4. Caesar's Women Page 3

  Though Antistius Vetus's term as governor of Further Spain had been extended, Caesar had not been honor bound to remain there with him; Caesar had not bothered to secure a personal appointment, just taken his chances of a province in the lots. In one way it might have been enjoyable to linger in Further Spain, but the post of quaestor was too junior to serve as the basis for a great Forum reputation. Caesar was well aware that the next few years of his life must be spent as much as possible in Rome: Rome must constantly see his face, Rome must constantly hear his voice. Because he had won the Civic Crown for outstanding valor at the age of twenty, he had been admitted to the Senate ten years before the customary age of thirty, and was allowed to speak inside that chamber from the very beginning instead of existing under the law of silence until he was elected a magistrate of higher rank than quaestor. Not that he had abused this extraordinary privilege; Caesar was too shrewd to make himself a bore by adding himself to a list of speakers already far too long. He didn't have to use oratory as a means of attracting attention, as he carried a visible reminder of his near unique position on his person. Sulla's law stipulated that whenever he appeared on public business, he must wear the Civic Crown of oak leaves upon his head. And everyone at sight of him was obliged to rise and applaud him, even the most venerable consulars and censors. It set him apart and above, two states of being he liked very much. Others might cultivate as many influential intimates as they could; Caesar preferred to walk alone. Oh, a man had to have hordes of clients, be known as a patron of tremendous distinction. But rising to the top he was determined he would! by bonding himself to a clique was not a part of Caesar's plans. Cliques controlled their members. There were the boni, for example: the "good men." Of all the many factions in the Senate, they had the most clout. They could often dominate the elections, staff the major courts, cry loudest in the Assemblies. Yet the boni stood for nothing! The most one could say about them was that the only thing they had in common with each other was a rooted dislike of change. Whereas Caesar approved of change. There were so many things screaming out for alteration, amendment, abolition! Indeed, if service in Further Spain had shown Caesar anything, it was that change had to come. Gubernatorial corruption and rapacity would kill the empire unless they were curbed; and that was only one change among the many he wanted to see. Wanted to implement. Every aspect of Rome desperately needed attention, regulation. Yet the boni traditionally and adamantly opposed change of the most minor kind. Not Caesar's sort of people. Nor was Caesar popular with them; their exquisitely sensitive noses had sniffed out the radical in Caesar a long time ago. In fact, there was only one sure road to where Caesar was going: the road of military command. Yet before he could legally general one of Rome's armies he would have to rise at least as high as praetor, and to secure election as one of these eight men who supervised the courts and system of justice required that the next six years be spent inside the city. Canvassing, electioneering, struggling to cope with the chaotic political scene. Keeping his person at the forefront of his world, gathering influence, power, clients, knight supporters from the commercial sphere, followers of all sorts. As himself and solely for himself, not as one of the boni or any other group which insisted its members think alike or preferably not bother to think at all. Though Caesar's ambition extended beyond leading his own faction; he wanted to become an institution called the First Man in Rome. Primus inter pares, the first among his equals, all things to all men, owning the most auctoritas, the most dignitas; the First Man in Rome was clout personified. Whatever he said was listened to, and no one could pull him down because he was neither King nor Dictator; he held his position by sheer personal power, was what he was through no office, no army at his back. Old Gaius Marius had done it the hard way, by conquering the Germans, for he had owned no ancestors to tell men he deserved to be the First Man in Rome. Sulla had the ancestors, but did not earn the title because he made himself Dictator. Simply, he was Sulla great aristocrat, autocrat, winner of the awesome Grass Crown, undefeated general. A military legend hatched in the political arena, that was the First Man in Rome. Therefore the man who would be the First Man in Rome could not belong to a faction; he had to create a faction, stand forth in the Forum Romanum as no one's minion, yet a most fearsome ally. In this Rome of today, being a patrician made it easier, and Caesar was a patrician. His remote ancestors had been members of the Senate when it had consisted of a mere hundred men who advised the King of Rome. Before Rome so much as existed, his ancestors had been kings themselves, of Alba Longa on the Alban Mount. And before that, his thirty nine times great grandmother was the Goddess Venus herself; she had borne Aeneas, King of Dardania, who had sailed to Latin Italia and set up a new kingdom in what would one day be the home domain of Rome. To come from such stellar stock predisposed people to look to a man as leader of their faction; Romans liked men with ancestors, and the more august the ancestors were, the better a man's chances to create his own faction. Thus it was that Caesar understood what he had to do between now and the consulship, nine years away. He had to predispose men to look upon him as worthy to become the First Man in Rome. Which didn't mean conciliating his peers; it meant dominating those who were not his peers. His peers would fear him and hate him, as they did all who aspired to be called the First Man in Rome. His peers would fight his ambition tooth and nail, stop at nothing to bring him down before he was too powerful ever to bring down. That was why they loathed Pompey the Great, who fancied himself the present First Man in Rome. Well, he wouldn't last. The title belonged to Caesar, and nothing, animate or inanimate, would stop his taking it. He knew that because he knew himself.

