Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 2
As was and is my habit, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind, but much to my own surprise I realized even as I asked the question that if he answered in the affirmative, I was not all that upset about it.
But in response, Caesar threw back his head and laughed, saying, "No, Pullus. It's not your time yet. No," he continued once he had regained his breath. "I've just come to visit."
Struck by a sudden impulse, I leaned over out of my chair and reached for Caesar's right arm, the appendage nearest to me. I do not know exactly what I was expecting, although I had told myself that I would not be surprised if my hand went right through him, but it certainly was not the feeling of solid flesh and muscle, even if his skin temperature was a bit cooler than normal, as if he had just come in from the cold. That was not likely; although it was nighttime, this was the height of summer and we had been experiencing a bit of heat for the past several days. Caesar's only reaction to my sudden test of his corporeal form was to look down at my hand with a raised eyebrow, before looking at me with that quirk of the mouth that I knew so well, the sign that he was fighting off the urge to laugh.
"You were expecting . . . what, exactly?" he asked, his tone matching his expression.
I was struck by a sudden irritation that he found this so amusing, but I tried to keep from sounding defensive.
"I'm not sure," I admitted. "I suppose I was hoping that my hand would go right through you. That would mean this is just a dream."
"And now that you've felt my arm and see that I'm as real as you are, what now?"
"Why are you here? What's your purpose?"
"As I said, I just came to visit." Now he sounded a bit peevish to me, but as surprised as I thought I was, I was even more unprepared for what he said next. "And to answer the questions you've been asking yourself."
I believe it was at this point in our conversation that I slapped myself, with as much violence as I could muster, in the hope that it would awaken me from what I was sure was a dream. Yet, despite the sting bringing tears to my eyes, when my vision cleared, there sat Caesar. And this time there was no mistaking his impatience as he regarded me with folded arms, shaking his head at what he undoubtedly thought were my foolish attempts to send him back to from wherever he had come. Taking a deep breath, I remember thinking to myself, very well. If you are so insistent on me asking you questions, I will make it worth your journey.
"So was it worth it?"
I had hoped to catch Caesar off-balance, but he did not seem the least bit surprised, and in fact, I suppose he was expecting such a question. Even so, he was still Caesar, and what I had learned was that he enjoyed nothing more than rattling the people around him.
"Was what worth it?"
"All the deaths, all the killing, all the turmoil." I am afraid my exasperation got the better of me. "Do you know how much those of us who followed you had to suffer because of your actions? Do you know how much some of us have lost?"
By the time I was finished, I knew that my voice was raised to a level guaranteed to arouse the rest of my household, and in fact, I imagine that was my hope, that Diocles, Agis, and the others would come running and send this version of Caesar back to where he came from. Although it was not my intent to do so, Caesar appeared completely unruffled by my outburst, as if this was nothing he had not heard before. Unbidden, the thought came to me that perhaps he had appeared to others who had survived this long, as few of us left as there were, and so had heard all of this before. And while I cannot say for sure, I believe that I was at least looking for an apology, but I was to be disappointed.
"Lost?" Caesar made an exaggerated show of looking around at our surroundings. "It seems to me that you've done very well for yourself. Of course, you earned it on your own merit, but I'm hard put to see how you're a loser because of the changes I endeavored to bring to Rome. If it weren't for my actions, you would hardly be a member of the equestrian class."
If Caesar's goal was to anger me, I must say that like everything he did, he was doing a thorough job of it.
"There's more to life than position and advancement," I shot back. "I lost my best friend that day at Pharsalus, all because you were too stubborn to admit that your men had a legitimate grievance, that they were tired and just wanted all that you had promised them."
I saw Caesar's lips thin down and his eyes narrow, which was always a sign that a Caesarian volcano was about to erupt. This time I was not cowed, although I freely admit that a large enough part of my mind was sure that this was a dream or hallucination of some sort. However, he surprised me because when he replied, his tone was still as calm and even as when this conversation started.
