“Lucius Antonius’s whole enterprise was a disaster,” Plancus said, choosing his words. Somehow he had to deliver an accurate report without putting himself in a bad light, for at the moment he could see no opportunity to switch to Octavian’s side, his only other option. “On New Year’s Eve the Perusians tried to break through Agrippa’s siege walls—no luck. Neither Pollio nor Ventidius would move to engage Octavianus’s armies, though Octavianus was badly outnumbered. Pollio kept insisting that—ah—he wasn’t sure what you wanted him to do, and Ventidius would follow no one’s lead except Pollio’s. After Barbatius spun his tales of your—ah—debaucheries—his word, not mine!—Pollio was so disgusted that he refused to commit himself or his legions to getting your brother out of Perusia. The city fell not long into the new year.”
“And where were you and your legions, Plancus?” Antony asked, a dangerous spark in his eyes.
“Closer to Perusia than Pollio or Ventidius! I went to ground in Spoletium to form the southern jaw of a pincer strategy that never happened.” He sighed, shrugged. “I also had Fulvia in my camp, and she was being very difficult.” He loved her, yes, but he loved his own skin more. Antonius wouldn’t execute Fulvia for treason, after all. “Agrippa had the gall to steal my best two legions, can you believe that? I had sent them to help Claudius Nero in Campania, then Agrippa appeared and offered the men better terms. Yes, Agrippa defeated Nero with my two legions! Nero had to flee to Sicilia and Sextus Pompeius. Apparently some elements in Rome were talking of killing wives and families, because Nero’s wife, Livia Drusilla, took her small son and joined Nero.” At which point Plancus frowned, looked uncertain how to proceed.
“Out with it, Plancus, out with it!”
“Ah—your revered mother, Julia, fled with Livia Drusilla to Sextus Pompeius.”
“If I had stopped to think about her—which I didn’t because I try not to—that is exactly the sort of thing she’d do. Oh, what a wonderful world we live in!” Antony clenched his fists. “Wives and mothers living in army camps behaving as if they knew which end of a sword was which—pah!” A visible effort, and he simmered down. “My brother—I suppose he’s dead, but you haven’t yet managed to screw up the courage to tell me, Plancus?”
Finally he could convey a piece of good news! “No, no, my dear Marcus! Far from it! When Perusia opened its gates, some local magnate got overenthusiastic about the size and splendor of his funeral pyre, and the whole city burned to the ground. A worse disaster than the siege. Octavianus executed twenty prominent citizens, but exacted no revenge on Lucius’s troops. They were incorporated into Agrippa’s legions. Lucius begged pardon, and was granted it freely. Octavianus gave him Further Spain to govern, and he left for it at once. He was, I think, a happy man.”
“And was this dictatorial appointment sanctioned by the Senate and People of Rome?” Antony asked, part relieved, part outraged. Curse Lucius! Always trying to outdo his big brother Marcus, never succeeding.
“It was,” said Plancus. “Some objected to it.”
“Favored treatment for the bald-headed Forum demagogue?”
“Er—well, yes, the phrase was used. I can give you the names. However, Lucius was consul last year and your uncle Hybrida is censor, so most people felt Lucius deserved his pardon and appointment. He should be able to have a nice little war with the Lusitani and triumph when he comes home.”
Antony grunted. “Then he’s wriggled out of things better than he deserves. Utter idiocy from start to finish! Though I’d be willing to bet that Lucius just followed orders. This was Fulvia’s war. Where is she?”
Plancus opened his brown eyes wide. “Here, in Athens. She and I fled together. At first we didn’t think that Brundisium would let us—it’s passionately for Octavianus, as always—but I gather Octavianus sent word that we were to be allowed to quit Italia provided we took no troops with us.”
“So we have established that Fulvia is in Athens, but whereabouts in Athens?”
“Atticus gave her the use of his domus here.”
“Big of him! Always likes to have a foot in both camps, does our Atticus. But what makes him think I’m going to be glad to see Fulvia?”
Plancus sat mute, unsure what answer Antony wanted to hear.
“And what else has happened?”
“Don’t you call that enough?”
“Not unless it’s a full report.”
“Well, Octavianus got no money out of Perusia to fund his activities, though from somewhere he manages to pay his legions sufficient to keep their men on his side.”
“Caesar’s war chest must be emptying fast.”
“Do you really think he took it?”
