Marius mules xv, p.22
Marius' Mules XV, page 22
He stomped across to the desk and opened the cupboard behind it, reaching in and pulling out a sheet of high quality expensive vellum. Stepping back into middle of the room, he unrolled it and let his gaze play across the first few lines of text.
‘To my great nephew Gaius Octavianus, henceforth to be known as Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus, I leave my estate, including all property, goods and currency.’
It went on to set a number of conditions and stipulations, and then to secure provision for his wife (not mentioned by name, should he not have managed to divorce Calpurnia and marry Cleopatra by the time it was needed), his other great nephews, and his natural son. There was even a small sum put aside for Brutus.
He read it, top to bottom. Then again.
Then he closed his eyes and pictured Caninius Gallus turning slowly like some child’s toy, a bronze stilus jutting from his neck as blood sprayed. He pictured the swathe of bodies outside his front door. And he pictured Octavian looking back at him, showing not a hint of humility, remorse or apology. Just cold certainty.
With a growl, Caesar crossed the room with the will.
He might have to rethink this, he decided, as he held the corner of the document over the guttering lamp, not quite in the flame. To burn it, or not? It was not yet official lodged, and his instinct was to cut Octavian out, though he recognised that his anger might be driving him to unnecessary extremes.
Damn the lad.
Rome. Late Januarius.
‘You are being complacent,’ Cassius growled. ‘The time to move is now.’
Trebonius shook his head. ‘All things come in time, as the gods will, and what the gods will is Caesar’s death. We know that now.’
Casca nodded at that. ‘Spurinna confirmed it. The gods turn on the despot, clearly, for even the man he brought from Africa to prove his worthiness can prophesy only death. It will happen now. Perhaps we need not even bare a blade.’
‘I’d not taken either of you for fools. How blind of me’ Cassius said.
‘There is no need for insults,’ Trebonius snapped. ‘Caesar will die. We are free of obligation.’
‘No, we are not, you fools. Spurinna speaks for the gods, yes, and he tells us that Caesar will die by the Ides of Martius, but that does not mean we can sit back and cross our arms and wait. It means we must step up plans. There are only two sessions of the senate before he leaves for Parthia, and that will be too late. The second session is out, because it is on the Ides of Martius. Clearly that will be too late. But the session before that is in a matter of mere days, and though I cannot see how we can put everything in place in time, do that we must.’
‘Why? Why must we?’ insisted Casca.
‘Because it must be us, man. The blow must be struck by us. We play the tyrannicides, and we must do it openly, publicly, with pride and with clarity of action. It must be a blow struck for the people, in front of the people. That is why we decided upon a senate session, where everyone can witness the tyrant’s fall. If we simply wait and trust that the gods will act for us, yes Caesar will die by the Ides of Martius, but it may be from one of his fits that he pretends do not happen. Or it may be some gutter thief’s blade. Or an accident. A drowning in the Tiber, or a fall, perhaps. And any of those deaths are the deaths of a normal man. Such a death would take Caesar, but not his legacy. The ideals that he promotes, of one man rule, of an oriental monarchy like the Macedonians, of ultimate power, would not die with him. We could wait for him to die and suddenly find ourselves with a king in the form of Octavian, or Antonius, or even, gods help us, that half Aegyptian bastard. That is why it must be us. He must die by the common will of the republic and its senate, and be seen to do so.’
‘We are too few for such an enterprise. Caesar is no fool. He surrounds himself with men even while claiming to have dismissed his guard. Even without his lictors, there are noble men who cleave to him and who have veritable armies to prevent us coming close. Gods, but Decimus Brutus even has a stable of gladiators.’
‘Then we must thin his ranks and swell ours,’ Cassius said, leaning back.
‘I will not kill others,’ Casca said, with a shocked expression. ‘I agreed to be part of this, because Caesar must be removed. But I am a tyrannicide, not a common murderer. I will not kill noble men like Brutus just because they stand by Caesar.’
