REGRETS
Quintus Quirinius
slowly lowered himself onto the bench that sat in his atrium, enjoying the sun
coming down through the open roof. He
rested his back against one of the pillars and stretched his legs out, lifting
his tunic just enough so that the sun could warm his arthritic knees. He was eighty this year; old for a Roman, but
still fairly fit for a man of his age.
He had long ago decided that when his years became an intolerable
burden, he would do the honorable thing and open a vein in his arm while
soaking in a nice warm bath. He hated
the thought of becoming a burden to his sons, and even more the idea of being
unable to feed or care for himself. But
the fact was he could still get up and down without assistance, he could still
walk up the Palatine Hill to the Curia Julia for the meetings of the Senate,
and his voice was still clear and strong when he chose to speak to the
Conscript Fathers of Rome.
But
the truth was Quintus rarely spoke out anymore.
The politics of Rome had passed him by, as the twilight years of
Augustus had ended with the accession of Tiberius Caesar just two years
before. He and the new Emperor were
acquainted, and Tiberius did treat him with a certain gruff respect – as much
honor as the gloomy Princeps accorded
anyone, he supposed. The epic battles in
the Senate Chamber were waged by younger men nowadays, and the Senate lacked
the power it once had. Oh, the laws were
largely unchanged, and to external appearances, the election cycles continued,
and the privileges and rights of the Senators were the same as they had been a
century before – but it was all a sham.
The office of Princeps, with
all its unique powers, had been passed by Augustus to his adopted son Tiberius –
as had control of Rome’s armies. The
Senate was now a debating society more than a legislature, and the Republic,
even though its forms endured, was more of a memory than a reality. Rome was an Empire, and the Emperor ruled it.
Not
that any of that concerned him these days.
He showed up for most of the sessions and voted for the measures that
concerned him most deeply, but the shaping of legislation and the delicate
back-and-forth of consulting with the Emperor behind the scenes - he left that
to younger men. Men like his son, who
would be joining him shortly. In fact,
as if his thought had somehow shaped reality, he heard the familiar voice
echoing from the vestibule.
“Ave, Pater!” Marcus Quirinius called
out. “Where are you?”
“Out
back, in the peristyle,” called Quintus, “enjoying the morning sun.”
Marcus
strode down the hallway and turned past the colonnade, plopping down on the
bench across from his father. He was
already dressed in his toga, ready for the Senate session that would begin in a
couple of hours. He wore the flowing
white garment, its sleeves trimmed in purple, with the easy grace that was the
mark of a true Roman nobleman.
Quintus studied his son
with pride. The boy – he would always
think of Marcus that way, even though his temples were greying and he was
nearing fifty years of age – was the spitting image of Quintus some thirty years
before. Intelligent, ambitious, and
courageous, Marcus was a son to make any father proud.
“Eighty years old
today!” Marcus said. “Few men live to see so many years, much less
such eventful ones. Happy birthday, Pater.”
“Thank you, my son,”
Quintus said, more happily than he felt. It had entirely slipped his mind that
this was his birthday. Not good, he
thought. What was the use of keeping the
body spry and fit if you let your mind begin to decay?
“I thought we might go
to the Circus Maximus this evening and watch the races,” Marcus said. “My chariot and driver are running in the
second set.”
“That would be nice,”
Quintus said, although the thought of the crowds and noise was honestly less
appealing than a quiet night at home perusing Homer’s works.
“May I ask you
something?” Marcus suddenly inquired.
“Of course, my
son. What is it?” Quintus replied.
“Do you have any
regrets?” the younger man asked.
Quintus arched an
eyebrow. “Every man has regrets,” he
said.
“I know that, Pater,” said his son. “But is there any one that outweighs all the
others? You’ve told me some stories
about your youth, but I was thinking of all you must have seen in eighty
years. Is there one opportunity you’d
like to have back, above all others?”
Quintus Quirinius
paused for a moment, and then he closed his eyes and let his mind take him back
to a beautiful spring morning some sixty years before.
***************
“Ave, Caesar!” Quintus
said as he saw his commander emerge from the door of the Pontifex Maximus’ residence.
Gaius Julius Caesar,
Dictator of the Republic for life, gave him a cheery wave, and then turned back
to the doorway. His wife Calpurnia stood
framed by the doorpost, leaning out to speak to her husband. Quintus saw that her lovely face was streaked
with tears, which was unusual. Caesar’s
wife was normally a placid and happy soul with an enchanting smile; he had
never seen her look this distraught. The great man touched her shoulder, spoke
a few words of encouragement, then wheeled about and strode towards his conterburnalis with a smile on his face.
