Though he prolonged it as much as possible, even the ceremonial welcome of a returning paterfamilias must end at last. The time came when he was alone with his wife, in her pleasant little boudoir.
In Spain and Narbo, even more when in camp with his legions, he used to think with longing of the comfort and peace of his wife’s apartments. Once he was back he would take up the old life where he had put it down. But in fact he was not the man who had left her after Caesar’s murder. He had faced responsibility, he had commanded seven legions, he had become one of the three rulers of the Roman world.
Nor was she the Junia he had left. In Caesar’s company she had reverted to the witty scatterbrained frivolity of her childhood, though even then she was a mature matron. The two years since the murder of the Dictator had brought deadly peril and nerve-racking anxiety. There was a grim set to her mouth and a stiffness in her backbone which showed that she had long been afraid, and determined not to show her fear. These two middle-aged aristocrats, sitting together in the little room, were strangers; even though for many years they had been partners in the unending adventure of marriage.
He had been afraid that she would fall on his neck and weep, reproaching him for selfishly endangering the lives of his family. But there was no softness in this new Junia. She sat appraising her husband with level eyes, more like a brisk aunt who wonders whether the small boy entrusted to her care is as beastly as the neighbours say than like an obedient housewife receiving one of the three rulers of the world.
Neither would be the first to step back into the old shared intimacy of thought and discussion. Clearing his throat, Lepidus prepared to launch into a full account of the affair on the Argenteus. Junia cut him short, and herself began to speak. He realized with dismay that he had earned the contempt and dislike of his wife; but not because he had gambled with her life to save his own. His offence was something graver, something that would lie between them, even in the marriage-bed, until they should come to die.
‘Well, Marcus,’ she said coolly, ‘this is your first visit to Rome for a long time. I expect you noticed the state of the City, even in the middle of your Triumph; though you should have been thinking of nothing but your gratitude to Jupiter. Rome lies in abject terror, terror of your doings, and the doings of your horrible associates. I suppose you know what has been done in your name, by soldiers who claimed to be obeying your orders?’
‘Do you mean my brother Paullus? I thought Crastinus would understand. By the way, I expected to find Crastinus waiting for me. Have you seen him?’
‘Crastinus has been here. He took today off, I suppose to get drunk with his comrades after the Triumph. I don’t know whether he carried out your orders or bungled them; but Paullus is now on his way to Miletus. Once across the Adriatic he is under the protection of my brother Brutus; so there’s no harm in telling you his destination.’
‘That was what I intended, of course. I was forced to condemn him, but I wanted him to escape.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But who forced you? I thought you were a Triumvir, one of the three heroes who will set the republic to rights.’
‘The others forced me, naturally. We set up a government of three men so that in case of disagreement two could bind the third.’
‘I see. And then of course, as soon as you had come to your wicked decisions, you began to cheat one another. You condemned Paullus, meaning all the time to save him. In the same way Antonius condemned his uncle. Lucius Caesar took refuge with his sister Julia. They say she went openly to Antonius and told him to his face that if his uncle Lucius was to lose his head, she also must be condemned for the crime of concealing him. Even Marcus Antonius shrank from executing his own mother. So both Paullus and Lucius Caesar are safe. The only one of you who seems to have carried out his bond in full is young Octavianus; Cicero had no mercy.’
‘Quite right too. He wanted to murder you.’
‘I dare say. But Aemilius must not sink to the level of Tullius.’
‘The Dictator pardoned his enemies again and again, until in the end they murdered him. With that example before us we dare not show mercy. At the outset young Caesar was against the proscription; though once we had persuaded him he was uncommonly apt at arranging the practical details. By the way, try not to call him Octavianus. The law has made him Caius Julius Caesar, and he likes to be known by those names.’