Cassius’ lip curled. ‘I am not suggesting we start murdering senators. With sufficient planning, we can neutralise most of these forces of which you speak. But the prime matter is bringing in more men to our work.’
‘More is dangerous,’ Trebonius said quietly. ‘That is why we kept it small from the start. The bigger a conspiracy becomes, the more danger there is of discovery and failure.’
‘We need more,’ insisted Cassius, ‘for two reasons. Firstly to counterbalance those who would protect him. But more importantly, we need men who are above reproach. We need men who even the most reticent senator respects. Men whose very presence among us grants us legitimacy.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as Brutus,’ he said, eyeing Trebonius. ‘It was you who advocated approaching him.’
‘You are mad,’ Casca breathed. ‘He is Caesar’s man. Gods, but is he not actually Caesar’s son?’
‘And yet he is a staunch republican, scion of a line of tyrannicides. And he and Caesar are not currently on the best of terms, from what I understand. And though you lobbied Marcus Antonius back in Narbo in the autumn, I suggest we approach him again. His relationship with Caesar has only become progressively worse since then, and the pair are at odds constantly. Moreover, he knew of the plot and yet he has not revealed it to Caesar. There are plenty of men who might not see Caesar as a would-be monarch, but who can see him as corrupt and dangerous regardless. Such men need to be with us.’
‘You are mad if you think you can bring to our side Caesar’s closest.’
‘Oh I think you will be surprised. Leave it to me.’
The three men took a sip and clacked their cups together. Three expressions of determination now, even if two were tinged with worry.
Tyrannicide.
FEBRUARY
“Not only did he accept excessive honours, such as an uninterrupted consulship, the dictatorship for life, and the censorship of public morals, as well as the forename Imperator, the title Father of his Country, a statue among those of the kings, and a raised couch in the orchestra, but he also allowed honours to be bestowed on him which were too great for mortal man” – Suetonius: Life of Caesar 76.
Chapter Fifteen
Fronto looked left and right carefully, crossing the street towards the imposing gate in the boundary wall of Caesar’s estate. He had twenty armed men with him, let alone the usual senatorial entourage, and his hand rested permanently on the hilt of his favoured hunting knife beneath the folds of his cloak, which protected him from the gentle Februarius drizzle but also hid the military leather tunic he was wearing beneath it.
There had not been an attack on anyone, at least as far as he knew, since the day Salvius Cursor had arrived, exhausted at his house. It seemed that the collegium’s claim that there would be no more killings was holding up, though for how long he did not know, and just because they had been told not to kill did not preclude many other forms of trouble. Killing could sometimes be the less disruptive option for a miscreant. The fact that Fronto had not left the house without feeling eyes on him from the shadows made it clear that Caesarians were still under observation, and it would not take much for that to expand again into violence, he was sure.
Indeed, even as his man hammered on the gate, he could feel the malevolent watchers somewhere nearby. Some days he missed the battlefield, if for no other reason that there you could generally see your enemy, identify him and protect yourself. This kind of war was something else, even if it had paused. This was insidious. Difficult. Frustrating.
The gate opened and they moved inside, out of view of the collegium spies.
Caesar’s men bowed low and led the way, and as he followed, Fronto wondered briefly what Galronus was up to. Probably at the races, he thought wistfully. Faleria seemed to dote on the man sufficiently to make no complaints that she shared his love apparently on equal terms with the circus. Lucilia, he suspected, would be less accommodating should he keep disappearing to drink wine and watch chariots. Would that he were there now. Fronto had made a habit of spending as much time as possible with Galronus recently, knowing now what the future seemed to hold. But Caesar had sent the request with a specification that it was for Fronto’s attendance alone. Curious.
Following the slaves, he climbed that seemingly endless staircase for speed. The winding roadway was much easier, but took at least twice as long, and Fronto suspected he was already late. Arguments with Salvius Cursor had eaten into his journey time, the former tribune, and more importantly Caesar’s guard commander, insistent that he should come, and having to be restrained by Masgava and Aurelius so Fronto could leave alone. He turned his face upwards and regretted it. The drizzle was only light, but it was that sort of miscellaneous rain that you barely noticed until you realised you were soaked. By the time he emerged at the top of the stair, on the hill that overlooked the city, an impressive viewpoint, his knee was shaky and aching, his lungs burned, and his breath was coming in gasps. And his cloak was sodden.
