Cleopatra sighed without opening her eyes. "She does not speak Latin, Julius."
The woman gestured to Julius and the door, muttering under her breath.
"I understand," he said. "I will return when you have had a chance to rest."
He took her hand and squeezed it, before standing. He looked down on his family and thanked his gods for having lived long enough to see it.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 32
The city of Rome was awake. Galloping messengers had brought the news that Caesar had landed at the coast and he was coming home. Mark Antony had not been idle in the weeks of waiting and the preparations were all in place. Almost a million citizens had lit lamps on the great walls, prepared banquets, cleaned and scrubbed the streets until Rome seemed almost new. Corn, bread, and meat had been given to every citizen and a public holiday announced. The city gleamed and temple chests were filled with coins offered in thanks for Caesar's safety. Many were tired from their labors, but they sat up with their children and listened for the horns that would announce his arrival.
Brutus rode slowly at Julius's side, looking at the city in the distance. The sheer size of it made Alexandria seem a provincial town. The citizens had made it glow under the heavens for Caesar. Would they have done more to welcome a king? Brutus found he could hardly bear the look of awe on Octavian's face at the jewel of Rome on the horizon. It was an expression all those in the column seemed to share, from the soldiers of the Tenth to Julius himself. They came as victors and walked with pride they had earned. Brutus could not feel a part of their hope and their glory.
What joy could he find within those walls? He would be the man Julius forgave for a betrayal, whispered about and pointed at as he strode through his city. He would see his mother again, he thought. Perhaps when she saw Cleopatra she would understand what had driven him away from Julius. His eyes prickled and he took a deep breath, ashamed of himself. He had entered many cities. What was Rome but one more, to him? He would survive it. He would endure.
He felt as if he had been riding for years in a procession of the legions. Julius had been welcomed as a brother king in Syria, given slaves and gifts of gems and weapons. Cleopatra had rejoiced in his shadow, perhaps understanding at last how a small king would see Julius. She could not hide her delight at showing Ptolemy Caesarion, red and tiny as he was. The ruler of Syria had many children, but he had honored the couple by bringing his firstborn, Herod, into their presence, and having him bow to the leader of Rome. The little prince had been shaking with nerves, Brutus remembered.
He glanced behind him to where the queen lay hidden from sight in a carriage that was more like a comfortable room drawn by oxen. Her son was with her and the child's irritable screams pierced the night.
In its way, the return to Rome had been like a Triumph on a grand scale. The praetor of Crete had kissed Julius's hand and given over his own home for their stay. The soldiers ate and drank their way through the praetor's private stores, but there was no fighting or lack of discipline. They seemed to understand the dignity of their position as escort for Caesar and his son. Their reverence made Brutus want to be ill.
It had shocked him at first, to see powerful men kneeling as Julius approached them. Brutus had seen his friend swear and spit and bicker with Cabera or Renius like an irritable old woman. He had known him as a boy, and the obsequious fawning of officials seemed obscene. They did not know Caesar. They saw only the cloak and the soldiers. They had read the reports and heard of his victories, creating a mask for the lesser man within. Brutus had seen Julius's pleasure at their treatment of him and it ate at him like a worm.
It had been worst in Greece, where Brutus was known. Perhaps he had been shielded from the reality of his position during the year in Alexandria. He had forgotten how painful it would be to have old friends turn their backs and others sneer as they saw him at Julius's side. Labienus had been there, his dark eyes full of private amusement at seeing Brutus back at the heel of his general.
If Pompey had won, Brutus knew he would have been rewarded. He would perhaps have stood for consul himself and the fickle citizens would have voted for a man who had put Rome before friendship, one who had saved them from a tyrant. With just one battle, at Pharsalus, he could have turned his life onto a new path. That was what hurt the most, he told himself. Not to be forgiven, but to have come so close to having it all. There were times when he was almost convinced of it.
The road into Rome was not empty. Mark Antony had sent out the city legion under Ahenobarbus to line the stones as far west as they had numbers. As Julius reached each pair of soldiers, they held a stiff salute. They too had done their work, Brutus admitted grudgingly. Rome had been safe while Julius was away. It would have been some sort of justice had the city been attacked while Julius, on the Nile, was ignoring his duty but, no, the gods had granted peace to Rome, as if they too were willing to rest until Caesar took up the reins once more.
The Greeks had tried another rebellion, choosing their moment with the worst of all timing, so that the fighting began as Julius arrived. Brutus could almost feel sorry for the men who had risen against their Roman masters. Labienus could have ended it on his own, but Julius had intervened. The men said it showed he understood his responsibilities as first in Rome, that all lands were his to order and control. Brutus rather suspected it was to show Cleopatra what his legions could do.
The battle had been tiny compared to some they had known. Julius had ridden with his generals and his queen to where the Greek army had risen. Brutus could still shudder at the sight of shouting warriors rushing up a hill toward the Roman positions. Of course they were tired by the time they had reached the crest. The rebellion had been ended in only four hours, more littered flesh in the Roman wake.
