Five years have passed since the infamous assassination attempt against Caesar on the Ides of March failed. Tipped off by a lictor who overheard the "Liberators" plotting, Caesar turned the tables on them and they were foiled, arrested, and executed. Then Caesar led his armies to the East, to take on the Parthian Empire. Word has come back that Caesar, once more, has been victorious. Now all Rome awaits the Dictator's return, and Marcus Tullius Cicero is about to get a letter . . .
CHAPTER ONE
(THE KALENDS OF FEBRUARY, 39 BC)
“Dominus,” Tiro’s voice said softly from the door. “You have a letter from your brother. He’s coming home.”
Marcus Tullius Cicero looked up, his attention wrenched from the speech he was composing.
“Quintus is coming home?” he said. “Has Caesar released him from service?”
“I do not know, dominus,” said Tiro. “The bearer of the letter simply said that we would see its author before midsummer.”
“Well then, let me see what brother Quintus has to say,” Cicero replied, holding his hand out for the scroll. He studied the seal, which bore the profile of a hawk with the inscription Quint.Tul.Cic. - Legatus encircling it. Just like his younger brother, so inordinately proud of his military rank that he would abbreviate his name in order to spell it out! But, give the man his due, Quintus had covered himself with glory on the battlefield, first in Gaul, and later in Asia Province and Parthia.
Cicero cracked the seal and unrolled the sheet of parchment – it was not brief; he was glad to see that. Cicero loved long, gossipy letters, and his brother’s clipped prose often left him wishing for more.
Quintus Cicero, Senior Legate to Dictator Perpetuis Gaius Julius Caesar, to his brother, Senator and Consular Marcus Tullius Cicero, greetings and my warmest wishes for long life and good health!
Well, brother, it is done. Ecbatana, Seleucia, Babylonia, and Ctesiphon have all fallen; the high king of the Parthians, Orodes, has been captured and will walk in Caesar’s triumph, and his son and chief general Pacorus lies dead in the ruins of Ecbatana. The Parthian Empire is no more.
The latest volume of Caesar’s Parthian commentaries should arrive in Rome about the same time this letter reaches you. I cannot begin to describe the final campaign with the vividness Caesar masters so effortlessly, but I will, at least, give you the bare bones. After the capture of Seleucia and the march to Ecbatana – oh, my brother, what a miserable territory the High King chose to plant his capitol in! – Caesar managed to breach the walls by building enormously high siege towers in front of them, while secretly mining under the opposite side of the city by night! Once a single cohort managed to tunnel their way inside, they opened the city gates, and then the fight was on! Pacorus had been ordered by his father to hold the city at all costs, and to his credit, he tried. But our legionaries were tired of digging and building trench works and siege towers and endlessly marching through the desert. They had come to loathe the Parthians with a vengeance, and once they got inside the city, they were ready to kill.
Pacorus was cut down defending the inner keep, and by dawn the whole city was ours. Caesar gave the legions a few days to burn their dead, treat their wounded, and feast on the enemy’s victuals. Then he summoned the legions to assemble and decorated the heroes of the battle (I might as well tell you that I was awarded the Civic Crown, dear Marcus, for leading the first cohorts through the city gates and cutting down several of Pacorus’ royal guards!). Then Caesar reorganized the legions to replace our losses. That done, he left a garrison to occupy the city, and on we marched.
High King Orodes was enraged by the death of his son – these Eastern potentates may murder their own offspring at a whim, but they get mightily offended if anyone else dares slay one of their issue! He summoned levies from throughout his vast realm and came at us with an army of nearly three hundred thousand men. Caesar’s use of cavalry – especially the five cohorts of Judean slingers using lead balls instead of stones – largely nullified the threat posed by the cataphracts which so devastated Crassus’ men ten years ago. But Orodes, like so many barbarian potentates, believed that sheer force of numbers was the key to winning battles. Between attrition and legions left behind on garrison duty, Caesar faced that vast force with ten legions and seven thousand German and Gallic cavalry. It was a nightmare, I can tell you, finding or transporting fodder for those horses in the trackless wastelands we crossed, but I think every legionary thanked Mars we had done so that day! Wave after wave of barbarian warriors crashed and broke on our shield walls, but we were losing men, nonetheless. Then, in the fourth hour of the battle, the cavalry, which Caesar had been holding in reserve, launched a sweeping attack that circled behind the enemy forces and bore down on the royal guard protecting Orodes. The High King panicked and bolted right into the rear of his own army! The noise from the rear caused the attacking infantry to hesitate, and that was when Caesar threw the Thirteenth Legion, under their legate Severus, into the battle. They fell on the enemy’s wavering line, and in a matter of moments, they cut through them like sharp scissors through fine linen! The other legions took heart and charged after them, with Caesar himself – oh, Marcus, I know how you dislike him, but he was magnificent that day! - mounted on his warhorse, the one with the toes, leading the way! Suddenly the Parthian horde, with all their Armenian and Pontic auxiliaries, were fleeing the field in panic, with pilum raining down on them and legionaries skewering and slashing left and right with their blades.
