While Caesar and Octavius, talking incessantly, made their way up the coast of Nearer Spain to cross the Pyrenees, the seaport of Narbo was experiencing more excitement than it had since Lucius Caesar had used it as his base while Cousin Gaius fought the Long-haired Gauls. An attractive city at the mouth of the Atax River, it was famous for its seafood, particularly the world’s most succulent fish, a very flat creature that lived on the estuary sea floor and had to be dug out of hiding: hence its name, dugmullet.
However, Narbo didn’t really think that the sixty-odd Roman senators who descended upon it at the end of June were visiting in order to dine on dug-mullets. Narbo knew that Caesar was coming, and that these important men were there to see him. That they had chosen Narbo lay in the fact that there was no other place of sufficient size to accommodate so many in a proper degree of comfort. Senators like Decimus Brutus, Gaius Trebonius, Marcus Antonius and Lucius Minucius Basilus were well known from the days of Caesar’s Gallic War; arriving first, the four promptly moved into Lucius Caesar’s mansion, which he had kept in the hope that one day he would have a chance to return to a place he loved dearly. The rest distributed themselves around the better inns or begged shelter with some prosperous Roman merchant; Narbo had a good many, as it served as the port for a lush hinterland that stretched as far as Tolosa, a fine inland city downstream from the headwaters of the Garumna River.
Recently Narbo’s status had risen even higher; Caesar had created a new province, Narbonese Gaul, which extended from west of the Rhodanus River to the Pyrenees, and from Our Sea to Oceanus Atlanticus where the Duranius and the Garumna met at the Gallic oppidum of Burdigala. It thus incorporated the lands of the Volcae Tectosages and the Aquitani. As the capital, Narbo had a fine new governor’s palace where Caesar and his staff would stay after they arrived. Its first incumbent, already in residence, was Caesar’s brave and scholarly legate, Aulus Hirtius.
Mark Antony slept in Lucius Caesar’s house only the one night before Hirtius invited him to the governor’s palace. Which left Gaius Trebonius, Decimus Brutus and Basilus in Lucius Caesar’s house, a state of affairs that suited Trebonius, relieved him. He had decided that it was time to start feeling out certain men on the subject of an untimely death for Caesar.
He started with Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, sustained by that little chat in Murcius’s tavern.
“The only way we’re ever going to have that fighting chance in the elections you talked of, Decimus, is if Caesar no longer rules Rome,” he said as they walked the busy quayside.
“I am aware of that, Trebonius.”
“If you are, then how do you think we can end Caesar’s rule?”
“There’s only one way. Kill him.”
“Once upon a time,” Trebonius said in his mournful voice, staring at a ship anchoring in the roads, “Caesar prosecuted Antonius’s uncle Hybrida for atrocities he committed in Greece. It created a bit of an uproar because of Caesar’s connection to the Antonii, but the Great Man—not so great in those days—said it didn’t infringe the unwritten tenets of families because the connection was through marriage only.”
“I remember the case. Hybrida invoked tribunician protection and halted proceedings, but Caesar had rendered him so odious that he had to go into exile anyway,” Decimus said. “My connection to the Julii is by blood, but it’s quite remote—through a Popillia who was the mother of Catulus Caesar’s father.”
“Is that remote enough to consider joining a group of men dedicated to killing Caesar?”
“Oh, yes,” said Decimus Brutus without hesitation. He walked on, wrinkling his nose at the smell of fish, seaweed and ships. “However, Trebonius, why do you need a group of men?”
“Because I have no intention of sacrificing my own life and career in the cause,” Trebonius said frankly. “I want enough very important men involved to make it seem a patriotic act, one that the Senate won’t have the courage to punish.”
“So you’re not thinking of doing it here in Narbo?”
“All I intend to do in Narbo is sound people out—but only after a lot of listening and observation. I’m asking you here and now because that makes two of us to listen and observe.”
“Ask Basilus, and there will be three of us.”
