The future was fraught with uncertainty. The future was what Lucius and his cousin had come to the house of Antonius to discuss. Yet the discussion seemed to circle back endlessly to recriminations about things already past.
It was Octavius who broke the strained silence. “The conspirators should have been dealt with at once, immediately following the murder. You, Antonius, as consul, had the power to arrest them. You could have invoked the Ultimate Decree—”
“There were no senators left in the chamber to vote on such a proposal!”
“Even so, if, instead of fleeing to your house, you had taken immediate action against the men who killed my father—”
“If you think it would have been as easy as that, young man, then you’re even more naive than I thought, and you are certainly not Caesar’s son!”
“Enough!” said Lucius. “You both need to stop this squabbling and return to the matter at hand. Namely, the need to deal with Cassius and Brutus. It may or may not be possible to convince the Senate to declare that Caesar’s murder was a criminal act. Most of the senators seem inclined to mimic Cicero. They’ll avoid taking sides as long as possible, until they see how things fall out. For now, the Senate’s amnesty protects the assassins.
“However, it seems to me that the premature seizures by Cassius and Brutus of their provinces were unquestionably illegal. Those actions could be construed as hostile acts against the state, and thus lay them open to military action by you, Antonius, acting as consul.”
“If any military action is taken, Caesar must take part as well,” said Octavius, adopting his great-uncle’s habit of referring to himself in the third person—to Antonius’s disgust, as evidenced by the gritting of his teeth. “It’s Caesar’s fortune that can raise the troops. It’s Caesar’s name to which his veterans will swear loyalty. And if I am to command troops in the field, I must be given full consular authority.”
“Impossible!” said Antonius. “You’re far too young.”
“By what reckoning? My great-uncle appointed men to magistracies who were under the required age. Thus there is legal precedent—”
“An important point, cousin,” said Lucius. “We must be seen to follow the law. Any military action must be perceived as just and necessary. There must be no grounds for anyone to assert that we have initiated”—he hesitated even to say the words—“that we have initiated a civil war for personal gain or private revenge. We must win the support of the Senate, the legions, and the people. But how? It’s the sort of challenge at which Uncle Gaius excelled so brilliantly.”
Lucius took a deep breath. He looked from one man to the other. He had no illusions that he could assume Caesar’s mantle of leadership, but increasingly it seemed to him that neither Antonius nor Octavius was fit to do so either, no matter that one had been Caesar’s right-hand man and the other was his adopted son. They were barely able to keep peace between themselves.
As if to prove him right, both men began to speak at the same time. Neither would yield. Instead they raised their voices. Lucius clapped his hands over his ears.
“Marcus! Cousin Gaius! Be quiet and listen to what I have to say. You’re both ambitious men. You both have a craving to rule the state. Good for you! The gods admire ambition, especially in a Roman. But my ambition—my only ambition—is to avenge Caesar’s death. All the assassins must be declared outlaws. They must be hunted down. They must be killed. Brutus and Cassius are our foremost concern. I’m eager to take up arms against them. Put a sword in my hand, and I’ll readily serve under either of you—you, Gaius, or you, Marcus, I don’t care which! But I don’t believe either of you can see the task to completion without the other. I beg of you, stop this bickering and bend your wills to the common purpose!”
He stared at Antonius, who finally shrugged and nodded.
He stared at Octavius. His cousin raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, of course. Thank you, cousin Lucius. Such a clear-sighted sense of purpose is just what we need to keep us on course. Well, Antonius? Shall we get back to business?”
The discussion that followed was fruitful. Lucius was glad to have spoken out. But as he looked from Octavius to Antonius, he knew his words had not been entirely truthful. He had said he didn’t care which man he served under, but in his heart, there was no question which of them he preferred: the hot-blooded, plain-spoken, pleasure-loving, sometimes crude Antonius. Partly this was because of the affection the man had shown him. Partly it was because his cousin Gaius was so vain and cold-blooded. Antonius he could serve with enthusiasm. Octavius he would serve if he must.
Lucius prayed to the gods he would never be forced to choose between them.
1 B.C.
Lucius Pinarius dreamed an old, recurring dream. It was a nightmare he had first experienced on the Ides of Martius long ago, when he was young.
In the dream he was both participant and observer, aware he was dreaming and yet unable to stop the dream. Caesar had died. A great multitude had gathered to hear the reading of his will. A Vestal virgin produced a scroll. Marcus Antonius unrolled the document and proceeded to read. Though Lucius stood at the front of the crowd, he could not hear the names being read. He heard only the roar of the crowd in his ears, like the crashing of waves. He wanted to tell the others to be quiet, but he could not open his mouth to speak. He could not move at all. Antonius continued to read, but Lucius could not hear, speak, or move.
With a start and a shiver, he woke from the dream. He was trembling and covered with sweat. The dream was like an old enemy, still hounding him after all these years, taunting him with memories of his youth and of the bright promises that had been shattered by Caesar’s death. But the dream had been visiting him for so many years it had almost become an old friend. Where else but in the dream could he see again the face of Antonius, alive and in his prime?
Lucius wiped the sleep from his eyes. Slowly, he came to his senses. The dream faded.