  At dawn on the day after he arrived home, it was gratifying to discover that a tidy little band of clients had presented themselves to pay him their compliments; his reception room was full of them, and Eutychus the steward was beaming all over his fat face at sight of them. So too was old Lucius Decumius beaming, chirpy and angular as a cricket, hopping eagerly from foot to foot when Caesar emerged from his private rooms. A kiss on the mouth for Lucius Decumius, much to the awe of many who witnessed their meeting. "I missed you more than anyone except Julia, dad," said Caesar, enfolding Lucius Decumius in a huge hug. "Rome are not the same without you either, Pavo!" was the reply, and using the old nickname of Peacock he had given Caesar when Caesar had been a toddler. "You never seem to get any older, dad." That was true. No one really knew what age Lucius Decumius actually owned, though it had to be closer to seventy than sixty. He would probably live forever. Of the Fourth Class only and the urban tribe Suburana, he would never be important enough to have a vote which counted in any Assembly, yet Lucius Decumius was a man of great influence and power in certain circles. He was the custodian of the crossroads college which had its headquarters in Aurelia' s insula, and every man who lived in the neighborhood, no matter how high his Class, was obliged to pay his respects at least from time to time inside what was as much a tavern as a religious meeting place. As custodian of his college, Lucius Decumius wielded authority; he had also managed to accumulate considerable wealth due to many nefarious activities, and was not averse to lending it at very reasonable rates of interest to those who might one day be able to serve Lucius Decumius's ends or the ends of his patron, Caesar. Caesar whom he loved more than either of his two stout sons, Caesar who had shared some of his questionable adventures when a boy, Caesar, Caesar... "Got your rooms down the road all ready for you," said the old man, grinning broadly. "New bed very nice." The rather icy pale blue eyes lit up; Caesar returned the grin together with a wink. "I'll sample it before I pass my personal verdict on that, dad. Which reminds me would you take a message to the wife of Decimus Junius Silanus?" Lucius Decumius frowned. "Servilia?" "I see the lady is famous." "Couldn't not be. She's a hard woman on her slaves." "How do you know that? I imagine her slaves frequent a crossroads college on the Palatine." "Word gets round, word gets round! She's not above ordering crucifixion when she thinks they needs a lesson. Has it done in the garden under all eyes. Mind you, she do have 'em flogged first, so they don't last long once they're tied up on a cross." "That's thoughtful of her," said Caesar, and proceeded to relay the message for Servilia. He did not make the mistake of thinking that Lucius Decumius was trying to warn him against getting involved with her, nor had the presumption to criticize his taste; Lucius Decumius was simply doing his duty and passing on relevant information. Food mattered little to Caesar no gourmet, and certainly not of the Epicurean persuasion so as he passed from client to client he chewed absently on a bread roll crisp and fresh from Aurelia's baker down the road, and drank a beaker of water. Aware of Caesar's open handedness, his steward had already gone the rounds with platters of the same rolls, watered wine for those who preferred it to plain water, little bowls of oil or honey for dipping. How splendid to see Caesar's clientele increasing! Some had come for no other reason than to show him they were his to command, but others had come for a specific purpose: a reference for a job they wanted, a position for a properly schooled son in some Treasury or Archives slot, or what did Caesar think of this offer for a daughter, or that offer for a piece of land? A few were there to ask for money, and they too were obliged with ready cheerfulness, as if Caesar's purse was as deep as Marcus Crassus's when in actual fact it was extremely shallow. Most of the clients departed once the courtesies had been exchanged and some conversation had passed. Those who remained needed a few lines of writing from him, and waited while he sat at his desk dispensing papers. With the result that more than four of the lengthening spring hours had passed before the last of the visitors left, and the rest of the day belonged to Caesar. They had not gone far, of course; when he came out of his apartment an hour later, having dealt with his more pressing correspondence, they attached themselves to him to escort him wherever his business might lead him. A man with clients had to show them off publicly! Unfortunately no one of significance was present in the Forum Romanum when Caesar and his retinue arrived at the bottom of the Argiletum and walked between the Basilica Aemilia and the steps of the Curia Hostilia. And there it lay, the absolute center of the entire Roman world: the lower Forum Romanum, a