“And you ask if there will be war, lad?” snorted Antony. “Of course there will! You said a few minutes ago that they are powerful now, and they certainly won’t accept a triumvirate.”
Octavian looked deep into his eyes. “I must correct you, Antony,” he said in a patient tone that belied his two glacial eyes. “What they don’t want doesn’t count. They are outlaws, and it is we who will not tolerate their appropriation of entire parts of the empire. Above all, we will not tolerate the fact that there are criminals who have been convicted by the Senate and are still at large. We are the authorities, not them. Don’t forget that.”
Antony smiled contemptuously, resentful at having being slapped down but also aware that he should not give in to resentment. “It takes money to fight people who command so many legions and control wealthy countries like those in the East,” was all he said.
“That’s precisely why we need to divide up the provinces” specified Octavian. “Or at least, the ones that we still control, seeing as we can no longer count on those beyond the Adriatic Sea. If Caesar’s murderers control theirs and draw resources from them, we’ll have to do the same. We can’t afford to allow them any advantages.”
“Theirs are richer. They’ve already got the advantage…” said Lepidus, his eyes already shining with greed.
“But they have fewer of them,” Octavian replied. “Even Pompey, when he was fighting Caesar, had the eastern provinces. Indeed, his sphere of command stretched much further. And who won in the end?”
“Caesar was a genius…” replied Lepidus, disconsolately.
“And much of the soldiery considers me the same,” insisted Octavian. “Even though you may not agree, we should exploit this advantage to instil confidence in the army. You fought for Caesar, and you, Antony, in particular, played an important role in some of his successes. On their side, Decimus Brutus and Trebonius have been eliminated, which means that only Cassius Longinus can boast of any past military glory. Marcus Brutus doesn’t count for anything, and you could say much the same about the others: they killed Caesar because he’d never appreciated them, knowing very well that they didn’t amount to much.”
“That’s as maybe,” conceded Antony, whose vanity Octavian had tickled, “but what it means is that whoever of us goes to war should have more legions than the one who remains to defend Rome – because someone will have stay and defend the rear. And that means more resources. Which is to say, more provinces, or at least the richer ones.”
Octavian had seen that objection coming. Or rather, Maecenas had warned him that it would. And had prepared his counter measures. The ministers of the sect were well aware that what was at stake here wasn’t so much the war against Caesar’s killers as possible future ones. “I agree. And I think, with all due respect to you, Lepidus, that it should be me and Antony who go to war. Me because I’m a consul and a symbol for the soldiers, and Antony because of his experience and his popularity in the army. The division of the empire should consequently be made on this basis.”
Naturally, Lepidus reacted strongly: “Are you joking? It seems more logical to me that Caesar’s two lieutenants should go to war against those who killed him, and his young adopted son should stay to protect the centre of the Empire. It’s also a question of seniority…”
“I agree,” agreed a visibly pleased Antony. “Just think, Octavian, you could have Italy. Doesn’t that please you?”
The young man shook his head. But then again, he had expected this.
“Absolutely not,” he responded. “I have no intention of staying at home while you two fight my father’s murderers.” And besides, he didn’t want Italy: to procure resources he would be forced into conflict with the interests of the large landowners, who were also members of the Senate. He would make too many enemies and his position would become compromised. You could strip resources with impunity elsewhere, as many provincial governors did, but he and the sect certainly had no intention of behaving like everyone else. In fact, one of their objectives was to make the administration of the Empire more just. But it wouldn’t be possible to tread too lightly whilst a civil war was in progress, and Antony and Lepidus were obviously counting on the unpopularity that governing Italy would cause him while they themselves earned glory on the battlefield and returned home in triumph. Not to mention that by staying in Rome, he would be entitled to fewer legions, and so would end up weaker than the other two. Certainly, it was inevitable that one of the three of them would be at a disadvantage, but he had to do everything possible to ensure it wasn’t him.
