The October Horse: A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough
If Caesar did not conquer the Parthians, they would remain a threat that one day would invade the western world. Few political men were gifted with foresight, but Caesar had it in huge measure; the coming centuries unfolded within his mind, and he cared more about them than he did about the centuries already written down in the history books. The Parthians were warlike, a disparate collection of remotely related peoples united by a king and a central government. Rather like Rome, really, save that Rome had no king. But should one man with one idea unite the peoples of that vast empire into a whole that thought the same way, then all other civilizations would be overrun. Only Caesar could prevent that happening, for no one else owned the vision to see what was coming.
The trouble was that Rome wasn’t an indissoluble whole, so Rome in his absence was a ghastly problem. He had decided that the only way to prevent the disintegration of what he had thus far achieved was to give the heart of his universe a system of checks and balances aimed at preventing another man from doing what he had done. Sulla had tried by establishing a new constitution, but it had toppled within fifteen years because it wasn’t new, it was an attempt to revert to the past.
Caesar’s solution was more complex. The res publica was in much better condition now than it had been when he had taken up his first dictatorship. The laws were settling into place, and they were good laws, even if some of the First Class didn’t think so. Business had recovered so well that no one agitated for a general cancellation of debts anymore; his solution of Rome’s financial woes had benefited both debtors and creditors, was hailed by both sides as brilliant. The courts were functioning properly for the first time in decades, juries were no difficulty, privilege was harder to defend, the Assemblies were finally coming to understand their role in Rome’s government, and the Senate was less liable to be dominated by a tiny group like the boni.
The real heart of the problem didn’t lie in any group; if Caesar had failed anywhere, it was in the fact that he had done what he did virtually single-handedly. As an autocrat. And there were other men who believed that they could do the same. In keeping the dictatorship for so long, Caesar had created a changed climate, and he knew it very well. Nor had he found a solution, save to continue as Dictator for the rest of his life, and hope that after he died, Rome would have learned enough to move onward rather than backward. But onward to what? That, he didn’t know. All he could do was demonstrate the excellence of his changes, and trust that those who followed him would see their excellence clearly enough to preserve them.
Which didn’t solve the problem of his five-year absence. At first he had thought that the best way was to take Marcus Antonius with him. Antonius was an instinctive abuser of power. But he had made trouble with the legions, had wanted control of the army in order to make himself the First Man in Rome, if not Dictator. Therefore to take Antonius with him was to run the risk of massive troop mutinies the moment the going got hard. His expedition might turn out to be Lucullus and Clodius in eastern Anatolia all over again. No, Antonius would have to be left behind, which meant giving him the consulship, followed by a proconsular command that saw him the general of his own army far enough away from Italy to keep his thoughts away from Italy.
Only how to control Antonius the consul? First, by keeping his dictatorship, thus leaving whatever forces remaining in Italy under the control of a Master of the Horse. Who would never again be Marcus Antonius. Lepidus would do nicely, save that Lepidus would insist on going to govern a province. Calvinus would have to replace him as Master of the Horse. Secondly, make sure that Antonius was the junior consul. Caesar himself would be the senior consul until he left for the East; after that, the senior consul would have to be a man who didn’t like Antonius—a man who would take great pleasure in keeping Antonius in his place until he went to his proconsular command in Macedonia. There was really only one candidate for this job: Publius Cornelius Dolabella.
Nor would there be any experienced legions in Italy or Italian Gaul. Caesar would garrison the provinces with the professional legions he didn’t take with him, confine military presence within the semi-circle of the Alps to recruitment and training. Sextus Pompeius was abroad in Spain and Carrinas was contending with him, but Sextus wouldn’t submit tamely. Alone as he was, he didn’t present a major threat, but nonetheless it was necessary to put strong governors in the Spains and the Gauls. Men he could trust, men who didn’t like Marcus Antonius.
