Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar

by Colleen McCullough

  Caesar departed the next day, riding overland with no one for company save Burgundus and four servants; he might then have come from anywhere and be on the road to anywhere. Though he wore a leather cuirass and kilt, his favored apparel for riding, he had taken care to pack toga and tunic and senatorial shoes, and to take with him the slave whom he employed to make new Civic Crowns for him out of oak leaves. Unwilling though he was to flaunt himself in the name of King Nicomedes, he fully intended to flaunt himself in his own name.

  It was the very end of December when he rode into Lampsacus on the same road Verres had used, to find himself unnoticed; the whole town was down at the quay watching Claudius Nero and Dolabella tie up their considerable fleet. Neither governor was in a good mood, Dolabella because he writhed in the grip of Verres permanently, and Claudius Nero because Dolabella’s indiscreet activities now threatened to compromise him also. Their grim faces did not lighten when they learned that suitable lodgings were not to be had, as Ianitor still housed Verres and the only other commodious mansion in Lampsacus belonged to Philodamus, the accused. Publius Tettius had solved the problem by evicting a colleague from his establishment and offering it to Claudius Nero and Dolabella to share between them.

  When Claudius Nero received Verres (who was already waiting at the commandeered dwelling when the governor arrived), he learned that he was expected to preside over the court—and to accept Verres as organizer of the prosecution, as a witness, as a member of the jury, and as an ambassador whose official propraetorian status was unimpaired by the events in Lampsacus.

  “Ridiculous!” he said to Verres in the hearing of Dolabella, Publius Tettius, and the legate Gaius Terentius Varro.

  “What do you mean?” Verres demanded.

  “Roman justice is famous. What you propose is a travesty. I have acquitted myself well in my province! As things stand at the moment, I am likely to be replaced in the spring. The same can be said of your superior, Gnaeus Dolabella. I can’t speak for him”—Claudius Nero glanced toward the silent Dolabella, who avoided his gaze—“but for myself, I intend to quit my province with a reputation as one of its better governors. This case will probably be my last major one, and I won’t condone a travesty.”

  The handsome face of Verres grew flintlike. “I want a quick conviction!” he cried. “I want those two Greek socii flogged and beheaded! They murdered a Roman lictor in the course of his duty! If they are allowed to get away with it, Rome’s authority is further undermined in a province which still hankers to be ruled by King Mithridates.”

  It was a good argument, but it was not the reason why Gaius Claudius Nero ended in yielding. He did that because he had not the strength or the backbone to resist Verres in a face—to—face confrontation. With the exception of Publius Tettius and his houseguest Gaius Terentius Varro, Verres had succeeded in winning over the entire Roman contingent who lived in Lampsacus, and had worked their feelings into a state which threatened the town’s peace for many moons to come. It was Roman versus Greek with a vengeance; Claudius Nero was just not capable of resisting the pressures now exerted upon him.

  In the meantime Caesar had managed to find accommodation in a small hostelry adjacent to the wharves. As dirty as it was mean, it catered mainly to sailors, and was the only place willing to take him in: he was a detested Roman. Had it not been so cold he would gladly have camped; were he not determined to maintain his independence, he might have sought shelter in a Roman resident’s house. As it was, the harborside inn it must be. Even as he and Burgundus took a stroll before what they suspected was going to be a bad supper, the town heralds were abroad crying that the trial of Philodamus and Artemidorus was to be held on the morrow in the marketplace.

  The morrow saw Caesar in no hurry; he wanted everyone assembled for the hearing before he made his grand entrance on the scene. And when he did arrive he created a small sensation—a Roman nobleman, a senator, a war hero—and owning no loyalty to any of the Roman participants. None of these knew his face well enough to assign it a name, especially now Caesar was clad not in laena and apex, but in a snowy toga with the broad purple stripe of the senator on the right shoulder of his tunic and the maroon leather shoes of the senator on his feet. Added to which, he wore a chaplet of oak leaves upon his head, so every Roman including both governors was obliged to get to his feet and applaud Caesar’s advent.