‘It’s disgusting that those famous names should be disgraced by a bloody-minded young puppy. But I suppose I must be careful, or he will take my head. There’s no mercy in him. Though he must be moderately clever, to make you think he was reluctant to begin a proscription. Can’t you see that it was his idea from the start? I know you, Marcus. You would never propose such horrors. Marcus Antonius is ruthless enough, and not afraid of a pile of corpses; but all he wants is money. If the boy hadn’t led you both by the nose you would have been content to steal the wealth of these men, allowing them to escape into exile.’
‘I tell you, Junia, we had to do it. The civil wars have lasted too long. Do you realize that it’s more than ninety years since Gracchus was murdered by the Optimates? Since then the fighting has never really ceased.’
‘You didn’t think of that argument by yourself. Starting ten thousand blood-feuds isn’t the way to end a civil war, though Octavianus may think it is. Even if you had to kill some Optimates, and I grant you there were blood-feuds in plenty to give you an excuse, need you have gone about it in such a ghastly way?’
‘Sulla started it, and he was Optimate enough. Now they are getting a taste of their own medicine. It’s not pretty, but what’s so ghastly about it? No one has been tortured, or put to death with ignominy. Just a clean stroke of the sword, which a true Roman should meet with fortitude.’
‘Fortitude! A clean stroke of the sword! But I forget, you have not been in Rome. I suppose you don’t know the way your orders have been carried out. Your soldiers have made it plain that only the sword rules. The constitution of our ancestors! The times I’ve heard you declaim about it! Well, it’s gone – gone, and you’ve smashed it. Tribunes used to be sacrosanct, especially to us Populars. So the first man they killed was the tribune Salvius. He was giving a supper-party when a squad of soldiers marched in. Without a word spoken the centurion went up to him as he lay on his couch, caught him by the hair to get his neck into position, and took his head. Then he told the guests it seemed a pity to break up such a good party, and that they might carry on drinking. For the next hour he stayed in the dining-room, watching those terrified people drinking wine, with the headless trunk of their host on the first couch. He showed his warrant, sealed by all the Triumvirs. Your instructions?’
‘Of course not, Junia. What do you think I am? Salvius was a dangerous man, and rightly proscribed. I remember Caesar saying that he must be one of the first to go, so that our enemies would see that even the tribunate would not protect them. But none of us thought to affront common decency in this manner. What was the Consul thinking of to allow it?’
‘You forget. The Consul died of shock when he heard of it. Oh, I know it’s down in the records that Quintus Pedius died of a sudden fever. But it was shock and remorse that killed him, as all Rome knows. He was an ordinary decent nobody, who had the bad luck to be born great-nephew of a famous statesman; not a man in the same class as you mighty Triumvirs. I expect he’s happier dead.’
‘I didn’t know. You must believe me when I say I didn’t know. Mind you, we have to get rid of our enemies, or die ourselves as Caesar died. The proscription is necessary. But in future things will be done with more decency. And when this last, necessary purge is over Rome will be at peace for evermore.’
‘Can you control your men? Do you command them, or do they command you? This is civil war; if you rebuke them they may change sides. I think the soldiers have come to hate every honourable citizen who does not carry a sword, everything decent and dignified. Otherwise why should they go out of their way to kill a praetor as he sits in judg
ment? They could have caught poor Minucius at home; no one resists them. But they had to come while his court was in session. He saw them coming, and jumped off the bench to hide among the crowd. When they caught him they cut his head off, and left it propped in his curule chair. That’s what has been done with your signet as warrant. Is it the kind of thing you approve? If not, how will you stop it?’
Lepidus took a deep breath, preparing to exercise his authority as paterfamilias. Then he saw that Junia had right on her side, and decided instead to persuade her.
‘My dear, this is, as you say, a ghastly business. I didn’t like it when it was first suggested, and I had no idea it would be carried out with such a beastly mockery of everything a good citizen should reverence. But it’s there. We are too late to stop it. If you insist, we can flee into exile. We might, I suppose, join Brutus; though I think Cassius would take my head. But there is another side to it. At present Rome is ruled by three men. One of these tyrants is a swashbuckling captain of horse, little better than a brigand. Another is a cold-blooded youth from the provinces, who sees nothing of the glory of our ancient constitution, nothing of the respect due to our ancient families. I am the third. Will Antonius and Caesar rule better without me? May it not be my duty to remain in the great position to which Fortune has called me, to limit the damage caused by the atrocities of my colleagues?’
