Agrippa slept peacefully in the corner of their cabin. Tiro Casca, Roscius, Cleanthes and Oppius sat around the table, a half-eaten meal of salted squid and olives before them.
“Can we trust Antony?” Casca asked.
“No,” Cleanthes replied.
“Yes,” Oppius argued, defending his friend and Caesarian comrade. “Antony will want to avenge Julius as much as any man – more so even, as he has the means to do so.”
“The means coming from Octavius’ inheritance,” Cleanthes drily stated.
“Antony is not our enemy. We should trust him, partly for fear of earning his distrust.”
Roscius kept his own counsel but sensed that Oppius was trying to convince himself of Antony’s loyalty as much as he was the group.
“Antony holds the reins of power within Rome as consul – and through Lepidus and his own relations with those legions loyal to Caesar he controls enough of the army,” Oppius went on to say. “In some ways Antony is Caesar’s heir.”
“Are you suggesting that we get into bed with Antony?” Casca asked, believing that it would not be such a bad move to ally themselves with the consul. With Caesar gone Antony could lay claim to being Rome’s greatest general, too.
“Antony has enough bodies in his bed already I warrant,” Cleanthes remarked. “Gaius should be his own man.”
“But he’s just a boy,” Oppius replied, shaking his head. “I appreciate your loyalty and affection for the lad, Cleanthes, but I must ask why you think we should share your faith in him?”
“I’m not asking you to share my faith in him, I’m asking you to share the faith that Caesar had in him.”
A short pause ensued. “So the plan is still the plan? We are to venture to Puteoli, to Marcus Phillipis, Atia and Balbus,” Casca determined.
“And Cicero,” Cleanthes added.
“It looks like Gaius may have found another pro-consul who wants to adopt him,” Oppius wryly asserted.
*
Agrippa slept on in the corner. Tiro Casca could be heard snoring and – due to his missing teeth – hissing in the adjacent cabin. Oppius had decided to take some air. Roscius and Cleanthes worked their way through the remaining wine.
“It seems that you can hold your drink Cleanthes, but can you hold your own in a fight too?”
“I can unsheathe my wit, if you think that’ll help.”
“Just stay close to me if we get into a scrape, or run.”
“To live to run away another day. I can drink to that.”
The two men grinned and clinked cups.
“You know Oppius as well as any man it seems, Roscius. One can see how much he was devoted to Caesar. To what extent is he devoted to Octavius though? How deep is his loyalty to Antony? I fear sooner or later that Caesar’s heirs will have to fight for their inheritance. Upon whose side do you think Oppius will stand?”
“Lucius gave his word to Caesar that he would protect Octavius.”
“But Caesar’s death may have relinquished Oppius of that duty.”
“Not in his eyes. Lucius is a soldier Cleanthes, not a politician. He will keep his word. I will confess to you that Lucius was far from enamoured with his task of protecting Gaius. Should Caesar had lived Oppius may well have asked his General to free him from his duty. But rest assured both Lucius and I will stand between Antony and Octavius should it come to it. I dare say we will be but his second line of defence, though.”
“And his first?” Cleanthes asked, whilst pouring the dregs of the wine.
“He’s sleeping over there in the corner.”
*
Octavius stood at the bow of the ship, his aspect as foreboding as the mushrooming clouds upon the horizon. The sea was still relatively calm though, unfurling itself before the vessel like a blank scroll. His future was similarly blank, or black, Gaius reflected.
“This is a bad decision,” Cleanthes judged after hearing of his student’s intention to travel to Rome to claim his inheritance.
“Nothing is good or bad but thinking makes it so,” Gaius replied, quoting from a text that the tutor had recently instructed him to read.
“Rome is like an un-weeded garden at present.”
“It’s why I’ll need a gardener to accompany me.”
“And how are you going to pay me?”
“In compliments.”
“Ah, the currency of Cicero.”
