A Mist of Prophecies

by Saylor, Steven

  ‘Terentia, why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because you knew her as well, didn’t you? Better than you let on. You must have, if you made the arrangements for her funeral.’

  ‘Yes, I knew Cassandra.’

  ‘The prophecy Fabia mentioned – there was more to it . . . of a personal nature. Cassandra saw her vision of the she-wolf and the lions doubled, reflected in miniature, she said, as if in a distant mirror. It was my household she saw in that mirror – a reflection of the world at large. The she-wolf was our family, the thing that’s nurtured and sustained us through even the hardest times. And the beasts were Marcus and myself, drawing blood from each other and fighting over the carcass of our own marriage. But just as Rome is greater than those who squabble over her, this family is greater than its parts. We shall make a reconciliation. Marcus . . . will love me again. Cassandra said as much!’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘That was Fabia’s interpretation.’

  ‘Fabia knows far more about such things than I.’

  ‘Yes, but you knew Cassandra. Was she genuine, Gordianus? Was she what she seemed to be? Can I trust the visions she saw in the throes of her gift?’

  The interview had been reversed. Now it was Terentia seeking knowledge of Cassandra from me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, and spoke the truth.

  V

  As I can place the first time I saw Cassandra, because on that day word reached Rome of Caesar’s successful sea crossing, so I can place the second time I saw her and the first time I actually spoke to her, because of something significant that occurred on the same day. It was on the morning in late Februarius that Marcus Caelius set up a tribunal next to that of the city praetor Trebonius and commenced his campaign to flout Caesar’s will and become the radical champion of Rome’s downtrodden.

  Before he left Rome, Caesar, by proclaiming edicts and bending the will of the Senate, had set in place a programme to shore up the faltering Roman economy. The problems were many and daunting. With the commencement of the war, money had grown increasingly scarce even while prices soared. The treasury of Rome had been emptied to pay for Caesar’s military campaigns. No taxes were flowing in. Pompey had cut off all revenues from the East as well as vital grain shipments from Egypt. Commerce was at a standstill; ships, horses, and even handcarts had been commandeered for the war effort. Tradesmen were in distress because no money was in circulation. Free labourers were unable to find employment. Hungry slaves were growing restive. Shopkeepers and tenants were unable to pay their rents. Families whose heads of household had fled Italy or joined Caesar’s legions were being cheated by the bailiffs left to mind their masters’ property. Bankers were demanding payment of old loans and refusing to make new ones. Unscrupulous profiteers were squeezing all they could from the anxious people of Rome.

  I myself had gone increasingly into debt for the first time in my life. It seemed that only a handful of people had money, and that they had a great deal of it, and that the rest of us had to go to them begging for loans at whatever terms they demanded. Simply to pay for the daily expenses of life, I found myself indebted to the wealthy banker Volumnius to such an extent that I despaired of ever being able to repay him.

  To address these problems, Caesar had ordered that all property values and rents should be rolled back to prewar prices. Debtors were allowed to deduct all interest paid from the principal they owed. Arbitrators were appointed to settle disputes over valuations and bankruptcies. An anti-hoarding law decreed that no one could keep more than sixty thousand sesterces of gold or silver out of circulation.

  Caesar’s efforts had been moderate and were moderately successful. Money began to circulate. Shops reopened, and vendors reappeared in the markets. The growing sense of panic among the general population began to subside and gave way to a grinding, day-to-day scrabble for sustenance.

  There were those – some because they truly despised the status quo and wanted to see it overturned, and some because they themselves were hopelessly in debt and were desperate for a way out – who had hoped Caesar would enact a far more radical programme. They wanted him to abolish all debts, refund rents, perhaps even confiscate the property of the wealthy and redistribute it to the poor. These people were bitterly disappointed.

