by Allan Massie
"I have realised, Mouse, my poor Mouse," she said in that tone which would have sounded caressing to any man who did not retain the echoes of Clodia's speech in his memory, "that here in this dull, conventional Rome, which is so boring - why did nobody ever warn me how boring Rome is? - here I can be nothing but Caesar's plaything - his piece of foreign skirt, as some rogue said the other day - a piece of insolence for which I am glad to say he was soundly whipped. But in the East, in Parthia, Caesar and Cleopatra may reign as Sun and Moon - we shall be beyond compare. Do you wonder that I urge the campaign upon him? Besides, Mouse, he needs little urging. Caesar is one of those men who must ever journey further and into more dangerous territory to fulfil his Destiny. And ..." she smiled like a kitten just developing into a cat ". . . it has been borne in on me that Cleopatra is part of that Destiny. We are yoked together. How he can tolerate that dreary Calpurnia is a mystery. I suppose it's part of the great boringness of Rome."
No doubt her urging played a part. No doubt she scarcely needed to urge.
For the truth was that Caesar was indeed bored. That marvellous sagacity, that balance, that sense of the possible, seemed to me to be fleeing from him, as the god fled from Hercules. Caesar, who had once said to me, pinching the lobe of my ear, "Always remember there are two rules of politics, Mouse. First, that politics is the art of the possible; second, that what is possible may be enlarged by the manner in which the dice fall," now looked on Rome and its politics with loathing.
"What have I achieved, Mouse? I have gained great glory. We have won glory and successes such as only Alexander may have exceeded. I dominate Rome as no man has since Sulla. Sulla! You know how I have ever loathed and despised him; and yet here I am, after so many battles, so many campaigns, no more, it seems, than another Sulla. Mouse, I am fifty-six. This is no way for Caesar to end, arranging who shall be consul this year and the next, which nonentity shall hold which praetorship, who should be fobbed off with this and who with that. Have I proved myself the favourite of the gods, I who am the descendant of Venus, only to find myself compelled to listen to lectures from Cicero, however carefully couched in respectful, even timid, language? Do I care which noble faction seeks that office, and which the other? Do I even care for the plaudits of the mob which any man of intelligence, sensibility and genius must despise?
"No, Mouse, what shall it profit me to spend my declining years adjusting this, repairing that, meting out laws which Caesar himself despises to a stinking multitude that worship him while he gives them shows and Triumphs, and would as soon revile him if Fortune fled from him?
"Mouse, Caesar, as you whom I have loved almost as my own son know only too thoroughly, cannot rest content with such dull matters, such petty business. What have we known? Clanging fights, where a man renews himself, burning towns, where a man sees his glory godlike shine, sinking ships, where our enemies are delivered to the gods that rule the sea, praying hands, to whom it is in our power to respond with life or death? And you would have me surrender such knowledge for . . . the administration of a corrupt and stinking polity?
"Mouse, consider Parthia, that all but boundless empire across wastes of sand, those sands where Marcus Crassus — my equal for a few months in power, my superior in wealth, my inferior in all else — those sands where Marcus Crassus so ignobly perished. I have heard that there still remain Roman legionaries from his army, taken in that terrible battle, and ever since held in captivity. Would it not be a glorious action to restore them to their homes and families, to bring them back to the tutelage of their familial gods?
"And Parthia, Mouse, is the heir of Persia which Alexander conquered. When I was in Egypt they asked me if I wished to visit Alexander's tomb, to gaze on the embalmed countenance of the greatest conqueror the world has ever known. But Caesar would not, Caesar refused, and all wondered. Some whispered even, 'Caesar is ashamed that he has not yet matched Alexander.' None dared say this to Caesar, but I could not fail to be aware of how the whispers ran. And in my heart I knew they spoke truth. I felt in my bosom a keen jealousy of Alexander who all his life had been free from the petty constraints of political necessities that have bound me; and I knew in my heart that till I had equalled his achievement, I could not gaze upon him . . ."
"But Caesar," I tried to say, "think of Gaul, consider Pharsalus . . ." He brushed my intervention aside.
"And so, Parthia, to subdue that empire as Alexander subdued the majesty of Darius. And then ... to follow my star still . . . wherever it shall lead me ... to India perhaps where Alexander himself was stopped, or, a still grander scheme presents itself to me, a campaign which would be seen by all as a new wonder of the world ... to traverse the Hyrcanian wastes, and march on the north side of the Caspian Sea to where the frosty Caucasus proudly challenge the heavens themselves, the Caucasus where Prometheus was held, victim of his unparalleled audacity. Then to carry war into Scythia, that unknown land of terrible barbarians, to march up the Danube into the dark forests of Germany, and so reach the Rhine from this new and strange direction. After which, I would again be received in Gaul as a godlike redeemer. I would have drawn the new boundary of the Roman Empire and extended its limits to the ocean on every side . . .
"Would this not be a fit culmination to Caesar's career? And why not? I cannot rest here in this stew of corruption. Caesar is a man unbound, who will not consent to be confined . . ."
I cannot swear, now and in my present distress, that these were Caesar's precise words. Furthermore I have condensed into one oration the gist of innumerable conversations we had on these matters at that time. But I remember three things which, at different moments, came to my mind, though I did not choose to utter any of them to him.
The first was, with what difficulty he had advanced a few paltry miles into the mist-shrouded island of Britain.
The second was my memory of how Clodia had told me that when Caesar first informed her (in bed) that he was a god, she had imagined he was inviting her to share a joke; and only much later had realised that he spoke in all seriousness.
And the third was that a priest once told me it was written in the Sibylline Books, those repositories of ultimate wisdom, that "The Romans could never conquer the Parthians unless they went to war under the conduct of a king . . ."