The fleet made final landfall at Ostia, west of the city. Julius had knelt to kiss the ground. The legions had cheered him then and the first taste of the excitement that gripped Rome came from the villages and towns to the west. They bustled and pushed to catch a glimpse of him. They wore their best clothes and the women had braided their hair with as much attention as for the festival of Bona Dea. Children were held up as he would hold his own son high to the forum.
The horses sensed the excitement around them and tossed their heads, snorting. The cheering became louder as the legions approached Rome and saw that the heavy gates of the west stood open for them. The walls were lined with waving citizens and yet the legions did not break discipline to return the gestures. They smiled as their legs lost their weariness and gazed at the torches and walls as if they had never seen the city before.
Brutus could see the white togas of senators inside the gate. He wondered how they would feel about Julius's plans for the future. Had they any idea of the force they were welcoming back so trustingly? If they expected age to have banked the fires in Julius, they were going to be disappointed. He was rejuvenated, as if Cleopatra and his son were new magic in his life. Rome should be trembling, Brutus thought, but Cicero was not a fool. No matter what the senator might fear, there was no one in the world who could have raised a warning voice at that moment. Sometimes it is better just to let the wave crash over you and pick up the pieces after it has passed.
Horns sounded, first at the gate, then spreading all over the city as every old bronze piece was lifted to lips and blown. Julius kicked in his heels to move slightly ahead of the first rank of his Tenth. He did not duck his head as he rode under the arch, and raised his hand to acknowledge the people pressing in on all sides. He was home.
Julius stood on the steps of the Senate house in front of a packed forum. He lifted his arms for silence, but it would not come. He signaled two of his men to blow the legion horns above the tumult, and even then the crowd was slow to become still. He looked across at Mark Antony and the two men shared a grin.
When at last they were quiet, Julius was content merely to stand and enjoy the sight of Rome around him, drinking it in. The steps were packed with faces of men he had known
for years. The temples and buildings around the forum shone in the light of late summer.
"Nowhere else in the world is home as this city is home," he said at last. His voice echoed across the crowds as they watched with faces raised up to him. "I have seen Gaul. I have seen Asia Minor. I have seen Greece and Spain and Britain. I have walked in Alexander's cities and seen jewels and strange gods. I have found Roman voices in all those lands, cutting the soil, trading, and making a life for themselves. I have seen our laws and our honor in countries so distant as to seem like dreams. This city nourishes the world."
He bowed his head as they cheered, and when it seemed that they would not stop, he had his soldiers crash the butts of their spears on the stones of the forum.
"It gives me grief to bring Pompey's remains home with me. He did not die by my hand and his passing is a black day for Rome. Those who killed him have been punished and the gods will not let them forget the price of a consul. Let them weep forever for laying a hand on a man of Rome. In the years to come, they will remember the answer we gave them! Those of you who travel and trade will carry that protection of this city with you. If you are taken by enemies, tell them you are a Roman citizen and let them fear the storm that will answer a single drop of your blood. The storm will come in your defense. This I pledge to you all."
He raised his hands before they could cheer again, impatient to tell them more. In his mind, he could see the reality he could make with Cleopatra, so bright and perfect as to make words base in comparison.
"I grant an amnesty to all those who raised arms against me in this civil war. As I pardoned the men of Corfinium and Greece, I pardon all others who have followed their duty and their honor as they saw it. We are brothers and sisters of the same blood. We will begin afresh from this day, and let the past go. I am not another Sulla to be seeking enemies behind every door. I have other dreams for Rome."
He paused, aware of the senators who strained to hear every word.
"The gods have blessed my line with a son, of the blood of royal Egypt. I have brought him home for you to welcome him, as you have welcomed me."
One of Cleopatra's midwives stepped forward with the child and Julius took his son in his arms. The boy began to scream with astonishing ferocity, the sound echoing back and forth across the forum. It tore at the heart of Calpurnia as she watched the pride of the man she adored. She had lost him, and she turned away.
The citizens of Rome roared their approval as Julius turned in place to show them all. Their emotions had always been his to command and he knew they loved a show above all things. Julius laughed aloud with delight at their response, before passing his son back to the disapproving nurse. The crowd's reaction had frightened the child and there was no comforting him as she bustled away.
"I have dreams of a world where Roman courts judge the laws from the furthest edges of Africa to the frozen lands of the north. You will tell your children that you were here when Caesar returned. You will tell them the new world began on that day. We will make it new, and greater than that which has gone before."
He quietened them once more, patting empty air with his hands.
"These things do not come without a cost, or without labor. Good Roman sweat and even blood will be shed before we can make an age of gold for our children and theirs. I do not fear the price. I do not fear the work. I do not fear these things because I am a Roman citizen, of the greatest city in the world."
He turned away from the crash of their cheers, almost glowing with pleasure. The senators at his back had lost the smiles of reflected glory. Their eyes had hardened and grown cold as the words spilled out over the forum, lighting flames in the hearts of the mob. More than one of the older men wondered whether he could be controlled at all.
After the applause and grandiloquent speeches, the Senate house seemed to be filled with echoing ghosts as evening came. The celebrations would continue for days, and as Cicero stood alone in shadows he could hear muted laughter and old songs in the forum. There would be little time for peace or contemplation in the days ahead, at least until the wine had run dry. He wondered how many children would be conceived across the city and how many of them would be named for the man Rome honored.
