The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough
“My heart’s knocking at my ribs, Gaius. Go on, do.”
“I don’t have an abacus to hand, but my arithmetic isn’t bad, even when I have to do the sums in my head. Fifteen legions times five thousand men times one thousand per capita per annum adds up to about seventy-five million sesterces. Which are three thousand talents of silver. Add another—say, three hundred talents to pay the noncombatants, and then double the figure to make it two years’ pay, and you have six thousand, six hundred talents of silver. That is far short of the eighteen thousand Antonius removed,” said Caesar.
“He’s been living mighty high,” said Lucius, sighing. “I know he’s not paying rent for using Magnus’s various residences, but that ghastly armor he’s wearing would have cost a fortune to start with. Then there’s the armor his sixty Germans wear. Plus the wine, the women, the entourage—my nephew, I think, is drowning in debt and decided he’d better empty the Treasury the moment he heard you were in Italy.”
“He should have emptied it months ago,” said Caesar.
“Do you think he’s been working on the legions to disaffect them by not paying them and blaming you?” Lucius asked.
“Undoubtedly. Were he as organized as Decimus Brutus or as cognizantly ambitious as Gaius Cassius, we’d be deeper in the shit than we are. Our Antonius has high ideas, but no method.”
“He’s a plotter, not a planner.”
“Indeed.” A thick white goat’s cheese looked appetizing; Caesar scooped some on to another stick of celery.
“When do you intend to pounce, Gaius?”
“I’ll know because my legions will tell me,” Caesar said. A spasm of pain crossed his face, he put the tidbit down quickly and pressed his hand against his chest.
“Gaius! Are you all right?”
How to tell a dear friend that the pain is not of the body? Not my legions! O Jupiter Optimus Maximus, not my legions! Two years ago it would not have occurred to me, but I learned from the mutiny of the Ninth. I trust none of them now, even the Tenth. Caesar trusts none of them now, even the Tenth.
“Just a touch of indigestion, Lucius.”
“Then if you feel up to it, elucidate.”
“I need the rest of this year to maneuver. Rome comes first, the legions second. I’ll have six thousand talents minted for pay, but I’m not going to pay anybody yet. I want to see just what Antonius has been saying, and that won’t happen until the legions tell me. If I went to Capua tomorrow, I could squash it in a day, but this is one boil that I think has to come to a head, and the best way to make it do that is to avoid seeing the legions in person.” Caesar picked up the celery stick and began to eat again. “Antonius is swimming in very deep water, and his eyes are fixed on a bobbing lump of cork that spells salvation. He’s not quite sure what form the salvation will take, but he’s swimming very hard. Perhaps he’s hoping I’ll die—stranger things have happened. Or else he’s hoping that I’ll dash off to Africa Province ahead of my troops, and leave him a clear field to do whatever comes to his mind. He’s a Fortuna man, he seizes his chance, he doesn’t make his chance. I want him even farther from the shore before I strike, and I want to know exactly what he’s been doing and saying to my men. Having to give the silver back is a blow, he’ll swim feverishly now. But I will be waiting behind the cork. Frankly, Lucius, I’m hoping that he’ll continue to swim for two or three more months. I need time for Rome before I deal with the legions and Antonius.”
“His actions are treasonable, Gaius.”
Caesar reached a hand out to pat Lucius’s arm. “Rest easy, there’ll be no treason trials within the family. I’ll cut our relative off from salvation, but I’ll leave him his head.” He chuckled. “Both his heads. After all, a great deal of his thinking is done with his prick.”
2
When Sulla had returned from the East with his fabled beauty utterly destroyed, to march on Rome a second time, he was appointed (by his own arrangement, something he preferred not to mention) the Dictator of Rome.
