by Jack Lindsay
“Such trifling’s all he’s fit for. I’ll gild his nose if he comes my way.”
“He’s shrewd,” replied Lucius. “He knows what appeals to the people.”
“So do I,” said Antonius, scornfully. “A good corps of swordsmen, like the fellows I’ve collected, to prick them in the bottoms. And I’ve bought a gang of Arabs in the slave-market, first-rate archers.”
Fulvia and Lucius gave up trying to persuade him about Octavianus. They saw that he was beyond the reach of reason on the subject. He was a fool, for the alliance with the bearer of Caesar’s name would strengthen their position greatly. They had not much more belief than he had that Octavianus mattered personally; but he could be used with the most splendid effect. Antonius tightened his jaw and began drinking as soon as the subject was broached, humming camp songs.
At last Octavianus demanded an interview. After being kept waiting for an hour in the ante-room, he was admitted to find Antonius mending a sword-strap. Antonius did not rise, look up, or bid him be seated; he went on playing with the sword-rings, until Octavianus spoke.
“Can the consul spare me a moment?”
“O yes, I think so,” said Antonius, continuing his work, but glancing up. “What’s the complaint? Someone treated you disrespectfully? Tell them I won’t have Caesar’s name affronted, no matter who bears it.” He finished with the buckle, rested the sword between his knees, and regarded Octavianus with insulting good-nature. “When are you going back to school?”
“I have finished with my books,” said Octavianus, who was deathly pale, but spoke quietly. “I am claiming my testamentary rights.”
“Then don’t,” said Antonius, airily. “Go back to school, my lad. The sparrow that lodged in the eagle’s nest thought he had a commodious home with a fine view, until a gale came along. Now I’m rather busy and fear I must ask you to call again. Sometime next year, perhaps.”
“I wish to have the curiate law passed settling my adoption.” Octavianus, clasping his hands together to prevent them trembling, stood his ground.
“Go away and think it all over,” replied Antonius, rising and walking towards the door. “Think it all over for a long time.”
Octavianus was forced to bow and withdraw.
“You’re a fool,” said Lucius, lifting the curtain at the end of the room. Antonius swung round on him.
“Mind your own business, eavesdropper,” he said, his cheeks flaming. “The grandson of the Veliternan usurer shan’t buy his way to popularity at my cost, I tell you. I’m ready to back all the fiddling plans that you and Fulvia work out, but I must bar a few things, and that pale-faced sweetheart is one of them.”
He banged on the doorpost. “Bring me some wine!” Then he turned back into the room. “Bah! The mincing love-lad sticks in my gullet — as bad as trying to swallow a dry mullet on a morning-after. I’m thirsty. Where’s that drink?”
Lucius shrugged his shoulders; and Antonius drank with the wine running down his chin.
He wouldn’t be stampeded. He wrote reassuringly to Brutus, and grew friendly with Dolabella, the hero of the conservatives since the wrecking of the altar.
“Brutus and his crowd are loons,” said Antonius. “And so are Lucius and my wife with their pack of starveling agitators. You and I are the only sensible fellows in this god-forsaken world.”
“You’re the right colleague for me,” replied Dolabella, stretching up on his toes and trying to convince himself that he was as tall as Antonius. “Strange I never thought of it before. Well, we’ve been united by the truest bond. Cytheris, I mean. It’s a theory of mine. There’ll never be peace on earth till there’s community of women. By mixing our seed in the same vessel we really become one: all scrambled together like the good old egg of the Stoic god.”
“I follow you,” said Antonius, wondering if he’d ask Dolabella if he’d truly seduced Antonia. It would be another link, according to this theory; but perhaps the present amity had better not be stretched too far. Dolabella was a good lad.
*
Gallus had given up hope. He walked up and down the street where Cytheris lived, after dark so that no peeping slave should recognise him. Best to love at a distance. He recited to himself lines from his latest elegies:
No kiss of mine shall feed her breasts with milk,
for she beyond my entering love is draped
in beauty glimmering with rays of silk.
Her loins the god of chastity has raped.
That’s what she is for me, for me alone,
as down the street she walks with offering eyes,
and by the ruffian wind her skirt is blown
between her obvious and expensive thighs.
