I had originally intended to spend the winter in Rome. A decorated and newly promoted prefect, I hoped to make the acquaintance of several of the more powerful individuals in the city. After the mob pelted me with refuse, I lost my taste for the city. A lot of us did. I took my pay and a bounty of slaves for a bonus. The slaves I sold at market for an abysmal price, always the case after war. I paid down some of my debt to my mother’s relatives, about a third of what I owed, then asked for and received Dolabella’s permission to spend the winter at my father’s estate in Tuscany.
Dolabella required me in Rome again before the third day after the Ides of March. This was the date upon which Caesar planned to depart Rome, bound for his Parthian campaign. Until then I was a free man.
My father was surprised to see me. I had sent him news from Seville of my promotion and said in that same letter I would spend the winter in Rome and did not expect to see him until I returned from Parthia. I think he saw my discouragement at once, though I tried to hide it from him. This was not because I had been wounded. This was a failing of the soul. I had worshipped Caesar too long not to feel something was very wrong if those whom Caesar defended could turn against him so quickly.
I was not able to discuss this with my father; I did not even admit that we had been abused by the mob. I am not sure why I couldn’t tell him. We had always enjoyed an open and honest relationship. I suppose a part of me wanted to protect him from disillusionment.
He had always admired Caesar, both as a soldier and a political reformer. There was also in me a deep feeling of shame. I could not understand the sensation, but it was quite real, and so it was impossible for me to admit that I had been pelted and abused like a prisoner tagged for execution at the Triumph’s culmination.
One evening, as if divining my mood, my father remarked almost casually, ‘Life is not only to be measured by public accomplishments, Quintus. There is contentment to be reckoned with as well.’
Such a comment was entirely foreign to me. Life was about winning glory. What else could it be? My father, to his credit, was not suggesting I resign my officer’s commission and come back to Tuscany; no, he was only planting a seed, as farmers do. In time, I might realise new desires. In a long life one can find solace in the fruits of every season.
I heard the echo of such sentiment many times that winter, but that was all. I think he knew it would take a few years before I could possibly come to the wisdom he possessed: that a public life is a busy one but not always fulfilling. A long life has taught me what my father thoroughly understood: some men are eager for accolades and when they have won them know only to reach for more; others seek the quieter pleasures of this world and in winning them know at last perfect contentment.
One afternoon in early February I came back from a hunt with fellows I had known from childhood. We were weary from a fruitless search, ready for a bath and refreshments, but my father insisted on leading us out to one of the paddocks behind our stables. We followed curiously and discovered a three-year-old colt named Hannibal, which he had purchased just that morning from a horse trader on his way through Tuscany. Hannibal was taller by two hands than any horse I had ever seen; he possessed a powerful neck and already had the prominent jaws which usually only older stallions develop. His chest was wide and deep, his haunches massive. Here was an animal bred for war, spirited and bold, and yet possessing the refinements of an aristocrat: a delicate step, a fiery eye, an elegantly lifted tail. In colour Hannibal was a blood red sorrel. He had a slender blaze of white on his face and one high white sock rising over his back right hoof.
The former owner, a Roman eques named Seius, had intended to make a fortune breeding Hannibal to the best mares in Italy. The recent troubles of our civil war, however, had brought him to a point of desperation; so he took what money he could get from a quick sale and left it to the next man to earn the real money. My father always kept gold on hand for such an opportunity.
I naturally congratulated him on the purchase and remarked that he would be the envy of every man who saw him riding such an animal. ‘I bought Hannibal as a gift for you, Quintus. Your new rank accords you the privilege of bringing your own horse on campaign, after all.’
My exhaustion only moments before vanished, and I soon persuaded my companions to help me break the animal to the saddle. This I will say: Hannibal sent me to ground only once. Of course he tried a dozen times more, but that is the way of an animal with high spirits. Finally I walked him around our riding arena without a quarrel.
Within a week we knew one another like old friends. Before I rode to Rome I had Hannibal accustomed to me. He was not yet ready for combat; that takes a great deal of training, but he was ready for what came next. And so was I.
