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

by Colleen McCullough

  “Of course it isn’t permanent,” said Quintus, beaming, “but it will do until I can afford to use it as the mold for a really splendid bronze. I had the man who is making my imago do it—it always seems such a shame to have one’s wax likeness shut up in a cupboard for none to see.” He glanced sideways at Cicero, still staring raptly. “What do you think, Marcus?” he asked.

  “I think,” said Cicero deliberately, “that this is the first time in my life that I’ve ever seen the half manage to be bigger than the whole.”

  Too much for Atticus, who laughed until he had to sit down on the floor, where Cicero joined him. Which left poor Quintus with only two choices: fly into a monumental huff or join the mockers in their amusement. Since he was not Cicero’s brother for nothing, he selected merriment.

  After that it was time for dinner, which a mollified Pomponia attended together with Terentia and the peacemaker Tullia, who dealt with her aunt-by-marriage better than anyone else could.

  “So when’s the wedding?” asked Atticus, who hadn’t seen Tullia in so long that her grown-up appearance had come as quite a surprise. Such a pretty girl! Soft brown hair, soft brown eyes, a great look of her father, and a lot of his wit. She had been engaged to young Gaius Calpurnius Piso Frugi for some years, and it was a good match in more ways than merely money and clout; Piso Frugi was by far the most appealing member of a clan more famous for nastiness than niceness, hardness than gentleness.

  “Two more years,” Tullia answered with a sigh.

  “A long wait,” said Atticus sympathetically.

  “Too long,” said Tullia, sighing again.

  “Well, well,” from Cicero jovially, “we shall see, Tullia. Perhaps we can move it forward a bit.”

  Which reply sent all three ladies back to Pomponia’s sitting room in a fever of anticipation, already planning the wedding.

  “Nothing like nuptials to keep women happy,” said Cicero.

  “She’s in love, Marcus, and that’s rare in arranged unions. As I rather gather Piso Frugi feels the same way, why not let them set up house together before Tullia turns eighteen?’’ Atticus asked, smiling. “What is she now, sixteen?”

  “Almost.

  “Then let them marry at the end of this year.”

  “I agree,” said brother Quintus gruffly. “It’s nice to see them together. They get on so well that they’re friends.”

  Neither of his listeners commented on this remark, but to Cicero it represented the perfect opportunity to change the subject from marriage and women to Catilina—not only more interesting, but also easier to deal with.

  “Do you believe that he intended to cancel debts?” he asked Atticus anxiously.

  “I’m not sure I believed it, Marcus, but I certainly could not afford to ignore it,” said Atticus frankly. “The accusation is enough to frighten most men in business, especially at the moment, with credit so hard to get and interest rates so high. Oh, there are plenty who would welcome it, but they’re never in the majority, and they’re rarely at the top of the business heap. A general cancellation of debt is most appealing to little men and men without enough liquid assets to maintain a good cash flow.”

  “What you’re saying is that the First Class turned away from Catilina and Lucius Cassius from prudence,” said Cicero.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then Caesar was right,” Quintus butted in to say. “You virtually impeached Catilina in the House on the slenderest of pretexts. In other words, you started a rumor.”

  “No, I did not!” Cicero yelled, pounding the bolster beneath his left elbow. “I did not! I wouldn’t be so irresponsible! Why are you being so dense, Quintus? That pair were planning to overthrow good government, whether they planned to do it as consuls or as revolutionaries! As Terentia correctly said, men do not plan a general cancellation of debt unless they’re wooing the men of Classes lower than the First. It’s the typical ploy of men who want to set up a dictatorship.”

  “Sulla was Dictator, but he didn’t cancel debts,” said Quintus stubbornly.

  “No, all he did was cancel the lives of two thousand knights!” cried Atticus. “The confiscation of their estates filled the Treasury, and enough newcomers got fat on the proceeds to make other economic measures unnecessary.”

  “He didn’t proscribe you,” said Quintus, bristling.

  “I should hope not! Sulla was feral, but never a fool.”

  “Meaning I am?”

  “Yes, Quintus, you are a fool,” said Cicero, saving Atticus the trouble of finding a tactful answer. “Why do you always have to be so aggressive? No wonder you and Pomponia can’t get on—you’re as like as two peas in a pod!”

