“Oh, I understand fully,” said Philippus, yawning delicately. “I also believe you. Who in his right mind would want to king it over a litigious, cantankerous, self-willed lot of Romans?”
The boy walked unselfconsciously into the midst of their laughter and waited politely until they were done. Startled by his sudden appearance, Caesar stared, frowned.
“I know you,” he said, patting the couch next to him. “Sit down, great-nephew Gaius Octavius.”
“I would rather,” said Gaius Octavius, “be your son, Uncle Caesar.” He sat down, turned himself on his side, and produced an enchanting smile.
“You’ve grown a few feet, nevvy,” said Caesar. “The last time I saw you, you were still unsteady on your pins. Now it rather looks as if your balls are dropping. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“So you’d like to be my son, eh? Isn’t that somewhat of an insult to your stepfather here?”
“Is it, Lucius Marcius?”
“Thank you, I have two sons of my own. I’ll gladly give you to Caesar.”
“Who doesn’t honestly have the time or the inclination for a son. I’m afraid, Gaius Octavius, that you’ll have to continue to be my great-nephew.”
“Couldn’t you at least make it nephew?”
“I don’t see why not.”
The boy curled his feet up under him. “I saw Marcus Cicero leaving. He didn’t look happy.”
“With good reason,” said Caesar grimly. “Do you know him?”
“Only to recognize. But I’ve read all his speeches.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“He’s a marvelous liar.”
“Do you admire that?”
“Yes and no. Lies have their uses, but it’s foolish to base one’s whole career on them. I won’t, anyway.”
“So what will you base your career on, nephew?”
“Keeping my own counsel. Saying less than I’m thinking. Not making the same mistake twice. Cicero is governed by his tongue; it runs away with him. That makes him impolitic, I think.”
“Don’t you want to be a great military man, Gaius Octavius?”
“I would love to be a great military man, Uncle Caesar, but I don’t think I have the gift of it.”
“Nor do you intend to base your career on your tongue, it seems. But can you rise to the heights keeping your own counsel?”
“Yes, if I wait to see what other people do before I act myself. Extravagance,” said the boy thoughtfully, “is a genuine flaw. It means one is noticed, but it also collects enemies like a fleece—no, that’s incorrect grammar—as a fleece does burrs.”
Caesar’s eyes had crinkled up at their corners, but he kept his mouth straight. “Do you mean extravagance or flamboyance?”
“Extravagance.”
“You’re carefully tutored. Do you go to school, or learn at home?”
“At home. My pedagogue is Athenodorus Cananites of Tarsus.”
“And what do you think of flamboyance?”
“Flamboyance suits flamboyant people. It suits you, Uncle Caesar, because”—his brow furrowed—”because it’s a part of your nature. But there will never be another like you, and what applies to you does not apply to other men.”
“Including you?”
“Oh, definitely.” The wide grey eyes gazed up adoringly. “I am not you, Uncle Caesar. I never will be. But I do intend to have my own style.”
“Philippus,” said Caesar, laughing, “I insist that this boy be sent to me as contubernalis the moment he turns seventeen!”
*
Caesar took up residence on the Campus Martius (in Pompey’s deserted villa) at the end of March, determined not to cross the pomerium into the city; it was no part of his plans to behave as if he admitted he had lost his imperium. Through Mark Antony and Quintus Cassius, his tribunes of the plebs, he convoked the Senate to meet in the temple of Apollo on the Kalends of April. After which he settled down to confer with Balbus and his nephew Balbus Minor, Gaius Oppius, his old friend Gaius Matius, and Atticus.
“Who is where?” he asked, of anyone.
“Manius Lepidus and his son returned to Rome after you pardoned them at Corfinium, and I gather are debating whether to take their seats in the Senate tomorrow,” said Atticus.
“Lentulus Spinther?”
“Sulking at his villa near Puteoli. He may end in going to Pompeius across the water, but I doubt he’ll raise fresh resistance against you in Italia,” said Gaius Matius. “It seems two tastes of Ahenobarbus were enough for Lentulus Spinther—first Corfinium, then Etruria. He’s ended in preferring to go to earth.”
