The October Horse (51 page)

Skin tight and prickling, Sextus broke free of the grip and reversed it. “Ny-Ny!” he cried, a small child again. “That's absolutely ridiculous! Nothing is going to happen to you!”

“I have a premonition.”

“You and every other man going into battle!”

“I agree that it may be a fancy, but what if it isn't? I don't want my darling Scribonia to fall captive to Caesar, she has no money and no relatives on Caesar's side.” Gnaeus's blue eyes held a desperate and convinced sincerity that Sextus had seen before, in his father's eyes when he had spoken of fleeing to far-off Serica. “Somehow, Sextus, I don't have any premonition about you. Whether we win or lose the fight with Caesar, you'll live and escape. Please, I beg of you, take Scribonia with you! Have our father's grandchildren by her, for I haven't managed to. Say you will! Promise!”

Not wanting Gnaeus to see his tears, Sextus embraced him, a convulsion of love and sorrow. “I promise, Ny-Ny.”

“Good. Now let's see what Labienus has to say.”

The war council agreed that the army should leave the vicinity of Corduba and move south to lure Caesar farther away from his bases and his supplies. To Gnaeus Pompey, the profoundest shock came from Labienus, who refused to take field command.

“I don't have Caesar's luck,” he said simply. “It's taken me two battles to see it, but I do now. Every time the strategy has been left up to me, we go down. So now it's your turn, Gnaeus Pompeius. I'll command the cavalry and do whatever you order.”

Pompey the Great's elder son stared at the greying Labienus in horror; if this battered, aging eagle of a man could say that, what was going to happen? Well, he knew what was going to happen. Labienus might blame it on Caesar's luck, but Gnaeus Pompey thought it was more Caesar's ability.

An assumption confirmed five days into March, when the battle came on near a town called Soricaria. Gnaeus Pompey discovered that he didn't have his father's skills or instincts when it came to war on land. He and his infantry went down badly, but the engagement wasn't decisive despite the Republican losses. Gnaeus Pompey drew off to lick his wounds, his confidence further eroded when a slave reported to him that his Spanish tribunes and soldiers were sneaking away. Not sure if it was the right thing to do, he had the would-be deserters detained overnight; in the morning, shrugging his shoulders, he let them go. If men weren't willing to fight, why keep them?

“There are too few of us dedicated to the cause,” he said to Sextus, eyes shining with tears. “There's no one on the face of the globe has the genius to beat Caesar, and I'm tired.” His hand went out, gave Sextus a small paper. “This arrived from Caesar at dawn. I haven't shown it to Labienus or Attius Varus yet, but I must.”

To Gnaeus Pompeius, Titus Labienus, the legates and men of the Republican army: Caesar's clemency is no more. Let this communication serve notice of that fact upon you. There will be no more pardons, even for men who have never been pardoned. The Spanish levies will be considered equally culpable and will suffer accordingly, as will all the towns that have assisted the Republican cause. Any men of an age to fight who are found in any towns will be executed without trial.

“Caesar's terribly angry!” said Sextus in a whisper. “Oh, Gnaeus, I feel as if we've kicked a hornet's nest like a toy ball! Why is he so angry? Why?”

“I have no idea,” said Gnaeus, and went to show the note to Labienus and Attius Varus.

Labienus knew. Brow glistening with sweat, he looked at the two Pompeys out of stony black eyes. “He's reached the end of his tether. The last time he did that was at Uxellodunum, where he amputated the hands of four thousand Gauls and sent them to beg from one end of Gaul to the other.”

“Ye gods, why?” asked Sextus, appalled.

“To show Gaul that if it continued to resist, there would be no more mercy. Eight years, he thought, was enough mercy. You're of an age to remember Caesar's temper, Gnaeus. When he reaches the end of his tether, he breaks it. Nothing can break him.”

“What should I do?” asked Gnaeus.

“Read it out to the army just before we fight.” Labienus squared his shoulders. “Tomorrow we look for the right place to give battle. We fight to the death, and I for one will make it the hardest battle of Caesar's unparalleled career.”

