Rubicon

by Steven Saylor

  The food was simple, but better than anything I had eaten for quite some time in Rome, where fresh meat and spices were hard to come by. Young Marcus had killed two rabbits that day, and they provided the main course. There was also asparagus stewed in raisin wine, and a chickpea soup heavily spiced with black pepper and dill weed.

  The talk was simple as well, mostly about our journey. Marcus was especially eager for details of the ambush outside the city. Tiro described the skirmish and praised Fortex, who was off eating in the kitchen. ‘The man saved Gordianus’s life, I have no doubt.’

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘One of the wretches was about to pull me off my horse, when your man Fortex threw a piece of hardened dung from the roof of the shrine. He must have been, what, at least thirty feet away? Struck the bandit right between the eyes.’

  Young Marcus laughed and clapped his hands. Cicero shrugged. ‘The slave did no more than he should have. He’s a bodyguard, after all. When I bought him, I was assured he had quick reflexes and excellent aim. I made a wise purchase.’

  After the sleepless night on the barge and the long day’s ride, I was exhausted. As soon as the dessert of aniseed cakes with raisins had been offered to everyone, I excused myself. A slave showed me to my room and helped me change into a sleeping tunic. I fell onto the bed and was asleep almost at once.

  As happens sometimes on a journey, my sleep was easily disrupted. I suddenly woke, needing to pass water and having no idea what time it was. My little room was pitch-dark and I assumed I had slept for hours. But when I opened my door, hoping for a bit of stray moonlight to help me locate my chamber bowl, I saw light from an open door across the garden. I heard low voices. Someone was still up.

  I found the chamber bowl and relieved myself. I went back to bed, but was no longer sleepy. After a while I got up and opened my door again. The light still shone from the room across the way. I heard quiet laughter.

  I stepped out of my room, under the shadow of the colonnade. I peered across the moonlit garden. The room opposite mine was evidently Cicero’s study; by the flickering light of the brazier within I could see a pigeonhole bookcase stuffed with scrolls. One voice was Cicero’s, the other Tiro’s. The two of them were up late talking, probably sharing a bit of midnight wine. All their lives they had been master and slave, then statesman and secretary, now spymaster and spy. No doubt they had a great deal to catch up on.

  The night was still. Cicero’s trained orator’s voice carried like a bell on the crisp air. I distinctly heard my name. Tiro said something in response, but his voice carried less clearly and I didn’t catch it. They both laughed, then were silent for a while. I imagined them sipping from their cups.

  When Cicero spoke again, his tone was serious. ‘Do you think he knows who killed Numerius?’

  I strained to hear Tiro’s reply, but caught only a mumble.

  ‘But he must know something,’ said Cicero. ‘Why else is he going all the way to Brundisium with you to see Pompey?’

  ‘Ah, but is he going to Brundisium?’ said Tiro. ‘Somewhere between here and there . . .’

  ‘Is Caesar,’ said Cicero. ‘And with Caesar, Gordianus’s son, Meto. I see your point. What is Gordianus up to?’

  ‘Does it really matter?’ I heard the shrug in Tiro’s voice.

  ‘I don’t like surprises, Tiro. I’ve had far too many over the past year. Tullia’s marriage to Dolabella . . . Caesar crossing the Rubicon . . . this unsavoury business with Numerius Pompeius. No more nasty shocks! Especially not from Gordianus. Find out what he knows, Tiro.’

  ‘He may know nothing.’

  ‘Gordianus always knows more than he lets on. He’s hiding something from you, I’m sure of it.’

  I heard footsteps and drew back into the shadows. A slave crossed the garden, carrying something in each hand, and went into the study.

  ‘Good, the extra lamps!’ Cicero exclaimed. ‘Light yours, Tiro, and I shall light mine. Every year that passes, my eyes grow weaker . . . There, now we have light enough to read. Have a look at this latest letter from Pompey. Nothing but a long rant against Domitius Ahenobarbus for losing Corfinium . . .’

  The glow from the open doorway was strong enough now to dispel the concealing shadows of the colonnade. I stepped back into my room so as not to be seen by the departing slave. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, thinking to rest for just a moment before going back to listen, and slept until noon of the following day.

