Matters had not gone well for Judaea since the death of old Queen Alexandra in the same year Cleopatra had been born; the widow of the formidable Alexander Jannaeus, she managed to rule sitting in a disintegrating Syria. Among her own Jewish people, however, her efforts were not universally admired or appreciated, for her sympathies were entirely Pharisaic; whatever she did was unacceptable to the Sadducees, the schismatic Samaritans, the heretical up-country Galilaeans, and the non-Jewish population of the Decapolis. Judaea was in a state of religious flux.
Queen Alexandra had two sons, Hyrcanus and Aristobulus. After her husband’s death she chose the elder, Hyrcanus, to succeed her, probably because he wouldn’t give her any arguments. She made him high priest at once, but died before she could cement his power. No sooner was she buried than his younger brother seized both the high priesthood and the throne.
But the most naturally able man at the Jewish court was an Idu-maean, Antipater; a great friend of Hyrcanus’s, he had a long-standing feud with Aristobulus, so when Aristobulus usurped power, he rescued Hyrcanus and the pair of them fled. They took refuge with King Aretas in the Arab country of Nabataea, enormously rich because of its trade with the Malabar coast of India and the island of Taprobane. Antipater was married to King Aretas’s niece, Cypros; it had been a love match that cost Antipater any chance of assuming the Jewish throne himself, for it meant that his four sons and one daughter were not Jewish.
The war between Hyrcanus/Antipater and Aristobulus raged on and on, complicated by the sudden appearance of Rome as a power in Syria; Pompey the Great arrived to make Syria a Roman province in the aftermath of the defeat of Mithridates the Great and his Armenian ally, Tigranes. The Jews rose and put Pompey’s temper out dreadfully; he had to march on Jerusalem and take it instead of wintering comfortably in Damascus. Hyrcanus was appointed high priest, but Judaea itself was made a part of the new Roman Syrian province, stripped of all autonomy.
Aristobulus and his sons continued to make trouble, assisted by a series of ineffectual Roman governors of Syria. Finally there arrived Aulus Gabinius, a friend and supporter of Caesar’s and no mean military man himself. He confirmed Hyrcanus as high priest and dowered him with five regions as an income—Jerusalem, Galilaean Sepphora, Gazara, Amathus and Jericho. An outraged Aristobulus contested him, Gabinius fought a short, sharp and effective war, and Aristobulus and one son found themselves on a ship for Rome a second time. Gabinius set out for Egypt to put Ptolemy Auletes back on his throne, fervently helped by Hyrcanus and his aide Antipater. Thanks to them, Gabinius had no difficulty forcing the Egyptian frontier north of Pelusium, whose Jewish population did not oppose him.
Marcus Licinius Crassus, boon companion of Caesar’s and the next governor of Syria, inherited a peaceful province, even around Judaea. Alas for the Jews, Crassus was no respecter of local religions, customs and entitlements; he marched into the Great Temple and removed everything of value it contained, including two thousand talents of gold stored in the Holy of Holies. High priest Hyrcanus cursed him in the name of the Jewish god, and Crassus perished shortly thereafter at Carrhae. But the loot from the Great Temple was never returned.
Then came the unofficial governorship of a mere quaestor, Gaius Cassius Longinus, the only survivor of any importance from Carrhae. Despite his ineligibility, Cassius calmly assumed the reins of government in Syria, and started to tour the province to shore it up against certain Parthian invasion. In Tyre he met Antipater, who tried to explain the complications of religion and race in southern Syria, and why the Jews perpetually fought on two fronts—between religious factions, and against any foreign power which sought to impose discipline. When Cassius managed to round up two legions, he blooded them on an army of Galilaeans intent on destroying Hyrcanus. Shortly after that, the Parthians did invade, and the thirty-year-old quaestor Gaius Cassius was the only general between the Parthian army and its conquest of Syria. Cassius acquitted himself brilliantly, beat the Parthian hordes decisively, and drove Prince Pacorus of the Parthians out.
So when Caesar’s boni enemy Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus finally deigned to arrive to govern Syria not long before the civil war broke out, Bibulus found a province at peace and all its books in order. How dare a mere quaestor do what Cassius had done? How dare a mere quaestor govern a province? In boni lights, a mere quaestor should have sat and twiddled his thumbs until the next governor arrived, no matter what happened to the province, including Jewish insurrections and Parthian invasions. Such was the mind-set of the boni. In consequence, Bibulus’s manner was glacially cold toward Cassius, to whom he tendered no word of thanks. Rather, he ordered Cassius to quit Syria forthwith, but only after serving him a homily about taking things upon himself that were not a part of a quaestor’s duties according to the mos maiorum.