“And Ahenobarbus?”
Balbus Minor answered. “He chose the Via Valeria back to Rome after Corfinium, skulked at Tibur for a few days, then went to Etruria. He’s been recruiting there with considerable success. The man is inordinately wealthy, of course, and withdrew his funds from Rome before— before you crossed the Rubicon,”
“In fact,” said Caesar levelly, “one would have to say that the intemperate Ahenobarbus acted more prudently and logically than any of the others. Save for his decision to remain in Corfinium.”
“True,” said Balbus Minor.
“And what does he intend to do with his Etrurian recruits?”
“He’s gathered two small fleets, one in Cosa harbor and one on the island of Igilium. From which,” said Balbus Minor, “it seems he intends to quit Italia. Probably to go to Spain. I’ve been traveling extensively in Etruria, and that’s the rumor.”
“How is Rome?” Caesar asked Atticus.
“Much calmer after the news of your clemency at Corfinium, Caesar. Also once everyone began to realize that you’re not slaughtering soldiers in the field. As civil wars go, it’s being said, this is a remarkably bloodless one.”
“Let us keep offering to the Gods that it remains bloodless.”
“The trouble is,” said Gaius Matius, remembering days when two little boys played together in the courtyard of Aurelia’s insula, “that your enemies don’t have the same objectivity. I doubt any of them—except Pompeius himself, perhaps—cares how much blood is shed, provided you’re brought down.”
“Oppius, tell me all about Cato.”
“He’s gone to Sicily, Caesar.”
“Well, he was appointed its governor.”
“He was, but he’s not well liked by the majority of those senators who stayed in Rome after you crossed the Rubicon. So they got around Cato’s governorship by deciding to appoint a man specifically to secure the grain supply. They chose, of all people, Lucius Postumius. But Postumius declined the commission. Asked why, he expressed unease at supplanting Cato, still the titular governor. They begged him to go. Finally he said he would—provided Cato came with him. Naturally Cato didn’t want the job. He doesn’t like being out of Italia, as we all know. However, Postumius stood firm, so in the end Cato agreed to go too. After which his Ape, Favonius, offered to accompany him.”
Caesar listened to this with a smile. “Lucius Postumius, eh? Ye Gods, they have an inspired ability to pick the wrong men! A more precious, pedantic and fiddling man I don’t know.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Atticus. “The moment he had the commission, he refused to leave for Sicily! Wouldn’t budge until young Lucius Caesar and Lucius Roscius came back with your terms. After that he refused to sail until Publius Sestius returned with your answer to Pompeius’s terms.”
“Dear, dear. So when did this wonderful little clutch of hens finally depart?”
“Midway through February.”
“With any troops, since there’s no legion in Sicily?”
“Absolutely none. The understanding was that Pompeius would ship twelve cohorts of Ahenobarbus’s troops to them, but you know what happened to that. Every man Pompeius possesses has gone to Dyrrachium.”
“They haven’t thought very much about the welfare of Rome, have they?”
Gaius Matius shrugged. “They didn’t
need to, Caesar. They know you won’t see Rome or Italia starve.”
“Well, at least taking Sicily shouldn’t present any great difficulties,” said Caesar, acknowledging the truth of Matius’s statement. He raised his brows to the older Balbus. “I find it hard to credit, but is it really true that no one emptied the Treasury?” he asked.
“Absolutely true, Caesar. It’s stuffed with bullion.”
“I hope it’s stuffed with coin too.”
“You’ll garnish the Treasury?” asked Gaius Matius.
“I have to, oldest friend. Wars cost money, staggering amounts of it, and civil wars don’t bring booty in their train.”
“But surely,” said Balbus Minor, frowning, “you don’t mean to drag thousands of wagons of gold, silver and coins with you wherever you go?”
“Ah, you’re thinking that I don’t dare to leave it in Rome,” said Caesar, very relaxed. “However, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Why should I not? Pompeius has to climb over the top of me before he can enter Rome—he abandoned her. All I’ll remove is what I need for the moment. About a thousand talents in coin, if there’s that much there. I’ll have to fund a war in Sicily and Africa as well as my own campaign in the West. But one thing you can count on, Minor—I won’t relinquish control of the Treasury once it’s mine. And by mine, I mean establishing myself and those senators still in Rome as the legitimate government.”
