Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  "What now?" Octavian muttered.

  "I don't know, but keep your mouth shut, boy, and let the adults handle this," Antonius was a master at using just the side of his mouth so that at a distance one wouldn't know that he was speaking.

  In another sign of Octavian's state of mind, he turned and shot his older colleague a poisonous glance; normally, he had too much self-possession that he would never have deigned to acknowledge Antonius' gibe. But today hadn't gone anything like what had unfolded in his mind, and it was on a pair of shaking legs that he now stood, thankful that the toga he had donned after returning to the city hid the signs of his fear. Nevertheless, he chose not to reply, instead turning back to watch the small group of men approach. The earlier atmosphere of silence had been shattered, at first by the song sung by Caesar's veterans, then by the tumult of roaring approbation that grew with every chorus, as the citizens of Rome—the despised Head Count who individually meant nothing, but collectively meant everything—had learned of all that Caesar and his brave men, Roman men, had accomplished, and learned their story in a manner that guaranteed that it would be absorbed. Verses of the ditty would be sung in the taverns, the insulae, and wherever Romans gathered, for many, many decades to come, and both of the men standing on the rostra knew it. What they didn't know, and what was the cause of equal fear—even if Antonius hid it better—was what the mob would do, once they learned the truth. At worst, both Antonius and Octavian understood that they might be breathing their last breaths of air, seeing their last view, and for Antonius, at least, it brought him some comfort that he would die here, in Rome, in the Forum. Now, Pullus called a halt to his Centurions, directly in front of the rostra, where he rendered a salute, prompting the crowd, which was now packed so densely that not a paving stone was visible, to stop their shouting. It couldn't have been called quiet; there was a thrumming buzz as people continued whispering their own opinions of what was happening before them, or youngsters tugged at their father's sleeve in a demand to be lifted, so that they could see, as well.

  "Marcus Antonius, Master of the Horse, I am Titus Pullus, the former Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion Equestris, of Caesar's Legion, and these men are under my command, at least until I discharge my last duty, and that is to convey them back to Rome." Pullus swallowed hard; this was the point where it could all go wrong. Lifting the hand with the scroll high in the air, so that it could be seen by all, he continued, "And I bring orders from the man who was Dictator for Life and who has been rightly deified here in Rome, because he has also been recognized as a god in the lands from which we departed, more than three years ago."

  Pausing again, it was a good thing that he did, because now the buzzing grew into a rolling thunder of sound that wasn't quite a mob in full voice, but was still impossible to shout over. Waiting for it to die down, Pullus picked back up, "And I have come here, as a Roman citizen, freely born and invested with all the rights of a man who has fought for Rome, and I claim my right to address my fellow citizens!"

  The roar resumed, quickly rising in its intensity to the point that it easily beat their previous volume, as each Roman in the crowd, both men and women—despite the fact that the latter had no such right themselves—shouted their support of Pullus' right to be heard. Standing on the rostra, both Antonius and Octavian were thinking furiously, but while the latter Roman's mind was clearly superior and capable of working much more quickly, it was the experience of a lifetime that led Antonius to draw the conclusion first that Octavian would reach a few heartbeats later. For Octavian knew that Pullus was only partially correct: a Roman citizen did have the right to be heard, but only a certain type of citizen, namely a man of property, meaning that he had to be at least an equestrian. However, while Octavian suspected quite strongly that a man like Titus Pullus had the wealth that was required to enter the equestrian class, provided he had a sponsor, he knew without a doubt that Pullus hadn't been officially entered into the rolls of Rome as such. That meant that, technically, Pullus did not, in fact, have the right to speak to the crowd. Octavian was about to open his mouth to call for silence, so that he could make this point, but his mind had continued operating, moving past the immediate victory he was sure he could gain by citing the ancient laws of Rome, and he quickly realized that the crowd assembled before him wasn't the type to be swayed by such legal niceties. In fact, they would probably view his argument as quibbling, just the sort of thing that the upper classes liked to use when doing something to take advantage of their social inferiors. From that, it didn't take much to convince Octavian that he was likely to be rent limb from limb, torn apart by a mob that he knew was equal in savagery to their ancestors, who had ripped apart the Gracchi. This was the same conclusion reached more quickly by his senior colleague, who held absolutely no illusions that a large number of people in this crowd were looking for an excuse to take out their inherent rage and frustration on a noble Roman. Pullus stood there, looking up, clearly expecting an answer, but thankfully for once, the noise of the crowd worked to the advantage of the two men standing up there, because it gave them the pause they needed to reach a mutual conclusion. Holding his hands up for silence, it took a moment, but the crowd did fall silent, waiting and watching as Antonius looked down at Pullus, a politician's smile plastered on his face.

