The Horse Changer

by Craig Smith

  Horace had by that time attained employment in the government through his friendship with one of Antony’s clients, but no one at all in Antony’s circle bothered to promote his poetry. Maecenas was impressed by Horace, there is no other word for it, and the two of them were soon lost in a discussion of prosody that I simply could not follow. No matter, Maecenas was a fine host with a bounty of foods arriving at his table, even if the rest of Rome was close to starvation, and he simply refused to serve a mediocre vintage.

  Some weeks later Horace stood before the luminaries of Roman society reciting his poetry as if Pindar himself had risen from the dead and learned Latin. When he had finished, his audience, led by Caesar, stood to offer its applause. When their polite enthusiasm for Horace began to wane Caesar rallied them like a centurion in a desperate battle, and all stood and cheered as men do for the winner of a chariot race. Horace blushed, but he also knew he deserved their praise, and so as he blushed he smiled coyly as well. His hour had come at last.

  Maecenas found me at the edge of the crowd afterwards. I was waiting my turn to congratulate Horace. Maecenas took my arms in his hands, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, ‘Caesar is delighted, Dellius. Ask whatever you will of me. I am in your eternal debt.’

  I thought to explain that I was helping Horace, but then I thought better of it. No one in all of Rome had more influence with Caesar than Maecenas. His gratitude was something to cherish, not throw away carelessly. So I took his fleshy arms in my grip, just as he had done to me, and I whispered softly: ‘I have all I want seeing you pleased, my friend.’

  From the look that followed gratitude was on offer anytime I cared for it, that very night if I were so inclined, but I invented business in the city and made my escape. Even if I had enjoyed that sort of dalliance it would have been utter folly to sleep with Caesar’s lover.

  I walked in public often with Antony and his friends that winter. I watched him operate with his political allies as well as his opponents. He was still a chastened man and always took care to mind his manners, but, as I soon learned, there was more to it than personal loss and frustration. As I have said, Rome was not pleased with its Triumvirate, but Caesar, up close, was especially disappointing.

  Whether Antony feared being tossed out with Caesar or only wanted to appear the viable alternative, I cannot say. He might not have thoroughly understood his motivations himself. He was simply being careful, both of his person and reputation, perhaps for the first time in his life. This I know. When men brought up the topic of Caesar’s various failings, Antony insisted on changing the subject. I watched him from close proximity that winter; he seemed sincere in this respect, but of course it was mostly that Caesar’s chief spy, his sister, was now living in his house.

  The worst of it for Caesar came on the Camp of Mars one day when he left the city and foolishly went to face a mob of angry veterans. A riot broke out before he could finish speaking; they were tired of being paid with promises. It started with shouts and shoves, moved to rock throwing and finished with swords drawn. Once more Caesar ran for his life. Experienced as he was in the art of flight, this time Caesar failed to make it to safety.

  Antony, learning of the trouble even as events transpired, raced from the Forum, where he had been hearing civil cases in court. As he went, he called to his friends to follow him. We left the city running as fast as we could and came upon a mob of men shouting and striking out at Caesar and the rest of the men they had captured. Shoving our way into the melee we discovered many of Caesar’s companions were already dead. Maecenas was held by a brute of a man who pressed a dagger into the soft flesh of his neck.

  Antony’s party was not nearly large enough to take the veterans, but Antony, always at his best at times like this, roared in that golden baritone of his, ‘Harm Caesar and every one of you dies!’

  Much to my relief the fellows shoved Caesar toward Antony with a laugh. Just expressing a difference of opinion. We gathered up what was left of Caesar’s entourage, including a much shaken Maecenas, and made our way back to the city. Maecenas came to me on that walk. ‘I thought I was dead,’ he muttered, nervously touching his neck.

  I smiled at him. ‘I thought it as well, my friend. If not for Antony, I suppose you would have been.’

  Maecenas glanced toward Antony’s hulking figure. ‘I wonder why he bothered?’