  “Grrr!” snarled Quintus, subsiding.

  “Well, Marcus, the damage is done,” said Atticus pacifically, “and there’s every chance that you were right to act before the elections. I think your source of information is suspect because I know the lady a little—but on the other hand, I’d be willing to bet that what she knows about economics could be easily written on the head of a pin. Pluck a phrase like a general cancellation of debt out of thin air? Impossible! No, insofar as it goes, I believe you had sufficient reason to act.”

  “Whatever you do,” cried Cicero, suddenly aware that both his companions knew too much about Fulvia Nobilioris, “do not ever mention her name to anyone! Or even hint that I have a spy in Catilina’s camp! I want to go on using her.”

  Even Quintus could see the sense in this appeal, and agreed to keep Fulvia Nobilioris to himself. As for Atticus, that eminently logical man was fully in favor of a continued watch on the activities of those around Catilina.

  “It may be that Catilina himself isn’t involved” was the last comment from Atticus, “but certainly his circle warrants our attention. Etruria and Samnium have been constantly boiling since the Italian War, and the fall of Gaius Marius only exacerbated the situation. Not to mention Sulla’s measures.”

  *

  Thus it was that Quintus Cicero escorted the various ladies of both households to the seaside with their offspring in Sextilis, while Marcus Cicero himself remained in Rome to monitor events; the Curius ménage did not have the money for vacations at Cumae or Misenum, so Fulvia Nobilioris had to suffer the summer heat. A burden for Cicero too, but one he suspected would be well worth it.

  The Kalends of September came and went with no more than a perfunctory meeting of the Senate, traditionally bound to sit on this day. After which most of the senators went back to the seaside, as the calendar was so far ahead of the season that the hottest weather was yet to come. Caesar stayed in town; so did Nigidius Figulus and Varro, for an identical reason: the new Pontifex Maximus had announced the finding of what he called the Stone Annals and the Commentaries of the Kings. After convoking the College of Priests on the last day of Sextilis to inform them first and give them an opportunity to examine both the tablets and the manuscript, he then used the meeting of the Senate on the Kalends of September to display his discovery. Most people just yawned (even some of the priests), but Cicero, Varro and Nigidius Figulus were among those who thought it thrilling, and spent much of the first half of September poring over these antique documents.

  Still mildly besotted with the spaciousness and luxury of his new house, Caesar gave a dinner party on the Ides of that month for Nigidius Figulus, Varro, Cicero and two of the men with whom he had messed as a junior military tribune before the walls of Mitylene, Philippus Junior and Gaius Octavius. Philippus was two years older than Caesar and would be a praetor next year too, but Octavius’s age lay between them, which meant his first chance to become praetor would not fall until the year after; this of course because patrician Caesar could occupy curule office two years earlier than any plebeian.

  Old Philippus, malign and amoral, famous chiefly for the number of times he had switched allegiances from one faction to another, was still alive and still occasionally attended meetings of the Senate, but his days as a force in that body were long past. Nor w
ould his son ever replace him, thought Caesar, either for vice or power. “Young” Philippus was too much the Epicurean, too addicted to the exquisitely regulated pleasures of the dining couch and the gentler arts, happy to do his duty in the Senate and ascend the cursus honorum because it was his right, but never in a way likely to breed enmity in any political faction. He could get on with Cato as easily as he got on with Caesar, though he much preferred Caesar’s company to Cato’s. He had been married to a Gellia, and upon her death had chosen not to wed again, preferring not to inflict a stepmother upon his son and daughter.

  Between Caesar and Gaius Octavius lay an extra incentive for friendship: after the death of Octavius’s first wife (an Ancharia from the wealthy praetorian family) he had sued for the hand of Caesar’s niece, Alia, daughter of Caesar’s younger sister. Her father, Marcus Atius Balbus, had asked Caesar’s opinion about the alliance because Gaius Octavius was not of a noble family, merely a hugely wealthy one, from Velitrae in the Latin homelands. Remembering Octavius’s loyalty at Mitylene and aware that he loved the beautiful and delightful Alia madly, Caesar advocated the match. There was a stepdaughter, luckily a nice little girl with no malice in her, but no son of that first marriage to spoil the inheritance of any son Alia might have to Octavius. So the deed was done and Alia installed in one of Rome’s loveliest houses, albeit peculiarly situated on the wrong side of the Palatium at the end of a lane called the Ox Heads. And in October of the year before last Atia had borne her first child—alas, a girl.

