Caesar i-3

by Allan Massie

  "There's this prophecy, you must have heard it, that the Romans can only conquer Parthia under a king, and when I mention that to Caesar, he just laughs, and says prophecies are nonsense. And only yesterday he said, quite casually, we hadn't been quarrelling or anything, he just said, quick as boiled asparagus, 'I might divorce you and marry the Queen.' That would make him a sort of king, I suppose he thinks, a King of Egypt, imagine. You know how superstitious he can be when it suits him. It's always when it suits him, him, him, never any consideration for me, or anyone else. 'Look,' I said to him, 'you've a big enough mess to clear up here in Rome, why don't you get on with that and stop this Parthian nonsense?' and he laughed again and said I understood nothing about politics. But I understand a great deal, you know, I'm not a fool. I know you don't like me, Decimus Brutus, and perhaps I am not likeable, I have moments when I see that, but I'm not a fool. Your mother would have told you that. So, let me tell you what I see happening. They're going to kill him. I don't know who, but people are frightened of him now as they never were before, not just because he's so powerful but because he has really and truly started to go off his head. There's this clemency business. 'Look,' I said to him, 'you've got enemies, you know. You think because you've forgiven them for fighting on the other side, they are grateful. You're a fool, Caesar, don't you understand, the one thing people can't tolerate is that you have been in a position to say "I forgive you," and that you've said it as if you were some sort of superior being, a god of some kind. People can't stand that. In politics, if you have enemies and defeat them, you should get rid of them, finish, that's what Sulla did, yes, and your uncle-by-marriage Gaius Marius, they knew how people behave and feel. But you've forgotten. You think because you're a Great Man, everything will be easy for you and the world will arrange itself to suit you. It's not like that, Caesar.' Do you know I taste every dish that is put before him, myself, first, in case of poison, yes, I risk my own life for him at every meal, that's what I do. I put myself at risk, and is he grateful? Oh no, he laughs and tells me not to be foolish. Besides, I can only do that when he dines at home, or when we dine together in company. He was furious when I did it at Cicero's house last week. He said it was an insult to our host. 'Better to insult our host than have you poisoned,' I said. So he laughed again and said, 'Anyway, since everyone knows you have acquired this curious habit, you might reflect that someone might want to kill you, not me.' You see, he makes a joke of everything. That's mad, isn't it? And then he laughed again as if a new thought had struck him. 'What if they used a slow poison?' he said. 'You can't expect me to let my dinner go cold just to see whether you die of a slow poison. Besides it might be so slow it would kill us both…'

  "Decimus Brutus," she paused, and stood over me, twisting her hands again, "there is only one way of saving Caesar. It is not enough to get the Queen out of Rome, for that will only make his Parthian mania worse. He will follow the bitch to Egypt, and then launch his campaign from there. It's all he thinks about. No, the bitch must die. I want you to fix it…"

  She went on and on, explaining how I was to arrange to murder the Queen of Egypt (whom, in any case, you will remember, I rather liked). She had several proposals as to the best method. She wondered whether it might be possible to kill her by magic. There was a Bithynian she had heard of who was very skilled at issuing curses (if issuing is what you do with a curse) that were really and truly effective. Apparently the cursed person just turned his or her face to the wall and wasted away. "In a matter of days, I'm told."

  Unfortunately her informant hadn't been able to tell her exactly where this Bithynian wonder-worker was to be found. Somewhere in Trastevere, it seemed. It shouldn't be difficult for someone of my resources to seek him out. She would do it herself, but people might ask questions.

  And so she went on and on, madder than those Eastern priests who derive gratification from mutilating themselves, madder even than the maddest Jews, who, as is well-known, sacrifice stolen children at the full moon. Actually, they don't, but for some reason Calpurnia brought up that subject too.

  Why would that have been?

  Of course, yes, she compared Caesar to them. She said he was madder even than they were.

  I longed to ask: "If you really think him so mad, why are you prepared to go to so much trouble to save him?"

  But I refrained. I knew she would reply that when Cleopatra was out of the way, Caesar would recover his wits.

  Eventually I got away. I left the house with a new feeling in my breast. For the first time in my life I felt sorry for Caesar.

  He had inspired many emotions in me, but I would never have thought that I could feel pity for him.

  But who wouldn't pity a man married to Calpurnia?

  No wonder he was so keen on the Parthian expedition.

  It was a relief, for the moment an exquisite relief, to escape from Calpurnia into the turmoil of the night city. I mounted the Capitol and gazed down over the Forum. It was a cold night, the full moon threatening a frost. Stars sparkled, remote, inaccessible; how, I remember wondering, could men really imagine that the distribution of these spots of light at the hour of birth could determine a man's fate? I looked down, at the lines of wavering torches carried by slaves escorting the litters in which my equals were borne to and from dinner-parties. Was Caesar among them, swaying from Cleopatra's warm embraces to Calpurnia's bitter tongue?

