Little was said, though what Caesar did say was dampening in that it was so ordinary. He ate his usual plain and sparing fare—a little bread, a few olives, a hunk of cheese—then washed his hands in a bowl a servant tendered, and got up from his ivory curule chair, which he had not, it was noted, abandoned.
“To your horses,” he said.
But the horse his groom led up for Caesar to mount was not one of his several beautiful, highly strung road animals; it was Toes. Like the two other Toes he had ridden into battle since Sulla gifted him with the original animal, this Toes—the veteran of the years in Gaul—was a sleek chestnut with long mane and tail and pretty dish face, an appropriately well-bred mount for any general who didn’t (like Pompey) prefer a splashy white horse. Except that its feet were cloven into three genuine toes, each ending in a tiny hoof, behind which it had a footpad.
Mounted, the legates watched, enthralled; they had waited for a statement of war to no avail, but now they had it. When Caesar rode Toes, he was going into battle.
He nudged the animal into the lead and rode at a sedate pace across the yellowed, autumnal grass between the trees toward the sparkling stream. And there, on the vestigial bank, paused.
It is here. I can still turn back. I have not yet abandoned legality, constitutionality. But once I cross this undistinguished river I pass from servant of my country to an aggressor against her. Yet I know all this. I’ve known it for two years. I’ve gone through everything—thought, planned, schemed, striven mightily. I’ve made incredible concessions. I would even have settled for Illyricum and one legion. But for every step of the way, I have known and understood that they would not yield. That they were determined to spit on me, to shove my face into the dust, to make a nothing out of Gaius Julius Caesar. Who is not a nothing. Who will never consent to be a nothing. You wanted it, Cato. Now you can have it. You’ve forced me to march against my country, to turn my face against the legal way. And, Pompeius, you are about to discover what it’s like to face a competent enemy. The moment Toes wets his feet, I am an outlaw. And in order to remove the slur of outlaw from my name, I will have to go to war, fight my own countrymen—and win.
What lies across the Rubicon? How many legions have they managed to get together? How much real preparation? I am basing my entire campaign on a hunch, that they have done nothing. That Pompeius doesn’t know how to start a war, and that the boni don’t know how to fight one. He’s never once started a war, Pompeius, for all those special commands. He’s the expert at mopping up. Whereas the boni have no skill at anything beyond starting a war. Once the fighting begins, how will Pompeius manage to coexist with the boni, who will retard him, harangue him, criticize him, attempt to constrain him? They’ve thought of this as a game, as a hypothesis. Never as an actuality. Still, I suppose it is a game. And I have the luck as well as the genius.
Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed, remembering a line from his favorite poet, Menander.
“Let the dice fly high!” he cried out in the original Greek, kicked Toes gently in the ribs, and rode across the Rubicon into Italia and rebellion.
*
Ariminum was in no mood to fight; when Caesar and the Thirteenth reached that prosperous town at the top of the Via Flaminia, its populace turned out armed with autumn garlands, adorned the troops and cheered Caesar deafeningly. It came, Caesar had to admit, as something of a surprise, for Ariminum lay at the top of Pompey’s dominions and could well have chosen Pompey and the Senate. In which case, wondered Caesar, how much fighting might there be? He learned that Thermus was in Iguvium, Lucilius Hirrus in Camerinum, Lentulus Spinther in Ancona, and Varus in Auximum. Lentulus Spinther had succeeded in raising the most troops, about ten cohorts; the others had five cohorts each. Not very fearsome odds for the Thirteenth. Especially if the ordinary folk of Italia were on Caesar’s side. Suddenly that seemed likely, a great comfort. Blood wasn’t what Caesar was after; the less of it he had to spill, the better.
Antony, Quintus Cassius, Curio and Caelius reached the camp outside Ariminum early on that eleventh day of January. A sorry sight in torn and bloodied togas, faces bruised and cut, the two tribunes of the plebs were perfect for Caesar’s purpose. He called the Thirteenth into assembly and presented Antony and Quintus Cassius to them in all their glory.