  Naturally the conversation revolved around the Stone Annals and the Commentaries of the Kings, though in deference to Octavius and Philippus, Caesar made considerable efforts to deflect his three more scholarly guests from this marvel.

  “Of course you are acknowledged the great authority on ancient law,” said Cicero, prepared to concede superiority in an area he thought of little moment in modern Rome.

  “I thank you,” said Caesar gravely.

  “A pity there’s not more information about the day-to-day activities of the King’s court,” said Varro, freshly returned from a long period in the East as Pompey’s resident natural scientist and part-time biographer.

  “Yes, but between the two documents we now have an absolutely clear picture of the trial procedure for perduellio, and that in itself is fascinating,” said Nigidius Figulus, “considering maiestas.”

  “Maiestas was Saturninus’s invention,” said Caesar.

  “He only invented maiestas because no one could-get a conviction for treason in the old form,” said Cicero quickly.

  “A pity Saturninus didn’t know of the existence of your finds then, Caesar,” said Varro dreamily. “Two judges and no jury makes a big difference to a trial outcome!”

  “Rubbish!” cried Cicero, sitting up straight. “Neither the Senate nor Comitia would permit a criminal trial without a jury!”

  “What I find most interesting,” said Nigidius Figulus, “is that there are only some four men alive today who could qualify as judges. You, Caesar. Your cousin Lucius Caesar. Fabius Sanga. And Catilina, oddly enough! All the other patrician families were not around when Horatius was tried for the murder of his sister.”

  Philippus and Octavius were looking a little lost as well as rather bored, so Caesar made another effort to change the subject.

  “When’s the big day?” he asked Octavius.

  “About a market interval to go.”

  “And will it be a boy or a girl?’’

  “We think a boy this time. A third girl between two wives would be a cruel disappointment,” said Gaius Octavius with a sigh.

  “I remember that before Tullia was born I was sure she was a boy,” said Cicero, grinning. “Terentia was sure too. As it was, we had to wait fourteen years for my son.”

  “That long between tries, was it, Cicero?’’ asked Philippus.

  To which Cicero vouchsafed no answer beyond a blush; like most ambitious social-climbing New Men, he was habitually prudish unless a witticism too stunning to resist sprang to mind. The entrenched aristocrats could afford a salty tongue; Cicero could not.

  “The woman whose husband caretakes the Old Meeting Houses says it will be a boy,” said Octavius. “She tied Atia’s wedding ring to a thread and held it over Atia’s belly. It rotated rapidly to the right—a sure sign, she says.”

  “Well, let’s hope she’s right,” from Caesar. “My older sister threw boys, but girls do run in the family.”

  “I wonder,” asked Varro, “how many men were actually tried for perduellio back in the days of Tullus Hostilius?”

  Caesar stifled a sigh; to invite three scholars and only two Epicureans to a dinner clearly did not work. Luckily the wine was superlative and so were the Domus Publica cooks.

  *

  The news from Etruria came not many days after that dinner with the Pontifex Maximus, and was conveyed by Fulvia Nobilioris.

  “Catilina has sent Gaius Manlius to Faesulae to recruit an army,” she said to Cicero, perched on the edge of a couch and mopping a forehead dewed with sweat, “and Publius Furius is in Apulia doing the same.”

  “Proof?” asked Cicero sharply, his own brow suddenly moist.

  “I have none, Marcus Tullius.”

  “Did Quintus Curius tell you?”

  “No. I overheard him talking to Lucius Cassius last night after dinner. They thought I had gone to bed. Since the elections they’ve all been very quiet, even Quintus Curius. It was a blow to Catilina, and I think he’s taken some time to recover. Last night was the first time I’ve heard a whisper of anything.”

  “Do you know when Manlius and Furius began their operations?’’

  “No.”

  “So you have no idea how far advanced recruitment might be? Would it, for instance, be possible for me to get confirmation if I sent someone to Faesulae?’’

