Rubicon

by Steven Saylor

  I woke with a start. Antony loomed above me, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘Dawn, Gordianus! Time for me to report to Caesar, and for you to see your son. Piss if you need to. Then round up those two slaves of yours and we’re off.’

  Before we rode down to the main camp, Antony wanted a last look at the breakwater from the hill. There were clouds overhead, but the horizon was clear. The rising sun in our eyes and its scintillating reflection on the water made it difficult to see, but the wreckage of the flaming ship appeared to have been removed during the night. Men were busy repairing the damage to the breakwater, and construction continued. ‘Vitruvius is down there now,’ said Antony. ‘He told me last night that he hopes to add another raft to each end of the breakwater by the end of the day, to farther close the gap. The ships that sailed in yesterday will have a harder time sailing out!’

  We rode down onto the plain. Antony was attended by a small staff of officers. I was accompanied by Tiro and Fortex, for whom horses were found. The camp was like a city, probably more populous than the city being besieged and surely more orderly, with its row upon row of precisely spaced tents. Some of the soldiers stood in lines awaiting morning rations. Others, already fed and outfitted for battle, were marching off to man the trenches and earthworks and siege machines below the city walls.

  I was astounded by the speed with which Caesar had been able to move such vast numbers of men and equipment. Ten days before, the plain outside Brundisium had been empty; now it was home to thirty-six thousand men, every one of whom appeared to know exactly where he should be and what he should be doing at that moment. Thirty days before, not one of these men had been within two hundred miles of Brundisium, and Domitius still held Corfinium. Sixty days before, Caesar had only just crossed the Rubicon. The scale and swiftness of the operation was awesome. I pitied the Gauls who had confronted such a force. I despaired for Pompey.

  We passed a guarded checkpoint, where Antony vouched for me. As we drew closer to the centre of the camp, he fell back beside me. I saw him cast a wary glance at Tiro and Fortex, as if seeing them for the first time.

  ‘You are sure, Gordianus, that you can vouch for your two slaves?’

  I barely hesitated. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, really. It’s only, ever since we crossed the Rubicon – before that, actually – there’s been a rumour . . .’

  ‘What sort of rumour?’

  ‘A plot. To assassinate Caesar. Wild talk, of course.’

  I felt a chill up my spine. ‘Does Caesar take it seriously?’

  ‘Caesar thinks he’s immortal! But what man isn’t made of flesh and blood?’ He groaned from his hangover and massaged his temples. ‘It’s only – you see, every time I vouch for you, I’m vouching for your slaves as well. Of course, you’re above suspicion, Gordianus. That goes without saying. But the slaves who travel with you –’

  ‘I take complete responsibility for my slaves, Tribune.’ I kept my eyes straight ahead.

  ‘Of course, Gordianus. I meant no offence.’ He gave me a firm slap on the back, then rode up to rejoin his men. He didn’t give Tiro and Fortex another look.

  I steadied myself with a deep breath, then looked sidelong at Tiro. It seemed to me that he clutched his reins too tightly, but his face betrayed no expression. He had overheard, of course; Antony was not the sort to lower his voice for the benefit of slaves. I thought of Daniel in the lion’s den, a tale Bethesda told, handed down by her Hebrew father. Was that how Tiro felt, riding into Caesar’s camp, led by a tribune who would gladly flay him alive? Yet here he was, despite his fear. I wondered if I could summon as much courage in the coming hours.

  We came to a large tent, more elaborate than the others, made of red canvas embroidered with gold and decorated with pennants. Messengers on horseback waited in a line outside the entrance. As we approached, a soldier stepped out of the tent, conveyed an order to the first messenger, and the man was off. Meanwhile, another messenger came riding up, dismounted, and rushed into the tent.

  ‘Morning reconnaissance,’ explained Antony. ‘Intelligence reports come in, orders go out. It’s a beehive in there.’

  ‘Perhaps I should wait outside.’

  ‘Nonsense. Just mind that you don’t get trampled.’ He climbed off his horse and offered me a hand. ‘Leave your slaves outside.’

  I looked at Tiro and shrugged. I had done my part. He was not to see the inside of Caesar’s tent after all. But I underestimated his persistence.