“This is why we’re here!” said Caesar. “This is what we have marched into Italia to prevent! No body of Roman men, no matter how ancient or august, has the right to violate the sacred persons of the tribunes of the plebs, who came into being to protect the lot of the ordinary people, the vast numbers of the Plebs from the Head Count through Rome’s soldiers to her business people and civil servants! For we cannot call the plebeians of the Senate anything other than would-be patricians! In treating two tribunes of the plebs the way the Senate’s plebeians have treated Marcus Antonius and Quintus Cassius, they have abrogated their plebeian status and heritage!
“The person of a tribune of the plebs is inviolable, and his right to veto inalienable. Inalienable! All Antonius and Cassius did was to veto a scurrilous decree aimed at them and, through them, aimed at me. I have offended them, those would-be patricians of the Senate, by raising Rome’s image in the eyes of the rest of the world and adding vast riches to Rome’s purse. For I am not one of them. I have never been one of them. A senator, yes. A magistrate, yes. Consul, yes. But never one of that petty, small-minded, vindictive little group who call themselves the Good Men, the boni! Who have embarked upon a program designed to destroy the right of the People to a say in government, who have embarked upon a program to ensure that the only governing body left in Rome is the Senate. Their Senate, boys, not my Senate! My Senate is your servant. Their Senate wants to be your master. It wants to decide how much you are paid, when your service with generals like me is to be terminated, whether or not you are to receive a little parcel of land to settle on when you retire. It wants to regulate the size of your bonuses, your percentage of the booty, how many of you will walk in a triumphal parade. It even wants to decide whether or not you’re entitled to the citizenship, whether or not your backs, which have bowed down serving Rome, are to be jellied by the barbed lash. It wants you, Rome’s soldiers, to acknowledge it your master. It wants you cowed and sniveling like the meanest beggar in a Syrian street!”
Hirtius huffed contentedly. “He’s away,” he said to Curio. “It’s going to be one of his best speeches.”
“He can’t lose,” said Curio.
Caesar swept on. “This little group of men and the Senate they manipulate have impugned my dignitas, my right and entitlement to public honor through personal endeavor. All that I have done they want to destroy, calling what I have done treasonous! And in wanting to destroy my dignitas, in calling me treasonous, they are destroying your dignitas, calling what you have done treasonous!
“Think of them, boys! All those weary miles—those nundinae of empty bellies—those sword cuts, arrow punctures, spear rents—those deaths in the front line, so noble, so brave!—think of them! Think of where we’ve been—think of what we’ve done—think of the work, the sweat, the privation, the loneliness! Think of the colossal glory we’ve amassed for Rome! And to what avail? So that our tribunes of the plebs can be punched and kicked, so that our achievements can be sneered at, dismissed, shit upon by a precious little clique of would-be patricians! Poor soldiers and worse generals, every last one of them! Who ever heard of Cato the general? Ahenobarbus the conqueror?”
Caesar paused, grinned, shrugged. “But who among you even knows the name Cato? Ahenobarbus, maybe—his great-grandfather wasn’t a bad soldier! So, boys, I’ll give you a name you do know—Gnaeus Pompeius who awarded himself the cognomen of Magnus! Yes, Gnaeus Pompeius, who ought to be fighting for me, fighting for you! But who, in his fat and torpid old age, has elected to hold a sponge on a stick to clean the arses of his boni friends! Who has turned his back on the concept of the army! Who has supported this campaign against me and my boys from its very beginnin
g! Why? Why did he do that? Because he’s outfought, outgeneraled, outclassed and outraged! Because he’s not ‘Great’ enough to admit that someone else’s army is better than any army he ever commanded! Who is there to equal my boys? No one! No one! You’re the best soldiers who ever picked up a sword and a shield in Rome’s name! So here I am, and here you are, on the wrong side of a river and on our way to avenge our mangled, our despised dignitas!
