The Sun of God, page 44
41
Sextus Pompeius Magnus Pius
JULY 37 BC
Ever since he was a boy, Sextus had been on the run.
It was what he did best, just like his mother, Mucia Tertia. His father and older brother were the ones who stood and fought until their deaths. But he was his mother’s youngest child by Pompeius, and she had taught him how to escape.
“Our scouts report that Antonius has set sail with no less than three hundred ships. If he comes to an agreement with Caesar, I am afraid our chances of defeating them will be slim,” said his stepbrother, Scaurus.
Scaurus was the son of Mucia by her second marriage to Marcus Aemilius Scaurus, and he bore his name. Though he was still young, he had become useful in the wars against Caesar, having a keen mind for politics, like his father had been. But Sextus also sensed that Scaurus secretly resented him as the son of the man who had exiled his father ten years ago, tarnishing his legacy.
Sextus sighed at the bad news, ignoring the pang of his hurt pride. He had trusted Antonius despite his better sense, and the man had betrayed him without a second thought.
It was not as if Sextus had not known Antonius’ shifty nature, but he had thought as the son of Pompeius the Great, he would have respected his name as he did that of Caesar. Alas, despite fame and fortune, the bold strokes of war, the vast territories conquered, his father was yet again defeated and diminished by a lesser man, and Sextus would forever live in the shadow cast by his father.
But if he was not as great as his father, Sextus was certainly the better sailor, and he would at least make Caesar suffer on the sea if he could not defeat him.
“We shall see about our chances when we have them on the water,” Sextus said, dismissing Scaurus. There was still time before Caesar would launch his attack, and when the time came, Sextus would be ready.
He left the naval base, his bodyguard escorting him along the harbor of Messana, which yearned for the mainland of Italy across the strait as if it recalled a time when both lands were once joined. The waves were blue-green and calm, inviting him to explore the pathways to horizons yet unseen.
Sextus had always loved the sea, because the sea had always loved him, guiding him from danger to safer shores, and there was no sweeter, more beautiful sea than the bays and beaches of Sicily. He felt at home here, among a people who played much but fought more, and he respected their pride and honor of their island set apart from the rest of the world.
His carriage climbed up into the hills and eventually reached his villa overlooking the strait that connected the Tyrrhenian and Ionian seas, a hazy sliver of Italic land visible in the distance. The smoky peak of Etna was perched in the south, eternally watching over the land with her fiery red eye.
His mother, wife, and daughter, as well as his sister and her children, were all staying in his villa, since Rome had become far too hostile for his family. Sextus entered the house and found the three older women lounging in the courtyard, the children running about excitedly, with no care for the dangers ahead.
Sextus’ mother looked at him anxiously as he walked in. “Have you any news?”
“Nothing good,” he said quietly. Then he picked up his daughter, Pompeia, who was nearly six years old, kissing her bronze cheek and feeling his chest tighten. He wished to be a good father to her, but sometimes the tide pulled the ship in another direction no matter how hard one rowed. “But the future is not yet written.”
His mother sighed. “It is not too late to sue for pardon, mi fili. Your father may have taught you that honor only lies in deeds of valor, but suicide is nothing more than cowardice. There is honor in living too, for your family, and for your wife and daughter.” And mother, were the unspoken words.
Sextus glanced at his wife, Scribonia, daughter of Scribonius Libo, whose sister had once been married to Caesar before he cruelly divorced her on the very same day she had given birth.
Once that family tie had crumbled, Libo rescinded his support for Sextus in favor of Caesar, a decision Sextus’ wife resented on the parts of both her husband and father. For according to their latest terms of peace, their daughter was to be married to Caesar’s nephew, Marcellus, when they were of age. But that future had ended along with their alliance. Now they raised a child without knowing whether Sextus would be alive by the end of the year.
“My father and brother died in battle for our family,” Sextus said finally. “I would be honored to do the same.”