•      •      •

They found their ground near the town of Munda, on the road from Astigi to the coast at Calpe, the Pillar of Hercules on the Spanish side of the straits. A low mountain pass, Munda offered the Republicans excellent downhill terrain; for Caesar, who ran up the battle flag joyously when he arrived, an uphill fight. It was Caesar's plan to hold his position with infantry until his huge cavalry force, massed on his left wing, could roll up the Republican right and come around behind the whole Republican army. Not easy with uphill terrain and an enemy served formal notice that there would be no quarter during battle, no clemency after battle.

The two sides met shortly after dawn, and what fell out was a grim, interminably long, bloody engagement of the most basic kind. There were no opportunities for brilliant or innovative tactics at Munda, perhaps the most straightforward battle Caesar had ever fought. It was also the one he came closest to losing, for the Republicans refused to yield ground and wouldn't permit Caesar to deploy his cavalry. Munda was a slugging match, toe-to-toe, with Caesar, fighting uphill with four fewer legions of foot, severely disadvantaged. Gnaeus Pompey's troops had taken Caesar's message to heart and fought doggedly, desperately.

Eight hours later and Munda was still not decided. Sitting Toes atop a good observation mound, Caesar saw his front line begin to waver and break; he was down off Toes in an instant, took his shield, drew his sword and pushed his way through the ranks to the front line, where the Tenth wasn't holding.

“Come on, you mutinous cunni, they're mere children!” he shrieked, laying about him. “If you can't do better than this, then it's the last day of life for you and me both, because I'll die alongside you!” The Tenth responded, closed ranks, and struggled on with Caesar in their midst.

Thus, with sunset imminent and no decision in sight, it was Quintus Pedius on the observation mound. Caesar-trained, he saw the cavalry's chance and ordered it to charge Gnaeus Pompey's right, a young tribune named Salvidienus Rufus in the lead. The Gauls, strengthened by a thousand Germans, followed Salvidienus, crashed into Labienus's horse, rolled the flank up, and fell on Gnaeus Pompey's rear.

As darkness fell, the bodies of 30,000 Republicans and their Spanish allies littered the field. Of Caesar's Tenth Legion, hardly a man survived. They had finally expiated mutiny. Titus Labienus and Publius Attius Varus fell in battle, quite deliberately, whereas the two Pompeys got away.

Gnaeus fled to Hispalis and tried to find shelter there, but Caesennius Lento, a minor legate of Caesar's, pursued him, killed him, cut off his head and nailed it up in the marketplace. Gaius Didius, mopping up, found it and sent it to Caesar, who he knew would not be pleased at this barbarity; Caesennius Lento was going to experience a rapid fall from Caesar's favor for this deed.

•      •      •

Almost blinded by fatigue, Sextus scrambled on to a riderless horse and instinctively headed for Corduba, where Gnaeus had left Scribonia. Obliged to slink from place to place because the Spanish were heartily ruing their choice of the Republicans, Sextus had ridden over a hundred circuitous miles before he saw Corduba in the distance; it was the second night after Munda.

The noise of a party trotting down the road sent him into a grove of trees, from which he peered into the moonlit expanse as the men passed him by. There, high on a spear, he saw the head of his brother, glaucous eyes rolled upward at the sky, mouth drawn into a grimace of pain. Ny-Ny, Ny-Ny!

Gnaeus's premonition had been a true one. My father, now my brother. Both headless. Is decapitation to be my fate too? If so, then I swear by Sol Indiges, Tellus and Liber Pater that I will outlive Caesar and be a merciless enemy to his successors. For the Republic will never return, I know it in my bones. My father was right to think of fleeing to Serica, but it is too late for that. I am going to remain in the world of Our Sea—but on it. Gnaeus still has his fleets in the Baleares. Picus, our own Picentine deity, preserve his fleets for me!

Outside the gates of Corduba he found Gnaeus Pompeius Philip, the same freedman retainer who had burned his father's body on the beach at Pelusium, and left Cornelia Metella's service to be with the two sons in Spain. Armed with a lamp, walking up and down, too elderly to attract any notice.

“Philip!” Sextus whispered.

The freedman fell upon his shoulder and wept. “Domine, they have killed your brother!”

“Yes, I know. I saw him. Philip, I promised Gnaeus that I would take care of Scribonia. Have they detained her yet?”

