He began to weep, rocking back and forth on the flimsy cross-legged stool with its leather seat, watching the teardrops fall into the wine, drinking his own grief as a black dog drinks blood. Oh, the sorrow, the regret! No one would ever look at him in the same way again. His honor was stained beyond removal.
When Herod rushed through the door an hour later, he found Antony so drunk that he wasn’t recognized or acknowledged.
Ventidius came in, saw Antony, and spat on the floor.
“Find his servants and tell them to put him to bed,” Ventidius said curtly. “Through there, in my quarters. By the time he’s conscious again, I’ll be halfway to Syria.”
And more than that Herod could not find out.
Antony told him two days later, sober but unusually affected by the wine.
“I believed Dellius,” he said miserably.
“Yes, that was unwise, Antonius.” Herod tried to look chirpy. “Still, it’s over and done with. Samosata is taken, Antiochus has fled to Perse, and the booty surpasses all expectations. A good conclusion to the war.”
“How did Ventidius take the place?”
“He’s an inventor, so he saw what he had to do. He built a gigantic ball from pieces of solid iron, attached it to a chain, and suspended the chain from a tower. Then he harnessed up fifty oxen and pulled the ball far back behind the tower. When its chain was stretched straight, he severed the connection between the ball and the beasts. It swung like a monstrous fist and struck the walls with a hideous noise—I covered my ears. And the walls just—fell down! Within a day he’d demolished enough to get his soldiers inside in thousands. It turned out that the Samosatans didn’t have any defense other than their fortifications. No troops good or bad—nothing!”
“I heard he invented a lead sling missile too.”
“A terrifying weapon!” Herod exclaimed. He put a hand on Antony’s arm. “Come, Antonius, you’re in command now Ventidius has gone. You should at least inspect the place and see what the iron ball did. Those walls had stood for five hundred years, but nothing stands before a Roman army. You don’t look as if you’re very hungry, but your legates are—er—milling around helplessly, unsure what to do next. So I’ve arranged a dinner in my house. Do come! It will make everybody feel better, including you.”
“My head aches.”
“No surprise, considering the piss you drank. I’ve also got in some bearable wine, if that’s what you want.”
Antony sighed, extended his hands, and stared at them. “They look as if they can take hold of anything, don’t they?” he asked, shivering. “But they lost control.”
“Nonsense! A good meal of fresh bread and lean meat will put all to right.”
“What’s happening in Judaea?”
“Very little. Silo is an excellent man, but two legions were not enough, and by the time a third one arrived, Antigonus had gone to earth in Jerusalem. It’s a hard city to take, harder than this Assyrian outpost. Ventidius was very good to me, by the way.”
Antony winced. “Don’t rub it in! How?”
“He gave me enough money to go to Egypt and restock Masada, where my family and Hyrcanus’s family are. But I’m not getting any younger, Antonius, and the Jews need—well, a tyrant. They’re arming and drilling.”
Since no legate was imprudent enough to mention Ventidius, by the end of his first nundinum at Samosata Antony was able to feel genuinely in command. But guilt over Ventidius meant that the city suffered atrociously at Antony’s hands. The entire population was sold into slavery at Nicephorium, where a representative of the new King of the Parthians, Phraates, bought them as a job lot. He was short of labor, having executed a significant proportion of his people from lowest to highest. His own sons were the first to die, but he missed a nephew, one Monaeses, who fled to Syria and disappeared. Very vexing for Phraates, who loved being king.
Samosata’s walls were torn down. Antony wanted to use them to bridge the Euphrates, but discovered that the river was so deep and strong that it swept the stones away like snippets of chaff. Finally he scattered the stones far and wide.
By the time all was done, a chill had crept into the night air. Antony had deposed Antiochus, fined him heavily, and put his brother Mithradates on the throne. Publius Canidius was placed in charge of the legions, which went into camp near Antioch and Damascus; he was to prepare for a campaign into Armenia and Media the following year—under Antony’s personal command. Gaius Sosius was created the governor of Syria, and instructed to put Herod on his throne as soon as the winter furlough was over.