"Do you really believe that, Pullus?" he asked quietly. "That I was responsible for the falling out between you and Domitius?" Suddenly he leaned forward, and placed a hand on my arm as he gave me that penetrating gaze that could inspire and terrorize, sometimes at the same time. "Think back to that day, Titus. Search your memory; search your feelings. Did you really almost strike Domitius down because of your loyalty to me? Was that really the only reason?"
Looking down at his hand on my arm, I was struck by how smooth and white it was, as if Caesar had not been in the sun for some time, which I suppose is accurate. I felt my mouth pulling down into a frown as I stared at Caesar's hand, my mind flying back through the years, and the battles, and the deaths. I do not know exactly how it happened, but it seemed as if I only closed my eyes for an instant longer than a normal eye blink. When I opened my eyes again, Caesar's hand had changed, instantly becoming brown and dirty, the nails caked with grime, the fingers stubbier and wider than Caesar's long, slender ones. It was a hand I still knew very well, even after so many years, because it belonged to Vibius Domitius, my friend and comrade from my childhood and early days in the Legion. We had been as close as brothers were; in fact, Vibius had remarked on many occasions how much closer he and I were than he was with any of his other brothers. We had both held the dream of being in the Legions from the time we were about 11 years old, and had sought out the tutelage of a man known locally as Cyclops, who had served under the standard in Sertorius' army during his rebellion in our home province of Hispania. But a rift had developed that gradually grew wider, the result of Vibius' opposition to almost every action taken by Caesar. Vibius was a strict Catonian in sentiment, and our disagreement grew until that day at Pharsalus, when Vibius, and most of the 10th Legion, it must be said, chose to mutiny rather than continue to follow Caesar in his pursuit of Pompey after the older man's defeat.
Now, in that moment, I somehow found myself back on those dusty plains as I remembered that in our final confrontation, Vibius had done the exact same thing as Caesar, placing his hand on my arm as he pleaded his case with me. And he was very persuasive, because I had not even realized that I bore the same kind of anger towards Caesar that Vibius was expressing at that moment. Truth be known, I was perilously close to agreeing with my friend and joining the mutiny. But then, something inside me stopped me, and over the years I suppose I have convinced myself that my decision was based in the purest of motives; devotion to my general and trust that he was doing what was best for Rome. Yet, every time I thought about, or told this version of my history to others, I was aware of a very tiny, timid voice inside my head that whispered to me that I was speaking a lie. If not a lie, then at the least not the complete truth. What tipped me back from the edge of the precipice that was represented in Vibius' hand on my arm was a simple, but brutal calculation. Who was likely to win in this battle of wills between Caesar and his Legions? I had been marching for Caesar for my entire career to that point, and had seen him snatch a victory when all seemed lost on a number of occasions. Caesar was fond of saying that he never suffered a defeat, only a setback, and I know now that I had taken this philosophy as my own. In short, while I did not believe Caesar would win every battle, I had the utmost faith that he would find a way to win every war in which he was involved, if only because he had always done so before Pharsalus. By siding with Vibius and the rest of the 10th, I would preserve the relationship with my longest and best friend, but it would do harm to my career, which in turn would damage my chances of reaching my ultimate goal of becoming an equestrian. Granted, it might not have been irreparable; even by this point Caesar had become well known for his clemency. However, I was not blind to the fact that his clemency was almost always reserved for the men of his own class, and I was not willing to count on him extending that to one of his Centurions, even if I was one of his personal choices to be elevated to the Centurionate. That was simply a risk I was unwilling to take with my career.
So in that moment at Pharsalus, as I revisited it sitting here with the shade of Caesar, for the first time I was able to see into my heart clearly and without excuse, and I recognized that it had come down to a simple choice of my career over my friendship with Vibius. In the space of no more than a dozen or more heartbeats, I had made the calculation that my ambition meant more to me than my friendship with a man who had been at my side for more than 20 years at that point. In the end, that was all that Vibius was worth to me: a dozen heartbeats before I threw our friendship onto the flames of my desire for success. I was still staring down at Vibius' hand, but it suddenly began shimmering and after a moment, it was completely obscured as the tears flooded my eyes. Blinking them away, my vision cleared just in time to see one of my tears drop onto the back of the hand, still on my arm. But now it was Caesar's hand again, and I was horrified at this show of emotion and shame in front of him, shade or no. Looking up, it was only through a force of will that I returned his gaze, but his expression was not what I was expecting. He had a smile, but one that was so sad, and so revealing at the same time, and while I could not be sure, it seemed as if his eyes were shining more than they had been a moment before.
