South of the Iberus that kind of defection wouldn't occur; definitely time to withdraw. Marcus Petreius went ahead with the corps of engineers and some laborers to build a bridge of boats across the river, while Afranius kept up appearances opposite Caesar. Unfortunately for the Pompeians, Caesar's network of informers was excellent. He knew exactly what was going on. In the same moment as Afranius was surreptitiously pulling out, Caesar was surreptitiously leading his army upstream.
The ground had dried out, the terrain was reasonable; Caesar marched with all his customary speed, and caught up with Afranius's rear guard by midafternoon. And kept on marching, right into Afranius's ranks. The rougher country ahead of Afranius's column contained a defile for which the Pompeian army had been heading, but, still five miles short of it, Caesar's remorseless harrying forced Afranius to halt and build a strongly fortified camp. Minus the moral support of Petreius, he spent a long and miserable night, dying to sneak away, yet unable to do so because he knew Caesar liked to attack at night. His main worry was the spirit among his troops; in civil war disaffection was always possible, and there had been muttering. What he overlooked was his own mood.
It had been many years since Afranius had campaigned as strenuously—if he ever had. At dawn Caesar struck camp much faster and reached the defile first; Afranius had no choice other than to pitch camp at the mouth of the ravine. Petreius, returning from the Iberus, found him lackluster and depressed, unable to think what must be done; he hadn't even ensured his water supply. Angry, Petreius set about building a fortified line to the river.
But while Petreius, the engineers and some of the men busied themselves with this, most of the Pompeian soldiers were idle. Caesar's camp was so close to theirs that his sentries were within speaking distance; Pompeians began to talk with Caesareans, who urged them to surrender.
"You can't beat Caesar" was the constantly repeated refrain. "Give in now, while you're still alive. Caesar doesn't want to fight fellow Romans, but most of us are dying for a good battle—and pressing Caesar to give us one! Best surrender while you can."
A Pompeian deputation of senior centurions and military tribunes went to Caesar. Among them was Afranius's son, who begged Caesar to pardon his father. In fact, discipline had relaxed so much that while the Pompeian deputation parleyed with Caesar, some of Caesar's soldiers strolled into the Pompeian camp. When Afranius and Petreius discovered them, they were appalled to learn that their senior officers—together with Afranius's own son!—were conferring with the enemy. Afranius wanted to send the Caesarean soldiers home; Petreius refused to hear of it and had his Spanish bodyguard kill them on the spot. Retaliation was typical of this new, clement Caesar. He sent the Pompeians back to their camp with courteous words and an offer of service in his own legions. The contrast between his behavior and Petreius's did not go unnoticed; while Afranius and Petreius were deciding to head for Illerda rather than cross the Iberus, disaffection in the Pompeian ranks was spreading rapidly.
The retreat toward Illerda was a frantic scramble, with Caesar's cavalry harassing the rear guard all day. That night when the Pompeians went into camp, Caesar threw up some quick fortifications and deprived them of water.
Afranius and Petreius sued for peace.
"Fine by me," said Caesar, "provided that negotiations are conducted in a full assembly of both armies."
Caesar's terms were reasonable and acceptable. The Pompeian troops—and Afranius and Petreius—were pardoned. Any men who fancied joining Caesar's ranks were admitted if they swore an oath of allegiance to Caesar, but none were coerced; men enlisted against their will would form the first nucleus of disaffection. Pompeians who lived in Spain might return to their homes after giving up their arms; Roman Pompeians would be marched back to the river Varus, which was the boundary between the Province and Liguria, and there discharged.
The war in Spain was over, and again had been virtually a bloodless one. Quintus Cassius and two legions marched for the southern Spanish province, wherein Marcus Terentius Varro had done little to prepare for war save decide to shut himself up in Gades. But before he could do so, the entire populace and both legions of Further Spain went over to Caesar without a fight. Varro met Quintus Cassius at Corduba and surrendered.
In only one aspect did Caesar make a mistake, and that was to place Quintus Cassius in the governorship of Further Spain. Those aurally and argently sensitized nostrils flared like a hound's as they sniffed the gold and silver which the further province still produced in abundance; Quintus Cassius waved a cheerful goodbye to Caesar and settled down to plunder his new charge ruthlessly.