He waved his men to stop then, placing his hands on his hips and trying to recover his breath, turning slowly. The city seemed so peaceful and ordered from up here, like some beautiful model. From here you couldn’t see the limbless veterans begging, the corpses of stray dogs amid the manure, the thieves and arsonists and murderers and, worse still, politicians.
Turning back, he blinked and paused again.
He wasn’t alone after all, despite the invitation.
He recognised Antonius’ horse, stamping impatiently, and Hirtius’ litter, its bearers looking miserable and soggy, and some of the various slaves and guards gathered there waiting, gradually becoming drenched. Fronto, Antonius and Hirtius? Curiouser still.
Gesturing for his men to join the others, he followed Caesar’s slaves in through the door and into the great marble vestibule with its shrine to the household gods, dominated by a beautifully painted statue of Venus Genetrix. Slaves were bustling in the atrium, going about their work, and he spotted Marcus Antonius and Aulus Hirtius standing in the peristyle garden under the shelter of the portico, the light, misty rain drifting down through the air before them. The pair were involved in low conversation, which stopped abruptly at the sound of approaching footsteps, both pairs of eyes darting around, expressions relaxing once more as they recognised Fronto as the owner of the feet. When had even Caesar’s house become a place of guarded exchanges?
‘Gentlemen.’
‘You’re late,’ Antonius grumbled. ‘We’ve been waiting quarter of an hour.’ He didn’t look happy, but then he and Caesar had rarely been at ease together recently.
‘Nice to see you too,’ Fronto smiled. ‘I had to unclasp Salvius Cursor from my leg. He was rather insistent.’
Antonius laughed. ‘That man must be twitching without a war to fight. Never seen anyone so at home covered in blood. Apart from you, of course.’
Fronto snorted and turned to the other waiting man. Hirtius gave him a nod of greeting.
‘What’s this about?’ he asked.
The two earlier arrivals shrugged, and at that moment a slave hurried over to them, eyes on the gravel, rain saturating his wispy hair. ‘If you would follow me, Domini?’
With that, the old man hurried away around the portico, skirting the gardens and allowing them to cross the wide square without stepping out into the rain. They followed together, to the door of Caesar’s office, lit by oil lamps from within, the warm glow of a brazier adding to the golden hue. As they stepped inside, slaves offered to take their cloaks, and the three men relinquished the damp garments readily, shaking themselves and adjusting to both the warmth and the gloom of the windowless office.
‘Expecting trouble, Fronto?’ Hirtius smiled wryly, eying the leather tunic.
‘Always,’ he replied.
‘Probably sensible, given this winter’s events,’ Antonius added. ‘But I always find it chafes under the armpits.’
‘Then it’s sized wrong,’ Fronto replied, recipient of a thousands grazes and bruises from ill-fitting armour in his time.
Smalltalk over, they turned to look at the room’s occupant. Caesar was seated behind the desk, leaning back. At the man’s slightly wavering gesture, the slaves departed, closing the door behind them, shutting out the cold draft, but lowering the light once more. Three lamps was just about enough to read by, but was hardly bright.
Fronto looked the dictator up and down, and narrowed his eyes.
‘When did you last sleep?’ he asked.
‘I caught a few hours last night,’ Caesar said in a soothing tone.
‘So what happened? Another attack?’
‘I invited you here to pool your opinions.’
‘You had another attack,’ Fronto insisted. ‘A bad one. Not long ago.’
Caesar sighed. ‘Yes, I did. Move on, Fronto. We have much to discuss.’
‘They’re happening a lot,’ Fronto persisted. ‘Back in Gaul, months at a time would pass, but you’re having them every other day now. What does the physician say?’