  I had no answer for that, but some years later I asked Antony the very same thing. By then Caesar and he were finally and fully enemies. Why save the little twit? A bit of negligence might have made Antony lord of Rome. A thoughtless shrug and drunk’s belch: ‘I thought if they do it to him, they will imagine they can do it to me as well.’

  I didn’t believe him then, and I still don’t. I think he went to rescue Caesar because he expected that Caesar would survive. That being the case, he wanted to appear to be a good partner in the alliance. Once he knew how desperate the situation was, he was in the middle of it and could not very well extricate himself. But I could be wrong. I am not sure Antony ever fully understood the danger that Caesar represented to him.

  Sparta: March, 39 BC

  With the first blush of spring I sailed with Antony and Octavia to Athens. Athens was Antony’s first stop on his march into Syria. We spent some weeks recruiting auxiliaries in Greece and Macedonia while the fleet prepared to sail for Tarsus, which still remained under Antony’s banners. Shortly before our departure, Antony sent me to Sparta for a fortnight. He hoped I might recruit some two or three thousand additional Spartan auxiliaries into his guard. I had by then a great many contacts in the region, including families of the men I had left in Judaea as well as the auxiliaries who had fought under my command in the last days of Philippi.

  So it made sense for Antony to use me in this manner. I enjoyed a fine house in the city for my headquarters. Attending me were several of my most loyal and capable subordinates. As a show of respect Antony permitted me to negotiate terms with the lords of Sparta. Once I had arranged an agreement, I would send a courier to Antony in Athens for his official approval. Antony usually agreed to the conditions at once, but on occasion he would answer with a letter outlining his position with that particular noble. He was acquainted with them all or had information about them if he did not know them personally and therefore gave or withheld his blessing accordingly.

  So sixty men from one lord, a dozen more from another, but with the next fellow I had to continue to haggle for a fair exchange of favours. It was all just as it had been in the summer Dolabella had sought auxiliaries: a son’s promotion, a brother’s appointment to command, a priesthood, land, or some other dignity sought and presently denied. Every lord having his price.

  One morning I received a sealed parchment from a freedman I had not seen before. I had been courting the wife of an estate owner for some days. Her husband possessed more property than prestige and desired some local magistracy for the sake of twenty auxiliaries on offer. From my perspective the deal was not especially advantageous but the wife was a delicious golden-haired beauty, and she was anxious to see her husband’s status increase.

  Assuming my would-be lover had avoided sending the same servant twice, I opened the letter without worrying that the wax seal closing the scroll bore no identifying mark. Only when I noticed there was no signature at the bottom of the letter did I begin to wonder. This seemed strangely careful, even for a love affair. Especially so, as I suspected her husband of putting her up to the seduction.

  When I read the note I realised the author was none other than Livia, wife of Claudius Nero. She spoke of the boar hunt we had enjoyed together, the friendship we had established afterwards. Should I care to see her, she was presently residing in the hills immediately west of Sparta. She preferred anonymity at the moment, and so had not signed the letter; the freedman who had delivered her note, however, could be trusted. He would lead me to her new residence at my convenience, but for the sake of her reputation I must come alone.

  Having read the letter
, I looked up at the messenger. ‘I’ll come within the hour.’ The old fellow answered that he had hoped I would say as much. He would wait for me at the western gate of the city.

  I had already learned that Nero had escaped with Livia and their infant son to Sicily. This came in the disastrous aftermath of the revolt Antony’s wife and brother led in northern Italy. Nero’s involvement in that matter had placed him at the very top of the proscription list. Of course, very few people on that list were still available to bounty hunters. Those who could manage it had escaped to Sicily and the protection of Sextus Pompey. The rest were dead. Discovering that Livia was now living quietly in Sparta I naturally assumed she had left her fool of a husband. The assumption was not especially naive. In Sicily, Nero was safe and might enjoy some dignity as a senator in exile. In Greece, he would be hiding in attics or under haystacks. Livia’s care in remaining anonymous might have alerted me to the possibility that Nero was with her, but I was too happy to worry about it.

