Three's Company

by Alfred Duggan

  They met, briefly, that same afternoon; and almost at once Lepidus realized that he was wasting his time. Caesar could not grasp the fact that a new power had arisen in the world, that the army of Africa was stronger than the army of Italy. He began by giving orders, as though to an inferior. When this was countered by the reasonable proposal that he should take as his realm the barbarous west, conquered by his deified father, and leave Rome to the Pontifex Maximus, he answered as though the Pontifex Maximus were still a helpless fugitive outside Perusia. After that Lepidus did not bother to suggest that the two of them should share equally in the government of the City, the alternative which he had ready in case Caesar should show himself prepared to haggle, the bare minimum which a great Imperator might accept to bring the boon of peace to a shattered world. There was nothing for it but open war; if you could call it war when one side had a great army and the other a mere landing-party holding a little harbour.

  That evening Lepidus supped with Gallus and Plinius, to begin working out the orders for an immediate attack on Tyndaris. While Agrippa ruled the sea there could be no question of an invasion of Italy; but a sudden assault might capture Caesar, and so end the war at a blow. The two legates were curiously unenthusiastic; they made all sorts of difficulties about boots and supplies, and explained that the troops needed rest after their exertions in Messana. Besides, Caesar might yet give in, when he had passed a few more days counting and recounting the twenty-two Eagles ranged against him. In the end Lepidus agreed to postpone his attack.

  He went to bed early; but he could not sleep, for his thoughts were racing. His most faithful officers were reluctant to begin another civil war, and he must find a way of making his army angry with Caesar. That was very like the kind of problem he used to deal with in the old days, before the Divine Julius crossed the Rubicon. He must inflame his supporters until tempers were lost. Let me see, a well-publicized insult can do as much as an injury.

  In his dream he was speaking from his bench in the Senate, delivering a more than Ciceronian Philippic at a shrinking culprit who had sometimes the face of Catalina, sometimes the face of young Caesar: when he was roused by Crastinus, urgently shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Wake up, my lord. That Caesar has been making speeches to the Pompeians, and their eight legions are getting ready to desert our camp.’

  ‘Caesar? How can that be? He’s in Tyndaris. Never mind. Get my armour immediately. Years ago I addressed the troops in my nightshirt, and I’ve never heard the last of it. The men will see their Imperator in full dress, if it makes me late for my own funeral.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as that, my lord. It’s only Plinius and his pirates; we are better without them. Our own army of Africa is thoroughly loyal, and we’ll soon show those rascally Pompeians that they have picked the wrong side again.’

  ‘But how did Caesar get in? The camp is at war, with gates barred.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, but this is Caesar. No sentry would bar a gate against Caesar.’

  ‘Listen. That little man was born Octavius. He’s no more Caesar than you are.’

  ‘My lord, he is Caesar, all the same.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m just beginning a war against him. Will my men refuse to fight?’

  ‘Oh no, why should they? Fighting is their trade. But he is still Caesar. They won’t harm his person.’

  ‘I shall, for one; and so will you, Crastinus, unless you want to lose your head for disobeying a direct order from your Imperator. I am ready now. Take those javelins, and give me a couple.’

  The streets of the camp were crowded with armed legionaries; though they milled about at random, since as yet no authority had ordered them on parade. Lepidus pushed his way to the eastern palisade, where the eight Pompeian legions had fortified an adjoining camp of their own. In this stream of disorder he was comforted to find an island of sanity. A century of the praetorian cohort, his own personal bodyguard, was drawn up in perfect order on the parade ground.

  With praetorians clearing the way he made better speed to the eastern gate of the camp. Even in the dark he knew when he was approaching it, for great bonfires burned just within the palisade. They lit up the crowd of listening soldiers, and were reflected in the polished corselet of young Caesar.

  The young man stood on a pile of ration boxes, alone save for his orderly. He was plodding through a set speech, with the routine gestures of the conscientious orator, though the crowd made such a noise that Lepidus could not hear what he was saying.

  ‘Where’s his bodyguard? Surely he didn’t venture here alone?’ he shouted to Crastinus.

