The October Horse (72 page)

“I haven't time to deal with Epidius and my other tutors,” he said now, producing a fat purse. “Here, Maecenas, give this to Epidius and tell him to get everybody and everything to Rome.”

“There's a gale coming,” Maecenas said anxiously.

“Gales never stopped Caesar. Why should they stop me?”

“You're not well,” Maecenas said courageously, “that's why.”

“Whether I'm on the Adriatic or in Apollonia, I won't be well, but sickness wouldn't stop Caesar, and it isn't going to stop me.”

He went off to supervise the packing of his trunk, leaving Salvidienus and Maecenas to look at each other.

“He's too calm,” said Maecenas.

“Maybe,” Salvidienus said pensively, “there's more of his uncle in him than meets the eye.”

“Oh, I've known that since the moment I met him. But he does a balancing act on a nervous tightrope that nothing in the history books says Caesar did. The history books! How terrible, Quintus, to think he's now relegated to the history books.”

•      •      •

“You're not well,” said Agrippa as they walked down to the quays in the teeth of a rising wind.

“That subject is forbidden. I have you, and you're enough.”

“Who would dare to murder Caesar?”

“The heirs of Bibulus, Cato and the boni, I imagine. They won't go unpunished.” His voice dropped until it became inaudible to Agrippa. “By Sol Indiges, Tellus and Liber Pater, I swear that I will exact retribution!”

The open boat put out into a heaving sea, and Agrippa found himself Octavius's nursemaid, for Scylax the body servant Octavius chose to go with him succumbed to seasickness even faster than his master did. As far as Agrippa was concerned, Scylax could die, but that couldn't be Octavius's fate. Between his shivering bouts of retching and an attack of the asthma that had him greyish-purple in the face, it did look to the worried Agrippa as if his friend might die, but they had no alternative save to go westward for Italy; wind and sea insisted upon pushing them in that direction. Not that Octavius was a troublesome or demanding patient. He simply lay in the bottom of the boat on a board to keep him clear of the foul water slopping there; the most Agrippa could do for him was to keep his chin up and his head to one side so that he couldn't aspirate the almost clear fluid he vomited.

Agrippa now discovered convictions in himself that he hadn't known he possessed: that this sickly fellow scant months younger than he wasn't going to die, or disappear into obscurity now that his all-powerful uncle was no longer there to push him upward. At some point in the distant future, Octavius was going to matter to Rome, when he had grown to maturity and could emulate the earlier members of his family by entering the Senate. He will need military men like Salvidienus and me, he will need a paper man like Maecenas, and we must be there for him, despite whatever happens during the years that must elapse between now and when Gaius Octavius comes into his own. Maecenas is too exalted to be a client, but as soon as Octavius improves, I am going to ask him if I may become his first client, and advise Salvidienus to be his second client.

When Octavius fought to sit upright, Agrippa took him into his arms and held him where his feeble gestures indicated that he could breathe easiest, a sagum sheltering him from the rain and spume. At least, thought Agrippa, it's not going to be a long passage. We'll be in Italy before we know it, and once we're on dry land he's bound to lose the seasickness, if not the asthma. Whoever heard of something called asthma?

But landfall when it came was a bitter disappointment; the storm had blown them to Barium, sixty miles north of Brundisium.

In charge of Octavius's purse—as well, for he had no money of his own—Agrippa paid the pinnace owner and carried his friend ashore, leaving Scylax to totter in his wake supported by his own man, Phormion, who to Agrippa represented the difference between utter penury and some pretensions to gentility.

“We must hire two gigs and get to Brundisium at once,” said Octavius, who looked much better just for leaving the sea.

“Tomorrow,” said Agrippa firmly.

“It's barely dawn. Today, Agrippa, and no arguments.”

•      •      •

The asthma improved only a little on the journey, over the sealed Via Minucia but behind two molting mules, but Octavius refused to stop for longer than it took to change teams; they reached the house of Aulus Plautius on nightfall.

“Philippus couldn't come, he has to stay closer to Rome,” Plautius said, showing Agrippa where to put Octavius, “but he's sent a letter at the gallop, and there's one from Atia too.”

Breathing easier with each passing moment, Octavius lay propped on pillows on a comfortable couch and extended his hand to the anxious Agrippa.