I had begun the winter profoundly discouraged; by March, I was nearly as enthusiastic to ride with Caesar as I had been the year before. For many years I credited Hannibal with my complete restoration, but that was only because I was still quite young. The truth is I possessed a wise father.
I was at Veii, ten miles from the heart of Rome, when I learned that the world had changed forever. I recall the place and my precise thoughts because even then I knew what the news meant. I was thinking about the Claudii, whose vast estate the road passed through. The members of that famous clan took no pleasure in the work of a farmer. They had others herding their flocks and churning their cheese. Instead of a handful of clients in their debt, the family’s patriarch owned whole cities of men committed to his service. His fortune was so vast no one could make a proper estimate of it.
Just as I was reflecting on these matters, I noticed a man on horseback galloping toward me. He was obviously in a hurry, but at the sight of a youth who wore the thin purple stripe of an eques, he pulled up. ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’
Of course I hadn’t. I came from the north. In fact it occurred to me he might intend to rob me. I carried all I owned on the back of the mule I led. As for Hannibal he was worth fifty times the going rate for the average riding horse on a bad day at auction. This fellow wouldn’t be the first brigand to walk up to his victim with glad tidings; I had employed the tactic myself for a few of my robberies in Spain. I looked around for possible confederates, but it was a sorry place for an ambush. ‘What news?’ I asked, cautiously.
‘Rome’s tyrant is dead.’
I recall the strength leaving me. I knew what tyrant he spoke of, though I could not really believe it. If it were really so I didn’t think the sun could still be shining. ‘What tyrant?’ I asked.
‘Julius Caesar, sir. The senators cut him down in chambers this morning. The only shame is they didn’t think to do it years ago.’
I pulled my sword and went for the fellow. A moment of sanity pulled me back from murder, but Hannibal’s chest collided with the shoulder of the nag he rode. I kept my blade high, pointed at his heart. His horse skittered back at the impact. He swore roundly, but he made no attempt to grab for his weapon. I had dropped the lead line of my mule and was free to circle him, which I now did. He had no chance of outrunning me and knew it. Nor was he a man capable of outfighting a youth in peak physical condition. ‘Draw your sword and fight me, you filthy rogue!’ I shouted.
‘Go on to Rome if you want blood!’ he growled. ‘There are plenty of men there who’ll be glad for the chance at you.’
I was still holding my sword as he rode off. I did not catch all he said by way of farewell but this I gathered: ‘…should kill the whole lot of you.’
Only then did it sink in. Julius Caesar was gone. With his passing the lives of all who supported him were in danger. A few decades before, one of Dolabella’s ancestors, Cornelius Sulla, had taught Rome how to break political factions: first murder every enemy in sight, then search the city for anyone not cheering the carnage and murder them as well. By nightfall, if Sulla had taught Rome anything, the streets of Rome would be filled with corpses. Mine included, if I were foolish enough to be there.
I left the Via Flaminia as soon as possible and rode north over farm lanes and through hill country. Worried that the man I had threatened might find confederates and come looking for the Caesarean with the fine horse, I made camp inside a grove of olive trees and was careful to light no campfire.
In the morning I rode as far as Capena. There I settled down to await more news. Men asked me if I had heard about Caesar’s death. Then came the question of where I stood on the matter. How does one stand anywhere once the ground has been pulled out from under him? I heard myself saying I was a landowner in Tuscany. I cared nothing for politics.
The oddest thing was that Rome remained quiet in the wake of Caesar’s murder. I might have ridden into the city without concern for my safety. I heard the first reports of this stillness and could not believe it. But it was indeed true. In the first hour after the crime the assassins, some sixty senators led by Junius Brutus and Cassius Longinus, fled the Temple of Tellus, where the senate had convened that morning. They took up a defensive position at the Temple of Jupiter, high atop the Capitoline. With their freedmen and clients in support, the assassins numbered nearly half a legion in strength. Because that temple also serves as an armoury, they were prepared for any contingency. Despite their immediate concern for security, I am told they hoped the city would eventually celebrate their crime. This is of course the kind of delusional nonsense that occurs when philosophers play in the deep end of the pool.