Artixes said to me:
"But from what you say, this Caesar of yours was a madman. In Gaul we venerate such beings but we do not entrust them with responsibility."
"Don't you remember, my dear," I replied, "that I told you Cato once said Caesar was the only sober man to set himself to destroy the State?"
"Many madmen are nevertheless sober," Artixes said.
Chapter 14
I must hurry. The days shorten. Artixes assures me that no reply has yet arrived by way of the emissaries his father, the Prince, sent. But there is a look in his eye which suggests to me that his father no longer has any great hopes of receiving a substantial ransom.
As the days shortened then too, in that, my last Roman winter, the mood of the city grew ever more tense, and sharp-knifed.
Casca remarked to me one day: "It's odd, isn't it? We fought all these battles and nothing is settled. A few great men have disappeared - none of my creditors, unfortunately. The parties have re-formed. Cicero has less to say for himself. But otherwise nothing seems to have changed, except that, I'm sorry to say, Diosippus has quite lost his looks. Even that diet I put him on hasn't worked. It merely makes him look his years. However, I have had some hopeful reports from my agent in the slave-market. He tells me he expects a charming cargo from Phrygia very soon. Don't see how he can be telling the truth, not with the seas as they are. They'll either be wrecked or arrive utterly wind-blown and ugly, while if they attempt the overland journey it'll take months to get them into any desirable condition."
There were days when Casca was a considerable comfort. On the other hand he went on to say, "Don't you think our Lord and Master is behaving really a bit oddly these days? Too bizarre for words.
Only the other afternoon he was seen to be wearing knee-length red boots. Yes, bright red boots. And when someone had the nerve to ask him what this was in aid of, he declared that his ancestors, the Alban kings, had always been accustomed to wearing such boots as a sign of their rank. Well, to me of course, that simply explains why the Alban kings haven't lasted. I can't think of anything to make anyone look sillier than knee-length red boots, like a comedian in a low pantomime. But, well, our Lord and Master - I mean I know he has some pretensions to a certain wit, but I've never thought he had a sense of humour. Indeed I remember once suggesting to you that it would take a surgical operation to get a joke into Caesar's head. You bit my head off, I remember. After all, those were the days when you thought the sun shone out of Caesar's arse, and, to be fair to you, he had something of the same idea about you. Well, as you know, I followed him with the utmost and most admirable loyalty, for quite different reasons: because I saw that the old boy was a winner, and, except at the gaming-tables, your fat old Casca has always preferred to be on the winning side. In any case, when it came to a choice between the noble and fortunate Caesar and that great lump of lard they used to call the Great One, it was as simple for me as choosing between a pretty lad and, let us say, Calpurnia; but — how I do ramble on, I've always noticed that garrulity is the sign that I'm worried. Anyway, to cut a long matter short, as the man said when he made a eunuch of a Nubian, do you suppose our esteemed master is going off his rocker? Because, darling Mouse, if he is, I'm going to find another bed to lie in. What do you say?"
What could I say? I certainly couldn't start talking about the Parthian plans and the Hyrcanian wastes and the frosted Caucasus. So I said:
"You've always underestimated Caesar's sense of humour. Besides, he's a dandy. He's always been famous for being a dandy. And dandies take strange whims at times. Do you remember that chap - who was it? - one of the Dolabellas, I forget which - who had his hair permed with goats' piss because he thought it gave it a most distinguished sheen?"
But others were worried too. One was Calpurnia. She summoned me to her presence, taking care to do so on a night when she knew that Caesar was with Cleopatra.
I obeyed, without enthusiasm. As I've made clear, I always disliked Calpurnia. She has less charm than any woman I have ever known except the Madam who ran a certain brothel in Cadiz.
She looked even more than usually scraggy and nervous that evening, with her hair unsuitably dyed a dull red. She had been drinking too; her breath stank of acidulous white wine. Her hands, the fingers loaded with rings, were never still. They patted her hair, plucked at her neck, twisted around each other. She could not sit still, but, having directed me to a couch, immediately leapt up and flitted about the room, her gait unsteady as she embarked on a monologue.
"He's bewitched, that's what it is, that woman, whether she has actually given him some potion, I can't say, but she's bewitched him. And she's not really beautiful, you told me that yourself, and others have confirmed it, so what does he see in her if she's not bewitched him? I could strangle her with my own hands, yes I could, look, just like this, like wringing a chicken's neck, I'm told he calls her 'Chicken'. And this boy she has with her, this child, she says he's Caesar's son. I don't believe it myself, I've good reason not to, you know, think of all the women Caesar has had, and have any of the others claimed he has fathered a child? No, of course not, well there's that bitch Servilia, she's sometimes hinted, or let others hint, or not denied, that that toad Marcus is Caesar's child. But it's not true, because I don't believe he's . . . well, I've never said this to anyone and you're to keep it to yourself, but though I've never had children myself I had three miscarriages by my first husband, and Caesar has never made me pregnant. So, what conclusion do you draw from that? It's obvious, isn't it, he's sterile. Between you and me, that's why he's so determined to be a Great Man. It's to wipe out the shame of not being, well, normal, of not being able to father a child. That's the truth, and that little bitch has the brass neck to call the child Caesarion. And he purrs and goes along with it . . . but it's not true." (Calpurnia was talking nonsense. Caesar and his first wife had a daughter, Julia, later married to Pompey.) "And now he's set on this Parthian expedition, it's madness, I've told him that, but, well, you know him, you've known him all your life, yes of course I know your mother was one of his lovers, that doesn't worry me, it was before my time, do you think he's going mad?
"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?