive. Can you believe how much a jury costs to bribe these days?” He seemed to think my encounter with Cicero was very funny.
“But he knows,” I insisted. “Cicero knows. He’s the Consul of Rome!”
“Don’t worry, Marcus,” Gaius answered soothingly. “Caesar will win, and he’ll keep on winning. This is only the beginning. They’re already talking about you as a dedicated Caesar supporter. He’ll protect us all.”
“What if Caesar doesn’t win?”
“Well, there’s always the chance to travel. Spain, maybe. You know, a fresh start.”
“Exile?”
“Try and look on the bright side. Chances are, you’ll soon be friends with the High Priest of Rome. It’s as simple as that. The Will of the Gods.”
Terrific, I thought. Here’s to the bright side, and here’s to the Will of the Gods.
The Mission to Greece
f course, Caesar won. He beat the most pious and respected old man in the City for the job, and suddenly Rome had a thirty-seven-year-old Temple-keeper as its High Priest. The Senate was shocked, but what could they do? It was too late to buy the election back.
Needless to say, Gaius was ecstatic. He hosted the grand victory banquet, and Caesar himself, the guest of honor, shook my hand afterwards.
“Thank you, Marcus Oppius,” he said. “You are worthy of your loyal cousin.”
Meanwhile, Rome nearly had a revolution. For once, this had nothing to do with Gaius. A desperate aristocrat, named Catiline, put together a Conspiracy against the Republic, recruiting unhappy nobles and disgruntled old soldiers. They planned to massacre the entire Senate, seize the public treasury, and bring in barbarians to plunder Rome. Or so we heard. It all happened quickly. The first thing we knew about it was when Cicero, who was the greatest orator in Rome, denounced Catiline in the Senate and drove him and his conspirators from the City. Then the Roman Army marched out to fight Catiline’s forces. There was a terrific battle up North, Catiline was killed, and the Roman Republic survived. Cicero’s prestige soared sky-high, and they voted him the title of Father of his Country.
The Ancient Ocean Blues Page 1