‘He says shut up and pay attention,’ Caesar snapped.
Fronto pursed his lips and frowned, but did so, nonetheless. On the table were three vellum documents, each folded neatly, none yet sealed. ‘Your will?’
Caesar nodded.
‘Three copies?’ Antonius said.
‘Three wills,’ Caesar replied, steepling his fingers. ‘Until recent events, I was comfortable and confident with what I would do, but now I find myself torn. I have my old will still lodged and witnessed, of course, though it is now hopelessly out of date, referencing men who are no longer with us. I am pressed constantly to produce a new will, and I have done so, more than once, and each time I am driven to discard it and draw up a new one, only to find that something happens to make its contents less than desirable. Once, I was decisive, sharp. Now I find I need encouragement. Support. Help,’ he said finally, looking oddly weak.
The three visitors shared a look.
‘Who pressed you, Caesar?’ Hirtius asked.
The dictator gave an odd sigh. ‘Mothers. Wives. Nephews. It is a subject that seems to arise over every meal now.’
‘I was under the impression that you had settled upon Octavian,’ Fronto said. ‘You’ve told me more than once that he would be the natural choice.’
Caesar nodded slowly. ‘I was under that impression too. Tell me what you think of him. Frankly. Hold nothing back.’
Fronto shrugged. ‘He’s more dangerous than an army of howling Germans. More dangerous than a plague in a packed camp. He shows no sign of guilt or remorse, or even regret, at the most appalling of acts. I suspect Hades himself trembles at the mention of Octavian’s name. But he has absolute focus, one of the most intelligent and intuitive minds I have ever come across, and if you are in his camp, then you are safe as can be. He makes me nervous, and I am his ally. I would hate to be his enemy.’
He stopped talking and was suddenly aware that Hirtius and Antonius were staring at him in shock. He shrugged. ‘He said hold nothing back. I like Octavius, I do, but he’s as slippery as an eel and as perilous as a scorpion.’
Caesar gave a low chuckle. ‘Gods, Fronto, but were you here somewhere, hidden, watching him the other day?’
Fronto frowned for a moment in incomprehension, then sighed. ‘I’ve been watching him for years, Caesar. Ever since he became old enough to wield a knife, or… poison mushrooms. Even last year alone I could not count on one hand the number of important people who died at his command.’
‘How does he view Rome, do you think?’
‘Like a game board, I’d say. I think he views everything in life as a game, and he’s determined to win it.’
‘And if he won Rome?’
That was a worrying concept, as far as Fronto was concerned. He took a deep breath. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t thought about it, though. ‘I think he would see it as his personal property. I suspect he already does.’
Caesar nodded, and turned to the next man. ‘Antonius?’
Marcus Antonius gave Fronto a sidelong look, as though Fronto had taken the best seat at the theatre, and now he was sitting behind someone tall while the world’s best comedy went on unseen. ‘Frankly, I’m surprised you bother asking me, since you seem to think my opinion counts for naught.’ The angers passed quickly, though, and he sighed. ‘I would say that Octavian and I have not often seen eye to eye, Caesar. Perhaps I am not the best man to give judgement.’
Fronto winced. That was something of an understatement. Fronto had watched the pair in his own house only a few days ago, and Antonius had looked ready to gut his friend’s nephew over their perceived changes in status.
‘On the contrary,’ Caesar said, ‘I would value such an opinion. My arguments with you, Antonius are always over your precipitous nature, not your mind or skills.’
‘Then I think he is dangerous. More dangerous even than Fronto seems to think. I think he is self-obsessed, focused only on what benefits him, and woe betide anyone who gets in his way. I cannot pretend to be able to predict what that would mean for Rome, should he ever find himself in your position.’
Caesar nodded, moving on, as though all this was not condemning his own flesh and blood. ‘Aulus?’
Hirtius looked uncomfortable with the discussion. ‘If I were to be frank, Caesar, I would say that I see in him that which I see in you, though perhaps with the additional hunger of youth.’