* * *
Why then did Cassius choose the boni side in the civil war? Certainly not from love of his brother-in-law Brutus, though he adored Brutus’s mother, Servilia. But she was neutral in the conflict, had close relatives on both sides. One reason lay in Cassius’s instinctive antipathy toward Caesar: they were not unalike, in that both had taken military command upon themselves at an early age without the governor’s approval—Caesar at Tralles in Asia Province, Cassius in Syria—and that both were physically brave, vigorous, no-nonsense men. To Cassius, Caesar had accreted too much glory to himself with that stunning nine-year war in Long-haired Gaul—how could Cassius, when his time came, find anything half as glamorous to do? Though that was nothing compared to the fact that Caesar had marched on Rome just as Cassius was entering on his tribunate of the plebs, scattered routine government to the winds, and ruined his chances of making a big splash in that most controversial and immortal of magistracies. Another reason compounded Cassius’s detestation: Caesar was the natural father of Cassius’s wife, Servilia’s third daughter, Tertulla. Legally she was Silanus’s daughter and came with a huge dowry from Silanus’s fortune, but half of Rome—including Brutus—knew whose child Tertulla really was. Cicero had the temerity to make jokes about it!
After plundering a few temples to help fund the Republican war against Caesar, Cassius found himself sent to Syria to raise a fleet for Pompey. Sailing the high seas suited him a great deal more than being an insignificant member of Pompey’s command chain; he found that his military talents extended to war on the sea, and ignominiously defeated a Caesarean fleet outside Sicilian Messana. Then off Vibo, in the Tuscan Sea, he intercepted the Caesarean admiral Sulpicius Rufus—and would have beaten him too, had it not been for Fortuna! A legion of Caesar’s veterans were sitting on the shore watching the battle, and got fed up with Sulpicius’s ineptitude. So they commandeered the local fishing fleet, rowed out to charge into the mass of dueling warships, and thrashed Cassius so soundly that he had to flee for his life aboard a strange ship—his own went down.
Licking his spiritual wounds, Cassius decided to retire east to revictual and raise a few more ships to replace those Caesar’s veterans had demolished. But as he crossed the sea-lanes from Numidia his luck returned; he encountered a dozen merchantmen loaded with lions and leopards intended for sale in Rome. What a windfall! Worth a huge fortune! With the merchantmen in his custody, he called in to Greek Megara to take on water and food. Megara was a fanatically loyal Republican town, and promised to care for Cassius’s lions and leopards until he could find somewhere more remote to conceal them; after Pompey was victorious, he would sell them to Pompey for his victory games. The caged felines ashore, Cassius sailed with a dozen empty merchantmen to donate to Gnaeus Pompey as transports.
At his next stop he learned of the defeat at Pharsalus. Stunned, he fled to Apollonia in Cyrenaica, where he found many refugees from Pharsalus—Cato, Labienus, Afranius, Petreius among them. None, however, was disposed to take any notice of a blooming young tribune of the plebs thrown out of office by civil war. So Cassius sailed off in high dudgeon, refusing to donate his ships to the Republican cause in Africa Province. They can shove Africa Province up their arses! I want no part of a campaign that involves Cato or Labienus! Or that toplofty turd Metellus Scipio!
Back he went to Megara to pick up his lions and leopards, only to find them gone. Quintus Fufius Calenus had come along to take the town for Caesar; the Megarans opened the cages and let the lions and leopards loose to eat Calenus’s men. Instead, the lions and leopards ate the Megarans! Fufius Calenus rounded the beasts up, put them back into their cages and shipped them off to Rome for Caesar’s victory games! Cassius was devastated.
He did learn one interesting fact in Megara, however: that Brutus had surrendered to Caesar after Pharsalus, had been freely pardoned, and was at present sitting in the governor’s palace at Tarsus while Caesar himself had gone off in search of Pompey, and Calvinus and Sestius had marched to Armenia Parva to face Pharnaces.
Thus, with no better place to go, Gaius Cassius sailed for Tarsus. He would surrender his fleet to Brutus, his brother-in-law and coeval—they were the same age within four months. If he couldn’t stay in Tarsus, he could at least find out from Brutus what was real and what confabulation. Then perhaps he could more coolly decide what to do with the rest of his ruined life.