Caesar and his escort were soon ahead of the rankers, and by sheer chance, they ran right into Orodes, who was fleeing from the cavalry and towards the front line, probably looking for a gap in the surging mass of bodies through which to escape. I was not there to see their encounter, as I was leading the Sixth on the opposite end of the line, but Marcus Agrippa was, and he told me about it at the end of the day. Caesar cut through four of the Royal guards and found himself face to face with the High King of the Parthians. To his credit, Orodes drew his blade and spurred his horse towards Caesar, but he was no match for our Dictator. Caesar disarmed him and then leaped from his horse’s back, bearing the High King to the ground. The Parthian army pretty much dissolved at that point; about forty thousand were captured, and over fifty thousand killed. Our losses were eight thousand killed and another ten thousand wounded, but that was the last battle of the campaign. Ctesiphon surrendered two days later; the Parthian council of nobles decided that their best option was to send Orodes’ remaining sons out to us, bound hand and foot.
Caesar stayed in the Parthian capitol for a month, and when he left, he installed his twenty-three-year-old nephew, Octavian, to administer the new province carved out of the eastern third of the Parthian Empire. He assigned Marcus Agrippa to serve as Octavian’s quaestor. Caesar’s nephew is a wonder, Marcus. I thought him a frail pretty boy when this campaign began, but he has toughened up considerably, and despite his wheezy chest, he rode alongside Agrippa in that final charge and won a gold torc and two phalera for valor! But his mind is his most formidable weapon – he seems to have inherited a similar level of political genius to that of Caesar, although of a different nature. He and Agrippa are boon companions and will one day make an excellent team.
I write this from Ephesus, where Caesar has put the army into winter camp. Kings and princes from all over the East are beating a path to his door, hoping to gobble up some of the spoils from Parthia. But the Dictator is anxious to return to Rome, and he handles them with incredible skill, courtesy, and speed. We shall be in Rome before the month of the Julii begins. Oh, Marcus, you have been Caesar’s enemy for too long. I implore you by all the gods, try to make your peace with him! I know my loyalty to him has caused you great pains, but Caesar is truly the best hope of Rome. He needs consulars of your status in the Senate as he begins to rebuild the Republic. I know you and all the others have accused him of wanting to be King of Rome, but I have campaigned alongside Caesar for over ten years now. I have watched him, listened to him, and learned from him. He has no wish to be king! All he wants is to make Rome the best it can be. Such genius as his comes along once a millennium, if that often, and every man who truly loves Rome should be working with him, not against him. Let there be peace, dear brother, between you and Caesar. That is the fondest wish of your ever affectionate
Quintus
Cicero heaved a deep sigh and called for a glass of wine. So, the long campaign was finally over, and his little brother was coming home as a hero - and Caesar was now, truly and finally, the ruler of the known world. He took a sip of the drink Tiro placed in his hands, then rose and went out to his garden to think.
Caesar, Caesar, Caesar! Caesar who relentlessly trampled Rome’s sacred mos maiorum, Caesar who had allowed, indeed encouraged, Cicero’s prosecution for executing Roman citizens without a trial, Caesar who had repeatedly disobeyed orders from the Senate to lay down his armies and his imperium so he could be prosecuted for his crimes, Caesar who had marched on Rome with a single legion and toppled the Republic!
And yet, Cicero acknowledged to himself, there was another side to that coin. Caesar, who had fought the most brilliant military campaigns in Roman history, eclipsing every other military man, including his famous uncle Gaius Marius. Caesar, who had become famous for his clemency, generously pardoning those who had fought against him. Caesar, who drafted laws so perfect that they required neither amendment nor revision; Caesar, who seemed to have a workable solution for every problem that Rome faced. Caesar, whose legions had defeated Pompey the Great’s vast army at Pharsalus in less than an hour. Caesar, whose legionaries would fight to the death for him under any circumstances. Caesar, who had won the loyalty of his strongest critics, and inspired the hatred and jealousy of some of his closest lieutenants. Caesar, whose kind overtures Cicero had rejected again and again, still holding on to his resentment over being prosecuted for his handling of the Catalinarian conspiracy. Caesar, whom Cicero had sworn never to cooperate with, never to support, never to give any credence or legitimacy to as Dictator – until the Ides of March, five years before.
