Caesar’s Soldier

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Epilogue

  Author’s Comments and Historical Notes

  Glossary

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Alex Gough

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  To Mum, for all her love and support, and for reading all my novels when I specifically told her not to.

  And to Abigail, finally an adult.

  Prologue

  Kalendis Sextilis DCCXXIV Ab Urbe Condita AUC (1 August 30 BC), Alexandria

  ‘Cleopatra is dead.’

  Antony stared at his slave, Eros, the bearer of the news, in disbelief. It could not be.

  Eros bowed his head. ‘She is already in the mausoleum. I am so sorry, master.’

  Cleopatra? Dead? Not that enchanting, vivacious, intelligent queen. The one he had loved more than any of the other many, many women in his life. His partner, his lover, his best friend.

  He slumped back into his chair and put his hand to his brow. It was the end of everything. He had thought that, even after the defeat of the navy, he could hold out with Cleopatra in Egypt indefinitely just as Cleopatra’s ancestor, the first Ptolemy, had done after the death of Alexander the Great. He had hoped that Cleopatra and he could still enjoy the fruits of their struggles. Feast, drink, dance, watch their children grow up.

  But that cursed Octavian would not leave them alone, even after his victory. The man who had once been Antony’s ally, with whom he had shared the Empire, was merciless. And cowardly. He refused Antony’s challenge of single combat. He refused Antony’s offer to kill himself, if only Cleopatra would be spared.

  And now she was gone. Despair welled up within him. Life would be nothing without her.

  He drew his sword and handed it to Eros. Eros took it gingerly, not a man used to handling weapons.

  ‘Kill me.’

  ‘Master,’ Eros gasped. ‘No. You can still surrender. Octavian will treat you honourably.’

  Antony let out a humourless chuckle. ‘That man has no honour. He will humiliate me, and have me publicly executed to show his absolute power. And even if he spared me, what sort of existence would I have?’ He shook his head. ‘My mind is made up. You must do this last service for me, Eros. Kill me.’

  Eros held the sword before him in a trembling hand. Antony focused on the tip of the blade. His flesh had tasted steel often enough. He knew there would be pain. But then there would be release.

  ‘Do it,’ he hissed.

  ‘Master,’ said Eros, tears streaming down his face. ‘I cannot. I am sorry. Forgive me.’

  And then, to Antony’s horror, he reversed the weapon, then threw himself onto it. A long groan came from deep within him and he toppled sideways. Antony leapt up and caught him before he hit the floor. He cradled the body of his dying servant, holding him until the last signs of life faded.

  Then he picked the weapon up. He would have to do it himself, then. He weighed the sword in his hand, tested its balance, looked down the blade to see if it was straight. It was well-maintained. It suited him just fine.

  He looked around the chamber, deep in the heart of the Royal Palace in Alexandria. The plush furniture, the lavish wall decorations, the expensive, gaudy marble statuary, all were grey and drab without his beloved. He choked back a sob. The silence, the emptiness seemed to mock him now. He, who had come from nothing to become the ruler of the greatest empire the world had ever known, had nothing once more.

  So this was how it ends.

  How had it come to this?

  Chapter I

  Kalendis Quintilis DCLXXXIII AUC (July 71 BC), Rome

  Forty-one years earlier…

  The young boy recoiled in disgust as the man with the missing leg lurched towards him. He was scarred, liberally dotted with pox marks, and a long, jagged white line bisected one cheek, nature and humanity conspiring to ruin his face. To his horror, the man grabbed him firmly by the wrist. The boy tried to pull away but the grip was surprisingly strong and he could not break free. The ghastly creature drew the boy nearer, then peeled his lips apart in a dreadful rictus, revealing a mouth full of brown, broken stumps. A fetid smell of rotted cabbage and putrid flesh wafted out of his mouth and made the boy gag.

  ‘Ssspare a coin, young sssir,’ he said. ‘Jussst a sssestersssius for one of Sssulla’sss veteransss.’