“I had thought of him. Do you think he’ll be in it?”
“In a flash,” said Decimus. His lip curled, but not from the smells. “He’s another Hybrida, he tortures his slaves. I heard that his activities have come to Caesar’s ears, and that he’ll have no further advancement. Caesar paid him out instead.”
Trebonius frowned. “A history like that won’t add any distinction to our group.”
“Very few know. To senatorial sheep, he’s important.”
Which was true enough. Lucius Minucius Basilus was a Picentine landowner who claimed that his family could trace its origins back to the days of Cincinnatus, though he could offer no proof beyond a flat statement. Having discovered that a flat statement was all that most of his fellow First Class required as proof, he had gone far. A Caesar-appointed praetor this year, he had looked forward to the consulship until word leaked back to him that his secret vice had been reported to Caesar. With a tortured slave to testify. When he had received Caesar’s curt letter informing him that his public career was over, Basilus turned from a Caesar worshiper to a Caesar hater. After four years as one of Caesar’s legates in Gaul, a rude shock to find himself excluded from the inner circle. He had come to Narbo to plead his case, but with little hope.
When Trebonius and Decimus Brutus sounded him out, he agreed to join what Decimus had nicknamed the Kill Caesar Club with alacrity, even jubilation.
Three. Now who else?
Lucius Staius Murcus had come to Narbo confidently, for he knew he stood high in Caesar’s favor; his talents lay on the sea, and he had admiraled fleets for Caesar with flair. However, he had sided with Caesar for the most basic of reasons: he knew that Caesar would win, and he wanted to be on the winning side. The trouble was that he disliked Caesar intensely, and sensed that the emotion was reciprocated. Therefore standing high in Caesar’s favor was a state of being that could change, especially now that there were no more battles to be fought. He had been praetor, he wanted to be consul, yet was edgily aware that, with only two consuls each year, and many men high in Caesar’s favor, his own chances were slender.
Basilus suggested him, but they agreed not to approach Staius Murcus in Narbo. Narbo was for noting names, not approaching.
Certain others in Narbo went on the list of potential Kill Caesar Club members, but all mere pedarii senators, backbenchers with little clout. Decimus Turullius, the brothers Caecilius Metellus and Caecilius Buciolanus, the brothers Publius and Gaius Servilius Casca were noted down. So was a very angry Caesennius Lento, the beheader of Gnaeus Pompey.
On the third day of Quinctilis, Caesar’s party descended on Narbo at last, accompanied by the remnants of the Tenth Legion and the somewhat plumper Fifth Alauda.
Caesar, noted Mark Antony, was looking in the pink of health.
“My dear Antonius,” said Caesar cordially, kissing his cheek, “what a pleasure to see you. And Aulus Hirtius, of course.”
Antony didn’t notice what Caesar went on to say, his eyes on the slender figure emerging from Caesar’s gig. Young Gaius Octavius? Yes, it was! But there had been big changes. He’d never really taken any notice of his second cousin, dismissed him as a future bum-boy who’d be one of the family disgraces, but the lad, though as precious and pretty as ever, now exuded a quiet confidence that said he was doing very well as Caesar’s cadet.
Caesar turned to Octavius with a smile and drew him forward. “As you see, I have just about the entire family with me. All we needed to be complete was Marcus Antonius.” Caesar slipped an arm about Octavius’s shoulders and gave him a slight hug. “Go inside, Gaius, and see where they’ve put me.”
Octavius smiled at Antony unself-consciously and did as he was told. Quintus Pedius was approaching; Antony had to act fast, and did. “I’m here to apologize, Caesar. And beg forgiveness.”
“I accept the one and grant the other, Antonius.”
The next thing they were all there, from Quintus Pedius to young Lucius Pinarius, Caesar’s other great-nephew, a contubernalis with his cousin, Pedius. Plus Quintus Fabius Maximus, Calvinus, Messala Rufus, and Pollio.
