The October Horse (35 page)

“He's family,” Antony said, unperturbed. “I may get a tongue-lashing, but it won't be anything worse.”

“You'd better offer to Hercules for that, Marcus.”

•      •      •

From Fulvia's he went to Pompey's palace and his second wife, Antonia Hybrida. Oh, she wasn't too bad, though she had the Antonian face, poor thing. What looked good on a man definitely didn't on a woman. A strapping girl he had tired of very quickly, though not as quickly as he spent her considerable fortune. She had borne him a daughter, Antonia, now five years old, but the matching of first cousins had not been felicitous when it came to offspring. Little Antonia was mentally dull as well as dismally ugly and grossly fat. From somewhere he'd have to find a gigantic dowry, or else marry the girl off to some foreign plutocrat who'd give half his fortune for the chance to acquire an Antonian bride.

“You're in the boiling soup,” said Antonia Hybrida when he found her in her sitting room.

“I'll emerge unscalded, Hibby.”

“Not this time, Marcus. Caesar's livid.”

“Cacat!” he said violently, scowling, fist up.

She flinched, shrank away. “No, please!” she cried. “I've done nothing—nothing!”

“Oh, stop whining, you're safe enough!” he snapped.

“Caesar sent a message,” she said, recovering.

“What?”

“To report to him at the Domus Publica immediately. In a toga, not in armor.”

“The Master of the Horse is armored all the time.”

“I'm just relaying the message.” Antonia Hybrida studied her husband, in a quandary; it might be months and months before she saw him again, even if he lived in this selfsame house. He had beaten her regularly when they were first married, but he had not broken her spirit, just broken her of her habit of torturing her slaves. “Marcus,” she said, “I would like another child.”

“You can like all you want, Hibby, but you're not getting another child. One mental defective is one too many.”

“She was damaged in the birth process, not in the womb.”

He walked to the big silver mirror Pompey the Great had once gazed into hoping to see the ghost of his dead Julia vanish into its depths, eyed himself with head to one side. Yes, impressive! A toga! No one knew better than Mark Antony that men of his physique didn't look impressive in a toga. Togas were for the Caesars of Rome's world—it took height and grace to wear one well. Not, mind you, he had to admit, that the old boy didn't wear armor with panache too. He simply looks what he is, royal. The family dictator. That's what we used to call him among ourselves when we were boys, Gaius, Lucius and I. Ran the lot of us, even Uncle Lucius. And now he's running Rome. As dictator.

“Don't expect me for dinner,” he said, and clanked out.

•      •      •

“You look like Plautus's miles gloriosus in that ridiculous getup” was Caesar's opening remark. Seated behind his desk, he didn't rise, didn't attempt any kind of physical contact.

“The soldiers drink me up. They love to see their betters look their betters.”

“Like you, their taste is in their arse, Antonius. I asked you to wear a toga. Armor's not appropriate inside the pomerium.”

“As Master of the Horse, I can wear armor inside the city.”

“As Master of the Horse, you do as the Dictator says.”

“Well, do I sit down or keep standing?” Antony demanded.

“Sit.”

“I'm sitting. What now?”

“An explanation of events in the Forum, I think.”

“Which events?”

“Don't be obtuse, Antonius.”

“I just want the jawing over and done with.”

“So you know why I summoned you—to give you, as you so succinctly put it, a jawing.”

“Isn't it?”

“Perhaps I object to your choice of words, Antonius. I was thinking along the lines of castration.”

“That's not fair! What have I done, when it's all boiled down?” Antony asked angrily. “Your bum-boy Vatia passed the Ultimate Decree and instructed me to deal with the violence. Well, I did just that! As I see it, I did the job properly. There hasn't been a peep out of anyone since.”

“You brought professional soldiers into the Forum Romanum, then you ordered them to use their swords to cut down men armed with wood. You slaughtered wholesale! Slaughtered Roman citizens in their own meeting place! Not even Sulla had the temerity to do that! Is it because you've been called upon to take your sword to fellow Romans on a battlefield that you turn the Forum Romanum into a battlefield? The Forum Romanum, Antonius! You slimed the stones where Romulus stood with citizen blood! The Forum of Romulus—of Curtius—of Horatius Cocles—of Fabius Maximus Verrucosus Cunctator—of Appius Claudius Caecus—of Scipio Africanus—of Scipio Aemilianus—of a thousand Romans more noble than you, more capable, more revered! You committed sacrilege!” Caesar said, biting off his words slowly and distinctly, his tones freezing, cutting.

