Caesar (60 page)

Mollified, he took back his hand and sat down. “Well, all right then. But you have to see how dense you are, Porcia. You will never hear that Cato is wrong, whereas I know he's often wrong. Like this present campaign in the Forum against Caesar. What does he think he's accomplishing? All he's managing to do is frighten people, who see his passion and can't credit that it could be mistaken. Yet everything they hear about Caesar tells them that he's behaving in an absolutely normal way. Look at the panic over his bringing three legions across the Alps. But he had to bring them! And he sent two of them straight to Capua. While your father was informing anyone who'd listen that he would die sooner than give those two legions up. He was wrong, Porcia! He was wrong! Caesar did precisely as the Senate directed.”

“Yes, I agree that tata does tend to overstate things,” she said, swallowing. “But don't quarrel with him, Brutus.” A tear dropped onto her hand. “I wish you weren't going away!”

“I'm not leaving tomorrow,” he said gently. “By the time I do go, Bibulus will be home.”

“Yes, of course,” she said colorlessly, then beamed and slapped her hands on her knees. “Look at this, Brutus. I've been delving into Fabius Pictor, and I think I've found a grave anomaly. It's in the passage where he discusses the secession of the Plebs to the Aventine.” Ah, that was better! Brutus settled down happily to an examination of the text, his eyes more on Porcia's animated face than on Fabius Pictor.

But the rumors continued to fly and proliferate. Luckily the spring that year, which fell according to the calendar's summer, was halcyon; the rain fell in the right proportion, the sun shone just warmly enough, and somehow it didn't seem at all real to think of Caesar sitting up there in Italian Gaul, poised like a spider to pounce on Rome. Not that the ordinary folk of Rome were much preoccupied with such things; they adored Caesar universally, were inclined to think that the Senate treated him very shabbily indeed, and rounded off their thoughts with the conclusion that it would all work out for the best because things usually did. Among the powerful knights of the eighteen senior Centuries and their less pre-eminent junior colleagues, however, the rumors acted abrasively. Money was their sole concern, and the very slightest reference to civil war caused hair to rise and hearts to accelerate. The group of bankers who supported Caesar ardently—Balbus, Oppius and Rabirius Postumus—worked constantly in his service, talking persuasively, soothing inchoate fears, trying to make the plutocrats like Titus Pomponius Atticus see that it was not in Caesar's best interests to contemplate civil war. That Cato and the Marcelli were behaving irresponsibly and irrationally in ascribing motives to Caesar concrete evidence said he didn't have. That Cato and the Marcelli were more damaging to Rome and her commercial empire with their wild, unfounded allegations than any actions Caesar might take to protect his future career and his dignitas. He was a constitutional man, he always had been; why would he suddenly discard constitutionality? Cato and the Marcelli kept saying he would, but on what tangible evidence? There was none. Therefore, didn't it actually look as if Cato and the Marcelli were using Caesar as fuel to attain a dictatorship for Pompey? Wasn't it Pompey whose actions throughout the years smacked of unconstitutionality? Wasn't it Pompey who hankered after the dictatorship, witness his behavior after the death of Clodius? Wasn't it Pompey who had enabled the boni to impugn the dignitas and the reputation of Gaius Julius Caesar? Wasn't it Pompey behind the whole affair? Whose motives were suspect, Caesar's or Pompey's? Whose behavior in the past indicated a lust for power, Caesar's or Pompey's? Who was the real danger to the Republic, Caesar or Pompey? The answer, said Caesar's indefatigable little band of workers, always came back to Pompey. Who, taking his ease in his villa on the coast near Campanian Neapolis, fell ill. Desperately ill, said the grapevine. A good many senators and knights of the Eighteen immediately undertook a pilgrimage to Pompey's villa, where they were received with grave composure by Cornelia Metella and given a lucid explanation of her husband's extremis, followed by a firm refusal of any access to his sickbed, no matter how august the enquirer.“ I am very sorry, Titus Pomponius,” she said to Atticus, one of the first to arrive, “but the doctors forbid all visitors. My husband is fighting for his life and needs his strength for that.”

“Oh,” gasped Atticus, a mightily worried man, “we can't do without the good Gnaeus Pompeius, Cornelia!”

