‘And Sextus?’ the secretary persisted.
‘Have it as you wish. Compose a friendly letter to Pompeius. But I must read it carefully before it goes off. He’s not exactly a colleague. We found him already there, and recognized his position because for the present he is too strong to be overthrown. He’s neither a Triumvir nor a subordinate of the Triumvirate. In fact he’s an awkward anomaly. I am a Popular by ancestry and conviction, and I can’t bring myself to like any Pompeius. But for the moment Caesar is friendly with him, and we ought to keep him informed of the state of the republic.’
‘My lord, you can’t have read the latest dispatches from Italy, or you could not think that friendship still endures. Last year they were firm friends, and Pompeius was granted the province of Achaea. That’s Caesar all over, my lord. He can’t do a kindness to one man except at the expense of another.’
‘Come, come, Caesar is my trusted colleague. Even in the privacy of my office I can’t listen to continual abuse of him. Besides, what was so wrong in transferring Achaea from Antonius to Pompeius? It may have been Caesar’s suggestion in the first place, but I gather Antonius was perfectly willing.’
‘Perhaps, at Misenum, with Pompeius’s splendid dinner still sitting on his stomach. But the transfer was bound to cause a quarrel, as Caesar knew from the start. Remember, Achaea is the real Greece, venerated by all true Greeks; and Antonius had been ruling it in the modern Roman fashion.’
‘I am a Roman myself, though not perhaps a modern one. What had Antonius done that you consider so shocking?’
‘Only collected the taxes for ten years in advance, my lord, until free men had to sell their children to satisfy the publicans. Of course the legions must be paid; that comes first, as every provincial knows. The result was that Pompeius took over a penniless province, and when he asked for tribute the Greeks showed him Antonius’s receipt. Pompeius then asked Antonius for the money, as was proper. You can guess the answer he got. As though anyone could make Antonius pay his just debts.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, but there it is. Antonius is a gallant soldier, but he has no money sense at all. It’s true about the legions. Their pay must be kept up to date, or the provinces will be pillaged by mutineers. There may be too many soldiers. I wish I could fix up some kind of disarmament by mutual agreement. But the world is still very disturbed, and we have only just emerged from a century of civil war. Of course Caesar won’t reduce his army unless Antonius disarms first, and Antonius can’t disarm until the Parthians have been conquered. At least my legions here in Africa are no great burden on the taxpayer. Everyone tells me the African provinces have never been more prosperous.’
‘That is generally admitted, my lord. But then you are not a blustering soldier, thinking only of the next campaign. You govern a peaceful land as though peace were destined to endure. That’s just what can’t happen now. Thanks to Caesar, Pompeius has quarrelled with Antonius. When they fight, probably during this coming summer, Caesar will help one against the other, and you, my lord, must decide in advance whether you will help Caesar, or Antonius, or Pompeius.’
‘You need not continue, Eunomus. I see at last whither this conversation is leading. You want me to help your favourite, Pompeius, even if it means war against Caesar and Antonius. That’s been your hobby-horse for a long time, as I remember. I expected that by now you would have changed your mind. You were for Pompeius because you saw him as a figurehead for Menas, and you saw Menas as leader of all the Greeks. But Menas has gone over to Caesar. As things are, doesn’t that make Caesar the Greek hero?’
‘Menas has not yet led his ships against Sicily, my lord. Until he does so I shall continue to doubt whether his was a real desertion; he may be playing a double game. But the point is that Pompeius rules a powerful army, besides the strongest navy in the world. Whenever he wishes, he can cut the City’s food supply. If you combined with him you could wrest Italy from Caesar.’
