Rubicon

'So I found a few brave men willing to go with me. That night we barely eluded one of Caesar's scouting parties. He must have sent them after us. We hid in the brush alongside the road. They passed so close I could hear the breath in their nostrils.'

'Why didn't you fight them?' asked Marcus eagerly.

'And give Caesar the satisfaction of tricking me into a battle I couldn't possibly win? No, I didn't play his game. That was always his way with enemies in the Senate. Pretend to want a settlement, negotiate the fine points until their eyes glaze over, and then-' He grabbed the carving knife from the serving platter and thrust it into the pork. 'Stab them in the back!'

Cicero bit the head off a piece of asparagus and nodded in agreement. 'No one has ever been more adept at political chicanery than Caesar.'

Domitius lapsed into one of his moody silences. I saw his lips move, engaging in some internal debate or recrimination, and wondered what he was rehashing- the decision to stand at Corfinium, the betrayal of his men, the bungled suicide?

'But if you left Caesar to join with Pompey, why aren't you there?' asked young Marcus innocently. 'You've come in the opposite direction.' I saw his father wince.

'Join Pompey? Why should I do that?' said Domitius. 'Without men to command, what purpose could I serve? Pompey can fend for himself.'

'Does Pompey mean to make a stand at Brundisium?' asked Marcus. 'Or will he sail across the Adriatic?'

Domitius managed a bitter laugh. 'Every man in Italy would like to know the answer to that question, my boy. I'm afraid that the Great One is not in the habit of making his secret strategies known to my humble self. But we shall all know soon enough. Caesar moves with such speed, he'll be at Brundisium in a matter of days. Then Pompey will see what he's up against- and without me to help him! The fool should have joined me in Corfinium. That was the place to make a stand!'

Cicero shifted uneasily. 'We've all been puzzled by Pompey's apparent lack of-'

'He plans to head east, of course,' said Domitius suddenly. 'That must be what he was planning all along. Well, let him. If he can lure Caesar into a trap in Greece or Asia, good for him. For myself, I intend to head for Gaul and carry out my duty to the Senate. Governor of Gaul they appointed me, and governor of Gaul I shall be.'

'If you go by land, won't the way be blocked by troops loyal to Caesar?' asked Marcus.

'I intend to take ships, if I can find ships to hire, and sail directly to Massilia. The Massilians aren't like the rest of Gaul. Their city-state was founded by Greek colonists hundreds of years ago. They're remarkable people, not barbarians like their neighbors.'

'But will they welcome you?' I asked.

'Of course they will. Their treaties are with the Senate, not with Caesar. The Massilians know Caesar! They've had to deal with him all these years, during his illegal tenure as governor. They've seen firsthand what Caesar is- a preening pretender, pompous, vain, covering himself with glory every time he managed to conquer another tribe of dimwits and toothless crones.'

I cleared my throat. 'I happened to be reading his memoir of the Gallic Wars today. You can't deny the man's-'

'What, his 'military genius'? Yes, I can deny it, and I do! That book is pure rubbish, nothing but nauseating self-glorification from start to finish, propaganda posing as history. He writes about himself in the third person- so insufferably pretentious- but did you ever see a book so full of vanity? No mention of the great men who came before him, who settled the southern coast of Gaul and built the roads that got him there, no bow to those in the Senate who voted against their better judgment to extend his command. You'd think he won the whole province in a dice game with Vercingetorix! I'll tell you this: any competent Roman commander, given the same resources and advantages that the Senate gave to Caesar, could have accomplished the same thing, and probably in less time.'

This was too much even for Cicero. 'I think, Lucius, we must give Caesar his due. In military matters, at least-'

Domitius scoffed. 'Please, Marcus Tullius, you can hardly expect me to defer to your judgment of military matters!'

Cicero looked at him sourly. 'Even so…'

I cleared my throat again. 'Actually, you misunderstood me, Domitius. I wasn't going to say that you can't deny Caesar's military genius. I was going to say that you can't deny the man's literary genius.'

'On the contrary, I can deny it, and I do!' said Domitius. 'As a stylist he's completely inept, an amateur. His prose has no ornament, no style. It's as bald as his head! They say he dictates from horseback. Given the grunts he produces, I believe it!'

Cicero smiled. 'Some find Caesar's lean prose to be elegant rather than undernourished. Our friend Gordianus can be excused for having a prejudice in the matter. Whatever virtues Caesar's writing may possess, some credit must go to the son of Gordianus.'

Domitius looked at me blankly. 'I don't follow you, Cicero.'

'Gordianus's adopted son, Meto, is rather famous for his editorial services to Caesar. As important to Caesar, some say, as Tiro has been to me.'

Comprehension dawned in Domitius's eyes. He smiled thinly. 'Oh, I see, you're that Gordianus. Yes, I see.' His smile became a leer. 'But surely, Cicero, you don't mean to suggest that Tiro ever performed for you some of the services that one hears this Meto performs in private for his beloved commander?'

Terentia huffed. Young Marcus tittered. Tullia drew in a breath and looked at me sympathetically. Cicero actually blushed.

Had everyone in Rome heard and given credence to these rumors about Caesar and my son? While I ground my teeth and considered how best to answer Domitius, he moved to another subject.

'Very well, purely for the sake of argument, I'll concede that Caesar is the military genius his own prose makes him out to be, helped along by his starry-eyed amanuensis. In that case, whatever shall become of our Pompey? Do you know, I almost hope that Caesar does trap Pompey in Brundisium. Let him strip the Great One of his legions and give him the same slave's choice he gave to me. Pompey would have to commit suicide. After all his blunders, there could be no other honorable course. Then where would we be?' Domitius laced his fingers beneath his chin and stroked his red beard. 'The Senate will need another champion- a savior from the West, not the East. The right man could summon Pompey's troops from Spain and rally the Gauls against their would-be king. Massilia would be the ideal place to carry out such a plan, don't you think? Yes, rally Spain and Gaul, then march directly into Italy- a second crossing of the Rubicon, a second invasion of armed men, not to destroy the constitution and the Senate but to restore them. Given proper resources, the right man could put that scoundrel Caesar on the run!' Domitius fell to ruminating and peered into the middle distance.

'In the meantime, what shall I do about my triumph?' said Cicero. 'Now there's a dilemma.'

'Your triumph?' I said, puzzled by the sudden change of subject.

'Yes, the triumphal procession due to me for my successful military campaigns in Cilicia. In the normal course of things, I should have been voted a triumph by the Senate directly upon my return. I should have entered the city gates in a chariot with blaring trumpets! What's the point of being a provincial governor if there's no triumph at the end of it? But of course, this hasn't been a normal year. I decided to forgo my triumph, in light of the crisis. But now… well, I must celebrate it sooner or later. I can't postpone it forever. But what if Caesar drives Pompey from Italy and then occupies Rome? If I celebrate my triumph while Caesar is in command of the city, it may be read as an endorsement of his tyranny. I suppose I shouldn't return to Rome at all, not while Caesar's there. I should make a point of refusing to take my seat in the Senate…'

Cicero paused for a sip of wine. Terentia spoke up. 'It was bad enough that you postponed your triumph, which may never happen now. But what about your son's toga day? Marcus turns sixteen this year. All the best families mark their sons' coming of age during the feast of Liberalia, just after the Ides of March. Will we be back in Rome by then to celebrate Marcus's majority, or not?'

From the way the children cringed, I sensed this was an ongoing family argument. Cicero released a heavy breath. 'You know that would be impossible, Terentia. The Liberalia is only twelve days off. Why must you bring this