The Horse Changer (37 page)

With what little time I had to call my own I did manage to enquire about the new owner of my father’s estate in Tuscany. I knew the man’s name, he was a neighbour who had once possessed only a few hundred olive trees and some pastureland. His lack of fortune had let him avoid the proscriptions, but he did possess enough in his own right to provide surety for a loan, which allowed him to make the winning bid at auction for my father’s estate. He had then, rather cleverly, sold off parcels of my father’s pastureland at a profit. This allowed him to pay down his debt even as his income trebled from the produce of our orchards and vineyards.

When I wrote to ask him about the price he would take for all that remained of my family’s estate, he did not play coy but gave me a fair price for it. Only then did I realise I could not earn the money I needed with an officer’s salary. I proceeded to speak with a few men in the city, but all of them required me to own property before they would loan money to me. Of course, if they had loaned me the money I would have owned property, but when I made that argument they were not swayed by its logic. I knew better than to ask Antony for a loan, but one evening, when he was not in an especially sour mood, I asked him about my father’s estate. Might I not petition that it be returned to me on condition that I pay back the present owner’s expenses?

It seemed a fair request, but Antony’s face turned hard as stone. We had all lost a great deal, he answered. Of course, he meant others had lost a great deal. For Antony our civil war had brought an end to his perpetual indebtedness. He was then the wealthiest man in the world – after Caesar, of course, who had recently come to enjoy the wealth of Gaul.

Some days after Herod departed for Cyprus, I sent a brief note to Maecenas. Reminding him of our dinner at Caesar’s house and Caesar’s concern for Roman culture, I suggested he investigate the talents of my friend Horace, who was presently living in Rome. I was sure Maecenas received names quite routinely, all the clever young fellows wanted to write verse in those days, and so in my note I added how much Antony had enjoyed Horace’s poetry. This was not exactly true, but of course nothing is sweeter than poaching a great talent from a jealous rival, and Maecenas soon invited Horace and me to his house.

Horace had by that time attained employment in the government through his friendship with one of Antony’s clients, but no one at all in Antony’s circle bothered to promote his poetry. Maecenas was impressed by Horace, there is no other word for it, and the two of them were soon lost in a discussion of prosody that I simply could not follow. No matter, Maecenas was a fine host with a bounty of foods arriving at his table, even if the rest of Rome was close to starvation, and he simply refused to serve a mediocre vintage.

Some weeks later Horace stood before the luminaries of Roman society reciting his poetry as if Pindar himself had risen from the dead and learned Latin. When he had finished, his audience, led by Caesar, stood to offer its applause. When their polite enthusiasm for Horace began to wane Caesar rallied them like a centurion in a desperate battle, and all stood and cheered as men do for the winner of a chariot race. Horace blushed, but he also knew he deserved their praise, and so as he blushed he smiled coyly as well. His hour had come at last.

Maecenas found me at the edge of the crowd afterwards. I was waiting my turn to congratulate Horace. Maecenas took my arms in his hands, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, ‘Caesar is delighted, Dellius. Ask whatever you will of me. I am in your eternal debt.’

I thought to explain that I was helping Horace, but then I thought better of it. No one in all of Rome had more influence with Caesar than Maecenas. His gratitude was something to cherish, not throw away carelessly. So I took his fleshy arms in my grip, just as he had done to me, and I whispered softly: ‘I have all I want seeing you pleased, my friend.’

From the look that followed gratitude was on offer anytime I cared for it, that very night if I were so inclined, but I invented business in the city and made my escape. Even if I had enjoyed that sort of dalliance it would have been utter folly to sleep with Caesar’s lover.

I walked in public often with Antony and his friends that winter. I watched him operate with his political allies as well as his opponents. He was still a chastened man and always took care to mind his manners, but, as I soon learned, there was more to it than personal loss and frustration. As I have said, Rome was not pleased with its Triumvirate, but Caesar, up close, was especially disappointing.

Whether Antony feared being tossed out with Caesar or only wanted to appear the viable alternative, I cannot say. He might not have thoroughly understood his motivations himself. He was simply being careful, both of his person and reputation, perhaps for the first time in his life. This I know. When men brought up the topic of Caesar’s various failings, Antony insisted on changing the subject. I watched him from close proximity that winter; he seemed sincere in this respect, but of course it was mostly that Caesar’s chief spy, his sister, was now living in his house.

The worst of it for Caesar came on the Camp of Mars one day when he left the city and foolishly went to face a mob of angry veterans. A riot broke out before he could finish speaking; they were tired of being paid with promises. It started with shouts and shoves, moved to rock throwing and finished with swords drawn. Once more Caesar ran for his life. Experienced as he was in the art of flight, this time Caesar failed to make it to safety.