Although Cleanthes had disagreed with Octavius he nevertheless supported his student and chose to join his party. Oppius had asked Casca if he could commit to one last campaign for Julius. He said no, but he could commit to his first campaign under the banner of Octavius. “Roscius, I’ve spoken for you,” Lucius had told his comrade. “Just so long as you don’t drink or whore for me on the way,” the legionary replied.
Agrippa had been the first to offer his unconditional support for his friend however. The two youths sat in the garden under a night sky more lustrous than their hearts. Six months previous the adolescents, working their way through one of Marcus Phillipus’ vintages, would have told each other lewd jokes or discussed Herodotus.
“You have my sword, Gaius.”
“I’d rather you kept it, I’m useless with the thing. You are the brother I never had and the friend I always wished for Marcus. Caesar’s work in Rome is but half finished. I cannot do what I mean to do alone, but together we can be greater than the sum of our parts and complete Caesar’s vision. We will find a Rome built with brick, but found one clothed in marble.”
“There’s a storm on the horizon,” Oppius remarked, raising his voice above the swirling wind.
“Do you mean here, or in Rome?” Octavius replied, staring out into the churning ocean.
“Both.”
“Tell me about Balbus.”
“First Pompey - and then Caesar - found Balbus indispensible as a secretary. He will whisper in your ear but that does not mean that you have to listen to him. Be aware that there will be self-interest as well as wisdom in some of the things that he counsels – not that those two things are mutually exclusive. But for the most part he can be trusted. Partly through envying his wealth, partly through looking down on him as a foreigner, the Senate has little love for Balbus. He has no great personal loyalty to Antony but Balbus was devoted to Julius. He will support your cause. Rumour has it that he instructed Lepidus to use the troops outside of Rome to avenge Caesar’s death immediately after the Ides. But as much as Balbus loved Caesar know that Cornelius is a politician – he loves himself more.”
Oppius gazed at the steely-eyed youth. Thunder rumbled ahead.
“No more will I wear this funeral toga. This son should avenge his father, not mourn him,” Octavius expressed, as much to himself as the centurion.
“I will not lie to you Gaius, this could well be a suicide mission that we’re on,” Oppius issued whilst placing a hand on the youth’s shoulder.
Octavius appreciated the centurion’s candour and, with a wry smile lining his features, replied, “Julius would’ve liked those odds.”
19.
Late morning. Although approaching midday a violet gloom still entombed Rome, dulling its lustre and stone walls. Grey showers gushed down, fuelling rather than washing away the filth and funereal air of the city.
Mark Antony, his toga awry, slouched across Caesar’s old throne in Pompey’s old villa. Bleary-eyed carousers made their way out of the opulent chamber, either trying to remember - or forget - the depraved events of the night before. A few of the revellers - be they senators, soldiers, actresses, usurers - were still draped over sofas or slumped over cold tiles. The bouquet of yester night’s wine had grown as stale as the atmosphere. Insects and rodents devoured half-eaten delicacies - sugared cucumbers in cream, spiced asparagus, lamprey in cranberry sauce, duck stuffed with truffles, Damascus plums and oysters, which either raised one’s sex drive or turned one’s stomach. Stolas, togas, goblets, olives, figs and the like also littered the room. A young, exotic Jewish prostitute re
tched in the corner, next to one of the Numidian marble statues of Hercules which populated the hall. For a brief moment one could have imagined the Nemean lion coming to life and attacking the whore, for spoiling his mane so. Wine - and a less seemly fluid - ran down her leg.
Upon the floor, by the Consul’s feet, rested his cavalry sword and heavy red cloak, which the former lieutenant wore in imitation of his former general. His cloak however had been sequestered as a blanket by his new mistress, Tertia, an actress and former lover of Cassius. Her uncovered breasts were still stained red from the wine that Antony had poured over them and drunk off during the bacchanalian festivities.
