Colleen McCullough - 5. Caesar

By the beginning of Quinctilis everyone in Rome knew that Caesar, moving with his usual swiftness, had crossed the Alps into Italian Gaul, bringing Titus Labienus and three legions with him. Two were to go to Syria; Pompey's Sixth and his own Fifteenth, a legion without any experience in the field, for it was composed of raw recruits who had just emerged from a period of intensive training under Gaius Trebonius. The third legion Caesar brought with him was to remain in Italian Gaul: the Thirteenth, veteran and very proud of its unlucky number, which had not affected its performance in the field one iota. It contained Caesar's own personal clients, Latin Rights men from across the Padus River in Italian Gaul, and belonged to Caesar completely. Whether because of Caesar's reflexive action, a ripple of fear passed up Rome's backbone; one moment there were no legions in Italian Gaul, the next moment there were three. A nucleus of potential panic began forming in Rome. All at once men started to wonder whether the Senate was being entirely responsible in acting so provocatively toward a man who was generally agreed to be the best military man since Gaius Mar-ius or even the best military man of all time. There was Caesar without any real barrier between himself and Italia, himself and Rome. And he was an enigma. No one really knew him. He'd been away so long! Marcus Porcius Cato was shouting to all and sundry in the Forum Romanum that Caesar was intent on civil war, that Caesar was going to march on Rome, that Caesar would never part with any of his legions, that Caesar would bring the Republic down. Cato was noticed, Cato was listened to. Fear crept in, based upon nothing more tangible than a governor's moving himself as he was expected to do from one segment of his province or provinces to another. Admittedly Caesar didn't usually have a legion in constant attendance on him, even when he brought one across the Alps, and this time he was keeping the Thirteenth glued to him but what was one legion? If it hadn't been for the other two, people would have rested easier. Then came word that one of the many young Appius Claudiuses was escorting those two legions, the Sixth and the Fifteenth, to camp in Capua, there to await transshipment to the East. The sigh of relief was collective why hadn't they remembered those legions no longer were Caesar's property? That he had to bring them with him to Italian Gaul! Oh, the Gods be praised! An attitude which burgeoned when the young Appius Claudius marched the Sixth and the Fifteenth around the outskirts of Rome, and informed the Censor, head of his clan, that the troops of both legions absolutely loathed Caesar, reviled him constantly, and had been on the point of mutiny as indeed were the other legions in Caesar's army. "Isn't the old boy clever?" asked Antony of Curio. "Clever? Well, I know that, Antonius, if by the old boy you mean Caesar. Who will turn fifty in a few days not very old." "I mean all this claptrap about his legions being disaffected. Caesar's legions disaffected? Never happen, Curio, never! They'd lie down and let him shit on them. They'd die for him, every last man, including the men of Pompeius's Sixth." "Then ?" "He's diddling them, Curio. He's a sly old fox. You'd think even the Marcelli would realize that anyone can buy a young Appius Claudius. That's if said young Appius Claudius isn't pleased to co-operate through sheer love of making mischief. Caesar put him up to it. I happen to know that before he handed the Sixth and the Fifteenth over, Caesar held an assembly of the soldiers and told them how sorry he was to see them go. Then he gave every man a bonus of a thousand sesterces, pledged that they'd get their share of his booty, and commiserated with them about going back to standard army pay." "The sly old fox indeed!" said Curio. Suddenly he shivered and stared at Antony anxiously. "Antonius, he wouldn't would he?" "Wouldn't what?" asked Antony, ogling a pretty girl. "March on Rome." "Oh, yes, we all think he would if he was pushed to it," said Antony casually. "We all?" "His legates. Trebonius, Decimus Brutus, Fabius, Sextius, Sulpicius, Hirtius, da-de-da." Curio broke into a cold sweat, wiped his brow with a trembling hand. "Jupiter! Oh, Jupiter! Antonius, stop leering at women and come home with me right now!" "Why?" "So I can start coaching you in earnest, you great clod! It's up to me and then you to prevent it." "I agree, we have to get him permission to stand for the consulship in absentia. Otherwise there's going to be shit from Rhegium to Aquileia." "If Cato and the Marcelli would only shut up, there might be a chance," fretted Curio, almost running. "They're fools," said Antony contemptuously.