  Tiro jumped from his horse. ‘Please, Master! Let me come with you.’

  ‘You heard the tribune, Soscarides.’

  ‘But you brought me all this way to surprise Meto, to see the look on his face. If you talk to Meto first and let it slip that I’m here, where’s the surprise? And the longer you wait, the more hectic the day may become. Even an hour from now, if there’s to be a battle –’

  ‘The tutor is right,’ said Antony. ‘ “Swiftly done is best done.” Who said that, tutor?’ He looked at Tiro keenly.

  ‘Euripides,’ said Tiro.

  Antony frowned. ‘Are you sure? I once heard Cicero say it on the floor of the Senate House.’

  Tiro’s face stiffened. ‘No doubt, Tribune. But Euripides said it first.’

  Antony laughed. ‘Spoken like a true tutor! I suppose you’re not a spy or an assassin, after all. Bring him along, Gordianus. Give Meto a surprise.’

  ‘Yes, Master, please,’ said Tiro.

  ‘Either that, or have the slave beaten for his insolence,’ suggested Antony. He wasn’t joking.

  I glowered at Tiro and seriously considered the option. I could see wheels spinning behind his eyes. ‘The date!’ he suddenly said.

  Antony looked at him quizzically.

  ‘It’s two days past the Ides,’ said Tiro. ‘Liberalia day!’ I remembered Cicero and his wife arguing over the upcoming Liberalia and their son’s toga ceremony. ‘You can’t beat a slave for speaking his mind on the feast day of Father Freedom, Master. Letting slaves speak freely is part of the holiday.’ Tiro looked quite pleased with himself.

  ‘Is it Liberalia already?’ Antony grunted. ‘I always lose track of holidays during a military campaign. We count on augurs to watch the calendar and make the proper sacrifices, and leave it at that. Well, I celebrated the god of the grape in my own way last night, and I’m all for parading a giant phallus through the camp and singing bawdy songs, though I doubt we’ll have time for it. But the slave’s right, Gordianus, you should indulge him. We must court the favour of all the gods, including Dionysus.’

  Tiro looked at me archly. I looked back at him coolly. ‘Very well, Soscarides, come along. Fortex, you’ll stay here with the horses.’

  Inside the tent, messengers rushed about and the crowd of officers buzzed with conversation, but the scene was more orderly than I expected. Antony’s metaphor was fitting: not the frenzied scramble of a stirred antbed, but the steady swarm of a beehive.

  Most of the officers appeared to be about Antony’s age, in their early thirties or younger. A few I recognized, though I was more used to seeing them in senatorial togas. Outfitted in armour, they looked like boys to me. Their faces were radiant with excitement. I thought of the crippled old senator, Sextus Tedius, dragging himself off to make a stand with Pompey. The contrast was devastating.

  A flash of red caught my eye. Through the crowd I glimpsed a bald head, singular amid so many full heads of hair, and spotted the king bee himself. Caesar was in the process of being strapped into a gilded breastplate even more elaborate than the one Antony wore. The flash of colour was his cape. Caesar was famous for his red cape, which he wore on the battlefield so that he could always be seen, by his own men and those of the enemy as well. Even as he was being dressed, he appeared to be listening to three messengers at once. His deepset eyes stared straight ahead. He nodded occasionally, absently brushing his fingers over his brow, combing forward the thin hair at his temples. His expression was composed, de
termined, attentive but aloof. On his thin lips there was the faintest intimation of a smile.

  I was ten years older than Caesar, and by habit still thought of him in terms of his early reputation in the Senate, as an aristocratic, radical young troublemaker. He was a troublemaker still, but now in his fifties. To the ambitious, vibrant young men in that tent, he must have seemed a father figure, the brilliant man of action they all aspired to emulate, the commander who would lead them into the future. What appeal could musty relics like Pompey and Domitius hold for such young men? Pompey’s conquests were all in the past. Domitius’s glory was secondhand, inherited from a dead generation. Caesar embodied the moment. The fire in his eyes was the divine spark of destiny.