  The man whom Caesar had appointed to administer his economic programme was Gaius Trebonius. I had met Trebonius the previous year in the Roman encampment outside Massilia, where he was the commanding officer in charge of the siege. He was a thoroughly competent and resourceful military man with a good head for figures and an intuitive sense of how the world works. Trebonius could look at a catapult and tell you why it wasn’t working properly, calculate the load and trajectory, then watch the men loading it and pick the one best suited to give orders to the others. He had conducted an efficient and successful siege, and Massilia had been subdued at very little cost to Caesar’s legions. In recognition of his competence, Trebonius was the man Caesar put in place to run the city of Rome in his absence.

  Some called Trebonius’ magistracy a reward for services rendered, but it was not a job I would have wanted. No doubt Trebonius was able to profit immensely by accepting bribes from the disputants who came before him, but I found it mind-numbing to imagine the endless caseload of property valuations and bankruptcy negotiations over which Trebonius had to preside.

  Trebonius conducted this tedious business from a tribunal, a raised platform, in the Forum. He sat on his official chair of state, a particularly ornate specimen in the traditional shape of a folding camp stool but heavily decorated with ivory and gold, with four elephant tusks for legs. Secretaries and clerks hovered about him, fetching documents, consulting ledgers, and taking notes. On most days a long line of litigants awaiting their interview with Trebonius wound snakelike through the Forum. Among the contesting parties, tempers were short, and stakes were high. Not infrequently, fights broke out up and down the line. Armed guards would rush to quell these disturbances before they could expand into a full-scale riot.

  It was on a morning in late Februarius that another magistrate, Marcus Caelius, strode into the Forum, carrying his own chair of state and attended by his own retinue of secretaries and clerks, who quickly erected a raised platform only a short distance away from that of Trebonius. Caelius mounted the tribunal and, with a flourish, unfolded his chair of state, which was a notably simpler affair than that of Trebonius – the ivory decorations were less ornate and without gold accents, and the legs were not of ivory but merely of wood carved in the shape of elephant tusks. By the example of his chair of state, Caelius was already proclaiming himself the standard-bearer of austere Roman virtue and the champion of the downtrodden.

  Still in his thirties, slender as a youth, and as handsome and charming as ever, Marcus Caelius already had a long and checkered career in public life. I remembered him best as Cicero’s unruly young protégé, learning the arts of rhetoric at the feet of his prim and proper master by day, carousing and carrying on a debauched social life by night – much to the chagrin of all concerned, especially when Caelius found himself dragged into the courts by his ex-lover Clodia, who accused him of the murder-for-hire of a visiting Alexandrian philosopher. Cicero rushed to his protégé’s defence. The trial degenerated into a squalid exchange of name-calling, and ultimately Cicero managed to turn the tables on Clodia by picturing her as a wanton, incestuous whore out to ruin an innocent young man. Acquitted, Caelius had turned his back on the alluring Clodia, her rabble-rousing brother Clodius, and the rest of their radical clique and had committed himself wholeheartedly to the cause of the so-called Best People, like Cicero and Pompey, until – tugged back and forth like all the other bright, ambitious young men of Rome – he finally cast his lot with Caesar. On the eve of Caesar’s decision to cross the Rubicon and commit himself to civil war, Caelius had ridden out of Rome to join him – leaving Cicero once again much chagrined.

  Caelius became one of Caesar’s lieutenants and served him
well in the Spanish campaign. Returning to Rome saddled with debts, he had hoped to be installed in the lucrative post of city praetor, and made no secret of his bitter disappointment when that magistracy had gone instead to Gaius Trebonius. Caelius had been stuck with a lesser praetorship, which put him in charge of adjudicating the affairs of foreign residents in the city. Perhaps Caesar thought it wise to tuck an ambitious fellow of shifting loyalties like Caelius in a safe niche, giving him a job of minimal importance with not much to do – but Caesar should have known that Caelius, with time on his hands, was a dangerous man.

  I happened to be in the Forum along with Hieronymus and the usual chin-waggers when Caelius set up his mock tribunal next to that of Trebonius. I also happened to see the look of consternation on Trebonius’ face.

