Caesar is Dead

by Jack Lindsay

  *

  Gallus was now used to early visits from Amos; and he was therefore unsurprised when Amos tumbled up the stairs and banged on the door till Leonidas, quaking for the hidden jewelry, admitted him after reprimands from Gallus. Gallus had forgotten all about the jewelry and was vacantly pondering in misery over the loss of Cytheris. What a fool he was. If ever he had a chance to make things up again, he wouldn’t criticise her by word or look; she could have a world of lovers besides him, if she only took him at times; he felt very pathetic and humble and wronged — and underneath his emotion argued that such devotion would surely earn undeviating fidelity. If only he was willing to let her have other lovers, surely she’d be true to him alone.

  Amos was ruffled. His hair had lost its glossiness; his nose looked sharper and longer; his dress was untidily donned; his hands seemed loose at the wrists as he gesticulated. He was inconsolable. He had lost Karni forever, though the worst part of it all was her strange indiscretion in sending a note to the fullery, where Ezra might easily have intercepted it. Luckily, Ezra had been busy, and Amos had been looking up and down the street to see if anyone had dropped anything during the night — as they sometimes did, Amos having in the past found coins, a half-empty wine-jar, a girl’s shift, and a parrot chained to a boot.

  Gallus picked out of this story the part that touched him most deeply, and that was the news of Karni’s departure. He had never seen Karni, but felt strongly for Amos. It was too horrible. No happiness anywhere. After shedding tears and being duly pacified, Amos smiled again and went off; and Gallus tried to eat some barley cakes that Leonidas had bought last night and now warmed on the stove. The cakes were dry and unpalatable. Gallus groaned for some watered wine; and Leonidas, who was proud of being able to pour out both wine and water simultaneously without confusing the proportions, reached for the utensils. Then his heart failed him. He couldn’t remember where was the last place in which he’d put the jewels for safety. Dropping the copper jug, he dashed for his pallet, turned up the straw-mattress, and found nothing.

  “They’ve been stolen,” he cried.

  “What?” asked Gallus. “I thought you only kept fleas there.”

  “Your jewels,” panted Leonidas.

  The statement astounded Gallus. It suggested vistas of untold wealth; he felt that he was going mad, and thus grew assured that Leonidas was mad; and then he remembered.

  “Don’t say you’ve lost those things I won.” He paused. “But I suppose they were only paste — brass gilt and stuck with coloured glass.”

  Leonidas was wretchedly looking under everything in the room; the mats were overturned; and the air was filled with dust.

  Gallus lost interest, his head filled with gnats of heat. “O leave the jewels and get me my wine.”

  But Leonidas flatly disobeyed. Then he stopped in mid-act of turning over his pallet again, beamed happily, and struck his brow.

  “I put them in your shoes.”

  But they weren’t in the shoes. Leonidas drooped and gave up the hunt, utterly blighted. Nothing that Gallus could say roused him; for the jewels represented incredible wealth to him, and he expected Gallus now to buy a large house with a proper kitchen. Gallus drank the mixed wine, and then, fumbling about under the bed, knocked over the matella. There was a rattle and out of the pot fell the lost jewels. Leonidas pounced on them with a sob and presented them to Gallus as if he had meritoriously recovered them after great tribulation.

  Gallus weighed the necklace, pendant, and pearl in his hand, thinking how they would look on Cytheris. Then an idea came to him, lifting his scalp with pleasant titillation. He held up the necklet.

  “Do you think that would buy a slave-girl?”

  “Dozens of them,” replied Leonidas, readily. “Thousands. Why, you could get a free woman to eat out of your hand for it.”

  “I meant — buy her for good,” explained Gallus. But the mind of Leonidas could not reach abstract calculations. Shaking his head disappointedly and muttering “Thousands,” he retreated to the stove and burned his finger.

  Gallus dressed quickly, feeling better now that he had an object in view. He must act quickly; perhaps it would be already too late. “Come along,” he said to Leonidas. He didn’t want to look altogether poverty-stricken; only one slave was bad enough, but to have none would be to ask for insults.