“Do you think you can do that?” asked Atticus.
“I sincerely hope so,” said Caesar.
*
But when the Senate met on the first day of April in the temple of Apollo, it was so thinly attended that it didn’t constitute a quorum. A terrific blow to Caesar. Of the consulars, only Lucius Volcatius Tullus and Servius Sulpicius Rufus came, and Servius was unsympathetic. Nor had every boni tribune of the plebs departed, a contingency which Caesar hadn’t counted on. There beside Mark Antony and Quintus Cassius on the tribunician bench was Lucius Caecilius Metellus, very boni indeed. A worse blow to Caesar, who had made his reason for crossing the Rubicon the injuries done to his tribunes of the plebs. Which meant that now he couldn’t react with force or intimidation if any of his motions were to be vetoed by Lucius Metellus.
Despite the fact that there were not enough senators present to pass any decrees, Caesar spoke at length on the perfidies of the boni and his own perfectly justified march into Italia. The lack of bloodshed was dwelled upon. The clemency at Corfinium was dwelled upon.
“What must be done immediately,” he said in conclusion, “is for this House to send a deputation to Gnaeus Pompeius in Epirus. The deputation will be formally charged with the duty of negotiating a peace. I do not want to fight a civil war, be that civil war in Italia or elsewhere.”
The ninety-odd men shuffled, looked desperately unhappy.
“Very well, then, Caesar,” said Servius Sulpicius. “If you think a deputation will help, we will send it.”
“May I have the names of ten men, please?”
But no one would volunteer.
Tight-lipped, Caesar looked at the urban praetor, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus; he was the most senior man left among the elected government. The youngest son of a man who had rebelled against the State and died for it—some said of pneumonia, others of a broken heart—Lepidus was determined to reinstate his patrician family among the most powerful people in Rome. A handsome man who bore a sword scar across his nose, Lepidus had realized some time ago that the boni would never trust him (or his elder brother, Lucius Aemilius Lepidus Paullus); Caesar’s advent had come as a salvation.
Thus he got to his feet eager to do as he had been asked before the meeting commenced. “Conscript Fathers, the proconsul Gaius Caesar has requested that he be granted free access to the funds of the Treasury. I hereby move that permission to advance Gaius Caesar whatever he needs from the Treasury be granted. Not without profit for the Treasury. Gaius Caesar has offered to take what he needs on loan at ten percent simple interest.”
“I veto that motion, Marcus Lepidus,” said Lucius Metellus.
“Lucius Metellus, it’s a good deal for Rome!” cried Lepidus.
“Rubbish!” said Lucius Metellus scornfully. “First of all, you can’t pass a motion in a House which does not constitute a quorum. And, more importantly by far, what Caesar is actually asking is to be formally invested with the legitimate cause in this present difference of opinion between himself and the true government of Rome. I veto his being granted loans from the Treasury, and I will go on vetoing! If Caesar can’t find money, he’ll have to desist in his aggression. Therefore I veto.”
An able enough man, Lepidus countered. “There is a Senatus Consultum Ultimum in effect forbidding the tribunician veto, Lucius Metellus.”
“Ah,” said Lucius Metellus, smiling brilliantly, “but that was the old government! Caesar marched to protect the rights and persons of the tribunes of the plebs, and this is his Senate, his government. One must presume that its cornerstone is the right of a tribune of the plebs to interpose his veto.”
“Thank you,” said Caesar, “for refreshing my memory, Lucius Metellus.”
Dismissing the Senate, Caesar called the People into a formal assembly in the Circus Flaminius. This meeting was far better attended—and by those who had no love for the boni. The crowd listened receptively to the same speech Caesar had delivered to the Senate, prepared to believe in Caesar’s clemency and anxious to help in whatever way possible. Especially after Caesar told the People that he would continue Clodius’s free grain dole and give three hundred sesterces to every Roman man.
