The October Horse (18 page)

“None.”

Cato grunted, seemed to dismiss the matter.

“What are we going to do?” Cicero asked rather pathetically.

“Strictly speaking, Marcus Cicero, that is your decision to make,” Cato said. “You are the only consular here. I have been praetor, but not consul. Therefore you outrank me.”

“Nonsense!” Cicero cried. “Pompeius left you in charge, not me! You're the one living in the general's house.”

“My commission was specific and limited. The Law prescribes that executive decisions be taken by the most senior man.”

“Well, I absolutely refuse to take them!”

The fine grey eyes studied Cicero's mutinous, fearful face—why will he always end a sheep, a mouse? Cato sighed. “Very well, I will make the executive decisions. But only on the condition that you vouch for my actions when I am called to account by the Senate and People of Rome.”

“What Senate?” Cicero asked bitterly. “Caesar's puppets in Rome, or the several hundred at present flying in all directions from Pharsalus?”

“Rome's true Republican government, which will rally somewhere and keep on opposing Caesar the monarch.”

“You'll never give up, will you?”

“Not while I still breathe.”

“Nor will I, but not in your way, Cato. I'm not a soldier, I lack the sinew. I'm thinking of returning to Italy and starting to organize civilian resistance to Caesar.”

Cato leaped to his feet, fists clenched. “Don't you dare!” he roared. “To return to Italy is to abase yourself to Caesar!”

“Pax, pax, I'm sorry I said it!” Cicero bleated. “But what are we going to do?”

“We pack up and take the wounded to Corcyra, of course. We have ships here, but if we delay, the Dyrrachians will burn them,” Cato said. “Once we reach haven with Gnaeus Pompeius, we'll get news of the others and determine our final destination.”

“Eight thousand sick men plus all our stores and supplies? We don't have nearly enough ships!” Cicero gasped.

“If,” Cato said a little derisively, “Gaius Caesar could jam twenty thousand soldiers, five thousand noncombatants and slaves, all his mules, wagons, equipment and artillery into less than three hundred battered, leaky ships and cross ocean water between Britannia and Gaul, then there is no reason why I can't put a quarter of that number aboard a hundred good stout transports and sail close to shore in placid waters.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, yes! You're quite right, Cato.” Cicero rose to his feet, handed his beaker to Statyllus with trembling fingers. “I must start my own packing. When do you sail?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

•      •      •

The Corcyra that Cato remembered from a previous visit had vanished, at least along its coasts. An exquisite island, the gem of the Adriatic, hilly and lush, a place of dreamy inlets and translucent, glowing seas.

A series of Pompeian admirals culminating in Gnaeus Pompey had remodeled Corcyra; every cove contained transport ships or war galleys, every small village had turned into a temporary town to service the demands of camps on their peripheries, the once pellucid sea was awash with human and animal excreta and stank worse than the mud flats of Egyptian Pelusium. To compound this lack of hygiene, Gnaeus Pompey had established his main base on the narrow straits facing the coast of the mainland. His reason: that this area yielded the best catches as Caesar tried to ferry troops and supplies from Brundisium to Macedonia. But the currents in the straits did not suck the filth away; rather, it accumulated.

Cato seemed not to notice the stench, whereas Cicero railed about it constantly, his handkerchief muffling his green face and affronted nostrils. In the end he removed himself to a decayed villa atop a hill where he could walk in a lovely orchard and pick fruits from the trees, almost forget the misery of homesickness. Cicero uprooted from Italy was at best a shadow of himself.

•      •      •

The sudden appearance of Cicero's younger brother, Quintus, and his son, Cicero's nephew Quintus Junior, only served to swell his woes. Unwilling to fight for either side, the pair had skulked from place to place all over Greece and Macedonia, then, upon Pompey the Great's defeat at Pharsalus, they had headed for Dyrrachium and Cicero. To find the camp deserted, and a general feeling in the neighborhood that the Republicans had sailed for Corcyra. Off they went to Corcyra.

“Now you know,” Quintus snarled at his big brother, “why I wouldn't ally myself with that overrated fool, Pompeius Magnus. He's not fit to tie Caesar's bootlaces.”

“What is the world coming to,” Cicero riposted, “when the affairs of state are decided upon a battlefield? Nor, in the long run, can they be. Sooner or later Caesar has to return to Rome and pick up the reins of government—and I intend to be in Rome to make it impossible for him to govern.”

Quintus Junior snorted. “Gerrae, Uncle Marcus! If you set foot on Italian soil, you'll be arrested.”