When the three sets of elections were held that Quinctilis, Mark Antony was returned at the top of the poll for the tribunes of the plebs, a result which didn't dismay the boni one little bit. Throughout the years Curio had always shown great ability; all Mark Antony had ever shown was the outline of his mighty penis beneath a tunic drawn taut. If Caesar hoped to replace Curio with Antony, he was insane, was the boni verdict. These elections also threw up one of the more curious aspects of Roman political life. Gaius Cassius Longinus, still covered in glory after his exploits in Syria, was returned as a tribune of the plebs. His younger brother, Quintus Cassius Longinus, was also returned as a tribune of the plebs. But whereas Gaius Cassius was staunchly boni, as befitted the husband of Brutuss sister, Quintus Cassius belonged completely to Caesar. The consuls for next year were both boni; Gaius Claudius Marcellus Minor was the senior consul, and Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Crus the junior consul. The praetors mostly supported Caesar, save for Cato's Ape, Marcus Favonius, who came in at the bottom of the poll. And, despite the efforts of Curio and Antony (now permitted to speak in the House, as a tribune of the plebs-elect), Metellus Scipio was deputed to replace Bibulus as governor of Syria. The ex-praetor Publius Sestius was to go to Cilicia to take over from Cicero. With him as his senior legate Publius Sestius was taking Marcus Junius Brutus. "What are you doing leaving Rome at a time like this?" Cato demanded of Brutus, not pleased. Brutus produced his usual hangdog look, but even Cato had come to realize that however Brutus might look, he would do what he intended to. "I must go, Uncle," he said apologetically. "Why?" "Because Cicero in governing Cilicia has destroyed the best part of my financial interests in that corner of the world." "Brutus, Brutus! You've got more money than Pompeius and Caesar combined! What's a debt or two compared with the fate of Rome?" howled Cato, exasperated. "Mark my words, Caesar is out to murder the Republic! We need every single influential man we own to counter the moves Caesar is bound to make between now and the consular elections of next year. Your duty is to remain in Rome, not gallivant around Cilicia, Cyprus, Cappadocia and wherever else you're owed money! You'd shame Marcus Crassus!" "I'm sorry, Uncle, but I have clients affected, such as Marinius and Scaptius. A man's first duty is to his clients." "A man's first duty is to his country." "My country is not in any danger." "Your country is on the brink of civil war!" "So you keep saying," sighed Brutus, "but frankly, I don't believe you. It's your personal tic, Uncle Cato, it really is." A repulsive thought blossomed in Cato's mind; he glared at his nephew furiously. "Gerrae! It's got nothing to do with your clients or unpaid debts, Brutus, has it? You're skipping off to avoid military service, just as you have all your life!" "That's not true!" gasped Brutus, paling. "Now it's my turn not to believe. You are never to be found anywhere there's the remotest likelihood of war." "How can you say that, Uncle? The Parthians will probably invade before I get to the East!" "The Parthians will invade Syria, not Cilicia. Just as they did in the summer of last year, despite all Cicero had to say in his mountainous correspondence home! Unless we lose Syria, which I very much doubt, you're as safe sitting in Tarsus as you would be in Rome. Were Rome not threatened by Caesar." "And that too is rubbish, Uncle. You remind me of Scaptius's wife, who fussed and clucked over her children until she turned them into hypochondriacs. A spot was a cancer, a headache something frightful happening inside the cranium, a twinge in the stomach the commencement of food poisoning or summer fever. Until finally she tempted Fate with all her carrying on, and one of her children died. Not from disease, Uncle, but from negligence on her part. She was busy looking in the market stalls instead of keeping her eye on him, and he ran beneath the wheels of a wagon." "Hah!" sneered Cato, very angry. "An interesting parable, nevvy. But are you sure that Scaptius's wife isn't really your own mother, who certainly turned you into a hypochondriac?" The sad brown eyes flashed dangerously; Brutus turned on his heel and walked away. Only not to go home. It was the day on which he had fallen into the habit of visiting Porcia. Who, on hearing the tale of this falling-out, huffed a huge sigh and struck her palms together. "Oh, Brutus, tata really can be irascible, can't he? Please don't take umbrage! He doesn't truly mean to hurt you. It's just that he's so so militant himself. Once he's fixed his teeth in something he can't let go. Caesar is an obsession with him." "I can excuse your father his obsessions, Porcia, but not his wretched dogmatism!" said Brutus, still vexed. "The Gods know that I cherish no love or regard for Caesar, but all he's doing is trying to survive. I hope he doesn't. But where is he different from half a dozen others I could name? None of whom marched on Rome. Look at Lucius Piso when the Senate stripped him of his command in Macedonia." Porcia eyed him in amazement. "Brutus, that's no kind of comparison! Oh, you're so politically dense! Why can't you see politics with the clarity you see business?" Stiff with anger, he got to his feet. "If you're going to try to proselytize me too, Porcia, I'm going home!" he snapped. "Oh! Oh!" Consumed with contrition, she reached out to take his hand and held it to her cheek, her wide grey eyes shining with tears. "Forgive me! Don't go home! Oh, don't go home!" 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.