For once the messenger to Pompey hurried. Pompey reacted by striking camp in Luceria and marching for Brundisium with the fifty cohorts he possessed. Caesar was now in hot pursuit; not five hours after accepting the surrender of Corfinium, he was on the road south in the wake of Pompey. Who reached Brundisium on the twenty-fourth day of February to discover that he had sufficient transports to ship only thirty of his fifty cohorts across the sea.
The most dismaying news of all, as far as Pompey was concerned, however, was Caesar’s stunning clemency at Corfinium. Instead of holding mass executions, he gave mass pardons. Ahenobarbus, Attius Varus, Lucilius Hirrus, Lentulus Spinther, Vibullius Rufus and the fifty senators were civilly commended for their valor in defending Italia, and released unharmed. All Caesar required was their word that they would cease to fight against him; did they take up arms a second time, he warned them, he might not be so merciful.
Campania was now as open to Caesar as was the north. No one was left in Capua—no troops, no consuls, no senators. Everything and everyone went to Brundisium, for Pompey had abandoned the idea of sending a force to Sicily. Everything and everyone was to sail for Dyrrachium in western Macedonia, some distance north of Epirus. The Treasury had not been emptied. But was Lentulus Crus sorry? Did he apologize for his stupidity? No, not at all! He was too indignant still over Pompey’s rejection of that gladiator legion.
Brundisium was all for Caesar, which made Pompey’s situation there uncomfortable. Forced to barricade and mine the port city’s streets, he was also forced to expend a great deal of effort on making sure Brundisium did not betray him. But between the second and the fourth days of March he managed to send off thirty cohorts in his fleet of transports— plus one consul, many other governing magistrates, and the senators. At least they were out of his hair! The only men he retained were men he could bear to talk to.
Caesar arrived outside Brundisium before the empty transports had returned, and sent his Gallic legate Caninius Rebilus into the city to see young Gnaeus Pompey’s father-in-law, Scribonius Libo. Rebilus’s mission was to persuade Libo to let him see Pompey, who agreed to parley, then failed to agree to anything else.
“In the absence of the consuls, Rebilus,” said Pompey, “I do not have the power to negotiate anything.”
“I beg your pardon, Gnaeus Pompeius,” said Rebilus firmly, “that is not true. There is a Senatus Consultum Ultimum in effect and you are the commander-in-chief under its provisions. You are at full liberty to make terms in the absence of the consuls.”
“I refuse even to think of reconciliation with Caesar!” snapped Pompey. “To be reconciled with Caesar is tantamount to lying down at his feet like a cringing dog!”
“Are you sure, Magnus?” asked Libo after Rebilus had gone. “Rebilus is right, you can make terms.”
“I will not make terms!” snarled Pompey, whose ordeals with the consuls and his senatorial watchdogs had passed for the moment; he was feeling much stronger, and he was growing harder. “Send for Metellus Scipio, Gaius Cassius, my son and Vibullius Rufus.”
While Libo pattered off, Labienus looked at Pompey reflectively. “You’re steeling rapidly, Magnus,” he said.
“I am that,” said Pompey between his teeth. “Was there ever a worse trick of Fortuna for the Republic than Lentulus Crus as the dominant consul in the year of the Republic’s greatest crisis? Marcellus Minor may as well not have existed—he was useless.”
“I think Gaius Claudius Marcellus Minor doesn’t share the devotion to the boni cause his brother and cousin have in such abundance,” said Labienus. “Otherwise, why has he been sick since he took office?”
“True. I ought not to have been surprised when he baulked and refused to sail. Still, his defection made me determined to ship the rest of them off in the first fleet. Ever since word of Caesar’s clemency at Corfinium reached them, they’ve vacillated.”
“Caesar won’t proscribe,” said Labienus positively. “It’s not in his best interests. He’ll continue to be clement.”
“So I think. Though he’s wrong, Labienus, he’s wrong! If I win this war—when I win this war!—I’m going to proscribe.”
“As long as you don’t proscribe me, Magnus, proscribe away.”
The summoned men arrived, and settled to listen.