“Your father did not die for this family,” his mother retorted, shaking her head. “I can assure you that.”
“And you did not live for this family,” Sextus said coldly. “You lived for another.”
Many years ago his father had divorced his mother on his way back from the East after fighting King Mithridates VI of Pontus, when he was told that she was having an affair with Julius Caesar. Although his father had refused to acknowledge the rumors publicly, in private he had called Caesar by the name Aegisthus, the queen-seducer, and filed for divorce without speaking to Mucia ever again.
Sextus knew it was beneath him to bring up those rumors now, especially in front of his wife and sister, but he could not help it. At his words, Mucia stood up, looking at her son with a fury in her blue eyes, bright against her dark skin. “You know nothing of my life.”
Then she left the room in anger and disappeared down the hall. Sextus sighed, running a hand over his face. His sister, Pompeia Magna, stood up and followed their mother.
Sextus ran after her. “Wait, sister.”
He managed to stop her in the inner courtyard. Her son had waddled after them and clung to his mother’s leg, pulling at her dress until she took his small hands in a stern grip.
Pompeia glanced at Sextus, and her eyes—a deeper blue than her mother, so different from Sextus’ warm brown—were sad. They had been like this since her last husband, Cinna, had died, leaving her and their two children behind. But this time that sadness was directed at him.
“You ought not speak with Mother so. She is only trying to help,” Pompeia said softly. She lifted up her son into her arms as they began strolling around the shaded colonnade, the sunlight dancing along the tiled floor.
“I know,” Sextus said, his voice betraying his frustration. “But she would rather I surrender than fight. And I would rather die than surrender.”
“But your wife—”
“—may marry again.” He thought of Scribonia, his lovely Scribonia, holding their daughter in her arms for the first time. He had felt a bliss that day he had not thought possible, swiftly followed by the most terrible fear, knowing he was entirely responsible for their safety. “She shall be better off anyway. As would my daughter.”
“It is as if you wish to punish us,” Pompeia said in disbelief, almost angrily, though she still spoke calmly. “You wish to punish Mother for never telling you things, when she told me everything. I know you have always been envious of that. But she also told me things of our father that would make you ashamed, and for that I envy you. Be careful on whom you lay blame, brother. You might find yourself all alone.”
Then she left him, walking in the same direction as their mother. Sextus went back to Scribonia, who raised her brows and looked at him silently, those eyes ever accusing as they watched him sit down opposite her.
“I suppose you have something to say as well?” Sextus asked warily.
Scribonia shook her head. “I have nothing to say.”
“I know that is not true,” Sextus said quietly. “You have not slept with me in months. If you wish to leave me, you know I would not stop you.”
“Sextus,” she said, pain in her voice, her eyes glimmering with tears. She was even more beautiful when she cried, her brown eyes soft, her face flushed, framed by those thick brown curls, so that Sextus had never been able to stay mad at her for long. “You shall never be your father. Why do you insist on trying?”
“Because otherwise, who am I?” he asked angrily. “Nothing. I am nothing.”
Scribonia smiled, but it was sad and resigned. “My husband, Sextus. You are my husband, and I would not wish for any other. But you had best start acting like it.”
Sextus felt the words as a sword in his side, and he knelt before her and kissed the tears as they fell down her face, though she sat very still and did not warm to him as she once did. He embraced her and young Pompeia in his arms nonetheless, shutting his eyes tightly, and wished that his choices were easier.
But even if his father was not the best of men, was he not a great man after all, and was that not what men were made for? To fight and die for their families, to defend their honor and gain glory for their name?
At last, his wife stirred in his arms and kissed him. She murmured his name against his lips. “Do you not love me? Is that not enough for you?”
If men were made for fighting, then women were made for loving, but Sextus longed for a world where men were made for loving too, and thought it would be a better world to live in.
“Te amo, mea vita, ad finem maris.”
I love you, my life, to the end of the sea.
