‘Anything that enables Octavianus to wriggle out of the jaws of death is a defeat,’ Antony said stubbornly.
‘Nonsense! His troops are as disaffected as ours.’
‘He’s not even game to confront me! It’s all to be done by agents like Maecenas – ruffled tempers? I’ll give him ruffled tempers! And I don’t care what he says, I’m going to his little meeting to represent myself!’
‘He won’t be present, Antonius,’ Pollio said, eyes fixed on Plancus, rolling his eyes skyward. ‘I have a far better scheme. Agree to it, and I’ll go as your representative.’
‘You?’ Antony asked incredulously. ‘You?’
‘Yes, I! Antonius, I’ve been consul for eight-and-a-half months, yet I haven’t been able to go to Rome to don my consular regalia,’ Pollio said, exasperated. ‘As consul, I outrank Gaius Maecenas and a paltry Nerva combined! Do you really think I’d let a weasel like Maecenas dupe me? Do you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Antony said, beginning to yield. ‘All right, I’ll agree to it. With some conditions.’
‘Name them.’
‘That I am free to enter Italia through Brundisium, and that you be permitted to go to Rome to assume your consulship without any impediments put in your way. That I retain my right to recruit troops in Italia. And that the exiles be allowed to go home immediately.’
‘I don’t think any of those conditions will be a problem,’ said Pollio. ‘Sit down and write, Antonius.’
Odd, thought Pollio as he rode down the Via Minucia toward Brundisium, that I always manage to be where the great decisions are made. I was with Caesar – Divus Julius, indeed! – when he crossed the Rubicon, and on that river isle in Italian Gaul when Antonius, Octavianus and Lepidus agreed to divide up the world. Now I’ll be presiding over the next momentous occasion – Maecenas is not a fool, he won’t object to my assuming the chair. What extraordinary luck for a writer of modern history!
Though his family had not been prominent until his advent, Pollio owned an intellect formidable enough to have made him one of Caesar’s favorites. A good soldier and a better commander, he had advanced with Caesar after Caesar became Dictator, and never had had any doubt where his loyalties lay until after Caesar was murdered. Too pragmatic and unromantic to side with Caesar’s heir, he had only one man left to whom to hew – Marcus Antonius. Like many of his peers, he found the eighteen-year-old Gaius Octavius farcical, couldn’t begin to fathom what a peerless man like Caesar could see in such a pretty boy. He believed too that Caesar hadn’t expected to die so soon – he was as tough as an old army boot – and that Octavius had been a temporary heir, just a ploy to exclude Antony until he could judge whether Antony would settle down. Also to see what time would make of the mama’s boy who now denied his mama’s existence. Then Fate and Fortuna had exacted the ultimate penalty from Caesar, allowed a group of embittered, jealous, short-sighted men to murder him. How Pollio rued that, despite his ability to chronicle contemporary events with detachment and impartiality. The trouble was that at the time Pollio had no idea what Caesar Octavianus would make of his unexpected rise to prominence. How could any man foresee the steel and gall inside an inexperienced youth? Caesar, he had long realized, was the only one who had seen what Gaius Octavius was made of. But, even when Pollio had come to understand what lay within Octavian, it was already too late for a man of honor to follow him. Antonius was not the better man, he was simply the alternative pride permitted. Despite his failings – and they were many – at least Antony was a man.
As little as he knew Octavian did Pollio know his principal ambassador, Gaius Maecenas. In all physical respects Pollio was a medium man: height, size, coloring, facial appeal. Like most such, particularly when high intelligence was a part of the package, he mistrusted those who were definitely not medium men in any respect. Had Octavianus not been so vain (boots with three-inch soles, for pity’s sake!) and pretty, he would have fared better in Pollio’s estimation right after Caesar’s assassination. And so it was with Maecenas, plump and plain of face, pop-eyed, rich and spoiled. Maecenas simpered, steepled his fingers, pursed up his lips, looked amused when there was nothing to be amused about. A poseur. Detestable or annoying characteristics. Yet he had volunteered to treat with this poseur because he knew that once Antony simmered down, he would choose Quintus Dellius as his delegate. That could not be allowed to happen; Dellius was too venal and hungry for such delicate negotiations. It was possible that Maecenas was equally venal and hungry but, as far as Pollio could see, Octavianus hadn’t made many mistakes when he selected his inner circle. Salvidienus was a mistake, but his days were numbered. Greed always antagonized Antony, who would feel no compunction at striking him down as soon as his usefulness was at an end. But Maecenas had made no overtures, and he did own one quality Pollio admired: he loved literature and was the enthusiastic patron of several promising poets, including Horace and Virgil, the best versifiers since Catullus. Only that inspired any hope in Pollio that a conclusion satisfying both parties could be reached. But how was he, a plain soldier, going to survive the kind of food and drink a connoisseur like Maecenas was bound to provide?
‘I hope you don’t mind ordinary food and well-watered wine?’ Maecenas asked Pollio the moment he arrived at the surprisingly modest house on Brundisium’s outskirts.
‘Thank you, I prefer it,’ Pollio said.
‘No, thank you, Pollio. May I say before we get down to our real business that I enjoy your prose? I don’t tell you that in a spirit of sycophancy, because I doubt you’re susceptible to the fine art of sucking up; I tell you because it’s the truth.’
Embarrassed, Pollio passed the compliment off tactfully but lightly by turning to greet the third member of the team, Lucius Cocceius Nerva. Neutral? How could such a neutral man be anything else? No wonder his wife ruled him.
Over a dinner of eggs, salads, chicken and crunchy fresh bread, Pollio found himself liking Maecenas, who seemed to have read everybody from Homer to Latin luminaries like Caesar and Fabius Pictor. If there was one thing lacking in any army camp, he reflected, it was an in-depth conversation about literature.
‘Of course Virgil is Hellenistic in style, but then, so was Catullus – oh, what a poet!’ said Maecenas with a sigh. ‘I have a theory, you know.’
‘What?’
‘That the most lyrical exponents of poetry or prose all have some Gallic blood. Either they come from Italian Gaul or their ancestors did. The Celtae are a lyrical people. Musical too.’
‘I agree,’ said Pollio, relieved to find no sweeties on the menu. ‘Leaving aside “Iter” – a remarkable poem! – Caesar is typically unpoetical. Exquisite Latin, yet bald and spare. Aulus Hirtius had been with him long enough to do a fair imitation of his style in the commentaries Caesar didn’t live to write, but they lack the master’s deftness. However, Hirtius does give some things away that Caesar never would have. Like what drove Titus Labienus to defect to Pompeius Magnus after the Rubicon.’
‘Never a boring writer, though.’ Maecenas giggled. ‘Ye gods, what a bore Cato the Censor is! Like being forced to listen to the maiden speech of a political hopeful mounting the rostra.’
They laughed together, at ease with each other, while Nerva the Neuter, as Maecenas had named him, dozed gently.
On the morrow they got down to business, in a rather bleak room furnished with a large table, two wooden chairs with backs but no arms, and an ivory curule chair. Seeing it, Pollio blinked.
‘It’s yours,’ said Maecenas, taking a wooden chair and directing Nerva to the other, which faced it. ‘I know you haven’t assumed it yet, but your rank as junior consul of the year demands