25th July 46 BC
Rome
Fronto set foot on the dock with a good deal of relief.
‘You look pale,’ Galronus said, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘If man was meant to cross the sea, we’d have been given gills. Hate it.’
‘The sea was the calmest I’ve ever seen it. Like marble.’
‘Marble doesn’t slam you against the rail and make you throw up until you see stuff coming out of you that you ate when you were still at school.’
Galronus smiled benignly, which simply made Fronto more irritated. ‘Plus of course,’ he said, ‘this is a complete waste of time.’
‘We’ve been over this. Caesar…’
‘Caesar is increasingly suffering from a medical condition we call “stupidity”.’
‘He has his reasons for coming to Rome. You know that.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard it all spouted. We must delay Hispania until Rome is secure. The people need triumphs. The troops need a few months to breathe before we put them through another war. I was there for all the briefings. But every man in those tents was thinking the same thing every time. Caesar wants to see his son. That’s all it is. And so we sail from Utica to Caralis. We sail from Caralis to Ostia. We sail from Ostia to Rome. And once Caesar’s been reacquainted with his queen-on-the-side and met his baby boy, I’d lay you bets we’ll sail to Saguntum for the next war. Probably late in the year when sailors start to get nervous. I’ll have to stop eating at least a month in advance this time.’
Galronus’ smile widened a little.
‘I’ve never seen a triumph. From what Hirtius was telling me it’s quite a sight.’
‘Boring,’ Fronto snapped irritably. ‘I watched Pompey triumph three times. You know that’s why Caesar’s making a point of this. That and Caesarion, anyway.’
‘Because…’ Galronus began.
‘Because Pompey got three triumphs,’ Fronto interrupted, grunting. ‘And now Caesar gets four. He’s determined to prove he’s better than Pompey. Why? Pompey’s been dead for years now.’
‘But his sons are still very much alive and controlling Hispania with Labienus.’
Fronto snapped a narrow eyed look at his friend. ‘Four triumphs. Ridiculous. And spurious at best. Gaul I accept. If ever a general deserves a triumph it’s for what we did in Gaul over eight years. I’ll even accept Pharnaces as good reason, though I don’t think Caesar meets the death toll requirements for a triumph there. Still, Zama was a fight I wouldn’t rush to repeat, so fair enough. I’d even concede Aegyptus, despite the insufficient numbers and the fact that we fought alongside Aegyptians too. But Africa? It‘s being claimed as a victory over Juba, man.’
‘Juba was there. We beat him. He died.’
‘But he was just a tool of the rebels. Africa was a war against other Romans, and everyone, right down to Gaius Nobody the baker knows it. He’s going to ride in a chariot behind a score of African slaves, but the public aren’t going to see that in their mind’s eyes. They’ll see captive Romans. It’s folly. Just folly.’
‘You’ll feel better when you’re less sick.’
‘Probably not while we’re in Rome then,’ Fronto snapped angrily. ‘Forty days of thanksgiving. Forty! The senate is falling over itself to kiss Caesar’s boots. Of course, that’s because it’s Caesar’s senate these days.’
Galronus gave his friend a hard look, a warning. Fronto clamped his mouth shut as the general came ashore nearby with Aulus Hirtius. Fronto was irritated, but he also knew he’d picked up a tendency to complain in a most Cassius-like manner. He didn’t want to pick up a reputation as one of Caesar’s detractors, but equally, it was irritating. The senate was throwing honours at Caesar by the bucketload to see which ones stuck, and now, completely ignoring the whole ‘sea journeys’ thing, they were in Rome for the foreseeable future while Labienus and the Pompey brothers built up their army and secured Hispania. That was exactly what Cato and Scipio had done in Africa, and the result had cost them dearly. Did Caesar not learn from his mistakes? They should even now be landing in Hispania with the army and preparing to finish the job for good.
And, if he were to be truly honest with himself, Fronto would admit that in addition to grand annoyances about the fate of the republic, a small but very real part of his irritation was the fact that he had hoped that Hispania would see him reunited with his family. Lucilia and the boys, Masgava and the others, his sister, everyone had spent the past few years safely locked away in the villa near Tarraco, away from the trouble of Rome and the civil war. Now, with Hispania under enemy control, though they were far from the trouble zone, he was starting to think about their safety, and had hoped to visit them on the way to Hispania and make sure all was good. Indeed, when Caesar had been insistent about sailing for Rome, Fronto had petitioned the general to let him skip the triumphs and spend the summer in Tarraco, joining up once more when Caesar moved on Hispania.