In Portae Alexandreia Antony boarded a ship whose captain was willing to brave open waters. The wound was slowly healing; he could look his fellow Romans in the eye again without wondering what they were thinking. But oh, he needed a sweet feminine breast to bury his head in! The only trouble was that the sweet feminine breast he yearned for belonged to Cleopatra.
13
When Agrippa returned from two years in Further Gaul covered in glory, he and the two legions he had brought with him camped on the Campus Martius outside the pomerium; the Senate had voted him a triumph, which meant he was religiously forbidden to enter Rome herself. It went without saying that he expected Caesar to be waiting for him in the flap of the splendid red tent erected to house the general in his temporary exile, but—no Caesar. No senators either. Well, perhaps I am early, Agrippa thought as he directed his batman to take his things inside; he was too eager to see Caesar in the distance to seek shelter himself. His eyes were capable of seeing the flash of metal two miles away, or a nigh-invisible scratch on something held in his hand, so he drew a sigh of relief when he spotted a large armed guard of Germans emerging from the Fontinalis Gate, coming down the hill toward the Via Recta. Then he frowned; in their midst was a litter. Caesar, in a litter? Was he ill?
Anxious and impatient, he disciplined himself to wait where he was, not run toward the awkward conveyance, which eventually drew up amid a hail of jubilant congratulations from the Germans.
When Maecenas flopped out of it, Agrippa gasped.
“Inside,” said the Arch Manipulator, making for the tent.
“What is it? What’s the matter? Is Caesar ill?”
“No, not ill, just in a fine old stew,” Maecenas said, looking strained. “His house is fenced around with guards, and he dare not move outside it. He’s had to fortify it, can you believe that? A wall and a ditch on the Palatine!”
“Why?” Agrippa asked, bewildered.
“Don’t you know? Can’t you guess? When is it ever anything except the grain supply? Taxes? High prices?”
Mouth set, Agrippa stared at the Eagle standards planted in the ground outside his tent, each wreathed in the laurels of victory. “You’re right, I should have known. What’s the latest chapter in this eternal epic? Ye gods, it begins to be as painful as suffering through Thucydides!”
“That conniving slug Lepidus—sixteen legions under his command!—let Sextus Pompeius make off with the entire African grain shipment. Then that treacherous cur Menodorus had a row with Sabinus—didn’t like being under his authority—and deserted back to Sextus. He didn’t take more than six warships with him, but he did tell Sextus the route of the Sardinian harvest, so that went too. The Senate has no choice, it must buy grain from Sextus, who is charging forty sesterces the modius. That means state wheat will cost fifty sesterces the modius, while the private vendors are talking of charging sixty. If the state is to be able to buy sufficient for the free grain dole, it has to charge fifty from those who must pay. When the lower Classes and the Head Court heard, they went wild. Riots, gang warfare—Caesar had to import a legion from Capua to guard the state granaries, so the Vicus Portae Trigeminae is awash with soldiers, and the Port of Rome deserted.” Maecenas drew a breath and held out shaking hands. “It is a crisis, a real crisis.”
“What about Ventidius’s spoils from his triumph?” Agrippa asked. “Can’t they balance the books and keep the price at forty to the People?�
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“They might have, except that Antonius insisted he be given half as Triumvir and commander-in-chief in the East. Since the Senate is still full of his creatures, it voted that he should have five thousand talents,” Maecenas said gloomily, passion worn out. “Add the legions’ share, and all that’s left are two thousand. A mere fifty million sesterces, against a grain bill from Sextus of nearly five hundred million sesterces. Caesar asked if he could pay the bill in increments, but Sextus said no. Up front, or no grain at all. One more month will see the granaries empty.”
“And no money to defray the costs of an all-out war against the mentula!” said Agrippa savagely. “Well, I’m bringing another two thousand in spoils—that’s a hundred million of the grain bill when they’re added to what’s left of Ventidius’s. What we ought to do is put the Senate in the middle of the Forum and let the mobs stone every last member to death! But of course they’ve all fled Rome, haven’t they?”
“Oh, yes. Huddling in their villas. It’s not only Rome in a ferment, the whole of Italia is rioting. Not their fault, they say, blaming everything on Caesar’s bad government. I curse them!”