Which wasn't really what he wanted to say. That concerned the possibility of Pompey's being behind the public and senatorial campaign to impeach Caesar; Atticus, immensely wealthy and influential, needed to see Pompey and explain the effect all this political mudslinging was having on money. One of the troubles with Pompey concerned his own wealth and his ignorance of commerce. Pompey's money was managed for him, and all contained inside banks or devoted to properly senatorial investments having to do with the ownership of land. If he were Brutus, he would already have moved to squash the boni irascibles, for all their agitation was doing was to frighten money. And to Atticus, frightened money was a nightmare. It fled into labyrinthine shelter, buried itself in utter darkness, wouldn't come out, wouldn't do its job. Someone had to tell the boni that they were tampering with Rome's true lifeblood— money. As it was, he went away, defeated. As did all the others who came to Neapolis. While Pompey skulked in parts of his villa unavailable to the eyes or ears of visitors. Somehow the higher he had risen in Rome's scheme of things, the slimmer grew the ranks of his intimate friends. At the moment, for instance, his sole solace lay in his father-in-law, Metellus Scipio. With whom he had concocted the present ruse, of pretending to be mortally ill.“ I have to find out where I stand in people's opinions and affections,” he said to Metellus Scipio. “Am I necessary? Am I needed? Am I loved? Am I still the First Man? This will flush them out, Scipio. I've got Cornelia making a list of everyone who comes to enquire after me, together with an account of what they say to her. It will tell me everything I need to know.” Unfortunately the caliber of Metellus Scipio's brain did not extend to nuances and subtleties, so it never occurred to him to protest to Pompey that naturally everyone who came would deliver fulsome speeches of undying affection, but that what they said might not be what they thought. Nor did it occur to him that at least half of Pompey's visitors were hoping Pompey would die. So the two of them totted up Cornelia Metella's list with glee, played at dice and checkers and dominoes, then dispersed to pursue those activities they didn't have in common. Pompey read Caesar's Commentaries many times over, never with pleasure. The wretched man was more than a military genius, he was also equipped with a degree of self-confidence Pompey had never owned. Caesar didn't tear his cheeks and chest and retire to his command tent in despair after a setback. He soldiered on serenely. And why were his legates so brilliant? If Afranius and Petreius in the Spains were half as able as Trebonius or Fabius or Decimus Brutus, Pompey would feel more confident. Metellus Scipio, on the other hand, spent his private time composing delicious little playlets with nude actors and actresses, and directed them himself.

The mortal illness lasted for a month, after which, midway through Sextilis, Pompey popped himself into a litter and set out for his villa on the Campus Martius. Word of his grave condition had spread far and wide, and the country through which he traveled was liberally bedewed with his clients (not wanting to fall genuinely ill with a tertian or a quartan fever, he chose the inland, far healthier Via Latina route). They flocked to greet him, garlanded with flowers, and cheered him as he poked his head through the curtains of his litter to smile wanly and wave weakly. As he was not by nature a litter man, he decided to continue his journey in darkness, thinking to sleep some of the long, boring hours away. To discover, overjoyed, that people still came to greet him and cheer him, bearing torches to light his triumphant way.“ It's true!” he said delightedly to Metellus Scipio, who shared his roomy conveyance (Cornelia Metella, not wishing to have to fight off Pompey's amorous advances, had chosen to travel alone). “Scipio, they love me! They love me! Oh, it's true, what I've always said!”

“And what's that?” asked Metellus Scipio, yawning.“ That all I have to do to raise soldiers in Italia is to stamp my foot upon the ground.”