  I woke to the smell of roasting pork.

  An hour earlier, another guest had arrived at Cicero’s villa, accompanied by a sizable retinue. Cicero had ordered a pig butchered to feed the lot of them. After I splashed my face with water and dressed, I found my way to the roasting pit behind the house where a crowd of men passed a wineskin and watched the carcass as it was slowly turned on a spit. They appeared to be a ragtag bodyguard of freedmen and slaves. Their tents, pitched outside the house, were tattered and patched and their stacks of mismatched weapons and armour looked to be of poor quality.

  Some of the men were playing trigon in a clearing by the vineyard. Young Marcus was among them, laughing and monopolizing the leather ball. An enthusiastic athlete and hunter was quite the opposite of what I would have expected of Cicero’s son. I wondered if his father approved of his consorting with such lowly types.

  I found Tiro and asked him what personage worthy of Cicero’s hospitality had arrived accompanied by such a shabby retinue. Before Tiro could answer, I saw the visitor emerge from the little bathhouse connected by a covered walkway to the main building. He wore nothing but a large towel wrapped around his waist. His florid face and fleshy arms were flushed from the heat. His rust-coloured beard and the wiry hair on his chest sparkled with beads of water. He disappeared into the house.

  ‘But that can’t be . . .’ I began.

  Tiro nodded. ‘Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus.’

  ‘But I thought Caesar captured Redbeard at Corfinium.’

  ‘Captured him yes, but couldn’t hold him. Or so Domitius tells it.’ Tiro lowered his voice. ‘Personally, I suspect Caesar simply let him go as a gesture of clemency. But Domitius has his own version of events. Several versions, actually. According to Cicero, in the hour since he arrived he’s already told three different tales of his hairbreadth escape. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind telling yet another, if you care to listen. But don’t ask him about his botched suicide. He’s liable to burst into tears.’

  I looked at Tiro sidelong, unable to tell whether he was joking.

  ‘And whatever you do, don’t mention that I’m here,’ he went on.

  ‘Domitius isn’t privy to the secret of your return to Italy?’

  ‘No. We want to keep it that way, for now.’

  ‘Why don’t we resume our journey, then, and get away from here? I’m rested and eager to get started.’

  Tiro smiled and shook his head. ‘Cicero may have new instructions for me, after he’s spoken with Domitius. We’ll leave tomorrow. Get some more rest, Gordianus. Relax while you can. The way between here and Brundisium may be hard going.’

  A little later, Cicero and Domitius set out on a leisurely ride around the estate, to discuss their affairs away from prying ears. Tiro seemed to vanish. Young Marcus spent the afternoon playing trigon. As for me, I passed the day pleasantly enough in my host’s study. Cicero had instructed his slaves to give me access to his library, but he also must have warned them that I might snoop, for a slave was always present in the room, adding columns on a wax tablet or scrolling through a ledger, keeping an eye on me. I would have preferred to rifle through Cicero’s correspondence; instead I reread the first book of the Gallic Wars. Cicero’s copy was personally inscribed:

  TO M. TULLIUS CICERO,

  WHO HAS EXPRESSED APPROVAL OF THE AUTHOR’S PROSE IF NOT HIS POLITICS.

  G. JULIUS CAESAR

  That night, while Domitius’s bodyguards feasted outside and sang camp songs, I was again invited to the formal dining room, where I found
myself demoted from the place of honour in favour of Domitius. Tiro was not present.

  We dined on the choicest cuts of the roast pig, served with a rosemary gravy. There was more asparagus, marinated in herbs and olive oil, and fried carrots tossed with cumin seeds and dressed with a fish-pickle sauce that Cicero claimed had just been unearthed after fermenting for ten years in a clay jar buried in his cellar.

  Domitius’s mood was as changeable as a comet. He was boisterous and talkative one moment and sullen the next. He behaved as men will who have suffered a rapid series of shocks and reversals. He had boldly broken from Pompey to make a stand at Corfinium, then been betrayed to Caesar by his own men. He had screwed up the courage to kill himself rather than face a humiliating death, then learned too late that Caesar intended mercy. He had wept in the face of certain death, then discovered that his physician had given him not poison but a narcotic to calm his nerves. He had been captured by Caesar, then just as abruptly had been released – for no matter how often or variously Domitius told the story of his ‘escape’, the truth was evident.