But in the end, Sextus knew it would not be enough.
Sextus woke up in a cold sweat, and threw the covers off his body, staring at the ceiling. He glanced at his side, where his wife slept, her brow furrowed as though in pain.
It was the first night in a long time that they had slept together. She made a small noise and he lightly kissed her hair before leaving the room. He walked out on the terrace that overlooked the sea, her rough, moonlit waves crashing up against the sheer cliffs.
He had been dreaming a terrible dream before he had forced himself awake. The ocean beneath his ship had borne him up and down, a black storm thundering across the skies as if the gods themselves were angry. The waves were rolling higher than he had ever seen, high enough to glimpse creatures of the deep in the water, arcing over his ship and plunging him into the salty depths below, when he had gasped and opened his eyes.
It was a bad omen, but Sextus still hoped his fleet would have a chance against the inexperienced soldiers of Caesar once they braved the open sea.
He looked further down the coast where the harbor of Messana lay calm and unbothered by the surging oceans about her. A lighthouse stood gleaming at her lip, visible even this far away. Sextus thought he spotted his own flagship amidst the rest of his fleet.
He recalled the meeting he had with Caesar and Antonius on that very ship, after their conference in Misenum, when he had entertained the two Tresviri on board. Sextus had his crew set up a banquet of sorts on deck, and they had reclined and drunk wine and eaten fresh seafood. The cables had kept the ship safely anchored to the harbor. Was it ironic or tragic that the very admiral who jokingly suggested to sail away with the two men as prisoners was the very admiral who later sold himself to Caesar?
Antonius had gotten drunk very quickly, his face flushed and grinning, enjoying the delicacies without a care, as if the tense debates they had only a day earlier were forgotten. Caesar, on the other hand, had barely eaten, watching Sextus carefully, too knowing for his age.
“You should pay me a visit in Athens,” Antonius had boasted. “My cooks there make the best octopus you have ever eaten.”
“I shall be sure to stop by,” Sextus had said politely, much to the apparent amusement of Antonius, who had roared in laughter, though at his words or some private joke, Sextus did not know.
Caesar had glanced at Antonius, then, and Sextus had caught the slight distaste at the edges of his frown.
Antonius, also catching the look on Caesar’s face, had smiled mockingly. “Why do you not enjoy yourself, Caesar? You eat like a bird. Nay, like a woman, which is worse!”
And he had roared again. Sextus had watched the interaction with interest, and Caesar had glanced at him sharply, as though he disliked Sextus noticing the strained relationship they clearly had. But it had not mattered, in the end. Antonius chose Caesar over Sextus, and they all knew this momentary peace would not last forever.
“If you must vomit after all that wine,” Caesar had said idly, “please do so overboard.”
Antonius’ smile had curled in disgust. “It is not a crime to indulge in drink. But it certainly is a crime to deny the gifts of a host!”
Caesar had turned to Sextus. “Εἷσεν δ᾽ εἰσαγαγοῦσα κατὰ κλισμούς τε θρόνους τε, ἐν δέ σφιν τυρόν τε καὶ ἄλφιτα καὶ μέλι χλωρὸν οἴνῳ Πραμνείῳ ἐκύκα.”
She led them in and sat them down on couches and chairs, and stirred before them cheese, barley, groats, and yellow honey in Pramnian wine…
It was a well-known quote to anyone who had studied Greek, for it was about Circe, the cunning goddess, who welcomed Odysseus’ men to food and drink only to imprison their pig forms in her garden after they feasted.
Caesar and Sextus had stared at each other in silence, while Antonius had ignored them, either not having heard or not even bothering to listen to Caesar’s quotation. He continued eating his octopus, already reaching for the dish of clams before he finished.
“Your Greek is excellent,” Sextus had said finally, inclining his head. For it was true, and he could not help wondering if Caesar had somehow divined what his admiral had said earlier.
Caesar had inclined his head in return. “So is the wine.”