  Spittle showered the boy as the man spoke, words lisping and whistling through broken teeth. He became acutely conscious of his purple-bordered white toga praetexta, the toga he had to wear until he was old enough for the plain white toga virilis of a man. The carts and pack animals that congested the filthy streets had already splashed the clean wool with mud and manure, and now he thought it was about to be contaminated further by the miasma emanating from this demon. His mother would kill him.

  A deep laugh came from behind him.

  ‘Oi mate. Take your mucky ’ands off ’im. Don’cha know ’oo you’re molestin’?’

  The man flinched and the boy snatched his arm back, rubbing his wrist where the fingers had dug in deep enough to bruise.

  ‘Your pardon, fine sssir. I’m jussst an old man, crippled for the honour of Rome, looking for a coin to ssstop from ssstarving.’

  ‘This,’ continued the young man who had spoken, ‘is the son of Marcus Antonius Creticus. ’ero of Crete, conqueror of the pirates. This is Marcus Antonius. Remember the name.’

  The young boy flushed, looking down at his feet. He was being mocked. His father had been given an extraordinary command of the navy to defeat the pirates that were plaguing the Mediterranean, but had been singularly unsuccessful, not to mention outright corrupt, plundering the provinces he was supposed to be protecting. The most recent news Rome had received was of a disgraceful defeat at the hands of the pirates and Cretans, and with most of the fleet sunk, Antony’s father had only been able to escape with his life by brokering a humiliating peace treaty. The harsh-tongued Romans had promptly dubbed him Creticus, the type of title usually given to a triumphant general, but in this case clearly ironic, not least because as well as conqueror of Crete, the words also meant Man of Chalk.

  ‘Clodius, leave him alone.’

  ‘What’s up, Curio? Worried your little toy boy might cry?’

  Antony’s other companion, Gaius Scribonius Curio, two years older and on the cusp of manhood, was much shorter than Clodius, unsurprising since Clodius had ten years seniority on him. But he stepped up to him and gave him a hard punch in the upper arm. Clodius laughed and clipped Curio round the side of the head, sending him into a rage, flying forward, fists whirling furiously. Clodius, chuckling, held him at arms’ length until the storm blew itself out. Curio stood, chest heaving, blowing heavily, face stony.

  ‘Apologise, Clodius. To me and him.’

  Clodius regarded him, eyes twinkling, then bowed low to them both.

  ‘My apologies, masters Antonius and Curio, for my low ’umour.’

  It was the best they would get, Antony knew, and following Curio’s lead he nodded acceptance.

  ‘And as for you,’ Clodius said, rounding on the beggar who had been watching the exchange in bemusement, ‘I’ll teach you to lay ’ands on a boy of senatorial rank, you scum.’ He shoved the crippled veteran hard in the chest, sending him toppling over backward, his crutch flying, arms windmilling in a vain attempt to keep balance. He landed flat on his back in a pile of donkey manure, which at least cushioned his fall. Curio and Antony laughed as young boys always will at the sight of the two funniest things in life, falling over and shit.

  Clodius stepped up to the beggar and kicked him hard in the ribs. The beggar let out a yelp and curled up, arms over his head. Curio and Antony stopped laughing. Clodius kicked him again and again, and the beggar cried for mercy. Antony heard bones crack, and the cries grew weaker. Antony stepped in front of Clodius and looked up into the flawless face. His cognomen was Pulcher, beautiful, and for a moment, Antony felt lost, paralysed as he gazed upon the Adonis. Smooth skin, clean-shaven, piercing blue eyes blazing out from beneath a furious furrowed brow that sullied his perfection. Eleven-year-old Mark Antony stood between twenty-four-year-old Publius Clodius Pulcher and the broken man he had nearly killed. He said nothing. But it was enough to dissipate the anger that had overcome the older man.

  Clodius looked from Antony to the prostrate derelict, then smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth, in such contrast to the beggar’s foul dentition. He reached down and tousled Antony’s hair affectionately.