The time flew so fast that he arrived at his villa outside Lanuvium before he had concluded his deliberations. For one more task still had to be done, a task he didn’t dare postpone any longer: the making of his will. Which was why he had elected to bypass Rome, only twenty miles away. He needed isolation to wrestle with the matter.
The Caesars had always owned estates in Latium, but this villa he had bought from Fulvia after she began selling property to pay Antony’s debts. She had inherited it from Publius Clodius, an architectural marvel left uncompleted because his murder had occurred as he returned from visiting its construction site. Fulvia had hated it ever after, refused to do any further work on it. But Caesar, its new owner, had finished it. It lay in the Alban Hills some way out of Lanuvium and well off the Via Appia, and was suspended over a cliff on hundred-foot-high piers. From its loggia the view was breathtaking, for it looked out over rugged country to the Latin plain and the dreamy reaches of the Tuscan Sea, saw wonderful sunsets every time Aetna or the Vulcaniae Isles erupted and poured smoke into the air, a frequent occurrence. Varro, an expert on natural phenomena, insisted that some huge cataclysm was brewing in Italy’s chain of volcanoes, for the Fields of Fire behind Puteoli and Neapolis were becoming more violent.
Who, who, who? Who would be Caesar’s heir?
* * *
Oddly, he had abandoned all ideas of Antonius the moment he saw that familiar figure waiting in the courtyard of the governor’s palace in Narbo. Though his remorseless physical excesses had never had the power to destroy Antonius’s body, with its barrel chest, huge shoulders and arms, its flat belly, bulging thighs and calves, when Caesar laid eyes on him illuminated by a westering sun, he saw terrible signs of inner decay, of moral erosion and impoverished emotions. Too much high living, yes, but also too much worry over debts, too much brute ambition allied to too little common sense.
Quintus Pedius, excellent man though he was, would always remain a Campanian knight, and that blood was throwing true; his sons were in his mode, neither looked nor behaved like Julians, for all that their mother was a patrician Valeria Messala. Nor was young Lucius Pinarius promising. The Pinarii, once powerful patricians, had foundered long ago. His sister Julia Major had married Pinarius’s grandfather, a wastrel who died soon after; fed up with women choosing poor husbands, Caesar had married her to Quintus Pedius’s father, to whom she had objected at first, then discovered how nice it was to be a rich old man’s darling. His younger sister, Julia Minor, hadn’t been allowed to pick her own husband. Caesar the youthful paterfamilias had found her a very wealthy Latin knight from Aricia, Marcus Atius Balbus, by whom she had had a son and a daughter, that Atia who first married Gaius Octavius from Velitrae in the Latin heart-lands, then the eminent Philippus. Atia’s brother had died without issue.
The choice finally came down to Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus or Gaius Octavius.
Decimus Brutus was in his prime, and had never put a foot wrong. Generaled brilliantly in Long-haired Gaul on land and on sea, and had been a distinguished praetor in the murder court. The one thing Caesar condemned in him was his ruthlessness after the Bellovaci rose while he was governing Long-haired Gaul, but he had accepted Decimus’s explanation that the Bellovaci alone had conserved their strength until after Caesar was long gone, thinking that whoever governed would not have Caesar’s strength of purpose.
Decimus would have to be given the consulship soon. Yet another he had no intention of taking east with him, for very different reasons than Antonius. He needed Decimus Brutus, whom he trusted implicitly,
Gaius Octavius would turn eighteen in latish September, and he loved the lad dearly. But he was too young and too sick. A long talk with Hapd’efan’e hadn’t allayed his fears about Octavius’s asthma, though he had hoped it would, given that there had been almost no asthma during those months in Spain, on the way home. That, said Hapd’efan’e, was because Octavius felt so secure in Caesar’s vicinity. While ever Caesar was a part of Octavius’s world, he would thrive, including on this expedition to the East.