He pushed away a bodyguard who had approached the table to refill empty water glasses. “To win the war you need me,” he insisted, “because I’m the consul, and because I’m not convinced you’ll conduct it with conviction. You’ve made agreements with them in the past, and you could do so again: I’ll be there to remind everyone, from my fellow commanders to each and every soldier, that we’re fighting for justice and to avenge the greatest man Rome has ever seen.”
“Of course… and perhaps you also want the most important provinces and the right to appoint consuls and most of the legions. In practice, you want the dictatorship and two magistri equitums…” said Antony, as Lepidus nodded vigorously.
“It seems to me that there’s little to choose from,” insisted Octavian, imperturbably, pretending not to hear. “We have the Gallic and Spanish provinces, Italy, and Africa. Macedonia, Syria and Asia are theirs, at the moment. And unless we act soon, they’ll also have several important Mediterranean islands. In fact, Sextus Pompey controls Sicily as well as having many clients in the Iberian Peninsula. The empire is split into two – no, into three – and it’s up to us to re-establish unity, even by sub-dividing what nominally remains under Senate authority. Antony, do you want the Gallic provinces? I’ll let you have some of them, but certainly not all of them: there are too many. You would control an immense territory. The Spanish provinces are another matter: Lepidus, you already govern one, and you could administer the others as well. Africa requires substantial resources to control it, and whoever does so might run into difficulties. The Numidian kings are unreliable and you never know who they’ll side with. What’s more, several of Caesar’s killers have found refuge there. As for Italy, joint governance would be best, to share any problems that might arise.”
“There are two things that I won’t negotiate on,” said Antony, decisively. “If this agreement is to be made, I’ll take charge of fighting the war and have all of the Gallic provinces. And one of my men will be made consul in your place – Ventidius Bassus, for example. Furthermore, I don’t want you around when I face Brutus and Cassius. Lepidus respects hierarchies and knows how to act as vice-commander. You don’t, and you’d only get in the way, especially given your weak physical constitution, which means you’re unsuited to campaigning. If you don’t like it, it will mean war… between us.”
Octavian clenched his fists under the table, trying to hide his frustration. He had expected fierce opposition from Antony, and he was well aware that he could only overcome it if Maecenas, Rufus and Agrippa successfully played their parts.
By now, the day was drawing to a close, and they’d reached a stalemate. For the work of the triumvirate to benefit the sect, Antony had to cede on at least something. Instead, he was absolutely inflexible, and Octavian didn’t yet have enough leverage to force him into changing his arrogant, intransigent mind.
Soon it would be time for them to retreat to their respective camps and prepare their strategy for the following day.
He hoped his ministers’ work would prove fruitful.
*
“That group there,” Maecenas said to the officer escorting him after they’d left Agrippa’s tent, indicating a small group of soldiers without armour. The legionaries didn’t appear to be doing anything important, just killing time with idle bets on bones and dice, so he reckoned they might be an audience willing to at least listen to him without walking away when confronted with his u
nmilitary bearing and the fact of his belonging to Octavian’s army.
He walked towards them accompanied by the officer who he’d instructed to play along with him. They stood within earshot of the soldiers and Maecenas began addressing his companion, though in reality he was speaking for the benefit of Antony’s men. “I tell you it would be in everyone’s interests for those three to agree,” he said, passionately. “The rewards would be guaranteed, the usual payments and extraordinary gifts, and they wouldn’t be subject to the whims of the Senate and the progress of a campaign like they are now. Can’t you see how uncertain it all usually is? Every soldier fights for years without any guarantees, and the only thing he can do is trust in the goodness of his commander’s heart. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, in his luck.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that some legionaries had stopped their game and, on hearing the word ‘reward’, had given him their full attention. His interlocutor was quick to reply: “You’re quite right. I think the consul, Antony and Lepidus have more reasons to agree than to fight. They all loved Caesar, so why should they play into the hands of his killers?”