For several nundinae he seemed to do nothing. But a few more observant people noticed a crabbed little old man muffled in a cloak walking all over the city, from Colline Gate to Capena Gate, from the Circus Flaminius to the Agger. It was Sulla, walking patiently up mean alleys and down main roads to see for himself what Rome needed—how he, the Dictator, was going to mend her, broken as she was by twenty years of foreign and civil wars.
Now Caesar was Dictator, a younger man whose beauty still sat fair upon him, and Caesar too walked from Colline Gate to Capena Gate, from the Circus Flaminius to the Agger, up mean alleys and down main roads, to see for himself what Rome needed—how he, the Dictator, was going to mend her, broken as she was by fifty-five years of foreign and civil wars.
Both Dictators had lived in the city’s worst stews as children and young men, seen at first hand the poverty, the crime, the vice, the rough justice, the sunny acceptance of one’s lot that seemed peculiar to the Roman temperament. But whereas Sulla had yearned for retirement to a world of the flesh, Caesar knew only that for as long as he lived, he must continue to work. His solace was work, for his life force was intellectual—he had no powerful urges of the flesh crying within him to be gratified, as had Sulla.
No need for Sulla’s anonymity. Caesar walked openly and was happy to stop and listen to anyone, from the old crones who ran the public latrines to the latest generation of Decumii who ran the gangs selling protection to shops and small businesses. He talked to Greek freedmen, to mothers dragging children as well as produce, to Jews, to Roman citizens of the Fourth and Fifth Classes, to Head Count laborers, to schoolteachers, to pasty vendors, bakers, butchers, herbalists and astrologers, landlords and tenants, makers of wax imagines, sculptors, painters, physicians, tradesmen. In Rome, a number of these people were women, who worked as potters, carpenters, physicians, all sorts; only upper-class women were not allowed to have jobs or a trade.
He himself was a landlord; he still owned Aurelia’s insula apartment block, now in the charge of Burgundus’s eldest son, Gaius Julius Arvernus, also his business manager. The half German, half Gallic Arvernus (born free) had been personally trained by Caesar’s mother, who had the best head for figures and accounts of anyone he had ever known, even including Crassus and Brutus. So he talked to Arvernus a great deal.
This is what it is really all about, he would think exultantly as he left Arvernus’s company—two absolutely barbarian ex-slaves in Burgundus and Cardixa had produced seven absolutely Roman sons! Oh, perhaps they had had a few extra advantages—owners who freed properly, popped them into rural tribes so their votes counted, educated them and encouraged them to acquire status, but all that aside, they were Roman to the core.
And if that could work, as work it obviously did, why not the opposite? Take Head Count Romans too poor to belong to one of the five Classes and ship them off into the world to settle in foreign places, bring Rome to the provinces, replace Greek with Latin as the lingua mundi. Old Gaius Marius had tried to do it, but it offended the mos maiorum, it destroyed Roman exclusivity. Well, that was sixty years ago, and everything had changed. Marius’s mind had shattered, he degenerated into a butchering madman. Whereas Caesar’s mind was growing ever sharper, and Caesar was the Dictator—there was no one to gainsay him, especially now that the boni were not a force in politics.
First and most important was to settle the question of debt. It had to take precedence over visits to see old friends as well as a meeting of the Senate, which he had not yet called. Four days after entering Rome he convoked the Popular Assembly, which was the comitia permitting the attendance of patricians as well as plebeians. The Well of the Comitia, a bowl in the lower Forum stepped down in tiers, used to be the place where the Assemblies met, but it was now in the process of being demolished to make way for Caesar’s new Senate House, so Caesar called his meeting at the temple of Castor and Pollux.
Though his normal speaking voice was deep, Caesar pitched it high for public oratory; it
There would be no general cancellation of debts, he announced in tones that brooked no argument.
