Caesar (19 page)

The diehard sticklers for the mos maiorum were adamantly against the very idea—Cato, Bibulus, Lucius Ahenobarbus, Metellus Scipio, old Curio, Messala Niger, all the Claudii Marcelli, all the Lentuli. Formidable. Top-heavy with clout, though none of them could lay claim to the title of the First Man in Rome, who was a Pompeius from Picenum. Should he do it? Could he do it? Would it be a disastrous mistake or the final accolade to crown a remarkable career?All this irresolution occurred in his bedchamber, too grand to be termed a sleeping cubicle. Where reposed a huge, highly polished silver mirror he had taken for himself after Julia died because he had hoped to catch a glimpse of her vanishing into its swimming surface. He never had. Now, pacing up and down, he caught sight of himself, saw himself. Stopped, gazed, wept a little. For Julia he had taken care to remain the Pompey of her dreams—slim, lithe, well built. And perhaps he hadn't ever looked at himself again until this moment. Julia's Pompey had gone. In his place stood a man in his middle fifties, overweight enough to have acquired a second chin, a sagging belly, a lower back creased by rolls of fat. His famously vivid blue eyes had disappeared into the flesh of his face, and the nose he had broken in a fall from a horse scant months ago was spread sideways. Only the hair remained as thick and lustrous as ever, but what had once been gold was now silver.

His valet coughed from the door.

“Yes?” asked Pompey, wiping his eyes.

“A visitor, Gnaeus Pompeius. Titus Munatius Plancus Bursa.”

“Quickly, my toga!”

Plancus Bursa was waiting in the study.

“Good evening, good evening!” cried Pompey, bustling in. He seated himself behind his desk and folded his hands together on its surface, then looked at Bursa with the perky, enquiring gaze he had found a useful tool for thirty years.

“You're late. How did it go?” he asked.

Plancus Bursa cleared his throat loudly; he was not a natural raconteur. “Well, there was no feast following the inaugural session of the Senate, you see. In the absence of consuls, no one thought about the feast. So I went to Clodius's for dinner afterward.”

“Yes, yes, but finish with the Senate first, Bursa! How did it go, man?”

“Lollius suggested that you be appointed Dictator, but just as men started agreeing with him, Bibulus launched into a speech rejecting the proposal. A good speech. He was followed by Lentulus Spinther, then Lucius Ahenobarbus. Over their dead bodies would you be made Dictator—you know the sort of thing. Cicero spoke in favor of you—another good speech. But before anyone could speak in support of Cicero, Cato began a filibuster. Messala Rufus was in the chair, and terminated the meeting.”

“When's the next session?” asked Pompey, frowning.

“Tomorrow morning. Messala Rufus has convened it with the intention of choosing the first Interrex.”

“Aha. And Clodius? What did you learn from him over dinner?”

“That he's going to distribute the freedmen across all thirty-five tribes the moment he's elected a praetor,” said Bursa.

“Thereby controlling Rome through the tribunate of the plebs.”

“Yes.”

“Who was there at dinner? How did they react?”

“Curio spoke out against it very strongly. Marcus Antonius said very little. Or Decimus Brutus. Or Pompeius Rufus.”

“You mean everyone except Curio was for the idea?”

“Oh, no. Everyone was against it. But Curio summed it up so well all the rest of us could add was that Clodius is insane.”

“Does Clodius suspect that you're working for me, Bursa?”

“None of them has any inkling, Magnus. I'm trusted.”

Pompey chewed his lower lip. “Hmmm...” He heaved a sigh. “Then we'll have to think of a way to keep Clodius from suspecting who you work for after the Senate session tomorrow. You're not going to make life any easier for Clodius at that meeting.”

Bursa never looked curious, nor did he now. “What do you want me to do, Magnus?”

“When Messala Rufus has the lots brought out to draw for an interrex, I want you to veto the proceedings.”

“Veto the appointment of an interrex?” Bursa asked blankly.

“That's correct, veto the appointment of an interrex.”

“May I ask why?” Pompey grinned. “Certainly! But I won't tell you.”

“Clodius will be furious. He wants an election badly.”

“Even if Milo runs for consul?”

“Yes, because he's convinced Milo won't get in, Magnus. He knows you're backing Plautius, and he knows how much money has gone out in bribes for Plautius. And Metellus Scipio, who might have backed Milo with some of his money because he's so tied to Bibulus and Cato, is running himself. He's spending his money on his own candidacy. Clodius believes Plautius will be junior consul. The senior consul is bound to be Metellus Scipio,” said Bursa.