  I looked about. Tiro stood behind me, taking in everything, but Antony had disappeared. I spotted him across the tent embracing another man in nearly identical armour. When they relaxed the embrace, I saw that the man in Antony’s arms was his fellow tribune Curio. The two had been lifelong friends. More than friends, some said. When their boyhood attachment became the stuff of gossip, Cicero had urged Curio’s father to separate them, saying Antony was corrupting Curio. Antony was banned from Curio’s house, but it did no good; he sneaked into Curio’s bedroom through the ceiling. So the story went, and Antony had never denied it. Now they were seasoned soldiers, and in the last year both had been elected tribunes. When the crisis came, they fled from Rome together to join with Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon.

  The tent seemed full of such men, all bursting with energy and passion, all projecting the bright invincibility of youth. They made me feel old and very unsure of myself.

  I turned about, seeking the face I longed to see. I gave a start. Meto stood before me, a look of utter consternation on his face.

  My son did not look pleased to see me.

  XVIII

  ‘Papa, what are you doing here?’

  Like the officers around us, Meto looked like a boy to me, though he was now almost thirty and had streaks of premature grey at his temples. He had the eyes of a scholar, but the weathered hands and rugged brow of a seasoned campaigner. The scar across his face, which he had received at the age of sixteen fighting for Catilina, had almost been erased by the winds and rain and burning sun of Gaul. As always when I saw him after an absence of months, I looked him quickly up and down and whispered a prayer of thanks to Mars that his body appeared whole and his limbs intact.

  I felt such a flood of emotion that I couldn’t speak. I reached for him. He was stiff for a moment, then returned the embrace. Remembering the boy he had once been, I was amazed at his strength. When he pulled back, he was smiling ruefully.

  ‘What are you doing here, Papa? You must have been travelling for days. The danger –’

  ‘I’m here for Davus.’

  ‘Davus?’

  ‘He’s with Pompey. At least I hope he still is, and not already across in Dyrrhachium . . . or . . .’

  ‘What? Don’t tell me Davus ran off to fight with Pompey!’

  ‘No. Pompey took Davus with him by force.’

  ‘By force?’

  ‘Pompey claimed he had a legal right – something to do with emergency powers and conscription. Legal or not, there was no way I could stop him.’

  ‘But why should Pompey steal Davus from you?’

  ‘Partly for spite. Partly to have a hold over me.’

  Meto’s face stiffened. ‘Is the rest of the family all right? Eco, Bethesda, Diana? The children?’

  ‘I left them all in good health.’

  ‘Thank the gods. What does Pompey want from you?’

  I looked at the crowd pressed close around us. I was acutely aware of Tiro standing silently behind me, straining to hear everything. It was impossible to say all I wanted to say. I lowered my voice. ‘The day before Pompey left Rome, a kinsman of his was . . . killed . . . in my house.’

  ‘And Pompey accused you of the crime?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no! But he held me responsible. He charged me with finding the killer. I told him I couldn’t. I tried to refuse. But Pompey was in a state. On a whim, he took Davus to coerce me.’

  ‘Poor Diana!’ whispered Meto.

  ‘That’s why I’ve come to Brundisium. To get Davus back, while I still can.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll find a way. What about you, Meto? I’ve been sick with worry for you –’

  Meto suddenly pulled back. Tiro had taken a step closer, and Meto seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘Is this man with you, Papa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One of your slaves? I don’t know him.’

  ‘Let me explain –’

  ‘Wait a moment . . .’ Meto stared hard at Tiro. ‘By Hercules, it’s –’

  At that moment I felt a slap on my shoulder, and gave such a start I thought my heart had bounded from my chest. It was Antony.

  ‘Here they are, father and son, off whispering and conspiring among themselves,’ he said.

  I blinked. Beside Antony I saw a blur of gold and crimson, surmounted by the serene countenance of Julius Caesar.

  ‘Gordianus! When did we last meet? In Ravenna, I think. You were investigating the murder of our friend Publius Clodius. You were then in the employ of Pompey, as I recall.’

  He always remembered me, which always surprised me, since he knew me chiefly as Meto’s father and the two of us had never had a conversation of real significance. Meto had told me that Caesar’s memory for names and faces was part of his charm. He could meet a foot soldier in the heat of battle, exchange no more than a few words, and years later greet the man by name and ask for news from his hometown.

