John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

“That was when dictators were chosen by the Senate,” Cassius said. “Let us make no mistake about it, this dictatorship is unconstitutional, just like the dictatorship of Sulla. It is no more than a military coup. At least Sulla had the decency to step down from office once he had the constitution reordered to his liking. I do not foresee Caesar doing any such thing.”

“Not likely,” Cicero agreed, shaking his head sadly. “He has publicly declared Sulla’s abdication of office the act of a political moron.”

“What shall we do about this?” said a senator I now recognized as Cornelius Cinna, formerly Caesar’s brother-in-law.

“Do?” I said. “What can anyone do about a dictator? They are above the law and their powers override the constitution. Nobody has ever unseated a dictator.”

“But this situation cannot continue,” Cassius said. “I was at Carrhae and I want those eagles back as much as any man, but it must be done by a Roman army under constitutional command. We’ve had enough of one-man adventures in that part of the world.”

“I cannot accept even a dictator setting foreign policy that will last far beyond his own dictatorship,” Cicero said. “This has never been our way.”

With a sour feeling I saw in them the futility of the Senate, and the very reason Caesar had made himself dictator. The Senate, once the most remarkable body of men in the world, had degenerated into a pack of greedy, self-seeking politicians who had put their own narrow, selfish interests ahead of the common good of Rome. Even the ones like this lot, who were better than most, could only look back to some sort of idealized past with a vague notion of restoring the good old days.

Caesar was a man with a different vision. He saw the Senate as a futile body, so he ignored it or made use of it as he saw fit. He saw that the day of the old Republic was over and he replaced it with one-man rule. Since he was well aware that he was the best man in Rome, he saw no reason why he should not be that ruler.

“Here’s Antonius,” somebody muttered. The seditious talk silenced. That is how serious these men were. The great Antonius swaggered up to us, his toga draped carelessly. He only wore one to formal occasions like a Senate meeting, preferring to go about in a tunic that was briefer than most, the better to show off his magnificent physique. He had a wonderful build and a great many battle scars, and was inordinately proud of both, as well as of that endowment of which Fulvia had spoken.

“Well, it looks official now,” Antonius said without greeting anyone formally. “No turning back from this war now that Caesar’s dressed that Greekling down so publicly.”

“You didn’t find it rude?” Cicero said dryly.

“Rude? You can’t be rude to an enemy. You can speak forcefully, though.”

“On a basis of forcefulness, then,” Cicero said, “I cannot find fault with the proceedings.”

“I think Caesar should have beheaded the lot,” Antonius said, “then pickled the heads in brine and send them to Phraates. That’s the sort of language a Parthian understands.”

“Or an Antonius,” Cicero said, “but, as a wise dispensation of our ancestors would have it, Rome can have only one dictator at a time.”

“Of course there can be only one dictator,” Antonius said. “What use would it be to have two?”

“What, indeed?” said Cicero, with the air of a man hurling catapult stones at a rabbit. The others suppressed grins, but I watched Antonius and did not like what I saw. His own little smile of amusement was confident. He was far shrewder than his enemies guessed and his show of genial boneheadedness was a pose.

“Will he take you with him, Marcus?” I asked.

His expression soured. “No, it’s still the city prefecture. Calpurnius and Cassius are to go, though.”

“You’ll have your chance,” Calpurnius Piso said. “Once Caesar has added Parthia to the empire, he may want to take India.”

“That would be something,” Antonius said, brightening. “Awful long march, though.”

In time we went off in search of lunch. A great many taverns had sprung up all around Pompey’s theater complex. I joined a couple of senators of no great reputation at a table beneath an awning and ordered heated, spiced wine. The day was cool but clear, the air free of the many stenches that pervade Rome in the summer. Hermes found me there just as a heaping platter of sausages arrived. He had spent the morning exercising at the Statilian school and upon arrival he sat, snatched up a sausage and bit it in two all in a single motion.

“Did you speak with Asklepiodes?” I asked him.

He swallowed. “I did. The old boy’s at his wits’ end. He can’t stand it that somebody’s found a way to kill people that he can’t understand. He keeps wailing that he needs to find something he calls the fulcrum. Half the boys have sore necks because he’s been experimenting on them.”

“It’s good to have a dedicated researcher,” I remarked.

“What’s all this, Metellus?” asked one of the senators, so I had to give them a shortened version of my problem.

“Why does Caesar care so much about it?” said the other senator. “They were just foreigners.”

“He has a way of taking things personally,” I told them.

After lunch I went back to the Senate chamber Pompey had built into his theater complex. Several senators were seated on the bench once occupied by the tribunes of the people, unoccupied since the dictatorship usurped their power of veto.

“You look like a pack of schoolboys about to be disciplined by the master,” I observed.

“I expect he plans to assign us parts of Parthia to govern, as soon as he’s conquered the place,” said Caius Aquilius, an acerbic man.

“I’d rather have Egypt,” said Sextus Numerius, “but it’ll probably go to his brat, Caesarion, when the boy’s older. A Roman general has never fathered a king of Egypt before, but Caesar has no respect for precedent.”

These men belonged to a generation that never hesitated to speak out about their leaders. Even a common Forum idler would berate a consul to his face. All that is gone now.

“Decius Caecilius!” came Caesar’s voice from within. I left the others and found Caesar seated by Pompey’s statue, a couple of folding desks nearby, piled with papers, scrolls, and wax tablets. Two of his secretaries stood by with writing kits. He could wear out whole relays of secretaries with his dictation of speeches, endless letters, and dispatches. Still, he found time to write poems and plays. The latter were not distinguished, though. Caesar’s gift was for the prose narrative, at which he was peerless.

“Caesar wishes?” I said.

“Caesar wishes you would find this killer so Caesar can execute him. Caesar would also like very much to know what all this is about.” No, he was not in a good mood.

“I fear my investigation is not complete, but I have isolated some factors that keep turning up too often for coincidence.”

“Factors such as?”

“Such as astronomers as opposed to astrologers and their manifold differences, native Romans and foreigners and even pseudo-foreigners, certain great ladies and their social circles-”

“Great ladies?” he said in a leaden tone that told me to tread carefully.

“Exactly. Including one whose name I rather expect you will prefer not to hear.”

“Just tell me Calpurnia is not involved.” I supposed that he was still going by that absurd Caesar’s-wife-must-be-above-suspicion nonsense.

“Her name has not come up in any capacity. Actually, I have no real proof that any of these people were involved in the murders, only that they keep appearing in my investigation so I suspect that I may have reason to look into them more closely.”