“Of course he took it! What’s Sextus Pompeius doing?”
“Blocking the sea lanes and pirating all the grain from Africa. His admiral Menodorus invaded Sardinia and threw Lurius out, which means Octavianus has no source of grain left save what he can buy from Sextus at grossly inflated rates—up to twenty-five or thirty sesterces the modius.” Plancus gave a small mew of envy. “That’s where all the money is—in Sextus Pompeius’s coffers. What does he intend to do with it, take over Rome and Italia? Daydreams! The legions love big bonuses, but they’d not fight for the man who starves their grannies to death. Which is why, I daresay,” Plancus went on in a reflective voice, “he has to enlist slaves and make freedmen admirals. Still, one day you’re going to have to wrest the money off him, Antonius. If you don’t, perhaps Octavianus will, and you need the money more.”
Antony sneered. “Octavianus win a sea battle against a man as experienced as Sextus Pompeius? With Murcus and Ahenobarbus as allies? I’ll deal with Sextus Pompeius when the time comes, but not yet. He spells failure for Octavianus.”
Knowing she looked her best, Fulvia waited eagerly for her husband. Though the few grey hairs didn’t show in her mop of ice-brown hair, she had made her woman painstakingly pluck every one before dressing it in the latest fashion. Her dark red gown hugged the curves of her breasts before falling in a straight sheet that showed no hint of a protruding belly or thickened waist. Yes, thought Fulvia, preening, I carry my age very well. I am still one of Rome’s most beautiful women.
Of course she knew about Antony’s merry little winter in Alexandria; Barbatius had tattled far and wide. But that was a man’s thing, and none of her business. Did he philander with a Roman woman of high estate, it would be different. Her claws would be out in a moment. But when a man was away for months, sometimes years, on end, no sensible wife stuck in Rome would think the worse of him for getting rid of his dirty water. And darling Antonius had a penchant for queens, princesses, women of the high foreign nobility. To bed one of them made him feel as much like a king as any republican Roman could tolerate. Having met Cleopatra when she stayed in Rome before Caesar’s assassination, Fulvia understood that it was her title and her power that had attracted Antony. Physically she was far from the lusty, strapping women he preferred. Also, she was enormously wealthy, and Fulvia knew her husband; he would have been after her money.
So when Atticus’s steward appeared to tell her that Marcus Antonius was in the atrium, Fulvia gave a shudder to settle her draperies and flew down the long, austere corridor from her rooms to where Antony was waiting.
“Antonius! Oh, meum mel, how wonderful to see you!” she cried from the doorway.
He had been studying a magnificent painting of Achilles sulking by his ships, and turned at the sound of her voice.
After that, Fulvia didn’t know what exactly happened, his movements were so fast. What she felt was a crashing slap to the side of her face that knocked her sprawling. Then he was looming over her, his fingers locked in her hair, and dragging her to her feet. The openhanded blows rained on her face, no less huge and hurtful than another man’s fist; teeth loosened, her nose broke.
“You stupid cunnus!” he roared, still striking her. “You stupid, stupid cunnus! Who do you think you are, Gaius Caesar?”
Blood was gushing f
rom her mouth and nose, and she, who had met every challenge of an eventful life with fierce fire, was helpless, shattered. Someone was screaming, and it must have been she, for servants came running from all directions, took one look, and fled.
“Idiot! Strumpet! What do you mean, going to war against Octavianus in my name? Frittering away what money I had left in Rome, Bononia, Mutina? Buying legions for the likes of Plancus to lose? Living in a war camp? Who do you think you are, to assume that men like Pollio would take orders from you? A woman? Bullying and bluffing my brother in my name? He’s a moron! He always was a moron! If I needed any further proof of that, his throwing in with a woman is it! You’re beneath contempt!”
Spitting with rage, he pushed her roughly to the floor; still screaming, she scrambled away like a crippled beast, tears flowing now faster than the blood.
“Antonius, Antonius! I thought to please you! Manius said it would please you!” she cried thickly. “I was continuing your fight in Italia while you were busy with the East! Manius said!”
It came out in mumbled snatches; hearing “Manius,” suddenly his temper died. Her Greek freedman, a serpent. In truth, he hadn’t known until he saw her how angry he was, how the fury had festered in him throughout his voyage from Ephesus. Perhaps had he done as he had originally planned and sailed straight from Antioch to Athens, he might not have been so enraged.