  ‘Imperator,’ I said, with a deferential nod.

  ‘The slave with him is an old tutor of Meto’s,’ explained Antony.

  Meto raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

  Caesar glanced past my shoulder at Tiro. I held my breath. His expression registered no change. His eyes reconnected with mine. He raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you’re not still in the employ of Pompey, Gordianus. Antony tells me that you’ve been travelling on a diplomatic passport signed by the Great One himself.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘That document came to me by way of Cicero, not directly from Pompey. Despite appearances, Imperator, I assure you that the Great One and I are hardly even on speaking terms.’

  Caesar flashed a wry smile. ‘That rather describes my own relationship with Pompey at the moment. You’re an intrepid man, Gordianus, to have journeyed all this way, and a good father, if you did it to inquire after Meto. But I assure you, I take good care of him. He’s as dear to me as he is to you. I suggest you return now to the lookout where you camped last night, out of harm’s way. Observe developments from a safe distance. This could turn out to be a very interesting day. In particular, watch the rooftops of the city.’

  ‘The rooftops, Imperator?’

  ‘The citizens of Brundisium are angry at the way they’ve been treated by Pompey’s troops. Pompey never did learn to discipline his men properly. As a result, there are townspeople quite willing, even eager, to let us know when Pompey begins his nautical retreat. They will signal us from the rooftops. That will be the moment we strike. There’s nothing harder to manage than a tactical withdrawal from a besieged city, even by ship. When he turns his back and begins to flee, that will be the moment of Pompey’s greatest vulnerability. The gods willing, he shall not escape me.’

  I nodded and felt a trickle of sweat run down my spine, feeling the presence of Tiro close behind me, listening to every word. In his enthusiasm, Caesar himself was telling me secrets, treating me with complete trust, while a spy I had brought into his tent stood close enough to touch him. I felt light-headed, as I had at the end of the forced march down the mountain when I fainted at Antony’s feet.

  ‘Are you well, Gordianus?’ said Caesar. ‘Take a day of rest. But no rest for me! The signal to attack may come at any moment. Come, Antony. Meto, bring your stylus and wax tablets.�
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  I cleared my throat. ‘Perhaps, Imperator, my son might stay behind for just a moment. I’ve come a long way to see him. We’ve barely had time to talk –’

  ‘Not today, Gordianus.’ Caesar smiled at Meto and put his arm around him, then reached up to tug at his earlobe affectionately. I thought I saw Meto stiffen at the man’s touch. Caesar seemed not to notice. ‘Today, your son is mine, every hour, every minute. My eyes and my ears, my witness, my memory. He must see all, hear all, record everything. Later, there’ll be time to talk. Come, Meto.’ He slipped his arm from Meto’s shoulder.

  The tent rapidly began to empty, like a swarm leaving the hive. Meto followed Caesar for a few steps, then hung back. He looked over his shoulder at Tiro, then at me. He frowned. ‘Papa, what’s going on?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you the same question,’ I said.

  ‘Meto, come on!’ Antony barked.

  My son gave me a last, cryptic look, then departed with the rest. I wished I had given him one more embrace.

  ‘I suppose you’re quite pleased with yourself,’ I said to Tiro. Along with Fortex, we were making our second circuit of the camp on horseback. Tiro was all eyes and ears, taking in every detail.

  As we had left Caesar’s tent, one of his aides handed me a copper disc stamped with an image of Venus. The man told me I could show it as a passport to anyone who questioned us. The disc signified that I was a guest of the imperator himself, allowed to come and go and move freely about the camp, as long as I stayed out of the way. The disc was even good for obtaining rations at the mess tent.

  Had it been up to me, we would have spent no more time in the camp than it took to leave it. I was eager to get into Brundisium. Once Pompey began his nautical retreat and the siege commenced, everything would be in chaos. Any hope of finding Davus could slip away in an instant. I wanted to know Tiro’s plan. But Tiro insisted on taking full advantage of Caesar’s hospitality first. ‘You travelled on Pompey’s passport,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now I shall travel a bit on Caesar’s.’