  ‘Come on, lads, it’ll be dusk soon, and I’ve barely begun to show you round the Subura.’

  * * *

  Clodius’ accent grated on Antony. He couldn’t work out why the highborn nobleman, scion of the aristocratic Claudian family, whose direct descendants numbered many consuls and even a censor, whose brother-in-law Lucullus was having huge success commanding the legions in the wa
r in Asia against Mithridates, would mimic the speech of the common man. And mimic it badly, too. Antony, though he boasted a famous orator in the person of his grandfather, and though his family claimed descent from Hercules via the demi-god’s son Anton, would have killed for Clodius’ pedigree, especially now his father was in disgrace. Clodius even insisted everyone spell and pronounce his name in the vulgar dialect, though the name he was born with was Claudius. Antony was sure he had his reasons, though couldn’t think of any that made sense.

  Clodius scared Antony. He was wild and unpredictable, as the incident with the beggar had shown. He could be mean and vicious in his words and deeds. But he could be thrilling to be around. Curio idolised him.

  And Antony idolised Curio.

  So here they were following this wonderful, capricious, mercurial aristocrat who pretended to be lowborn, through the poorest, dirtiest, most disreputable part of the city, in search of adventure. Antony wasn’t sure if the tingle in the pit of his stomach was from fear or excitement. Probably both.

  Clodius stopped them at a tavern with the sign of a cockerel painted on the wall. Antony didn’t know why he had picked that particular one out of the dozens they had passed that seemed identical: stone benches against the walls and three wooden chairs around a table on the street, a counter with three large pots slotted into depressions in the surface, filled with steaming, sloppy, strangely delicious-smelling stews and broths, a room inside with more seating, and a couple of backrooms. But Clodius threw himself dramatically onto one of the chairs and put his feet up on the table, his shoes smearing filth across the table-top. Curio and Antony sat either side of him and waited expectantly.

  The tavern-keeper emerged from behind the bar, looked pointedly at Clodius’ feet, then took in the fine clothing that all three youths sported, and pressed his lips together.

  ‘What can I get you, masters?’

  Clodius looked at an old man sitting on the stone bench with his back to the wall, taking small sips from a clay cup.

  ‘What’s ’e drinking, mate?’

  The tavern-keeper raised an eyebrow at Clodius’ accent, then said, ‘Lora. But that’s for slaves and poor people. I have some lovely Setinum out the back, fresh in from Latium. I don’t usually stock anything that good, but I got a special deal…’

  ‘Three cups of lora then, mate. And no water.’

  Antony exchanged a glance with Curio. Both were well used to drinking wine, but usually it was heavily diluted, as it was for all children. Even adults who drank their wine neat were looked down upon – Antony remembered his mother vociferously chastising his father when he had returned home from a banquet drunk out of his wits, telling him that he would never make his way up the cursus honorum if he couldn’t stay sober. But the two lads wouldn’t dare show weakness to Clodius by turning down the strong drink, and moments later, Antony found himself looking down into a sticky red liquid, bracing himself for the taste as Clodius watched on intently.

  Curio went first, downing the cup in one long draught, then wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. They both turned to Antony, whose palms had become suddenly damp. He put the cup to his mouth, feeling the rough surface against his lips, then tilted his head back.

  It was the foulest thing he had ever tasted. It was as sour as neat vinegar, but with a warm, sickly aftertaste that burned his tongue. He leaned forward and sprayed the drink out forcefully, showering the tavern-keeper, whose face turned purple in barely restrained fury. Clodius broke into howls of laughter, and Curio chuckled and clapped Antony on the shoulder sympathetically.

  Once more, Antony’s cheeks burned in shame. Curio reached out to take the cup away, but Antony moved it out of his reach. He would not be beaten by a mere beverage. He took a breath, wrinkled his nose, then took another large drink. This time he swallowed hard, and the fiery liquid made its smouldering way down his gullet into his empty stomach. He paused, making sure the lora would stay down, feeling his guts rebelling, heaving. When he was confident, he drained the rest of the cup, and turned it upside down, empty, on the table.