More men than Barbatius were talking in Ephesus, and not all about his winter with Cleopatra. Some joked that in his family, he wore the dresses while Fulvia wore the armor. Others sniggered that at least one Antonian had waged a war, even if a female. He had had to pretend he didn’t overhear any of these remarks, but his temper built. Learning the full story from Plancus had not helped, nor the grief that had consumed him until he found out that Lucius was safe and well. Their brother, Gaius, had been murdered in Macedonia, and only the execution of his killer had assuaged the pain. He, their big brother, loved them.
Love for Fulvia, he thought, looking down at her scornfully, was gone forever. Stupid, stupid cunnus! Wearing the armor and publicly emasculating him.
“I want you gone from this house by tomorrow,” he said, her right wrist in his hold, dragging her into a sitting position under Achilles. “Let Atticus keep his charity for the deserving. I’ll be writing to him today to tell him that, and he can’t afford to offend me, no matter how much money he has. You’re a disgrace as a wife and a woman, Fulvia! I want nothing more to do with you. I will send you notice of divorce immediately.”
“But,” she said, sobbing, “I fled without money or property, Marcus! I need money to live!”
“Apply to your bankers. You’re a rich woman and sui iuris.” He began yelling for the servants. “Clean her up and then kick her out!” he said to the steward, who was almost fainting in fear. Then Antony turned on his heel and was gone.
Fulvia sat against the wall for a long time, hardly conscious of the terrified girls who bathed her face, tried to stanch the bleeding and the tears. Once she had laughed at hearing of this or that woman and her broken heart, believing that no heart could break. Now she knew differently. Marcus Antonius had broken her heart beyond mending.
Word flew around Athens of how Antony had treated his wife, but few who heard had much sympathy for Fulvia, who had done the unforgivable—usurped men’s prerogatives. The tales of her exploits in the Forum when married to Publius Clodius came out for an airing, together with the scenes she created outside the Senate House doors, and her possible collaboration with Clodius when he had profaned the rites of the Bona Dea.
Not that Antony cared what Athens said. He, a Roman man, knew that the city’s Roman men would think no worse of him.
Besides, he was busy writing letters, an arduous task. His first was curt and short, to Titus Pomponius Atticus, informing him that Imperator Marcus Antonius, Triumvir, would thank him if he kept his nose out of Marcus Antonius’s affairs, and have nothing to do with Fulvia. His second was to Fulvia, informing her that she was hereby divorced for unwomanly conduct, and that she was forbidden to see her two sons by him. His third was to Gnaeus Asinius Pollio, asking him what on earth was going on in Italia, and would he kindly keep his legions ready to march south in case he, Marcus Antonius, was denied entry to the country by the Octavianus-loving populace of Brundisium? His fourth was to the ethnarch of Athens, thanking that worthy for his city’s kindness and loyalty to (implied) the right Romans; therefore it pleased Imperator Marcus Antonius, Triumvir, to gift Athens with the island of Aegina and some other minor isles associated with it. That ought to make the Athenians happy, he thought.
He might have written more letters were it not for the arrival of Tiberius Claudius Nero, who paid him a formal call the moment he had installed his wife and toddling son in good lodgings nearby.
“Faugh!” Nero exclaimed, nostrils flaring. “Sextus Pompeius is a barbarian! Though what else could one expect from a member of an upstart clan from Picenum? You can have no idea what kind of headquarters he keeps—rats, mice, rotting garbage. I didn’t dare expose my family to the filth and disease, though they weren’t the worst Pompeius had to offer. We hadn’t unpacked our belongings before some of his dandified ‘admiral’ freedmen were sniffing around my wife—I had to chop a slice out of some low fellow’s arm! And would you believe it, Pompeius actually sided with the cur? I told him what I thought, then I put Livia Drusilla and my son on the next ship for Athens.”
Antony listened to this with dreamy memories in his head of how Caesar felt about Nero—“inepte” was the kindest word Caesar could find to describe him. Gaining more from what Nero didn’t say, Antony decided that Nero had arrived at Sextus Pompeius’s lair, strutted around it like a cockerel, carped and criticized, and finally made himself so intolerable that Sextus had thrown him out. A more insufferable snob would be hard to find than Nero, and the Pompeii were very sensitive about their Picentine origins.
