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

by Colleen McCullough

  Pompey transferred his gaze to a different Centaur; this one had a javelin wielded by a Lapith embedded in its human chest. “Do you like living, Cicero?” he asked conversationally.

  The trembling increased; Cicero had to wipe his brow with a fold of toga. “Yes, I like living,” he whispered.

  “I imagined you did. After all, you haven’t had a second consulship yet, and there’s the censorship as well.” The wounded Centaur was obviously interesting; Pompey bent forward to peer at the spot where the javelin entered. “It’s up to you, Cicero. If you speak well enough to get Milo off tomorrow, it’s all over. Your next sleep will be permanent.”

  Hand on one knob, Pompey tugged it, opened half the door, and went out. Cicero sat on the couch panting, lower lip held firmly in his teeth, knees vibrating. Time passed, he was not sure how much of it. But finally he put both hands on the couch and levered himself upright. His legs held. He extended a foot, began to walk. And kept on walking.

  It was only at the bottom of the Palatine that he fully understood what had just transpired. What Pompey had actually told him. That Publius Clodius had died at his behest; that Milo had been his tool; that the tool’s usefulness was now blunted; and that if he, Marcus Tullius Cicero, did not do as he had been told, he would be as dead as Publius Clodius. Who would do it for Pompey? Sextus Cloelius? Oh, the world was full of Pompey’s tools! But what did he want, this Pompeius from Picenum? And where in all of this was Caesar? Yes, he was there! Clodius could not be allowed to live to be praetor. They had decided it between them.

  In the darkness of his bedroom he began to weep. Terentia stirred, muttered, rolled onto her side. Cicero retreated, wrapped in a thick blanket, to the icy peristyle, and there wept as much for Pompey as for himself. The brisk, competent, oddly offhand seventeen-year-old he had met during Pompey Strabo’s war against the Italians in Picenum had long, long gone. Had he known as far back as then that one day he would need the wretched youth Cicero as his tool? Was that why he had been so kind? Was that why he had saved the wretched youth Cicero’s life? So that one day far in the future he could threaten to remove what he had preserved?

  *

  At dawn Rome woke to bustle and hum, though all through the night the heavy wheeled carts drawn by oxen lumbered through the narrow streets delivering goods. Goods which at dawn were put on display or put to work in some factory or foundry, when Rome rose, yawning, to begin the serious business of making money.

  But on the fifth day of Milo’s trial in Lucius Ahenobarbus’s specially convened violence court, Rome cowered as the sun nudged upward into the sky. Pompey had literally closed the city. Within the Servian Walls no activity began; no snack bar opened its sliding doors onto the street to offer breakfast, no tavern rolled up its shutters, no bakery kindled the ovens, no stall was erected in any marketplace, no school set itself up in a quiet corner, no bank or brokerage firm tuned its abacuses, no purveyor of books or jewels opened his door, no slave or free man went to work, no crossroads college or club or brotherhood of any description met to while away the hours of a day off.

  The silence was stupendous. Every street leading to the Forum Romanum was cordoned off by sour, untalkative bands of soldiers, and within the Forum itself pila bristled above the waving plumes of the Syrian legion’s helmets. Two thousand men garrisoned the Forum itself, three thousand more the city, on that freezing ninth day of April. Walking like somnambulants, the hundred-odd men and few women who were compelled to attend the trial of Milo assembled amid the echoes, shivering with cold, staring about twitchily.

  Pompey had already set up his tribunal outside the doors of the Treasury beneath the temple of Saturn, and there he sat dispensing fiscal justice while Ahenobarbus had his lictors collect the wooden balls from the vaults and brought out the lot jars. Mark Antony challenged the jurors for the prosecution, Marcus Marcellus for the defense; but when Cato’s name was drawn, both sides nodded.

  It took two hours to choose the fifty-one men who sat to hear the summing-up. After which the prosecution spoke for two hours. The elder of the two Appius Claudiuses and Mark Antony (who had remained in Rome to act in this trial) each spoke for half an hour, and Publius Valerius Nepos for an hour. Good speeches, but not in Cicero’s league.

  The jury leaned forward on its folding stools when Cicero walked forward to begin, his scroll in his hand; it was there merely for effect, he never referred to it. When Cicero gave an oration it seemed as if he were composing it as he went along, seamlessly, vividly, magically. Who could ever forget his speech against Gaius Verres, his defenses of Caelius, of Cluentius, of Roscius of Ameria? Murderers, blackguards, monsters, all grist for Cicero’s undiscriminating mill. He had even made the vile Antonius Hybrida sound like every mother’s ideal son.