Agrippa moved to the tent flap. “It has to stop, Maecenas. Come, let’s go to Caesar.”
Maecenas stared aghast. “Agrippa! You can’t! Cross the pomerium into Rome, and you lose your triumph!”
“Oh, what’s a triumph when Caesar needs me? I’ll triumph for some other war.” And off strode Agrippa, unaccompanied, still in his dress armor, his long legs swallowing the distance. His mind was running in circles, for it knew there was no answer, while his spirit insisted there had to be an answer. Caesar, Caesar, you can’t let a common pirate hold you and the Roman People to ransom! I curse you, Sextus Pompeius, but I curse Antonius more.
All Maecenas could do was to crawl into his litter and hope to be at the domus Livia Drusilla an hour later, escorted by his armed guard. Agrippa, alone! The mob would tear him to pieces.
The city was in turmoil, every shutter of every shop pulled down and locked; the walls were thick with graffiti, some protesting the grain prices, but most vilifying Caesar, Agrippa was quick to note as he marched down the Hill of the Bankers. Gangs roamed armed with rocks, cudgels, an occasional sword, but no one challenged him—this was a warrior, the most aggressive among them could see that at a glance. The detritus from rotten eggs and vegetables dripped down venerable bank fronts and porticoes, the stink of sewage hung on the air from chamber pots no one was courageous enough to carry to the nearest public latrine to empty; never in his most morbid dreams had Agrippa thought to see Rome so degraded, so soiled, so marred. The only thing missing was the reek of smoke; insanity hadn’t quite taken over, then. Careless of his safety, Agrippa shouldered his way through the howling crowds in the Forum, where statues had been torn down and the rich colors of the temples almost obliterated by graffiti and filth. When he reached the Ringmaker’s Steps he took them four at a time, shoving aside anyone in his path. Across the Palatine, and there in front of him stood a high, hastily assembled wall, on top of which stood a line of German guards.
“Marcus Agrippa!” one cried as he flung out an arm; the drawbridge across a wide ditch fell, the portcullis behind it was raised. By this time a loud chorus of “Marcus Agrippa!” was joined by cheers. He walked in to be surrounded by whooping Ubii.
“Keep watch, boys!” he shouted over his shoulder, flashing them a grin, and walked on into a desolation of slimy fish ponds, weeds, an abandoned garden transformed into a camp for Germans, who were not fussy.
Inside the domus Livia Drusilla he saw at once that the new wife had made her mark already. The place had changed beyond recognition. He strode into an exquisitely furnished room, its walls glowing with frescoes, its plinths and herms of beautiful marbles. Burgundinus appeared wrathfully, face wreathed in smiles as soon as he discovered who was gouging the priceless floor with hobnailed boots.
“Where is he, Burgundinus?”
“In his study. Oh, Marcus Agrippa, it’s so good to see you!”
Yes, he was in his study, but not at a battered desk hemmed in by book buckets and stands of overflowing pigeonholes. This desk was huge and made of ribboned green malachite; the archival disorder was reduced to the same neatness as Caesar’s desk had always displayed, and two scribes sat at less ornate but highly presentable desks while a clerk ambled around filing scrolls.
The face that lifted in irritation to see who disturbed him had aged, looked in its late thirties—not from lines or wrinkles, but thanks to black stains around washed-out eyes, furrows in the broad brow, an almost lipless mouth.
“Caesar!”
The malachite inkwell went flying; Octavian leaped up amid fluttering papers and bounded across the room to clutch at Agrippa in an ecstatic embrace. Then realization dawned. He stepped back, horrified. “Oh, no! Your triumph!”
Agrippa hugged him, kissed his cheeks. “There will be other triumphs, Caesar. Did you really think I’d stay outside when Rome is in so much tumult you can’t venture out? If a civilian sees my face, he doesn’t recognize it, so I came to you.”
“Where’s Maecenas?”
“Littering back,” said Agrippa, grinning.
“You mean you came without an escort?”
“No mob can face down a fully armed centurion, and that’s who they thought I was. Maecenas needed the guard more than I did.”
Octavian dashed away his tears, closed his eyes. “Agrippa, my own Agrippa! Oh, this is the turning point, I know it!”