space liberally sprinkled with objects of reverence or antiquity or utility. Some fifteen months since he had seen it. Not that it had changed. It never did. The Well of the Comitia yawned in front of him, a deceptively small circular tier of broad steps leading down below ground level, the structure in which both Plebeian and Popular Assemblies met. When jam packed it could hold about three thousand men. In its back wall, facing the side of the Curia Hostilia steps, was the rostra, from which the politicians addressed the crowd clustered in the Well below. And there was the venerably ancient Curia Hostilia itself, home of the Senate through all the centuries since King Tullus Hostilius had built it, too tiny for Sulla's larger enrollment, looking shabby despite the wonderful mural on its side. The Pool of Curtius, the sacred trees, Scipio Africanus atop his tall column, the beaks of captured ships mounted on more columns, statues galore on imposing plinths glaring furiously like old Appius Claudius the Blind or looking smugly serene like wily and brilliant old Scaurus Princeps Senatus. The flagstones of the Sacra Via were more worn than the travertine paving around it (Sulla had replaced the paving, but the mos maiorum forbade any improvement in the road). On the far side of the open space cluttered by two or three tribunals stood the two dowdy basilicae Opimia and Sempronia, with the glorious temple of Castor and Pollux to their left. How meetings and courts and Assemblies managed to occur between so many groups of impedimenta was a mystery, but they did always had, always would. To the north there reared the bulk of the Capitol, one hump higher than its twin, an absolute confusion of temples with gaudily painted pillars, pediments, gilded statues atop orange tiled roofs. Jupiter Optimus Maximus's new home (the old one had burned down some years earlier) was still a building, Caesar noted with a frown; Catulus was definitely a tardy custodian of the process, never in enough of a hurry. But Sulla's enormous Tabularium was now well and truly finished, filling in the whole front central side of the mount with arcaded storeys and galleries designed to house all of Rome's archives, laws, accounts. And at the bottom of the Capitol were other public premises the temple of Concord, and next to it the little old Senaculum, in which foreign delegations were received by the Senate. In the far corner beyond the Senaculum, dividing the Vicus Iugarius from the Clivus Capitolinus, lay Caesar's destination. This was the temple of Saturn, very old and large and severely Doric except for the garish colors bedaubing its wooden walls and pillars, home of an ancient statue of the God that had to be kept filled with oil and swaddled with cloth to prevent its disintegration. Also and more germane to Caesar's purpose it was the home of the Treasury of Rome. The temple itself was mounted atop a podium twenty steps high, a stone infrastructure within which lay a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. Part of it was a repository for laws once they had been engraved on stone or bronze, as Rome's largely unwritten constitution demanded that all laws be deposited there; but time and the plethora of tablets now dictated that a new law be whisked in one entrance and out another for storage elsewhere. By far the bulk of the space belonged to the Treasury. Here in strong rooms behind great internal iron doors lay Rome's tangible wealth as bullion ingots of gold and silver amounting to many thousands of talents. Here in dingy offices lit by flickering oil lamps and grilles high in the outside walls there worked the nucleus of the civil servants who kept Rome's public account books, from those senior enough to qualify as tribuni aerarii to humble ledger enterers and even humbler public slaves who swept the dusty floors but usually contrived to ignore the cobwebs festooning the walls. Growth of Rome's provinces and profits had long rendered Saturn too small for its fiscal purpose, but Romans were loath to give up anything once designated as a place for some governmental enterprise, so Saturn floundered on as the Treasury. Subhoards of coined money and bullion had been relegated to other vaults beneath other temples, the accounts belonging to years other than the current one had been banished to Sulla's Tabularium, and as a consequence Treasury officials and underlings had proliferated. Another Roman anathema, civil servants, but the Treasury was, after all, the Treasury; the public moneys had to be properly planted, cultivated and harvested, even if that did mean abhorrently big numbers of public employees. While his entourage hung back to watch bright eyed and proud, Caesar strolled up to the great carved door in the side wall of Saturn's podium. He was clad in spotless white toga with the broad purple stripe of the senator on the right shoulder of his tunic, and he wore a chaplet of oak leaves around his head because this was a public occasion and he had to wear his Civic Crown on