  The din was incessant, for the decree issued a few months earlier by Caesar, which prohibited all transport wagons save those of construction workers from passing through the city in the hours of daylight, and confined delivery carts and other wagons to the dark, ensured that no hour was free of the clatter of hoofs, the ring of iron wheels, the execrations of drivers jostling against each other and losing their way in the narrow alleys.

  It was from this Rome of endless bustle, of uncontrollable animation, that Caesar wished to flee. I gazed across the valley at the dark shapes of pine trees on the Palatine; I turned aside to look across the river where the moon threw her light upon the Janiculum, and I could not understand the revulsion from the city which he experienced. Below me, in the warren of streets that confusedly scrambled towards the river, footpads and murderers might lurk, on the lookout for victims. Yet, Rome by night…

  Is it because I know I shall never feel its pulse beat again that I think of it with tenderness now?

  I descended from the Capitol, I remember, and found my way into a cheap tavern. My appearance silenced the company, till I indicated that I was there on my own business. The proprietor brought me a jug of wine, and after a few moments' consultation, escorted me to a back room lit by a single candle. There was a girl sitting in there, dressed only in a shift. The proprietor gestured towards her and left us. The girl stretched her arms upwards, got to her feet, took hold of the hem of her shift, and in a single languorous gesture drew it over her head and tossed it to the ground. The flickering candle cast strange dark shadows on her body, as she stood waiting my pleasure. She was very young. I laid my left hand on her shoulder, my right between her legs, feeling on my wrist the rough prickle of her bush. I eased her on to the couch and kissed her belly. Then, removing my toga, and folding it carefully at the head of the couch, I enjoyed her. She was silent and skilful and acquiescent. When I was spent, I lay beside her till the candle guttered. I gave her nothing but money. She gave me a glimpse of desolation. I would have slept there if I had not feared to do so.

  When I had paid the proprietor, not informing him that I had also given a silver coin to the girl, I sent him to find me a night-watchman to guide me safely home.

  I entered our matrimonial chamber. Longina awoke.

  "You stink of some slut who has rubbed herself with fish oil, husband."

  I kissed her breasts.

  "Yes," I said, "that excites you."

  She aroused me quickly. Our coupling was intense, energetic, violent. Longina was all eagerness. She took the lead. This time it was I who drifted into indifference first
. She leaned over me and bit my neck. She lay on top of me. I put my arms around her, held her close, kissed as if our bones would bruise each other.

  She was a wonderful animal. I was still alone, in a valley, as the thin light of the winter dawn crept upon us.

  "Where is your father?" I said. "I must speak to him."

  "In Campania, on his estate. Why must you speak to him?"

  "Because I am lost," I said. "Because we are perhaps all lost."

  "Husband," she said, "husband, husband, does any of that matter? Feel my belly. Soon, in a few months, you will feel our child stir there."

  For two days, perhaps three, I lingered. I remained at home, with Longina. She held me with desire and an affection that was almost love. We Romans have never been uxorious. We are brought up to respect our womenfolk but we do not in general permit them any part in public life. Those who push themselves forward, and insist on being regarded as worthy of political consideration — women like Servilia and Calpurnia — are properly resented. They easily become objects of mockery. Longina had no such ambition. But what she wanted from me was what I could not honourably give. She was afraid for me. She would have had me abstain from public life, withdraw into a domesticity which all my peers would have regarded as contemptible.

  "You know," she said, between kisses, "that I married you because my father told me to do so. I disliked you at the time. I found you remote and chilly. Besides, I adored Appius Pulcher even before I knew you. Of course he was never my lover before I was a married woman, because everyone knows that a lady has to be a virgin at the time of marriage, and I was very strictly brought up. But I still adored him, and when you went to Spain, I admitted him as my lover. And then you came back, and found us together, you remember."

  "Yes, darling, I remember."

  "And oh…" she put her arms round my neck and pressed herself upon me, "that morning I saw the difference between a boy, a pretty boy who was great fun, and a man who had achieved great things. And you made me feel a woman, not just a girl. And then you encouraged me to flirt with Caesar, yes, you did, don't try to deny it, and of course I was flattered, and, as you wanted me to, I went to bed with Caesar. Well, who wouldn't?"

  "Who hasn't?"

  "All right, quite so, but for a few days I hated you and despised you because you seemed to me to believe that Caesar's continuing goodwill towards you was more important than anything that there might be between us. But… Caesar… after the first time… do you know, husband, husband, husband…" Her tongue sought out mine…

  (I torture myself with these memories, of her warmth, her presence, of which I dream in my nights which are ever more empty of all but despair… not fear, for I shall not admit that… but despair, of ever again… Artixes, with whom I try to amuse myself; in whose being I seek to recover something of sunshine… is nothing of comfort, when I recall, as I nightly do, Long ina's embraces… lost… sacrificed… on account of… what? Duty? Ambition?)

