The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough
“I don’t believe it,” Cato said, mouth tight. “The man is a prolific correspondent, and now, above all other times in his life, he needs to be at the center of things. Caesar, silent? Caesar, not in touch? He must be dead. Oh, what a twist of fortune! To have Caesar die of some plague or peasant’s spear in a backwater like Egypt! I feel—cheated.”
“Definitely not dead, is what rumor says. In fact, rumor says that he’s cruising down the river Nilus on a golden barge feet deep in flowers, with the Queen of Egypt by his side, enough harps to drown ten elephants trumpeting, dancing girls in skimpy veils, and baths full of ass’s milk.”
“Are you poking fun at me, Sextus Pompeius?”
“I, poke fun at you, Marcus Cato? Never!”
“Then it’s a trick. But it makes sense of the inertia here in Utica. That autocratic piece of excrement, Varus, was not about to tell me anything, so I thank you for all this news. No, Caesar’s silence has to be a trick.” His lip curled. “What of the eminent consular and advocate, Marcus Tullius Cicero?”
“Stuck in Brundisium on the horns of his latest dilemma. He was welcomed back to Italy by Vatinius, but then Marcus Antonius returned with the bulk of Caesar’s army, and ordered Cicero to leave. Cicero produced Dolabella’s letter, and Antonius apologized. But you know the poor old mouse—too timid to venture any farther into Italy than Brundisium. His wife refuses to have a thing to do with him.” Sextus giggled. “She’s ugly enough to do duty as a fountain spout.”
A glare from Cato sobered him. “And Rome?” Cato asked.
Sextus whistled. “Cato, it’s a circus! The government is limping along on ten tribunes of the plebs because no one has managed to hold elections for the aediles, praetors or consuls. Dolabella got himself adopted into the Plebs and is now a tribune of the plebs. His debts are enormous, so he’s trying to push a general cancellation of debts through the Plebeian Assembly. Every time he tries, that prime pair of Caesareans Pollio and Trebellius veto him, so he’s copied Publius Clodius and organized street gangs to terrorize high and low alike,” Sextus said, face animated. “As Caesar the Dictator is absent in Egypt, the head of state is his Master of the Horse, Antonius. Who is behaving shockingly—wine, women, avarice, malice and corruption.”
“Pah!” Cato spat, eyes blazing. “Marcus Antonius is a rabid boar, a vulture—oh, this is wonderful news!” he cried, grinning savagely. “Caesar has finally overreached himself, to put a drunken brute like Antonius in control. Master of the Horse! Arse of the horse, more like!”
“You’re underestimating Marcus Antonius,” Sextus said, very seriously. “Cato, he’s up to something. Caesar’s veterans are camped around Capua, but they’re restless and muttering about marching on Rome to get their ‘rights’—whatever ‘rights’ might be. My stepmother—who sends you love, by the way—says it’s Antonius working on the legions for his own ends.”
“His own ends? Not Caesar’s ends?”
“Cornelia Metella says Antonius has developed high ambitions, means to step into Caesar’s shoes.”
“How is she?”
“Well.” Sextus’s face puckered, was disciplined. “She built a beautiful marble tomb in the grounds of her Alban Hills villa after Caesar sent her my father’s ashes. It seems he met our freedman Philip, who cremated the body on the beach at Pelusium. Caesar himself had the head cremated. The ashes came with a soft and graceful letter—Cornelia Metella’s words—promising that she will be allowed to keep all her property and money. So she has it to show Antonius if and when he calls to tell her that everything is confiscate.”
“I am at once astonished and deeply perturbed, Sextus,” Cato said. “What is Caesar about? I need to know!”
Seventeen men gathered in the governor’s audience chamber at the second hour of day on the morrow.
Oh, thought Cato, heart sinking, I am back in my old arena, but I have lost the taste for it. Perhaps it is a fault in my character that I abhor all high commands, but if it is a fault, then it has led me to a philosophy that sits inexorably upon my Soul. I know the precise parameters of what I must do. Men may sneer at so much self-denial, but self-indulgence is far worse, and what are high commands except a form of self-indulgence? Here we are, thirteen men in Roman togas, about to tear each other into shreds for the sake of an empty shell called a command tent. A metaphor, even! How many commanders actually inhabit a tent—or if they do, keep it austere and simple? Only Caesar. How I hate to admit that!
