The Horse Changer (8 page)

I was not able to discuss this with my father; I did not even admit that we had been abused by the mob. I am not sure why I couldn’t tell him. We had always enjoyed an open and honest relationship. I suppose a part of me wanted to protect him from disillusionment.

He had always admired Caesar, both as a soldier and a political reformer. There was also in me a deep feeling of shame. I could not understand the sensation, but it was quite real, and so it was impossible for me to admit that I had been pelted and abused like a prisoner tagged for execution at the Triumph’s culmination.

One evening, as if divining my mood, my father remarked almost casually, ‘Life is not only to be measured by public accomplishments, Quintus. There is contentment to be reckoned with as well.’

Such a comment was entirely foreign to me. Life was about winning glory. What else could it be? My father, to his credit, was not suggesting I resign my officer’s commission and come back to Tuscany; no, he was only planting a seed, as farmers do. In time, I might realise new desires. In a long life one can find solace in the fruits of every season.

I heard the echo of such sentiment many times that winter, but that was all. I think he knew it would take a few years before I could possibly come to the wisdom he possessed: that a public life is a busy one but not always fulfilling. A long life has taught me what my father thoroughly understood: some men are eager for accolades and when they have won them know only to reach for more; others seek the quieter pleasures of this world and in winning them know at last perfect contentment.

One afternoon in early February I came back from a hunt with fellows I had known from childhood. We were weary from a fruitless search, ready for a bath and refreshments, but my father insisted on leading us out to one of the paddocks behind our stables. We followed curiously and discovered a three-year-old colt named Hannibal, which he had purchased just that morning from a horse trader on his way through Tuscany. Hannibal was taller by two hands than any horse I had ever seen; he possessed a powerful neck and already had the prominent jaws which usually only older stallions develop. His chest was wide and deep, his haunches massive. Here was an animal bred for war, spirited and bold, and yet possessing the refinements of an aristocrat: a delicate step, a fiery eye, an elegantly lifted tail. In colour Hannibal was a blood red sorrel. He had a slender blaze of white on his face and one high white sock rising over his back right hoof.

The former owner, a Roman eques named Seius, had intended to make a fortune breeding Hannibal to the best mares in Italy. The recent troubles of our civil war, however, had brought him to a point of desperation; so he took what money he could get from a quick sale and left it to the next man to earn the real money. My father always kept gold on hand for such an opportunity.

I naturally congratulated him on the purchase and remarked that he would be the envy of every man who saw him riding such an animal. ‘I bought Hannibal as a gift for you, Quintus. Your new rank accords you the privilege of bringing your own horse on campaign, after all.’

My exhaustion only moments before vanished, and I soon persuaded my companions to help me break the animal to the saddle. This I will say: Hannibal sent me to ground only once. Of course he tried a dozen times more, but that is the way of an animal with high spirits. Finally I walked him around our riding arena without a quarrel.

Within a week we knew one another like old friends. Before I rode to Rome I had Hannibal accustomed to me. He was not yet ready for combat; that takes a great deal of training, but he was ready for what came next. And so was I.

I had begun the winter profoundly discouraged; by March, I was nearly as enthusiastic to ride with Caesar as I had been the year before. For many years I credited Hannibal with my complete restoration, but that was only because I was still quite young. The truth is I possessed a wise father.

I was at Veii, ten miles from the heart of Rome, when I learned that the world had changed forever. I recall the place and my precise thoughts because even then I knew what the news meant. I was thinking about the Claudii, whose vast estate the road passed through. The members of that famous clan took no pleasure in the work of a farmer. They had others herding their flocks and churning their cheese. Instead of a handful of clients in their debt, the family’s patriarch owned whole cities of men committed to his service. His fortune was so vast no one could make a proper estimate of it.

Just as I was reflecting on these matters, I noticed a man on horseback galloping toward me. He was obviously in a hurry, but at the sight of a youth who wore the thin purple stripe of an eques, he pulled up. ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’

Of course I hadn’t. I came from the north. In fact it occurred to me he might intend to rob me. I carried all I owned on the back of the mule I led. As for Hannibal he was worth fifty times the going rate for the average riding horse on a bad day at auction. This fellow wouldn’t be the first brigand to walk up to his victim with glad tidings; I had employed the tactic myself for a few of my robberies in Spain. I looked around for possible confederates, but it was a sorry place for an ambush. ‘What news?’ I asked, cautiously.

‘Rome’s tyrant is dead.’

I recall the strength leaving me. I knew what tyrant he spoke of, though I could not really believe it. If it were really so I didn’t think the sun could still be shining. ‘What tyrant?’ I asked.

‘Julius Caesar, sir. The senators cut him down in chambers this morning. The only shame is they didn’t think to do it years ago.’

I pulled my sword and went for the fellow. A moment of sanity pulled me back from murder, but Hannibal’s chest collided with the shoulder of the nag he rode. I kept my blade high, pointed at his heart. His horse skittered back at the impact. He swore roundly, but he made no attempt to grab for his weapon. I had dropped the lead line of my mule and was free to circle him, which I now did. He had no chance of outrunning me and knew it. Nor was he a man capable of outfighting a youth in peak physical condition. ‘Draw your sword and fight me, you filthy rogue!’ I shouted.