No. The general had been adamant. Deep down, Fronto could understand it. Of the men who had served on Caesar’s staff since they marched into Gaul fourteen years ago, very few of the great names remained at the general’s side. Plancus, Hirtius and Fronto, really. Brutus too, and Marcus Antonius, though the pair of them had spent the last year in Rome, away from the war, playing Caesar’s political games for him. Caesar was to have triumphs for his four great victories, and Fronto was one of the few men still with him who had been instrumental in all four. Of course he was required to attend.
Bitter thoughts slid to those enemies now lost too. Cato, suiciding in Utica, had been a loss to the republic, even if he had recently been Caesar’s opponent. And Scipio too, who fled after Thapsus, but had been caught by Caesar’s pet pirate Sittius in the city of Hippo, and had killed himself there. There were few of the great men left on either side these days.
‘You look morose, Fronto,’ Caesar said almost genially. That the man’s mood was increasingly light as they neared home just made Fronto all the more irritable.
‘Seasick.’
‘Of course. Well I shall not keep you long.’
‘Keep me? I was going to my townhouse to lie down and feel like shit for a while. It’ll be cold and cobwebby, but there’s no shit place like home.’
Galronus chuckled, and Caesar smiled widely. ‘But I have need of you, Marcus. The people will be gathered in the forum awaiting our return. I want my veteran officers by my side as I address Rome. This is an important occasion. A lot of the coming months’ civic attitudes will be determined by how the crowd see our return. We must not be beleaguered warriors in the midst of a campaign, but victorious sons of the republic, returning to our heartland.’
‘We are beleaguered warriors in the midst of a campaign,’ Fronto grumbled.
‘All the more reason to let the people see that we are not. And after that I want you, as with the others, to come with me to my villa across the river. We have much to discuss.’
‘We’ve discussed everything to the tiniest detail on the journey and in Caralis. I was at the meetings. Throwing up half the time, I know, but I was there.’
‘There will be new matters to consider, and new plans to make once we have gauged the mood of Rome and caught up with the latest news. I will need my officers in attendance. We might be in Rome, but I still require my staff on hand.’
‘I feel like I’ve been turned inside out. I haven’t shaved in twelve days. I think something is living in my hair. I cannot remember the last time I had a clean tunic. I need new boots.’
‘And all that makes you look like a veteran of war. It will remind the people that we have been fighting for them, not enjoying the African sun.’
Fronto fell into a grumpy silence. Clearly he was going to lose this argument, and besides, he had little energy left to fight it after a month of stomach contractions. He stood on the dock, silently ruminating on the many things that were getting on his nerves while Galronus chatted enthusiastically about what would happen and what the triumphs would entail. Would there be chariot races? He liked chariot races. He’d heard that some bakers baked special free treats to distribute to the public. He liked Rome’s sweet pastries. And so on.
As they stood, one silent, the other chatty, Caesar gathered his familia and staff around him, and, once they were prepared and looking a careful combination of battle-worn and triumphant, musicians were brought forth, the standards and eagles of the legions and all the pomp of a returning general, and, climbing onto their horses, they began to make their way into the city. Bucephalus was surprisingly steady and calm after the voyage, far more so than his rider, who groaned and drooled with every lurch of the beast, not yet recovered from the sea himself.
Still, despite feeling appalling, and not wanting to be there at all, Fronto couldn’t help but feel just a little smug as Galronus nudged him and he looked up. As they rounded the building works where Caesar’s new complex of temples and basilica were almost complete, the forum came into view. The place was packed with the populace of Rome, from filthy street beggar to toga’d senator being kept safe by private bodyguards with clubs. Every temple’s steps resembled a theatre stand, occupied by people, while children clung to columns, trying to see over the crowd. As the horns blared to announce their approach, the crowd fell into an expectant hush, which then exploded into cheering as Caesar himself came into view on his white mare.