‘As leader of a Greek rising against the sway of Rome? I am not a renegade, to open a campaign by starving my own City. Anyway, I have no liking for war, and no desire to rule more than I now possess. If Caesar fights Pompeius, I shall keep out of it. Whoever wins, there will be one rogue the less in a misgoverned world. If Caesar fights Antonius, which is far more likely, I shall still keep out of it if I can; though if I can’t stay neutral I suppose I must help my old leader, Antonius. What I want is another ten years of peace here in Africa. In ten years’time I shall be ready to hand over to my son, and our rule will be so firmly established that whoever then governs Rome will not dare to upset it. That’s why I welcome this renewal of the Triumvirate. It takes me halfway to my goal, and keeps me within the law of the constitution. So write a polite but noncommittal dispatch to Pompeius, reminding him that I shall be here, across the water from his southern harbours, for the next five years at least; and don’t try to entangle me in any more of your warlike schemes. Do you understand? Now we’ll treat the rest of this afternoon as an ordinary working day. Tomorrow, and for five days after, those confounded Games will be wasting all my time. Have you the latest parade-state of my legions? How many recruits have come in this spring, and have we plenty of armour to fit them out?’
‘I’m sorry, my lord. Your interests are mine, and I serve you to the best of my ability. I shall plan for peace, if you desire it; and of course I agree that it must be an armed peace. The recruiting figures are most encouraging. We might venture to detach four veteran cohorts, and make them the cadre of another legion.’
Peering at the sheet of rough jottings, Lepidus rubbed his hands. He had come out to Africa with six legions, picked by Caesar as loyal Caesarians. Careful and thrifty administration had filled the military chest, and the sons of local Roman-Africans were eager to embrace a military career that would not take them out of their native province. Now he had ten legions, and his army was increasing.
That evening he supped with his family. Even on this auspicious day there were no guests, and no hired entertainers. It was a good old Roman family meal, with nothing to shock the susceptibilities of the fourteen-year-old Antonia. To amuse them, he told them all about the devious schemes of his freedman; and then Antonia told the inside story of the famous conference at Misenum, when Achaea had been transferred from her father to Pompeius.
‘And did they actually dine with the ferocious pirate-chief? Wasn’t that rather imprudent?’ asked Lepidus.
‘Oh yes, they did, and it was, awfully,’ Antonia answered. ‘There was lots of eating and drinking, of course, and sailors did acrobatics in the rigging to amuse them, and father said it was all splendid fun until afterwards, when they were going ashore, Pompeius told them that during dinner his captain, that friend of Eunomus, that Menas man, had said wouldn’t it be a good idea to sail away with father and Caesar just stuck on the poop. And Pompeius said, yes it would, only it was no good now he had asked because a host can’t kidnap his guests, and why hadn’t Menas done it without asking him and then he’d have rewarded him, and father said he was so scared he went stone-cold sober, though he couldn’t help admiring young Pompeius.’
‘I suppose Caesar had ships within call,’ said Tertulla. ‘He’s not a man to trust his life to someone’s word of honour. But they might have cut his throat in half a minute, before rescue could arrive. Another chance missed! Men are the clumsiest creatures!’
‘Anyone can be murdered at a conference, even though his bodyguard will then cut down the murderer,’ said Lepidus. ‘We are all at the mercy of any man who will buy revenge with his own life. Yet we must meet in conference or the world would never know peace. I don’t like young Pompeius any the better after hearing that story. He was honourable in keeping faith with his guests; but it was un-Roman to boast about it afterwards.’
‘He’s not a Roman, except by the accident of birth,’ said young Marcus. ‘I gather he’s entirely Greek by upbringing, and thinks of himself as Greek.’
‘You have been listening to my secretary.
Eunomus is clever; sometimes I think he is too clever by half. But you must not believe everything he tells you,’ said his father weightily. The conversation died, and Antonia understood that her new family were not a suitable audience for Antonian funny stories.
That night, as they lay side by side in the great marriage-bed, Junia spoke to her husband for his own good. ‘That silly Eunomus has been filling you up with his clever theories about another war to make you ruler of the world. I can guess it, from the tilt of your nose. Now, Marcus, we all know there will be another war quite soon. The City can’t put up with endless blackmail from those pirates in Sicily; the corn-ships must sail unmolested. If there isn’t a war against Pompeius, it will be because Caesar wants to fight Antonius first. Whatever happens, there will be all manner of changes. But you must keep out of it. We have been beaten once. You were forced to flee from the City with no money, not even a clean tunic; I had to hide the boys in a miserable hovel, and go marketing dressed as a kitchen-maid. We were very lucky to end up here, safe. You rule Africa well, and the Africans like you. It’s enough. Don’t try for anything greater, or we may lose what we have.’