“I would not go to war for any reason less. I would not oppose those senatorial idiots for any reason less. My dignitas is the center of my life; it is everything I have ever done! I will not let it be taken from me! Nor see your dignitas taken from you. Whatever I am, you are! We’ve marched together to cut off all three of Cerberus’s heads! We’ve suffered through snow and ice, hail and rain! We’ve crossed an ocean, climbed mountains, swum mighty rivers! We’ve beaten the bravest peoples in the world to their knees! We’ve made them submit to Rome! And what can poor old has-been Gnaeus Pompeius say in answer to that? Nothing, boys, nothing! So what has he chosen to do? Try to strip it all from us, boys—the honor, the fame, the glory, the miracle! Everything we lump together and call dignitas!”
He stopped, held out his arms as if to embrace them. “But I am your servant, boys. I exist because of you. It’s you who must make the final decision. Do we march on into Italia to avenge our tribunes of the plebs and recover our dignitas? Or do we about-face and return to Ravenna? Which is it to be? On or back?”
No one had moved. No one had coughed, sneezed, whispered a comment. And for a long moment after the General ceased speaking, that immense silence continued. Then the primipilus centurion opened his mouth.
“On!” he roared. “On, on!”
The soldiers took it up. “On! On! On! On!”
Caesar stepped down from his dais and walked into the ranks, smiling, holding out his hand to shake every hand proffered to him, until he was swallowed up in a mail-clad mass.
“What a man!” said Pollio to Orca.
*
But that afternoon over dinner, the four fugitives from Rome bathed and clad in leather armor, Caesar held a council of war.
“Hirtius, was my speech recorded verbatim?” he asked.
“It’s being copied now, Caesar.”
“I want it distributed to all my legates and read out to every one of my legions.”
“Are they with us?” asked Caelius. “Your legates, I mean.”
“All save Titus Labienus.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Curio.
“Why?” pressed Caelius, the least informed and therefore the most prone to ask obvious questions.
Caesar shrugged. “I didn’t want Labienus.”
“How did your legates know?”
“I visited Gallia Comata and my legates last October.”
“So you knew about this as far back as then.”
“My dear Caelius,” said Caesar patiently, “the Rubicon has always been a possibility. Just one I would have preferred not to use. And, as you well know, have exerted every ounce of myself to avoid using. But it’s a foolish man who doesn’t thoroughly explore every possibility. Let us simply say that by last October I considered the Rubicon more a probability than a possibility.”
Caelius opened his mouth again, but shut it when Curio dug him sharply in the ribs.
“Where to now?” asked Quintus Cassius.
“It’s evident that the opposition isn’t well organized—also that the common people prefer me to Pompeius and the boni,” said Caesar, popping a piece of bread soaked in oil between his lips. He chewed, swallowed, spoke again. “I’m going to split the Thirteenth. Antonius, you’ll take the five junior cohorts and march at once for Arretium to hold the Via Cassia. It’s more important that I keep my avenues to Italian Gaul open at this moment than try to hold the Via Flaminia. Curio, you’ll stay in Ariminum with three cohorts until I send you word to march for Iguvium, from which town you’ll eject Thermus. Once that’s done I’ll have the Via Flaminia as well as the Via Cassia. As for myself, I’m taking the two senior cohorts and continuing south into Picenum.”
“That’s only a thousand men, Caesar,” said Pollio, frowning.
“They should be enough, but the possibility that I may need more is why Curio stays in Ariminum for the time being.”
“You’re right, Caesar,” said Hirtius soberly. “What matters isn’t the quantity of the troops, but the quality of the men leading them. Perhaps Attius Varus will offer resistance, but Thermus, Hirrus and Lentulus Spinther? They couldn’t lead a tethered ewe.”
“Which reminds me, I don’t honestly know why,” said Caesar, “that I must write to Aulus Gabinius. Time that doughty warrior was recalled from exile.”
“What about recalling Milo?” asked Caelius, Milo’s friend.
“No, not Milo,” said Caesar curtly, and terminated the meal.
“Did you notice,” said Caelius later in private to Pollio, “that Caesar spoke as if it were in his power to recall exiles? Is he really so confident?”
“He’s not confident,” said Pollio. “He knows.”
“But it’s on the laps of the Gods, Pollio!”
“And who,” asked Pollio, smiling, “is the darling of the Gods? Pompeius? Cato? Rubbish! Never forget, Caelius, that a great man makes his luck. Luck is there for everyone to seize. Most of us miss our chances; we’re blind to our luck. He never misses a chance because he’s never blind to the opportunity of the moment. Which is why he’s the darling of the Gods. They like brilliant men.”
