Caesar's Women (79 page)

“So it wasn't you got at Mucia Tertia?”

“Mater! How many times have I been to Picenum? Look for a Picentine and you'll be nearer the mark.”

“Titus Labienus? Ye gods!”

“You're quick!” He took her face between his hands and kissed her mouth. “Look after yourself, please.”

He made lighter work of the wall than either Lucius Piso or Publius Clodius; Aurelia stood for quite a long time looking at it, then turned and went inside. It was cold.

Cold it was, but Marcus Licinius Crassus was exactly where Caesar thought he'd be: in his offices behind the Macellum Cuppedenis, toiling diligently away by the light of as few lamps as his fifty-four-year-old eyes would tolerate, a scarf round his neck and a shawl draped across his shoulders.

“You deserve every sestertius you make,” said Caesar, coming into the vast room so soundlessly that Crassus jumped when he spoke.

“How did you get in?”

“Exactly the same question I asked Lucius Piso earlier this evening. He climbed over my peristyle wall. I picked the lock.”

“Lucius Piso climbed your peristyle wall?”

“To avoid the bailiffs all around my house. That portion of my creditors who were not recommended either by you or by my Gadetanian friend Balbus went to Piso's tribunal and petitioned to attach my gubernatorial stipend.”

Crassus leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Your luck really is phenomenal, Gaius. You get the province you wanted, and your more dubious creditors petition your cousin. How much do you want?”

“I honestly don't know.”

“You must know!”

“It was the one question I forgot to ask Piso.”

“If that isn't typical! Were you anyone else, I'd toss you in the Tiber as the worst bet in the world. But somehow I know in my bones that you're going to be richer than Pompeius. No matter how far you fall, you land on your feet every time.”

“It must be more than five million, because they asked for the whole sum.”

“Twenty million,” said Crassus instantly.

“Explain.”

“A quarter of twenty million would see them make a worthwhile profit, since you've been on compound interest for at least three years. You probably borrowed three million all up.”

“You and I, Marcus, are in the wrong profession!” said Caesar, laughing. “We have to sail or march halfway round the globe, wave our eagles and swords at savage barbarians, squeeze the local plutocrats harder than a child a puppy, make ourselves thoroughly obnoxious to people who ought to be prospering under us, and then answer to People, Senate and Treasury the moment we get home. When all the time we could be making more right here in Rome.”

“I make plenty right here in Rome,” said Crassus.

“But you don't lend money for interest.”

“I'm a Licinius Crassus!”

“Precisely.”

“You're dressed for the road. Does that mean you're off?”

“As far as the Campus Martius. Once I assume my imperium there's not a thing my creditors can do. Piso will collect my stipend tomorrow morning and get it to me.”

“When is he seeing your creditors again?”

“The day after tomorrow, at noon.”

“Good. I'll be at his tribunal when the moneylenders arrive. And don't flog yourself too hard, Caesar. Very little of my money will go their way, if any at all. I'll go guarantor for whatever sum Piso arrives at. With Crassus behind you, they'll have to wait.”

“Then I'll leave you in peace. I'm very grateful.”

“Think nothing of it. I may need you just as badly one day.” Crassus got up and escorted Caesar all the way down to the door, holding a lamp. “How did you see to get up here?” he asked.

“There's always light, even in the darkest stairwell.”

“That only makes it more difficult.”

“What?”

“Well, you see,” said the imperturbable one imperturbably, “I thought that the day you become consul for the second time I'd erect a statue to you in a very public place. I was going to have the sculptor make a beast with the parts of a lion, a wolf, an eel, a weasel and a phoenix. But between landing on your feet, seeing in the dark and tomcatting around Rome, I'll have to have the whole thing painted in tabby stripes.”

Since no one inside the Servian Walls kept a stable, Caesar walked out of Rome, though not by any route an enterprising usurer might have thought to watch. He ascended the Vicus Patricii to the Vicus ad Malum Punicum, turned onto the Vicus Longus and left the city through the Colline Gate. From there he struck off across the Pincian summit where a collection of wild animals amused the children in fine weather, and so came down to Pompey's temporary dwelling place from above. It of course had stables beneath its lofty loggia; rather than wake the sleeping soldier, he made a nest for himself in some clean straw and lay wide awake until the sun came up.