‘I can take care of myself with Eunomus,’ he answered indignantly. ‘I like to hear him run on, that’s all. For years Pompeius has been bribing him to bring me over to the side of the pirates; he can’t persuade me, and the money keeps him happy. I am not deceived, I give you my word. I’m no general. My troops deserted me on the battlefield the only time I tried to fight. I won’t risk that again. Those terrible fellows in Rome and Asia and Sicily may tear each other’s guts out to their heart’s content. I shall sit on my bench, conveniently near the arena, and when it’s all over I shall honour the victor with a crown of African olive. No wars for me. If I keep my army up to strength, and never lead it into battle, after a few years I shall be as firmly established here as Hannibal ever was. Then I would like to hand over my government to young Marcus, and myself retire to Rome to perform my duties as Pontifex Maximus.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I always knew you were sensible. It’s just that all these legions, with their officers hungering all the time for greater power, are a standing temptation to any ruler. No more wars, and many happy years as Pontifex Maximus! That’s all I ask for you.’
The great Games to celebrate the renewal of the Triumvirate began the next morning. They were very good Games, of an old-fashioned kind; but then in Africa it was easy to gather material. Lions were cheap and plentiful, and the garrisons towards the south were always catching black raiders, who fought lions most gallantly. In Africa every malefactor was a stout warrior. There were none of the spiritless petty thieves from the slums whose execution set such a problem to the magistrates of Rome, fellows who just ran away when you put swords in their hands. The combat between an elephant and a band of crocodiles was a failure; the beasts ignored one another, and spent their time trying to escape from the arena. But this was nearly always a disappointing exhibition; though because crocodiles were awkward creatures to transport the crowd always demanded it, as proving that the giver of the Games had taken trouble in his preparations. If no crocodiles had appeared there would have been angry barracking.
All the other turns were straightforward duels between armed men; and not too many going on at once, so that the spectators could appreciate the finer points of the fencing. Lepidus had insisted on that. In Rome ambitious young aediles were always trying to show something different, men striking at random in helms which covered their eyes, or mounted Amazons charging naked swordsmen. Such meretricious displays might win the cheers of a crowd eager for novelty; they were not Games as the ancestors had understood them. The object of this solemn religious rite was to accustom citizens to the sight of wounds and death, so that they themselves might fight more bravely in defence of the City; and to sacrifice a good number of victims for the service of the dead hero in whose honour the Games were given. These particular festivities, naturally, had been dedicated to the Divine Julius, the true founder of the Triumvirate.
As he sat in the president’s box, with his family round him, the Triumvir could feel satisfied. The amphitheatre was packed with his loyal, contented, prosperous subjects; the applause from the soldiers’ benches showed he was popular with his legions; the dedicatory procession had been a moving and dignified ceremonial; most remarkable and encouraging of all, everything had been paid for in advance and the provincial treasury was still solvent.
His sons watched the fencing critically, never flinching when a broadsword disembowelled a beaten man; the Games were doing them good, teaching them to survey future battlefields without unmanly dismay. The ladies also watched with interest, their behaviour impeccable except that young Antonia was rather too eager to place her bets; the Games would fortify feminine courage also, since at some future date honour might compel these ladies to stab themselves to the heart. It was just as it should be; they were interested, but showed no unhealthy excitement.
It came into his mind that here in Utica the old Roman virtues lingered, virtues that had almost vanished from the City. There was no frenzied rush for wealth, no indecent trafficking in political influence; these Africans, as solidly Popular as in the days when poor Cato fell on his sword, nine years ago, took their politics seriously, debating on liberty and the dignity of the free man. They did not share in the doles and donatives which the mob of the City grabbed so avidly, and since they never journeyed to the Forum they could not sell their votes for hard cash paid in advance. Utica was a fine place, and its townsfolk virtuous.