  There are several great estates in the foothills just west of the city; these enjoy a fine trade in timber, grapes, and olive oil. I was sure one of the wealthy families kept Livia in perfect luxury while she negotiated her return to high society in Athens, presumably through my connections with Antony.

  As I rode across the great plain surrounding Sparta, I thought about marriage. Why not? We had not seen one another for five years, but our morning in Livia’s bed still burned in my memory. A divorce for her would present no problem, especially given my contacts with the high and mighty. I was then twenty-six and finally enjoying a handsome income, and though I could not afford to repurchase my patrimony I held a military rank of considerable distinction. Marriage to Livia could only enhance my position in society, for she belonged to one of the most ancient patrician families of Rome. That her fortune was lost mattered hardly at all.

  Yes, I told myself, it was time to stop thinking about illicit love affairs and turn instead to the business of an advantageous marriage. All the better with Livia, who had excited passions I had never experienced with others.

  The aging freedman Livia had sent to me was happy to talk about his life. He had spent, he said, twenty-five years in the house of Claudius Nero, more than half his life. In fact, he remembered my visit to Campania in the year Antony and Dolabella had served as consuls. He was still a slave at the time.

  I didn’t remember him. All the same, I told him I had recognised him without at first being able to recall just where we had met. This of course flattered him, and he proceeded with his story, to which I listened with genuine curiosity. Everything that had happened to him over the past five years reflected some detail about Livia’s life. So when he tried to hurry his tale I pressed for details.

  Put simply, he had won his emancipation on the very day Nero won the rigged-election for praetor. Since that time, he had enjoyed command of Nero’s and Livia’s household. After their escape in northern Italy, this fellow alone remained with them. I asked if he had not been afraid for his life; he told me he feared more for Nero’s.

  When they were hiding in Campania, this freedman had not only made himself useful by bringing food to the family but he had also made contact with the servants of Nero’s former clients in the area. Most had refused to help. Not a few tried to sell them out for the sake of a reward, but on two occasions they had been given safe passage through the countryside. Finally, in the dead of night, he had rowed the skiff that carried Nero and Livia and their infant son safely across the straits of Messina to Sextus Pompey’s rebel kingdom of Sicily.

  Having listened attentively to all this, I finally asked the fellow the question I most desperately wanted answered. ‘So what brings Livia to Sparta?’

  ‘Domina will want to explain that to you herself, Excellency.’

  ‘But you are newly arrived in Greece?’

  ‘We are not three days here. I went into the city yesterday to arrange Domina’s journey to Athens. She hoped to petition Mark Antony, but when I learned you were in Sparta, I returned at once to inform her of the news.’

  ‘You recognised my name?’ I asked in genuine surprise.

  ‘Your name is well regarded in the house of the Claudii, Excellency.’

  We came to a fine estate in the foothills, about three miles from the city, but after we had passed it and then several more I asked the fellow, ‘Where exactly are we going?’

  ‘It will be another three or four miles into the mountains,’ he answered. The road was quite ancient and so lacked Roman efficiency, which is to say there was hardly a time when we were not winding about ravines or climbing steep grades. We were in fact quite close to the sea, hardly half a day’s ride to the west. For all that, it was mountain country in every direction. In her letter, Livia had asked me to come alone, but I was suddenly sorry I had not thought to bring along some men as an escort. With only Livia’s freedman for company, I hadn’t much protection if some gang of thugs decided to kidnap one of Antony’s officers.

  Finally, we left the main road and followed a lane that had been nearly swallowed up with briars and weeds. I could see nothing in the distance, certainly nothing cultivated, and I began to wonder just what I was riding into. Then, turning one last curve in the lane, I saw the burnt-out ruins of an ancient villa.

  I pulled Hannibal to a halt and looked down at the freedman, who had walked. ‘Livia is here?’ I asked. What remained of the main building was uninhabitable. Some walls stood; others had fallen. Elsewhere a column was all that remained of a portico that had once connected various buildings. Most of the property was swallowed up in high weeds if not already overgrown with mature saplings. There was a decrepit well close to the front gate. Otherwise the forest pushed against the main house.