  “I am Gaius Julius Caesar, nephew of Lucius Cornelius Sulla the Dictator,” he said to Claudius Nero guilelessly, holding out his right hand. “Just passing through when I heard about this fuss! Thought I’d better turn up to see if you needed an extra man on the jury.”

  The name brought instant recognition, of course, more due to flamen Dialis than siege of Mitylene; these men had not been in Rome when Lucullus returned, did not know the fine details of Mitylene’s surrender. Caesar’s offer of jury duty was declined, but he was accommodated on a chair hastily found for one who was not only a war hero, but also the Dictator’s nephew by marriage.

  The trial began. Of Roman citizens to serve as jurors there was no lack, for Dolabella and Claudius Nero had brought a large number of minor officials with them as well as a full cohort of Roman soldiers from Pergamum—Fimbriani who recognized Caesar at once, and hailed him joyfully. Yet another reason why neither governor was pleased to have him sitting there.

  Though Verres had organized the prosecution, the actual role of prosecutor was taken by a local Roman resident, a usurer who needed Claudius Nero’s lictors to extract money from delinquent clients—and was aware that if he did not consent to prosecute, the lictors would cease to be forthcoming. All of Greek Lampsacus congregated about the perimeter of the court, muttering, glaring, shaking an occasional fist. Despite which, no one among them had volunteered to plead for Philodamus and Artemidorus, who were therefore obliged to conduct their own case under an alien system of law.

  It was, thought the expressionless Caesar, a complete travesty. Claudius Nero, the titular president of the court, made no attempt to run it; he sat mumchance and let Verres and Rubrius do that. Dolabella was on the jury and kept making pro—Verres comments in a loud voice, as did Verres himself, also on the jury. When the Greek onlookers realized that Philodamus and Artemidorus were not going to be allowed the proper amount of court time to conduct their defense, some among them began to shout abuse; but there were five hundred armed Fimbriani stationed in the square, more than a match for any rioting crowd.

  The verdict when it came was no verdict: the jury ordered a retrial, this being the only way the majority of them could register their disapproval of the cavalier proceedings without bringing down a Verrine storm about their heads.

  And when he heard the retrial ordered, Verres panicked. If Philodamus and Artemidorus did not die, he suddenly realized, they could indict him in Rome with a whole indignant town to back them up—and possibly a Roman senator war hero to testify for them; Verres had gained the distinct impression that Gaius Julius Caesar was not on his side. The young man had given nothing away by look or comment, but that in itself indicated opposition. And he was related to Sulla, the Dictator of Rome! It was also possible that Gaius Claudius Nero would regain his courage were Verres to be tried in a Roman court inside Rome; any allegations Verres might make about Claudius Nero’s personal conduct would then sound like a smear campaign to discredit an important witness.

  That Claudius Nero was thinking along the same lines became apparent when he announced that he would schedule the retrial for early summer, which probably meant a new governor in Asia Province—and a new governor in Cilicia. Despite the death of a Roman lictor, Philodamus and Artemidorus suddenly had an excellent chance of going free. And if they went free, they would come to Rome to prosecute Gaius Verres. For, as Philodamus had said when he had addressed the jury,

  “We socii know that we are under the care of Rome and that we must answer to the governor, to his legates and officials, and through him to the Senate and People of Rome. If we are not willing to lie down un
der Roman rule, we understand that there must be reprisals, and that many of us will suffer. But what are we alien subjects of Rome to do when Rome permits a man who is no greater than a governor’s assistant to lust after our children and snatch them from us for his own evil purposes? My son and I did no more than defend his sister and my daughter from a wicked lout! No one intended that any man should die, and it was not a Greek hand struck the first blow. I was scalded by boiling water in my own house while I tried to prevent the companions of Gaius Verres from carrying my child off to pain and dishonor. Had it not been for the arrival of my son and his friends, my daughter would indeed have been carried off to pain and dishonor. Gaius Verres did not behave like a civilized member of a civilized people. He behaved like the barbarian he is.”

  The verdict of a retrial, delivered as it had been by an all—Roman jury loudly urged by Dolabella and Verres throughout the trial to do its duty and convict, emboldened the Greek crowd to speed Claudius Nero and his court out of the marketplace with jeers, boos, hisses, angry gestures.