Perhaps the third line could be bettered. In charms impregnable with rays of silk. It didn’t matter. Amos and Karni were married and seemed happy at last. Gallus had at least brought two lovers together, even if they hadn’t been quite gratified at first; but himself he could not help.
*
The first of June. The Senate met. Antonius was expecting to be denounced and went along with a flamboyantly defiant face, half-drunk. But nothing happened. Everyone was feebly respectful.
That night he drank and swore loudly. Fulvia and Lucius were right after all. Things must get a move on. Let Lucius call a concilium next day and propose before the people, without the usual interval of three market-days between promulgation and passage, a law giving Macedonia to Antonius and Syria to Dolabella for five years.
Confusion to the wealthy. Action, more action.
The meeting of the plebs was held. The law was passed. On the fifth Antonius proposed in the Senate that Brutus and Cassius as their provincial sphere should have control of the corn supply from Sicily. This was a clever trick. The hard chaffering work was almost a degradation; it was sure to entail further unpopularity with every small omission or failure of corn cargoes; it would divide them from their parties and from one another, and fritter away their energies. Yet it had an appearance of friendliness.
The Senate passed the proposal.
The conservatives, many of whom had failed to attend the session, were stunned. Cicero had been meditating withdrawal to Greece and had written to Dolabella asking for a free State-pass. Dolabella now astutely replied courteously and sent a five-years’ pass, thus putting Cicero in the position of accepting the enactment of five-years’ tenure for Antonius and Dolabella in their provinces.
Antonius, who was now entirely satisfied with the state of things, moved the formal passage into the law of the decree of 17th March, guaranteeing Caesar’s Acts and the continuation of the colonies. This was to please the veterans. At the same time, not to frighten the conservatives unduly, he moved that the decree abolishing the dictatorship also have comitial endorsement; he also diverted from Buthrotum the emigration officials who were on the point of setting out — a gesture of conciliation to Atticus and the capitalists. A quiet life was what he wanted, and a province for five years.
Then Lucius produced and passed his Land Bill.
Throughout these years of social struggle a Land Bill was always the method used by the radicals to get power into their hands, to redistribute property and ease distress among the poor, and to put fear into the bones of the landlord class. The passage of the bill of Lucius, putting great power into the hands of a Committee of Seven, undid the work of reassurance on the part of Antonius, and sent a wave of disquiet through the propertied classes. To what would it lead?
*
Gaius Antonius was restive. He had seen clearly enough what Lucius and Fulvia were doing; and after some bitter jokes to himself, he had become angry. But there was nothing he could do; he waited, keen-eyed for every glance or touch between the adulterers.
Today they were all drinking. The house in the Carinae was now filled with the new Caesarian party gathered by Lucius, the men whom the conservatives looked on as reprobates, bankrupt politicians, communists, social pariahs — with a sprinkling of the soldier favourites o
f Antonius.
Young Quintus Cicero was holding forth. “Someone ought to murder that uncle of mine. He’s the core of the opposition. Caesar would never have been killed if Cicero hadn’t kept the resistance of his group awake. I’ve seen it all from the inside. If you don’t do for him in turn, he’ll cause a lot of trouble yet, and you’ll be sorry.”
“Killing a man,” said Mustela, a hard-faced soldier, “is like plucking an apple. You’ve got to do it at the right time, or it gives you a bellyache.”
“I remember once acting in an Aiax,” said Nucula, one of the Seven Commissioners. “And Aiax in his fit swung the sword so strongly that he let it go, and it sailed off into the air, hitting one of the audience in the throat. Would you call that ripe killing?”
“I was talking of killing on purpose,” said Mustela, in contempt. “Anybody could kill a man by accident.”
“Venus Callipyge!” moaned Cassius Barba, another soldier. “I’m sick of killing. I’m going to settle down on a farm, and run it entirely by women. Not a single ugly-faced male on the whole stretch of it. Think of it, lads. King of a farm with nothing but women for miles round.”
“Not even a cockbird for the hens!” grinned Antonius. “Why, the girls would end by treading you in the vat instead of the grapes.”