“No, domine. I have hidden her.”

“Can you smuggle her out to me? With a little food? I'll try to find a second horse.”

“There is a conduit through the walls, domine. I will bring her within an hour.” Philip turned and vanished.

Sextus used the time to prowl in search of horses; like most cities, Corduba was not equipped with much stabling within its walls, and he knew exactly where Corduban mounts were kept. When Philip returned with Scribonia and her maidservant, Sextus was ready.

The poor, pretty little girl was rocked by grief and clung to him in a frenzy.

“No, Scribonia, there's no time for that! Nor can I take your maid. It's you and I alone. Now dry your eyes. I've found you a gentle old horse, all you have to do is sit astride it and hang on. Come, be brave for Gnaeus's sake.”

Philip had brought him the kind of clothing a Spanish man would wear, and had made Scribonia wear something unremarkable. The two of them tried to put her on the horse, but she refused—oh, no, it was too immodest to sit astride anything! Women! So Sextus had to find her a donkey, which took time. Eventually he was able to kiss Philip goodbye, take the halter of Scribonia's donkey, and ride off into the last of the darkness. Just as well Gnaeus's wife was pretty; her mind was about the size of a pea.

They hid by day and rode by night on local tracks, passed to the coast well above New Carthage, and headed into Nearer Spain, Pompey the Great's old fief. Philip had given Sextus a bag of money, so when the food ran out they bought more from lonely farmhouses as they worked their way the hundreds of miles north, skirting around Caesar's occupation forces. Once they crossed the Iberus River, Sextus sighed with relief; he knew exactly where he was going. To the Laccetani, among whom his father had kept his horses for years. He and Scribonia would be safe there until Caesar and his minions left the Spains. Then he would go to Maior, the big Balearic isle. Take command of Gnaeus's fleets, and marry Scribonia.

•      •      •

“I think we may safely conclude that Munda was the end of all Republican resistance,” Caesar said to Calvinus as they rode for Corduba. “Labienus dead at last. Still, it was a good battle. I would never ask for a better. I fought on the field among my men, and they're the ones I remember.” He stretched, winced in pain. “However, I confess that at fifty-four, I feel it.” His voice grew colder. “Munda also solved my problem with the Tenth. What very few are left will be in no mood to dispute whereabouts I choose to settle them.”

“Where will you settle them?” Calvinus asked.

“Around Narbo.”

“Word of Munda will reach Rome by the end of March,” Calvinus said with some pleasure. “When you return, you'll find Rome has accepted the inevitable. The Senate will probably vote you in as dictator for life.”

“They can vote me whatever they like,” Caesar said, sounding indifferent. “This time next year, I'll be on my way to Syria.”

“Syria?”

“With Bassus occupying Apameia, Cornificius occupying Antioch, and Antistius Vetus on his way to govern and see what he can do to sort the mess out, the answer is obvious. The Parthians are bound to invade within two years. Therefore I must invade the Kingdom of the Parthians first. I have a desire to emulate Alexander the Great, conquer from Armenia to Bactria and Sogdiana, Gedrosia and Carmania to Mesopotamia, and throw India in for good measure,” said Caesar calmly. “The Parthians have learned to covet territory west of the Euphrates, therefore we must learn to covet territory east of the Euphrates.”

“Ye gods, you're talking a minimum of five years away!” gasped Calvinus. “Can you afford to leave Rome to her own devices for so long, Caesar? Look what happened when you disappeared in Egypt, and that was for a matter of months, not years. Caesar, you can't expect Rome to thrive while you gad off conquering!”

“I am not,” said Caesar through his teeth, “gadding off! I am surprised, Calvinus, that you haven't yet grasped the fact that civil wars cost money—money Rome doesn't have! Money that I must find in the Kingdom of the Parthians!”

•      •      •

They entered Corduba without a fight; the city opened its gates and begged for mercy, some of Caesar's famous clemency. It did not receive any. Caesar rounded up every man of military age within it and executed them on the spot, then ordered the city to pay a fine as big as the one levied on Utica.

A severe lung inflammation had struck Gaius Octavius the day before he was due to leave for Spain to serve as Caesar's personal contubernalis, so it was not until midway through February that he was well enough to quit Rome, and then under strong protest from his mother. The calendar was in perfect step with the seasons for the first time in a hundred years, so setting forth in February meant snowy mountain passes and bitter winds.