But Caesar’s heir would come into his inheritance after Caesar’s death. Caesar’s heir would be stripped of Caesar’s presence. And death, thought Caesar, cannot be too far away, if Cathbad the Chief Druid was right. He had promised Caesar that Caesar would not live to be a crabbed old man, that he would die in his prime. Caesar has turned fifty-five and has perhaps ten years left of his prime…
He closed his eyes and conjured up their faces.
Decimus Brutus, so blond that he looked bland. Yet on close examination the eyes were steely and intelligent, the mouth firm and strong, the facial planes those of a man to be reckoned with. What told against him was his mother’s fellatrix blood. Yes, the Sempronii Tuditani were dissolute, and he had heard tales about Decimus Brutus.
The Alexandrine face of Gaius Octavius. Faintly womanish, rather too graceful, the over-long hair not a help save to hide those jug-handle ears. Yet on close examination the eyes showed a formidable and subtle person, the mouth and chin were strong, firm. What told against him was the asthma.
Caesar, Caesar, make up your mind!
What was it that Lucius had said? Something to the effect that Caesar’s luck went with Caesar’s name, that Caesar’s luck was all Caesar needed to trust in.
“Let the dice fly high!” he said in Greek, for the second time in his life. The first had been just before he crossed the Rubicon.
He drew a sheet of paper forward, dipped his reed pen in the inkwell, and commenced to write.
VIII
Fall of a Titan
From OCTOBER of 45 B.C. until the end of MARCH of 44 B.C.
1
Ensconced in the Domus Publica and with preparations for his triumph over Further Spain going nicely, Caesar took a trip out of the city to see Cleopatra, who greeted him with frantic joy.
“My poor girl, I haven’t treated you very well,” he said to her ruefully after a night of love that hadn’t seen the slightest chance of a sister or brother for Caesarion.
Her eyes filled with dismay. “Did I complain so much in my letters?” she asked anxiously. “I tried not to worry you.”
“You never have worried me,” he said, kissing her hand. “I have other sources of information than your own letters, you know. You have a great champion.”
“Servilia,” she said instantly.
“Servilia,” he agreed.
“It doesn’t anger you that I’ve made a friend of her?”
“Why should it?” His face lit with his beautiful smile. “In fact, it was very clever of you to befriend her.”
“She befriended me, I think.”
“Whatever. The lady is a dangerous enemy, even for a queen. As it is, she genuinely likes you, and she’d certainly far rather that I intrigued with foreign queens than Roman rivals.”
“Like Queen Eunoë of Mauretania?” she asked demurely.
He burst out laughing. “I do love gossip! How on earth was I supposed to bed her? I didn’t even get as far as Gades while I was in Spain, let alone cross the straits to see Bogud.”
“I worked that out for myself, actually.” She frowned, put a hand on his arm. “Caesar, I’m trying to work something else out for myself too.”
“What?”
“You’re a very secretive man, and it shows in all sorts of ways. I never know when you finish yourself—patratio?” She looked hunted, but determined. “I produced Caesarion, so I know you must, but it would be nice if I knew when.”
“That, my dear,” he drawled, “would give you too much power.”
“Oh, you and your mistrust!” she cried.
The exchange might have proceeded to a quarrel, but Caesarion saved the day by trotting in with his arms held wide. “Tata!”
Caesar scooped him up, tossed him into the air amid shrill whoops of bliss, kissed him, cuddled him.
“He’s grown like a weed, Mama.”
“Hasn’t he? I can’t see a thing of myself in him, for which I thank Isis.”
“I love the way you look, Pharaoh, and I love you, even if I am secretive,” he said, eyes quizzing her.
Sighing, she abandoned that contentious subject. “When do you plan to set out on your Parthian campaign?”
“Tata, may I go with you as your contubernalis?”
“Not this time, my son. It’s your job to protect Mama.” He rubbed the child’s back, looking at Cleopatra. “I plan to leave three days after the Ides of March next year. It’s time you were thinking of going home to Alexandria anyway.”
“It will be easier to see you from Alexandria,” she said.
“Indeed.”