Fronto tried to sit straight and look slightly less green as the general was escorted up to the rostrum and, once the crowd had subsided into silence, given them a speech that was as rousing as any he’d given. The crowd cheered and whistled, and once he was done, lictors came forward. Fronto blinked at that. He’d not seen the general with his appointed number of lictors now since Aegyptus, and yet somehow he’d acquired them between the ships and the forum. The lictors cleared a space, and legionaries, disarmed within the city’s limits, brought forth a cart with a chest on it and began to hurl handfuls of coins into the crowd. Fronto happened to catch a stray one and turned it over, looking at it. An image of Juba, the Numidian king on the obverse. Clever old bastard, but Caesar was giving the people the spoils of war, and this very gold proclaimed his victory in the hands of the greedy populace.
He sat patiently as it all happened, but if he’d thought it over then, when the coins were gone, and Caesar stepped down, he was sadly mistaken, for a small deputation of white-clad men made their way forward. At the head were Brutus and Antonius, urging Caesar to address the senate as well as the people.
The general, a carefully-formed look of casual worry on his face, greeted them, and then admitted ‘I have prepared no speech, my friends, but I shall see what I can do.’
‘Bollocks,’ Fronto hissed to Galronus.
‘What?’
‘No speech my hairy arse. I heard him reciting it on board yesterday. Politicians,’ he spat irritably.
Galronus just smiled. ‘I should have a toga really.’
Fronto snorted. His friend, of course, was officially one of those very senators, but today he would be better served in his battle gear like the rest of the officers. Fronto followed on with the staff and familia as the general made his way into the senate house. The rows of stuffy looking old men awaited in respectful silence, sitting on their banks of seating, carefully arranged in order of importance. Fronto remembered visits here during the war in Gaul, when Caesar was still struggling to stay out of the courtroom, seeking his consulship. Hardly any of those old faces remained. In fairness most of them had taken up arms and had faced Caesar across the field in Greece or Africa. This was a new senate. Caesar’s senate.
Moments later they were settled, Fronto standing at the back and hoping the equisio outside was looking after Bucephalus. The senators invited the general to speak, and Caesar stood forth and placed a palm on his heart as he thrust out his other arm in an oratorical gesture.
‘Let none of you, Conscript Fathers, fear harsh proclamations or cruel deeds from a returning conqueror. I am, as always, a servant of the republic. Marius and Cinna and Sulla set a dreadful precedent by promising great things to achieve their commands, then returned as triumphant generals only to renege on their promises and institute a rule of fear.’
There was a careful pause then, to let the senate digest this.
‘I am no Marius, or Cinna, or Sulla. I have never dissembled with this august body, never pretended anything I am not, and so I have no dreadful truth to reveal. I was your servant as a senator myself, and I am still your servant as a triumphant general. I shall be dictator, for you have twice voted that most crucial of roles to me, and shall be so as long as you see a need, but I shall never be a tyrant.’
There was a murmur of satisfaction at this. Fronto nodded his approval. A bold statement, especially when he had just promised the senate no lies nor dissembling. To then denounce the ways of kings and despots and openly distance himself from them would go a long way towards mollifying those who feared Caesar’s increasing power.
‘Fortuna has favoured me,’ the general said, then spread out his hands to take in the rest of those with him. ‘Has favoured us,’ he corrected himself. ‘But I seek nothing more from her other than the continued success of our critical endeavour. For that is my one great goal and the reason for which I have risen to such heights: to punish the enemies of the republic.’
A murmur of approval from the senate. Fronto smiled. He remembered half of this from its memorising on the ship. It was a good speech, he had to admit. This was Caesar’s pet senate, but this might even have won over the old senate. His eyes picked out Cassius, seated somewhere near the back, one of Caesar’s more recent detractors, and even the noble Cassius was nodding his approval.
‘I stand here your servant in all I do. I shall not be like those same enemies we seek to remove, and I shall not imitate them. I am no Pompey to revel in war, nor a Cato to sit in judgement of the morals of my peers. I am Caesar, your warhorse, protecting the republic. Good fortune, if joined to self-control, is enduring, and authority, if it maintains moderation, preserves all. I seek your love and respect as a representative of this great council, and not some foe of the republic to be secretly plotted against.’