The evening had not just proved a success because Antony had secured a new mistress; as well as feeling that he had won over a number of moderate Caesarians and the more pragmatic (corrupt) Republicans, Antony had also secured the loyalty of his co-consul, Dolabella, through paying off his considerable debts. Dolabella would now support any of his legislation; he would be Antony’s subordinate, as much as Bibulus had been a consul in name only during Caesar’s first tenure in the office. It was known as the consulship of ‘Julius and Caesar’. Antony here drowsily smiled to himself, thinking that he might inspire similar comments and be compared to Julius. His smile faltered however at recalling just how much money it had cost him to clear his co-consul’s debts. In a small way Antony even admired his profligacy. But it would be worth it. Dolabella was now indebted to him. And who was Antony indebted to? The boy - seeing as it had been part of his inheritance that Antony had used to buy Dolabella’s loyalty. But Caesar’s bastard had more chance of fencing with lightning than receiving a single coin out of his war chest, Antony vowed.
The sound of the giant oak doors closing juddered through the room and Antony, or rather his headache, cringed at the noise. He was just about to berate and dismiss the unwelcome attendant when he noticed that it was his capable lieutenant.
Domitius Enobarbus stood at six feet tall. His build was trim, his features pleasing. He briskly, efficiently walked towards Antony. The lieutenant raised his eyebrows in wry amusement at the scene of the party’s debris around him. His eyebrows were raised in a questioning fashion, as well as in amusement, as he reached his friend and glanced down at the girl sleeping at the consul’s feet.
“Her name’s Tertia,” Antony said, answering his lieutenant’s unspoken question, whilst rubbing his brow in a vain attempt to massage away his throbbing headache.
“I take it then that Chrythis has left for Greece?” Domitius replied, asking after Antony’s actress mistress. One of her patrons had requested that her company perform in Athens. Antony, looking upon her prospective absence as an opportunity to taste more forbidden fruit, magnanimously allowed his mistress to further her career.
“She sailed yesterday evening.”
“So did Octavius Caesar, if the intelligence reports are true. I fear his destination is Rome, rather than Athens, though. In anticipation of this move I posted a couple of men to Brundisium a week ago,” Enobarbus conveyed, lowering his voice.
“Assassins?”
“No, just a couple of my agents. I’ve ordered them to just shadow the boy.”
“I received a letter from Salvidienus Rufus, the father of one of the boy’s friends in Apollonia, confirming your report. Rufus pledges his support to our cause. I’d rather he put his money where his mouth was and pledged sesterces. So do you think the whelp will come to Rome?” Antony asked, sadly confident that he already knew the answer to his question.
“If he’s smart, or even if he isn’t, he will at some point seek the advice of Cicero or Balbus, or both - if they haven’t already contacted the boy themselves. I can imagine that both will counsel the heir to come to Rome, if only to stir up trouble and undermine your support with the army and ardent Caesarians. Yet there is a chance that Octavius might listen to his step-father also. I believe that Phillipus will advise the boy to refrain from coming to Rome and claiming his inheritance. But you’ve met the boy. What are your thoughts?”
“He’d be nothing without his uncle’s name,” Antony remarked with a sneer, remembering the slight youth with the studious manner who had somehow wormed his way into the affections of Caesar and supplanted him as his designated successor.
“But with his name, what is he capable of?”
Antony paused before answering, as if during that pause he was deciding the youth’s fate, rather than thinking about the question.
“His own downfall. We can’t let him get to Rome or obtain the support of any of Caesar’s legions. I already have enough to contend with here, juggling more balls than a Cretan acrobat. Are Gravius and his cohort still encamped on the Campus Martius?”
Enobarbus nodded, both to confirm that they were and also to convey that he understood Antony’s unspoken order.
“The road to Rome is rife with bandits is it not?” Antony remarked with a murderous twinkle in his eye.
“If it’s not, it soon will be.”
The consul smiled. Caesar would have approved of the swiftness and expediency of the decision - if not the victim of it – Antony mused.
*
His belt used to hang below his waist in the name of style, but now it had become fixed there due to his burgeoning pot-belly, Antony thought to himself. He was beginning to cultivate the figure and lifestyle of a politician rather than a soldier. Sulla, Lucullus, Pompey - all had grown to seed to an extent when they had swapped their general’s cloak for the toga of office. Only Caesar had worn both well.