  "Titus Pullus, it is good to see you again, my giant friend! Know that I've made sacrifices every week for you and all of your comrades who, as far as we knew, disappeared into the mists at the end of the world!"

  The first statement was a bald-faced lie; Antonius and Pullus had met briefly, but the 10th had never been under Antonius' command in Gaul, and after Pharsalus, Pullus had gone with Caesar and the two Cohorts of the 6th Legion, when the 10th had mutinied and been marched back to Rome in disgrace by Antonius. However, his second claim about making sacrifices was true, but only because he had viewed them as the politically wise thing to do, in order to appear to honor Caesar and the men who marched away with him.

  "And of course you can address the people," Antonius continued, flashing that same false smile more widely, as he scanned the audience, turning his head so that as many people as possible could see his sincerity. He ignored the intake of breath to his right.

  "Are you mad?" Octavian whispered, but Antonius didn't reply, at least to his colleague.

  "So please, come join me on the rostra and let us know all that has transpired and what Caesar wills of us!"

  Not surprisingly, this was met with approbation by the crowd, and the volume increased, as Pullus ascended the steps of the rostra and approached the two men. For a brief moment, the three of them had the cover of the crowd to conduct a quick conversation.

  "Salve Marcus Antonius," Pullus, while no politician, understood that much of what was taking place was theater and that he had a role to play, so his manner was warm as he offered his arm to the older man first.

  Antonius didn't take the offered arm; instead, he swept Pullus into a hug, as if he were in fact greeting a friend whom he hadn't seen in many years. This was met by an even larger uproar from the massed spectators at the sight of this friendship and amity. It was a good thing that they couldn't hear what Antonius whispered into Pullus' ear.

  "I don't know what you're up to, you son-of-a-whore, but I swear by Dis I'll make you regret it, even if it means my death!"

  Pullus, while he hadn't been prepared for the hug, had expected this kind of reception, so he was unmoved by the other man's words.

  "Antonius, by the time this is over, you're going to want to kiss my feet. But I might kill you anyway, just for fun."

  Breaking the embrace by mutual consent, both men smiled broadly at each other, while their eyes told a completely different story. When Pullus stepped away, however, Antonius, smile still on his face, was a mass of confusion. What did the big oaf mean by that? How could he possibly think that Antonius would be grateful? Meanwhile, Pullus came to face Octavian next, who, it must be said, was doing his best to emulate his older colleague
, but without much success.

  "Greetings...Caesar," Pullus' own smile never wavered, but there was no mistaking the dripping contempt and condescension with which he invested the name, and Octavian's smile faltered.

  Regardless of his true feelings, now that Antonius had set an example, he couldn't allow himself to be seen as anything other than as warm in his greeting as the other man. Unfortunately for Octavian, while Marcus Antonius wasn't near Pullus' height, his build and musculature did match, and in definition surpassed that of the Primus Pilus. However, Octavian was neither tall nor robust, so that the sight they presented when they hugged was very much like a son greeting his father, which wasn't lost on the crowd. Even above the clamor came sounds of laughter from the nearest members of the mob, and even Pullus had to suppress a snicker.

  His words contained no humor, as this time he was the man who initiated the whispered exchange:

  "I notice that Proculus' Cohort wasn't the one to escort us in, and I haven't seen any sight of him. Any idea why?"

  Octavian pulled away to give Pullus a cold stare, while the smile stayed.

  "They disobeyed my orders, and they were punished for it. Just like you will be."