  “You’ll schedule the retrial for tomorrow,” said Verres to Claudius Nero.

  “Next summer,” said Claudius Nero faintly.

  “Not if you want to be consul, my friend,” said Verres. “I will pull you down with great pleasure—never doubt that for a moment! What goes for Dolabella goes for you. Do as I say in this or be prepared to take the consequences. For if Philodamus and Artemidorus live to indict me in Rome, I will have to indict you and Dolabella in Rome long before the Greeks can get there. I will make sure you’re both convicted of extortion. So neither of you would be on hand to testify against me.”

  The retrial occurred the day following the trial. Between bribing those members of the jury willing to take a bribe and threatening those who were not, Verres got no sleep; nor did Dolabella, compelled to accompany Verres on his rounds.

  That hard night’s work tipped the balance. By a small majority of the jurors, Philodamus and Artemidorus were convicted of the murder of a Roman lictor. Claudius Nero ordered their immediate dispatch. Kept at a distance by the cohort of Fimbriani, the Greek crowd watched helplessly as father and son were stripped and flogged. The old man was unconscious when his head was lopped from his shoulders, but Artemidorus retained his faculties until his end, and wept not for his own fate or for his father’s, but for the fate of his orphaned sister.

  At the end of it Caesar walked fearlessly into the densely packed mass of Greek Lampsacans, all weeping with shock, beyond anger now. No other Roman went near them; escorted by Fimbriani, Claudius Nero and Dolabella were already shifting their belongings down to the quay. But Caesar had a purpose. It had not taken him long to decide who in the crowd were the influential ones, and these men he sought out.

  “Lampsacus isn’t big enough to stage a revolt,” he said to them, “but revenge is possible. Don’t judge all Romans by this sorry lot, and hold your tempers. I give you my word that when I return to Rome, I will prosecute the governor Dolabella and make sure that Verres is never elected a praetor. Not for gifts or for honors. Just for my own satisfaction.”

  After that he went to the house of Ianitor, for he wanted to see Gaius Verres before the man quit Lampsacus.

  “Well, if it isn’t the war hero!” cried Verres cheerfully when Caesar walked in.

  He was overseeing his packing.

  “Do you intend to take possession of the daughter?” Caesar asked, disposing himself comfortably in a chair.

  “Naturally,” said Verres, nodding at a slave who brought in a little statue for him to inspect. “Yes, I like it. Crate it.” His attention returned to Caesar. “Anxious to set eyes on the cause of all this fuss, are you?”

  “Consumed with curiosity. She ought to outdo Helen.”

  “So I think.”

  “Is she blonde, I wonder? I’ve always thought Helen must have been blonde. Yellow hair has the edge.”

  Verres eyed Caesar’s thatch appreciatively, lifted a hand to pat his own. “You and I ought to know!”

  “Where do you intend to go from Lampsacus, Gaius Verres?”

  The tawny brows rose. “To Nicomedia, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Caesar gently.

  “Really? And why not?” asked Verres, deceptively casual.

  Caesar bent his gaze to study his own nails. “Dolabella will bite the dust as soon as I return to Rome, which will be in the spring of this year or the next. I will prosecute him myself. And I will prosecute you. Unless, that is, you return to Cilicia now.”

  Caesar’s blue eyes lifted; the honeyed eyes of Verres met them. For a long moment neither man moved.

  Then Verres said, “I know who you remind me of. Sulla.”

  “Do I?”

  “It’s your eyes. Not as washed out as Sulla’s, but they have the same look. I wonder will you go as far as Sulla?”

  “That is on the laps of the gods. I would rather say, I hope no one forces me to go as far as Sulla.”

  Verres shrugged. “Well, Caesar, I am no Gaius Marius, so it won’t be me.”

  “You are certainly no Gaius Marius,” Caesar agreed calmly. “He was a great man until his mind gave way. Where are you going from Lampsacus, have you decided?”

  “To Cilicia with Dolabella,” said Verres with another shrug.

  “Oh, very wise! Would you like me to send someone down to the port to inform Dolabella? I’d hate to see him sail off and leave you behind.”