“Then I suggest that you tell Clodius after the meeting that you used your tribunician veto because you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm backing Milo, not Plautius.”

“Oh, clever!” Bursa exclaimed, animated for once. He thought about it, then nodded. “Clodius will accept that.”

“Excellent!” beamed Pompey, rising to his feet. Plancus Bursa got up too, but before Pompey could move round his desk, the steward knocked and entered.

“Gnaeus Pompeius, an urgent letter,” he said, bowing. Pompey took it, making sure Bursa had no chance to see its seal. After nodding absently to his tame tribune of the plebs, he went back to his desk.

Bursa cleared his throat again.

“Yes?” asked Pompey, looking up.

“A small financial embarrassment, Magnus ...”

“After the Senate meets tomorrow.”

Satisfied, Plancus Bursa departed in the wake of the steward, while Pompey broke the seal on Caesar's letter.

I write this from Aquileia, having dealt with Illyricum. From now on I move westward through Italian Gaul. The cases have piled up in the local assizes; not surprising, since I was obliged to remain on the far side of the Alps last winter. Enough chatter. You're as busy as I am, I know. Magnus, my informants in Rome are insisting that our old friend Publius Clodius intends to distribute the freedmen across all thirty-five tribes of Roman men once he is elected praetor. This cannot be allowed to happen, as I am sure you agree. Were it to happen, Rome would be delivered into Clodius's hands for the rest of his days. Neither you nor I nor any other man from Cato to Cicero would be able to withstand Clodius short of a revolution. Were it to happen, there would indeed be a revolution. Clodius would be overpowered, executed, and the freedmen put back where they belong. However, I doubt you want this sort of solution any more than I do. Far better—and far simpler—if Clodius never becomes praetor at all. I do not presume to tell you what to do. Only rest assured that I am as much against Clodius's being elected a praetor as you and all other Roman men. I send you greetings and felicitations.

Pompey went to bed a contented man.

The following morning brought the news that Plancus Bursa had done precisely as instructed, and used the veto his office as a tribune of the plebs gave him; when Messala Rufus tried to cast the lots to see which of the patrician prefects of each decury of ten senators would become the first Interrex, Bursa vetoed. The whole House howled its outrage, Clodius and Milo loudest of all, but Bursa could not be prevailed upon to withdraw his veto.

Red with anger, Cato began to shout. “We must have elections! When there are no consuls to enter office on New Year's Day, this House appoints a patrician senator to serve as interrex for five days. And when his term as first Interrex is over, a second patrician is appointed to serve for five days. It is the duty of this second Interrex to organize the election of our magistrates. What is Rome coming to when any idiot calling himself a tribune of the plebs can stop something as necessary and constitutional as the appointment of an interrex? Condone the appointment of a dictator I will not, but that does not mean I condone a man's blocking the traditional machinery of the State!”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Bibulus to thunderous applause.

None of which made any difference to Plancus Bursa. He refused to withdraw his veto.

“Why?” demanded Clodius of him after the meeting ended.

Eyes shifting rapidly from side to side to make sure that no one could hear, Bursa made himself look conspiratorially furtive. “I've just discovered that Pompeius Magnus is backing Milo for consul after all,” he whispered.

Which appeased Publius Clodius, but had no effect on Milo, who knew very well that Pompey was not backing him. Milo marched out to the Campus Martius to ask Clodius's question of Pompey. “Why?” he demanded.

“Why what?” asked Pompey innocently.

“Magnus, you can't fool me! I know whose creature Bursa is—yours! He didn't dream up a veto out of his own imagination, he was acting under orders—yours! Why?”

“My dear Milo, I assure you that Bursa wasn't acting on any orders of mine,” said Pompey rather tartly. “I suggest you ask your why of someone else with whom Bursa associates.”

“You mean Clodius?” asked Milo warily.

“I might mean Clodius.”

A big, brawny man with the face of an ex-gladiator (though he had never been anything as ignoble as a gladiator), Milo tensed his muscles and grew even larger. A display of aggression quite wasted on Pompey— which Milo knew, but did from force of habit.

“Rubbish!” he snorted. “Clodius thinks I won't get in as consul, so he's all for holding the curule elections as soon as possible.”