  "Let me tell you something, you gutless little cocksucker," Pullus' words hit Octavian like a slap in the face, as he physically jerked and tried to take a step backward; but Pullus' hand was on his shoulder and clamping down like a vice. "You're not fit to clean the cac off Caesar's caligae, I don't care if you are his heir or not. If you ever threaten me or any of my men, I've already taken steps to make sure that you'll be identified as Caesarion's killer," Pullus was bluffing, and it was a guess on his part, but he instantly saw the truth in Octavian's eyes as the blood drained from his face and the smile completely disappeared. "So you better hope I live a long and happy life, along with all my men. Now," he clapped Octavian on the shoulder, as one comrade does to another, "listen and learn something."

  Antonius had watched the exchange and was in a position to see Octavian's face, so he saw that whatever Pullus said to him had scored a telling blow. Now that, he thought, is something I'll have to find out more about. Then, Pullus turned away and stepped to the front of the rostra, flanked by Antonius and Octavian, and as Antonius had, Pullus held his hands up for silence. It wasn't lost on either man next to him that the crowd quieted down much more quickly for one of their own than they had for Antonius, and it told Antonius that he had been wise to act as he had. With the crowd suddenly silent, the transition from the tumult of noise to the quiet was quite striking, and it even caused Pullus to pause for a moment. But then he spoke, and in doing so, unleashed his other surprise.

  "Actually, fellow citizens, I'm not a public speaker," Pullus began, his voice carrying as well as any Roman trained in oratory like Caesar, even if it was for an entirely different reason. With lungs like bellows, he continued, "So instead, I ask your indulgence for a moment, while I ask another man, someone who is better prepared than I am to inform you of all the momentous events that we have seen with our own eyes." Turning a bit, Pullus extended a hand to indicate one of the men in the scarlet tunics who had come with him to the foot of the rostra. "Sextus Scribonius is, or was," Pullus amended with a smile and nod to his friend in what Octavian had to acknowledge grudgingly was a nice touch, "the Secundus Pilus Prior of my own 10th Legion. While I have gained great renown, my friend Scribonius is no less accomplished as a Legionary and Centurion of Rome. And I am lucky to count him as a true friend," the rebuke to Antonius couldn't have been much clearer, and the Master of the Horse felt the blood rush to his face, "but what's most important is that he is a member of the equestrian order, of the family of the Scribonii, one of the oldest and most distinguished in Rome. I believe he is much better qualified to tell this tale of ours and bring you the greetings from Caesar."

  Pullus gestured to Scribonius, who had clearly been expecting the summons and who had begun striding towards the stairs. As he did so, Pullus turned in that direction, but before he did, his eyes met those of Octavian's, and he gave him a smile that was unlike the false politician's smile all three men had been wearing. This smile was meaningful, and in that instant Octavian understood that he had been outmaneuvered. Even if he had invoked the letter of the law, this low-born oaf had been ready for this eventuality, because it was easy to prove that Scribonius was, indeed, an equestrian. For the first time, Gaius Octavius experienced the bitter taste of complete and utter defeat. As formidable as his own intellect was, he had convinced himself that he would never be overmatched, that nobody existed, with the exception of his uncle, who was as intelligent and cunning as he was; and if his uncle wasn't dead, he was still very far away. Now he was learning differently, which made it impossible to keep the smile on his face. Unaware of this inner turmoil, Scribonius mounted the rostra, and the hug he exchanged with Pullus was so clearly heartfelt that it unintentionally exposed to the watching crowd the artificiality of what had taken place between Pullus and the two leaders of Rome. Breaking the embrace, Pullus handed the scroll to Scribonius, and with a flourish that was intended to be seen by the crowd, offered Scribonius the spot on the rostra he had just vacated. As the lanky, older man took the scroll and began to unroll it, Octavian was struck by the thought that he looked more like a tutor or one of the philosophers declaiming in the Forum than one of Caesar's most senior Centurions. His examination was interrupted when Scribonius unrolled the scroll, and it took an enormous effort of will to keep his jaw from dropping; the scroll that Scribonius was supposedly going to read from was completely blank!