“You won't get there alive!” Atia cried despairingly.

“Yes, Mama, I will. What harm can I come to in a good mule carriage with hot bricks and plenty of rugs?”

Thus, over her protests, the young man set off, discovering as he progressed that a journey at this time of year (provided he kept warm) did not provoke the asthma, as he had learned to call his malady. Caesar had sent Hapd'efan'e to see him, and he had been given a mine of sensible advice to follow. With snow on the roads, there was no dust or pollen in the air, the mule hair didn't fly, and the cold was crisp rather than damp. He found to his pleasure that when the carriage became stuck in snow halfway through the Mons Genava Pass on the Via Domitia, he was able to take a shovel and help clear a way for it, and that he felt better for the exercise. The only respiratory distress he suffered came as he negotiated the causeway through the marshes at the mouth of the Rhodanus River, but that lasted a mere hundred miles. At the top of the pass through the coastal Pyrenees he paused to look at Pompey the Great's trophies, growing battered and tattered by the weather, then descended into Nearer Spain of the Laccetani to find an early spring. Even so, he experienced no asthma attack; the spring was fairly wet and windless.

At Castulo he learned that there had been a decisive battle at Munda and that Caesar was in Corduba, so to Corduba he went.

He arrived on the twenty-third day of March to find the city a reeking mess of blood and the smoke from dozens of multiple funeral pyres, but luckily the governor's palace sat in a citadel above the aftermath of what he assumed had been mass executions. Surprised at his own sinew, he found that he could view what he saw with equanimity; at least in that respect he didn't seem to be less than other men, a fact that pleased him very much. Very conscious that his looks branded him a pretty weakling, he had been terrified that the sight and smell of slaughter would unman him.

Inside the palace foyer sat a young man in military dress, apparently doing duty as a kind of reception or filtration unit; the sentries outside, observing the richness of Octavius's small entourage and private carriage, had let him through unchallenged, but this youth was obviously not prepared to be so obliging.

“Yes?” he barked, looking up from beneath bushy brows.

Octavius stared at him wordlessly. Here was a soldier in the making! Exactly what Octavius himself yearned to be, yet never would be. As he rose to his feet he revealed that his height was up there with Caesar's, that his shoulders were like twin hills and his neck as thick and corded as a bull's. But all that was as nothing compared to his face, strikingly handsome yet absolutely manly; a thatch of fairish hair, bushy dark brows, stern and deeply set hazel eyes, a fine nose, a strong firm mouth and chin. His bare arms were muscular, his hands the kind of big, well-shaped members that suggested he was capable of doing forceful or sensitive work with them.

“Yes?” he asked again, more mildly, a trace of amusement in his eyes. An Alexander type, he was thinking of the stranger (“beauty” was not a word in his vocabulary for describing males), but very delicate and precious looking.

“I beg your pardon,” the visitor said courteously, yet with a faint trace of kingliness. “I am to report to Gaius Julius Caesar. I am his contubernalis.”

“What great aristocrat sent you?” the reception committee asked. “You'll have a hard time of it once he sets eyes on you.”

Octavius smiled, which removed the touch of royalty from his expression. “Oh, he already knows what I look like. He asked for me himself.”

“Oh, family! Which one are you?”

“My name is Gaius Octavius.”

“Doesn't mean a thing to me.”

“What's your name?” Octavius asked, very drawn to him.

“Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. Quintus Pedius's contubernalis.”

“Vipsanius?” Octavius asked, brows knitted. “What a peculiar nomen. Whereabouts do you come from?”

“Samnite Apulia, but the name's Messapian. I'm usually just called by my cognomen, Agrippa.”

“ 'Born feet first.' You don't look as if you limp.”

“My feet are perfect. What's your cognomen?”

“I have none. I'm simply Octavius.”

“Up the stairs, down the corridor to the left, third door.”

“Will you watch my stuff until I can collect it?”