By mid-September, Caesar was back in Massilia. Just in time to receive that city's surrender. The chastened and disillusioned Council of Fifteen was forced to admit that Ahenobarbus had sailed away, leaving them without the strength to resist Decimus Brutus's blockade. Leaving them to starve. Caesar permitted Massilia to retain its independent status, but without any troops or warships to defend itself—and with its hinterland pared back almost to nothing. Just to make sure, Caesar left two legions of ex-Pompeian troops behind to garrison it. Pleasant duty in a pleasant land; the ex-Pompeians would stay loyal. The Fourteenth Legion was sent back to Gaul of the Long-hairs under the command of Decimus Brutus, who would govern that new province in Caesar's absence. Trebonius, Fabius, Sulpicius and the others were to march with him for Rome and Italia, where most of them would remain to serve as praetors.
2
Rome had settled down fairly well. When Curio sent the news that he had secured Sicily at the end of June, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. With Orca holding Sardinia and Curio holding Sicily, enough grain would flow in good harvest years. Africa was insurance against famine should Curio manage to take it.
At the moment it was firmly in the hands of the Pompeians; the capable legate Quintus Attius Varus had gone from Corfinium to Sicily and from there to Africa Province, where he wrested control from Aelius Tubero, ejected him, and formed an alliance with King Juba of Numidia. Africa's single legion was now augmented by troops levied from among Roman veterans settled in Africa, their sons, and Juba's large army of infantry. Juba had, besides, his famous Numidian cavalry, men who rode bareback, wore no armor and fought as lancers rather than at cut-and-thrust close quarters.
Matters were much easier for Lepidus after the second exodus of senators from Rome. He had his instructions from Caesar and now began to implement them. The first thing he did was to reduce the number of senators necessary to form a quorum; the decree was easily obtained from a Senate now consisting of Caesar's men and a few neutrals, and the Popular Assembly saw no reason why it shouldn't pass the law. Henceforth sixty senators would constitute a quorum.
Lepidus did nothing further save keep in constant touch with Mark Antony, who was proving a popular governor of Italia. Between the litterloads of mistresses, the entourages of dwarves, dancers, acrobats and musicians, and that famous lion-drawn chariot, the rural people and the townsfolk of Italia thought him marvelous. Always jolly, always affable, always approachable, always ready to quaff a bucket or two of unwatered wine, he yet managed to get his duties done—and did not make the mistake of appearing in ridiculous guise when he visited his troops or port garrisons. Life was a bower of the exquisite roses which rambled all over Campania (his favorite destination), a heady mixture of frolic and authority. Antony was enjoying himself hugely.
News from Africa continued to be good. Curio had established himself in Utica without difficulty, and had dealt skillfully with Attius Varius and Juba in a number of skirmishes.
Then in Sextilis events in Illyricum and Africa soured. Mark Antony's middle brother, Gaius, had set himself down with fifteen cohorts of troops on the island of Curicta at the head of the Adriatic; there he was surprised by the Pompeian admirals Marcus Octavius and Lucius Libo, who attacked. Despite the valor of some of his men, Gaius Antonius knew himself in desperate trouble; he sent for help to Caesar's admiral in the Adriatic, Dolabella. Leading for
ty slow and under-armed ships, Dolabella responded. A sea battle developed and Dolabella was forced out of the water; his fleet was lost—and so was Gaius Antonius. Together with his troops, Gaius Antonius was captured. Falsely emboldened by his success, Marcus Octavius went on to attack the Dalmatian coast at Salona, which shut its gates and defied him. In the end he was forced to break off operations and return to Epirus, bearing as his captives Gaius Antonius and those fifteen cohorts. Dolabella got away.
Not happy news for Mark Antony, who cursed his brother's stupidity heartily, then settled down to work out how he could engineer Gaius Antonius's escape. The brunt of his disapproval, however, fell on Dolabella's head—what had Dolabella been about, to lose not only a battle but all of his ships? Nor was he prepared to listen when more detached people explained to him that the Pompeian ships were infinitely superior to the tubs poor Dolabella had under his command.