“Then I shall stay here until after you go. It’s time we celebrated your being in Rome for six months, Caesar. I’ve settled in a little, and made a few friends above and beyond dear Servilia. I have such plans!” she went on artlessly. “I want Philostratus to give lectures, and I’ve succeeded in hiring the services of your favorite singer, Marcus Tigellius Hermogenes. Do say we can entertain!”
“Happily.” Still holding Caesarion, he strode across the room to the colonnade outside, and gazed at the topiary garden Gaius Matius had created. “I’m glad you didn’t put up that wall, my love. It would have broken Matius’s heart.”
“It’s odd,” she said, looking puzzled. “The Transtiberini were such a nuisance for the longest time, then, just as I was about to put up the wall, they disappeared. I was so afraid for our son! Did Servilia tell you, for I swear I didn’t?”
“Yes, she told me. There’s no need to fret anymore. The Transtiberini are gone.” He smiled, but not pleasantly. “I’ve wished them on Atticus in Buthrotum. They can carve the noses and ears of his cattle for a change.”
As Cleopatra liked Atticus, she stared at Caesar in consternation. “Oh, is that fair?” she asked.
“Extremely,” he said. “He and Cicero have already been to see me about my colony for the Head Count—I ordered the Transtiberini shipped months ago, and of course they’ve now arrived.”
“What did you say to Atticus?”
“That my migrants thought they were remaining at Buthrotum, but are being moved on,” said Caesar, ruffling Caesarion’s hair.
“And what’s the truth?”
“They stay at Buthrotum. Next month I’m sending another two thousand to join them. Atticus won’t be a happy man.”
“Did publishing Cicero’s ‘Cato’ offend you so much?”
“So much and more,” Caesar said grimly.
* * *
The Spanish triumph was held on the fifth day of October; the First Class loathed it, the rest of Rome loved it. Caesar made no attempt whatsoever to play down the fact that the defeated enemy was Roman, though he committed no solecisms like displaying Gnaeus Pompey’s head. When he passed his new rostra in the lower Forum Romanum, all the magistrates seated upon it rose to their feet to honor the triumphator—except for Lucius Pontius Aquila, who had finally found a way to distinguish his tribunate of the plebs. Aquila’s gesture of contempt angered Caesar greatly; so did the feast laid out in the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus afterward. Stingy and unworthy, was his verdict. He gave another feast at his own expense on the next religiously proper day, but Pontius Aquila was told not to attend. Caesar was making it plain that Servilia’s lover would receive no further public advancement.
Gaius Trebonius promptly strolled around t
“I’m not a fool, Trebonius,” said Aquila, one auburn brow flying up. “She’s a marvel in bed, but do you think I don’t know that she’s still in love with Caesar?”
Some other men had also joined: Decimus Turullius, whom Caesar disliked intensely; the brothers Caecilius Metellus and Caecilius Buciolanus; the brothers Publius and Gaius Servilius Casca of a plebeian sept of the gens Servilia; Caesennius Lento, the murderer of Gnaeus Pompey; and, most interestingly, Lucius Tillius Cimber, a praetor in this year along with several other praetors—Lucius Minucius Basilus, Decimus Brutus, and Lucius Staius Murcus—all members of the club.
In October another man was accepted into the Kill Caesar Club: Quintus Ligarius, whom Caesar loathed so much that he had forbidden Ligarius to return to Rome from Africa, though he had cried pardon. Pressure from many influential friends caused Caesar to relent and recall him, but Ligarius, successfully defended in court on charges of treason by Cicero, knew that he was another doomed not to advance in public life.
Yes, the collection of would-be assassins was growing, but it still lacked men of real clout, names that the entire First Class knew well enough to respect wholeheartedly. Trebonius had little choice other than to bide his time. Nor had Mark Antony made it appear as if Caesar were aiming for kingship and godhead; he was too delighted at the birth of his son by Fulvia, Marcus Antonius Junior, whom the besotted pair addressed as Antyllus.