Fronto smiled to see how the general managed not to look directly at Cassius at this point, though he felt certain the comment was meant for the senator and still Cassius shifted slightly in his seat.
‘The whole world, including his nearest associates, both suspects and fears a man who is not master of his own power. This is my vow to you all, and not some sophistry carefully constructed, for I had no speech prepared for you today. This is from my heart and of the moment. Be reassured for the present, and hopeful for the future. I will be not master of this body, but its champion. I shall be not tyrant, but leader. As you vote me, I shall be consul and dictator to preserve the republic, but to you all, I shall also be a private citizen. I will see no proscriptions even among my enemies, just as I always offer clemency to my noble opponents.’
‘Bollocks,’ whispered Fronto to Galronus, earning a warning glance from his friend.
‘Let us, therefore, Conscript Fathers, confidently unite our interests, forgetting the past and respecting each other without suspicion. Fear not my armies, for they are your armies, the preservers of the republic, and while they cannot yet be stood down, and their ongoing support requires your continued goodwill, even with increased taxes, they fight to remove the last enemies of Rome.’
There was an uncomfortable silence then as the words ‘increased taxes’ filtered across the senate.
‘Rest assured that any extra funding goes straight to the legions who seek to secure the provinces for the senate, and that none of it is for private gain. Indeed, I vow to you now that all such funds raised will be used for the security of the republic, and those new buildings that I even now dedicate in the city come from my own purse. So, Conscript Fathers, this is my oath to you. I am, as always, your servant.’
Fronto tried not to roll his eyes at the senate’s reaction. Faced with increased taxation to pay for the upkeep of the legions, even Caesar’s supporters had been ready to complain openly, and then the general had smoothed the way as always with a seemingly selfless act. The fact that the buildings he was paying for out of his own purse were for public use was popular, but that those buildings gloried the Julii and further enhanced his popularity went apparently unnoticed.
He waited patiently with the others while the senate applauded the general and half a dozen other speeches were made, fawning around the returning hero and offering further honours and concessions, and was quite grateful just to be moving again when finally they departed the old senate house and moved on, Brutus and Antonius joining them now.
‘This will probably be the last meeting of the senate in that building,’ Hirtius said conversationally as they mounted outside once more.
‘Oh?’
The man smiled. ‘Among Caesar’s planned works is a new curia building, fitting for the new assembly. The old one is to be demolished this summer and work begun on the new.’
‘And where will the senate meet in the meantime?’
Hirtius’ smile jacked up a notch. ‘In Pompey’s theatre. It sends a fairly clear message, don’t you think?’
Fronto rolled his eyes again as they set off, still a sizeable column and led by the lictors marching along with their bundles of sticks on their shoulders, setting a stately pace. From the forum, down to the markets and the river, across the Sublician Bridge and out past the boundary stones marking the sacred city limit, they finally entered the grounds of Caesar’s grand villa. This was a massive affair set within acres of gardens with neat lawns, fountains, arcades and topiary. Down a gravel drive they crunched until the lictors finally spread out and came to a halt, and the horsemen reined in and dismounted, slaves hurrying out to take the reins without looking at their masters. Caesar rubbed his hands together and gestured for the others to follow as he marched to the door, more slaves hurrying out and bowing low, lining the approach on both sides.
Fronto carefully allowed several of the others to take the lead in Caesar’s wake, falling in somewhere partway along the line. Galronus dropped in next to him, frowning.
‘You don’t look happy?’
Fronto nodded. ‘Keep your head down. This could get messy.’
‘Why?’
‘I recognised some of the staff out front. Unless I missed the mark, Calpurnia is here. Atia too.’
Galronus’ furrowed brow remained. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Caesar’s wife. In the same villa as Cleopatra and Caesar’s son.’
‘Oh.’ Galronus pulled a face. ‘That could be uncomfortable.’
‘Atia’s a scheming bugger too, Caesar’s niece and Octavian’s mother. She’ll be stirring things up, guaranteed.’
Galronus nodded and shrunk back into the crowd with Fronto as they made their way through the villa, and out into a pleasant peristyle with a bubbling fountain, and box hedges that could grant privacy to those sitting on the delicate marble benches. A small gathering at the centre of the garden near the fountain broke off what sounded like a rather heated conversation, and turned as they approached.