Fulvia had adjusted to life without Curio. Not happily, but adequately. Her three children by Publius Clodius were some years older than baby Curio: Publius Junior was now sixteen and would become a man at the festival of Juventas in December; Clodia was fourteen and had a head filled with dreams of husbands; and little Clodilla was eight, delightfully obsessed with baby Curio, who was now approaching a year in age and was walking and talking.
She still kept up with Clodius's own two sisters, Clodia the widow of Metellus Celer, and Clodilla the divorced widow of Lucius Lucullus. Those two ladies had declined to marry again, preferring the freedom they enjoyed because they were wealthy and not in any man's custody. But to some extent Fulvia's interests became ever more divergent from Clodius's sisters'; she liked her children and she liked being married. Nor was she tempted to have affairs.
Her best friend was not a woman.
"At least," she grinned, "not in the anatomical sense."
"I don't know why I put up with you, Fulvia," said Titus Pomponius Atticus, grinning back. "I'm a happily married man, and I have a delightful little daughter."
"You needed an heir to all that money, Atticus."
"Perhaps so." He sighed. "Bother these warring generals! I can't travel to Epirus with the freedom I used to have, nor do I dare show my nose in Athens, which is full of Pompeians of high birth strutting about obnoxiously."
"But you maintain good relations with both sides."
"True. However, lovely lady, it's more prudent for a rich man to rub noses with Caesar's adherents rather than Pompeius's. Pompeius is ravenous for money—he asks anyone he thinks has any for a loan. And, candidly, I think Caesar's going to win. Therefore to be inveigled into lending Pompeius or his adherents money is tantamount to throwing it into the sea. Thus—no Athens."
"And no delicious boys."
"I can live without them."
"I know. I'm just sorry you have to."
"So are they," said Atticus dryly. "I'm a generous lover."
"Speaking of lovers," she said, "I miss Curio dreadfully."
"Odd, that."
"Odd, what?"
"Men and women usually fall in love with the same kind of person every time. But you didn't. Publius Clodius and Curio are very different, in nature as well as looks."
"Well, Atticus, that makes marriage an adventure. I missed being married very much after Clodius died, and Curio was always there. I never used to notice him as a man. But the more I looked, the more the differences between him and Clodius became interesting. The freckles, the homeliness. That awful mop of disobedient hair. The missing tooth. The thought of having a red-haired baby."
"The way babies turn out has nothing to do with their sire," said Atticus thoughtfully. "I've come to the conclusion that their mothers force them in utero into whatever sort of baby they want."
"Rubbish!" said Fulvia, chuckling.
"No, it really isn't. If babies emerge a disappointment, that's because their mothers don't care enough to force. When my Pilia was pregnant with Attica, she was determined to produce a girl with tiny little ears. She didn't care about anything save the sex and those ears, though big ears run on both sides of the family. Yet Attica has tiny little ears. And she's a girl."
These were the things the best friends spoke about; for Fulvia, a masculine view of feminine concerns, and for Atticus, a rarely accorded chance to be himself. They had no secrets from each other, nor any wish to impress each other.
But the pleasure and inconsequence of that particular visit from Atticus was interrupted by Mark Antony, whose appearance inside the sacred boundary was so disturbing in itself that Fulvia paled at sight of him, began to shake.
He looked very grim yet was curiously aimless—couldn't sit, couldn't speak, looked anywhere except at Fulvia.
Her hand went out to Atticus. "Antonius, tell me!"
"It's Curio!" he blurted. "Oh, Fulvia, Curio is dead!"
Her head seemed stuffed with wool, her lips parted, the dark blue eyes stared glassily. She got to her feet and went to her knees in the same movement, a reflex from somewhere outside; inside herself she couldn't assimilate it, couldn't believe it.
Antony and Atticus lifted her, put her into a high-backed chair, chafed her nerveless hands.
Her heart—where was it going? Tripping, stumbling, booming, dying. No pain yet. That would come later. There were no words, no breath to scream, no power to run. Just the same as Clodius.