Cicero paused, looking out over his vineyards, cup of wine forgotten in his hand and recalled that dreadful day when the “Liberators,” as they called themselves, had tried and failed to rid Rome of Caesar once and for all. He had been in the city at the time, but as a point of honor he had refused to resume his seat in the Senate while Caesar remained Dictator of Rome. Word had spread like wildfire through the city that a group of Senators had attacked Caesar on the Senate floor with daggers. Cicero quickly found out that the dictator, aided by a new pedarius Senator elevated from the legions, had fought them off until help came, and that twenty-three members of the Senate were either killed on the spot or condemned by the House to be hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, the traditional penalty for treason against the Republic.
The next day Caesar had come to see him, his left arm in a sling, looking wearier than Cicero had ever seen him. Despite his loathing of the man, hospitality was a Roman tradition. He escorted Caesar into the peristyle garden of his domus and offered him a glass of wine.
“Just water for the moment,” Caesar said. “Or fresh fruit juice, if you have any.”
“I am relieved you are well, Caesar,” Cicero said. “We may have had our differences in the past, but assassination is never the answer.”
“I somehow doubt relief was your first emotion when you heard that I survived,” Caesar said, his icy blue eyes boring into Cicero. “You and I have been enemies for most of our political careers.”
“That was not my choice!” said Cicero. “You let that wolf’s head Publius Clodius prosecute me for saving Rome from Cataline and his gang of traitors!”
“You were prosecuted for executing Roman citizens without a trial,” Caesar said. “But that was nearly twenty years ago! It is over and done. I am concerned with more recent issues. I have one question for you now, Cicero. Be careful how you answer, because if you lie to me, it will not go well for you!”
“I am not afraid of you, Caesar, even if you are the Master of Rome,” Cicero said, squaring his shoulders and meeting Caesar’s gaze firmly with his own. A lie, of course – his heart was pounding in his chest at the knowledge that this man held Cicero’s life in his hands. “I would not stoop to lie to you.”
Caesar laughed aloud, but there was no humor in it.
“Of course you would,” he said. “Any man will lie, given the right motive. But some are better at it than others. You, my old friend, are a terrible liar. So now look me in the eye and tell me – did you know?”
“Know about what?” Cicero asked.
“Don’t be coy with me!” Caesar snapped. “Did you know what Brutus, Cassius, and Trebonius were planning? Were you part of the conspiracy?”
“No,” Cicero said, his shoulders slumping with relief. “There were rumors, but when I asked Brutus about them, he denied it. I don’t know why they didn’t tell me; Brutus normally told me everything.”
Caesar relaxed a bit, and the smile on his face finally touched his eyes.
“Because, my dear old Arpenian rabbit, you are an incurable blabbermouth! You can’t help it; your runaway tongue has always stayed a step ahead of your common sense,” he said. “I am sure that Trebonius and Cassius threatened poor Brutus within an inch of his life if he breathed a word of it to you.”
“That’s fair, I suppose,” Cicero said, “but not terribly kind. I am not completely indiscreet! I may not approve of murder, but I would not have betrayed such a confidence.”
“That’s the first honest thing you have said to me this morning, I think,” Caesar replied. “No matter. I can forgive your political opposition, Cicero. In fact, I truly wish you would return to the Senate and channel it into a healthy political debate. I am so tired of being surrounded by sycophants, and hidden enemies who publicly praise me to the skies while sharpening their daggers for me in private.”
“Caesar, we have had this conversation before,” Cicero said. “As long as you occupy the Dictator’s chair, I consider the Republic dead. I will not resume my seat in an illegitimate Senate!”
“You had no problem sitting in the Senate when Pompey was elected as ‘consul without a colleague’ - and that was a far more unconstitutional move than my being named dictator! You had no problem with the tribunes of the plebs being muzzled by an illegal Senate decree when they vetoed the resolution to strip me of my imperium!” Caesar snapped.
Cicero sighed. The Dictator of Rome had a point. While he had opposed Caesar throughout his long career, his old friend Cato’s fanatical resistance to Caesar often crossed the line into illegality. Hoping to avoid civil war, Cicero had persuaded Pompeius Magnus to reach a settlement with Caesar at one point. But then Cato heard of the deal and flew into such a towering rage that even Pompey the Great had been cowed and renounced the compromise before Caesar could even be informed of it.
“What will Rome think of me if I reverse such a public stance now?” he finally said.
“That you have come to your senses,” Caesar replied. “But if you still refuse to resume your place in the Senate, I can live with that. I have come to ask a very different favor of you.”
“And what favor does the Dictator require?” Cicero asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone.
“Yesterday’s awful business in the Senate has delayed my departure for the East and left me short of several men whom I planned to have as my legates,” Caesar said. “Your younger brother Quintus served brilliantly in Gaul, but then he remained neutral in my conflict with Pompeius Magnus and the bonii – not because he thought I was in the wrong, but out of respect for you.”