  ‘She was here when I left this morning,’ the freedman answered.

  ‘Run forward and have her come outside,’ I told him. ‘I will see her before I take another step.’

  ‘As you like.’

  He trotted easily toward the house. As I waited for the appearance of Livia, I studied the land about me. There was a deep ravine bordering the eastern edge of the property; it seemed to cut close to the main house and then circle behind it. To the west I saw nothing but trees and hills. The forest enjoyed a few old glories, but most of the trees were only a few decades old. There were no other estates about, and I realised this was some lord’s stand of timber.

  My chief concern was ambush. I knew of course with perfect certainty that the freedman who had brought me here had been Nero’s servant, but times had changed. For all I knew the fellow might be in business for himself these days. I was still working through these matters when Livia came through the broken-down gate. She was dressed in dark, inexpensive clothes. She looked like a peasant. In fact, I was not sure at first it actually was Livia. Then, as she walked toward me, I recognised the rhythm of her stride and saw at last her dark glossy hair as she pulled away the veil she wore.

  At that point, I slipped from Hannibal and led him forward. I could not stop myself from taking Livia in my arms and holding her with the desperate passion of a lover, my lips to her neck, pressing my body to her and recalling as I did every intimacy of our single morning together. It had been five years, but she answered my embrace with the same passion she had shown in her lovemaking.

  ‘I hoped you would not disappoint me,’ she whispered.

  ‘How could I?’

  She pulled away from me and looked back at the house. That was when Nero stepped beyond the gate.

  He too dressed as a peasant, his tunic long, in the Greek style. It was filthy as well and without any mark of his patrician status. His hair was longer than a Roman usually wears it, and there was even a bit of a white beard. At the sight of Nero, I could not help myself. I pulled entirely away from Livia. I felt betrayed and of course quite foolish. ‘What is he doing here?’ I hissed.

  ‘Dellius!’ Nero called. His tone was cheerful, as if he had just encountered an old friend. It was, I believe, onl
y the second time he had ever addressed me. The first had been when he threatened my life should anything happen to Livia.

  I was obliged by law to take Nero’s life the moment I saw him, that or make haste to report him to a local magistrate. Anything short of that amounted to giving aid and comfort to an enemy of Rome. ‘You risk my life inviting me here!’ I whispered to Livia. I was angry at her and at myself too.

  ‘We have news for Antony,’ she told me.

  Despite my fury, I was curious. ‘What news?’

  Before she could answer, Nero walked toward us, calling out to me, ‘You are looking well, my friend.’

  Nero was not at all like the dull blade I had observed in Campania. Perhaps revolution suited him or he had learned a few social graces after a year of depending on the kindness of others.

  ‘You as well, Excellency,’ I answered, taking his hand as he extended it.

  ‘We have news for Antony, Dellius.’

  ‘So Livia tells me.’

  ‘Come inside. I don’t care to conduct my business in the open. Besides we are famished.’ He turned and walked back to the house.

  I brought Hannibal as far as the well, where I looped his reins over a post. ‘What is this place?’ I asked Livia, who had stayed with me as we walked.

  ‘One of my father’s properties,’ she explained. ‘Antony’s estate now, I suppose. The house burned down the year I was born, almost twenty years ago. We still use the house to dry timber over the winter. Or did until my father’s death.’

  ‘But you can’t be living here?’

  ‘For the past two nights we’ve had no choice.’

  We passed through the gate and came to a vestibule filled with debris from the collapse of its roof. Beyond that we entered a very large atrium which scavengers had stripped bare of its tile and marbles. The freedman had already set out olives and bread and a sack of wine. All of this he had brought with him from Sparta. Young Tiberius was already eating a piece of the bread. He was a large boy but hardly more than two or three years old. Curiously, he had the same dull expression his father wore: a look of bafflement, as if nothing in the world quite made sense to him.