“Uh,” said Metellus Scipio, and fell asleep. But Pompey didn't sleep. He pulled the curtains wide enough to be seen and reclined against a huge bank of pillows, smiling wanly and waving weakly for mile after mile. It was true, it was inarguably true! The people of Italia did love him. What was he afraid of Caesar for? Caesar didn't stand a chance, even if he was stupid enough to march on Rome. Not that he would. In his heart of hearts Pompey knew very well that such was not Caesar's technique. He would choose to fight in the Senate and the Forum. And, when the time came, in the courts. For it was necessary to bring him down. On that head, Pompey owned no ideological differences with the boni; he knew that Caesar's career in the field was far from over, and that, were he not prevented, he would end in outstripping Pompey so distantly that it would be Caesar the Great—and that the Magnus would not be self-endowed. How did he know? Titus Labienus had begun to write to him. Humbly hoping that his patron, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, had long forgiven him for that deplorable slip from grace with Mucia Tertia. Explaining that Caesar had taken against him—jealousy, of course. Caesar couldn't tolerate a man who could operate alone with the dazzling success of a Titus Labienus. Thus the promised joint consulship with Caesar would not occur. For Caesar had told him as they crossed the Alps together into Italian Gaul that once the command in the Gauls was over, he would be dropping Labienus like a hot coal. But, said Labienus, marching on Rome was never an alternative in Caesar's priorities. And who would know, if Titus Labienus didn't? Not by word or look had Caesar ever indicated a wish to overthrow the State. Nor had his other legates ever referred to it, from Trebonius to Hirtius. No, what Caesar wanted to do was to have his second consulship and then embark upon a great war in the East against the Parthians. To avenge his dear dead friend Marcus Licinius Crassus. Pompey had contemplated this missive toward the end of his self-inflicted isolation from all save Metellus Scipio, though he had not mentioned the matter to his father-in-law. Verpa! Cunnus! Mentula! said Pompey to himself, grinning savagely. How dared Titus Labienus presume to think himself great enough these days to be forgiven? He wasn't forgiven. He would never be forgiven, the wife stealer! But, on the other hand, he might prove very useful. Afranius and Petreius were getting old and incompetent. Why not replace them with Titus Labienus? Who, like them, would never have the clout to rival Pompey the Great. Never be able to call himself Labienus the Great. A campaign in the East against the Parthians ... So that was where Caesar's ambitions lay! Clever, very clever. Caesar didn't want or need the headache of mastering Rome. He wanted to go into the history books as Rome's greatest-ever military man. So after the conquest of Gallia Comata—all brand-new territory—he would conquer the Parthians and add billions upon billions of iugera to Rome's provincial empire. How could Pompey measure up to that? All he'd done was to march over the same old Roman-owned or Roman-dominated ground, fight the traditional enemies, men like Mithridates and Tigranes. Caesar was a pioneer. He went where no Roman had gone before. And with Caesar in full command of those eleven—no, nine—fanatically devoted legions, there would be no defeat at Carrhae. Caesar would whip the Parthians. He'd walk to Serica, let alone India! He'd tread soil and see people even Alexander the Great had never dreamed existed. Bring back King Orodes to march in his triumphal parade. And Rome would worship him like a god. Oh yes, Caesar had to go. Had to be stripped of his army and his provinces, had to be convicted so many times over in the courts that he would never be able to show his face in Italia again. Labienus, who knew him, who had fought with him for nine years, said he would never march on Rome. A judgement which was in complete agreement with Pompey's own. Therefore, he decided, buoyed up by those cheering crowds ecstatic at his recovery, he would not move to curb the boni in the persons of Cato and the Marcelli. Let them continue. In fact, why not help them out by spreading a few rumors to the plutocrats as well as to the Senate? Like: yes, Caesar is bringing his legions across the Alps into Italian Gaul; yes, Caesar is contemplating a march on Rome! Panic the whole city into opposing anything Caesar asked for. For when the last possible moment came, that lofty patrician aristocrat who could trace his lineage back to the goddess Venus would fold his tents and retreat with massive dignity into permanent exile. In the meantime, thought Pompey, he would see Appius Claudius the Censor, and hint to him that it was perfectly safe to expel most of Caesar's adherents from the Senate. Appius Claudius would seize the chance eagerly—and go too far by trying to expel Curio, no doubt. Lucius Piso, the other censor, would veto that. Though probably not the smaller fry, knowing the indolent Lucius Piso.