Gaius slipped away. He wanted to see what Lucius was doing. He knew what was up, but wanted to see it with his own eyes. Turning the corner of the corridor, he bumped into someone — a girl. He grasped her arm and peered into her face. Young Clodia.
“Sssh, don’t go along there,” she said. “Mother’s busy.”
“Is that so?” replied Gaius, thinking how unlike she was to Fulvia in face and manner, and yet there was something the same, a kind of teasing insolence. He was seized with a wish to take revenge on Fulvia, to attack her in some way.
The room at the side was the room of Lucius. Putting his arm round Clodia’s shoulder, Gaius lifted the curtain; for he knew that Lucius wouldn’t be there. Lucius was busy.
*
Quintus Cicero had still been unable to have a word with Clodia. One day he had seen her playing ball beyond the peristyle with her nurse; but Antonius had been talking with him all the while, and he couldn’t do anything. He was sure she had winked at him, nevertheless, at the moment when Bhebeo fell back into a bush trying to catch the ball over her head.
Now, noting the others absorbed, he, like Gaius, slipped out, hoping that he would chance on Clodia. There was no one in the corridor, and he tiptoed along it, his heart jumping. He didn’t mind being caught as long as he wasn’t suspected of designs on the silver. Then, as he was about to turn back, he heard a laugh which he was sure was Clodia’s, though he had never heard her laugh. It came from a room on the right. Unable to resist, he put his head through the curtains and achieved his wish, at least to the extent of seeing Clodia.
But the rest of what he saw was less satisfactory. For Clodia was in someone else’s arms. And to make things doubly painful, she winked at Quintus. There was no doubt about it. It was a solemn, insolent wink.
This was too much. He stepped through the curtains and said with what he felt to be a reproachful dignity, “Look here, I won’t be winked at.”
“Who’s this?” said Gaius, twisting his head round. “You bad-mannered young brat. Go back where you came from — if your mother will take you this time.”
“Let me tell you that my mother’s the best mother on earth,” said Quintus, angrily. “I didn’t come here to be insulted by you.”
“Then why the hell did you come?”
The question was unanswerable. Clodia gave a loud peal of laughter, and at that moment steps were heard along the corridor.
“O they mustn’t find you here,” said Clodia; and wriggling out, she threw the bedclothes over Gaius. Then, suddenly, she caught Quintus round the neck and kissed him.
It was a pleasant kiss. At any other time it would have been very pleasant to Quintus; but under the circumstances he objected and struggled to get away. She held tighter. The steps halted and someone lifted the curtain.
“Say it was you,” pleaded Clodia, whispering into the ear of Quintus, “and I’ll love you always.”
Quintus wanted to curse at her, but knew he would succumb. The next moment someone had torn him from Clodia’s arms and swung him back against the wall, where he bumped his head, which further contributed to his dazedness and secured the success of Clodia’s appeal.
“You shameful little beast,” said Fulvia in a low, harsh voice.
Clodia confronted her with her arms on her hips. “If I knew as much about myself, mother, as I know about you, I’d sell my blushes for rouge.”
Fulvia smacked her on the cheek and turned to Quintus. “And you, you young fool, what do you mean by this behaviour? Is it your idea of how to repay hospitality?” She spoke to Lucius. “Fetch Marcus.”
He made a gesture of repugnance, and went. Nothing more was said. Clodia sat on the edge of the bed and tidied her hair. Quintus leaned against the wall. He didn’t mind the reputation of being the girl’s lover, but would have liked the fact as well — though he didn’t want to quarrel with Antonius. But he couldn’t deny the situation now, and his greatest fear was that Gaius would sneeze.
Antonius stood in the doorway with Lucius behind him. “What’s this?”
Fulvia pointed to Clodia and then to Quintus. “Throw that young rip out of the house.”
“O now —”
“I know you hate the girl,” said Fulvia, venomously, “because she’s mine by another man. But you’ve got to act as if you were her father, however wretchedly you do it. Throw the grinning fool out.”
Quintus became abruptly conscious that he was smiling with mouth open. He scowled hard.
“You’d better go,” said Antonius. Fulvia was within her rights.
“And tell him not to come back.”