“Scipio,” said Pompey to his father-in-law, “I’ve decided to send you directly to your province, Syria. There you’ll squeeze as much money as you can out of the place, after which you’ll take the best twenty cohorts there, form them into two legions, and bring them to me in Macedonia or wherever I am.”
“Yes, Magnus,” said Metellus Scipio obediently.
“Gnaeus, my son, you’ll come with me for the present, but later I’ll ask you to raise fleets for me, I’m not sure where. I suspect my best strategy against Caesar will be naval. On land he’ll always be dangerous, but if we can control the seas he’ll suffer. The East knows me well, but it doesn’t know Caesar at all. The East likes me, I’ll get fleets.” Pompey looked at Cassius, who had managed to raise a thousand talents in coin and another thousand talents in treasure from the Campanian temples and town treasuries. “Gaius Cassius, you’ll come with me for the moment too.”
“Yes, Gnaeus Pompeius,” said Cassius, not sure if he was pleased at this news.
“Vibullius, you’re going west,” said the commander-in-chief. “I want you to see Afranius and Petreius in Spain. Varro is on his way already, but at this time of year you can sail. Tell Afranius and Petreius that they are not, repeat, not to march my legions eastward. They are to wait in Spain for Caesar, who I suspect will attempt to crush Spain before he follows me east. My Spanish army will have no trouble beating Caesar. They’re hardened veterans, unlike the sorry lot I’m taking to Dyrrachium.”
Good, thought Labienus, satisfied. He took my word for it that Caesar will go to Spain first. Now all I have to do is to make sure the last two legions—and this disappointing Magnus—escape from Brundisium intact.
Which they did on the seventeenth day of March, with the loss of a mere two transports.
The Senate and its executives, together with the commander-in-chief of the Republic’s forces, had abandoned Italia to Caesar.
BRUNDISIUM TO ROME
Caesar’s sources of information and his intelligence network were as efficient as Pompey’s were inefficient, nor did his squad of couriers dally to visit aged aunts or taverns or whores. When Pompey and his last two legions sailed away, Caesar thought no more of them. First he would deal with Italia. Then he would deal with Spain. Only after that would he think again of Pompey and his Grand Army of the Republic.
With him he now had the Thirteenth Legion, the Twelfth and the very fine old Eighth, plus three over-strength legions composed of Pompeian recruits, plus three hundred horse troopers who had ridden from Noricum to serve him. That last came as a pleasant surprise. Noricum lay to the north of Illyricum and was not a Roman province, though its fairly Romanized tribes worked closely with eastern Italian Gaul; Noricum produced the best iron ore for steel and exported it down the rivers which ran into the Adriatic from Italian Gaul. Along these rivers was the series of little towns which Brutus’s grandfather Caepio had established to work that magical Norican iron ore into the world’s finest blade steel. For many years now Caesar had been the best customer those towns knew, therefore by association of immense value to Noricum. Not to mention that he was also greatly loved by Italian Gaul and Illyricum because he had always administered these provinces superbly and stood up for the rights of those who lived on the far side of the Padus River.
The three hundred Norican horse troopers were very welcome; as three hundred good men were enough for any campaign Caesar expected to have to wage in Italia, the Noricans meant that he didn’t have to send to Further Gaul for German cavalry.
By the time he commenced to backtrack from Brundisium up the peninsula toward Campania, he knew many things. That Ahenobarbus and Lentulus Spinther were no sooner out of sight
than they were planning to organize fresh resistance. That word of his clemency at Corfinium had spread faster than a fire in dry woodland, and done more to damp the panic in Rome than anything else could have. That neither Cato nor Cicero had left Italia with Pompey, and that Gaius Marcellus Minor had also elected to remain, though in hiding. That Manius Lepidus the consular and his eldest son, also pardoned at Corfinium, were planning to take their seats in the Senate in Rome if Caesar required them. That Lucius Volcatius Tullus also intended to sit in Caesar’s Senate. And that the consuls had neglected to empty the Treasury.
But the one person who most preyed on Caesar’s mind as he entered Campania toward the end of March was Cicero. Though he had written again to Cicero personally, and though both the Balbi and Oppius were bombarding Cicero with letters, that stubborn, shortsighted fellow would not co-operate. No, he wouldn’t return to Rome! No, he wouldn’t take his seat in the Senate! No, he wouldn’t commend Caesar’s clemency in public, no matter how much he praised it in private! No, he didn’t believe Atticus any more than he believed the Balbi or Oppius!
