The Horse Changer (7 page)

I saw a slave coming for me with clean rags. I looked down at the dagger in my side and realised, finally, that I was close to death. I felt myself fading. I let my head settle into the dust as the slave bent down to inspect the wound. I heard the clap of horse’s hooves, the shouts of men. Then the dagger came ripping out of my ribs.

After that, I heard nothing at all.

The enemy cavalry charge I had observed might have overpowered Dolabella’s force if Pompey’s legions had not panicked at the sight of Labienus’s entire cavalry leaving the battlefield. Who can blame them? They had seen it before. They could only imagine their right wing had collapsed and Labienus was fleeing the field.

Convinced a rout had started, Pompey’s army turned at once and ran. Those who got away first found their camp gates closed, already occupied by the enemy, but the city was not far away. And so they ran on without a backward glance and made it to safety.

Those who followed them had mixed success. Some made it; some did not. For the rest it was death. Caesar’s left wing, led by his nephew, Quintus Pedius, began the rout. Once it had started, Caesar’s right wing was able to join them. Closing behind the cavalry were Caesar’s legions, all of them now coming at a run. It was Oculbo all over again, only with greater numbers. We came at the enemy’s back and into its vanguard; we swept up around their flanks. The killing continued all the way to the city walls. Once more, we took no prisoners. When it had finished, thirty thousand enemy lay dead or dying on the field. Of Caesar’s men only a thousand had perished, though a great many of us had been seriously wounded.

I had lost quite a bit of blood after the surgeon pulled the blade free, and with my collarbone broken as well I was in serious peril. According to my doctor, a Greek slave formerly in Gnaeus Pompey’s army, the collarbone was easily set. As for the wound that had pierced my lungs, I nearly drowned in my own blood. For several days my doctor drained my wound and worried about infection. I hung between life and death, tied to my bed to keep me from moving.

I ingested a mix of narcotics including opium, but the medicine was hardly sufficient for the job. I was in constant misery. Awakening I tasted a bit of broth, then I would sleep and dream. I asked about the battle at some point but could not follow anything beyond the simple fact that Caesar was victorious. Of course I ought to have concluded that much from the fact that I was still alive. A week afterwards my doctor was more hopeful, but he still worried about infection. For the sake of my broken collarbone and ribs, he kept me in traction several days longer.

I learned at some point that Gnaeus Pompey had escaped once more. Titus Labienus had not been so lucky. His head presently decorated the entrance to Caesar’s command tent. This was presumably so that the two old friends might look one another in the eye.

I was still bound to my bed when Caesar came to visit his wounded officers. I thought he only meant to see a few of the senior men and then move on. We were in fact a great number, including Dolabella, who had been struck by an arrow during the rout. Caesar had already started a siege against the town of Ronda, and he had sent a force back to reinforce the ongoing siege at Cordoba. So there was much for him to do and some worry still that he might not yet be as victorious as he seemed. Despite everything, Caesar took his time with his officers, ‘friends’ as he called us. Officer, legionary, or ally: his friends needed a personal thank you, and Caesar never failed to give it. When he came to me, his attending slave read from a scroll and whispered my name and rank, but Caesar spoke at once, as if needing no prompt, ‘Quintus Dellius!’

He covered my hand with his own. I feel it still these fifty years afterwards, the warmth of the man, the charm, the mastery over others he possessed like no other I have ever known. ‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, my friend.’

Can any words ever be sweeter? But even then he was not finished. He told me he intended to make war on the Parthians the following year. He looked in my eyes with all the sincerity of a father and said that he was going to need me with him. If I would only promise to make a full recovery, he meant to promote me to the rank of prefect at once.

If I had not loved Caesar before, I would have loved him then. It was his way to draw one into his circle, to offer confidences and ask help, though he was Caesar and had all the world ready to serve him. Would I go to Parthia? I would have followed him to the ends of the earth. I will tell you something else about Caesar, a thing I only learned some years later. He made much the same speech to every young officer in that hospital.

Caesar’s forces found and killed Gnaeus Pompey a fortnight after the city of Ronda surrendered. Cordoba fell soon afterwards. There was some concern when it was reported that Sextus Pompey had escaped capture, but Caesar did not let it spoil his victory. Sextus Pompey was twenty, just a boy. By Caesar’s reckoning, hardly worth the trouble of chasing down. Or so went the argument. His victory now secure, Caesar travelled back to Rome. This time he managed a leisurely pace. His victory in Spain had quieted the seditious parties in Rome.