The four other men present were Numidians. One of them was clearly King Juba himself, for he was dressed from head to foot in Tyrian purple and wore the white ribbon of the diadem tied around his curled and flowing locks. Beard curled too, entwined with golden threads. Like two of the other three, he seemed about forty years of age; the fourth Numidian was a mere youth.
“Who are these—persons?” Cato demanded of Varus in his loudest and most obnoxious tones.
“Marcus Cato, lower your voice, please! This is King Juba of Numidia, Prince Masinissa and his son Arabion, and Prince Saburra,” Varus said, embarrassed and indignant.
“Eject them, Governor! Immediately! This is a convocation of Roman men!”
Varus fought to keep his temper. “Numidia is our ally in the war against Caesar, Marcus Cato, and entitled to be present.”
“Entitled to be present at a war council, perhaps, but not entitled to watch thirteen Roman noblemen make utter fools of themselves arguing about purely Roman matters!” Cato roared.
“The meeting hasn’t started yet, Cato, but you’re already out of order!” Varus articulated through his teeth.
“I repeat, this is a Roman convocation, Governor! Kindly send these foreigners outside!”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Then I remain here under protest, and will have nothing to say!” Cato bellowed.
While the four Numidians glowered at him, he retired to the back of the room behind Lucius Julius Caesar Junior, a pokered-up sprig of the Julian tree whose father was Caesar’s cousin, right-hand man and staunchest supporter. Curious, thought Cato, eyes boring into Lucius Junior’s back, that the son is a Republican.
“He doesn’t get on with his tata,” Sextus whispered, sidling up to Cato. “Outclassed, but without the sense to acknowledge that he will never be his tata’s bootlace.”
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere closer to the front?”
“At my tender age? Not likely!”
“I note a streak of levity in you, Sextus Pompeius, that ought to be eliminated,” Cato said in his normal loud voice.
“I am aware of it, Marcus Cato, which is why I spend so much of my time with you,” Sextus answered, equally loudly.
“Silence at the back! The meeting will come to order!”
“Order? Order? What do you mean, Varus? I can see at least one priest and one augur in this assembly! Since when has a legal convocation of Roman men met to discuss public business without first saying the prayers and taking the auspices?” Cato yelled. “Is this what our beloved Republic has descended to, that men like Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica can stand here and not object to an illegal meeting? I cannot compel you to expel foreigners, Varus, but I forbid you to start proceedings without first honoring Jupiter Optimus Maximus and Quirinus!”
“If you would only wait, Cato, you’d see that I was about to call upon our good Metellus Scipio to say the prayers, and ask our good Faustus Sulla to take the auspices,” Varus said, making a quick recovery that fooled no one except the Numidians.
Oh, has there ever been a meeting more doomed to fail than this one? Sextus Pompey asked of himself, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of Cato making making mincemeat out of at least ten Romans and four Numidians. I am right, he has changed a great deal since I met him in Paraetonium, but today I catch a glimpse of what he must have been like in the House on one of those mad occasions when he went tooth and claw for everyone from Caesar to my father. You cannot shout him down and you cannot ignore him.
But, having made his protest and seen to it that the religious formalities were observed, Cato was true to his word and remained at the back in silence.
Competition for the command tent revolved around Labienus, Afranius, Metellus Scipio and none other than the governor, Varus. That so much dissension occurred was due to the fact that the nonconsular Labienus had the best battle record by far, whereas the consular and ex-governor of Syria, Metellus Scipio, had both the legal entitlement and the blood. That Afranius even entered the fray involved his commitment to Labienus, for he bolstered the claims of Caesar’s ex-second-in-command as a fellow Military Man—and consular. Alas, like Labienus, he had no ancestors worth speaking of. The surprise candidate was Attius Varus, who took the line that he was the legal governor of his province, that the war was going to happen in his province, and that he outranked all others in his province.