While the assassins waited to know the disposition of the city, Mark Antony, Caesar’s fellow consul, stirred himself to act. Leaving the outer porticos of Pompey’s theatre, which houses the Temple of Tellus, he made his way to the fortifications guarding two temporary legionary camps. These had been established on the Camp of Mars, not far from Pompey’s grand theatre. The camps were commanded by Proconsul Aemilius Lepidus. Lepidus was under orders to depart for Narbonne in southern Gaul three mornings hence. This would have been on the same morning Caesar was to have left the city to join his army in western Macedonia.
Such was Antony’s charisma with the rank and file that he might have walked into the camp and taken command of it. Perhaps he even considered doing so, but the truth is Antony needed Lepidus more than he needed two legions of fighting men.
Antony said nothing to Lepidus about the fortune inside Caesar’s house. No, what Antony offered Lepidus was the office of Pontifex Maximus – High Priest of Rome and perpetual guardian of the Vestal Virgins. In those days, the holder of that office resided in the Regia; that meant that the Regia had been Caesar’s residence for many years and the place where Caesar kept his money.
Whether or not Lepidus remarked on the fact that Antony hadn’t the authority to appoint anyone to an elected office, I cannot say. What I do know is that it took very little persuasion for Lepidus to agree to Antony’s proposal. Almost as an afterthought the two men arranged for the eventual marriage of two of their pre-adolescent children.
The city was stirring with rumours of Caesar’s murder when Antony and Lepidus arrived at the Regia. They were escorted by enough friends and clients to secure Caesar’s house. With that accomplished, Antony and Lepidus walked up the Palatine Hill and approached the house of Cornelius Dolabella.
Antony and my patron had never been friends. I believe everyone in the city knew this. In fact, Antony was convinced his former wife had slept with Dolabella, though she denied it. Dolabella had publicly announced that it was possible, but he simply could not remember. This was of course worse than denial, and Caesar had generally tried to keep the two men in separate provinces, if not on different continents.
One may wonder why, of all people, Antony went to Dolabella, but the answer is simple. With Caesar’s death, Dolabella had suddenly become the commander of Caesar’s sixteen legions. This army was presently camped in Western Macedonia, but that was not so very far away. With such a force at his back, Dolabella had become the sort of friend Antony needed.
Antony was not prepared to bring Dolabella into his family, but he could offer Dolabella a consulship. The office was available, after all. Of course Antony had no more right to offer a consulship than a vacant seat at the head of the college of priests, but Dolabella was certainly not the man to object. He grabbed the title as if it were his due.
Only then did Antony introduce the question of protecting Caesar’s gold. As consul, consul-elect, and Pontifex Maximus-elect, Antony, Dolabella and Lepidus returned to the Regia. There they promptly divided Caesar’s money and portable goods, each taking a piece of that great prize to a secure location. As for Caesar’s widow, they gave her until dawn the following day to vacate the premises.
Antony then sent an invitation to the leadership of the assassins to meet with him that evening. Some hours later, word came back that Junius Brutus and Cassius Longinus would come for a meeting on condition that both sides exchange family members to serve as hostages. This was arranged and that evening Cassius and Brutus settled down to a meal at Dolabella’s mansion. Neither Brutus nor Cassius dared taste the food or drink the wine. No matter. Antony feasted as per his custom, and Dolabella tipped his cup as carelessly as an honest man.
The first order of business, according to Antony, was to establish a truce among all parties. No need for more bloodshed. Brutus protested at once; the first order of business, he said, was the restoration of the Republic. There would be no more tyrants or dictators or talk of kings in Rome.
Clearly he thought Antony aspired to replace Caesar. Antony answered him enthusiastically, ‘You are right of course. Unless by restoration you mean my consulship is illegitimate.’
‘That is exactly the case,’ Cassius answered.
‘Then I suppose I haven’t the authority to call the senate to session for the purpose of voting immunity to those involved in Caesar’s death?’