"Do you still want to know the answer to that question?" he asked quietly.
I thought for a moment, then shook my head.
"I didn't think so," he said with that same sad smile.
"What would you have done differently, then?" I again blurted out a question before thinking, but this did seem to catch him by surprise.
Regardless, he considered the question a moment before answering.
"Actually, Pullus, I don't think I would have done anything differently," he replied.
Then, he looked me directly in the eye.
"Would you?"
Instead of answering, I turned away to gaze into the fire, hating myself because I not only knew the answer, but understood that he did as well. I became lost in thought as I stared into the flames, thinking all the thoughts that had been lying dormant for so long until this unexpected and uninvited visitor had arrived. I am sure that I was awake for the entire time, but when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned my head to resume my conversation with Caesar, I was so startled that I jumped from the chair, knocking it over.
"M-m-master?" Diocles' expression was alarmed as he held his hands out, trying to help me avoid tripping over the overturned chair. "I'm sorry to disturb you! Please forgive me, but it's very late. I think you should go to bed."
I did not answer him, mainly because I was trying to allow my heartbeat to slow enough so that I did not sound as if I had just run a furlong. He looked puzzled as I peered over his shoulder, staring at the spot where Caesar had been sitting, but neither he nor the chair were there any longer. I allowed Diocles to take me by the elbow as if I were decrepit and lead me from the room as I tried to comprehend what had just taken place.
"Was I asleep when you came in?" I asked Diocles.
"Well, I didn't think so. Your eyes were open and you were staring into the fire. But judging from your reaction, I guess I was wrong."
I did not reply, and I am somewhat ashamed to say that I allowed Diocles to more or less undress me and help me to the bed, but truthfully, my mind was not up to even that simple task at that moment. Bidding me goodnight, I was quickly left alone with my thoughts, and I knew that sleep was not going to be coming this night as I mulled over what seemed to me to be as real an event as Diocles putting me to bed. However, gentle reader, you may be surprised to know that my thoughts were less consumed with the apparition of Caesar appearing in my study than the revelation that he had forced me finally to face. For the rest of that night, I was absorbed with the question of what it said about me; that I could so quickly and easily destroy a friendship that I had always accepted was the dearest relationship to me in the world? Was this the real cost of my ambition, being forced to recognize this truth about myself, that I was truly no different than Caesar, for whom everyone else was a piece to be used as he saw fit in the game that he was playing to become the First Man in Rome? For most of my life, I had accepted as fact that I was different from Caesar and the men of his class, at least in the ways that mattered, holding my honor, my integrity, my word as something purer than those of the upper classes. Now I was forced to face the fact that this was not the truth, that while the stakes may have been lower, at least when compared to those that Caesar and the others of his class played for, I played the game in the same manner as those men I despised for doing the same thing.
This, I suppose, is the true price that one pays to reach one's goals, that sooner or later you are forced to confront what you really are when stripped of all else. These are the thoughts that disturb my sleep now, and I long for a day when I am no longer troubled by all that I have gained, and lost, because of the choices I made while I was marching with Caesar.
Chapter 1- Prelude
After an exceedingly busy spring and summer, at least as far as events in Rome were concerned, things calmed down for a bit, since there was no longer the steady stream of dispatch riders coming into camp. In retrospect, that could have had more to do with Pollio’s absence than anything else, because as we would learn later, the sparring between Antonius and Octavian continued. Sometime in October, Antonius left Rome for Brundisium to meet with the Legions in Macedonia, which Antonius had sent for as part of the force that he was going to lead to expel Decimus Brutus. While Octavian had returned to Rome after his own initial trip down to Brundisium, he had left behind a number of agents to conduct a whispering campaign in favor of Octavian and against Antonius. Therefore, when the Legions from Macedonia arrived, they were subjected to the blandishments of Octavian’s men. Octavian himself went back to Campania, to continue his efforts in raising his own army from Caesar’s veterans, which he was more successful at than Antonius ever was. There has been much speculation about what was really going on between the two of them, but I believe that Scribonius had the rights of it.