“You see?” he asked, his smile as beautiful as Caesar's. “I knew I'd be safe with Marcus Agrippa. Thank you.”

“When did you last eat?” asked Plautius.

“In Apollonia,” said the famished Agrippa.

“Where are my letters?” Octavius demanded, more interested in reading than eating.

“Hand them over for the sake of peace,” Agrippa said, used to him. “He can read and eat at the same time.”

Philippus's letter was longer than the brief note sent to Apollonia, and included a full list of the Liberators as well as the news that Caesar had named Gaius Octavius as his heir, and had also adopted him in his will.

•      •      •

I cannot understand Antonius's toleration of these loathsome men, let alone what seems to be implied approval of their act. They have been granted a general amnesty, and though Brutus and Cassius have not yet appeared on their tribunals to resume their praetorian duties, it is being said that they will do this very shortly. Indeed, I imagine that they would already be back at work, had it not been for the advent of a fellow who appeared three days ago at the spot where Caesar's body was summarily burned. He calls himself Gaius Amatius, and insists that he is Gaius Marius's grandson. Certainly he has considerable oratorical skill, which argues against a purely peasant origin.

First he informed the crowds—they continue to gather every day in the Forum—that the Liberators are utter villains, and must be killed. His anger is directed at Brutus, Cassius and Decimus Brutus more than at the others, though my own opinion is that Gaius Trebonius is the biggest villain. He didn't participate in the actual murder, but he masterminded the plot. On that first day Amatius inspired the crowd to anger: it began, as happened at the funeral, to howl for Liberator blood. His second appearance was even more effective, and the crowd grew really ugly.

But yesterday's appearance, Amatius's third, was worse. He accused Marcus Antonius of complicity in the deed! Said that Antonius's accommodation of the Liberators (oddly enough, Antonius did use the word “accommodation”) was deliberate. Antonius was publicly patting the Liberators on the back, rewarding them. They walk around as free as birds, yet they murdered Caesar—Antonius was thick as thieves with Brutus and Cassius, hadn't the people seen that for themselves? All this, and more. So the crowd grew riotous.

I am leaving for my villa at Neapolis, where I will meet you, but I have just heard that some of the Liberators have decided since the appearance of this Gaius Amatius to leave Italy. Cimber has gone to his province in a huge hurry, so have Staius Murcus, Trebonius and Decimus Brutus.

The Senate met to discuss the provinces, and Brutus and Cassius attended, expecting to hear where they would be sent to govern next year. Instead, Antonius discussed only his province, Macedonia, and Dolabella's province, Syria. No talk of pursuing Caesar's war against the Parthians, however. Antonius has laid claim to the six crack legions encamped in western Macedonia, insists they are now his. For war against Burebistas and the Dacians? He didn't say so. I think he is simply ensuring his own survival if things come to yet another civil war. No decisions were taken about the other nine legions, which have not been recalled to Italy

The Senate, aided and abetted by Cicero—who was back in the House the moment Caesar died, praising the Liberators to the skies—is busy starting to unravel Caesar's laws, which is a tragedy. There's no thought behind it. They remind me of a child getting its hands on mama's sewing halfway through shaping a sleeve.

One other subject I must mention before closing—your inheritance. Octavius, I beg you not to take it up! Come to an agreement with the one-eighth heirs whereby the estate is more equitably split up, and decline to be adopted. To take up your inheritance is to court death. Between Antonius, the Liberators and Dolabella, you won't live out the year. They will crush you, an eighteen-year-old. Antonius is beside himself with rage at being cut out of the will, especially by a mere lad. I do not say he did conspire with Caesar's assassins, for there is no proof of it, but I do say that he has few scruples and no ethics. So when I see you, I will expect to hear you say that you have decided to decline Caesar's bequest. Live to be an old man, Octavius.

•      •      •

Octavius put the letter down, chewing hungrily on a chicken leg. Thank all the gods, the asthma was lifting at last. He felt curiously invigorated, able to deal with anything.

“I am Caesar's heir,” he said to Plautius and Agrippa.

Working his way through the very generous meal as if it were his last, Agrippa paused, the eyes beneath that jutting, thick-browed forehead gleaming. Plautius, who evidently knew this already, looked grim.

“Caesar's heir,” said Agrippa. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” Plautius answered, “that Gaius Octavius inherits all Caesar's money and estates, that he will be rich beyond any imagination. But Marcus Antonius expected to inherit, and isn't pleased.”