  ‘A few horse came with him as far as the gate, my lord. He left them outside,’ was the shouted reply.

  When Lepidus looked again he could make out a cluster of horsemen at the far edge of the circle of firelight. He saw also, in the same moment, a Pompeian Eagle lurching above the press, as it was carried from his camp. The sight enraged him. This was the Argenteus over again; no general could suffer his army to be stolen from him twice in a lifetime. He balanced a javelin in his right hand, then hurled it at that shining figure on the platform. As his hand came forward Crastinus also swung, and the two weapons hissed together through the air.

  Caesar’s orderly saw the flash of them in the firelight, and caught both on his great shield. But the centurion at the head of the praetorians had his wits about him. Seeing the example set by his Imperator he rapped out a command; a whole flight of javelins curved into the light.

  Lepidus shuddered with mingled awe and relief. Even he felt it as something horrible that young Caesar, heir to the Divine Julius, should be struck down by the weapons of Roman soldiers. No orderly could protect his officer from such a volley; this act would end the war before it had begun.

  Then he saw that an orderly could protect his officer from any danger, if he was willing to do his duty to the utmost. The Caesarian leapt in front of his commander, to receive in his own breast a sheaf of javelins. As he fell one last missile whirred past his head, gashing Caesar in the shoulder before it fluttered out of sight. Caesar clutched at the wound, then stood a moment motionless, staring at his bloody fingers. In a flash he had sprung from the platform, and dodged through the open gate behind him.

  ‘We have shed the blood of Caesar,’ someone called with a great bellow of anguish, and the cry was taken up by all that crowd of soldiers. Only the praetorians remembered their duty. A score of them charged through the open gate as the troopers of the escort galloped up to defend their lord.

  The handbooks of tactics took it for granted that drilled foot could always withstand a charge of cavalry; but these praetorians were not formed in rank, and there were not enough of them. As the last of their plumed helmets sank out of sight some quickwitted Lepidan closed and barred the gate. As the wooden bar clanged home in its staple Lepidus looked out at the backs of galloping horsemen and felt himself secure, in his own camp, among his own legions.

  Now the soldiers round the bonfire were shouting in unison.

  ‘We have shed the blood of Caesar,’ they screamed in a frenzy of self-accusation. Someone reopened the gate, and they streamed out after the retreating cavalry. With Crastinus at his side, Lepidus thrust himself into the gateway, trying to stem the tide of hysterical desertion. Looming above the helmets he saw the towering staff of an Eagle, unescorted, clutched precariously by a solitary Aquilifer. To see this sacred image thus desecrated was almost as painful to him as the desertion of his soldiers. As the Eagle came up with him he strove to wrest it from its bearer.

  ‘Out of the way, fatty. All the Eagles of Rome follow Caesar, and shall until the ending of the world,’ shouted the Aquilifer, an enormous bearded figure. The coarse hairs of his leopard-skin mantle rasped the Imperator’s cheeks, and his lungs were choked with the stink of the half-cured pelt. Then he was sprawling on the ground, clutching with both hands at an agonizing pain in his belly. But the Aquilifer, as much in contempt as in mercy, had thrust with the hilt of his sword
, not the point; as the Eagle disappeared through the gate he knew that he must still decide for himself whether he should see another sunrise. Leaning on Crastinus, he limped back to his hut.

  Three hours later he was still sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his toes as they wriggled on the floor. As Crastinus entered he looked up, and saw with incurious surprise that the orderly wore full parade armour, with all his decorations.

  ‘I thought you might be wanting me now, Imperator. There are no soldiers left in camp. The Nineteenth were the last to go, because they waited to do the thing in style. They marched out very smartly, with proper garlands on their Eagle and a full escort round it. Gallus led them, after inspecting the parade.’

  ‘Have they all gone, even the cavalry? Those barbarians took oath to me personally, not to Rome. I would have thought them faithful.’

  ‘They left only a moment ago, my lord; but that was because they waited for an answer to their message. They sent to ask Caesar whether they should bring your head with them, but Caesar said No. They were a little disappointed. So now it’s all over, and time for us to be up and doing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lepidus, in genuine puzzlement.