Brutus was so delighted to see him that Cassius found himself fervently hugged and kissed, ushered tenderly into the palace and given a comfortable suite of rooms.
“I insist that you remain here in Tarsus,” said Brutus over a good dinner, “and wait for Caesar.”
“He’ll proscribe me,” said Cassius, sunk in gloom.
“No, no, no! Cassius, you have my word that his policy is clemency! You’re in similar case to me! You haven’t gone to war against him after he’s pardoned you, because he hasn’t seen you to pardon you a first time! Truly, you’ll find yourself forgiven! After which, Caesar will advance your career just as if none of this had ever happened.”
“Except,” muttered Cassius, “that I’ll owe my future career to his generosity—his say-so—his condescension. What right has Caesar got to pardon me, when all’s said and done? He’s not a king, and I’m not his subject. We’re both equal under the law.”
Brutus decided to be frank. “Caesar has the right of the victor in a civil war. Come, Cassius, this isn’t Rome’s first civil war—we’ve had at least eight of them since Gaius Gracchus, and those on the winning side have never suffered. Those on the losing side certainly have. Until now. Now, in Caesar, we see a victor who is actually willing to let bygones be bygones. A first, Cassius, a first! What disgrace is there in accepting a pardon? If the word irks you, then call it by some other name—letting bygones be bygones, for example. He won’t make you kneel to him or give you the impression that he considers you an insect! He was terribly kind to me, I didn’t feel at all as if he deemed me in the wrong. What I felt was his genuine pleasure in being able to do such a little thing for me. That’s how he looks at it, Cassius, honestly! As if siding with Pompeius were a little thing, and every man’s right if he so saw his duty. Caesar has beautiful manners, and no—no—no need to aggrandize himself by making others look or feel insignificant.”
“If you say so,” said Cassius, head lowered.
“Well, though I was too much a constitutional man to dream of siding with Caesar,” said Brutus, having no idea whatsoever of constitutionality, “the truth is that Pompeius Magnus was far more the barbarian. I saw what went on in Pompeius’s camp, I saw him let Labienus behave—behave—oh, I can’t even speak of it! If it had been Caesar in Italian Gaul when my late father was there with Lepidus, Caesar would never have murdered him out of hand, but Pompeius did. Whatever else you may or may not think about Caesar, he is a Roman to the core.”
“Well, so am I!” Cassius snapped.
“And I am not?” asked Brutus.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely, unshakably sure.”
They passed then to news from home, but the truth was that neither of them had much of that to exchange; just gossip and hearsay. Cicero was reputed to have returned to Italy, Gnaeus Pompey to be making for Sicily, but no letters had come from Servilia, or Porcia, or Philippus, or anyone else in Rome.
Eventually Cassius calmed down sufficiently to allow Brutus to talk about matters in Tarsus.
“You can be of real help here, Cassius. I’m under orders to recruit and train more legions, but though I can recruit fairly capably, I’m hopeless at training. You’ve brought Caesar a fleet and transports, which he’ll be grateful to have, but you can enhance your standing in his eyes by helping me train. After all, these troops are not for a civil war, they’re for the war against Pharnaces. Calvinus has retreated to Pergamum, but Pharnaces is too busy laying waste to Pontus to be bothered following. So the more soldiers we can produce, the better. The enemy is foreign.”
That had been January. By the time Mithridates of Pergamum passed through Tarsus late in February on his way to Caesar in Alexandria, Brutus and Cassius were able to donate him one full legion of reasonably well-trained troops. Neither of them had heard about Caesar’s war in Alexandria, though word had come that Pompey had been foully murdered by King Ptolemy’s palace cabal. Not from Caesar in Egypt, but in a letter from Servilia, who told them that Caesar had sent Pompey’s ashes to Cornelia Metella. So conversant was Servilia with the deed that she even gave the names of the palace cabal—Potheinus, Theodotus and Achillas.
The two continued their work transforming civilian Cilicians into auxiliaries for Rome’s use, waiting patiently in Tarsus for Caesar’s return. Return he must, to deal with Pharnaces. Nothing was going to happen until the snows melted from the Anatolian passes, but when high spring arrived, so would Caesar.
Early in April came a ripple, a shiver.