  “If you wish,” said Verres indifferently.

  Off went Caesar to find Burgundus and instruct him what to tell Dolabella. As he returned to the room through an inner door, Ianitor brought in a muffled form through the door onto the street.

  “This is Stratonice?” asked Verres eagerly.

  Ianitor brushed the tears from his cheeks. “Yes.”

  “Leave us alone with her, Greek.”

  Ianitor fled.

  “Shall I unveil her for you while you stand at a suitably remote distance to take all of her in at once?’’ asked Caesar.

  “I prefer to do it myself,” said Verres, moving to the girl’s side; she had made no sound, no attempt to run away.

  The hood of her heavy cloak fell forward over her face, impossible to see. Like Myron anxious to check the result of a bronze casting, Verres twitched the cloak from her with a trembling hand. And stared, and stared.

  It was Caesar broke the silence; he threw back his head and laughed until he cried. “I had a feeling!” he said when he was able, groping for a handkerchief.

  The body she owned was shapeless, poor Stratonice. Her eyes were slits, her snub nose spread across her face, the reddish hair atop her flat—backed skull was sparse to the point of semi—baldness, her ears were vestigial and she had a badly split harelip. Of reasoning mentality she had very little, poor Stratonice.

  Face scarlet, Verres turned on his heel.

  “Don’t miss your ship!” Caesar called after him. “I’d hate to have to spread the end of this story all over Rome, Verres!”

  The moment Verres had gone Caesar sobered. He came across to the mute and immobile creature, picked up her cloak from the floor and draped it about her tenderly.

  “Don’t worry, my poor girl,” he said, not sure she could even hear him. “You’re quite safe.” He called then for Ianitor, who came in immediately. “You knew, ethnarch, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why in the name of Great Zeus didn’t you speak out if they wouldn’t? They died for nothing!”

  “They died because they elected death as the preferable alternative,” said Ianitor.

  “And what will become of the wretched creature now?’’

  “She will be well looked after.”

  “How many of you knew?”

  “Just the city’s elders.”

  Unable to find anything to say in answer to that, Caesar left Ianitor’s house, and left Lampsacus.

  *

  Gaius Verres hurried down to the port, stumbling. How d
ared they, those stupid, stupid Greeks? Hiding her away as if she was Helen of Troy, when all the time she was a gorgon.

  Dolabella was not pleased at having to delay his departure while various crates and trunks belonging to Verres were loaded; Claudius Nero had already gone, and the Fimbriani with him.

  “Quin taces!” snarled Verres when his superior asked where was the beauteous Stratonice. “I left her behind in Lampsacus. They deserve each other.”

  His superior was feeling the pinch of some time without the stimulating sexual sessions he had grown to rely upon; Verres soon found himself back in Dolabella’s good graces, and spent the voyage from Lampsacus to Pergamum planning. He would return Dolabella to his usual condition and spend the rest of his term in Tarsus using up the gubernatorial stipend. So Caesar thought he’d prosecute, did he? Well, he wouldn’t get the chance. He, Verres, would get in first! The moment Dolabella returned to Rome, he, Verres, would find a prosecutor with a prestigious name and testify Dolabella into permanent exile. Then there would be no one to contest the set of account books Verres intended to present to the Treasury. A pity that he hadn’t managed to get to Bithynia and Thrace, but he had really done very nicely.

  “I believe,” he said to Dolabella after they left Pergamum behind, “that Miletus has some of the finest wool in the world, not to mention rugs and tapestries of rare quality. Let’s stop in at Miletus and look at what’s available.”

  *

  “I can’t get over the fact that those two socii died for nothing,” said Caesar to Nicomedes and Oradaltis. “Why? Tell me why they just didn’t produce the girl and show Verres what she was? That would have been the end of the affair! Why did they insist upon turning what ought to have been a comedy with Verres the butt into a tragedy as great as anything Sophocles dreamed of?”

  “Pride, mostly,” said Oradaltis, tears in her eyes. “And perhaps a sense of honor.”

  “It might have been understandable if the girl had looked presentable when she was a baby, but from the moment of her birth they would have known what she was. Why didn’t they expose her? No one would have condemned them for it.”