After a long, thoughtful pause Brutus asked, ‘You would do that?’
‘If I were still a consul I would. Of course, if you want to declare me illegitimate and arrange elections at once, I cannot help you. You want a Republic and that, I’m afraid, comes with courts and the right of Caesar’s family to bring the charge of murder against all of you.’
‘Caesar was a tyrant!’ Cassius answered.
‘Perhaps he was, but he was also a citizen. Under the laws of our Republic his family can make you answer for his death in court. You know how it goes: lost fortunes, exile…’ He gave a shiver. ‘Juries can get very testy about the murder of a man they once loved. But as you like. I’ll not worry about it. It’s your court date, not mine.’
The agreement that followed was the sort of sham only Mark Antony could have conjured, as worthless as a roll of wet papyrus in the long run but sufficient to keep the peace for the next few days.
Antony, in his role as consul, called the senate to session next morning before dawn and got a unanimous vote on a single measure, the details of which had been negotiated the night before. Antony’s and Dolabella’s consulships were confirmed. Lepidus received his pontificate. Caesar would have a funeral at public expense, and the assassins were all immune from civil and criminal prosecution. Should anyone care to protest the senate’s decision Lepidus stood ready to advance his legions into the city.
The city was still quiet when I arrived on the Camp of Mars. I left Hannibal and my pack mule at a stable and walked into the city with a hired slave pushing a rickety cart filled with my gear. This was the evening before Caesar’s funeral. Rather than seek out a public house or my family’s Tuscan friends, I went directly to the great house of the Cornelii, for I had promised Dolabella I would report to him before the third day after the Ides of March.
As soon as I had identified myself, Dolabella’s steward informed me that I would walk with Dolabella’s party next morning. This actually meant I would serve as part of Dolabella’s security force, though we didn’t use terms of that kind. A client walked with his patron as a show of respect. He might carry a gladius and dagger concealed beneath his toga and even a stout walking staff with a steel point on it, but it was not appropriate to appear in the city in military armour. Good friends in great numbers? Well, who is not envied his popularity?
I joined some fifty friends in a makeshift barracks inside Dolabella’s house. Not all the fellows were busy when I entered, but a great number of them were honing the blades of their weapons.
As a consul, now officially appointed by the senate to his office, Dolabella had an escort of lictors to accompany him in public; these men surrounded a standing consul as a mark of honour. They were sworn to protect the consul with their lives, but their numbers might not be sufficient against determined assassins. With another fifty friends close by, Dolabella would be far safer. My patron’s anxiety for his personal safety seemed out of all proportion to any danger I could imagine until I saw the mass of people gathered in the Forum next morning.
In the wake of Caesar’s assassination, the mob had stayed quiet, but that is not to say they were content. On the morning of Caesar’s funeral they filled the Forum, spreading across the steps of all the temples and crowding along the basilicas Julia and Aemilia to the north and south of the great plaza. Even the rooftops and alleyways surrounding the Forum were filled. Man or woman, it made no difference: wherever I looked, I saw a murderous scowl.
Caesar’s corpse had been set atop the speaker’s platform with only a solitary squad of lictors posted around his funeral litter. Directly behind him was the dreary old Temple of Saturn, black with the smoke of centuries. Behind it was the Capitoline, with Jupiter’s gleaming white temple pre-eminent at the top of the hill.
Caesar was propped up on one elbow in the traditional manner of the dead; the effect suggests a fellow reclining on his couch at a feast. He was wearing a senator’s toga with the broad purple stripe and holding a drinking cup. This is the Roman way of bidding our world farewell and certainly not the worst of our customs. Brave and careless, yet honouring the amenities of life, we leave the light of day.
Caesar’s co-consul, Mark Antony, delivered the funeral oration. He began his address with the usual tropes. He spoke of Caesar’s kindnesses to his friends and family. Eventually he turned to the matter of Caesar’s long and honoured service to Rome. I did not listen closely, for although Antony was a skilled speaker I soon found myself thinking about Caesar at my bedside: the touch of his hand on mine, his assurance that I was much needed.