  Curio and Clodius laughed and clapped. Clodius drained his own cup and ordered three more. Antony felt a strange sensation as the warmth flooded out of his centre to his extremities, and it felt oddly like his nose was glowing.

  When the next round arrived, Curio asked, ‘How long are you staying in Rome for?’

  Clodius shrugged. ‘Not long. My enemies are plotting against me already. I’ve only returned briefly, to see my sister mainly. I’m off soon to join Lucullus in Asia. Time to show Rome what I can do when I am given men to command.’

  Clodius’ accent was often less coarse when talking privately to his close friends, Antony had noticed.

  ‘Your enemies?’ Antony felt a shiver of excitement that Clodius was important enough to have made enemies so young in life.

  ‘Catiline and Cato,’ said Curio.

  ‘What did you do to upset them?’ asked Antony.

  Clodius pursed his lips. ‘A couple of years ago, Catiline was prosecuted for sacrilege because of his adultery with a vestal virgin, and was cleared.’

  This was news to Antony. Clearly his parents had not thought it a fit subject to discuss with their young son.

  ‘Clodia told me all about it,’ said Clodius. ‘How Catiline and Fabia, Cicero’s sister-in-law, were caught doing the deed by a temple slave, who told all the other slaves so that it was common knowledge. Plotius brought a prosecution. But Piso defended him, and Catulus was the judge, and he got off. It was a clear fix. I pressed for a retrial, and was roundly condemned because of it. Cato in particular wouldn’t leave me alone. He hounded me until I had to leave Rome.’ Clodius sounded hugely aggrieved, and Antony wondered if it was his exile or a genuine concern for Rome’s morals that wounded him the most. The murky world of politics was still opaque to him.

  Antony thought of the trial, and wished he had seen it. He wondered what it would be like, prosecuting in the law courts, making a name for himself as a lawyer. Would it be more exciting than soldiering? He hoped he would find out one day. He started his second cup of the sour wine. This time he found he could tolerate it more, though he had no idea why people drank it for pleasure. He was sure Curio was pretending to like it too, and even Clodius, who was trying to be one of the common people, was clearly making an effort not to turn his nose up at the poor-quality fare. But he couldn’t deny it was having some effect on him. A little lightheadedness, a feeling of well-being radiating out from his centre.

  Clodius stood up abruptly. ‘Come on, Curio,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Antony.

  ‘Young Curio here’s nearly a man. He’s old enough to enjoy manly pleasures.’

  Manly pleasures? Gambling? Wrestling?

  ‘Hi, my man,’ said Clodius to the tavern-keeper. ‘What’re your girls like?’

  Oh. That manly pleasure.

  ‘I have an Armenian for two copper asses and a beautiful Gaul for four. Oh, and a new Greek boy for eight.’

  Clodius fished out eight copper coins from his purse and handed them over. ‘Let Curio here have the Gaul,’ he said. ‘But make sure she doesn’t break ’im. ’e’s delicate.’

  Curio gave Clodius a soft thump in the shoulder, but followed him inside. Antony found himself suddenly alone, with dusk falling, in the roughest part of the city, while his two friends did the deed inside. His hand reached inside his under-tunic and took hold of his gold bulla, his constant companion since his mother hung it round his neck as a baby. It hung from a strong gold chain and inside its two convex plates, hinged together like a clam, was the tiny phallus-shaped amulet that brought him luck and protected him from evil spirits. A strong urge came upon him to open the bulla, to hold the amulet in the palm of his hand.

  Someone sat down at the table with him. He looked up into the eyes of a plump, matronly woman, dark hair streaked with grey. She gave him a kindly smile.

  ‘Your friends left you?’

  ‘They are… busy,’ said Antony uncertainly. ‘They are coming back.’

  ‘I know, deary. If I guess right, that younger one won’t be long at all. Your older friend though…’ She looked off into the tavern and then seemed to suppress a shudder.