Antony, learning of the trouble even as events transpired, raced from the Forum, where he had been hearing civil cases in court. As he went, he called to his friends to follow him. We left the city running as fast as we could and came upon a mob of men shouting and striking out at Caesar and the rest of the men they had captured. Shoving our way into the melee we discovered many of Caesar’s companions were already dead. Maecenas was held by a brute of a man who pressed a dagger into the soft flesh of his neck.

Antony’s party was not nearly large enough to take the veterans, but Antony, always at his best at times like this, roared in that golden baritone of his, ‘Harm Caesar and every one of you dies!’

Much to my relief the fellows shoved Caesar toward Antony with a laugh. Just expressing a difference of opinion. We gathered up what was left of Caesar’s entourage, including a much shaken Maecenas, and made our way back to the city. Maecenas came to me on that walk. ‘I thought I was dead,’ he muttered, nervously touching his neck.

I smiled at him. ‘I thought it as well, my friend. If not for Antony, I suppose you would have been.’

Maecenas glanced toward Antony’s hulking figure. ‘I wonder why he bothered?’

I had no answer for that, but some years later I asked Antony the very same thing. By then Caesar and he were finally and fully enemies. Why save the little twit? A bit of negligence might have made Antony lord of Rome. A thoughtless shrug and drunk’s belch: ‘I thought if they do it to him, they will imagine they can do it to me as well.’

I didn’t believe him then, and I still don’t. I think he went to rescue Caesar because he expected that Caesar would survive. That being the case, he wanted to appear to be a good partner in the alliance. Once he knew how desperate the situation was, he was in the middle of it and could not very well extricate himself. But I could be wrong. I am not sure Antony ever fully understood the danger that Caesar represented to him.

With the first blush of spring I sailed with Antony and Octavia to Athens. Athens was Antony’s first stop on his march into Syria. We spent some weeks recruiting auxiliaries in Greece and Macedonia while the fleet prepared to sail for Tarsus, which still remained under Antony’s banners. Shortly before our departure, Antony sent me to Sparta for a fortnight. He hoped I might recruit some two or three thousand additional Spartan auxiliaries into his guard. I had by then a great many contacts in the region, including families of the men I had left in Judaea as well as the auxiliaries who had fought under my command in the last days of Philippi.

So it made sense for Antony to use me in this manner. I enjoyed a fine house in the city for my headquarters. Attending me were several of my most loyal and capable subordinates. As a show of respect Antony permitted me to negotiate terms with the lords of Sparta. Once I had arranged an agreement, I would send a courier to Antony in Athens for his official approval. Antony usually agreed to the conditions at once, but on occasion he would answer with a letter outlining his position with that particular noble. He was acquainted with them all or had information about them if he did not know them personally and therefore gave or withheld his blessing accordingly.

So sixty men from one lord, a dozen more from another, but with the next fellow I had to continue to haggle for a fair exchange of favours. It was all just as it had been in the summer Dolabella had sought auxiliaries: a son’s promotion, a brother’s appointment to command, a priesthood, land, or some other dignity sought and presently denied. Every lord having his price.

One morning I received a sealed parchment from a freedman I had not seen before. I had been courting the wife of an estate owner for some days. Her husband possessed more property than prestige and desired some local magistracy for the sake of twenty auxiliaries on offer. From my perspective the deal was not especially advantageous but the wife was a delicious golden-haired beauty, and she was anxious to see her husband’s status increase.

Assuming my would-be lover had avoided sending the same servant twice, I opened the letter without worrying that the wax seal closing the scroll bore no identifying mark. Only when I noticed there was no signature at the bottom of the letter did I begin to wonder. This seemed strangely careful, even for a love affair. Especially so, as I suspected her husband of putting her up to the seduction.

When I read the note I realised the author was none other than Livia, wife of Claudius Nero. She spoke of the boar hunt we had enjoyed together, the friendship we had established afterwards. Should I care to see her, she was presently residing in the hills immediately west of Sparta. She preferred anonymity at the moment, and so had not signed the letter; the freedman who had delivered her note, however, could be trusted. He would lead me to her new residence at my convenience, but for the sake of her reputation I must come alone.

Having read the letter, I looked up at the messenger. ‘I’ll come within the hour.’ The old fellow answered that he had hoped I would say as much. He would wait for me at the western gate of the city.

I had already learned that Nero had escaped with Livia and their infant son to Sicily. This came in the disastrous aftermath of the revolt Antony’s wife and brother led in northern Italy. Nero’s involvement in that matter had placed him at the very top of the proscription list. Of course, very few people on that list were still available to bounty hunters. Those who could manage it had escaped to Sicily and the protection of Sextus Pompey. The rest were dead. Discovering that Livia was now living quietly in Sparta I naturally assumed she had left her fool of a husband. The assumption was not especially naive. In Sicily, Nero was safe and might enjoy some dignity as a senator in exile. In Greece, he would be hiding in attics or under haystacks. Livia’s care in remaining anonymous might have alerted me to the possibility that Nero was with her, but I was too happy to worry about it.