Antony leaped to his feet, fists clenched. “Oh, I hate it when you're sarcastic! Don't come the orator with me, Caesar! Just say what you want to say, and have done with it! Then I can get back to my job, which is trying to keep your legions calm! Because they're not calm! They're very, very unhappy!” he shouted, a little red light of cunning at the back of his eyes. That should sidetrack the old boy—very sensitive about his legions.

It did not.

“Sit down, you ignorant lump! Shut your insubordinate mouth, or I'll cut your balls off here and now—and don't think that I can't! Fancy yourself a warrior, Antonius? Compared to me, you're a tyro! Riding a pretty horse in the stage armor of the vainglorious soldier! You don't stand and lay about in the front line, you never have! I could take your sword off you right now and chop you into cutlets!”

The temper was loose; Antony drew in a huge breath, shaken to the marrow. Oh, why had he forgotten Caesar's temper?

“How dare you be insolent to me? How dare you forget who exactly you are? You, Antonius, are my creature—I made you, and I can unmake you! If it were not for our blood ties, I'd have passed you over in favor of a dozen more efficient and intelligent men! Was it too much to ask that you comport yourself with a meed of discretion, of simple common sense? Obviously I asked too much! You're a butcher as well as a fool, and your conduct has made my task in Rome infinitely harder—I have inherited the mantle of your butchery! From the moment I crossed the Rubicon, my policy toward all Romans has been clemency, but what do you call this massacre? No, Caesar can't trust his Master of the Horse to behave like a civilized, educated, genuine Roman! What do you think Cato will make of this massacre when he hears of it? Or Cicero? You're an incubus suffocating my clemency, and I do not thank you for it!”

The Master of the Horse held up his hands in abject surrender. “Pax, pax, pax! I was in error! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

“Remorse is after the event, Antonius. There were at least half a hundred ways to deal with violence in the Forum without doing more than breaking one or two heads. Why didn't you arm the Tenth with shields and staves, as Gaius Marius did when he took on Saturninus's far vaster crowds? Hasn't it occurred to you that in ordering the Tenth to kill, you transferred a share of your guilt to their spirits? How am I to explain matters to them, let alone to the civilian populace?” The eyes were glacial, but they also bore revulsion. “I will never forget or forgive your action. What's more, it tells me that you enjoy wielding power in ways that might prove dangerous not only to the state, but to me.”

“Am I fired?” Antony asked, beginning to ease his bottom out of the chair. “Are you done?”

“No, you are not fired, and no, I am not done. Put your arse back on the seat,” Caesar said, still with that dislike. “What happened to the silver in the Treasury?”

“Oh, that!”

“Yes, that.”

“I took it to pay the legions, but I haven't gotten around to coining it yet,” Antony said, shrugging.

“Then is it at Juno Moneta's?”

“Um—no.”

“Where is it?”

“At my house. I thought it was safer.”

“Your house. You mean Pompeius Magnus's house?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“What gave you to understand that you could move there?”

“I needed a bigger house, and Magnus's was vacant.”

“I can see why you'd pick it—your taste is as vulgar as Magnus's was. But kindly move back to your own house, Antonius. As soon as I have the leisure, Magnus's house will be put up for auction to the highest bidder, as will the rest of his property,” said Caesar. “The property of those who remain unpardoned after I deal with the resistance in Africa Province will be garnished by the state, though some can be dealt with sooner. But it will not be sold to benefit my own men, or my hirelings. I'll have no Chrysogonus in my service. If I find one, it won't take Cicero and a court case to bring about his—or her—downfall. Be very careful that you do not try to steal from Rome. Put the silver back in the Treasury, where it belongs. You may go.” He let Antony get to the door, then spoke again. “By the way, how much back pay are my legions owed?”

Antony looked quite blank. “I don't know, Caesar.”

“You don't know, but you took the silver. All the silver. As Master of the Horse, I suggest that you tell the legion paymasters to present their books directly to me here in Rome. My instructions to you when you took them back to Italy were to pay them once they were in camp. Have they not been paid at all since they returned?”

“I don't know,” said Antony again, and escaped.