“But,” said Caesar, “I do not want to look like a dictator! I am in the midst of pleading with the Senate to govern, and I will continue until I have persuaded it to govern. For which reason, I do not ask you at this moment to pass any laws.”
Which proved to be a mistake; the impasse in the Senate went on. Servius Sulpicius harped constantly on peace at any price, no one would volunteer to be a part of the deputation to Pompey, and Lucius Metellus kept interposing his veto every time Caesar asked for money.
*
At dawn on the fourth day of April, Caesar crossed the pomerium into the city, attended by his twelve lictors (in their crimson tunics and bearing the axes in their fasces—something only a dictator was permitted to do within the sacred boundary). With him went his two tribunes of the plebs, Antony and Quintus Cassius, and the urban praetor, Lepidus. Antony and Quintus Cassius were clad in full armor and wore their swords.
He went straight to the basement of the temple of Saturn, wherein lay the Treasury.
“Go ahead,” he said curtly to Lepidus.
Lepidus applied a fist. “Open the doors to the praetor urbanus!” he shouted.
The right-hand leaf opened; a head poked out. “Yes?” it enquired, a look of terror on its face.
“Admit us, tribunus aerarius.”
It seemed out of nowhere, Lucius Metellus appeared and put himself squarely across the doorway. He was alone. “Gaius Caesar, you have abandoned whatever imperium you say you own. You are inside the pomerium.”
A small crowd was gathering, its ranks swelling quickly.
“Gaius Caesar, you have no authority to invade these premises and no authority to remove one single sestertius from them!” cried Lucius Metellus in his loudest voice. “I have vetoed your access to Rome’s public purse, and here and now I veto you again! Go back to the Campus Martius, or go to the official residence of the Pontifex Maximus, or go wherever else you wish. I will not obstruct you. But I will not let you enter Rome’s Treasury!”
“Stand aside, Metellus,” said Mark Antony.
“I will not.”
“Stand aside, Metellus,” Antony repeated.
But Metellus spoke to Caesar, not to Antony. “Your presence here is a direct infringement of every law on Rome’s tablets! You are not dictator! You are not proconsul! At best you are a privatus senator, at worst you are a public enemy. If you defy me and enter these portals, every man wa
tching will know which of the two you really are—an enemy of the People of Rome!”
Caesar listened impassively; Mark Antony stepped forward, sword scabbard pushed into drawing position.
“Stand aside, Metellus!” roared Antony. “I am a legally elected tribune of the plebs, and I order you to stand aside!”
“You’re Caesar’s creature, Antonius! Don’t loom over me like my executioner! I will not stand aside!”
“Well,” said Antony, putting his hands on Metellus’s arms below the shoulders, “look at it this way, Metellus. I’m going to lift you aside. Intrude again, and I will execute you.”
“Quirites, bear witness! Armed force has been used against me! I have been obstructed in my duty! My life has been threatened! Remember it well against the day when all these men are tried for the highest treason!”
Antony lifted him aside. His purpose accomplished, Lucius Metellus walked away into the crowd proclaiming his violated status and begging all men present to bear witness.
“You first, Antonius,” said Caesar.
For Antony, never an urban quaestor, this was a new experience. He ducked his head to enter, though it wasn’t necessary, and almost collided with the terrified tribunus aerarius in charge of the Treasury that fateful morning.
Quintus Cassius, Lepidus and Caesar followed; the lictors remained outside.
Openings covered by grilles permitted a wan light to soak into darkened tufa block walls on either side of a narrow passage ending in a very ordinary door, the entrance to the warren in which the Treasury officials worked amid lamps, cobwebs and paper mites. But to Antony and Quintus Cassius that door was nothing; off the interior wall of the corridor there opened dark chambers, each one sealed with a massive gate of iron bars. Inside in the gloom were dull glitters, gold in this chamber, silver in that, all the way to the office door.
“It’s the same on the other side,” said Caesar, leading the way. “One vault after another. The law tablets get whisked in and out of one room at the very back.” He entered the outer office and proceeded through its cluttered space to the stuffy cubicle wherein the senior man worked. “Your name?” he asked.
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