“If they strike an agreement,” continued Maecenas, as several soldiers began to move closer, “the State will benefit, and when the State prospers soldiers are better off too: resources that would otherwise be wasted on domestic wars would instead go to the legionaries. Octavian is trying to convince Antony and Lepidus that the soldiers will only be satisfied after they’ve avenged Caesar and received a just reward for their efforts.”
“What do you mean by ‘just reward’?” interrupted a legionary who’d moved closer than the others.
Maecenas made sure his response could be heard by his comrades, none of whom were concentrating on what they’d been doing before. “Prospects. Octavian wants to give all of you – all of us – solid prospects for the future. And that’s what sets him apart from every other general in Rome’s recent past. Even Caesar. Or rather, he plans to perfect what Caesar had in mind, but didn’t manage to finish before they did for him. To establish an army with a salary and, at the end of the period of service, a pension for every soldier who has conscientiously done his duty.”
“I’ve been waiting years for a just reward!” one of the soldiers shouted.
“Of course, my friend,” replied Maecenas, patiently. “And you’ve never had one because nobody has ever taken care of it and because the particularly dramatic circumstances of recent years haven’t allowed for it. Maybe you haven’t even had any wages other than the occasional reward. No, Octavian – and I’m sure that in the very near future, Antony and Lepidus too – wants to establish a solid system for everyone who puts their life on the line for the Republic.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means a period of service with a definite, fixed duration, a regular salary, and, above all, a nice homestead on retirement,” he said solemnly, remaining to study his attentive audience and see how they’d react.
Many were left open-mouthed. “Yeah, homesteads in the middle of nowhere, most likely…” said a sceptical legionary.
Maecenas smirked to himself and paused for an instant to prepare himself before shooting the sharpest arrow in his quiver. “Not at all, my friend. I’m sure that our three commanders are right now already talking about land in Italy!”
The soldiers’ murmuring grew into a noisy clamour, accompanied by expressions of astonishment as well as of scepticism. “In Italy? Yeah right. Those senator pigs will never allow that!” someone cried out.
“Maybe they won’t,” Maecenas pointed out. “But it’s for precisely that reason that our three commanders need to be united. Do you think the senators would object to the demands of generals who commanded such a massive army?”
“Of course! Remember what Caesar managed to do for the veterans of Pompey the Great, when they formed the triumvirate with Crassus?” a legionary said.
“Right! The three of them together managed to do things Pompey had never managed to do on his own!” added another.
“If we carry on fighting between us, we won’t see a sestertius for years, I tell you!” cried another.
“And Caesar won’t be avenged! Caesar, the only one who ever really acted in favour of the soldiers!” echoed another.
“Our work is done here,” whispered Maecenas to his companion. “They’ll speak to their comrades who weren’t here, you’ll see. In any case, it’s up to you to make sure they do. Now take me through the tents before escorting me to the praetorian gate. I want to have a word with a few more soldiers.”
“As you wish, Tribune,” said the officer, leading the way to the nearest section of common legionaries. The eight-man tents were in disarray, with dirty bedding and equipment scattered all around, and only a few men were busy polishing their weapons or duelling between the tents. Most were playing or talking, or resting on their camp beds. Maecenas couldn’t understand how a famous leader like Antony could keep his troops in such a deplorable state: when he wasn’t fighting, Caesar’s favourite lieutenant neglected the most elementary duties of a commander, starting with that of imposing strict discipline and keeping his men busy. And sooner or later that could cost him dear.
He wandered around the tents, hoping to find a group large enough to make a worthwhile audience. Just one more and he could consider his job done and would no longer have to hang around talking to rough soldiers. But he didn’t see any that might suit his purpose, so he resigned himself to the idea of approaching a few people at a time. He just hoped to find men who weren’t too awful, and continued to look around for a face that might inspire him.
Finally, his eyes came to rest on two legionaries without armour, sitting on the ground, reading from sheets of papyrus and speaking heatedly between themselves. If they were reading and discussing, they must be people with brains and a modicum of culture, he said to himself, and as such, they were ideal subjects to take in and pass on his message. He moved closer so he could hear the voice of the soldier with the papyri in his lap.