  ‘Barely escaped with my life!’ Domitius said to me, pleased to have two fresh ears for the tale. ‘Oh, Caesar pretended that I was free to go, but he intended an ambush from the start.’

  ‘But why an ambush?’ I asked.

  ‘So that Caesar could spare himself the ugly business of executing his legal successor to the governorship of Gaul! He could claim that the perimeter guard mistook us for deserters and killed me by accident, or some such nonsense. He offered me a choice first. “You’re free to join with me, Lucius. Perhaps I could even post you to Gaul. With your family connections there, you could be of great value.” As if the decision were his to make! As if the Senate hadn’t already appointed me governor! As if Gaul were his private kingdom, not the property of the Senate and people of Rome, to administer as they please, according to the law!’

  Cicero, of course, had heard this earlier. Domitius sensed his waning attention and directed his words chiefly to me and to young Marcus, sparing hardly a glance for the women.

  ‘I told the scoundrel no, absolutely not, that I would never serve under him at any time or in any capacity. “Very well,” he said, in that cool, supercilious, oh-so-superior, oh-so-disappointed manner he affects. “Run to Pompey, if you must. I’ll even allow you to take bodyguards. No regular soldiers, though; I can’t spare them. Choose a few from among the freedmen and slaves who’ve been attending your household in Corfinium. They’ll have to make do with odds and ends; I need the best weapons and armour for my own men.” My own men – meaning the cohorts he stole from me, soldiers I recruited, trained, and equipped with my own money!

  ‘So I found a few brave men willing to go with me. That night we barely eluded one of Caesar’s scouting parties. He must have sent them after us. We hid in the brush alongside the road. They passed so close I could hear the breath in their nostrils.’

  ‘Why didn’t you fight them?’ asked Marcus eagerly.

  ‘And give Caesar the satisfaction of tricking me into a battle I couldn’t possibly win? No, I didn’t play his game. That was always his way with enemies in the Senate. Pretend to want a settlement, negotiate the fine points until their eyes glaze over, and then –’ He grabbed the carving knife from the serving platter and thrust it into the pork. ‘Stab them in the back!’

  Cicero bit the head off a piece of asparagus and nodded in agreement. ‘No one has ever been more adept at political chicanery than Caesar.’

  Domitius lapsed into one of his moody silences. I saw his lips move, engaging in some internal debate or recrimination, and wondered what he was rehashing – the decision to stand at Corfinium, the betrayal of his men, the bungled suicide?

  ‘But if you left Caesar to join with Pompey, why aren’t you there?’ asked young Marcus innocently. ‘You’ve come in the opposite direction.’ I saw his father wince.

  ‘Join Pompey? Why should I do that?’ said Domitius. ‘Without men to command, what purpose could I serve? Pompey can fend for himself.’

  ‘Does Pompey mean to make a stand at Brundisium?’ asked Marcus. ‘Or will he sail across the Adriatic?’

  Domitius managed a bitter laugh. ‘Every man in Italy would like to know the answer to that question, my boy. I’m afraid that the Great One is not in the habit of making his secret strategies known to my humble self. But we shall all know soon enough. Caesar moves with such speed, he’ll be at Brundisium in a matter of days. Then Pompey will see what he’s up against – and without me to help him! The fool should have joined me in Corfinium. That was the place to make a stand!’

  Cicero shifted uneasily. ‘We’ve all been puzzled by Pompey’s apparent lack of –’

  ‘He plans to head east, of course,’ said Domitius suddenly. ‘That must be what he was planning all along. Well, let him. If he can lure Caesar into a trap in Greece or Asia, good for him. For myself, I intend to head for Gaul and carry out my duty to the Senate. Governor of Gaul they appointed me, and governor of Gaul I shall be.’