“Caesar also adopted me. I am no longer Gaius Octavius, I am Gaius Julius Caesar Filius.” As he announced this, Octavius seemed to swell, his grey eyes as brilliant as his smile. “What Plautius didn't say was that, as Caesar's son, I inherit his enormous clout—and his clientele. I will have at least a quarter of Italy as my clients—my legal followers, pledged to do my bidding—and almost everyone in Italian Gaul, because Caesar absorbed all Pompeius Magnus's clients there as well as having multitudes of his own.”

“Which is why your stepfather doesn't want you to take up this terrible inheritance!” Plautius cried.

“But you will,” Agrippa said, grinning.

“Of course I will. Caesar trusted me, Agrippa! In giving me his name, Caesar said that he thinks I have the strength and the spirit to continue his struggle to put Rome on her feet. He knew that I don't have the ability to inherit his military mantle, but that didn't matter as much to him as Rome does.”

“It's a death sentence.” Plautius groaned.

“The name Caesar will never die, I will make sure of that.”

“Don't, Octavius!” Plautius implored. “Please don't!”

“Caesar trusted me,” Octavius repeated. “How can I betray that trust? If he were my age and this was given to him to do, would he abrogate it? No! And nor will I.”

Caesar's heir broke the seal on his mother's letter, glanced at it, tossed it into the brazier. “Silly,” he said, and sighed. “But then, she always is.”

“I take she's begging you not to take up your inheritance either?” asked Agrippa, back into the food.

“She wants a living son, she says. Pah! I do not intend to die, Agrippa, no matter how much Antonius might want me to. Though why he should, I have no idea. No matter how the estate's divided, he's not an heir. Maybe,” Octavius went on, “we wrong Antonius. Perhaps his chief desire isn't Caesar's money, but Caesar's clout and clientele.”

“If you don't intend to die, then eat,” said Agrippa. “Go on, Caesar, eat! You're not a tough, stringy old bird like your namesake, and you've nothing in your stomach at all. Eat!”

“You can't call him Caesar!” Plautius bleated. “Even if he is adopted, his name becomes Caesar Octavianus, not plain Caesar.”

“I'm going to call him Caesar,” said Agrippa.

“And I will never, never forget that the first person to call me Caesar was Marcus Agrippa,” the debatably named heir said, gaze soft. “Will you cleave to me through thick and thin?”

Agrippa took the outstretched hand. “I will, Caesar.”

“Then you will rise with me. So I pledge it. You will be famous and powerful, have your pick of Rome's daughters.”

“You're both too young to know what you're doing!” Plautius moaned, wringing his hands.

“We're not, you know,” said Agrippa. “I think Caesar knew what he was doing too. He chose his heir wisely.”

ate, his mind putting aside this extraordinary fate in favor of a more immediate and pressing concern: his asthma. Again, Caesar had come to his rescue in providing Hapd'efan'e, who had explained his malady to him in simple yet unoptimistic terms. Something no physician had done before. If he was in truth to survive, then he must follow Hapd'efan'e's advice in all ways, from avoiding foods like honey and strawberries to disciplining his emotions into positive channels. Dust, pollen, chaff and animal hair would always be hazards, there was nothing he could do about those beyond try to avoid them, and that wouldn't always be possible. Nor would he ever be a good sailor, between the heavy air and the seasickness. What he had to banish was fear, not easy for one whose mother had inculcated it in him so firmly. Caesar's heir should know no fear, just as Caesar had known no fear. How can I assume Caesar's name and massive dignitas if I stand there in public whistling like a bellows and blue in the face? I will conquer this handicap, because I must. Exercise, Hapd'efan'e had said. Good food. And a placid frame of mind. How can the owner of Caesar's name have a placid frame of mind?

•      •      •

Very tired, he slept dreamlessly from just after that late dinner until two hours before dawn, not sorry that Plautius's spacious house permitted him and Agrippa to have separate rooms. When he woke, he felt well and breathed easily A drumming sound brought him to the window, where he found Brundisium in the grasp of driving rain; a glance up at the faint outline of the clouds ascertained that they were ragged, scudding before a high wind. There would be nobody on the streets today, for this weather had set in. Nobody on the streets today...