“…The quality of the verse is excellent, dear Plotius, as I told you. But to praise a tyrant like Caesar makes it all puerile, banal. To bring out your talent you should choose less unpleasant subjects for your poems… not conventional stuff like this.”
Maecenas stared at the man speaking, and for a moment was overcome by a wave of intense emotion. A moment later he wondered if it was due to the wonder of seeing two soldiers talking about poetry, or to the elegant face and melodious voice of the legionary who was playing the critic. He pushed aside his fear of not seeming manly and decided that, for whatever reason, he had to speak to those two immediately.
And above all to him.
*
“No… I don’t agree that the divine Caesar is ‘conventional stuff’…” ventured Maecenas, approaching the two soldiers who were discussing poetry, and, in particular, about the composition one had dedicated to Octavian’s adopted father. The Etruscan stared at the man who had expressed the criticism: he was about his age, and had an expression that was at once profound and easy-going, which made him appear somehow distant, as though his surroundings didn’t concern him.
Terribly beguiling.
The man turned his intelligent eyes onto him, and Maecenas felt a shiver run down his spine. It didn’t happen to him often, not with men. It was more likely to happen with young boys, and on a few rare occasions, with equally young girls. For a moment, he put his mission aside.
“It would be hard to be more conventional…” the soldier replied, with a superior smile. “It’s a very fashionable subject at present, don’t you think?”
The other protested before Maecenas could respond. “But I didn’t just write it to follow the crowd… It’s something I felt growing inside me: I admired him, and I would have liked to have gone with him to conquer the Parthian Empire. For my part, whatever I can do to honour him, I shall. Whilst we wait to fight his murderers, I’ll write eulogies for him.”
“That seems a laudable intent … We’re all fans of Caesar here… on both sides of the river. And the quicker we realise that, the better it will be for the Republic and for the cause of justice… May I have a look?” Maecenas said, gesturing to him to pass the papyrus over. In the meantime, he shot a fleeting glance at the other soldier who raised his eyes to the sky and said nothing.
The poet hesitated a moment, then handed it to him. The Etruscan unrolled the papyrus with one hand whilst holding the end with the other, and read the verses carefully. They were hexameters, and written with a certain skill too. They needed refining a bit, but there were signs of uncommon talent and passion, the same attributes he always hoped to see in his own compositions but never did. He dwelt on a passage that spoke of ‘Caesar’s vile death at the hands of his sons,’ and thought that Octavian would find it interesting. Yes, there were definitely people in Antony’s and Lepidus’s legions who loved Caesar and wanted to see him avenged.
“Nice work,” he said, handing him the back the rolled papyrus. “What’s your name, soldier?”
The man hesitated again.
“When a tribune asks a humble legionary his name, there might be a hidden catch,” said Maecenas to himself, and couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t be afraid,” he said re-assuringly, “I’m not your direct superior. I’m on Caesar Octavian’s General Staff. And I’m interested in poetry. I write myself, but I don’t have your talent, and I like bringing out other people’s qualities.”
The expression on the soldier’s face relaxed. “My name is Plotius Tucca, Tribune,” he replied, smiling in turn.
“And what’s in it for you?” interjected the other man.
“Excuse me?” Maecenas was happy that the second soldier had given him the chance to speak to him, even if he had sounded slightly insolent.
“I said, what do you earn by unearthing other people’s talents?” he asked, sceptically.
It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been asked a question like that. Maecenas liked helping people – he’d done so ever since he’d been a boy, using his enormous wealth to help others fulfil their dreams and thus become indebted to him. And when others expressed amazement at this habit of his, which one might consider a character hallmark, he gave up explaining the rest, knowing that they would call him a hypocrite. In reality, the real reason he helped other people was that he liked doing it. He genuinely liked to bring out the potential in people, to help bring out the best in them in the certainty that fulfilled, proud people made the world a better place. But he was a businessman too, and didn’t scorn any material gain he could make out of it.
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