‘I’m glad to know, Marcus, that you are as horrified as I am. I never believed you would approve what has been done. You are right, I suppose. We can’t draw back. You must continue as Triumvir, trying to introduce a little justice, even a little mercy, into the conduct of affairs. Rome is governed by tyrants, as you say. At least the tyranny of an educated patrician will be more tolerable than a partnership between a rake and a lout.’
‘Then you forgive me? We are friends again?’
‘We shall always be friends. We married for life, not until the weather changes. You are head of the household, and what you do cannot be questioned by your wife. Be as merciful as you can, and remember your dignity. There is no more any of us can do, with Rome in her present plight.’
Certainly there was nothing more that her poor husband could do. What had induced even the frivolous Marcus Antonius to make him a Triumvir? Probably a misplaced sense of humour. However, he must hold on to his position, or lose his head; this government would not accept a peaceful resignation.
‘I suppose there was a time when I could have made a stand,’ Lepidus continued in a puzzled tone. ‘But I don’t know when it was. What has come over the City? In our fathers’days freemen would not have submitted to the rule of an Antonius.’
‘We submitted to Caesar, who was something more than a man. Once freedom has been lost it is very hard to regain it. I suppose our children will submit to any rascal who can persuade the soldiers to follow him.’
‘I didn’t expect that from you, Junia the Caesarian. But you are right on all counts. Not only have we lost our liberty, we must recognize formally that Caesar was more than a man. Tomorrow I meet my colleagues to trace the foundations of a temple in which he will be worshipped as a god.’
‘How disgusting. It puts Rome on a level with the mongrel Greek-Asiatic cities, where they deify the retiring town clerk instead of giving him a silver casket.’
‘Disgusting, perhaps; but not very serious. Of the three of us, Antonius is a scoffer, the boy doesn’t count, and I, though I worship the great gods with due reverence, disbelieve in the divinity of Caesar. It’s nothing but a form; unless indeed Antonius plans to embezzle the endowments of the new temple.’
‘Just now we can’t make things better. Perhaps, if they leave you to rule Rome while they fight my brother, you can restore a little decency. At least they will take their unruly soldiers with them. Oh, Marcus, let’s forget politics for a little. It’s nearly two years since we were alone together.’
On the next day Lepidus met his colleagues for the first time since they had occupied Rome. The ceremony of tracing the foundations was carried out with great splendour. A golden ploughshare turned the sacred furrow, and young Caesar displayed a knowledge of ritual remarkable in one so young. For what it was worth, he appeared to believe in the divinity of his great-uncle; his face was rapt in an expression of devotion, and the birds from whose flight he drew his augury were visible to other onlookers. Antonius winked at the crowd, as though to say he was wasting his time and knew it. The Pontifex Maximus went through the motions correctly, for any religious observance must be duly performed or the gods will be angered; but he found it impossible to think of Caesar the Dictator as an immortal. That knot of struggling figures by the statue of Pompeius had not been engaged in forwarding another deity to Olympus.
Afterwards they dined in private at ‘The Keels’, the great house built by Pompeius Maximus to display his naval trophies, since Pharsalus the booty of Antonius. There was too much to eat, and a great deal too much to drink. The wine was barely watered, and at every toast the host pressed his guests to drain bumpers.
Marcus Antonius was no longer the weatherbeaten campaigner of the Argenteus. The elaborate dressing of his hair emphasized the red blotches on his cheeks, and his neck seemed as broad as his shoulders. During the olives and anchovies he reclined morose and silent; but wine revived his spirits, and he was presently in a state of high excitement. To Lepidus he seemed all attitude, with no reality behind it. Such a man must always strut before an audience, to cover the emptiness of his spirit. This afternoon he was posing, even to this audience of two colleagues who knew him thoroughly; and the pose he had chosen was that of the devil-may-care captain of horse.