all public occasions. Whereas another man might have gestured to an attendant to ply the knocker, Caesar did that himself, then waited until the door opened cautiously and a head appeared around it. "Gaius Julius Caesar, quaestor of the province of Further Spain under the governorship of Gaius Antistius Vetus, wishes to present the accounts of his province, as law and custom demand," said Caesar in a level voice. He was admitted, and the door closed behind him; all the clients remained outside in the fresh air. "I believe you only got in yesterday, is that right?" asked Marcus Vibius, Treasury chief, when Caesar was conducted into his gloomy office. "Yes." "There isn't any hurry about these things, you know." "As far as I'm concerned there is. My duty as quaestor is not ended until I have presented my accounts." Vibius blinked. "Then by all means present them!" Out from the sinus of Caesar's toga came seven scrolls, each one sealed twice, once with Caesar's ring and once with Antistius Vetus's ring. When Vibius went to break the seals on the first scroll, Caesar stopped him. "What is it, Gaius Julius?" "There are no witnesses present." Vibius blinked again. "Oh well, we don't usually worry too much about trifles like that," he said easily, and picked up the scroll with a wry smile. Caesar's hand came out, wrapped itself around Vibius's wrist. "I suggest you commence to worry about trifles like that," said Caesar pleasantly. "These are the official accounts of my quaestorship in Further Spain, and I require witnesses throughout my presentation. If the time isn't convenient to produce witnesses, then give me a time which is convenient, and I will come back." The atmosphere inside the room changed, became frostier. "Of course, Gaius Julius." But the first four witnesses were not to Caesar's taste, and it was only after some twelve had been inspected that four were found who did suit Caesar's taste. The interview then proceeded with a speed and cleverness which had Marcus Vibius gasping, for he was not used to quaestors with a grasp of accounting, nor to a memory so good it enabled its owner to reel off whole screeds of data without consultation of written material. And by the time that Caesar was done, Vibius was sweating. "I can honestly say that I have rarely, if ever, seen a quaestor present his accounts so well," Vibius admitted, and wiped his brow. "All is in order, Gaius Julius. In fact, Further Spain ought to give you a vote of thanks for sorting out so many messes." This was said with a conciliatory smile; Vibius was beginning to understand that this haughty fellow intended to be consul, so it behooved him to flatter. "If all is in order, I will have an official paper from you to say so. Witnessed." "I was about to do it." "Excellent!" said Caesar heartily. "And when will the moneys arrive?" asked Vibius as he ushered his uncomfortable visitor out. Caesar shrugged. That is not in my province to control. I imagine the governor will wait to bring all the moneys with him at the end of his term." A tinge of bitterness crept into Vibius's face. "And isn't that typical?" he exclaimed rhetorically. "What ought to be Rome's this year will remain Antistius Vetus's for long enough for him to have turned it over as an investment in his name, and profited from it." "That is quite legal, and not my business to criticize," said Caesar gently, screwing up his eyes as he emerged into bright Forum sunshine. "Ave, Gaius Julius!" snapped Vibius, and shut the door. During the hour that this interview had consumed, the lower Forum had filled up a little, people scurrying about to complete their tasks before midafternoon and dinnertime arrived. And among the fresh faces, noted Caesar with an inward sigh, was that belonging to Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, whom he had once lifted effortlessly and put on top of a lofty cupboard in front of six of his peers. Then apostrophized as a flea. Not without reason! They had taken but one look at each other and detested each other; it did happen that way from time to time. Bibulus had offered him the kind of insult which called for physical retaliation, secure because his diminutive size prevented Caesar's hitting him. He had implied that Caesar obtained a magnificent fleet from old King Nicomedes of Bithynia by prostituting himself to the King. In other circumstances Caesar might not have let his temper slip, but it had happened almost immediately after the general Lucullus had implied the same thing. Twice was once too many; up went Bibulus onto the cupboard, with some pungent words accompanying him. And that had been the start of almost a year living in the same quarters as Bibulus while Rome in the person of Lucullus showed the city of Mitylene in Lesbos that it could not defy its suzerain. The lines had been divided. Bibulus was an enemy. He hadn't changed in the ten years which had elapsed since then, thought Caesar as the new group approached, Bibulus in its forefront. The other branch of the Famous Family