The “stuff” was coming in; Agrippa eyed the new contubernalis ironically. He had enough “stuff” to be a senior legate. Which member of the family was he? Some sort of remote cousin-by-marriage, no doubt. Seemed nice enough—not conceited, yet in an odd way he had a high opinion of himself. A potential military man he was certainly not! If he reminded Agrippa of anyone, it was of the fellow in the story about Gaius Marius—a cousin-by-marriage of Marius's who had been killed by a ranker soldier for making homosexual advances. Instead of executing the soldier, Marius had decorated him! Not that this young fellow quite suggested that.

Gaius Octavius . . . Latium, for sure. There were plenty of Octavii in the Senate, even among the consuls. Agrippa shrugged and went back to checking his list of the executed.

•      •      •

“Come,” said Caesar's voice when Octavius knocked.

The face Caesar turned to the door was flinty, but softened when its eyes took in who stood there. The pen went down, he rose. “My dear nephew, you lasted the distance. I'm very glad.”

“I'm glad too, Caesar. I'm just sorry I missed the battle.”

“Don't be. It wasn't one of my tactical finest, and I lost too many men. Therefore I hope it isn't my last battle. You seem well, but I'll have Hapd'efan'e see you to make sure. Much snow in the passes?”

“Mons Genava, yes, but the Pyreneae Pass was fairly good.” Octavius sat down. “You were looking particularly grim when I came in, Uncle.”

“Have you read Cicero's 'Cato'?”

“That piece of spiteful twaddle? Yes, it enlivened my sickbed in Rome. I hope you're answering it?”

“That was what I was doing when you knocked.” Caesar sighed. “People like Calvinus and Messala Rufus don't think I should deign to answer. They believe anything I write will be called petty.”

“They're probably right, but it still has to be answered. To ignore it is to admit there's truth in it. The people who will call it petty won't want to believe your side anyway. Cicero has charged you with permanently killing the democratic process—a Roman's right to run his own life without interference of any kind—and Cato's death. Later on, when I have the money, I'll deal with it by buying up every copy of the 'Cato' in existence and burning the lot,” said Octavius.

“What an interesting ploy! I could do that myself.”

“No, people would guess who was behind it. Let me do it at some time in the future, after the sensation has died down. How are you approaching your refutation?”

“With a few well-aimed barbs at Cicero to begin with. From them, I pass to assassinating Cato's character better than Gaius Cassius did Marcus Crassus's. From the stinginess to the wine to the tame philosophers to the disgraceful way he treated his wives, it will all be there,” said Caesar, a purr in his voice. “I am sure that Servilia will be happy to furnish me with the less well-known incidents that have dotted Cato's life.”

•      •      •

Which was the commencement of a cadetship for Gaius Octavius that was far removed from the usual. Hoping that he would have an opportunity to further his acquaintance with the fascinating Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, Octavius discovered the day after he arrived that Caesar had other ideas than permitting this contubernalis to associate with his fellows.

Once Fortuna landed Caesar in a place, he refused to quit it until it was properly organized. In the case of Further Spain, long a Roman province, the work Caesar undertook was mostly the establishment of Roman colonies. Save for the Fifth Alauda and the Tenth, all the legions he had brought with him to Spain were to be settled in the Further province on generous allotments of very good land taken from Spanish owners who had sided with the Republicans. A colony for Rome's urban poor was to be founded at Urso, rejoicing in the name Colonia Genetiva Julia Urbanorum, but the rest were for veteran soldiers. One was near Hispalis, one near Fidentia, two near Ucubi, and three near New Carthage. Four more were to the west in the lands of the Lusitani. Every colony was to have the full Roman citizenship, and freedmen were to be allowed to sit on the governing council, the latter provision very rare.

It became Octavius's job to accompany Caesar in his galloping gig as he went from one site to the next, supervising the division of land, making sure that those who would carry on with the work knew how to do it, issuing the charters outlining colonial laws, bylaws and ordinances, and personally choosing the first lot of citizens who would sit on each governing council. Octavius understood that he was on trial: not only was his competence under review, so too was his health.

“I hope,” he said to Caesar as they returned from Hispalis, “that I'm of some help to you, Uncle.”