“That, nephew, is where you're wrong,” Cicero said with lofty scorn. “I happen to have a letter from Publius Dolabella begging me to return to Italy! He says that my presence will be welcome—that Caesar is anxious to have consulars of my standing in the Senate. He insists upon healthy opposition.”

“How nice to have a foot in both camps!” Quintus Senior sneered.

“One of Caesar's chief minions your son-in-law! Though I hear that Dolabella isn't being a good husband to Tullia.”

“All the more reason for me to go home.”

“What about me, Marcus? Why should you, who openly opposed Caesar, be permitted to go home free and clear? My son and I—who have not opposed Caesar!—will have to find him and secure pardons because everyone thinks we fought at Pharsalus. And what are we going to do for money?”

Conscious that his face was reddening, Cicero tried to look indifferent. “That is surely your own business, Quintus.”

“Cacat! You owe me millions, Marcus, millions! Not to mention the millions you owe Caesar! Cough some of it up right this moment, or I swear I'll slice you up the front from guts to gizzard!” Quintus yelled.

As he was not wearing his sword or dagger, an empty threat; but the exchange set the tenor of their reunion, which exacerbated Cicero's rudderlessness, worry for his daughter, Tullia, and indignation at the heartless conduct of his wife, Terentia, a termagant. Possessed of an independent fortune she had refused to share with the spendthrift Cicero, Terentia was up to every trick in the money book, from shifting the boundary stones of her land to declaring the most productive tracts sacred sites, thereby avoiding taxes. Activities Cicero had lived with for so long that he took them for granted. What he couldn't forgive her was the way she was treating poor Tullia, who had good cause to complain about her husband, Publius Cornelius Dolabella. But not as far as Terentia was concerned! If Cicero didn't know for a fact that Terentia had no feelings beyond satisfaction at making a profit, he would have said she was in love with Dolabella herself. Siding with him against her own flesh and blood! Tullia was ill, had been ever since she lost her child. My baby, my sweetheart!

Though, of course, Cicero didn't dare voice much of all that in his letters to Dolabella; he needed Dolabella!

•      •      •

Toward the middle of September (the very beginning of summer by the seasons that year), the Admiral of Corcyra called a small council in his headquarters.

Going on for thirty-two now, Gnaeus Pompey looked very much like his fabled father, though his hair was a darker shade of gold, his eyes were more grey than blue, and his nose was more Roman than Pompey the Great's despised snub. Command sat upon him easily; as he had his father's gift for organization, the task of manipulating a dozen separate fleets and many thousands of their servitors suited his talents. What he lacked were Pompey the Great's overweening conceit and inferiority complex; Gnaeus Pompey's mother, Mucia Tertia, was a high aristocrat with famous ancestors, so the dark thoughts of obscure Picentine origins which had so plagued poor Pompey the Great never crossed his son's mind.

Only eight men were present: Gnaeus Pompey, Cato, all three Cicerones, Titus Labienus, Lucius Afranius and Marcus Petreius.

Afranius and Petreius had generaled for Pompey the Great for many years, had even run both the Spains for him until Caesar had thrown them out last year. Grizzled they might be, but they were Military Men to the core, and old soldiers never die. Arriving in Dyrrachium just before the exodus to Corcyra, naturally they tagged along, delighted to see Labienus, a fellow Picentine.

They had brought more news—new which cheered Cato immensely, but cast Cicero down: resistance to Caesar was going to re-form in Roman Africa Province, still held by a Republican governor. Juba, King of neighboring Numidia, was openly on the Republican side, so all the survivors of Pharsalus were trying to head for Africa Province with as many troops as they could find.

“What of your father?” Cicero asked Gnaeus Pompey hollowly as he seated himself between his brother and his nephew. Oh, the horror of having to traipse off to Africa Province when all he yearned to do was go home!

“I've sent a letter to half a hundred different places around the eastern end of Our Sea,” Gnaeus Pompey said quietly, “but so far I've heard nothing. I'll try again soon. There is a report that he was in Lesbos briefly to meet my stepmother and young Sextus, but if so, my letter there must have missed him. I have not heard from Cornelia Metella or Sextus either.”

“What do you yourself intend to do, Gnaeus Pompeius?” asked Labienus, baring his big yellow teeth in the snarl as unconscious and habitual as a facial tic.

Ah, that's interesting, the silent Cato thought, eyes going from one face to the other. Pompeius's son dislikes this savage quite as much as I do.