Caesar was clad in a
blinding white toga with purple sleeves and trim, the mark of the high rank he
held. Only a handful of Romans had ever
been appointed to the office of Dictator, and none other had ever served as
dictator for life. Broad-shouldered, graceful, and handsome, Caesar was an
imposing figure, his thinning locks held in place by the Civic Crown he had
earned over thirty years before on the battlefield.
That decoration was the
one thing that he and Quintus Quirinius shared in common. Quintus
had fought like a lion at the Battle of Pharsalus four years before, when he
was only sixteen. He had killed a dozen
of Pompey’s men after seeing his older brother cut down before his eyes, and
his centurion had recommended him to Caesar after the battle was over. Quintus
was one of four men who won the Civic Crown that day, and he was by far the
youngest. From that point forward, Caesar,
the greatest Roman of them all, had taken an interest in the teenager from the
stews of the Aventine, helping him get an education, ennobling him, and now
promoting him to a junior officer’s rank.
In turn, Quintus had
given Caesar his undying loyalty and affection.
To him, the great statesman and general was the living incarnation of
Mars, the greatest man he ever had known or would know. If Caesar told him to fall on his sword in
the middle of the Forum, Quintus would do it instantly, knowing that the great
man would never give such an order without good reason. Caesar accepted his loyalty without question,
and frequently used the young officer as a sounding board for his ideas.
Normally, Quintus would
never inquire into his idol’s personal life, but the distress evident in
Calpurnia’s face haunted him for some reason.
“Is everything all
right, Caesar?” he asked as the Dictator joined him.
Gaius Julius Caesar
clapped him on the shoulder.
“My young friend,” he
said, “one thing you will learn about women as you get older is that they are
impossible to live without – certainly I’ve never managed it! But they can be difficult to live with. My wife had a nightmare, nothing more. But
she is convinced I should stay away from the Senate today because of it. A fine
thought, eh? The Dictator of the
Republic shirking his duties because of the dreams of women?”
Quintus smiled. “I imagine you are the main character in the
dreams of any number of women every night, Caesar!” he said.
His commander guffawed
and slapped him on the shoulder again.
“You may be right,”
Caesar said. “But don’t tell their
husbands! Now, I have some orders for
you, Quintus. I’m a bit early for my
meeting with the Senators, so let’s duck into this tavern for just a moment and
have a talk.”
The place was nearly
deserted at such an early hour, and the barkeep took one look at the Dictator
of the Republic standing in the doorway, escorted by a uniformed officer of the
Legions, and immediately showed them to his best table, spreading a clean linen
cloth over the bench so that Caesar’s toga would not be stained. Quintus took the bench across from his
commander.
“A cup of wine each,
watered down, if you please,” said Caesar.
“And some dates, if they are any good.”
“Absolutely, Dominus!” the man said. “I have fresh ones from the market this
morning, and some fine Greek wine that just arrived last week. It is a privilege to serve you, sir!”
Caesar nodded
graciously. “It’s a pleasure to spend a
few moments in such a fine establishment,” he said. “You keep a clean dining area, which is rare
these days.”
“Thank you, Caesar – I mean,
er, dominus!” the man stammered
excitedly.
“You’re a free Roman,
my man, not my slave,” Caesar said. “So
don’t call me master!”
“Of course, Caesar –
and thank you!” the owner grinned, bowed, and retreated to the kitchen.
“I believe that fellow
is fond of you, Caesar,” said Quintus as the man scurried off.
“The people of Rome
love me,” said Caesar with a smile, “And I love them. That is the thing that my enemies never have
understood. Not Cato, not Cicero, not
even Pompey, although he was also quite beloved in his day. I belong to this city, and it belongs to
me. My family is ancient, as you know –
as patrician as patrician can be – but I grew up in the Subura, among the poor
and the foreigners who throng that district.
I know all the alleys and byways of the city. I always took the time to
listen when the people wanted to talk, and I learned so much from them! For all his pretensions as a Tribune of the
Plebs, I doubt that Cato ever spend so much as a single hour among the common
folk of the city.”
Quintus wasn’t sure how
to respond. Personally, he didn’t
understand how anyone could hate Caesar, but it seemed there were many that
did, especially among the Senate. But
Caesar’s strongest enemies were crushed now, and the rest skulking in the
shadows. There would always be some
malcontents, he supposed, but Caesar had finally brought peace to Rome.
“How long before we
embark on our campaign against the Parthians?” he finally asked.
“I need to meet with
the Senate another time or two, to finish setting some reforms in place and
organize the government of the Republic until I return,” Caesar said. “I hope to ride out of the city
tomorrow. I want you to go ahead of me,
down to Brundisium. My nephew Octavian
is there, along with a young soldier named Marcus Agrippa. Octavian has great potential, I think. I certainly hope so, because I have just
named him my heir.”
“Really?” Quintus was
stunned. First, that Caesar should
choose such a young and untried person to be his adopted son, and secondly,
that Caesar would confide such a thing to him, a lowly conturburnalis.
