The messenger Antony and Curio had sped on ahead of their own flight from Rome reached Caesar’s villa near Ravenna the day after Antony and Quintus Cassius had been ejected from the House by force. Though he arrived close to the dawning of the ninth day of January, Caesar received him at once, took the letter and sent him to a meal and a comfortable bed with a warm smile of thanks: two hundred miles in less than two days was a grueling ride. Antony’s letter was brief.
Caesar, Quintus Cassius and I were manhandled out of the Senate when we tried to interpose our vetoes against a Senatus Consultum Ultimum. It’s an odd decree. Doesn’t declare you hostis nor specifically name Pompeius. It authorizes all the magistrates and consulars to protect the State against the tribunician veto, if you please. The sole reference to Pompeius is a mention that among those entrusted with the care of the State are “promagistrates within the vicinity of Rome.” Which applies as much to Cicero, sitting awaiting his triumph, as to Pompeius, just sitting. I would imagine Pompeius is a disappointed man. But that’s one thing about the boni—they hate awarding special commands.
There are four of us coming. Curio and Caelius elected to leave the city too. We’ll take the Via Flaminia.
Oh, I don’t know if it will be of any use to you, but I’ve ensured that we’ll arrive in exactly the same condition as we were when the lictors finished tossing us out. Which means we’ll stink a bit, so have hot baths ready.
The only trusted legate Caesar had with him was Aulus Hirtius, who came in to find Caesar sitting, the letter in his hand, staring at a mosaic wall depicting the flight of King Aeneas from burning Ilium, his aged father on his right shoulder and the Palladium tucked under his left arm.
“One of the best things about Ravenna,” Caesar said without looking at Hirtius, “is the skill of the locals at mosaic. Better even than the Sicilian Greeks.”
Hirtius sat down where he could see Caesar’s face. It was calm and contented.
“I hear a messenger arrived in a terrific hurry,” said Hirtius.
“Yes. The Senate has passed its ultimate decree.”
Hirtius’s breath hissed. “You’re declared a public enemy!”
“No,” said Caesar levelly. “The real enemy of Rome, it would appear, is the tribunician veto, and the real traitors the tribunes of the plebs. How like Sulla the boni are! The enemy is never without, always within. And the tribunes of the plebs must be muzzled.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Move,” said Caesar.
“Move?”
“South. To Ariminum. Antonius, Quintus Cassius, Curio and Caelius are traveling the Via Flaminia at this moment, though not as fast as their messenger. I imagine they’ll reach Ariminum within two days, counting this one just arrived.”
“Then you still have your imperium. If you move to Ariminum, Caesar, you have to cross the Rubicon into home territory.”
“By the time I do, Hirtius, I imagine I will be a privatus, and at full liberty to go wherever I want. Sheltered by their ultimate decree, the Senate will strip me of everything at once.”
“So you won’t take the Thirteenth with you to Ariminum?” Hirtius asked, conscious that relief hadn’t followed in the wake of Caesar’s answer. He looked so relaxed, so tranquil, so much as he always did—the man in absolute control, never plagued by doubt, always in command of himself and events. Was that why his legates loved him? By definition he ought not to have been a man capable of inspiring love, yet he did. Not because he needed it. Because—because—oh, why? Because he was what all men wanted to be?
“Certainly I will take the Thirteenth,” said Caesar. He got to his feet. I “Have them ready to move within two hours. Full baggage train, every-thing with them including artillery.”
“Are you going to tell them where they’re heading?”
The fair brows rose. “Not for the time being. They’re boys from across the Padus. What does the Rubicon mean to them?”
*