‘The place we consecrated was the actual spot where the old boy’s body was burned,’ he said cheerfully, rubbing his hands. ‘No one else can ever be burned there, and no one will speak another funeral oration where I did. Probably the best speech I ever made in my life; I roused the mob, and yet controlled it. You were there, Lepidus; you must have heard me. Not bad for a rude soldier, what, to make the most famous speech on a famous occasion? If I’d had time to learn rhetoric I could have answered Cicero to his face, even in the Senate. But I had other things to do; and anyway, where is Cicero?’
‘Dead and buried, I suppose. But not soon to be forgotten,’ said young Caesar gloomily.
‘Dead, my boy; but not buried. Do you remember, Lepidus? Once you told me that we mustn’t use the head of Decimus Brutus as a trophy, because if we did his spirit would never find rest? Well, I’m not afraid of Cicero’s spirit.’ He clapped his hands to summon a servant. ‘Under this cover you will find his head. It’s twenty-five days old, and getting pretty ripe. I kept it back specially for this dinner; tomorrow it will be stuck up in the Forum. Look, that’s what we’ll all come to, unless our friends burn us before the maggots get to work. It doesn’t look like the best brain in Rome, does it?’
‘The mouth is very ragged,’ said young Caesar coolly. ‘I hope you didn’t torture him. You promised me he would be killed cleanly with the sword.’
‘He was killed with the sword all right. Stuck his neck out like a little gentleman when he saw there was no escape. Probably the first time in his life he behaved like a gentleman; but anyone will die well when he knows the writing-fellows are going to record his last moments. No, that mess round the lips is my Fulvia’s handiwork. I had promised her this head; that’s why I couldn’t show mercy. When she saw it the thing was quite fresh and lifelike. The little dear got all excited. She scrabbled away at the tongue that had insulted her, hammer and tongs with hairpins and eyebrow-tweezer.’
Lepidus hid his face in his wine-cup. He tried to fix his thoughts on the Absolute, as recommended by the philosophers; but he could not shut out the dispassionate voice of young Caesar.
‘We’ve all had a good look at it, and I for one don’t want to see it again. Stick it up in the Forum with the heads of the other proscribed. When it’s been there long enough for everyone to know that Cicero’s dead I shall myself give it decent burial.
What’s under that second cover? The head of another of Fulvia’s detractors?’
‘That thing? No, that’s still Cicero. A little joke my dear wife put me up to. As you remember, Cicero couldn’t talk without waving his hands; I’ve heard it said that if he were handcuffed he wouldn’t be able to speak. Fulvia had’em cut off, to go with the head.’
‘I see. Quite witty in its way, if that sort of joke appeals to you. It will take some explaining to the crowd in the Forum.’
At last Lepidus had thought of a remark that might turn the gruesome conversation. ‘You say he stretched out his neck at the last? Didn’t he offer any resistance? He was a Consular, he even styled himself Imperator on the strength of some skirmish with Cilician brigands. Consulars do not often die so meekly.’
‘Of course he hadn’t the guts to fight. He hadn’t even the guts to run away on his own feet. He was in a litter when my men caught him. At that he might have got away, if one of his own freedmen hadn’t told them where to find him.’
‘That’s downright shameful,’ said Lepidus, glad to express some of the digust which filled his breast. ‘I don’t know which is worse: that a Consular should be killed in his toga, when he had plenty of time to pick up a sword; or that a freedman should betray his lord. I hope you did not reward the scoundrel.’
Antonius roared with laughter. ‘Philogonus was rewarded all right. I don’t like treachery. I handed him over to Pomponia, you know, Quintus Cicero’s widow. She has been taking it out of him ever since. Yesterday, I believe, he was still alive; but very mangled, and praying for speedy death.’
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