“He may not have fought for you,” Cicero said, “but we certainly fought about you a great deal! He never stopped taking your side.”
“I need him, Marcus,” Caesar said. “He is a brilliant general and an inspiration to his men. The Parthian campaign will be long, but the rewards will be enormous. You may not approve of me, you may not wish to serve in the Senate with me, but would you allow Quintus to go to war with me again? I spoke to him this morning, and he said he would only go if you approved.”
“Well, perhaps if he goes East with you, he will return with enough money to let him divorce that termagant Pomponia!” Cicero said with a chuckle. “He might even pay back some of what he owes me.”
“So you will permit him to serve under my command again?” Caesar asked.
“Yes, Caesar, I will never hear the end of it if I don’t,” Cicero replied. “Take him with my blessing and do try to keep him from getting killed. He and I may fight like Hannibal and Scipio, but I am dreadfully fond of him.”
“Thank you, Cicero!” said Caesar, favoring his old rival with a genuine smile. “And do think about resuming your seat in the Senate. Whatever our differences, your wisdom and eloquence are needed there.”
He stood to go and winced slightly as his wounded arm brushed the table.
“How badly were you hurt, Caesar?” Cicero asked.
“Cassius’ dagger ran clean through my forearm,” Caesar said. “Fortunately, it passed neatly between the two bones, and I can still use all my fingers. It is painful, but I will heal.”
“Caesar’s luck,” Cicero said. “Fortuna still favors you!”
Five years later, Cicero stood in his garden, reflecting on that moment. Why had he allowed Quintus to go, when he had opposed Caesar for so long? Partly, as he had told Caesar, because he knew his brother would hector him mercilessly if he did not. But there was more to it than that. Although he would never admit it to Caesar, he knew that Cato and the other members of the bonii faction – the self-styled ‘good men’ who fiercely opposed any change to Roman traditions – had provoked Caesar beyond measure. Especially Cato – Cato with his loud, hectoring voice, his unbreakable will, and his ferocious hatred of Caesar! Cicero disliked Caesar on political grounds, but Cato despised him on a deep, personal level that was truly fanatical. In the end, the blame for the disastrous Civil War that had caused the death of so many noble Romans lay as much at Cato’s feet as it did at Caesar’s. Cicero knew this at the time but let Cato persuade him into siding with the bonii anyway. So, he realized, some small share of the blame also rested with him. Letting brother Quintus command one of Caesar’s legions was an act of atonement.
Now Caesar was coming home, with Quintus in his train. Little brother Quintus, now a decorated hero, enriched by an enormous share of Parthian plunder, and enjoying the favor of the man who was Rome’s undisputed master. Quintus, who now might well outshine his famous older brother when he resumed his own delayed political career. Cicero’s triumphs, even his title “Father of the Country” (bestowed by none other than Cato after Cicero defeated the Catalinarian conspiracy), were old news to Rome now. Caesar’s victories in Gaul, his triumph over the Republican forces, his conquest of Parthia – that was what Rome was now celebrating.
Cicero loved his brother, but he was still the paterfamilias of the Tullius Cicerones. Was he willing to fade into the twilight while his younger sibling basked in the public eye? And if not, was there any other path back into the public arena that did not lead through Caesar’s Senate? Marcus was not a military man; his lone military campaign outside of Rome had been a plodding affair resulting in a lackluster triumph that no one remembered. His arenas were the Courts and the Senatorial curia; that was where his soaring eloquence and biting wit had brought him fame and approbation. But Cicero had voluntarily absented himself from the Senate in protest for nearly a decade, and in so doing he had seen his arctoritas and dignitas dwindle.
Well, he thought, I do not begrudge you your successes under Caesar, little brother. But I think it is time that Rome receives a reminder of who is the elder of the Cicerones, and who it was that had asked Caesar to take Quintus as one of his Gallic legates to begin with! Standing on principle was one thing; allowing oneself to be permanently sidelined in the name of a cause that was irretrievably lost was another thing entirely. He left the garden and returned to his study.
“Tiro,” he called out, and his loyal servant stepped to his side immediately. “I want you to take a letter.”
“Yes, dominus!” the Greek replied. He had been purchased as a slave for Cicero a quarter of a century ago; he’d become a beloved member of the household and now, as a freeman, was Cicero’s steward, personal secretary, and most loyal adherent. “Who are we writing to today?”
“To Gaius Julius Caesar,” Cicero said.
“Caesar!” Tiro exclaimed. “That is unexpected.”
“It’s high time I stepped back into the arena,” Cicero said. “I can’t let the old lion’s life be too easy when he gets back to Rome.”