•      •      •

“Why didn't you fire him on the spot, Gaius?” Antony's uncle asked his cousin over dinner.

“I would have liked to, very much. However, Lucius, it isn't as simple as it looks, is it?”

Lucius Caesar's eyes stilled, then went pensive. “Explain.”

“My mistake was in trusting Antonius in the first place, but to dismiss him out of hand would be an even bigger mistake,” said Caesar, munching on a stick of celery. “Think about it. For close to twelve months Antonius has had the run of Italy and sole command of the veteran legions. With whom he's spent by far the major part of his time, especially since last March. I haven't seen the legions, and he's been mighty careful not to let any of my other representatives in Italy see them. There's evidence that they haven't been paid, so by now they're owed two years' money. Antonius pretended ignorance of the entire matter, yet eighteen thousand talents of silver were withdrawn from the Treasury and taken to Magnus's house. Apparently to go to Juno Moneta's for coining, though it hasn't.”

“My heart's knocking at my ribs, Gaius. Go on, do.”

“I don't have an abacus to hand, but my arithmetic isn't bad, even when I have to do the sums in my head. Fifteen legions times five thousand men times one thousand per capita per annum adds up to about seventy-five million sesterces. Which are three thousand talents of silver. Add another—say, three hundred talents to pay the noncombatants, and then double the figure to make it two years' pay, and you have six thousand, six hundred talents of silver. That is far short of the eighteen thousand Antonius removed,” said Caesar.

“He's been living mighty high,” said Lucius, sighing. “I know he's not paying rent for using Magnus's various residences, but that ghastly armor he's wearing would have cost a fortune to start with. Then there's the armor his sixty Germans wear. Plus the wine, the women, the entourage—my nephew, I think, is drowning in debt and decided he'd better empty the Treasury the moment he heard you were in Italy.”

“He should have emptied it months ago,” said Caesar.

“Do you think he's been working on the legions to disaffect them by not paying them and blaming you?” Lucius asked.

“Undoubtedly. Were he as organized as Decimus Brutus or as cognizantly ambitious as Gaius Cassius, we'd be deeper in the shit than we are. Our Antonius has high ideas, but no method.”

“He's a plotter, not a planner.”

“Indeed.” A thick white goat's cheese looked appetizing; Caesar scooped some on to another stick of celery.

“When do you intend to pounce, Gaius?”

“I'll know because my legions will tell me,” Caesar said. A spasm of pain crossed his face, he put the tidbit down quickly and pressed his hand against his chest.

“Gaius! Are you all right?”

How to tell a dear friend that the pain is not of the body? Not my legions! O Jupiter Optimus Maximus, not my legions! Two years ago it would not have occurred to me, but I learned from the mutiny of the Ninth. I trust none of them now, even the Tenth. Caesar trusts none of them now, even the Tenth.

“Just a touch of indigestion, Lucius.”

“Then if you feel up to it, elucidate.”

“I need the rest of this year to maneuver. Rome comes first, the legions second. I'll have six thousand talents minted for pay, but I'm not going to pay anybody yet. I want to see just what Antonius has been saying, and that won't happen until the legions tell me. If I went to Capua tomorrow, I could squash it in a day, but this is one boil that I think has to come to a head, and the best way to make it do that is to avoid seeing the legions in person.” Caesar picked up the celery stick and began to eat again. “Antonius is swimming in very deep water, and his eyes are fixed on a bobbing lump of cork that spells salvation. He's not quite sure what form the salvation will take, but he's swimming very hard. Perhaps he's hoping I'll die—stranger things have happened. Or else he's hoping that I'll dash off to Africa Province ahead of my troops, and leave him a clear field to do whatever comes to his mind. He's a Fortuna man, he seizes his chance, he doesn't make his chance. I want him even farther from the shore before I strike, and I want to know exactly what he's been doing and saying to my men. Having to give the silver back is a blow, he'll swim feverishly now. But I will be waiting behind the cork. Frankly, Lucius, I'm hoping that he'll continue to swim for two or three more months. I need time for Rome before I deal with the legions and Antonius.”

“His actions are treasonable, Gaius.”

Caesar reached a hand out to pat Lucius's arm. “Rest easy, there'll be no treason trials within the family. I'll cut our relative off from salvation, but I'll leave him his head.” He chuckled. “Both his heads. After all, a great deal of his thinking is done with his prick.”