  ‘An awkward thing to put into words, Imperator. I hoped you would be expecting me. Well then, where do you want it? In the throat or in the heart? I shan’t hurt you; and if you feel lonely remember I shall be coming after.’

  Lepidus struggled to his feet. So this was the end for which all his fifty-four years had been a preparation: a noble death, without whining or flinching, a death worthy of an Aemilius, the true Roman answer to irreparable disaster. It had come to many of the politicians with whom he had debated in the Senate: Cato, Metellus, Brutus, Cassius. Unless you were lucky enough to be killed in battle it was the natural consequence of defeat. And yet.…

  He paused and hesitated. Finally he answered in a miserable voice.

  ‘Twenty years ago I could have done it with my own sword. Ten years ago I would have bared my breast to you. But now it’s too late. I’m fat and comfortable, and I enjoy the world. Sunshine is very pleasant, and soon there will be the laughter of my grandson. I’m getting on; whatever happens I shan’t enjoy them much longer. It seems a pity to waste what is still left to me. If I behave humbly, Caesar may show mercy. You need not draw that sword.’

  ‘Beg your pardon, Imperator, but I think you ought to take my advice. I must draw this sword anyway, to use it on myself. Did you ever hear of my uncle? Primipilus of the Tenth he was, senior centurion in the most famous legion that ever followed the Eagles. He took his discharge, but he came back as an unpaid volunteer for the war against Pompeius Maximus. When Caesar rode down the line on the morning of Pharsalus he stopped to chat with my uncle before the whole army. Uncle Crastinus swore he would do something famous that day, even though it killed him. He was killed by a rear-rank Pompeian just as his century pierced the enemy line and the Optimates turned to flee. Caesar put it all down in that book he wrote, and while Caesar is remembered my uncle will not be forgotten. My family isn’t noble, but we have our standards. Not one of us has ever surrendered. So you see, if you plan to surrender to young Caesar, it’s time for me to leave you; and now it’s so late there is only one way out of here.’

  He continued, in a cajoling voice as though talking to a child.

  ‘You ought to come with me, Aemilius Lepidus. The world we live in doesn’t suit us. I stuck by you because I thought you were trying to change it, but now I see it has been changing you. That proscription, for instance; it wasn’t worthy of your ancestors. I know that between us we saved your brother; even so, we shouldn’t have been compelled to save him secretly. As for this Sicilian war, the whole thing makes me sick. You were gallant enough at Lilybaeum. As I told the boys, that proves you are more than just a bag of guts. But since then, what’s happened? Armies on the march, but never any fighting; legates making rousing speeches while they haggle secretly with the other side; allies rejoicing in the defeat of their allies. I joined the army to protect the City and the provinces. Now all my mates, and the enemy too, think of nothing but sacking a Roman town which has already thrown open its gates. And you yourself, Aemilius Lepidus. You were brave once, but what of it? Who ever heard of a cowardly patrician? It was the least you could do. Since then you’ve grown so lazy and idle and greedy that all your soldiers have deserted you for a better man; and if it wasn’t for my own private honour I would go with them. Young Octavianus isn’t much of a warrior, but at least when it rains on his troops he gets wet with them. Your men stay on parade all day, because you can’t be bothered to interrupt your bath to give the order to dismiss. The City was rotten before I was born, yet we could respect the army. Now the legions are rotten too, and so is my Imperator. If young Octavianus is the best Roman alive, and he is, it’s time I joined the ancestors. Here goes. I always wondered why they made these fancy corselets so thin. Now I know.’

  Crastinus whipped out his sword and reversed it, holding it near the point with the hilt towards the floor. As he flung himself forward the blade pierced the flimsy corselet to sink into his heart.

  The cold calm figure of Caesar glowed splendidly in splendid armour, twenty-two Eagles grouped before him. He had listened attentively, but without change of expression. No onlooker could forecast what his answer would be.

  He looked down at the grovelling creature who tried to clasp his boots.