Caesar stopped; the three figures in the garden were clearly not those he had been expecting. Calpurnia, Fronto had not seen for years. A stoic and eminently sensible woman, she took all of Caesar’s extremes in her stride. She had aged a little but was still a handsome woman. Her face maintained a carefully neutral expression, and the reason was perhaps standing close by. The second figure Fronto recognised all too well. Cleopatra’s husband, and fourteen year old brother, Ptolemy, was unlikely to be thoroughly welcome in Calpurnia’s home, though more so surely than his wife, of whom there was no sign in the garden. The third figure was Atia, who Fronto remembered very well. Atia looked focused, tense.
Even as Caesar stepped forward again, a fourth figure emerged from behind one of the hedges. Octavian had grown immeasurably since the last time Fronto had seen him, and a quick mental calculation confirmed that he wasn’t a boy any more. At eighteen, Octavian had become a lithe but well-proportioned young man with the smooth jaw and intense eyes of the Julii. Standing close to both Caesar and Atia there could be no denying his lineage. The young man’s mouth twisted up into a smile at the sight of his great uncle, very different from the expression Atia maintained.
‘I expected there to be a two-year old here as well,’ Caesar said, his surprise and disappointment robbing him of much needed subtlety.
Calpurnia gave him a meaningful look, which he ignored, as Ptolemy looked faintly panicked and Atia remained silent. Octavian spoke, and the youthful squeak gone, his voice was so similar to Caesar’s that Fronto was momentarily taken aback.
‘Auspicious timing, Caesar,’ the young man said. ‘Had you arrived last night the house would have been in chaos. Young Caesarion was extremely ill. We have had physicians in attendance half the night, dealing with his vomiting and gastric troubles. I investigated and discovered that it appears the boy had been left alone too long in the gardens and had decided to try oleander as a new taste. Fortunately it appears he stopped short of a fatal dose, and is now recovering, though he will be weak for a few days, the physicians tell us. Cleopatra is with him.’
Caesar’s face paled at the news, but if he had hoped to then visit his infant son, he was mistaken, for Atia stepped forward, in front of Octavian. ‘I need to speak with you, Gaius.’
Caesar, brow creased with concern and now thoroughly on the back foot, nodded and followed obediently as Atia led him away from the group. Away, Fronto suspected, from Ptolemy and Calpurnia, specifically. Hirtius struck up an exchange of polite small talk with Caesar’s wife, and the gathering of officers began to murmur in quiet conversation. Fronto and Galronus shifted slightly to the side, away from the gathering, and, as they stopped beside a hedge, Fronto realised with a touch of guilt, that he could now just hear the voices of Caesar and Atia on the far side of the green barricade.
‘…and she is less than comfortable with that woman staying here, even with her husband. In truth, I cannot blame her. Calpurnia and I rarely see eye to eye, but your eastern whore has no place in Rome, and the people are beginning to mutter the same.’
Caesar’s reply came in cold tones. ‘I do not have to explain my relationships to the populace. Calpurnia and I have always had an understanding. She is my wife, not my love. She has always been perfectly content to look the other way.’
‘Not when there is a child, you fool,’ Atia spat. ‘That boy is the walking, gurgling proof of your affair with that Aegyptian heifer, and he is under Calpurnia’s nose every waking hour. Gods, but when the boy nearly poisoned himself last night I almost blamed Calpurnia. She would certainly not weep over your loss.’
‘Atia…’
‘Anyway, that is not the matter I wished to discuss, though it has some bearing.’
Galronus, looking somewhat embarrassed, jerked his thumb, suggesting they move away, but Fronto shook his head and waved his friend to stillness, listening intently.
‘Did you register your new will?’ Atia asked in a meaningful tone.
There was a pause. Then: ‘No.’
‘So your original will stands. Sextus inherits all?’
‘Sextus is my closest relative, the only one of my great nephews descended through a male line. The rest are all through sisters, and you know the way of this, Atia. He was always going to inherit.’
‘Then you’ve not heard.’
Another pause. ‘Heard what, Atia? You speak in clipped riddles as always. Speak plain.’
‘Sextus is dead, Gaius. He died in battle against one of Pompey’s old soldiers out in Syria. Word arrived in Rome yesterday. It is said that Syria is in open revolt.’