“How can Caesar possibly cancel debts?” he asked, hands out wryly. “In me, you see Rome’s greatest debtor! Yes, I borrowed from the Treasury—a huge amount! It has to be paid back, Quirites, it has to be paid back at my new, uniform rate of interest on all loans—ten percent simple. And I won’t have any objections to that either! Think! If the money I borrowed isn’t paid back, where is the money for the grain dole to come from? The money to repair the Forum? The money to fund Rome’s legions? The money to build roads, bridges, aqueducts? The money to pay the public slaves? The money to build more granaries? The money to fund the games? The money to add a new reservoir to the Esquiline?”
The crowd was quiet and attentive, not as disappointed or angry as it might have been with a different beginning.
“Cancel debt, and Caesar doesn’t have to pay Rome back one sestertius! He can sit with his feet on his desk and sigh in content, he doesn’t need to shed a tear because the Treasury is empty. He doesn’t owe Rome any money, his debt is canceled along with all the other debts. Now we can’t have that, can we? It’s ridiculous! And so, Quirites, because Caesar is an honest man who believes that debts must be repaid, he must say no to a general cancellation.”
Oh, very clever! thought Lucius Caesar, enjoying himself.
But, Caesar went on, there would be a measure of relief, there had to be. He understood how hard the times were. Roman landlords would have to accept a reduction of two thousand a year in rent, Italian landlords a reduction of six hundred. Later he would announce other measures of relief and negotiate a settlement of outstanding debts that would be of benefit to both sides of the debt equation. But they would have to be patient a little longer, because when relief came, it had to be absolutely fair and impartial, which took time to work out.
Next he announced a new fiscal policy, again not to come into effect immediately—oh, the paperwork! Namely, that the state would borrow money from private firms and individuals, and from other cities and districts throughout Italy and the whole Roman world. Client-kings would be asked if they would like to become Rome’s creditors. Interest would be paid at the standard ten percent simple. The res publicae—the Things Public—said Caesar, could not be funded from the few taxes Rome levied: customs duties, a fee to free a slave, the income from provinces, the state’s share of war booty, and that was it. No income tax, no head tax, no property tax, no banking tax—where was the money to come from? Caesar’s answer was that the state would borrow, rather than institute new taxes. The poorest citizen could become Rome’s creditor! What was the collateral? Why, Rome herself! The greatest nation on the face of the globe, rich and powerful, incapable of bankruptcy!
However, he warned, those frippery fellows and languid ladies who paraded around in Tyrian purple litters studded with ocean pearls had better count their days, because there was one tax he intended to bring in! No tax-free Tyrian purple, no tax-free extravagantly expensive banquets, no tax-free laserpicium to relieve the symptoms of over-indulgence!
In conclusion, he said quite chattily, it had not escaped his attention that there was a large amount of property belonging to persons who were now nefas, disbarred from Rome and citizenship due to crimes against the state. Their assets would be auctioned fairly and the proceeds put in the Treasury, which was filling up a trifle, thanks to the gift of five thousand talents of gold from Queen Cleopatra of Egypt and two thousand talents of gold from King Asander of Cimmeria.
“I will institute no proscriptions!” he cried. “No private citizens will profit from those unfortunates who abrogated their right to call themselves Roman citizens! I am not selling slave manumission for information, I am not handing out any rewards for information! I already know everything I need to know. Rome’s knight-businessmen are the cause of her well-being, and it is to them that I look to help me heal these terrible scars.” He lifted both hands above his head. “Long live the Senate and People of Rome! Long live Rome!”
A fine speech, couched simply and clearly, free of rhetorical devices. It did the trick; the thousands went away feeling as if Rome were under the care of someone who would genuinely help without shedding more blood. After all, Caesar had still been away when the massacre in the Forum happened—had he been here, it would not have happened. For, among the many other things he said, he apologized for the Forum slaughter and said that those responsible would be punished.
* * *
“He’s as slippery as an eel,” said Gaius Cassius to his mother-in-law, teeth showing.
“My dear Cassius, he has more intelligence in his ring finger than the rest of noble Rome put together,” Servilia answered. “If you assimilate nothing more from Caesar’s company than that, you’ll benefit. How much cash can you lay your hands on?”