“Marcus Brutus,” said the captain of the palace guard, “we have detained a fellow at your door. Destitute, in rags. But he insists that he has important information for you from Egypt.”
Brutus frowned, his melancholy eyes reflecting the doubts and indecisions which always plagued him. “Does he have a name?”
“He said, Theodotus.”
The slight figure stiffened, sat up straight. “Theodotus?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Bring him in—and stay, Amphion.”
Amphion brought a man in his sixties, indeed festooned in rags, but the rags were still faintly purple. His lined face was petulant, his expression fawning. Brutus found himself physically revolted by his un-Roman effeminacy, the simpering smile that showed blackened, rotting teeth.
“Theodotus?” Brutus asked.
“Yes, Marcus Brutus.”
“The same Theodotus who was tutor to King Ptolemy of Egypt?”
“Yes, Marcus Brutus.”
“What brings you here, and in such parlous condition?”
“The King is defeated and dead, Marcus Brutus.” The lips drew back from those awful teeth in a hiss. “Caesar personally drowned him in the river after the battle.”
“Caesar drowned him.”
“Yes, personally.”
“Why would Caesar do that if he had defeated the King?”
“To eliminate him from the Egyptian throne. He wants his whore, Cleopatra, to reign supreme.”
“Why come to me with your news, Theodotus?”
The rheumy eyes widened in surprise. “Because you have no love for Caesar, Marcus Brutus—everyone knows that. I offer you an instrument to help destroy Caesar.”
“Did you actually see Caesar drown the King?”
“With my own eyes.”
“Then why are you still alive?”
“I escaped.”
“A weak creature like you escaped Caesar?”
“I was hiding in the papyrus.”
“But you saw Caesar personally drown the King.”
“Yes, from my hiding place.”
“Was the drowning a public event?”
“No, Marcus Brutus. They were alone.”
“Do you swear that you are indeed Theodotus the tutor?”
“I swear it on my dead king’s body.”
Brutus closed his eyes, sighed, opened them, and turned his head to look at the captain of the guard. “Amphion, take this man to the public square outside the agora and crucify him. And don’t break his legs.”
Theodotus gasped, retched. “Marcus Brutus, I am a free man, not a slave! I came to you in good faith!”
“You are getting the death of a slave or pirate, Theodotus, because you deserve it. Fool! If you must lie, choose your lies more carefully—and choose the man to whom you tell them more carefully.” Brutus turned his back. “Take him away and carry out the sentence immediately, Amphion.”
* * *
“There’s some pathetic old fellow hanging tied to a cross in the main square,” said Cassius when he came in for dinner. “The guards on duty said you’d forbidden them to break his legs.”
“Yes,” said Brutus placidly, putting down a paper.
“That’s a bit much, isn’t it? They take days to die unless their legs are broken. I didn’t know you had so much steel. Is an ancient slave a worthy target, Brutus?”
“He’s not a slave,” said Brutus, and told Cassius the story.
Cassius wasn’t pleased. “Jupiter, what’s the matter with you? You should have sent him to Rome in a hurry,” he said, breathing hard.
“The man was an eyewitness to murder!”
“Gerrae,” said Brutus, mending a reed pen. “You may detest Caesar all you like, Cassius, but many years of knowing Caesar endow me with sufficient detachment to dismiss Theodotus’s tale as a tissue of lies. It isn’t beyond Caesar to do murder, but in the case of Egypt’s king, all he had to do was hand him over to his sister for execution. The Ptolemies love to murder each other, and this one had been at war with his sister. Caesar, to drown the boy in a river? It’s not his style. What baffles me is why Theodotus thought that in mine, he’d find a pair of ears willing to listen. Or why he thought that any Roman would believe one of the three men responsible for Pompeius’s hideous death. So too was the King responsible. I am not a vengeful man, Cassius, but I can tell you that it afforded me great satisfaction to crucify Theodotus one gasp at a time for days.”
“Take him down, Brutus.”
“No! Don’t argue with me, Cassius, and don’t bully me! I am governor in Cilicia, not you, and I say Theodotus dies.”
But when Cassius wrote next to Servilia, he recounted the fate of Theodotus in Tarsus very differently. Caesar had drowned a fourteen-year-old boy in the river to please Queen Cleopatra. Cassius had no fear that Brutus would write his own version, for Brutus and his mother didn’t get along, so Brutus never wrote to her at all. If he wrote to anyone, it would be Cicero. Two timorous mice, Brutus and Cicero.