  "Husband"… hours later, in bed, warm, together, sticky with passion and happiness. "Husband, Caesar has had too many women, you know, too many, to feel anything for them. They are a convenience. He used me, as you might use, I don't know what, I have no gift for words, but there was a contempt in his treatment of me… do you think the Queen of Egypt feels that too…?"

  "I think the Queen of Egypt is a girl who is in full charge of her own life, whose ambition is boundless, and who can out-Caesar…"

  "Well, I couldn't. Whenever he left my bed, I felt diminished. Not because he had gone but because of the way he had finished with me. And the day came when he returned and I said 'no'. And do you know how he responded? He laughed… He laughed. Why do you think he did so?"

  "You tell me."

  "Because that is how Caesar has to treat any rebuff. Another man would be angry, but Caesar will not stoop to anger. He has to maintain his superiority. So he laughed. And the glance he gave me… horrible. Then he threw a jewel into my lap and left. Husband, Mouse-husband, I love you, do you know that…? There, I've said it. I swore I never would. To tell someone you love them puts you in their power. But, please, please, please…"

  Please what? What did she mean? I knew even then, and I knew' even then that she was asking what was beyond me, and what, if I had acceded, would have caused her in time to despise me.

  For this is something I have learned: that we love most what is denied us. That winter I adored Longina, I adore her memory still; and it is because I could not do as she wished. I could not give her what she asked for, my submission to her will; and if I had done so, she would have turned away from me. She loved me, had come to love me, for my virtue. And my virtue would have fled if I had submitted to the indulgence of uxoriousness.

  There is only one character who is wholly contemptible in Homer, and that is Paris, who allowed his passion for Helen to unman him. And I think Helen came to despise Paris, as all who read the Iliad despise him.

  Wasn't the intensity of those days in December all the greater, all the more invigorating, all the more delightful because we both knew that the gods decree that men and women must demand of each other what the other cannot in honour give?

  Our idyll was broken. It was broken first by a letter I received from Octavius in Greece.

  Mouse:

  Rumours reach me which are disturbing. You will understand that I must speak carefully for it is foolish to give credence to rumour. Nevertheless certain rumours, which are persistent, threaten my future career, in which I know you continue to take a lively and affectionate interest. Maecenas, whom you dislike, is a wise counsellor as well as a fruitful source of gossip, and the word that reaches him is that the paternity of a certain child may be acknowledged. Very evidently, if this were done, which naturally appears improbable, my own position would be impaired. My uncle is of course the most honourable of men, and would not, I am certain, contemplate such an acknowledgment which has, I am certain, no basis in truth. Yet these rumours persist. Since your counsel is properly so highly valued by all parties concerned, I cannot believe that any action would be taken without prior seeking of your advice. Therefore, I write to you, not in any trepidation, but rather because rumour is insidious; it can lead to unpredictable consequences, which, however unpredictable, could nevertheless be to some extent anticipated as being to my (and perhaps even your) disadvantage. I can well understand that the lady in the case has powerful reasons for urging the course of action which is rumoured. Can I beg you to make any enquiries that may prudently and sagaciously be undertaken? Would it, I wonder, be wise for me to abandon, my studies, delightful and stimulating as they are, and return forthwith to Rome to protect my interests? Naturally of course I shall acquiesce in whatever is determined, and if I have to seek another route to fortune, then I shall do so with all the resolution and intelligence at my command. But I wish to take no action now which you, as my valued friend and adviser, would deem precipitate, unwise or unnecessary.

  I send you warm greetings and the assurance of my affection.

  Octavius

  I wondered, of course, who had been kind enough to pass on the rumour that Caesar contemplated the acknowledgment of Caesarion as his son. Despite the suggestion that it came via Maecenas, I couldn't help but suspect Calpurnia. I could see that she might consider it in her interest to stir up trouble between Caesar and his nephew and presumptive heir. It could only help her campaign to bring the rumours about Caesarion into public notice, for the more discussion there was, the more Caesar would realise how offensive the Roman nobility would find it if he even hinted that he might make a half-foreign bastard his heir.

  So, I replied soothingly:

  My dear Octavius:

  There would seem to be something fretful about the air of Greece. It stimulates the imagination and disturbs the judgment. The rumours you have heard are only rumours. What you fear will not come to pass. You say you trust my judgment: very well, rest assured that the influences you fear are exaggerated.

 
On the other hand, I hear that your friend Maecenas enjoys three new catamites a day. Can this rumour be true?

  I remain your dear friend than whom you have none warmer.

  D. Iunius Brutus

  There was nothing, I thought, compromising in my letter, which would certainly be intercepted at some point, and a copy sent to Caesar. If he learned in this way that Maecenas was a disreputable associate for young Octavius, so much the better.

  But he must have known that already. That thought made me wonder if there was truth in Mark Antony's claim that Octavius himself had been enjoyed by Caesar.