  “Lucius Ahenobarbus, members of the jury, you see me here to represent the great and good Titus Annius Milo.”

  Cicero paused, stared at the pleasurably expectant Milo, swallowed. “How strange it is to have an audience composed of soldiers! How much I miss the clangor of business as usual….” He stopped, swallowed. “But how wise of the consul Gnaeus Pompeius to make sure that nothing unseemly happened—happens….” He stopped, swallowed. “We are protected. We have nothing to fear, and least of all does my dear friend Milo have anything to fear….” He stopped, waved his scroll aimlessly, swallowed. “Publius Clodius was mad; he burned and plundered. Burned. Look at the places where our beloved Curia Hostilia, Basilica Porcia…” He stopped, he frowned, he pushed the fingers of one hand into the sockets of his eyes. “Basilica Porcia—Basilica Porcia…”

  By this, the silence was so profound that the chink of a pilum brushing against a scabbard sounded like a building crashing down; Milo was gaping at him, that loathesome cockroach Marcus Antonius was grinning, the rising sun was reflecting off the oily bald pate of Lucius Ahenobarbus the way it did off snowfields, blindingly—oh, what is the matter with my mind, why am I seeing that?

  He tried again. “Are we to exist in perpetual misery? No! We have not since the day Publius Clodius burned! On the day Publius Clodius died, we received a priceless gift! The patriot we see here before us simply defended himself, fought for his life. His sympathies have always been with true patriots, his anger directed against the gutter techniques of demagogues….” He stopped, swallowed. “Publius Clodius conspired to take the life of Milo. There can be no doubt of it, no doubt of it at all— no doubt at all—no doubt, no doubt… no—doubt…”

  Face twisted with worry, Caelius crossed to where Cicero stood alone. “Cicero, you’re not well. Let me get you some wine,” he said anxiously.

  The brown eyes staring at him were dazed; Caelius wondered if they even saw him.

  “Thank you, I am well,” said Cicero, and tried again. “Milo does not deny that a fight broke out on the Via Appia, though he does deny that he instigated it. He does not deny that Clodius died, though he does deny that he killed Clodius. All of which is quite immaterial. Self-defense is not a crime. Never a crime. Crime is premeditated. That was Clodius. That was premeditation. Publius Clodius. Him. Not Milo. No, not Milo….”

  Caelius moved back to him. “Cicero, take some wine, please!”

  “No, I am well. Truly, I am well. Thank you…. Take the size of Milo’s party. A carpentum. A wife. The eminent Quintus Fufius Calenus. Baggage. Servants galore. Is that the way a man plots to do murder? Clodius had no wife with him. Isn’t that in itself suspicious? Clodius never moved without his wife. Clodius had no baggage. Clodius was unencumbersome—unencrumbed—unen—unencumbered….”

  Pompey was sitting on his tribunal hearing cases against the fiscus. Pretending the court of Ahenobarbus didn’t exist. I never knew the man. Oh, Jupiter, he will kill me! He will kill me!

  “Milo is a sane man. If it happened the way the prosecution alleges it happened, then we are looking at a madman. But Milo is not mad. It was Clodius who was mad! Everyone knew Clodius was mad! Everyone!”

  He stopped, wiped the swea
t out of his eyes. Fulvia swam before his gaze, sitting with her mother, Sempronia. Who was that standing with them? Oh, Curio. They were smiling, smiling, smiling. While Cicero died, died, died.

  “Died. Died. Clodius died. No one denies that. We all have to die. But no one wants to die. Clodius died. Clodius brought it on himself. Milo didn’t kill him. Milo is—Milo is…”

  For a hideous half hour Cicero battled on, stumbling, stopping, faltering, tripping over simple words. Until in the end, his vision filled by Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus dispensing fiscal justice outside Saturn, he stopped for the last time. Couldn’t start again.

  No one on Milo’s side was angry, even Milo. The shock was too enormous, Cicero’s health too suspect. Perhaps he had one of those frightful headaches with flashing lights? It wasn’t his heart; he didn’t have that grey look. Nor his stomach. What was the matter, with him? Was he having a stroke?

