‘The murderers are where I can catch them. They can’t get away. I am doing nothing because no one has given me orders. I am proconsul in Gaul, but that gives me no right to rule in Rome. Antonius must make the next move, and I believe his messenger is now waiting at the other bridge. I am glad you came back, but yesterday it was only common sense to send you away. I shall try to get home for supper, and then we can talk. The house has been guarded, and you will find it unharmed.’
The message from the Consul was laconic. ‘You have done well. Continue your patrols. This afternoon there is an assembly of the people, tomorrow a meeting of the Senate.’
Lepidus hastened to change into his toga. There were still no litters in the streets, and with a small bodyguard he walked to the Forum.
The great square was packed with a dense but orderly crowd, and he saw with satisfaction that his three cohorts stood where they could intervene if needed. He looked curiously at the Consul, high on the speaker’s platform. Antonius was said to be the most gallant warrior in Rome, but for the last twenty-four hours he had been too frightened to do anything; perhaps to a man who could face hostile swords with fortitude hidden daggers were far more terrifying. Certainly Antonius had been drinking. There were shadows under his eyes, his nose shone red from white cheeks, he looked as though he had just been sick and would be sick again in the next ten minutes. In a hoarse whisper he called the meeting to order, and prepared to speak.
A tribune of the people intervened, calling on the proconsul Marcus Aemilius Lepidus to address the meeting. Tribunes were entitled to upset the agenda of the assembly; in fact their chief constitutional duty was to be a nuisance to the administration.
When a tribune commanded any right-minded Roman obeyed. Lepidus climbed on the platform and cleared his throat.
The tribune’s intervention was a compliment to his steadfast behaviour in a difficult situation; it was another feather in the cap of Lepidus, Consular, Imperator, Triumphator. He was duly grateful. It was an infernal nuisance, all the same; for he had nothing prepared, and he did not know what line the Consul intended to take.
He began by lamenting the murder of Caesar, and that went down very well. The crowd seemed to be solidly Popular, though he could recognize a few reputed Optimates. Only two days ago he, Lepidus, had walked in this very Forum with the noble Dictator; now Caesar was no more. Consider the mutability of human affairs! Anyone who had undergone a rhetorical training could keep up that kind of thing for hours; but the crowd, expecting something more specific, grew restless. He would have to advise on the punishment of the murderers, and still he did not know the Consul’s views. But there was another point he might dwell on: the murder of Caesar had been sacrilege also. He could fill up time with an excursus on the wickedness of shedding the blood of the Pontifex Maximus, with copious reference to past holders of the great office, including his own great-great-grandfather. But when he spoke of his famous ancestor there was an interruption; a small group, standing all together in the crowd, shouted in unison: ‘Lepidus Pontifex Maximus!’
Here was something he understood. He was a veteran of the Forum. He looked keenly at the interrupters. They had been hired to shout that, for only a hired gang would be so single-minded. Here was a standard political gambit; who was behind it?
Respectable middle-of-the-road Senators, he concluded; neither Caesarians nor assassins, but men who wanted concord in the republic. He recognized some of Cicero’s hired claque. The meaning of the outcry was obvious. If now he spoke for peace, in due time the Senate would see that he was rewarded with the vacant office of Pontifex Maximus. It seemed a fair deal. He decided to carry out his side of the bargain.
Insensibly his eulogy of Caesar changed into a eulogy of Rome. His friends and fellow-citizens had conquered the world. Why? Because, guided by their sacred constitution, they lived together in concord. Murder must be punished, of course. But the murderers were a small unrepresentative band, not the Optimate party as a whole. The Populars should join with their brethren in the Senate; especially during this crisis, with the Parthians menacing the east, Rome needed concord above all things.
It was not a good speech, and it went on far too long. But a bored assembly is a peaceful assembly. When he concluded the perfunctory applause was quiet and mannerly. Immediately the Consul stood forward in his place.