To Cato, it was a manifestation of luck that the height of feelings made it impossible for some of the debaters to express themselves adequately in Greek, the latter a language that didn’t permit insults to roll like thunder off the tongue the way Latin did. So the argument quickly lapsed into Latin. The Numidians lost the verbal track at once, which didn’t please Juba, a subtle and crafty man who secretly detested all Romans, but had worked out that his chances of expanding his kingdom west into Mauretania were far better with this lot than they would have been with Caesar, no Juba-lover. Whenever Juba thought about that famous day in a Roman court when Caesar, disgusted at the lies, had lost his temper and pulled the royal beard, that selfsame beard smarted all over again.
Numidian resentments were fanned thanks to the fact that Varus had not imported any chairs; everyone was expected to stand, no matter how long the argument raged. An offended request for a chair to ease the royal feet was denied; apparently Romans in their congresses felt quite at home standing. Though I must co-operate with these Romans on the field, thought Juba, I also have to undermine Roman authority in their so-called African province. How enormously rich Numidia would be if I ruled the lands of the Bagradas River!
Four short spring hours of forty-five minutes each saw the argument still raging, a decision no closer, and acrimony growing with every drip of the water clock.
Finally, “There is no contest!” Varus cried, shaping up to Labienus truculently. “It was your tactics lost Pharsalus, so I spit on your contention that you’re our best general! If you are, then what hope do we have of beating Caesar? It’s time for new blood in the command tent—Attius Varus blood! I repeat, this is my province, legally bestowed on me by Rome’s true Senate, and a governor in his province is the highest-ranking man.”
“Arrant nonsense, Varus!” Metellus Scipio snapped. “I am the governor of Syria until I cross Rome’s pomerium into the city, and that isn’t likely to happen until after Caesar is defeated. What is more, the Senate gave me imperium maius! Your imperium is common old propraetore! You’re small-fry, Varus.”
“I may not have unlimited imperium, Scipio, but at least I can find better things to do with my time than wallow in little boys and pornography!”
Metellus Scipio howled and sprang at Varus while Labienus and Afranius folded their arms and watched the scuffle. A tall, well-built man once described as having a face like a haughty camel, Metellus Scipio gave a better account of himself than the younger Attius Varus had expected.
Cato shouldered Lucius Caesar Junior aside and strode to the center of the room to wrench the two men apart.
“I have had enough! ENOUGH! Scipio, go over there and stand absolutely still. Varus, come over here and stand absolutely still. Labienus, Afranius, unfold your arms and try to look who you are instead of a pair of barbered dancing girls trolling for arse outside the Basilica Aemilia.”
He took a turn around the floor, hair and beard disheveled from clutching at them in despair. “Very well,” he said, facing his audience. “It is clear to me that this could go on all day, all tomorrow, all next month and all next year, without a decision being reached. Therefore I am making the decision, right this moment. Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica,” he said, using Metellus Scipio’s awesome full name, “you will occupy the command tent as supreme leader. I appoint you for two reasons, both valid under the mos maiorum. The first is that you are a consular with existing imperium maius, which—as you well know, Varus—overrides all other imperium. The second is that your name is Scipio. Be it superstition or fact, soldiers believe that Rome can’t win a victory in Africa without a Scipio in the command tent. To tempt Fortuna now is stupid. However, Metellus Scipio, you are no better a general of troops than I am, so you will not interfere with Titus Labienus on the battlefield, is that fully understood? Your position is titular, and titular only. Labienus will be in military command, with Afranius as his second man.”
“What about me?” Varus gasped, winded. “Whereabouts do I fit in your grand scheme, Cato?”
“Where you rightly belong, Publius Attius Varus. As governor of this province. Your duty is to ensure the peace, order and good government of its people, see that our army is properly supplied, and act as liaison between Rome and Numidia. It’s obvious that you’re thick with Juba and his minions, so make yourself useful in that area.”
“You have no right!” Varus shouted, fists clenched. “Who are you, Cato? You’re an ex-praetor who couldn’t get himself elected consul, and very little else! In fact, did you not own a voice box made of brass, you’d be an utter nonentity!”
“I do not dispute that,” said Cato, unoffended.