  “I don’t know, Marcus Tullius. I wish I did!”

  “What of Quintus Curius? Is he keen on outright revolution?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then try to find out, Fulvia,” Cicero said, careful to keep the exasperation out of his voice and manner. “If we can persuade him to testify before the Senate, its members would have no choice but to believe me.”

  “Rest assured, husband, Fulvia will do her best,” said Terentia, and ushered the visitor out.

  Positive that all insurgent forces would be willing to recruit slaves, Cicero sent a very sharp and presentable fellow north to Faesulae with instructions to volunteer. Aware that many in the House deemed him gullible and overeager for a crisis to distinguish his consulship, Cicero borrowed this slave from Atticus; the fellow could therefore testify that he was not under obligation to Cicero personally. But, alas, when he returned he had little to offer. Something was definitely going on, and not only in Faesulae. The trouble was that slaves, he had been told when he started to fish for information, did not belong in Etruria, a place of free men owning sufficient free men to serve the interests of Etruria. Just what that answer meant was difficult to say, as of course Etruria was as liberally dowered with slaves as any other place inside or outside Italy. The whole world depended on slaves!

  “If it is indeed an uprising, Marcus Tullius,” Atticus’s servant concluded, “then it is an uprising limited to free men.”

  “What next?” asked Terentia over dinner.

  “I honestly don’t know, my dear. The thing is, do I convene the Senate and try again, or do I wait until I can gather several free-man agents together and produce some hard evidence?”

  “I have a feeling that hard evidence is going to be very difficult to find, husband. No one in northern Etruria trusts any outsider, free or servile. They’re clannish and secretive.”

  “Well,” said Cicero, sighing, “I shall summon the House into session the day after tomorrow. If it serves no other purpose, it will at least tell Catilina that my eye is still upon him.”

  It served no other purpose, exactly as Cicero had foreseen. Those senators not still
at the seaside were skeptical at best and downright insulting at worst. Especially Catilina, who was present and vocal but remarkably cool for a man whose hopes for the consulship had been permanently dashed. This time he made no attempt to rant at Cicero or at adversity; he simply sat on his stool and answered patiently, calmly. A good tactic which impressed the skeptics and allowed the partisans to gloat. Little wonder then that what might otherwise have been a rowdy and heated debate gradually dwindled to an inertia leavened only by the sudden eruption of Gaius Octavius through the doors, whooping and dancing.

  “I have a son! I have a son!”

  Thankful for an excuse to close the meeting, Cicero dismissed his clerks and joined the crowd around Octavius.

  “Is the horoscope auspicious?” asked Caesar. “Mind you, they are never not.”

  “More miraculous than auspicious, Caesar. If I am to believe what the astrologer fellow says, my son Gaius Octavius Junior will end in ruling the world.” The proud father chuckled. “But I fell for it! Gave the astrologer a bonus as well as a fee.”

  “My natal horoscope just had lots to say about mysterious illnesses of the chest, if I am to believe my mother,” said Caesar. “She never will show it to me.”

  “And mine said I would never make money,” said Crassus.

  “Fortune-telling keeps the women happy,” said Philippus.

  “Who intends to come with me to register the birth with Juno Lucina?” Octavius asked, still beaming.

  “Who else than Uncle Caesar Pontifex Maximus?” Caesar threw an arm about Octavius’s shoulders. “And after that, I demand to be shown my new nephew.”

  *

  Eighteen days of October had ground away without significant information from either Etruria or Apulia, nor a word from Fulvia Nobilioris. An occasional letter from the agents both Cicero and Atticus had dispatched held out little hope of hard evidence, though every one of these missives vowed something was definitely going on. The chief trouble seemed to lie in the fact that there was no real nucleus, just stirs and shudders in this village, then in that village, on some Sullan centurion’s foundering farm or in some Sullan veteran’s low tavern. Yet the moment a strange face showed itself, everyone walked about whistling innocently. Inside the walls of Faesulae, Arretium, Volaterrae, Aesernia, Larinum and all the other urban settlements of Etruria and Apulia, nothing was visible save economic depression and grinding poverty. There were houses and farms for sale to cover hopeless debts everywhere, but of their erstwhile owners, not a sign.