Perhaps he had been chosen by the gods to preserve all this from contamination, a reservoir of ancestral virtue. He would continue to govern honestly, holding to the ancient ways. He would withdraw as far as possible from the filthy struggle whose harvest was a crop of heads stuck up in the Forum. He would strengthen his army without emptying his treasury; he would allot to settlers of sound Roman blood new areas of fertile land, at present wastefully grazed by barbarian nomads; he would enforce honesty on the tax-gatherers, if by working day and night at his desk such a task might be achieved. At the end of it all his realm would not be as splendid as Caesar’s Italy, as wealthy as the Asia of Antonius. But it would be self-supporting, well-armed, populous, and content. While the children of his colleagues rioted magnificently through bankrupt cities his young Marcus would be the warrior-leader of a nation of true Roman husbandmen. Presently the seat of power might move southward over the sea. It was a splendid dream, and there was nothing to prevent it coming true. During the six days of holiday which celebrated the renewal of the Triumvirate it was seldom far from his thoughts.
As soon as the holiday was ended interruptions from the outer world battered at his contentment. The leading corn-merchant of Utica sought an audience, to show him a most disturbing communication from Sextus Pompeius. The merchant was a citizen born, with the impeccably Roman name of Cornelius; but his dusky complexion, and something in the insinuating tone of his voice, suggested that his ancestors had reached Africa in the train of Queen Dido.
‘My lord Triumvir,’ he began deferentially, ‘this province exists because you protect it. Without your fostering care our fields would become once again the pastures of Numidian cattle. You are our refuge. But we need helpers oversea also. Our wealth is in our wheat. We harvest more than we can eat. We must sell it abroad, to buy the products of the outer world.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Lepidus testily. ‘It’s the first thing any schoolboy learns about Africa. You must sell your wheat. Well, last year you sold it. What’s the new obstacle?’
‘Sextus Pompeius, my lord. He blocks the sea-road to Ostia.’
‘And has done for the last six years,’ Lepidus interrupted impatiently. ‘Yet all that time your wheat has gone to the City. I haven’t time to listen to oratory. This is my private office, not the town hall. Tell me, in as few words as possible, what is the matter, and what I can do to help you.’
‘In two words, my lord. Last ye
ar, as for years before, we paid blackmail to Pompeius, and our ships sailed safe. That added to the price of wheat in Rome, but the Romans can afford it. This year Pompeius writes that he is at war with the City, and that no payment can open a way for our ships. If Africa is to live you must come to terms with him, or else overthrow him.’
‘I see. It’s serious, I grant you. But I don’t want to do either of those things. Is there anywhere else you could sell your wheat?’
‘There isn’t,’ said Cornelius, now chatting easily, eager to explain his problem to this sympathetic ruler. ‘The south is desert; to the west live the Numidians. They would be glad to eat our grain, but they can’t pay for it. To the east is Egypt, a land which also exports grain. We must sell to Rome. There is no other market.’
‘If you don’t?’
‘Then I for one go bankrupt. Other shippers will go bankrupt more slowly, because they deal in other things besides grain. Then the price of wheat will fall; for one winter the poor will fill their bellies and bless you. Next year the farmers won ‘t be able to pay their taxes, the soldiers will go unpaid until they mutiny, and over the whole province civilization will collapse.’
‘Dear me, we can’t have that. I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps Pompeius is just feeling greedy, and giving you a fright before he puts up his tariff. He’s not exactly recognized by the Triumvirate, but I have ways of communicating with him. I shall write today, and let you know as soon as I get his answer.’
‘Thank you, my lord. It’s really urgent. Last year Rome was very prosperous, with Caesar starting all these new public works. The market looked most promising. So we expanded our business, and we can’t wait very long for our money. Of course we would be willing to pay Pompeius a little more. It all goes on to the price of bread in Rome.’
‘That’s it, I expect. Just a matter of more money. Pompeius has no reason to starve the City, for he can’t be hoping to conquer Italy. I shall find out what’s the least he is willing to take, and you must raise it among yourselves in any way that suits you.’
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