“I think you won't get in as consul, Milo. But you might find Clodius doesn't share my opinion. You've managed to ingratiate yourself very nicely with the faction of Bibulus and Cato. I've heard that Metellus Scipio is reconciled to having you as his junior colleague. I've also heard that he's about to announce this fact to all his many supporters, including knights as prominent as Atticus and Oppius.”

“So it's Clodius behind Bursa?”

“It might be,” said Pompey cautiously. “Bursa's certainly not acting for me, of that you can be sure. What would I have to gain by it?”

Milo sneered. “The dictatorship?” he suggested.

“I've already refused the dictatorship, Milo. I don't think Rome would like me as Dictator. You're thick with Bibulus and Cato these days so you tell me I'm wrong.”

Milo, too large a man for a room stuffed with precious relics of Pompey's various campaigns—golden wreaths, a golden grapevine with golden grapes, golden urns, delicately painted porphyry bowls—took a turn about Pompey's study. He stopped to look at Pompey, still sitting tranquilly behind his gold and ivory desk.

“They say Clodius is going to distribute the freedmen across the thirty-five tribes,” he said.

“I've heard the rumor, yes.”

“He'd own Rome.”

“True.”

“What if he didn't stand for election as a praetor?”

“Better for Rome, definitely.”

“A pestilence on Rome! Would it be better for me?”

Pompey smiled sweetly, got up. “It couldn't help but be a great deal better for you, Milo, now could it?” he asked, walking to the door.

Milo took the hint and moved doorward too. “Could that be construed as a promise, Magnus?” he asked.

“You might be pardoned for thinking so,” said Pompey, and clapped for the steward.

But no sooner had Milo gone than the steward announced yet another visitor.

“My, my, I am popular!” cried Pompey, shaking Metellus Scipio warmly by the hand and tenderly depositing him in the best chair. This time he didn't retreat behind his desk; one wouldn't treat Quintus Caecilius Metellus Pius Scipio Nasica like that! Instead, Pompey drew up the second-best chair and seated himself only after pouring wine from the flagon containing a Chian vintage so fine that Hortensius had wept in frustration when Pompey beat him to it. Unfortunately the man with the grandest name in Rome did not have a mind to match its breathtaking sweep, though he looked what he was: a patrician Cornelius Scipio adopted into the powerful plebeian house of Caecilius Metellus. Haughty, cool, arrogant. Very plain, which was true of every Cornelius Scipio. His adopted father, Metellus Pius Pontifex Maximus, had had no sons; sadly, Metellus Scipio had no sons either. His only child was a daughter whom he had married to Crassus's son Publius three years before. Though properly a Caecilia Metella, she was always known as Cornelia Metella, and Pompey remembered her vividly because he and Julia had attended the reception following her wedding. The most disdainful-looking female he had ever seen, he had remarked to Julia, who had giggled and said Cornelia Metella always reminded her of a camel, and that she ought really to have married Brutus, who had the same sort of pedantic, intellectually pretentious mind. The trouble was, however, that Pompey never quite knew what someone like Metellus Scipio wanted to hear—should he be jovial, distantly courteous, or crisp? Well, he had started out jovial, so it might as well be jovial.

“Not a bad drop of wine, eh?” he asked, smacking his lips.

Metellus Scipio produced a faint moue, of pleasure or pain was impossible to tell. “Very good,” he said.

“What brings you all the way out here?”

“Publius Clodius,” Metellus Scipio said.

Pompey nodded. “A bad business, if it's true.”

“Oh, it's true enough. Young Curio heard it from Clodius's own lips, and went home to tell his father.”

“Not well, old Curio, they tell me,” said Pompey.

“Cancer,” said Metellus Scipio briefly.

“Tch!” clucked Pompey, and waited. Metellus Scipio waited too.

“Why come to see me?” Pompey asked in the end, tired of so little progress.

“The others didn't want me to” from Metellus Scipio.

“What others?”

“Bibulus, Cato, Ahenobarbus.”

"That's because they don't know who's the First Man in Rome.

“The aristocratic nose managed to turn up a trifle. ”Nor do I, Pompeius."

Pompey winced. Oh, if only one of them would accord him an occasional “Magnus”! It was so wonderful to hear himself addressed as “Great” by his peers! Caesar called him Magnus. But would Cato or Bibulus or Ahenobarbus or this stiff-rumped dullard? No! It was always plain Pompeius.