“I’d better move out,” said Antony to Hirtius, counting the entourage. “I can stay at Uncle Lucius’s place.”
“There’s no need,” said Caesar genially. “We’ll put Agrippa, Pinarius and Octavius together in a cupboard somewhere.”
“Agrippa?” asked Antony.
“There,” said Caesar, pointing. “Did you ever see a more promising military man in all your life, Antonius?”
“Quintus Sertorius with a face,” Antony said instantly.
“Exactly what I thought. He’s a contubernalis with Pedius, but I’m transferring him to my own staff when I leave for the East. And one of Pedius’s military tribunes, Salvidienus Rufus. He led the cavalry charge at Munda, and did brilliantly.”
“Nice to know that Rome’s still producing good men.”
“Not Rome, Antonius. Italy! Think more broadly, do!”
“I’ve counted sixty-two senators come to bow and scrape,” said Antony as they went indoors together. “Most of them are your own appointees, pedarii lobby fodder, but Trebonius and Decimus Brutus are here, so are Basilus and Staius Murcus.” He stopped to look at Caesar quizzically. “You seem mighty fond of that young saltatrix tonsa, Octavius,” he said abruptly.
“Don’t let appearances fool you, Antonius. Octavius is far from a barbered dancing girl. He has more political acumen in his little finger than you have in your entire hulking body. He’s been my constant companion since shortly after Munda, and I don’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a young fellow so much. He’s sickly and he’ll never be a military man, but the head on his shoulders is old and wise. A pity his name’s Octavius, really.”
A stab of alarm pierced Antony; he stiffened. “Thinking of making his name Julius Caesar by adoption, are you?” he asked.
“Alas, no. I told you, he’s sickly. Too sickly to make old bones,” Caesar said lightly.
Octavius appeared. “Up the stairs, the suite right at the end of the corridor, Caesar,” he said. “You won’t need me now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll see where Agrippa and Pinarius are stowing their gear. Is it all right if I stay with them?”
“I had planned it thus. Enjoy Narbo, and don’t get into any trouble. You’re on leave.”
The large, beautiful grey eyes rested on Caesar’s face with patent adoration, then the lad nodded and vanished.
“He thinks the sun shines out of your arse,” said Antony.
“It’s very pleasant to know that someone does, Antonius. Particularly a member of my own family.”
“Go on! Pedius doesn’t fart unless you tell him to.”
“What of your farts, cousin?”
“Treat me well, Caesar, and I’ll treat you well.”
“I’ve accepted your apology, but you’re on probation, and it would be wise to remember that. Are you out of debt?”
“No,” said Antony gruffly, “but I was able to pay the usurers enough to shut them up. Once Fulvia’s flush again, they’ll get more, and I’m counting on a share of the Parthian booty to finish the business.”
They had reached Caesar’s suite, where Hapd’efan’e was paring some fruit. Antony eyed the Egyptian physician with revulsion.
“I have other plans for you,” Caesar said, swallowing a peach.
Antony stopped dead and glared at Caesar furiously. “Oh, no, not again!” he snapped. “Don’t expect me to sit on Rome for you for five years, because I won’t! I want a decent campaign with some decent booty!”
“You will have it, Antonius, but not with me,” Caesar said, keeping his voice level. “Next year you will be consul, and after that you’ll go to Macedonia with six good legions. Vatinius will remain in Illyricum, and the two of you will fight a joint campaign north into the lands of the Danubius and Dacia. I have no desire to see Rome’s frontiers threatened by King Burebistas while I’m absent. You and Vatinius will conquer from the Savus and Dravus all the way to the Euxine Sea. And your share of the booty will be the general’s, not a legate’s.”
“But it won’t be Parthian booty,” Antony growled.
“If the puny campaigns of the previous governors of Macedonia are anything to go by, Antonius,” said Caesar, keeping his temper, “I predict you’ll emerge from the campaign as rich as Croesus. The Danubian tribes are gold-rich peoples.”
“I’ll still have to share with Vatinius,” said Antony.