“So what do you intend to do now, Nero?” he asked.
“Live within my means, which are not limitless,” Nero said stiffly, his dark, saturnine countenance growing even prouder.
“And your wife?” Antony asked slyly.
“Livia Drusilla is a good wife. She does as she’s told, which is more than you can say about your wife!”
A typical Neronian statement; he seemed to have no in-built monitor to warn him that some things were best left unsaid. I ought, thought Antony savagely, to seduce her! What a life she must lead, married to this inepte!
“Bring her to dinner this afternoon, Nero,” he said jovially. “Think of it as money saved—no need to send your cook to the market until tomorrow.”
“I thank you,” Nero said, unwinding to his full, spindling height. Left arm cuddling folds of toga, he stalked out, leaving Antony chuckling softly.
Plancus came in, horror written large upon his face. “Oh, Edepol, Antonius! What’s Nero doing here?”
“Apart from insulting everyone he meets? I suspect that he made himself so unwelcome in Sextus Pompeius’s headquarters that he was told to leave. You can come to dinner this afternoon and share the joys of his company. He’s bringing his wife, who must be a terrible bore to put up with him. Just who is she?”
“His cousin—fairly close, actually. Her father was a Claudius Nero adopted by the famous tribune of the plebs Livius Drusus, hence her name, Livia Drusilla. Nero is the son of Drusus’s blood brother, Tiberius Nero. Of course she’s an heiress—a lot of money in the Livius Drusus family. Once, Cicero hoped Nero would marry his Tullia, but she preferred Dolabella. A worse husband in most ways, but at least he was a merry fellow. Didn’t you move in those circles when Clodius was alive, Antonius?”
“I did. And you’re right, Dolabella was good company. But it’s not Nero gives your face that look, Plancus. What’s up?”
“A packet from Ephesus. I had one too, but yours is from your cousin Caninius, so it ought to say more.” Plancus sat in the client’s chair facing Antony across the desk, eyes brigh
t.
Antony broke the seal, unrolled his cousin’s epistle, and mumbled his way through it, a long business accompanied by frowns and curses. “I wish,” he complained, “that more men had taken Caesar’s hint and put a dot over the beginning of a new word. I do it now, so do Pollio, Ventidius, and—though I hate to say it—Octavianus. Turns a continous scrawl into something a man can read almost at a glance.” He went back to his mumbling, finally sighed, and put the scroll down.
“How can I be in two places at once?” he asked Plancus. “By rights I should be in Asia Province shoring it up against attack from Labienus, instead I’m forced to sit closer to Italia and keep my legions within call. Pacorus has overrun Syria and all the petty princelings have thrown in their lot with the Parthians, even Amblichus. Caninius says that Saxa’s legions defected to Pacorus—Saxa was forced to flee to Apamaea, then took ship for Cilicia. No one has heard from him since, but rumor has it that his brother was killed in Syria. Labienus is busy overrunning Cilicia Pedia and eastern Cappadocia.”
“And of course there are no legions east of Ephesus.”
“Nor will there be in Ephesus, I’m afraid. Asia Province will have to fend for itself until I can sort out the mess in Italia. I’ve already sent to Caninius to bring the legions to Macedonia,” said Antony, sounding grim.
“Is that your only course?” Plancus asked, paling.
“Definitely. I’ve given myself the rest of this year to deal with Rome, Italia, and Octavianus, so for the rest of this year the legions will be camped around Apollonia. If they’re known to be on the Adriatic, that will tell Octavianus that I mean to squash him like a bug.”
“Marcus,” Plancus wailed, “everyone is fed up with civil war, and what you’re talking is civil war! The legions won’t fight!”
“My legions will fight for me,” said Antony.
Livia Drusilla entered the governor’s residence with all her usual composure, creamy lids lowered over her eyes, which she knew were her best feature. Hide them! As always, she walked a little behind Nero because a good wife did, and Livia Drusilla had vowed to be a good wife. Never, she had sworn, hearing what Antony had done to Fulvia, would she put herself in that position! To don armor and wave a sword about, one would have to be a Hortensia, who had only done it to demonstrate to the leaders of the Roman state that the women of Rome from highest to lowest would never consent to being taxed when they didn’t have the right to vote. Hortensia won the encounter, a bloodless victory, at considerable embarrassment to the Triumvirs Antony, Octavian, and Lepidus.