Marcus Antonius always went down well in the assembly, though in the Senate his levity sometimes jarred on his hearers. He spoke even more strongly in favour of peace. Rome had suffered a great disaster, but without the guiding hand of Caesar concord was necessary as never before. Lepidus noted that he did not threaten even the assassins. Apparently the government had decided that it was no good crying over spilt milk. Luckily his own speech could be made to fit in with this unexpected policy. While Antonius was still speaking he slipped quietly away.
The Aemilian mansion had not been pillaged after all, and most of the servants had returned; only very foolhardy slaves would try to escape from an owner who commanded the only military force near Rome. The butler was there to receive him, and a scratch dinner had been prepared. The boys ate in another room with their pedagogue, while the lady Junia dined alone with her husband.
Lepidus could describe exactly what had passed in the Forum; this was a world he understood, down to the last whispered hint from a minor gangster to a supernumerary lictor. Junia, though of course she had never heard a speech in the assembly, was also familiar with the strategy of domestic politics. They were agreed on the significance of the meeting.
‘After all,’ said Junia, summing up when he had finished, ‘Caesar was murdered by his own followers. No one would call Cassius and Decimus Brutus Optimates. Of course my silly brother was one of the ringleaders. I see now that he is wicked as well as foolish. Naturally the Popular mob blames the Optimates as a whole; so the more sensible Optimate leaders are now for peace at any price. But why should Antonius the Consul help them to the peace they need? That is the oddest part of the affair.’
‘Well, why not?’ answered her husband. ‘He is Consul, and without a colleague. He cannot rise higher than that. He might have led the mob to the massacre of every noble in Rome, but what would he gain by it? He could hardly keep all the plunder for himself, and if all his social equals were dead there would be no one to dine with him when he feels like giving a party.’
‘But Antonius is throwing away his chance of the Dictatorship. He inherited the Caesarian party, without doing any work to get it. Why won’t he take his chance?’
‘Perhaps he is not so fond of power as you suppose. Caesar was supreme, and he had to work hard every day. Antonius would not like that. Besides, in war there is always the chance that the other side may win. If he makes an alliance with the Optimates he must work with equal colleagues; but he will still be the most important man in the republic, as great as Pompeius Maximus at his greatest. I suppose that is enough to satisfy him.’
‘It won’t satisfy Fulvia,’ said Junia with a laugh. ‘She was planning to marry Caesar’s second in command; she will be disappointed with a mere Consular, one of a crowd of worthy ex-Consuls. I suppose, by the way, Caesar’s fortune goes to Antonius? Or do you think he remembered the dim great-nephew?’
‘Antonius will keep any money he can lay his hands on. He’s always in low water financially. But I imagine he would rather be the greatest man in a free City, liked by his colleagues and applauded by the mob, than a lonely Dictator, waiting for the end that came to Caesar. You mustn’t be too political, my dear. There are other aims in life besides supreme power. For example, this morning I myself might have stormed the Capitol, and assumed a crown beside the statues of the Seven Kings of Rome. My soldiers would have done anything I ordered. Instead, I put my men at the disposal of the Consul. I hope to be remembered as the Aemilius who could have made himself tyrant of Rome; I don’t want to be remembered as a tyrant indeed.’
‘Ah, but you are a man of honour. Antonius does not reason like
that. The whole affair puzzles me. After the Senate has met we shall know more. Perhaps the Optimates have offered Antonius something better than he can get from the Populars. Anyway,’ she added after a pause, ‘I am glad you left that slimy Eunomus in the camp. I can’t bear the fellow. I am sure he pestered you to seize the City.’
‘Of course he did. He’s only a Greek, and a freedman at that. He can’t understand a statesman putting liberty above power. He’s useful, all the same. I don’t trust him, but I admire his brains. I’m afraid he will be back here in a day or two. I must get that legion on the move to Gaul as soon as possible.’