That was the day Sextus had learned not to underestimate the boy who claimed to be a son of a god. While Antonius could be brutish and mean, he was a simple man, and his fascination with the Egyptian queen marked him with a doom, as dark clouds gathered on the horizon before a storm.
But Sextus looked at Caesar and saw the same tempered steel, the same careless cruelty, that he had always seen in his own father, Pompeius the Great.
Caesar, like Sextus’ father, knew the cost of greatness and did not flinch from it. If Sextus wanted to defeat him, he would have to risk more than he had ever bargained before. But when the time came and his life hung in the balance, would he stand and fight?
Your father did not die for this family.
Then Sextus would die for them instead.
42
Octavia Minor
AUGUST 37 BC
It took them three weeks to reach Tarentum by carriage at a slow enough pace to accommodate the two pregnant women—herself and Livia—and by the end of the first week, Octavia decided she preferred the nausea of a rocking ship to the endless, cramped days in a carriage.
Octavius looked as if he agreed, his face pale and flushed across from her, resolutely staring out the small window. She had thought it was to avoid looking at her, but she quickly realized it was to prevent himself from growing sick. Livia sat beside Octavia, her hands resting on her heavily pregnant belly, fast asleep.
“You ought to leave me to do the talking,” Octavia whispered. “The gods know he cannot stand you.”
Octavius glanced at her, raising a brow. “This is purely politics, sister. There is no need to bring your marriage into it.”
“Ah, but you see, my marriage is politics, as is everything in this world, and if you were a woman you would know that.”
“Your willingness to fight on my behalf is admirable, but unnecessary,” Octavius said, looking back out the window, his mind already on other things.
But Octavia only smiled. “Who said I was fighting on your behalf?”
She ignored his disapproving glance at her as the carriage rolled to a stop. Their bodyguards escorted them to the military camp Antonius had set up near the harbor.
Tarentum lay on the west side of the peninsula along the Via Appia, which continued east from there to Brundisium on the shores of the Adriatic Sea. It was an old town with an ancient history, where Greek colonists had once been conquered by Roman generals. She knew Octavius considered it a fitting setting for the renewal of his alliance with a man of Eastern habits.
Octavia felt her heart beat faster as they approached, and she pressed her palms against her stomach to keep them from shaking. They were a large group, much larger than she thought necessary for this kind of meeting. Along with Octavius and Livia, there was also Agrippa and Attica, Balbus and Maecenas, the last who had brought with him—to the apparent confusion of all except Octavius—two well-known poets, Quintus Horatius Flaccus and Publius Vergilius Maro.
She ignored all of them and went directly to her husband, who came forth from the camp with his own retinue of cavalry and foot soldiers.
When Antonius saw her, he put up a hand, and they came to a unified halt. She did as well, and they stood in silence for a few moments. Antonius looked at her with a strange air of confusion and contempt, as though he had expected to face an army but instead faced only a woman.
He was still handsome to her, his dark curls having grown wild at sea. Octavia felt that familiar desire deep within her, and she could not prevent the blush from forming on her cheeks. As if Antonius read her mind, his eyes narrowed, and the hand at his side twitched imperceptibly.
She lowered her face. “My dear husband, it is wonderful to see you.”
“And you, my dear,” Antonius said, but it sounded false to her ears.
Their marriage was on the brink of crumbling, and if she did not give birth to a boy, he would surely abandon her, if he had not planned to already.
Octavius stepped forward and met Antonius halfway between their two parties. They kissed in greeting, but neither looked the other in the eyes. “Shall we begin?”
Antonius nodded, sweeping a glance over Octavius’ followers. “We shall.”
They moved their meeting to a secure location within Antonius’ camp. There, Pollio, Ventidius, and Ahenobarbus were waiting for them. Antonius had his attendants provide couches for all, and they reclined as food and drink were brought out. After the usual pleasantries and the second course was served, Antonius at last addressed her brother.