  What was Caelius up to? I stepped closer to his tribunal. The chin-waggers followed along. Caelius sat in his chair of state, slowly turning his head to take in the long line of litigants waiting to see Trebonius and the curious crowd that had begun to gather before his own tribunal. For a moment his eyes fell on me. Our paths had crossed many times in the past. He gave me a nod of recognition and flashed his dazzling smile – the smile that had once melted Clodia’s heart and gotten him into endless other mischief over the years. Our eyes met for only a moment, but I had a premonition of all the trouble he was about to hatch for himself and so many others.

  Caelius stood up from his chair of state. A hush fell over the line of litigants waiting to see Trebonius and the crowd that had gathered.

  ‘Citizens of Rome!’ cried Caelius. He had one of the best orator’s voices in Rome, able to reach great distances with trumpetlike clarity. ‘Why do you stand there, lined up like obedient sheep in a fold awaiting your turn to be sheared? The magistrate from whom you are seeking redress can do absolutely nothing to help you. His hands are tied. The law as it stands gives him no power to do anything but inflict more damage. All the city praetor can do is look at the numbers you put in front of him, shift them around a bit – like one of those confidence tricksters who haunt the markets, shifting the cup that hides the nut – and then send you home with less than you had when you arrived here. The government of Rome should be able to do better than that for its hardworking, long-suffering citizens! Do you not agree?’

  At this there were scattered cries from those in the line – some mocking and jeering at Caelius, but others raising voices in agreement. A few men at the back of the line, unable to hear, gave up their places to come and see what was going on. Word quickly spread that Caelius was staging some sort of political demonstration, and the crowd rapidly grew as men arrived from all over the Forum. Trebonius, meanwhile, went on about his business, pretending to ignore Caelius.

  ‘Citizens of Rome,’ Caelius continued, ‘think back and remember the situation just a little over a year ago, when Caesar crossed the Rubicon and drove out the smug, self-satisfied scoundrels who were running the state for their own advancement. Did you not feel, as I did, a rush of excitement, a thrill of anticipation when we were suddenly confronted by all the glorious possibilities of a bright future – possibilities that had been unthinkable only a day, even an hour before Caesar took that first step across the Rubicon? All at once, in the blink of an eye, anything could happen! How often in the course of a man’s lifetime does such a prospect of boundless hope open before him? The world would be remade! Rome would be reborn! Honest men would finally triumph, and the scoundrels among us would be sent scampering off, their tails between their legs.

  ‘Instead – well, you know the bitter truth as well as I do, or else you wouldn’t be here today, begging for crumbs from the magistrate in charge of the city. Nothing has changed – except for the worse. The scoundrels have triumphed once again! Is this what men fought and died for – the rights of rich landlords and moneylenders to grind the rest of us beneath their heels? Why has Caesar not put a stop to this shameless situation? Citizens, think of your own circumstances exactly a year ago and tell me: are you better off today? If your answer is yes, then you must be a landlord or a banker, because everyone else is worse off, far worse! Our wrists have been slashed, and the blood drinkers are sucking us dry – and though I hate to say it, it was Caesar himself who put the knives in their hands!’

  A few men in the crowd, most of them conspicuously wealthy, booed and jeered along with their entourages of secretaries and bodyguards. But these catcalls were drowned out by angry shouts of agreement that rose up from others. Some of those supporting Caelius may have been hirelings – seeding a crowd with vocal supporters was one of the first lessons he’d learned from Cicero – but the discontent he was tapping into ran deep, and the majority of the listeners were with him.

  Trebonius was still ignoring the situation, trying to carry on his business, but even the litigants with whom he was dealing were giving him only one ear as they bent the other to hear what Caelius was saying.

  ‘Citizens of Rome, Caesar did us all a great service when he crossed the Rubicon. By that bold action, he set in motion a revolution that will remake the state. I myself proudly joined the cause. I did my part on the battlefield, fighting with Caesar in Spain. Now the military struggle continues in a new arena where we have every expectation of success. But while we wait for news of the final victory, we cannot remain idle. We must continue to move ahead here in Rome. We must accomplish in his absence what Caesar, for whatever reasons, failed to accomplish while he was here. We must enact new legislation that will give genuine relief to those who truly need it!’