Three days before the end of March, Caesar made it impossible for Cicero to avoid a meeting any longer; he was staying at the villa belonging to Philippus at Formiae, and Cicero’s villa was just next door.
“I am commanded!” said Cicero wrathfully to Terentia. “As if I haven’t got enough on my mind! Tiro so dreadfully ill, and my son coming of age—I want to be in Arpinum for that, not here in Formiae! Oh, why can’t I dispense with my lictors? And look at my eyes! It takes my man half an hour each morning to sponge them open, they’re so stuck together with muck!”
“Yes, you do look a sight,” said Terentia, not moved to spare her husband’s feelings. “However, best to get it over and done with, I say. Once the wretched man has seen you, he might leave you alone.”
So off grumped Cicero clad in purple-bordered toga, preceded by his lictors and their laurel-wreathed fasces. Philippus’s huge villa resembled nothing so much as a country fairground, with soldiers’ tents everywhere, people rushing around, and such a crowd inside that the great advocate was moved to wonder whereabouts Philippus and his awkward guest laid their own heads.
But there was Caesar—ye Gods, the man never changed! How long was it? Nine years and more, though if Magnus hadn’t cheated and sneaked off alone to Luca just after casually popping in to say goodbye, he might have set eyes on Caesar at Luca. However, thought Cicero, subsiding into a chair and accepting a goblet of watered Falernian, he had changed. The eyes had never been warm, but now they were chillingly cold. He had always radiated power, but never of this magnitude. He could always intimidate, but never with such staggering ease. I behold a mighty king! thought Cicero with a thrill of horror. He outstrips Mithridates and Tigranes combined. The man oozes an innate majesty!
“You look tired,” Caesar commented. “Also half blind.”
“An inflammation of the eyes. It comes and goes. But you’re right, I’m tired. That’s why it’s bad at the moment.”
“I need your counsel, Marcus Cicero.”
“A most regrettable business,” said Cicero, searching for some suitably banal words.
“I agree. Yet, since it has happened, we must deal with it. It’s necessary that I proceed like a cat among eggs. For instance, I can’t afford to offend anyone. Least of all you.” Caesar leaned forward and produced his most charming smile; it reached his eyes. “Won’t you help me put our beloved Republic on her feet again?”
“Since you’re the one who knocked her off her feet in the first place, Caesar, no, I won’t!” said Cicero tartly.
The smile left the eyes but remained glued to the lips. “I didn’t do the knocking, Cicero. My opponents did. It afforded me no pleasure or sense of power to cross the Rubicon. I did so to preserve my dignitas after my enemies made a mockery of it.”
“You’re a traitor,” said Cicero, course determined.
The mouth was as straight as its generous curves permitted. “Cicero, I didn’t ask you to see me to argue with you. I’ve asked for your counsel because I value it. For the moment, let’s leave the subject of the so-called government in exile and discuss the here and now—Rome and Italia, who have passed into my care. It is my vowed intention to treat both those ladies—who, in my own opinion, are one and the same—with great tenderness. You must be aware that I’ve been absent for many years. You must therefore be aware that I need guidance.”
“I’m aware that you’re a traitor!”
The teeth showed. “Stop being so obtuse!”
“Who’s obtuse?” asked Cicero, splashing his wine. ” ‘You must be aware’—that’s the language of kings, Caesar. You state the obvious as if it were not obvious. The whole population of this peninsula is ‘aware’ that you’ve been away for years!”
The eyes closed; two bright red spots burned in those ivory cheeks. Cicero knew the signs, and shivered involuntarily. Caesar was going to lose his temper. The last time he did that, Cicero found that he had made Publius Clodius into a plebeian. Oh well, the boats were burned. Let him lose his temper!
He did not. After a moment the eyes opened. “Marcus Cicero, I am on my way to Rome, where I intend to have the Senate summoned. I want you to be present in the Senate. I want you to assist me in calming the People down and getting the Senate working again.”