His departures for provinces never seemed to be orthodox, he reflected with a slight smile. Further Spain the last time had been a mist of grief for Aunt Julia and Cinnilla, and Further Spain this time was as fugitive. A fugitive with a proconsular imperium, no less. He had it worked out in his mind already—Publius Vatinius had proven an assiduous scout for information, and Lucius Cornelius Balbus Major was waiting in Gades.

Balbus was bored, he had written to Caesar. Unlike Crassus, he did not find the making of money fulfilling in itself; Balbus hungered for some new challenge now that he and his nephew were the two wealthiest men in Spain. Let Balbus Minor mind the shop! Balbus Major was keen to study military logistics. So Caesar had nominated Balbus as his praefectus fabrum, a choice which surprised some in the Senate, though not those who knew Balbus Major. This appointee was, at least in Caesar's eyes, far more important than a senior legate (he had asked for none), as the praefectus fabrum was a military commander's most trusted assistant, responsible for the equipping and supplying of the army.

There were two legions in the further province, both of Roman veterans who had preferred not to come home when the war against Sertorius finally ended. They'd be in their thirties now, and very eager for a good campaign. However, two legions would not be quite enough; the first thing Caesar intended to do when he reached his domain was to enlist a full legion of auxiliaries—Spanish troops who had fought with Sertorius. Once they had his measure they'd fight for him just as happily as they had for Sertorius. And then it would be off into unexplored territory. After all, it was ridiculous to think that Rome claimed all of the Iberian Peninsula, yet hadn't subdued a good third of it. But Caesar would.

When Caesar appeared at the top of the steps leading from the stables he found Pompey the Great sitting on his loggia admiring the view across the Tiber toward the Vatican Hill and the Janiculum.

“Well, well!” Pompey cried, leaping to his feet and seizing the unexpected visitor's hand. “Riding?”

“No. I walked out too late to bother waking you, so it was a straw bed for me. It's possible that I'll have to borrow one or two horses from you when I leave, but only to take me to Ostia. Can you put me up for a few days, Magnus?”

“Delighted to, Caesar.”

“So you don't believe I seduced Mucia?”

“I know who did that job,” Pompey said grimly. “Labienus, the ingrate! He can whistle!” Caesar was waved to a comfortable chair. “Is that why you haven't been to see me? Or said no more than ave in the Circus Flaminius?''

“Magnus, I'm a mere ex-praetor! You're the hero of the age, one can't get any closer than consulars four deep.”

“Yes, but at least I can talk to you, Caesar. You're a real soldier, not a couch commander. When the time comes you'll know how to die, face covered and thighs covered. Death will find nothing to expose in you that isn't beautiful.”

“Homer. How well said, Magnus!”

“Did a lot of reading in the East, got to like it very much. Mind you, I had Theophanes of Mitylene with me.”

“A great scholar.”

“Yes, that was more important to me than the fact that he's richer than Croesus. I took him to Lesbos with me, made him a Roman citizen in the agora at Mitylene in front of all the people. Then I freed Mitylene from tribute to Rome in his name. Went down very well with the locals.”

“As it ought. I believe Theophanes is a close relative of Lucius Balbus of Gades.”

“Their mothers were sisters. Know Balbus, do you?”

“Very well. We met while I was quaestor in Further Spain.”

“He served as my scout when I was fighting Sertorius. I gave him the citizenship—his nephew too—but there were so many I split them up between my legates so the Senate wouldn't think I was personally enfranchising half of the Spains. Balbus Major and Balbus Minor got a Cornelius—Lentulus, I think, though not the one they're calling Spinther these days.” He laughed joyously. “I do love clever nicknames! Fancy being called after an actor famous for playing second leads! Says what the world feels about a man, doesn't it?”

“That it does. I've made Balbus Major my praefectus fabrum.”

The vivid blue eyes twinkled. “Astute!”

Caesar looked Pompey up and down blatantly. “You seem fit for an old man, Magnus,” he said with a grin.

“Forty-four,” said Pompey, patting his flat belly complacently.

He did indeed seem fit. The eastern sun had almost joined his freckles up and tried to bleach his mop of bright gold hair—as thick as ever, Caesar noted ruefully.

“You'll have to give me a full account of what's been going on in Rome while I've been away.”

“I would have thought your ears were deaf from the din of that kind of news.”