Antony and Atticus looked at one another above her head.
"What happened?" asked Atticus, trembling.
"Juba and Varus led Curio into a trap. He'd been doing well, but only because they didn't want him to do otherwise. Curio's not a military man. They cut his army to pieces—hardly any of his men survived. Curio died on the field. Fighting."
"He's one man we couldn't afford to lose."
Antony turned to Fulvia, stroked the hair from her brow and took her chin in one huge hand. "Fulvia, did you hear me?"
"I don't want to hear," she said fretfully.
"Yes, I know that. But you must."
"Marcus, I loved him!"
Oh, why was he here? Save that he had to come, imperium or no. The news had reached him and Lepidus by the same messenger; Lepidus had gone galloping out to Pompey's villa on the Campus Martius, where Antony, following Caesar's example, had taken up residence when in the vicinity of Rome. Curio's best friend since adolescence, Antony took his death very hard, wept for those old days and for what Curio might have become in Caesar's government. The fool, with his laurel-wreathed fasces! Going off so blithely.
To Lepidus, a rival had been removed from his path. Ambition hadn't blinded him, it simply drove him. And Curio dead was a bonus. Unfortunately he didn't have the wit to hide his satisfaction from Antony, who, being Antony, dashed his tears away as soon as Lepidus arrived and swore that he would have his revenge on Attius Varus and King Juba; Lepidus interpreted this swift change in mood as lack of love for Curio on Antony's part, and spoke his mind.
"A good thing if you ask me," he said with satisfaction.
"How do you arrive at that conclusion?" asked Antony quietly.
Lepidus shrugged, made a moue. "Curio was bought, therefore he wasn't to be trusted."
"Your brother Paullus was bought too. Does that go for him?"
"The circumstances were very different," said Lepidus stiffly.
"You're right, they were. Curio gave value for Caesar's money. Paullus swallowed it up without gratitude or return service."
"I didn't come here to quarrel, Antonius."
"Just as well. You're not up to my weight, Lepidus."
"I'll convene the Senate and give it the news."
"Outside the pomerium, please. And I'll give it the news."
"As you wish. I suppose that means I inherit the job of telling the ghastly Fulvia." Lepidus produced a smile. "Still, I don't mind. It will be an experience to break that kind of news to someone. Especially someone I dislike. It won't cause me any grief at all to do so."
Antony got to his feet. "I’ll tell Fulvia," he said.
<
br /> "You can't!" gasped Lepidus. "You can't enter the city!"
"I can do whatever I like!" roared Antony, unleashing the lion. "Leave it to an icicle like you to tell her? I'd sooner be dead! That's a great woman!"
"I must forbid it, Antonius. Your imperium!"
Antony grinned. "What imperium, Lepidus? Caesar gave it to me without any authority to do so beyond his own confidence that one day he'll be able to make it real. Until he does—until I receive my lex curiata— I'll come and go as I please!"
He'd always liked her, always thought her the final touch in Clodius's world. Sitting at the base of old Gaius Marius's statue after that terrific riot in the Forum—lying on a couch, adding her mite to Clodius's machinations—shrewdly tempering Clodius's craziness by playing on it— not so much transferring her affections to Curio as willing herself to live and love again—and the only woman in Rome who didn't have an unfaithful bone in her delectable body. The gall of Lepidus, to apostrophize her as "ghastly"! And he married to one of Servilia's brood!
"Marcus, I loved him!" she repeated.
"Yes, I know. He was a lucky man."
The tears began to fall; Fulvia rocked. Torn with pity, Atticus drew up his chair closer and cradled her head against his chest. His eyes met Antony's; Antony relinquished her hand and her care to Atticus, and went away.
Twice widowed in three years. For all her proud heritage and her strength, the granddaughter of Gaius Gracchus couldn't bear to look at a life suddenly emptied of purpose. Was this how Gaius Gracchus had felt in the grove of Lucina beneath the Janiculum eighty-two years ago? His programs toppled, his adherents dead, his enemies baying for his blood. Well, they hadn't got that. He killed himself. They had had to be satisfied with lopping off his head and refusing his body burial.