  Marcus Claudius Marcellus stepped forward. “Lucius Ahenobarbus, it is clear that Marcus Tullius cannot continue. And that is a tragedy, for we all agreed to give him our time. Not one of us has prepared an address. May I humbly ask this court and its jurors to remember the kind of oration Marcus Tullius has always given? Today he is ill; we will not hear that. But we can remember. And take to your hearts, members of the jury, an unspoken oration which would have shown you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, where the guilt in this sorry business lies. The defense rests its case.”

  Ahenobarbus shifted in his chair. “Members of the jury, I require your votes,” he said.

  The jury busied itself inscribing its little tablets with a letter: A for ABSOLVO, C for CONDEMNO. Ahenobarbus’s lictors collected the tablets and Ahenobarbus counted them with witnesses peering over his shoulder.

  “CONDEMNO by thirty-eight votes to thirteen,” Ahenobarbus announced in a level voice. “Titus Annius Milo, I will appoint a damages panel to assess your fine, but CONDEMNO carries a sentence of exile with it according to the lex Pompeia de vi. It is my duty to instruct you that you are interdicted against fire and water within five hundred miles of Rome. Be advised that three further charges have been laid against you. You will be tried in the court of Aulus Manlius Torquatus on charges of electoral bribery. You will be tried in the court of Marcus Favonius on charges of illegally associating with members of colleges banned under the lex Julia Marcia. And you will be tried in the court of Lucius Fabius on charges of violence under the lex Plautia de vi. Court closed.”

  Caelius led the almost prostrate Cicero away. Cato, who had voted ABSOLVO, crossed to Milo. It was very strange. Not even that showy termagant Fulvia was shrieking victory. People just melted away as if numbed.

  “I’m sorry for it, Milo,” Cato said.

  “Not as sorry as I am, believe me.”

  “I fear you’ll go down in the other courts as well.”

  “Of course. Though I won’t be here to defend myself. I’m leaving for Massilia today.”

  For once Cato wasn’t shouting; his voice was low. “Then you’ll be all right if you’ve prepared for defeat. I hope you noticed that Lucius Ahenobarbus issued no order to seal your house or garnish your finances.”

  “I am grateful. And I’m prepared.”

  “I’m thunderstruck at Cicero.”

  Milo smiled, shook his head. “Poor Cicero!” he said. “I think he’s just discovered some of Pompeius’s secrets. Please, Cato, watch Pompeius! I know the boni are wooing him. I understand why. But in the end you’d do better to ally yourself with Caesar. At least Caesar is a Roman.” But Cato drew himself up in outrage. “Caesar? I will die first!” he shouted, then marched away.

  *

  And at the end of April a wedding took place. Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus married the widow Cornelia Metella, twenty-year-old daughter of Metellus Scipio. The charges Plancus Bursa had threatened to bring against Metellus Scipio never eventuated.

  “Don’t worry, Scipio,” said the bridegroom genially at the wedding dinner, a small affair. “I intend to hold the elections on time in Quinctilis, and I promise that I’ll have you elected as my junior consul for the rest of this year. Six months is long enough to serve without a colleague.”

  Metellus Scipio didn’t know whether to kick him or kiss him.

  *

  Though he kept to his house for a few days, Cicero bounced back, pretended even inside his own mind that it had never happened. That Pompey was the Pompey he had always been. Yes, a headache had struck, one of those ghastly things which warped the mind, snarled the tongue. That was how he explained it to Caelius. To the world he explained that the presence of the troops had thrown him off—how could anyone concentrate in that atmosphere of silence, of military might? And if there were those who remembered that Cicero had endured worse things without being rattled, they held their tongues. Cicero was getting old.

  Milo had settled down to exile in Massilia, though Fausta had gone back to her brother in Rome.

  To Milo in Massilia went a couriered gift: a copy of the speech Cicero had prepared, amended to incorporate rings of soldiers and flowery references to the consul without a colleague.

  “My thanks,” Milo wrote to Cicero. “If you’d actually had the gumption to deliver it, my dear Cicero, I might not at this moment be enjoying the bearded mullets of Massilia.”

  ITALIAN GAUL,

  THE PROVINCE AND

  GAUL OF THE LONG-HAIRS

  from JANUARY until

  DECEMBER of 52 B.C.

  1

  Some years earlier, after Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus had completed their year in office together as consuls for the second time, they looked forward to very special proconsular governorships. Caesar’s legate Gaius Trebonius had been a tribune of the plebs while they were still consuls, and had carried a law which gave them enviable provinces for a full five-year term; on their mettle because Caesar was proving the effectiveness of that five-year term in Gaul, Pompey took Syria and Crassus the two Spains.