Not long after Caesar’s journey began, Octavian joined the procession. Octavian’s ship was in excellent condition. The problem was that Octavian himself had become ill during the voyage. Fearing for their friend’s life, Octavian’s companions spent the winter on one of the Balearic Islands. Caesar was so relieved to see him alive that he invited the lad into his carriage. This is of course the highest honour an imperator can bestow on one of his subordinates.

When Antony joined Caesar at Marseille, Octavian got shuttled out of the carriage and onto a horse, but he still basked in the great man’s glory as he rode beside Caesar’s carriage in the second highest position of honour.

I missed these happy reunions and changing of seats. I spent the spring and summer not far from Seville on the grand estate of Ulpius Trajan. His granddaughter, Ulpia, a girl of seven or eight years, was often in my room to care for me. I recall her reading various histories to me and even a novel about a kidnapped princess. She was a sweet child and always worried that the slaves neglected me.

I recall when I left, most of the family was there to see me off, but once my carriage was on the road only Ulpia kept watching as I rolled away. I never expected to see the girl again, but I must say it was hard to forget her sweet temperament and beautiful brown eyes. In the years that followed, I often wondered if she had become the perfect beauty her childhood had promised.

From Seville I caught a ship to Ostia; from there I hired a carriage and rode to the Camp of Mars like a gentleman. The senate had awarded three Triumphs for the war in Spain, two for legates under Caesar’s authority, the last for Caesar himself. The year before Caesar had enjoyed three Triumphs as well. Those had commemorated Caesar’s conquest of Gaul, his campaigns in Egypt and Pontus, and his victory over Pompey Magnus in Greece and Cato in Africa. Perhaps the three Spanish Triumphs failed to live up to the spectacle of the year before. Perhaps it was the sheer number of Triumphs in such a short amount of time that spoiled the mob. Whatever the case, the first two Triumphs passed quietly, notable only for the mob’s lack of enthusiasm. When Caesar’s turn came and he paraded his full army through Rome, the mob jeered and hissed. For the glory I had won in Spain I was treated to a barrage of rotten fruit, dung, and rocks. By the end of my journey along the Via Sacra, such was the fury of the spectators, I counted myself lucky to get by with only that much abuse. In the history of Rome there had been nothing like it. The outrage left all of us who rode with Caesar bruised and disenchanted.

In the days that followed Caesar’s ill-fated Triumph I heard a great many theories about why the plebs had turned against their man. Part of it must be credited to Caesar’s enemies. No sooner had the senators been defeated in battle than they stirred up a whisper campaign. All the old rumours about Caesar got fresh paint. It is also likely that a certain portion of the mob’s rage was bought. But some measure of blame rested with Caesar himself.

He knew better than to celebrate the victory of Romans over other Romans; he had carefully refashioned his Triumph against Pompey as a fight against Macedonia; the battles with Cato in Africa were said to be against King Juba. Caesar, however, made no attempt to disguise the victory in Spain. That was Roman against Roman.

I think after Spain Caesar was tired of placating his political rivals. The job was one of ceaseless flattery and compromise. He had enough of that with his friends. For those who opposed him, Caesar’s famous charm finally wore out. Lest his opponents fail to notice, he dressed his floats with the heads of their former colleagues. The effect was much the same as a warlord’s threat. Even the plebs did not care for it.

I had originally intended to spend the winter in Rome. A decorated and newly promoted prefect, I hoped to make the acquaintance of several of the more powerful individuals in the city. After the mob pelted me with refuse, I lost my taste for the city. A lot of us did. I took my pay and a bounty of slaves for a bonus. The slaves I sold at market for an abysmal price, always the case after war. I paid down some of my debt to my mother’s relatives, about a third of what I owed, then asked for and received Dolabella’s permission to spend the winter at my father’s estate in Tuscany.

Dolabella required me in Rome again before the third day after the Ides of March. This was the date upon which Caesar planned to depart Rome, bound for his Parthian campaign. Until then I was a free man.

My father was surprised to see me. I had sent him news from Seville of my promotion and said in that same letter I would spend the winter in Rome and did not expect to see him until I returned from Parthia. I think he saw my discouragement at once, though I tried to hide it from him. This was not because I had been wounded. This was a failing of the soul. I had worshipped Caesar too long not to feel something was very wrong if those whom Caesar defended could turn against him so quickly.