Antony’s self-castigation was perhaps prompted due to comparing his physique with that of his lieutenant’s, as he invited Enobarbus into his study. Unopened scrolls and unanswered correspondence littered the desk, along with goblets filled with the dregs of various beverages.
“Any other news to report?”
“Cicero is ensconced in his villa in Puteoli. All important correspondence is being handled through Tiro - and the man is as slippery as he is incorruptible,” Domitius expressed, privately admiring the former slave who Cicero had freed, educated and employed as his personal secretary.
“The old man can cause us little trouble now. As much as Brutus might still heed his out-dated ideals Cassius is far too proud to be led by our former self-titled saviour of Rome. Soldiers matter now, not scribblers,” Antony judged, disdainful of the elder statesman.
“I can devote fewer agents to him if you wish,” Domitius replied, secretly believing that Antony might be letting his contempt for Cicero blind him from his influence and potential threat.
“Feel free to do so. What else?”
“I believe that Balbus is starting to court the favour - and whisper into the ears - of Hirtius and Pansa.”
Antony here stopped cutting himself a slice of venison from the joint of meat which rested on the table. Having served with Caesar for so long Antony had experienced first-hand the cunning and sway of the Spaniard. As Antony had been Julius’ lieutenant on the battlefield, Balbus had been Caesar’s principle agent and strategist in his political campaigns. It was even rumoured that Balbus had been the author and facilitator of the triumvirate between Caesar, Pompey and Crassus.
“Do you think it’s possible to court and whisper into the ear of Balbus? He was sympathetic to us after the assassination.”
“That was when he believed that you would avenge Caesar’s death.”
“I still might. Can he not be persuaded, or bought off?”
“The wily old Spaniard has riches enough - and Balbus has devoted his life to the art of persuasion, rather than being persuaded.”
Antony compressed his lips in either deliberation, or frustration, but then his rugged countenance regained its natural amiability and confidence.
“Well, my friend, we fought on two fronts at Alesia and triumphed. History will just have to repeat itself again,” Antony posed, with an assurance which convinced its author more than audience.
*
The Campus Martius began to c
rackle with the numerous camp fires which sprouted up in the gelid darkness. A crescent moon shone but half-heartedly over the city, as if sympathising with the mournful mood of the soldiers who had so recently lost their general. Talk and rumour were rife - and varied. Some whispered that they would not serve their Master of Horse. Some would serve under Antony, but only if he avenged Caesar’s death. Yet most soldiers ironically craved peace over all else, having experienced the bloodshed and privations of the previous civil war.
Domitius Enobarbus made his way through the rows of tents. Ribald jokes (one involving an Egyptian eunuch and a boar’s tusk), drinking songs and hushed discussions swirled about in the air like the smoke around his ears, but he appeared oblivious to it all.
Enobarbus was from patrician stock, but his father - through bad investments and living beyond his means - had squandered away most of the family’s estate. Refusing to allow his son to become a soldier - both because of his wife’s protestations and the shame that would befall the family name to have a son toil in such a profession - Enobarbus joined the staff of a legate and commenced to go on campaign that way. The educated and diligent Enobarbus was proficient in his duties as secretary to the legate, to the point where he performed most of the legate’s responsibilities himself. But he always aspired to be a soldier, rather than administer to them. After his father’s death the young man proceeded to gain a commission to realise his ambition.
Enobarbus originally encountered Antony during his posting as a junior officer in Syria. He admired the courageous and charismatic Roman from afar however, as he observed Antony being the first man to scale the fortifications of an enemy town. Though outnumbered, he outfought the defenders upon the ramparts and led the army to victory.
He continued to idolise the famous son of Rome, desiring to join Antony’s feted company of cavalry and emulate his gallantry. Enobarbus admired Antony for being a great tactician and popular leader, as well as esteeming him for his personal bravery. A young and idealistic Enobarbus would write back home positing how Antony was a “man of honour”, humane to the soldiers under his command and gracious in victory. After defeating Archelaus, an Egyptian Prince, Antony sought out his body and arranged a funeral with full royal honours.
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