“I shall remain here until the Etesian winds arrive with the Dog Star—at least another month,” Gnaeus Pompey answered, “then I'll move all my fleets and personnel to Sicily, Melite, Gaudos, the Vulcaniae Isles. Anywhere I can gain a toehold and make it difficult for Caesar to feed Italy and Rome. If Italy and Rome starve for lack of grain, it will be that much harder for Caesar to inflict his will on them.”

“Good!” Labienus exclaimed, and sat back contentedly. “I'm for Africa with Afranius and Petreius. Tomorrow.”

Gnaeus Pompey raised his brows. “A ship I can donate you, Labienus, but why the hurry? Stay longer and take some of Cato's recovering wounded with you. I have sufficient transports.”

“No,” Labienus said, rising with a nod to Afranius and Petreius. “I'll go to Cythera and Crete first to see what I can pick up there by way of refugee troops—in your donated ship. If I find men to transport, I'll commandeer more ships and press crews if I have to, though the soldiers can row. Save your own resources for Sicily.”

The next moment he was gone, Afranius and Petreius in his wake like two big, amiable, elderly hounds.

“So much for Labienus,” said Cicero through his teeth. “I can't say I'll miss him.”

Nor I, Cato wanted to say, but didn't. Instead he addressed Gnaeus Pompey. “So what of the eight thousand men I brought from Dyrrachium? A thousand at least are fit to sail for Africa at once, but the rest need more time to heal. None of them wants to give up the struggle, but I can't leave them here if you go.”

“Well, it seems our new Great Man is more interested in Asia Minor than he is in the Adriatic.” Lip lifted in contempt, Gnaeus Pompey snorted. “Kissing the ground at Ilium in honor of his ancestor Aeneas, if you please! Remitting Trojan taxes! Looking for the tomb of Hector!” Suddenly he grinned. “Not that leisure has lasted long. A courier came today and informed me that King Pharnaces has come down from Cimmeria to invade Pontus.”

Quintus Cicero laughed. “Following in his dear old dad's footsteps, eh? Has Caesar moved to contain him?”

“No, Caesar's still heading south. It's that traitorous cur Calvinus has to contend with the son of Mithridates the Great. These oriental kings! Hydra-headed. Chop one off, and two more sprout from the stump. So I daresay Pharnaces means it's war as usual from one end of Anatolia to the other.”

“Which gives Caesar plenty to do at the eastern end of Our Sea,” Cato said with huge satisfaction. “We'll have sufficient time to grow strong again in Africa Province.”

“You realize, Cato, that Labienus is trying to steal a march on you, and on my father, and on anyone else who might lay claim to the high command in Africa?” Gnaeus Pompey asked. “Why else is he so anxious to get there?” He pounded his fist against the palm of his other hand, anguished. “Oh, I wish I knew where my father is! I know him, Cato, I know how depressed he can get!”

“He'll turn up, have no fear,” Cato said, leaning to clasp the Admiral's brawny arm with unusual demonstrativeness. ”As for me, I have no desire to occupy the command tent.“ He jerked his head toward Cicero. ”There sits my superior, Gnaeus Pompeius. Marcus Cicero is a consular, so when I leave for Africa, it will be under his authority."

Cicero emitted a squeak of outrage and leaped to his feet. “No, no, no, no! I've told you before, my answer is no! Go where you want and do what you want, Cato—appoint one of your philosopher toadies— or a baboon—or that painted whore who pesters you so—to the command tent, but don't appoint me! My mind is made up, I'm going home!”

Which brought Cato to tower at his full imposing height, looking down that even more imposing nose at Cicero as if he suddenly spied some noisome insect. “By virtue of your rank and your own windbag prating, Marcus Tullius Cicero, you are first and foremost the Republic's servant! What you want and what you do are two quite different horses! Not once in your lordly life have you genuinely done your duty! Especially when that duty requires you to pick up a sword! You're a Forum creature whose deeds don't begin to rival your words!”

“How dare you!” Cicero gasped, face mottling. “How dare you, Marcus Porcius Cato, you sanctimonious, self-righteous, pigheaded monster! It was you and no one else who brought us to this, it was you and no one else who—who forced Pompeius Magnus into civil war! When I came to him with Caesar's very reasonable and fair offer of terms, it was you who threw such a colossal tantrum that you literally terrified the life out of him! You screeched, screamed and howled until Magnus was a shivering heap of jelly—you had the man groveling and crawling to you more abjectly than Lucullus groveled and crawled to Caesar! No, Cato, I don't blame Caesar for this civil war, I blame you!”