A rumble in the crowd brought me out of my reflections. Once more I awakened to the terror of the mob. I could see nothing at first. Antony was quoting the oath that men had taken to serve Caesar: ‘…a sacred oath given freely before gods and men!’ Then he named the men who had taken that oath: Gaius Trebonius, Cassius Longinus, Junius Brutus...
He continued naming the assassins, and as he did he walked over to Caesar’s corpse. He pulled the toga away, exposing the stab wounds, more than twenty in all. ‘Look and see how these men kept their sacred promises.’ And touching the wounds, he cried again, ‘Look and weep, Romans!’
It was a call to battle, and the plebs answered with a roar.
Our captain called to us to get around Dolabella and take him up to the Capitoline, which was the closest fortification. He might as well have asked us to fly. We could not move. I could hear the plebs tearing into shops and looting goods. The Curia was soon put to fire. The old senate house was not the site of Caesar’s murder, but that fact bothered no one. The senate house was handy and had long symbolised everything the plebs hated about their overlords. Once it was ablaze, the pressure of the mob shifted.
With swords drawn we were able to evacuate along the Via Sacra up the Capitoline’s slopes and safely beyond the crush of the mob. As the road lifted us above the Forum I caught a glimpse of the melee from high ground. I could see both basilicas along the Forum’s perimeter had already been trashed and set on fire; here and there the bodies of senators and equites were already down. Those men who had been hemmed in by the crowd or were too witless to escape when they had the chance were presently pursued by gangs of plebs. It did not matter if a man belonged to the assassin’s league or Caesar’s; a purple stripe that morning was enough to mark a man as an enemy of Rome.
Looking down at the Forum from the porch of the Temple of Jupiter we watched the mob destroy everything within reach. Despite the chaos, neither Antony nor Dolabella appeared anxious to summon Lepidus. To be honest, I think the consuls rather enjoyed the fulsome slaughter.
When they had seen enough and finally sent for him, Lepidus stormed into the city with every man he had. By late afternoon, the fight was over. Next morning hundreds of corpses of men, women, and children littered the Forum and streets beyond; pleb thugs had fallen over murdered aristocracy. The corpses of children were stiff in the arms of their rigid mothers. The shops were charred from fire. And ten thousand legionaries stood at attention throughout the city, even as squads of cavalry patrolled the streets.
It was at this point that a great many of the senators decided it might be a good idea to spend a few weeks at their country villas. Those actually guilty of murdering Caesar applied to the consuls for permission to leave Italy altogether.
For the moment Mark Antony’s coalition ruled Rome, which is to say Antony ruled the world. Caesar’s enemies were on the run, and the plebs were certain Antony embraced their cause. Nor did he play the tyrant. He took all and sundry matters before either the senate or the people’s assembly. Nothing became law without a vote.
Nor was there any more murder of the aristocracy. Both Antony and Dolabella were happy to write passports for any of the assassins who asked the favour of them. At that late date, there were no senior positions to be had, but a minor office in some foreign city gave them the legal excuse to leave Italy.
As for the legions available to Antony and Dolabella, the two consuls made no personal use of them. Lepidus marched off to Gaul in a matter of days after Caesar’s funeral. The great army in western Macedonia remained in camp for the duration of the summer.
For the better part of my life I have wondered how fortune turned so quickly against Antony. Within a matter of weeks everything he had accomplished began to unravel. Did he not understand the dangers he faced? Was he overconfident of his popularity with the mob? Too certain of the loyalty of the legions?
Only in my old age has it come to me. Antony acted quite properly. He was not interested in becoming another Caesar. He only wanted to serve his term as consul and then retire to a prosperous provincial government, where he might amass a fortune that even he could not exhaust. It can never be said that Antony was politically inept or stupid. Quite the opposite: he proved himself a political genius in the aftermath of Caesar’s murder.
That he lost his power so quickly makes it seem as if he misjudged matters terribly or somehow let his success blind him to danger. There is some truth in both views, but a better assessment of the situation is that Julius Caesar came back from the dead. After that, no mortal could anticipate what might happen next.