“Caesar?” asked a new voice, low and slightly husky.
Octavian turned in Agrippa’s arms, but didn’t move from them. “Livia Drusilla, my life is complete again! Marcus has come home.”
Agrippa beheld a small oval face, its skin a flawless ivory, its mouth lushly full, its great dark eyes shining. If she found the situation strange, nothing of that showed, even in the depths of those very expressive eyes. Her face broke into smiles of genuine delight, and she put her hand lightly on Agrippa’s arm, stroking it as tenderly as a lover.
“Marcus Agrippa, how wonderful,” she said, then frowned. “But your triumph!”
“He’s given it up to see me,” Octavian said, taking his wife by one hand and putting his other arm around Agrippa’s shoulders. “Come, let’s sit somewhere more private and comfortable. Livia Drusilla has provided me with a most efficient workforce, but I have lost my isolation.”
“Is the new look of Caesar’s house your work, lady?” Agrippa asked, sinking into a gilded chair upholstered in soft purple brocade and accepting a crystal goblet of unwatered wine. He sipped, laughed. “A much better vintage than you used to serve, Caesar! I take it no water means this is a celebration?”
“None more important than your return. She’s a marvel, my Livia Drusilla.”
To Agrippa’s surprise, Livia Drusilla didn’t absent herself, though a wife should. She chose a large purple chair and sat in it with her feet tucked under her, taking a goblet from Octavian with a nod of thanks. Oho! The lady was privy to councils!
“Somehow I have to survive yet another year of this,” Octavian said, putting down his wine after that toast. “Unless you think we can move this coming year?”
“No, Caesar, we can’t. Portus Julius won’t be ready until the summer, so Sabinus said in his last letter to me, which gives me eight months to arm and train. Sextus Pompeius’s defeat has to be complete, too complete ever to see him rise again. Though from somewhere we have to find at least a hundred and fifty warships. The dockyards of Italia can’t provide enough.”
“There’s only one source able to provide them, and that is our so dear Antonius,” Octavian said bitterly. “He and he alone is the cause of all this! He has the Senate eating out of his hand, no god can tell me why! You’d think the fools would know better, living in the midst of so much agony, but no! Loyalty to Marcus Antonius counts for more than starving bellies!”
“That hasn’t changed since the days of Catulus and Scaurus
,” Agrippa said. “Are you writing to him?”
“I was, when you appeared at the door. Wasting sheet after sheet of good grade paper trying to find the right words.”
“How long is it since you’ve seen him?”
“More than a year ago, when he took Octavia and the children to Athens. I wrote last spring asking him to meet me at Brundisium, but he tricked me by coming minus his legions and so quickly on the heels of my summons that I was still in Rome waiting for his answer. So he went back to Athens and sent me a nasty letter, threatening to put my neck under his sword if I failed to turn up at our next meeting. Then he went off to Samosata, so—no meeting. I’m not even sure he’s returned to Athens.”
“Leaving that aside, Caesar, what can we do about the grain supply? Somehow we have to feed Italia, and cheaper than Maecenas says we can.”
“Livia Drusilla says I have to borrow whatever’s necessary from the plutocrats, but I shrink from that.”
Well, well, good counsel from the little black leopard! “She’s right, Caesar. Borrow rather than tax.”
Her eyes flew to Agrippa’s face, astonished; today had been a meeting she dreaded, convinced that Caesar’s most beloved friend would be her enemy—why should he not? Men didn’t welcome women in council, and while she knew that her ideas were the right ones, men like Statilius Taurus, Calvisius Sabinus, Appius Claudius, and Cornelius Gallus hated to see her star rising. To find that Agrippa was on her side was a greater gift than the child that had so far failed to come.
“They’ll soak me.”
“Better than a first-quality sponge,” Agrippa said, smiling. “However, the money is there, and until Antonius gets off his arse to regulate the East, they’re not making any profits in the East, their greatest source of revenue. They have idle capital to invest.”
“Yes, I see that,” Octavian said a little stiffly, not sure he wanted to be overwhelmed by sound advice about things he had worked out for himself. “What I dislike is paying back interest they’ll levy at twenty percent compound.”
Antony and Cleopatra Page 30