“What, from conceited squeakers like Cicero? Pah!”

“I thought you were good friends.”

“A man in politics has no real friends,” the Great Man said deliberately. “He cultivates what's expedient.”

“Absolutely true,” said Caesar, chuckling. “You heard what I did to Cicero with Rabirius, of course.”

“I'm glad you stuck the knife in. Otherwise he'd be prating that banishing Catilina was more important than conquering the East! Mind you, Cicero has his uses. But he always seems to think that everyone else has as much time to write thousand-sheet letters as he does. He wrote to me last year, and I did manage to send him back a few lines in my own hand. So what does he do? Takes exception, accuses me of treating him coldly! He ought to go out to govern a province, then he'd learn how busy a man is. Instead, he lies comfortably on his couch in Rome and advises us military types how to conduct our business. After all, Caesar, what did he do? Gave a few speeches in the Senate and the Forum, and sent Marcus Petreius to crush Catilina.”

“Very succinctly put, Magnus.”

“Well, now that they've decided what to do with Clodius I should get a date for my triumph. At least this time I did the clever thing, and disbanded my army at Brundisium. They can't say I'm sitting on the Campus Martius trying to blackmail them.”

“Don't count on a date for your triumph.”

Pompey sat up straight. “Eh?”

“The boni are working against you, have been since they heard you were coming home. They intend to deny you everything—the ratification of your arrangements in the East, your awards of the citizenship, land for your veterans—and I suspect one of their tactics will be to keep you outside the pomerium for as long as possible. Once you can take your seat in the House you'll be able to counter their moves more effectively. They have a brilliant tribune of the plebs in Fufius Calenus, and I believe he's set to veto any proposals likely to please you.”

“Ye gods, they can't! Oh, Caesar, what's the matter with them? I've increased Rome's tributes from the eastern provinces—and turned two into four!—from eight thousand talents a year to fourteen thousand! And do you know what the Treasury's share of the booty is? Twenty thousand talents! It's going to take two days for my triumphal parade to pass, that's how much loot I've got, that's how many campaigns I have to show on pageant floats! With this Asian triumph, I will have celebrated triumphs over all three continents, and no one has ever done that before! There are dozens of towns named after me or my victories—towns I founded! I have kings in my clientele!”

Eyes swimming with tears, Pompey leaned forward in his chair until they fell, hardly able to believe that what he had achieved was not going to be appreciated. “I'm not asking to be made King of Rome!” he said, dashing the tears away impatiently. “What I'm asking for is dog's piss compared to what I'm giving!”

“Yes, I agree,” said Caesar. “The trouble is that they all know they couldn't do it themselves, but they hate to give credit where credit's due.”

“And I'm a Picentine.”

“That too.”

“So what do they want?”

“At the very least, Magnus, your balls,” Caesar said gently.

“To put where they've none of their own.”

“Exactly.”

This was no Cicero, thought Caesar as he watched the ruddy face harden and set. This was a man who could swat the boni into pulp with one swipe of a paw. But he wouldn't do it. Not because he lacked the testicular endowments to do it. Time and time again he'd shown Rome that he'd dare—almost anything. But somewhere in a secret corner of his self there lurked an unacknowledged consciousness that he wasn't quite a Roman. All those alliances with Sulla's relatives said a lot, as did his patent pleasure in boasting of them. No, he wasn't a Cicero. But they did have things in common. And I, who am Rome, what would I do if the boni pushed me as hard as they're going to push Pompeius Magnus? Would I be Sulla or Magnus? What would stop me? Could anything?

On the Ides of March, Caesar finally left for Further Spain. Reduced to a few words and figures on a single sheet of parchment, his stipend came borne by Lucius Piso himself, and a merry visit ensued with Pompey, who was carefully brought by Caesar to see that Lucius Piso was worth cultivating. The faithful Burgundus, grizzled now, fetched the few belongings Caesar needed: a good sword, good armor, good boots, good wet-weather gear, good snow gear, good riding gear. Two sons of his old war-horse Toes, each with toes instead of uncloven hooves. Whetstones, razors, knives, tools, a shady hat like Sulla's for the southern Spanish sun. No, not much, really. Three medium-sized chests held it all. There would be luxuries enough in the governor's residences at Castulo and in Gades.