“I dispute your taking the decision even more than Varus!” Labienus snarled with teeth bared. “I’m fed up with doing the military dirty work minus a paludamentum!”
“Scarlet doesn’t suit your complexion, Labienus,” Sextus Pompey said, butting in cheekily. “Come, gentlemen, Cato is in the right of it. Someone had to take the decision, and, whether you admit it or not, Cato is the proper person because he doesn’t want the command tent.”
“If you don’t want the command tent, Cato, what do you want?” Varus demanded.
“To be prefect of Utica,” said Cato, voice quite moderate. “A job I can do well. However, Varus, you’ll have to find me a suitable house. My rented apartment is too small.”
Sextus whooped shrilly, laughed. “Good for you, Cato!”
“Quin taces!” snapped Lucius Manlius Torquatus, a Varus supporter. “Sew your mouth up, young Pompeius! Who are you, to applaud the actions of the great-grandson of a slave?”
“Don’t answer him, Sextus,” Cato growled.
“What is going on?” Juba demanded, in Greek. “Is it decided?”
“It is decided, King—except for you,” Cato said in Greek. “Your function is to supply our army with additional troops, but until Caesar arrives and you can be of some personal use, I suggest that you return to your own domains.”
For a moment Juba didn’t answer, one ear cocked to hear what Varus whispered into it. “I approve of your dispositions, Marcus Cato, though not of the manner in which you made them,” he said then, very regally. “However, I will not return to my kingdom. I have a palace in Carthage, and will live there.”
“As far as I’m concerned, King, you can sit on your thumb and let your legs hang down, but I warn you—mind your own Numidian business, stay out of Roman affairs. Infringe that order, and I will send you packing,” said Cato.
Thwarted and morose, his authority truncated, Publius Attius Varus concluded that the best way to deal with Cato was to give him whatever he asked for, and avoid being in the same room with him. So Cato was shifted to a fine residence on the main city square, adjacent to the waterfront, but not a part of it. The house’s owner, an absentee grain plutocrat, had sided with Caesar and therefore was not in a position to object. It came complete with a staff and a steward aptly named Prognanthes, for he was too tall, had a gigantic lower jaw and an overhanging brow. Cato hired his own clerical help (at Varus’s expense), but accepted the services of
That done, Cato called the Three Hundred together. This was Utica’s group of most powerful businessmen, all Romans.
“Those of you with metal shops will cease to make cauldrons, pots, gates and ploughshares,” he announced. “From now on, it’s swords, daggers, the metal parts of javelins, helmets and some sort of mail shirt. All you can produce will be bought and paid for by me, as the Governor’s deputy. Those in the building trade will commence work at once on silos and new warehouses—Utica is going to ensure the welfare of our army in every way. Stonemasons, I want our fortifications and walls strengthened to withstand a worse siege than Scipio Aemilianus inflicted upon old Carthage. Dock contractors will concentrate upon food and war supplies—to waste time on perfume, purple-dyes, fabrics, furniture and the like is hereby forbidden. Any ship with a cargo I deem superfluous to the war effort will be turned away. And, lastly, men between seventeen and thirty will be drafted to form a citizen militia, properly armed and trained. My centurion, Lucius Gratidius, will commence training in Utica’s parade ground tomorrow at dawn.” His eyes roamed the stunned faces. “Any questions?”
Since apparently they had none, he dismissed them.
“It was evident,” he said to Sextus Pompey (who had resolved not to abandon Cato’s company while ever Caesar was somewhere else) “that, like most people, they welcomed firm direction.”
“A pity, then, that you keep maintaining you have no talent for generaling troops,” Sextus said rather sadly. “My father always said that good generaling was mostly preparation for the battle, not the battle itself.”
“Believe me, Sextus, I cannot general troops!” Cato barked. “It is a special gift from the gods, profligately dowered upon men like Gaius Marius and Caesar, who look at a situation and seem to understand in the tiniest moment where the enemy’s weak points are, what the lie of the land will do, and whereabouts their own troops are likely to falter. Give me a good legate and a good centurion, and I will do what I am told to do. But think of what to do, I cannot.”