“You’d have to share the Parthian spoils with two dozen men of equal rank. And have you forgotten that as the general, you take all the proceeds from the sale of slaves? Do you know how much I made out of the sale of Gallic slaves? Thirty thousand talents!” Caesar eyed him mockingly. “You, Antonius, are a glaring example of a Roman boy who never did his homework and never mastered arithmetic. You’re also a born glutton.”
Caesar remained in Narbo for two nundinae, setting up the new province of Narbonese Gaul and allocating generous, fertile portions of land to the few survivors of the Tenth Legion; the Fifth Alauda was to march east with him to the Rhodanus valley, where he intended to settle its men on equally good land. They were a priceless gift for Gaul, these matchless legionaries, who would marry Gallic women and commingle the blood of two superlative warrior peoples.
“He’s always been royal,” said Gaius Trebonius to Decimus Brutus as they watched Caesar move among the fawning senators, “but it grows in leaps and bounds. Caesar Rex! If we convince all the Romans who matter that he intends to crown himself King of Rome, we’ll get away free, Decimus. Rome has never punished regicides.”
“We need someone closer to him to convince the Romans who matter that he will crown himself King of Rome,” Decimus said thoughtfully. “Someone like Antonius, who I hear is to be one of next year’s consuls. I know Antonius won’t do the deed, but I always have a feeling that he’ll not condemn the deed either. Perhaps he’d go as far as making the deed look respectable?”
“Perhaps,” said Trebonius, smiling. “Shall I ask him?”
As Antony was making a huge effort to stay sober and be of some use to Caesar, it wasn’t easy to get him on his own, but on their last evening in Narbo, Trebonius managed by inviting Antony to look at a particularly beautiful horse.
“The beast’s up to your weight, Antonius, and well worth what the owner’s asking. I know you’re in to the bloodsuckers for millions, but the consul needs a better Public Horse than your old fellow, which must be due for retirement. The Treasury pays for a Public Horse, don’t forget.”
Antony took the bait, and was delighted when he saw the animal, tall and strong without being lumbering, and a striking mixture of light and dark grey dapples. The deal concluded, he and Trebonius walked back to the town.
“I’m going to do some talking,” said Trebonius, “but I don’t want you to answer me. All I ask is that you listen. Nor do you need to tell me that I’m putting my life in your hands by broaching this particular subject. However, whether you agree with me or not, I refuse to believe that you’ll tattle to Caesar. Of course you know what the subject is. Killing Caesar. There are now a number of us who are convinced that the deed must be done if Rome is ever to be free again. But we can’t hurry, because we have to appear to the First Class as the champions of liberty—as truly patriotic men doing Rome a great service.”
He paused while two senators passed. “The oath you swore to Fulvia can’t be broken, so I’m not asking you to belong to the Kill Caesar Club. Decimus thought of the name, which could be a joke as easily as a conspiracy—walls have ears? What I’m going to do is to ask you to help in ways that don’t affect your oath. Namely, by making it seem as if Caesar is about to don the diadem. There are people already saying that, but it’s generally held to be spite invented by Caesar’s avowed enemies, so it hasn’t impressed people like Flavius Hemicillus and Atticus, any of the other real plutocrats. As Decimus says, someone close to Caesar has to make the King of Rome option look a foregone conclusion.”
Two more senators passed by; Trebonius was overheard talking eagerly about Antony’s new Public Horse.
“Now, the rumor is out that next year you will be consul,” Trebonius resumed, “and that when Caesar leaves Rome for the war against the Parthians, you’re to stay in Rome to govern until the end of the year, then start a campaign into Dacia with Vatinius—don’t ask me how I know, just believe I do. I imagine you’re not as pleased as maybe Caesar thinks you are, and I understand why. Booty will be hard to come by. There’s no German treasure like the one in Atuatuca, nor is there a Druid center of worship full of gold votives. You’ll have to force the barbarians to reveal the sites of their burial mounds, and you’re not a Labienus, are you? As for the sale of slaves, who’s going to buy them? The biggest market is the Kingdom of the Parthians, and they’re not going to be buying any slaves while Caesar’s breathing down their necks. But if Caesar is dead, all that changes, doesn’t it?”