He sighed to himself. An amphora of good red lay at his feet, unopened. He had intended to be among the first to toast Caesar, but somehow he had forgotten it as he witnessed the new breeze blowing through the city. The Republic had died at last, and the tragedy was that no one seemed to have noticed. What men like Pompey or Sulla could not achieve with fear and force of arms, Caesar had with indifference, shattering the traditions of centuries.
Cicero had known hope at first, when Julius stood to address the members of the nobilitas. Pompey's death had not stained him and Cicero thought the old compact with the citizens could still be remade.
That thin faith had lasted only moments. The laws of Rome were there to limit power and prestige, so that no man could rise too far above his fellows. Even in the dying days, there was strength enough to rein in Marius or Sulla. Somehow, Caesar had dragged himself above the rest, away from Rome. He had addressed the Senate as if they were supplicants, while the mob chanted his name outside.
Cicero could not find it in himself to love the people of his city. In the abstract, he took pride in the earnest voting that was the foundation of the Republic. The powers of the Senate had always been granted rather than taken. Yet in the end, those same citizens had found themselves a champion. There was no holding Caesar now, if there ever had been.
Cicero shook his head as he remembered how Julius had accepted the trite speeches of senators. He had let them talk, but when he rose, the Republic fell away from him like an old skin. The scribes had been aching by the time he had finished and the senators who had welcomed him could only sit in stunned awareness.
Cicero rose slowly to his feet, wincing as his knees cracked. The noise of the city seemed to surround the Senate house and he shuddered at the thought of going out through the drunken crowd. Would it have been different if they could have heard Caesar speak? He had promised to remake Rome: a new forum, great temples and roads, coins minted fresh from the gold of Gaul. His supporters would all have places in the Senate, his legions would be given the best lands and made wealthy. He planned four Triumphs over the months to come, more than any general of Rome had ever had. Gods, there was no end to it! In the midst of all the promises, Cicero had been desperate to hear some sign that Julius needed the Senate. Just a word to salve their dignity would have been enough, but it did not come. He told them the future and it never occurred to him that every word he spoke went further to cut himself free of them.
It was not how they had planned it, Cicero remembered. When Mark Antony had read the letters Julius sent from Egypt, they had discussed how they might honor the greatest general under Rome. In private, they had wondered whether he would accept the Senate at all. Cicero had voted with the others to bestow a Dictatorship of ten years, unheard of in history. The balanced scales of the Republic had been thrown down. It was all they could do.
Julius had nodded at the news as if it was no more than he had expected, and Cicero had known despair. He had not missed the significance of Julius holding his son up to the voracious mob. The man had no true peers to lay a hand on his shoulder and force him to caution. Cicero wondered if Caesar's Triumphs would include the boy to ride with him and whisper "Remember, you are mortal" into his ear.
The bronze doors creaked and Cicero jerked around to see who dared to breach the privacy of the Senate. Surely there were guards outside? He would not have been surprised to hear they had succumbed to drink and the hysterical crowd were stumbling in to vomit in the halls of their masters.
"Who is there?" he called, ashamed to hear the quaver in his voice. It was the nervous tone of an old man, he thought bitterly.
"Suetonius," came a reply. "I tried your home, but Terentia said you had not come back. She is worried about you."
Cicero sighed aloud
in a mixture of relief and irritation. "Can a man not find a little quiet in this city?" he demanded.
"You should not be sitting in the dark," Suetonius replied, walking out of the gloom. He could not meet Cicero's eyes at first and the air of defeat hung heavily around him. He too had been there to hear Caesar speak.
Outside, someone began an ancient song of lost love and the crowd in the forum joined the single voice. The harmonies were rough, but beautiful nonetheless. Cicero was tempted to go out and add his broken wind to theirs, just to be part of it before the day brought back its hard realities.
Suetonius tilted his head to listen. "They don't know him," he whispered.
Cicero glanced up, shaken from his thoughts. In the semidarkness, Suetonius's eyes were shadows.
"Are we to be his servants, then?" he asked. "Is that all we have achieved?"
Cicero shook his head, more for himself than for his companion. "You must practice patience in this city, Senator. It will remain long after we are all dead."
Suetonius snorted in disgust. "What do I care for that? You heard his plans, Cicero. You nodded your head with all the others who would not dare speak up."
"You did not speak," Cicero reminded him.
"Alone, I could not," Suetonius snapped.
"Perhaps we all felt alone, even as you did."
"He needs us, to rule," Suetonius said. "Does he think our dominions will run themselves? Did you hear one word of thanks for the work we have done in his absence? I did not."
Cicero found himself growing angry at the whining tone that reminded him of his children. "He does not need us," he snapped. "Can't you understand? He has armies loyal only to him and he has taken the mantle of power. We are the last embers of the old Rome, fanning ourselves alive with our own breath. The great men are all dead now."
In the forum, he heard the song reach its final poignant lines before a wave of cheering broke out.
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