Against all odds, Lucius Pinarius had become an old man. He was sixty.
So many men of his generation had died in the civil wars that followed Caesar’s death. If they survived the wars, accident or illness had eventually taken them off to Hades. But Lucius was still alive.
He rose from his bed, relieved himself in the chamber pot, and slipped into a tunic. Later he would put on his senatorial toga, for this was an important day, but for now a tunic would do.
The cook prepared for him a simple breakfast of farina cooked with a little milk and water and sweetened with a dab of honey. Lucius still had strong teeth, but his digestion was not what it used to be. Nowadays, the blander the food, the better. Chewing a mouthful of mush, he thought back to the days of endless feasting in Alexandria. Wines from Greece, dates from Parthia, crocodile eggs from the Nile; serving girls from Nubia, dancers from Ethiopia, courtesans from Antioch! Whatever else people said about Antonius and Cleopatra, no one could deny that those two had known how to mount a banquet—especially in their final months and days, as the end drew near for them.
It was the dream’s fault, that he should be thinking of Antonius. Remembering made Lucius sad. The mush turned bitter in his mouth.
But today was not about the past. Today was about the future. His grandson was coming.
Even as he thought about the boy, the door slave announced that young Lucius Pinarius had just arrived and was waiting in the vestibule.
“Already?” said Lucius. “He’s early. Ah, well, he can spend a few minutes contemplating the effigies of his ancestors while I force a bit more of this mush down my gullet. Meanwhile, order the bearers to bring a litter around to the front door.”
“Which litter, master?”
“Oh, the fancy one, I should think, with the yellow curtains and embroidered pillows and all those brass baubles hanging off it. Today is a special day!”
“Once upon a time—before this blasted stiffness in my knees—I’d have walked to the Baths of Agrippa, no matter that they’re all the way out on the Field of Mars. But here we are, two Roman males, taking a litter through the streets. I blush to think of what our ancestors would have thought of such an indulgence!” Lucius smiled at his grandson, who sat beside him and seemed to be enjoying the ride. The boy leaned forward and turned his head this way and that, peering at the passing sights with the insatiable curiosity of a ten-year-old. Ideally, Lucius would have waited until his grandson’s toga day for this occasion, but that was years away. Lucius might not live to see it. Better to tend to his duty now, while he still had his wits and a pulse.
“Why do they call this the Field of Mars, Grandfather?”
“Let me think. Very, very long ago, I believe it must have been called the Field of Mavors, because that was the ancient name for Mars. I suppose someone built an altar to the god, so naturally they named the whole area for Mars—”
“Yes, but why is it called a field? There’s no field here. All I can see are streets and buildings.”
“Ah, I see what you mean. Yes, it’s all built up now. But it wasn’t always so. I can remember a time when the Field of Mars, or at least a large portion of it, was still open to the sky, a place for soldiers to drill and for large groups to assemble. Now the city’s spread outward to fill up every patch of land between the ancient walls and the Tiber. I see we’re passing by Pompeius’s theater now. I was about your age when that opened.”
Lucius’s eyes followed the steps leading to the main portico. He never passed the theater without remembering what he had witnessed there, but he was not in a mood to speak of it and was grateful that the boy did not question him about it. “Up ahead is the Pantheon, of course, which was built by the emperor’s right-hand man, Marcus Agrippa. And near the Pantheon are the baths, which Agrippa built at the same time. When the baths opened, twenty years ago, it was quite an event, because there had never been anything like them in Roma before. Once the baths were open, all sorts of shops and arcades were built in the vicinity.”
The boy furrowed his brow. “If the Baths of Agrippa were the first baths built in Roma, did no one ever bathe before that?”
Lucius smiled. At least the boy was curious about the past. So many people nowadays seemed oblivious of all that had come before, as if Roma had always been at peace and ruled by an emperor—as if there had never been a republic, or a series of civil wars, or a man named Antonius.
There he went, thinking of Antonius again…
“The Baths of Agrippa weren’t the first baths in Roma, but they were much bigger and much more beautiful than any of the previous baths. They were also the first to be open to everyone and free of charge—a gift from the emperor to the people—which made them very popular. Half the reason for going to the baths is to see and be seen, and to mingle outside one’s class. Economic and social disparities between citizens tend to dissolve when everyone is naked and wet.”
Young Lucius laughed. “You say the funniest things, Grandfather.”
“I try. Speaking of the baths, here we are.”
Lucius enjoyed the morning immensely. Time spent with his grandson was always precious, and the diversions offered by the baths were among the greatest pleasures of city life. The day began with a shave from his most trusted slave. Young Lucius watched the procedure with great interest. His father wore a beard these days, so the boy was not used to seeing the skillful application of a sharp blade to a man’s face.
After the shave, they went outside to the open-air pool—a man-made lake, some called it, on account of its size—where the two of them swam a few laps side by side. The boy’s stroke was choppy, but his breathing technique was good. Wherever life might take him, young Lucius would surely have occasion to travel by ship, and it would behoove him to know how to swim. How many of Antonius’s soldiers had drowned at the decisive naval battle at Actium, not because their armor pulled them under, but because they simply did not know how to swim?