Antony stopped, bent to tie his boot; his fingers, Trebonius noted, were trembling. Yes, the message was being absorbed.
“Anyway, as consul-elect for the rump of this year and consul in fact next year, you’re in a perfect position to perform little acts that will make it appear as if Caesar intends to be Caesar Rex. There’s talk of putting a statue of Caesar in Quirinus’s, but what if the Senate voted to give Caesar a palace on the Quirinal alongside Quirinus’s, and put a temple pediment on it? What if there was to be a cult to Caesar’s clemency, only it looked more like a god cult? If you were the flamen, people would have to take it seriously, wouldn’t they?”
Trebonius paused to draw breath, then went on. “I have a great many ideas along those lines, and I’m sure you’re capable of thinking of plenty for yourself. What we have to do is make it seem as if Caesar will never step down, never abrogate his power, and is aiming at being a god on earth. The first step to that is to be a king, so the two can be worked together. You see, none of the members of the Kill Caesar Club wants to be tried for perduellio treason, or even to be castigated for the deed. We aim to be heroes. But that requires the generation of a mood in the First Class, which is the only Class that matters. Anyone lower than that thinks Caesar is a god and a king already, and they love it and love him. He gives them work, opportunities, prosperity—do they care who rules them, or how? No, they don’t. Even the Second Class. What we have to do is turn the First Class implacably against Caesar Rex.”
They were approaching Lucius Caesar’s mansion. “Don’t say a word, Antonius. Your actions are all the answer we need.”
Trebonius nodded and smiled as if they had just enjoyed a meaningless conversation, and slipped inside. Mark Antony walked on to the governor’s palace. He too was smiling.
When the huge cavalcade departed from Narbo the next day at dawn, Caesar invited Antony to share his gig. Not at all put out, Gaius Octavius joined Decimus Brutus in another gig.
“We’re remote relatives, young Octavius,” Decimus Brutus said, settling himself into his seat with a sigh of weariness. The time in Narbo had been a strain, and the strain was going to continue until he could be sure that Antony had not tattled.
“Indeed we are,” said Octavius sunnily.
The exchange constituted the prelude to a journey of innocuous talk that ended three days later in Arelate, where Caesar stayed a nundinum to get the Fifth Alauda organized. When the gigs commenced the haul up the Via Domitia to the Mons Genava Pass, Octavius was back in Caesar’s gig, and Mark Antony traveled with Decimus Brutus. No, he hadn’t tattled. The relief!
“Out of favor already?” Decimus asked. “Truly, Antonius, you need a muzzle.”
Antony grinned. “No, I’m standing well with the Great Man. The trouble is that I’m too big for him to have a secretary there too. The pretty little pansy bum-boy doesn’t take up much room. He’s something, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” said Decimus instantly, “but not in the way you mean it. Gaius Octavius is very dangerous.”
“You’re joking! The strain of waiting to see if I’d tattle has warped your thinking, Decimus.”
“Far from it, Antonius. Do you remember the tale of Sulla’s remark to Aurelia when she begged for Caesar’s life? He wasn’t much older then than Octavius is now. ‘Very well, have it your own way! I will spare him! But be warned! In this young man I see many Mariuses.’ Well, in this boy I see many Mariuses.”
“You’re definitely touched in the head,” said Antony with a rude noise, and changed the subject. “Our next stop’s Cularo.”
“What happens there?”
“A gathering of the Vocontii. The Great Man is bestowing the traditional Vocontii lands on them for their absolute own in honor of old Gnaeus Pompeius Trogus.”