“Remarkably so,” said Caesar, sounding a little surprised. “You have a mind for minutiae, Octavius, and a genuine pleasure in what many men would deem the more boring aspects of this work. If you were lethargic, I'd call you an ideal bureaucrat, but you aren't a scrap slothful. In ten years' time, you'll be able to run Rome for me while I do the things I'm better suited for than running Rome. I don't mind drafting the laws to make her a more functional and functioning place, but I fear I'm not really very suited for staying in one place for years at a time, even if the place is Rome. She rules my heart, but not my feet.”

By this time they stood on very comfortable terms, and had quite forgotten that more than thirty years lay between them. So Octavius's luminous grey eyes lit with laughter, and he said, “I know, Caesar. Your feet have to march. Can't you postpone the Parthian expedition until I'm a little further along the way to being of real use to you? Rome wouldn't lie down under a mere youth, but I doubt that those you'll have to depute to govern in your absence will lie down either.”

“Marcus Antonius,” said Caesar.

“Quite so. Or Dolabella. Calvinus perhaps, but he's not an ambitious enough man to want the job. And Hirtius, Pansa, Pollio and the rest don't have good enough ancestors to keep Antonius or Dolabella in their place. Must you cross the Euphrates so soon?”

“There are only two places with the wealth to drag Rome out of her present precarious financial position, nephew—Egypt and the Kingdom of the Parthians. For obvious reasons I can't touch Egypt, therefore it has to be the Kingdom of the Parthians.”

Octavius put his head back against the seat and turned his face toward the flying countryside, unwilling to let Caesar see it in case it betrayed his inner thoughts. “In that respect, I understand why it has to be the Kingdom of the Parthians. After all, Egypt's wealth can't possibly compete.”

A statement which caused Caesar to laugh until he wiped away tears of mirth. “If you'd seen what I've seen, Octavius, you couldn't say that.”

“What have you seen?” Octavius asked, looking like a boy. “The treasure vaults,” said Caesar, still chuckling. And that would do for the moment. Hasten slowly.

•      •      •

“What a weird job you've got,” said Marcus Agrippa to Octavius later that day. “More a secretary's than a cadet's, isn't it?”

“To each his own,” said Octavius, not resenting the comment. “My talents aren't military, but I think I do have some gifts for government, and working with Caesar so closely is an education in that respect. He talks to me about everything he does, and I—why, I listen very hard.”

“You never told me he's your real uncle.”

“Strictly speaking, he isn't. He's my great-uncle.”

“Quintus Pedius says you're his favorite of favorites.”

“Then Quintus Pedius is indiscreet!”

“I daresay he's your first cousin or something. He mutters to himself sometimes,” Agrippa said, trying to patch up his own indiscretion. “Are you here for a while?”

“Yes, for two nights.”

“Then come and mess with us tomorrow. We don't have any money, so the food's not much good, but you're welcome.”

“Us” turned out to be Agrippa and a military tribune named Quintus Salvidienus Rufus, a red-haired Picentine in his middle to late twenties.

Salvidienus eyed Octavius curiously. “Everybody talks about you,” he said, making room for the guest by shoving various bits of military impedimenta off a bench on to the floor.

“Talks about me? Why?” asked Octavius, perching on the bench, an item of furniture he had had little acquaintance with before.

“You're Caesar's favorite, for one thing. For another, our boss Pedius says you're delicate—can't ride a horse or do proper military duty,” Salvidienus explained.

A noncombatant brought in the food, which consisted of a tough boiled fowl, a mush of chickpea and bacon, some reasonable bread and oil, and a big dish of superb Spanish olives.

“You don't eat much,” Salvidienus observed, wolfing food.

“I'm delicate,” said Octavius, a little waspishly.

Agrippa grinned, slopped wine into Octavius's beaker. When the guest sipped it, then abandoned it, his grin grew wider. “No taste for our wine?” he asked.

“I have no taste for wine at all. Nor does Caesar.”

“You're awfully like him in a funny way,” Agrippa said.

Octavius's face lit up. “Am I? Am I really?”

“Yes. There's something of him in your face, which is more than I can say for Quintus Pedius. And you're slightly regal.”

“I've had a different upbringing,” Octavius explained. “Old Pedius's father was a Campanian knight, so he grew up down there. Whereas I've been brought up in Rome. My father died some years ago. My stepfather is Lucius Marcius Philippus.”