  The plan that Sextus Scribonius had outlined was both simple and comprehensive in its scope.

  "If we don't handle this the right way, we're going to have to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders," was how he had put it the night before. "And that's if we live past the next couple of days, which I don't think is likely."

  To that end, what he proposed was to put the minds of the two most immediate threats at ease.

  "We need to let those two know that we're not a threat," he explained. "And the only way I see to do it is by giving them what they want in such a way that there's no mistaking our intent, but still honors Caesar."

  "And how do we do both?" Gnaeus Macro, former Primus Pilus of the 17th Legion asked. "Caesar's orders are very clear. He's still the First Man, and he's letting them know it."

  "That's true," Scribonius granted. "But let me ask you this." He paused a moment as he gathered his thoughts. "Let's say, just for the sake of this discussion, that we tell the mob that Caesar's orders are...nothing, essentially." Seeing the blank looks on the others' faces, he expanded, "By that I mean that he orders that whatever his Master of the Horse has decreed as far as the running of Rome, is in fact in accordance with his wishes."

  There was a shocked silence, but it was quickly obliterated by the shouts of the other Centurions, each of them competing with the others to get his point across, so that in the space of a couple of heartbeats, it was inevitable that there was an increase in volume. Finally, Pullus' voice overrode those of his companions.

  "And what about those fresh Legions that Caesar's ordered, and the fleet that's waiting for them?"

  Since this was the question that most of the other Centurions had raised, they immediately fell silent, waiting for Scribonius' reply.

  His face was grave, but he didn't hesitate, answering Pullus, "That's what we need to decide. Because make no mistake," he leaned forward in his chair, his voice throbbing with an intensity that was normally lacking in his speech, "there is no easy answer here. At least, not one I've been able to determine. So what we need to come to terms with is this simple question. In order to guarantee our own lives, do we need to ignore Caesar's orders?"

  Ultimately, by the time Sextus Scribonius had finished supposedly reading from a blank scroll, then added his own words, he was able to guarantee the safety of the returning veterans of Caesar's army. It meant that Caesar would be waiting, in vain, fo
r reinforcements that would never come, but after a night spent arguing until shortly before dawn, the Centurions reached the conclusion that this was their only real course of action. And as could be expected, it was Scribonius who had offered the clinching argument.

  "We're here. Caesar's on the other side of the world. It will take years for him to find out we didn't obey his orders, and it would take years for him to come himself or send someone else. And while he may be a god, personally I wouldn't bet on it meaning that he won't die. We've all seen that he aged, just like all of us, and I suppose he may stop at some point. But do any of you really believe that?" When there was no answer, he continued, "And if he is a god, then does he really need our help? He'll find a way. Besides," he finished, and if the truth were known, this was what provided those doubters with the conviction he was right, "haven't we already done enough for Gaius Julius Caesar? Isn't it time we enjoy the rewards we've earned?"

  However, while Scribonius had informed the people that all matters concerning the running of Rome would be left in Rome, he also confirmed that Caesar's will naming Octavian as his heir was to be considered as valid, and that, in fact, Caesar was decreeing that he and Marcus Antonius, Master of the Horse, would rule jointly and equally in Caesar's name. Pullus, standing to the side of Scribonius, knowing what was coming, had subtly shifted his position so that he could study the faces of the two men, as Scribonius revealed this part of the plan. Shock first, he saw, then surprise, followed closely by relief, but as he had suspected, it wasn't long before both men thought through the vast implications of this fictional decree. For, while it was true that it more or less rendered Pullus, Scribonius, and all of the returning veterans irrelevant, it was a solution neither man truly wanted. Pullus could almost see both men immediately begin plotting the method whereby they would wrest control from their rival, and it made Pullus' heart heavy, as he recognized that this meant that in all likelihood there would be more strife among Romans. But, he told himself, that isn't our fight. He and the survivors who had returned with him were done. Even as this thought flashed through his mind, Titus Pullus felt as if a huge burden was being lifted from his shoulders, and, turning back to watch Scribonius finishing his own oration, he felt a smile forming on his face.