*
Caesar dawdled after he left Ariminum with his two cohorts, and had not gone very far when he put his men into camp on the evening of the fourteenth day of January; he wanted to be sure that he allowed the Senate every opportunity to come to agreement, nor did he relish killing fellow Romans. But not long after camp was pitched, two envoys from the Senate arrived on blown horses: young Lucius Caesar, son of Caesar’s cousin at present in Narbo, and another young senator, Lucius Roscius. Both were boni; a grief to Lucius Caesar concerning his son, a peculiarly rigid and very un-Caesarish sprig on the Julian tree.
“We’re sent to ask you your terms for a withdrawal into Italian Gaul,” said young Lucius Caesar stiffly.
“I see,” said his cousin, eyeing him reflectively. “Don’t you think it’s more important to enquire after your father first?”
Young Lucius Caesar flushed. “Since I’ve not heard from him, Gaius Caesar, I presume he’s well.”
“Yes, he is well.”
“And your terms?”
Caesar opened his eyes wide. “Lucius, Lucius, patience! It’s going to take me some days to work them out. In the meantime, you and Roscius will have to march with me. South.”
“That’s treason, cousin.”
“Since I was accused of that when I kept to my own side of the border, Lucius, what difference can it make?”
“I have a letter from Gnaeus Pompeius,” Roscius interrupted.
“For which I thank you,” said Caesar, taking it. After a pause during which nobody moved, he inclined his head very regally. “You may go. Hirtius will look after you.”
They didn’t like being so dismissed by a traitor, but they went. Caesar sat down and opened Pompey’s letter.
What a sorry mess this is, Caesar. I must confess, however, that I never thought you’d do it. With one legion? You’ll go down. You can’t not. Italia is alive with troops.
I’m writing, really, to beg you to put the interests of the Republic ahead of your own. That’s what I’ve done myself from the beginning of this tangle. Frankly, it’s more in my interest to side with you, isn’t it? Together we could rule the world. But one of us can’t, because one of us isn’t strong enough. You taught me that back before you were consul, as I remember. And reinforced it at Luca six years ago. No, seven years ago. How time flies! Seven years since I’ve laid eyes on you.
I hope you’re not personally insulted by the fact that I’ve chosen to oppos
e you. There’s nothing personal in it, I do assure you. I made my decision based on what is best for Rome and the Republic. But surely, Caesar, you of all men must realize that leading an armed insurrection is a vain hope. If you believe, as I do, that Sulla was in the right of it and simply returned to Italia to claim what was legally his, then no armed insurrection has succeeded. Look at Lepidus and Brutus. Look at Catilina. Is that what you want for yourself, an ignominious death? Think, Caesar, please.
I urge you to put aside your anger and ambitions. For the sake of our beloved Republic! If you do put aside your anger and ambitions, I’m positive an accommodation can be arrived at between you and the Senate. I’ll lend such an accommodation my absolute support. I have put aside my anger and ambitions. For the sake of the Republic. Think of Rome first and always, Caesar! Don’t harm the Republic! If you remain determined to harm your enemies, you must inevitably also harm the Republic. Your enemies are as much a part of the Republic as you are. Do, please, consider your alternatives. Send us back a reasonable man’s answer with young Lucius Caesar and Lucius Roscius. Come to terms with us and withdraw into Italian Gaul. It’s prudent. It’s patriotic.
His smile a little twisted, Caesar screwed the short missive into a ball and tossed it among the coals on the brazier.
“What a sanctimonious fart you are, Pompeius!” he said as he watched the piece of paper flare up, dwindle. “So I have but one legion, eh? I wonder what you’d have said in that letter if you’d known I’m marching south with no more than two cohorts! A thousand men, Pompeius! If you knew, you’d come chasing after me. But you won’t. The only legions with any merit you have are the Sixth and the Fifteenth, who fought for me. And you’re not sure how they’d react if you ordered them to draw their swords in full sight of me, their old commander.”
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