On the next morning, the 17th of March, the Senate met early in a peaceful City. The place of meeting was the temple of Tellus, not the customary Theatre of Pompeius; for the shrine of the earth-god lay in the heart of the Popular quarter, close to the Antonian mansion; while the Theatre was dominated by the Capitol, still garrisoned by armed murderers. Lepidus of course attended the meeting, in the full civil dress of his rank; though at dawn he had found time to go down in armour to visit his soldiers on the island. The camp was quiet and the men orderly. He confined them to quarters, save for the customary patrols; and began to make arrangements for their journey over the Alps.
He came home tired and late for dinner. But Junia, meeting him in the hall, knew from his look of content that some arrangement had been made to preserve the peace. He began giving orders to his valet while he was taking off his toga, and that was another good sign; he was never happy unless he could feel that he was hard at work, managing great affairs.
‘Tonight we shall have a little supper for four, and a good one, my dear,’ he greeted her. ‘See that the cook does his very best. Two couches only, and two chairs, for yourself and another lady. I’ll tell you who are our guests when we’re alone. This is a political supper, and most confidential. We don’t want a mob gathered outside the gate, either to cheer or to boo. After supper you and the other lady must leave us to talk business. But first, where are the boys? I have something to say to them.’
Thirteen-year-old Marcus and six-year-old Quintus lived a life of their own in the recesses of the great mansion. They had a trustworthy pedagogue, and their own staff of valets and footmen. Their father was fond of them, when he remembered their existence. He took trouble over their education, and now and then himself expounded to them the ancestral constitution. But he did not often send for them in the middle of the day. Junia guessed what was to come, and steeled herself to bear it like a Roman matron.
When the grave-eyed children had kissed their father’s hand they stood respectfully to hear his commands. Lepidus cleared his throat nervously and began to explain.
‘You are Aemilii Lepidi. One day you will have in your keeping the images of our great ancestors. Later your children will take over these images, and yours among them. Boys of your blood are born to serve Rome. Well, it so happens that your service to the City has begun, though you are still too young to bear arms. This evening you will go to the Capitol. You will stay there until your hosts permit you to leave. You will be among gentlemen of good birth, who will treat you as they treat their own sons. But I must tell you frankly that you will be hostages. Someone comes from the Capitol to sup here tonight, and if he does not return in safety your lives are forfeit. Under this roof every guest is safe; but accidents happen, and there is always the chance of a lynching in the street. So if it comes to the worst, remember your ancestors. Don’t squeal when you see the swords. I expect we shall meet tomorrow morning; but it would be fitting to take a formal farewell.’
As soon as he was alone with his wife he explained: ‘Our guest tonight is your brother Brutus, who has agreed to leave the Capitol on condition his nephews stand hostage for his safe return. He will bring Porcia with him. His visit must be kept a secret, or the mob will stone him in the street. If he gets here and goes back unnoticed our sons will return to us tomorrow.’
‘You are head of the household,’ said Junia. ‘Perhaps there was no other way. I hate to think of my children in that den of assassins; it seems that you, and the Senate, take a more lenient view of them. Can you tell me what the Senate decided today, or is that also a secret?’
‘I think we have hit on a peaceful compromise, though it’s a very odd one. Briefly, we have decided that Caesar was a legitimate ruler of Rome, and that therefore his acts retain legal force; but that to kill him was also a lawful act, and therefore no one will be prosecuted for his murder.’
‘It won’t be easy to get an amnesty through the assembly. Why did Antonius accept it? Surely you and he together control the City?’
‘We don’t control the Senate, as we discovered during the very first speeches. The murderers dared not leave the Capitol; but their friends came to the temple of Tellus, and they were in the majority. I suppose we could have called up my soldiers, and cut the throats of scores of Senators as they sat on their benches. Long ago the Gauls did it. But how could civilized men bring themselves to commit such an atrocity? Merely to say it proves it impossible. The only other way was to carry the Senators with us.’
‘Yet these friends of murder agreed that Caesar’s acts should stand. That was not very consistent, surely?’