  ‘Let me remind you of what I said at Perusia,’ he said. ‘To kill the Pontifex Maximus is to incur bad luck. If you wish it, you may live. I hope you reach old age. Perhaps, as the years go by, you may begin to doubt whether today I have shown myself truly merciful.’

  Before her mirror the lady Clodia plucked out a few grey hairs. As she searched for them she muttered to herself. ‘One from three leaves two, and it takes two to make a quarrel. Which will come out on top? Antonius would give more amusing parties, but I shall feel safer under Caesar.

  Epilogue

  13 BC

  The lady Clodilla liked to be seen in the company of distinguished elder statesmen. Her notorious great-aunt had run after young aediles until the whole City was scandalized; but that was in the gay vanished days of the Republic. Though the Princeps was a stern guardian of morals, even he could not object if she asked a grey-headed Consular to walk beside her litter. When she ran into Balbinus outside the scent-shop she took him in tow. They were together when the funeral passed.

  It was the sort of funeral you saw far too often nowadays. A line of ancestral masks that stretched out of sight, Consuls, Censors, Triumphators; the Vestals and all the priestly colleges; augurs and haruspices and a few embarrassed elderly noblemen. But no throng of mourning citizens and no clients. This must be the burial of one of the old, superseded politicians; the government might be displeased if private individuals lent it the support of their presence.

  When the bier came into sight Clodilla gasped in surprise.

  ‘Consul iterum, Imperator iterum, Triumphator iterum, and something very grand that I don’t recognize in the religious line. Who on earth can that be? The Princeps isn’t in mourning. I bowed to him half an hour ago. I thought only members of his family were allowed to be as grand as that.’

  ‘Yes, who is it? Ah, that head-dress would tell you, if you knew your ritual as a Roman matron should. At last our beloved ruler can be Pontifex Maximus. I happen to know he’s been hankering after the honour for years and years.’

  ‘I see. Wiser not to mention names, in this crowd. The poor old man.… Did you ever meet him?’

  ‘Only once, and that was years ago; just after Actium, in the year of my Consulship. They arrested his elder son for treason, and his wife as accomplice to the plot. A clear case, unfortunately; and as Caesar was still in the east I had custody of the prisoners. One day when I came out of court I saw a shabby old man hanging about. He looked like a gentleman, so I spoke to him. It turned out that he had been waiting all day to see me, but since he hadn’
t any money to bribe the doorkeepers they wouldn’t let him in. It was Marcus you-know-who, the man on that bier. He wanted to put up bail for his family.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t resist reminding him that my name had been on his proscription-list, and that if I hadn’t escaped to Sextus Pompeius he would be dealing with another Consul. That shook him up a bit. But after rubbing it in I felt I must do what I could for him.’

  ‘Could you help?’

  ‘Not much. We discussed the queer death of Sextus for a bit. I thought he might know the inside story, but he didn’t. We agreed that Antonius never ordered the execution, but that whoever killed him when he was in flight from Messana did it thinking to please Antonius. That’s as far as anyone will ever get. As regards his son, well, the Princeps ordered him to be sent out east for trial in his presence. They sent his ashes home. I was able to free the mother, though; a gallant old girl with enough dignity to make even a Consul feel small. The old boy himself was quite innocent. The real villain was a Greek freedman, a nasty type. But Eunomus died most amusingly in the arena, and that made everyone feel more lenient to the family. I didn’t even ask bail for the mother, for I knew as well as the next man that her husband hadn’t two pennies to rub together. By Jove, there she is, Junia, walking behind the body. Now there’s a real matron for you. You don’t see many of that kind nowadays.’

  ‘No, the old days were better, weren’t they, for all their civil wars?’

  ‘Remember this funeral, Clodilla. You are seeing the last of a bit of old Rome. Do you realize that when that corpse was a young man he had to persuade the citizens to choose him for office, against the competition of his equals? He began young, and he lived to be old. He must be the last of the true magistrates, the rulers elected by free men. When he was elected praetor there was no government to tell the citizens how they must vote. Only thirty-five years ago, and now it’s all gone and forgotten!’