Calpurnius, cognominated Piso, was filled with some of Rome's tallest fellows; yet the branch cognominated Bibulus (it meant spongelike, in the sense of soaking up wine) was physically opposite. No member of the Roman nobility would have had any difficulty in deciding which Famous Family branch Bibulus belonged to. He wasn't merely small, he was tiny, and possessed of a face so fair it was bleak jutting cheekbones, colorless hair, invisible brows, a pair of silver grey eyes. Not unattractive, but daunting. Clients excluded, Bibulus was not alone; he was walking side by side with an extraordinary man who wore no tunic under his toga. Young Cato, from the coloring and the nose. Well, that friendship made sense. Bibulus was married to a Domitia who was the first cousin of Cato's brother in law, Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. Odd how all the obnoxious ones stuck together, even in marriage. And as Bibulus was a member of the boni, no doubt that meant Cato was too. "In search of a little shade, Bibulus?" asked Caesar sweetly as they met, his eyes traveling from his old enemy to his very tall companion, who thanks to the position of the sun and the group did actually cast his shadow across Bibulus. "Cato will put all of us in the shade before he's done was the reply, uttered coldly. "The nose will be a help in that respect," said Caesar. Cato patted his most prominent feature affectionately, not at all put out, but not amused either; wit escaped him. "No one will ever mistake my statues for anyone else's," he said. "That is true." Caesar looked at Bibulus. "Planning to run for any office this year?" he asked. "Not I!" "And you, Marcus Cato?" "Tribune of the soldiers," said Cato tersely. "You'll do well. I hear that you won a large collection of decorations as a soldier in Poplicola's army against Spartacus." "That's right, he did!" snapped Bibulus. "Not everyone in Poplicola's army was a coward!" Caesar's fair brows lifted. "I didn't say that." "You didn't have to. You chose Crassus to campaign with." "I had no choice in the matter, any more than Marcus Cato will have a choice when he's elected a tribune of the soldiers. As military magistrates, we go where Romulus sends us." Whereupon the conversation foundered and would have ceased except for the arrival of another pair far more congenial to Caesar at least: Appius Claudius Pulcher and Marcus Tullius Cicero. "Barely here, I see, Cato!" said Cicero merrily. Bibulus had had enough, and took himself and Cato off. "Remarkable," said Caesar, watching the diminishing Cato. "Why no tunic?" "He says it's part of the mos maiorum, and he's trying to persuade all of us to go back to the old ways," said Appius Claudius, a typical member of his family, being a dark and medium sized man of considerable good looks. He patted Cicero's midriff and grinned. "All right for fellows like himself and Caesar, but I can't think exposure of your hide would impress a jury," he said to Cicero. "Pure affectation," said Cicero. "He'll grow out of it." The dark, immensely intelligent eyes rested on Caesar and danced. "Mind you, I remember when your sartorial affectations upset a few of the boni, Caesar. Those purple borders on your long sleeves?'' Caesar laughed. "I was bored, and it seemed like something bound to irritate Catulus at the time." "It did, it did! As leader of the boni, Catulus fancies himself the custodian of Rome's customs and traditions." "Speaking of Catulus, when does he plan to finish Jupiter Optimus Maximus? I can't see any progress at all." "Oh, it was dedicated a year ago," said Cicero. "As to when it can be used who knows? Sulla did leave the poor fellow in severe financial difficulties over the job, you know that. Most of the money he has to find out of his own purse." "He can afford it, he sat comfortably in Rome making money out of Cinna and Carbo while Sulla was in exile. Giving Catulus the job of rebuilding Jupiter Optimus Maximus was Sulla's revenge." "Ah, yes! Sulla's revenges are still famous, though he's been dead ten years." "He was the First Man in Rome," said Caesar. "And now we have Pompeius Magnus claiming the title," said Appius Claudius, his contempt showing. What Caesar might have said in answer to this was not said, for Cicero spoke. "I'm glad you're back in Rome, Caesar. Hortensius is getting a bit long in the tooth, hasn't been quite the same since I beat him in the Verres case, so I can do with some decent competition in the courts." "Long in the tooth at forty seven?" asked Caesar. "He lives high," said Appius Claudius. "So do they all in that circle." "I wouldn't call Lucullus a high liver at the moment." "That's right, you're not long back from service with him in the East," said Caesar, preparing to depart by inclining his head toward his retinue. "And glad to be out of it," said Appius Claudius with feeling. He snorted a chuckle. "However, I sent Lucullus a replacement!" "A replacement?" "My little brother, Publius Clodius." "Oh, that will please him!" said Caesar, laughing too.