“I do not speak as a statesman,” Caesar said, his hand working on the ivory baton that he usually carried when presiding over the Senate. “I speak as the commander in chief of all Rome’s armies, the dictator, with total imperium.” As if anyone needed reminding of this, Caesar was seated as usual with a golden wreath, dressed in his triumphator’s purple robe and scarlet boots, his twenty-four lictors arrayed before him.
“Caesar, I am my king’s ambassador, but even I-”
“You are no ambassador,” Caesar interrupted rudely. “You are some sort of diplomatic mercenary in the pay of a sovereign who is not your own. Go and report my words to him. Now get out of my sight.”
This was a rare spectacle even for the Senate of Rome. Archelaus and his entourage left with flaming faces, at which no one could be surprised. I noticed a number of senators giving them looks and gestures of sympathy. I had only the slightest acquaintance with Archelaus, but I felt his humiliation keenly.
Caesar rose from his curule chair and I saw a slight lurch, the faintest loss of balance, when he did so. I had always known him as a man of superb physical address. This slight lapse was as disturbing to me as anything that had happened that day. “Senators!” he said. “I now call a recess of this meeting. Go refresh yourselves. I shall wish to see some of you in one hour.” He called off several names and mine was among them. Then he went out by way of the door to the rear of the dais, just behind the statue of Pompey the Great.
The meeting broke up in confusion, as might be suspected. Little knots of senators formed to talk over the extraordinary events that had just transpired. The pro-Caesar and anti-Caesar factions were well represented, naturally. I went outside and found the group I wanted to join, standing in the shade of the portico. They were gathered around Cicero. Brutus was among them, along with Cassius Longinus, Calpurnius Piso, and other distinguished men. Cicero smiled when he saw me approach. He took my hands courteously. “Well, Decius Caecilius, what do you make of all this?” I was no longer of any great political importance since the destruction of my family, but Cicero acted as if my name still meant something.
“It’s the most remarkable performance I’ve ever seen him put on,” I said. “I saw him receive deputations of German barbarians in Gaul with greater respect.”
“But,” sputtered a conservative old senator, “did you hear how that man threw the name of Hannibal right into our faces?” There were mutters of agreement.
“Personally, I don’t blame the man,” said Brutus, surprising everyone. “He was provoked beyond endurance. So what if he is a Greek professional? Such persons have been employed for centuries when feelings between two nations are too intense for rational discourse. They are always to be accorded the courtesies due to ambassadors just as if they were fellow nationals of the powers that employ them.”
“That is very correct, Marcus Junius,” Cicero said. “What we just saw in there was something unprecedented. As dictator, Caesar has the constitutional right to act according to his own judgment, without having to consult the Senate or anyone else. But we have always chosen dictators who are men of sound principles, dedicated to the welfare of Rome.”
“That was when dictators were chosen by the Senate,” Cassius said. “Let us make no mistake about it, this dictatorship is unconstitutional, just like the dictatorship of Sulla. It is no more than a military coup. At least Sulla had the decency to step down from office once he had the constitution reordered to his liking. I do not foresee Caesar doing any such thing.”
“Not likely,” Cicero agreed, shaking his head sadly. “He has publicly declared Sulla’s abdication of office the act of a political moron.”
“What shall we do about this?” said a senator I now recognized as Cornelius Cinna, formerly Caesar’s brother-in-law.
“Do?” I said. “What can anyone do about a dictator? They are above the law and their powers override the constitution. Nobody has ever unseated a dictator.”
“But this situation cannot continue,” Cassius said. “I was at Carrhae and I want those eagles back as much as any man, but it must be done by a Roman army under constitutional command. We’ve had enough of one-man adventures in that part of the world.”
“I cannot accept even a dictator setting foreign policy that will last far beyond his own dictatorship,” Cicero said. “This has never been our way.”
With a sour feeling I saw in them the futility of the Senate, and the very reason Caesar had made himself dictator. The Senate, once the most remarkable body of men in the world, had degenerated into a pack of greedy, self-seeking politicians who had put their own narrow, selfish interests ahead of the common good of Rome. Even the ones like this lot, who were better than most, could only look back to some sort of idealized past with a vague notion of restoring the good old days.
Caesar was a man with a different vision. He saw the Senate as a futile body, so he ignored it or made use of it as he saw fit. He saw that the day of the old Republic was over and he replaced it with one-man rule. Since he was well aware that he was the best man in Rome, he saw no reason why he should not be that ruler.
“Here’s Antonius,” somebody muttered. The seditious talk silenced. That is how serious these men were. The great Antonius swaggered up to us, his toga draped carelessly. He only wore one to formal occasions like a Senate meeting, preferring to go about in a tunic that was briefer than most, the better to show off his magnificent physique. He had a wonderful build and a great many battle scars, and was inordinately proud of both, as well as of that endowment of which Fulvia had spoken.
“Well, it looks official now,” Antonius said without greeting anyone formally. “No turning back from this war now that Caesar’s dressed that Greekling down so publicly.”
“You didn’t find it rude?” Cicero said dryly.
“Rude? You can’t be rude to an enemy. You can speak forcefully, though.”
“On a basis of forcefulness, then,” Cicero said, “I cannot find fault with the proceedings.”
“I think Caesar should have beheaded the lot,” Antonius said, “then pickled the heads in brine and send them to Phraates. That’s the sort of language a Parthian understands.”
“Or an Antonius,” Cicero said, “but, as a wise dispensation of our ancestors would have it, Rome can have only one dictator at a time.”
“Of course there can be only one dictator,” Antonius said. “What use would it be to have two?”
“What, indeed?” said Cicero, with the air of a man hurling catapult stones at a rabbit. The others suppressed grins, but I watched Antonius and did not like what I saw. His own little smile of amusement was confident. He was far shrewder than his enemies guessed and his show of genial boneheadedness was a pose.
“Will he take you with him, Marcus?” I asked.
His expression soured. “No, it’s still the city prefecture. Calpurnius and Cassius are to go, though.”
“You’ll have your chance,” Calpurnius Piso said. “Once Caesar has added Parthia to the empire, he may want to take India.”
“That would be something,” Antonius said, brightening. “Awful long march, though.”
In time we went off in search of lunch. A great many taverns had sprung up all around Pompey’s theater complex. I joined a couple of senators of no great reputation at a table beneath an awning and ordered heated, spiced wine. The day was cool but clear, the air free of the many stenches that pervade Rome in the summer. Hermes found me there just as a heaping platter of sausages arrived. He had spent the morning exercising at the Statilian school and upon arrival he sat, snatched up a sausage and bit it in two all in a single motion.