“That’s one thing I have to grant Caesar,” said Decimus Brutus. “He never forgets a good turn. Trogus was a wonderful help to us through all the years in Gaul, and the Vocontii have earned Friend and Ally status. After Trogus joined the staff, they stopped those awful raids on us. Never joined Vercingetorix either.”
“I’m going ahead when we reach Taurasia,” Antony announced.
“Why’s that?”
“Fulvia’s due and I’d like to be there.”
Decimus Brutus burst out laughing. “Antonius! You’re under the cat’s foot at last! How many children have you got already?”
“Only the one in wedlock, and she’s a dolt. All Fadia’s died with her in that epidemic, don’t forget. Not that they were any loss, with a Fadia for a mother. Fulvia’s different. This sprog will be able to say he’s the great-grandson of Gaius Gracchus.”
“What if it’s a girl?”
“Fulvia says she’s carrying a boy, and she’d know.”
“Two boys and two girls by Clodius, a boy by Curio—you’re right, she’d know.”
The Via Domitia came down to the vast river plain of the Padus at Placentia, which was the capital of Italian Gaul and the seat of the governor, Gaius Vibius Pansa, one of Caesar’s loyalest clients. He had succeeded Brutus, so when Brutus and Cassius arrived in Placentia, he hailed them delightedly.
“My dear Brutus, you did a brilliant job,” he said warmly. “To succeed you has left me with practically nothing to do beyond follow your edicta. Here to see Caesar?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, which means you’ll be crowded out with boarders,” Brutus said, a little astonished at so much praise. “Gaius Cassius and I will stay at Tigellius’s inn.”
“Nothing of the kind! No, no, I won’t hear of it! I’ve had a message from Caesar that says his party will consist of himself, Quintus Pedius, Calvinus, and three contubernales. Decimus Brutus and Gaius Trebonius are traveling straight on to Rome, so are the others who’ve managed to keep up with Caesar,” said Pansa.
“Then thank you, Pansa,” Cassius said briskly. “I hope,” he said to Brutus when they took possession of a suite of four rooms, “that we don’t have a long wait. Pansa is tedious.”
“Um,” said Brutus absently; his mind was on Porcia, whom he was missing badly. Not to mention that he was suffering from guilt because he hadn’t dared tell her whereabouts he was going.
The wait was minimal; Caesar turned up the next day in time for dinner. His reaction to their presence was perhaps a little too imperious for Cassius’s taste, but his gladness was genuine.
Seven of them reclined to take the meal: Caesar, Calvinus, Quintus Pedius, Pansa, Brutus, Cassius and Gaius Octavius. In accordance with tradition, Pansa’s wife, Fufia Calena, had not accompanied him to his province, so there were no women present to slow the conversation down with small talk.
“Where’s Quintus Fabius Maximus?” Pansa asked Caesar.
“Gone ahead with Antonius. He did very well in Spain, so he will be triumphing. As will Quintus Pedius.”
Cassius’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. The idea of holding triumphs for victories over purely Roman foes had not occurred to him—surely Caesar wasn’t going to call it a Spanish revolt! Not enough of the Further province had risen for that, and the Nearer one hadn’t participated at all.
“You’ll be triumphing yourself?” Pansa asked.
“Naturally,” said Caesar with a slightly malicious smile.
He’s not even going to bother trying to disguise the fact that the enemy was Roman, thought Cassius. He’s going to revel in this pathetic victory! I wonder did he pickle Gnaeus Pompey’s head so he can display it in his parade?
A silence fell while everybody concentrated upon the food; Cassius was not the only one rendered uncomfortable by the fact that the enemy had been Roman.
“Been writing anything lately, Brutus?” Caesar asked.
Brutus’s sad brown eyes lifted to Caesar’s face, startled out of his reverie about Porcia. “Why, yes,” he said. “No less than three dissertations, as a matter of fact.”
“Three.”
“Yes, I like to keep several projects going at once. As luck would have it,” he went on before his mind could stop him, “the manuscripts were at Tusculum, so didn’t perish in the fire.”
“Fire?”