‘Go on to Rome if you want blood!’ he growled. ‘There are plenty of men there who’ll be glad for the chance at you.’

I was still holding my sword as he rode off. I did not catch all he said by way of farewell but this I gathered: ‘…should kill the whole lot of you.’

Only then did it sink in. Julius Caesar was gone. With his passing the lives of all who supported him were in danger. A few decades before, one of Dolabella’s ancestors, Cornelius Sulla, had taught Rome how to break political factions: first murder every enemy in sight, then search the city for anyone not cheering the carnage and murder them as well. By nightfall, if Sulla had taught Rome anything, the streets of Rome would be filled with corpses. Mine included, if I were foolish enough to be there.

I left the Via Flaminia as soon as possible and rode north over farm lanes and through hill country. Worried that the man I had threatened might find confederates and come looking for the Caesarean with the fine horse, I made camp inside a grove of olive trees and was careful to light no campfire.

In the morning I rode as far as Capena. There I settled down to await more news. Men asked me if I had heard about Caesar’s death. Then came the question of where I stood on the matter. How does one stand anywhere once the ground has been pulled out from under him? I heard myself saying I was a landowner in Tuscany. I cared nothing for politics.

The oddest thing was that Rome remained quiet in the wake of Caesar’s murder. I might have ridden into the city without concern for my safety. I heard the first reports of this stillness and could not believe it. But it was indeed true. In the first hour after the crime the assassins, some sixty senators led by Junius Brutus and Cassius Longinus, fled the Temple of Tellus, where the senate had convened that morning. They took up a defensive position at the Temple of Jupiter, high atop the Capitoline. With their freedmen and clients in support, the assassins numbered nearly half a legion in strength. Because that temple also serves as an armoury, they were prepared for any contingency. Despite their immediate concern for security, I am told they hoped the city would eventually celebrate their crime. This is of course the kind of delusional nonsense that occurs when philosophers play in the deep end of the pool.

While the assassins waited to know the disposition of the city, Mark Antony, Caesar’s fellow consul, stirred himself to act. Leaving the outer porticos of Pompey’s theatre, which houses the Temple of Tellus, he made his way to the fortifications guarding two temporary legionary camps. These had been established on the Camp of Mars, not far from Pompey’s grand theatre. The camps were commanded by Proconsul Aemilius Lepidus. Lepidus was under orders to depart for Narbonne in southern Gaul three mornings hence. This would have been on the same morning Caesar was to have left the city to join his army in western Macedonia.

Such was Antony’s charisma with the rank and file that he might have walked into the camp and taken command of it. Perhaps he even considered doing so, but the truth is Antony needed Lepidus more than he needed two legions of fighting men.

Antony said nothing to Lepidus about the fortune inside Caesar’s house. No, what Antony offered Lepidus was the office of Pontifex Maximus – High Priest of Rome and perpetual guardian of the Vestal Virgins. In those days, the holder of that office resided in the Regia; that meant that the Regia had been Caesar’s residence for many years and the place where Caesar kept his money.

Whether or not Lepidus remarked on the fact that Antony hadn’t the authority to appoint anyone to an elected office, I cannot say. What I do know is that it took very little persuasion for Lepidus to agree to Antony’s proposal. Almost as an afterthought the two men arranged for the eventual marriage of two of their pre-adolescent children.

The city was stirring with rumours of Caesar’s murder when Antony and Lepidus arrived at the Regia. They were escorted by enough friends and clients to secure Caesar’s house. With that accomplished, Antony and Lepidus walked up the Palatine Hill and approached the house of Cornelius Dolabella.

Antony and my patron had never been friends. I believe everyone in the city knew this. In fact, Antony was convinced his former wife had slept with Dolabella, though she denied it. Dolabella had publicly announced that it was possible, but he simply could not remember. This was of course worse than denial, and Caesar had generally tried to keep the two men in separate provinces, if not on different continents.

One may wonder why, of all people, Antony went to Dolabella, but the answer is simple. With Caesar’s death, Dolabella had suddenly become the commander of Caesar’s sixteen legions. This army was presently camped in Western Macedonia, but that was not so very far away. With such a force at his back, Dolabella had become the sort of friend Antony needed.

Antony was not prepared to bring Dolabella into his family, but he could offer Dolabella a consulship. The office was available, after all. Of course Antony had no more right to offer a consulship than a vacant seat at the head of the college of priests, but Dolabella was certainly not the man to object. He grabbed the title as if it were his due.

Only then did Antony introduce the question of protecting Caesar’s gold. As consul, consul-elect, and Pontifex Maximus-elect, Antony, Dolabella and Lepidus returned to the Regia. There they promptly divided Caesar’s money and portable goods, each taking a piece of that great prize to a secure location. As for Caesar’s widow, they gave her until dawn the following day to vacate the premises.