“What about Mark
Antony?” he finally asked.
“Antony is the bravest
soldier I’ve ever commanded,” said Caesar.
“He will make a good Master of Horse while I am away on campaign. But he is a terrible politician! I can leave him in control as long as he’s under
strict supervision, with specific instructions.
But letting him off the leash would be a disaster. No, young Octavian plays the long game. He’s every bit as shrewd as I was at that age
– I just wish he was more physically fit!
Hopefully this campaign will go a long way towards mending that. He’s befriended an excellent soldier in
Marcus Agrippa, who is already working with him on his swordsmanship. In another ten years, Octavian will be ready
to inherit all that I have.”
Quintus looked at
Caesar, clad in white, with no cuirass or leggings, without so much as a dagger
strapped to his wrist. It worried him
suddenly.
“Are you sure you don’t
want me to go to the Senate with you this morning?” he finally asked.
“No, I want you to ride
out for Brundisium,” Caesar said. “I
don’t want an armed escort walking with me to the Senate. I can’t show those jackals that I am afraid
of them in the least, or they’ll take it as a sign of weakness.”
“But what about that
fortune teller?” Quintus asked. He was a
superstitious soul.
“Oh, that fellow? The one who said ‘Beware the Ides of March?’
Ha!” Caesar said. “The Ides are here
already, and so am I. Enemies have been
predicting my death for twenty years, and it has not happened yet.”
Quintus sighed. “As you wish, Caesar,” he finally said. “But I would rather escort you to the Senate,
and then take my leave.”
“You’re a good soldier,
Quintus Quirinius, and you have a bright future ahead,” Caesar told him,
standing and straightening his toga.
“When we get back from Parthia I will have much work for you to do. But
for now, I need you to follow orders.”
Quintus stood likewise,
popping one last date into his mouth.
Julius Caesar surveyed the young man, and then looked around the
otherwise empty tavern.
“You know, Quintus, I never
really wanted any of this,” Caesar said softly.
“Any of what?” Quintus
asked, curious.
“The Dictatorship, the
Civic Wars, all of it,” Caesar said.
“All I wanted was to come home from Gaul, celebrate my triumph, and then
stand for Consul again. Is that such a
monstrous crime? I wanted to help mend
our broken Republic for a year or two, and then set out to destroy the
Parthians, who are the greatest living threat to Rome. Once they were humbled, I would have been
happy to come home and take my place among the greybeards of the Senate,
counseling younger men and doing what I could to strengthen and preserve our
Republic. Now, thanks to that
sanctimonious turd Cato, and poor old Pompey, who was foolish enough to listen
to him, our Republic is shattered. I
will do my best to mend it and set it to rights when I return from this
campaign, but it will take me years now.
And until I replenish the treasury with Parthian gold, it’s all a wasted
effort. So much opportunity thrown away
by the selfishness of a few men, who could not stand for me to outshine them. It saddens me, my young friend.”
“You will set things to
rights, Caesar, I am sure of that. Your
reforms are already taking hold, and everyone praises them!” Marcus told him.
“They praise them now,
when I am in the city with my legions camped outside the walls,” Caesar
said. “What will they say when I am a
thousand miles away? Will Antony be able
to fend off the wolves till I return?”
He heaved a long sigh
and stepped out into the streets.
“It’s all in the lap of
the gods, I suppose,” he said. “All we
can do is cast the dice and watch them fly, eh?
Farewell, Quintus! Give my
greetings to my nephew, and tell him and all the legions that we sail for the
East in a week, ten days at most! I’ll
be not long after you!”
“Farewell, Caesar,”
said Quintus, and watched as the Dictator of the Republic turned and strode
purposefully up the street towards Pompey’s Theater, where the Senate was
meeting while the new curia was under construction. There was such strength and vigor in Caesar’s
stride that the young officer was convinced that the First Man in Rome might
well live forever.
He never saw Gaius
Julius Caesar again.
******************
“Pater?” Marcus’ voice intruded into his memories. “Are you well?”
“Fine, lad!” snapped
Quintus. “Now what were we talking about?”
“Regrets, my
father. I asked if you had any,” his son
reminded him.
“None at all, my son,
none at all,” the old man replied, and then rose and quickly walked back into
the house, so that his son would not see the tears that were beginning to roll
down his cheeks. In his chambers, he
paused and looked at the statue that occupied a pedestal next to his desk. Caesar stared back at him, immortalized in
stone, forever strong and vigorous.
Quintus reached out with a trembling hand and touched the folds of the
cold, marble toga.
“Regrets,” he sighed.
THE
END
For a full length novel I wrote, set in the same timeframe, click here to buy
THE REDEMPTION OF PONTIUS PILATE:
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