Brutus went scarlet, bit his lip. “Er—yes. There was a fire in my study in Rome. All my books and papers were burned.”
“Edepol! Is your house in ashes?”
“No, the house is intact. Our steward acted very promptly.”
“Epaphroditus. Yes, a gem, as I remember. You say that all your books and papers perished? I mean, a man’s books and papers are scattered around the four walls of his study, not to mention the tables and desk,” said Caesar, munching on nuts.
“True,” said Brutus, his misery visibly increasing.
The intelligence behind the pale eyes had clearly grasped at a mystery—may even, Cassius decided, have divined what really happened. But Brutus was unworthy prey for this big cat, so the subject was dropped with a lordly command:
“Do tell us about the manuscripts at Tusculum.”
“Well, one dissertation is on virtue, one is on submissive endurance, and one on duty,” said Brutus, recovering.
“What do you have to say about virtue, Brutus?”
“Oh, that virtue alone is sufficient to ensure a happy life. If a man be truly virtuous, then poverty, sickness or exile cannot destroy his happiness, Caesar.”
“Do tell! You amaze me, considering the wealth of your experience. A Stoic’s argument that should please Porcia. My most sincere congratulations on your marriage,” said Caesar gravely.
“Oh, thank you. Thank you.”
“Submissive endurance—is it a virtue?” Caesar asked, then answered his own question. “Absolutely not!”
Calvinus laughed. “A Caesarean answer.”
“A man’s answer,” said a voice from the end of the far couch. “Endurance is a genuine virtue, but submissiveness is a quality admirable only in women,” Octavius declared.
Cassius’s eyes went from Brutus’s discomfiture to the lad, their brown depths surprised. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he didn’t consider anyone as womanish as this presumptuous sprig an authority on men’s answers, but again he suppressed his impulse. What stopped him was Caesar’s face. Ye gods, our ruler is proud of this pansy ninny! What’s more, respects his opinion!
The last course was carried out; only the wine and water remained. What a curious dinner, how fraught with hidden tensions. Cassius found it difficult to decide exactly where the source of these stresses was located. At first, inevitably, he had blamed Caesar, but the longer the meal went on, the more he thought that young Gaius Octavius was the guilty party. He stood on incredibly good terms with his great-uncle, so much was evident. What he said—when he said anything—was listened to as if he were a legate, not a lowly cadet. Nor was it Caesar alone; Calvinus and Pedius hung upon Octavius’s lips too. Yet Cassius couldn’t call the youth impudent, rude, forward, even conceited. Most of the time he lay among the shadows, left the conversation to his elders. Except for those sudden, uncannily prescient, occasionally barbative, remarks. Uttered quietly but firmly. You, Gaius Octavius, said Cassius to himself, are a deep one.
“Now to business,” said Caesar, so unexpectedly that Cassius was jerked out of his ruminations about Gaius Octavius.
“Business?” Pansa asked, startled.
“Yes, but not provincial business, Pansa, so relax. Marcus Brutus—Gaius Cassius—I have praetorships going begging next year,” Caesar said. “Brutus, I’m offering you praetor urbanus. Cassius, I’m offering you praetor peregrinus. Will you accept?”
“Yes, please!” cried Brutus, lighting up.
“Yes, I accept,” said Cassius, less joyfully.
“I believe that urban praetor best suits your talents, Brutus, whereas foreign praetor suits Cassius better. With your love of meticulous work, you’ll issue the right kind of edicta and stick to them,” said Caesar to Brutus. He turned then to Cassius. “As for you, Cassius, you’ve had a great deal of experience with non-citizens, you travel hard and fast, and you think on your feet. Therefore, foreign praetor.”
Ah! thought Cassius, lying back limply. It has been worth the trip. So Dolabella thinks to have Syria, does he?
Brutus was in a state of exaltation. Urban praetor! The top job! Oh, Porcia will understand, I know she will!
They look, thought Octavius, like cats in a lake of cream.