“Huh!” snorted Cicero. “The Senate! Your Senate, you mean! You know what I’d tell the Senate if I were present, don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, no, I do not. Enlighten me.”
“I’d ask the Senate to decree that you be forbidden to go to Spain, with or without an army. I’d ask the Senate to decree that you be forbidden to go to Greece or Macedonia, with or without an army. I’d ask the Senate to chain you hand and foot inside Rome until the real Senate was on its benches and could decree that you be sent for trial as a traitor!” Cicero smiled sweetly. “After all, Caesar, you’re a stickler for the proper procedure, aren’t you? We can’t possibly execute you without trial!”
“You’re daydreaming, Cicero,” said Caesar, well in control. “It won’t happen that way. The real Senate has absconded. Which means that the only Senate available is the one I choose to make.”
“Oh!” cried Cicero, putting down his goblet with a clang. “There speaks the king! Oh, what am I doing here? My poor, sad Pompeius! Cast out of home, city, country—now there’s a man, Caesar, would make ten of you!”
“Pompeius,” said Caesar deliberately, “is a nothing. What I sincerely hope is that I am not forced to demonstrate his nothingness to you in a way you won’t be able to ignore.”
“You really do think you can beat him, don’t you?”
“I know I can beat him, Cicero. But I hope not to have to, that’s what I’m saying. Won’t you put aside your absurd fantasies and look reality in the eye? The only genuine soldier pitted against me is Titus Labienus, yet he’s a nothing too. The last thing I want is an outright war. Haven’t I made that apparent so far? Men have not been dying, Cicero. The amount of blood I’ve shed thus far is minuscule. And there are men like Ahenobarbus and Lentulus Spinther—men I pardoned, Cicero!—free to thump their tubs all over Etruria in defiance of their sworn word!”
“That,” said Cicero, “is it encapsulated, Caesar. Men you pardoned. By what right? By whose authority? You’re a king and you think like a king. Your imperium was terminated, you are no more and no less than an ordinary consular senator—and that only because the real Senate didn’t declare you hostis! Though the moment you crossed the Rubicon into Italia, under our constitution you became a traitor—an outlaw— hostis! A fig for your pardons! They’re meaningless.”
“I will try,” said Caesar, drawing a deep breath, “just one more time, Marcus Cicero. Will you come to Rome? Will you take your seat in the Senate? Will you give me counsel?”
“I will not come to Rome. I will not sit in your Senate. I will not give you counsel,” said Cicero, heart tripping.
For a
moment Caesar said nothing. Then he sighed. “Very well. I see. Then I leave you with this, Cicero. Think it over very carefully. To continue to defy me isn’t wise. Truly, it is not wise.” He got to his feet. “If you won’t give me decent and learned advice, then I’ll find said advice wherever I can.” The eyes were frozen as they looked Cicero up and down. “And I will go to any length that advice says I must.”
He turned and vanished, leaving Cicero to find his own way out, both hands pressed against his midriff, working at the knot which threatened to asphyxiate him.
“You were right,” said Caesar to Philippus, reclining at his ease in the room he had somehow managed to retain for his own use.
“He refused.”
“He more than refused.” A smile flashed, genuine amusement. “Poor old rabbit! I could see his heart knocking at his ribs through every fold in his toga. One must admire his courage, for it’s unnatural in him, poor old rabbit. I do wish he’d see reason! I can’t dislike him, you know, even at his silliest.”
“Well,” said Philippus comfortably, “you and I can always fall back on our ancestors for consolation. He has none, and that hurts him very much.”
“I suppose that’s why he can never manage to divorce himself from Pompeius. To Cicero, life for me has been a sinecure. I have the birthright. Pompeius is more to his liking in that respect. Pompeius demonstrates that ancestors are not necessary. What I wish Cicero would see is that birthright can become a handicap. Were I a Picentine Gaul like Pompeius, half those idiots who’ve fled across the Adriatic wouldn’t have gone. I couldn’t make myself King of Rome. Whereas, they think, a Julian could.” He sighed, sat down on the edge of the couch opposite Philippus. “Truly, Lucius, I have absolutely no wish to be King of Rome. I simply want my entitlements. If they’d only acceded to those, none of this would ever have happened.”
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