He blinked. “About two hundred talents.”
“Have you touched Tertulla’s dowry?”
“No, of course not! Her money’s hers,” he said indignantly.
“That never stopped many a husband.”
“It stopped me!”
“Good. I’ll tell her to have her money liquid.”
“What exactly are you up to, Servilia?”
“Surely you’ve guessed. Caesar is about to auction some of the primest property in Italy—mansions in Rome, country and seaside villas, latifundia estates, probably a fish farm or two. I intend to buy, and I suggest you do the same,” she said, a purr in her voice. “Though I do believe Caesar when he says he doesn’t intend that he himself or his minions should profit, it will follow the pattern of Sulla’s auctions nonetheless—there’s only so much money available to buy. The plum properties will be sold first, and they’ll fetch what they’re worth. After a half dozen are gone, prices will fall until the run-of-the-mill pieces go for almost nothing. Then I’ll buy.”
Cassius leaped to his feet, face mottling. “Servilia, how can you? Do you think that I’d profit from the misfortunes of men I’ve messed with, fought alongside, shared common ideals with? Ye gods! I’d rather be dead than do that!”
“Gerrae,” she said placidly. “Do sit down! Ethics are no doubt splendid abstractions, but it’s sensible to face the fact that someone is going to benefit. If it comforts you, buy a piece of Cato’s land and tell yourself that you’re a better custodian than one of Caesar’s—or Antonius’s—leeches. Is it better that a Cotyla or a Fonteius or a Poplicola should own Cato’s lovely estates in Lucania?”
“That’s sophistry,” he muttered, subsiding.
“It’s plain good sense.”
Her steward entered, bowing. “Domina, Caesar Dictator is asking to see you.”
“Bring him in, Epaphroditus.”
Cassius stood again. “That’s it, I’m off.” Before she could say a word, he slipped out of her sitting room toward the kitchen.
“My dear Caesar!” said Servilia, lifting her face for a kiss.
He obliged with a chaste salute and seated himself opposite her, his eyes derisive.
Older than he, she was pushing sixty now, and the years were finally beginning to show. Her beauty was night from her hair to her heart, he reflected, and that would never change. Now, however, two broad ribbons of pure white slashed through the masses of sooty hair and lent her a peculiar visual malignity that could be nothing new to her spirit. Crones and veneficae have such hair, but she has achieved the ultimate triumph of combining evil with good looks. Her waist had thickened and
“How are you?” he enquired.
“I’ll be happier when Brutus comes home.”
“I imagine, knowing Brutus, that he’s having a wonderful time in Samos with Servius Sulpicius. I promised him a priesthood, you see, so he’s busy learning from an acknowledged authority.”
“What a fool he is!” she snarled. “You are the acknowledged authority, Caesar. But of course he wouldn’t learn from you.”
“Why should he? I broke his heart when I took Julia away.”
“My son,” said Servilia deliberately, “is a pusillanimous coward. Not even a broom handle laced to his backbone could make him stand up straight.” She nipped her bottom lip with her small white teeth and slewed her eyes sideways at her visitor. “I don’t suppose his pimples have improved?”
“They haven’t, no.”
“Nor has he, your tone says.”
“You underestimate him, my dear. There’s a little cat in Brutus, a lot of ferret, and even a trace of fox.”
She waved both hands in the air irritably. “Oh, let’s not talk about him! How was Egypt?” she asked sweetly.
“Extremely interesting.”
“And its queen?”
“For beauty, Servilia, she can’t hold a candle to you—as a matter of fact, she’s very thin, small, and ugly.” His face took on a secretive smile, he veiled his eyes. “Yet she is fascinating. Her voice is pure music, her eyes belong to a lioness, her education is formidable, and her intellect above average for a woman. She speaks eight languages—well, nine now, because I taught her Latin. Amo, amas, amat.”