Antonius faced the lad and touched him kindly on the shoulder. “And I don’t see how you can very well return. Come along.”
This was beyond the calculation of Quintus. What was the use of earning a claim on Clodia if he was forbidden ever to see her again? He wanted to protest, but caught her sweetly smiling eyes, and lost his power to speak. He followed Antonius out.
Fulvia seized Clodia roughly and flung her towards the door.
Lucius was left in the room. Gaius threw the clothes aside and sat up, yawning. “I was so frightened the dust would tickle my nose.”
Lucius considered him without surprise. “So it was you. Why did the lad take the blame?”
“Because a warm little mouth whispered into his big burning ear,” said Gaius, rising and whistling. “Now we’re quits, you and I.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t understand myself. So we’re twice quits. Hold your tongue and I’ll hold mine.”
*
The scheme was that Lucius and the other Commissioners should keep a grip on Italy after the new consuls took charge next year, while Antonius and Dolabella built up their resources in the eastern provinces. It was a sensible long-distance plan. But meanwhile money was tightening. The upper class, unable to raise further loans to repay interest charges, were practically bankrupt; the hope that they could regain Caesar’s confiscations and thus recoup their losses had failed; and the small group of financiers who had cornered the money were not interested to let it circulate. Decimus Brutus, the great hope of the conservatives, was left so short of funds that he had to pay his troops in Cisalpine Gaul out of his own chests; and no contributions were forthcoming from his party.
Brutus and Cassius were drifting south, debating irresolutely what could be done. The inability of Brutus to attend the Apollinine Games that as city-praetor he should shortly be giving, had sapped the last of his morale. Outside Neapolis the young noble Domitius had a fleet of ships ready for a wholesale patrician emigration. Cicero was despairingly dictating philosophic treatises with one eye on a Greek text, and bothering Atticu
s to make his balance-sheet meet.
Cassius alone hadn’t given up hope. Trebonius was in Asia, Cimber in Bithynia. The legions in Egypt were recruited from Pompeian veterans; in Syria and Spain there were embers of the late Civil War. If Decimus Brutus could maintain his position, the Republic would yet stand against the dictatorship of the mob.
At Rome Octavianus was mixing with the veterans and giving all his energy to making the Games of Victory a success. “Let the boy make his fuss about the golden chair,” said Antonius, and announced that if Octavianus caused a breach of the peace he’d be prosecuted.
On the last day of the Games, which had been uproariously celebrated as a protest in praise of Caesar, there was seen a comet in the sky. Octavianus at once proclaimed that it was a portent from the Divine Caesar, and placed in the Temple of Venus a statue of Caesar, the head decorated with a comet of gold.
“Let the boy have his gold toys,” said Antonius. “He’s a good understudy of Herophilus, the veterinary surgeon. But I doubt if he’ll make as worthy an end.”
The people were deeply touched. Caesar was coming back.
*
Would Cytheris be present? That was the only thought Gallus had had since Nicias invited him to dine again at Dolabella’s. There was no Cytheris there; and when Antonius arrived, Gallus was certain she wouldn’t come. Dolabella wouldn’t flaunt her in her old lover’s face, surely. Gallus lay looking at the two men that he hated most in the world. Every witticism of Dolabella, every hearty laugh of Antonius, wrenched at his nerves. And then Cytheris did arrive. Dolabella couldn’t lose the chance, and Antonius couldn’t object, seeing that he had first sent her as his envoy.
Cytheris saw Gallus at once; and before she reclined, she took Dolabella aside. “I won’t stay tonight.” She was thinking of Gallus; she would at least spare him such a cruel blow.
“Worried about Antonius?”
“It wouldn’t be tactful, even if you are good friends.”
Dolabella pinched her arm and led her to a place on the same couch as himself. She turned her back so that she wouldn’t have to face Gallus who lay opposite. She was sure that they could never be happy in contact. She needed a round of enjoyments, dinners, and applause; she needed different men. There was no use hiding from the fact; one man couldn’t satisfy her. She had faced the truth about herself and felt relieved. If Gallus could only agree to take his place among the others, she would be pleased to have him as a lover; but he would never agree. So farewell, Gallus.