“Antonius doesn’t want that army to crush Decimus Brutus; he wants it to cow the Senate and crush Octavian. That’s why Octavian went running to Campania as soon as he heard that the Macedonian Legions had landed in Brundisium and Antonius was going to them. He’s trying to raise enough of an army that Antonius will think twice about attacking him.”
Scribonius, Balbus, and I were sitting in my tent one evening when he made this statement, and it had the ring of truth to it.
“I heard that he’s giving the men 2,000 sesterces in cash, and promising them 20,000 more,” Balbus remarked.
“Then it shouldn’t take him long to raise at least a Legion,” I said, thinking how most of my former comrades blew through money and that many of them were probably already broke.
“He already has,” Balbus replied flatly, reaching for a chunk of bread.
I raised an eyebrow. “And you know this, how?” I asked.
Balbus grinned, his mouth still full of bread. “I have my sources, just like you, though mine aren’t generals like Pollio; they’re just lowly born scum like us. But they know what’s what.”
“I wonder where Octavian is getting the money to throw out more than a million sesterces in cash?” Scribonius mused, and once again, I marveled at his ability to calculate sums so quickly in his head.
“Where do you think?” Balbus put his finger on the side of his nose and winked. “That war chest, no doubt about it.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” I protested, though I admit that it was only half-hearted, for I believed that was where it came from as well. In these early days, something made me cautious about being too critical of Octavian. I cannot help thinking that some instinct in me was triggered during my short exposure to Octavian, though that might be hindsight.
“Where do you think it came from, then?” Balbus retorted. “Antonius has locked up the boy’s inheritance tighter than Juno’s cunnus. He has to be getting it from somewhere, and that’s the only place.”
“Not really,” Scribonius interrupted. I looked at him in some surprise, and then saw his thoughtful frown. “The plutocrats could be lending him the money, if they thought that he was a good bet to come out on top.”
Balbus snorted. “Fat chance of that happening. Oh, he’s clever; I'll grant you that. But he’s still a shade compared to a man like Antonius, who’s been around in every way imaginable. There’s no way he would come out on top against Antonius.”
I shook my head.
“No, Balbus, he’s far more than clever. Remember, I met him. There’s something about him that makes him seem much older than he is. I think the plutocrats, if they indeed did lend him the money, saw the same thing that I did.” I looked over at Scribonius and grinned, finishing. “But I agree with Balbus. I think he stole the money.”
I just ducked the cup that Scribonius threw at me.
As successful as Octavian had been, Antonius was as unsuccessful in his attempts to ensure the loyalty of the men in Brundisium. He offered them all of 400 sesterces at the same that Octavian’s agents had been offering the 2,000, so men laughed in Antonius’ face, which probably cost some of them their lives. Antonius was so infuriated that he ordered some of the men to draw lots. Then, in front of him and his wife, Fulvia, he had them executed, citing his authority as a Consul of Rome in making the sentence stick. It was a classic case of winning a battle but losing a war, for while Antonius was successful in enforcing his will, he lost what little respect he had left among the Legions. They would obey him, but only sullenly, while their attention to their duties would border on unacceptable, doing only the bare minimum. I have no doubt that the Centurions turned a blind eye to this laxity and in fact encouraged it. Antonius had seriously overestimated his hold on the troops by virtue of his status as Caesar’s man and his own personality, so I have to believe that the word of what happened in Brundisium encouraged Octavian to take his next step of marching on Rome with the men he had recruited in Campania. Not only did he have a head start on Antonius, the men marching for the Consul did not exactly move with the same speed that they had under the real Caesar. Meanwhile, Octavian’s troops would have done their late general proud with the speed at which they moved. Octavian reached Rome, marching up the Via Latina, entering the Forum before anyone in the Senate, or Antonius for that matter, could do anything to stop him. Octavian was now master of Rome for all intents and purposes, but it would be short-lived.