  ‘If you go by land, won’t the way be blocked by troops loyal to Caesar?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘I intend to take ships, if I can find ships to hire, and sail directly to Massilia. The Massilians aren’t like the rest of Gaul. Their city-state was founded by Greek colonists hundreds of years ago. They’re remarkable people, not barbarians like their neighbours.’

  ‘But will they welcome you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course they will. Their treaties are with the Senate, not with Caesar. The Massilians know Caesar! They’ve had to deal with him all these years, during his illegal tenure as governor. They’ve seen firsthand what Caesar is – a preening pretender, pompous, vain, covering himself with glory every time he managed to conquer another tribe of dimwits and toothless crones.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘I happened to be reading his memoir of the Gallic Wars today. You can’t deny the man’s –’

  ‘What, his “military genius”? Yes, I can deny it, and I do! That book is pure rubbish, nothing but nauseating self-glorification from start to finish, propaganda posing as history. He writes about himself in the third person – so insufferably pretentious – but did you ever see a book so full of vanity? No mention of the great men who came before him, who settled the southern coast of Gaul and built the roads that got him there, no bow to those in the Senate who voted against their better judgment to extend his command. You’d think he won the whole province in a dice game with Vercingetorix! I’ll tell you this: any competent Roman commander, given the same resources and advantages that the Senate gave to Caesar, could have accomplished the same thing, and probably in less time.’

  This was too much even for Cicero. ‘I think, Lucius, we must give Caesar his due. In military matters, at least –’

  Domitius scoffed. ‘Please, Marcus Tullius, you can hardly expect me to defer to your judgment of military matters!’

  Cicero looked at him sourly. ‘Even so . . .’

  I cleared my throat again. ‘Actually, you misunderstood me, Domitius. I wasn’t going to say that you can’t deny Caesar’s military genius. I was going to say that you can’t deny the man’s literary genius.’

  ‘On the contrary, I can deny it, and I do!’ said Domitius. ‘As a stylist he’s completely inept, an amateur. His prose has no ornament, no style. It’s as bald as his head! They say he dictates from horseback. Given the grunts he produces, I believe it!’

  Cicero smiled. ‘Some find Caesar’s lean prose to be elegant rather than undernourished. Our friend Gordianus can be excused for having a prejudice in the matter. Whatever virtues Caesar’s writing may possess, some credit must go to the son of Gordianus.’

  Domitius looked at me blankly. ‘I don’t follow you, Cicero.’

  ‘Gordianus’s adopted son, Meto, is rather famous for his editorial services to Caesar. As important to Caesar, some say, as Tiro has been to me.’

  Comprehension dawned in Domitius’s eyes. He smiled thinly. ‘Oh, I see, yo
u’re that Gordianus. Yes, I see.’ His smile became a leer. ‘But surely, Cicero, you don’t mean to suggest that Tiro ever performed for you some of the services that one hears this Meto performs in private for his beloved commander?’

  Terentia huffed. Young Marcus tittered. Tullia drew in a breath and looked at me sympathetically. Cicero actually blushed.

  Had everyone in Rome heard and given credence to these rumours about Caesar and my son? While I ground my teeth and considered how best to answer Domitius, he moved to another subject.

  ‘Very well, purely for the sake of argument, I’ll concede that Caesar is the military genius his own prose makes him out to be, helped along by his starry-eyed amanuensis. In that case, whatever shall become of our Pompey? Do you know, I almost hope that Caesar does trap Pompey in Brundisium. Let him strip the Great One of his legions and give him the same slave’s choice he gave to me. Pompey would have to commit suicide. After all his blunders, there could be no other honourable course. Then where would we be?’ Domitius laced his fingers beneath his chin and stroked his red beard. ‘The Senate will need another champion – a saviour from the West, not the East. The right man could summon Pompey’s troops from Spain and rally the Gauls against their would-be king. Massilia would be the ideal place to carry out such a plan, don’t you think? Yes, rally Spain and Gaul, then march directly into Italy – a second crossing of the Rubicon, a second invasion of armed men, not to destroy the constitution and the Senate but to restore them. Given proper resources, the right man could put that scoundrel Caesar on the run!’ Domitius fell to ruminating and peered into the middle distance.