  Then Julia, never fully well after her miscarriage, began to fail in health even more. Pompey couldn’t take her with him to Syria; custom and tradition forbade it. So Pompey, genuinely in love with his young wife, revised his plans. He still functioned as curator of Rome’s grain supply, which gave him an excellent excuse to remain in close proximity to Rome. If he governed a stable province. Syria was not that. Newest of Rome’s territorial possessions, it bordered the Kingdom of the Parthians, a mighty empire under the rule of King Orodes, who cast wary glances at the Roman presence in Syria. Particularly if Pompey the Great was to be its governor, for Pompey the Great was a famous conqueror. Word traveled, and word had it that Rome was toying with the idea of adding the Kingdom of the Parthians to her own empire. King Orodes was a worried man. He was also a prudent and careful man.

  Thanks to Julia, Pompey asked Crassus to switch provinces with him: Pompey would take both the Spains, Crassus could have Syria. A proposition Crassus agreed to eagerly. Thus it was arranged. Pompey was able to stay in the vicinity of Rome with Julia because he could send his legates Afranius and Petreius to govern Nearer and Further Spain, while Crassus set off for Syria determined to conquer the Parthians.

  When news of his defeat and death at the hands of the Parthians reached Rome it created a furor, not least because the news came from the only noble survivor, Crassus’s quaestor, a remarkable young man named Gaius Cassius Longinus.

  Though he sent an official dispatch to the Senate, Cassius also sent a more candid account of events to Servilia, his fond friend and prospective mother-in-law. Knowing that this candid account would cause Caesar great anguish, Servilia took pleasure in transmitting it to him in Gaul. Hah! Suffer, Caesar! I do.

  I arrived in Antioch just before King Artavasdes of Armenia arrived on a State visit to the governor, Marcus Crassus. Preparations were well in hand for the coming expedition against the Parthians— or so Crassus seemed to think. A conviction I confess I didn’t share once I had seen for myself what Crassus had gotten together. Seven le
gions, all under-strength at eight cohorts per legion instead of the proper ten, and a mass of cavalry I didn’t feel would ever learn to work together well. Publius Crassus had brought a thousand Aeduan horse troopers with him from Gaul, a gift from Caesar for his bosom friend Crassus that Caesar would have done better to withhold; they didn’t get on with the Galatian horsemen, and they were very homesick.

  Then there was Abgarus, King of the Skenite Arabs. I don’t know why, but I mistrusted him and misliked him from the moment I met him. Crassus, however, thought him wonderful, and would hear nothing against him. It appears Abgarus is a client of Artavasdes of Armenia, and was offered to Crassus as a guide and adviser for the expedition. Along with four thousand light-armed Skenite Arab troops.

  Crassus’s plan was to march for Mesopotamia and strike first at Seleuceia-on-Tigris, the site of the Parthian winter court; since his campaign was to be a winter one, he expected King Orodes of the Parthians to be in residence there, and expected to capture Orodes and all his sons before they could scatter to organize resistance throughout the Parthian empire.

  But King Artavasdes of Armenia and his client Abgarus of the Skenite Arabs deplored this strategy. No one, they said, could beat an army of Parthian cataphracti and Parthian horse archers on flat ground. Those mail-clad warriors on their gigantic mail-clad Median horses could not fight in the mountains effectively, said Artavasdes and Abgarus. Nor did high and rugged terrain suit the horse archers, who ran out of arrows quickly, and needed to be able to gallop across level ground to fire those fabled Parthian shots. Therefore, said Artavasdes and Abgarus, Crassus should march for the Median mountains, not for Mesopotamia. If, fighting alongside the whole Armenian army, he struck at the Parthian heartlands below the Caspian Sea and at the King’s summer capital of Ecbatana, Crassus couldn’t lose, said Artavasdes and Abgarus.

  I thought this was a good plan—and said so—but Crassus refused to consider it. He foresaw no difficulties in beating the cataphracti and horse archers on flat ground. Frankly, I decided that Crassus didn’t want an alliance with Artavasdes because he would have had to share the spoils. You know Marcus Crassus, Servilia— the world does not hold enough money to satiate his lust for it. He didn’t mind Abgarus, not a paramount king and therefore not entitled to a major share of the spoils. Whereas King Artavasdes would be entitled to half of everything. Quite justifiably.