Fronto closed his eyes, wincing, and clenched his teeth. The news of Caesar’s great nephew, one of the four, and one of the better blossoms of the Julian tree, was bad, but the news that Syria had revolted was appalling. Yesterday only Hispania remained before Rome was quelled. Now there were two trouble spots, on opposite sides of the republic.
‘Your will is null and void, Gaius,’ Atia went on. ‘Worthless. And you keep launching yourself into stupid wars where I half expect you to get yourself killed. Do you really want the courts to settle your estate? You told me more than half a decade ago, when you were still invading Gaul, that you planned to alter your will in favour of Octavian. You promised me.’
Caesar’s tone hardened. ‘Who I make my heir is my business Atia. I have – had – four great nephews, and now I have a son to consider also.’
‘You cannot make that half-Aegyptian your heir. Son he may be, but he’s illegitimate and you know it. Everyone knows it. You pass your estate to Caesarion and you will be the laughing stock of Rome. You would be pelted with rotten fruit in the streets. No one wants an Aegyptian ruling Rome.’
‘I do not rule Rome, Atia.’
A snort. ‘You can play whatever word games you like with the senate, Gaius, but I’m no drooling old fool. I know what you are, and I know your ambitions. I know what you would be. You cannot name Caesarion, and you know that even if you won’t admit it. Sextus was a good, true Roman, but he’s gone. Pinarius is too young to take on such responsibility, younger even than Octavian. Pedius is brave and noble, but he’s not got a political bone in his body. He’s good with your troops, but can you picture him dealing with the senate?’
‘No,’ admitted Caesar. ‘No, Pedius is a worthy nephew, but he will never be a good politician.’
‘But Octavian is old enough and you know him. You know he’s clever, wily, ambitious and strong. Gods, but he reminds me so much of you it makes me sick some times. When I say you promised me that will, I mean it. You know Octavian is the prime choice.’
Caesar sighed. ‘He is clever. I’m not sure he’s a soldier. If he cannot command the army’s respect then he is no better than Pedius. One a general, the other a politician. Perhaps I should take him to Hispania? Test his mettle?’
‘You put him on a ship to your war, Gaius, and I will follow you and claw out your eyes. He may be a grown man, now, but he is still my son.’
‘Atia, he is of the age. A tribune’s position is appropriate now.’
‘Yes, but somewhere safe. Send him to Illyricum, or Narbo, or Greece. I will not have my uncle and my son both putting their necks on the line on the same battlefield, Gaius.’
‘I cannot name him if he is untested, Atia, any more than I can name Pedius. Whoever takes up my mantle when I meet my end has to be an accomplished politician and general both. Without that sort of hand on the steering oar, the republic will founder and fail, Atia.’
‘Then you had best hope you live forever,’ Atia said acidly. ‘Look to your safety in Hispania. If you will not make good on your promise, then the courts will split your estate.’
‘Atia…’ Caesar began, but she was already walking away.
Tactfully, Fronto and Galronus shuffled back towards the chatting gathering as first Atia and then Caesar returned to view. The general’s face was dark, his mouth a thin, tight line.
‘Change of plan, gentlemen. I must visit my son and spend time with him. I will send for you all when there is better need for a consultation. For now, thank you for your ongoing service and enjoy a much needed rest in Rome. Hispania can wait for a while.’
Dismissed, the group scattered, mostly returning to the drive out front and finding their horses and slaves, Hirtius, Brutus and Antonius remaining in the villa, speaking to Calpurnia and Atia as the general disappeared indoors. Fronto and Galronus slipped quietly from the villa and found their horses. For a quarter of an hour they rode through the city, back across the bridge, discussing what they had heard, and finally climbed the street on the Aventine and closed on the Falerii’s town house in Rome. As they neared the door, Galronus pointed to the smoke curling out from the roof. ‘Your slaves must have known you were coming and started warming the baths.’
Fronto nodded. Good. He’d hoped they were still maintaining the place and that it wouldn’t be cold and unused. Reaching the door, he rapped on it and waited until the door swung gently inwards. An ebony face with flashing white eyes and shining teeth appeared in the gap.
‘Well bugger me,’ said Masgava.