Early in October came word from Labienus that Caesar had left Italian Gaul to journey with his usual fleetness all the way to the stronghold of Nemetocenna in the lands of the Belgic Atrebates, where Trebonius was quartered with the Fifth, Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh Legions. Trebonius had written urgently, said Labienus, to inform Caesar that the Belgae were contemplating another insurrection. Excellent! was Pompey's verdict. While Caesar was a thousand miles from Rome, he himself would use his minions to flood Rome with all kinds of rumors—the wilder, the better. Keep the pot bubbling, boil it over! Thus the whisper reached Atticus and others that Caesar was bringing four legions—the Fifth, the Ninth, the Tenth and the Eleventh—across the Alps to Placentia on the Ides of October, where he intended to station them and intimidate the Senate into leaving his provinces alone when the matter came up for debate again on the Ides of November. For, said Atticus in an urgent letter to Cicero, who had reached Ephesus on his journey home from Cilicia, all of Rome knew that Caesar would absolutely refuse to give up his army. Panicking, Cicero fled across the Aegaean Sea to Athens, which he reached on the fatal Ides of October. And said in his letter to Atticus that it was preferable to be beaten on the field with Pompey than to be victorious with Caesar. Laughing wryly, Atticus stared at Cicero's letter in amazement. What a way to put it! Was that what Cicero thought? Honestly? Did he genuinely think that were civil war to break out, Pompey and all loyal Romans stood no chance in the field against Caesar? An opinion, Atticus was sure, he had inherited from his brother, Quintus Cicero, who had served with Caesar through his most taxing years in Gaul of the Long-hairs. Well, if that was what Quintus Cicero thought, might it not be wise to say and do nothing to make Caesar think that Atticus was an enemy?Thus it was that Atticus spent the next few days reforming his finances and indoctrinating his senior staff; he then left for Campania to see Pompey, back in residence in his Neapolitan villa. Rome still hummed with stories about those four veteran legions stationed in Placentia—except that everyone who knew anyone in Placentia kept getting letters which swore that there were no legions anywhere near Placentia. But on the subject of Caesar, Pompey was very vague and would commit himself to no opinion. Sighing, Atticus abandoned the subject (silently vowing that he would proceed as common sense dictated and do nothing to irritate Caesar) and went instead to eulogizing Cicero's governance of Cilicia. In which he did not exaggerate; the couch general and stay-at-home fritterer had done very well indeed, from a fair, just and rational reorganization of Cilicia's finances to a profitable little war. Pompey agreed with all of it, his round, fleshy face bland—how would you react if I told you that Cicero thinks it preferable to be beaten on the field with you than to be victorious with Caesar? thought Atticus wickedly. Instead, he spoke aloud of Cicero's entitlement to a triumph for his victories in Cappadocia and the Amanus; Pompey said warmly that he deserved his triumph, and that he would be voting for it in the House. That he did not attend the critical meeting of the Senate on the Ides of November was significant; Pompey did not expect to see the Senate win, and did not wish to be humiliated personally while Curio hammered away at his same old nail—whatever Caesar gave up, Pompey should give up at one and the same moment. In which Pompey was right. The Senate got nowhere; the impasse simply continued, with Mark Antony bellowing bullishly when Curio was not yapping doggedly. The People proceeded about their daily routines without a huge interest in all this; long experience had taught them that when these internecine convulsions occurred, all the casualties and the heartaches remained the province of those at the top of the social tree. And most of them, besides, considered that Caesar would be better for Rome than the boni. In the ranks of the knights, particularly those senior enough to belong to the Eighteen, sentiments were very different—and very mixed. They stood to lose the most in the event of civil war. Their businesses would crumble, debts would become impossible to collect, loans would cease to materialize, and overseas investments would become unmanageable. The worst aspect was the uncertainty: who was right, who was speaking the truth? Were, there really four legions in Italian Gaul? And if there really were, why couldn't they be located? And why, if there were not four legions there, was this fact not made loudly public? Did the likes of Cato and the Marcelli care about anything other than their determination to teach Caesar a lesson? And what was the lesson all about anyway? What exactly had Caesar done that no one else had done? What would happen to Rome if Caesar was let stand for the consulship in absentia and extricated himself from the treason prosecutions the boni were so determined to levy against him? The answer to that, all men could see, save the boni themselves: nothing! Rome would go on in the same old way. Whereas civil war was the ultimate catastrophe. And this civil war looked as if it would be waged over a principle. Was anything more alien and less important to a businessman than a principle? Go to war over one? Insanity! So the knights began to exert pressure on susceptible senators to be nicer to Caesar. Unfortunately the hardline boni were disinclined to listen to this plutocratic lobbying, even if the rest of the Senate was; it meant nothing to Cato or the Marcelli compared to the staggering loss of prestige and influence they would suffer in all eyes if Caesar was to win his struggle to be treated in the same manner as Pompey. And what of Pompey, still dallying in Campania? Where did he truly stand? Evidence pointed to an alliance with the boni, but there were still many who believed that Pompey could be prised free of them could enough words be spoken in his reluctant ear. At the end of November the new governor of Cilicia, Publius Sestius, departed from Rome with his senior legate, Brutus. Which left a shocking vacuum in the life of his first cousin, Porcia, though not in the life of his wife, Claudia, whom he scarcely ever saw. Servilia was much thicker with her son-in-law, Gaius Cassius, than ever she had been with her son; Cassius appealed to her love of warriors, of doers, of men who would make a military mark. All of which meant that she continued discreetly to pursue her liaison with Lucius Pontius Aquila.“ I'm sure I'll see Bibulus as I go east,” said Brutus to Porcia when he went to take his leave of her. “He's in Ephesus, and I gather intends to remain there until he sees what happens in Rome—Caesar, I mean.” Though she knew it was not a right act to weep, Porcia wept bitterly. “Oh, Brutus, how will I survive without you to talk to? No one else is kind to me! Whenever I see Aunt Servilia, she nags about how I dress and how I look, and whenever I see tata he's present only in the flesh—his mind is on Caesar, Caesar, Caesar. Aunt Porcia never has time, she's too involved with her children and Lucius Domitius. Whereas you've been so kind, so tender. Oh, I will miss you!”