‘At first they were all for condemning his memory. They wanted to declare all his acts void, right back to his first Consulship with Bibulus. Then Cicero pointed out that, if these acts were void, there would be no legitimate authority in the City. Caesar made Antonius Consul, he had appointed all the praetors, and, what was the nub of the argument, he had nominated other magistrates in advance, for the next three years at least. Were these appointments also to be voided?’
‘Trust a lawyer to see a point of that kind,’ said Junia. ‘I don’t like Cicero. I think he’s a cad and a coward. But there’s nothing wrong with his intellect.’
‘Well, my dear, you see what followed from that? In favour of Caesar’s acts were ranged all the present magistrates, and everyone who hopes that among Caesar’s papers will be found a note appointing him to some future office. With the faithful Caesarians, that made a clear majority of the house. We agreed that Caesar’s past acts shall stand unquestioned, and in addition that any proposal found among his papers shall have the force of law as soon as it is published.’
‘Who has these papers?’
‘Calpurnia gave them to Antonius. He is sole Consul, and was Caesar’s colleague. She could hardly refuse when he asked for them; though I wish she had found a more trustworthy executor.’
‘If she had any spirit she would have hidden them under her bed; though I suppose rummaging about in bedrooms is just what Antonius is used to. Or she could have given them to the Vestals. Now your foolish Senate and Calpurnia, between them, have made Antonius ruler of Rome. Don’t you see, Marcus? Antonius can produce a bit of paper saying anything at all, giving him the sole right to coin silver, or a title to every farm in Campania, and claim he found it among Caesar’s papers. I suppose he has already seized the money stored in the temple of Ops?’
‘He has. He claims that as Caesar’s colleague he should have it. My darling, you must not think the Senate was hoodwinked. We understood what we were doing. We have given Marcus Antonius a licence to steal what he wants from the treasury of the republic. But he can take it anyway, by force, so long as the mob looks on him as the Caesarian leader. And we have shown him that life will be more pleasant if he works with the Senate than if he rules as a tyrant. Above all, we have kept the constitution in being. The City is still governed as our ancestors governed it. To achieve that we had to keep the Senate united; and the only way to unite it was to pardon the murderers and at the same time carry out Caesar’s plans. I know it doesn‘t make sense. But it works.’
‘Perhaps it will work. You Senators can nod and wink among yourselves, and fix up these little arrangements without giving their ugly names to ugly deeds. But one day the assembly must ratify your terms; and the assembly will be howling for the heads of the murderers.�
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‘The assembly can vote only on motions brought before it. If no one suggests a prosecution they can’t vote for one. And everyone entitled to speak will be in favour of the amnesty.’
‘You mean that everyone who matters has been properly looked after? Well, nothing will bring Caesar back to life.… We’re not forgotten either, if you are to be Pontifex Maximus. I shall preside at the next festival of Bona Dea. I’ve a good mind not to invite Fulvia. By the way, what do the murderers get out of this? I suppose you had to offer them something to persuade them to leave the Capitol.’
‘Your brother is coming here to discuss that very point. We shall offer them something; in fact we shall offer them a lot. There is still an Optimate party, Picenum and Campania are full of dispossessed veterans whose farms have been given to Caesarians. If the murderers flee they can gather an army, and once swords are drawn anything may happen.’
‘At least I’m easier in my mind about the children. In such a friendly arrangement hostages will suffer no harm. But it still seems odd to a mere woman, debarred by her sex from hearing your fine speeches in the Senate. I was brought up to believe that a man of honour avenges his friend without counting the cost. The blood-feud used to be a sacred obligation. Here is Caesar dead, and his friends think only of sharing his estate with his enemies.’
‘My dear, I was never Caesar’s friend. I am a Popular, and I followed him. I admired his statesmanlike projects. I gave him what help I could. But he mocked at many things which an Aemilius Lepidus must hold sacred. I mourn him as the father of his country, not as my personal friend.’
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