  There was a fresh outburst from the crowd. ‘It’s already been done! Shut up and go home!’ shouted one of Caelius’ critics. ‘Hooray! Hooray for Caelius!’ shouted a rough fellow who had the look of an agitator-for-hire. The crowd grew so noisy that even Caelius had a hard time speaking above the hubbub. Trebonius gave up on trying to counsel the two litigants before him and sat back in his ornate chair of state, his arms tightly crossed, a scowl on his face.

  ‘Towards that end,’ Caelius shouted, raising his voice to clarion pitch to make himself heard, ‘towards that end, I shall begin by proposing a new law to stop all debt payments for a period of no less than six years. I repeat, I will ask the Senate to impose a six-year moratorium on all existing debts, with no interest to be accrued in the meantime! Those who have been crushed to their knees by debt will finally be given a chance to get back on their feet. And if the wealthy moneylenders complain that they’ll starve, then let them eat the wax tablets on which those loans were recorded!’

  There was a huge response from the crowd. Caelius, his face flushed with excitement – for I think the crowd had grown even larger and more enthusiastic than he’d expected – managed to make himself heard above the roar. ‘In anticipation of the passage of this law, I have set up my tribunal here today. I shall take up my post in my chair of state, and my clerks shall record the names and circumstances of all citizens who are currently in debt, so that their relief can be expedited immediately when the law goes into effect. Please form a line beginning on my right.’ And with that he sat down on his chair of state, looking quite pleased with himself.

  The line of litigants waiting to see Trebonius evaporated in the rush to join the line to see Caelius. Why should any debtor waste his time haggling with the city praetor, when Caelius’ legislation, if enacted, would supersede whatever settlement Trebonius decreed?

  ‘What a pack of fools,’ grumbled one-armed Canininus in my ear. ‘There’s not a chance in Hades the Senate will pass Caelius’ legislation. If Caesar had wanted such a thing, he’d have enacted it himself. And if Caesar doesn’t want it, the Senate won’t even consider it. Caelius is just stirring up trouble.’

  ‘But why?’ I said. ‘What’s the point of setting off a riot?’ For in fact a near riot had ensued. Angry cries and insults filled the air. Shoving matches and fistfights broke out. Snarling bodyguards formed cordons around their wealthy patrons, who rushed to escape the rabble. At a sign from Trebonius, glowering down
at the chaotic scene from his chair of state, armed guards set about trying to restore order, though it was hard to know where to begin. The crowd was like a boiling cauldron, bubbling over everywhere at once.

  What was Caelius up to? Canininus was right; as long as the Senate was in the palm of Caesar’s hand, Caelius had no hopes of enacting his own radical programmes. Nor, as the praetor overseeing foreign residents, did he have any legitimate business to involve himself with debt settlements. Was he simply trying to make Trebonius’ job harder, out of spite? Or did Caelius have a definite agenda in mind and a goal towards which he was moving?

  Hieronymus and I, fearing the madness of the mob, made our way to the edge of the crowd. I acquired a couple of bruises from flying elbows, but otherwise emerged unscathed. At last we found a quiet place to catch our breaths, beside the Temple of Castor and Pollux. That was when I saw Cassandra for the second time.

  The narrow platform that projected perpendicularly from the porch of the temple, flanking the steps, was just above our heads. I happened to look up, and saw her standing alone on the platform. She was watching the seething crowd beyond us and took no notice of the two of us below her.

  Hieronymus saw the expression on my face and followed my gaze. ‘Beautiful!’ he whispered. The word escaped from his lips as involuntarily as a breath.

  And she was beautiful, especially when seen from that low angle – the vantage point of a suppliant looking up at a goddess on a high pedestal. To be sure, there was nothing remotely divine or regal about her threadbare blue tunica or her unkempt hair, but in her bearing there was a certain rare dignity that would command the immediate attention and respect of any man. In me it commanded more than that. I gazed up at her and felt my heart skip a beat. A vaguely remembered sensation from my youth, at once thrilling and painful, shot through me, and I suddenly felt like a man a third my age. I rebuked myself for such foolishness. I was an old, married man. She was a beggar, and a madwoman to boot.