  *

  All that Antonius could see was that Fulvia had somehow become kinder. Not that she slackened in her pressure; but there wasn’t such a tormented look in her eyes; she didn’t frighten him so much. He was pleased, and more airy; wondered even if he couldn’t pick up communication with Cleopatra again. But only when very drunk did he indulge in such optimistic fantasies. He knew that he’d never dare it, and worse, Cleopatra might have something to say about the way he’d treated Marius. She’d think he had betrayed her, whereas he would have executed Marius as fomenter of riots in any event. He wanted a quiet life; the world was full of good fellows, if one didn’t go looking for trouble.

  Lucius had made an early exit. As soon as he returned, Fulvia drew him aside into the viridarium, where the crocus were yellowing. Sitting on the edge of the fish-pond wall, she asked him eagerly: “Is she dead?”

  “No. But neither are the men caught. They were surprised.”

  It had not worried him that the men might be caught. He had promised to have them rescued from jail if they kept their mouths shut; and in hopes of his keeping his word they would have said nothing, waiting at least for the public examination. But he would have had them strangled in jail before they appeared in court.

  “What are you always talking about?” called Gaius, appearing through the pillars at the further end.

  Marcus had followed him out. “Leave them alone.” He took Gaius by the shoulder. “I’ve abdicated the consulship in their favour. I want some peace for a change.” He looked defiantly at Fulvia. “The world’s a fine place, and filled with good fellows.”

  She stared at him and then looked sideways into the green translucence of the water; her thoughts sank into that other world, silent, swaying, drowned, alive with dark presences. In that underwater world of cruel darting shapes and greedy spawn, who talked of good fellows? So Cleopatra lived, and Marcus uttered his drunken lies, and she had only Lucius, for whom she did not care.

  Gaius spoke in a low voice, so that the pair by the pond should not hear. “Why did you marry Fulvia if it’s peace you want? Think of it, Marcus, you and I could be out girl-chasing at this very moment.”

  Antonius tried to hide his chagrin by passing his hand over his face and yawning. “What, the consul of Rome? I’m about sole consul too. A position of almost unprecedented glory. Take your girls off before I jump on them.”

  “If I were you,” said Gaius, with sudden and unusual seriousness, “I’d divorce Fulvia. But don’t answer me. I know you won’t.” He laughed and resumed his sneer. “By the Twins, I think she sat on a hedgehog in early youth and never succeeded in getting more than half the quills out.”

  *

  The villa on the Tiber Road was in confusion. Mule-trains filled the garden, trampling carelessly on the lawns and flowerbeds. Along the road there were baggage-vehicles, and in the drive stood some carts and covered wagons for transporting slaves. Gallus learned that Cleopatra had left early that morning in a fast carriage with a few attendants, going south; beyond that no details were forthcoming. But after a few tips he obtained an audience with Ammonios, master of the ceremonies of departure.

  Ammonios was in the midst of a crowd of demoralised slaves, shouting orders. The slaves were tripping over furniture and half-folded bales of cloth; and Ammonios, from the papers in his hand, was sorting out what belonged to Cleopatra. The move had come so suddenly; and what angered him most was that on the spur of the moment he had to decide what objects it would be safe to purloin. Caesar was dead, and his secretaries had ran away; no one was likely to know exactly what furniture had been provided; the ground would go to the pe
ople according to Caesar’s will. Ammonios was in a fret, drifting between a few parsimonious thefts and a conviction that he could reasonably take almost everything of value.

  “What do you want?” he asked suspiciously, fairly polite because he feared that Gallus might represent Balbus or another of Caesar’s agents.

  “It’s a personal matter,” replied Gallus, not quite sure how to proceed. “Have you the power to dispose of one of the Queen’s servants, if you so wished?”

  “Perhaps and perhaps not,” said Ammonios, searching for a catch in the proposition. “It would depend on which servant, and the purpose of the purchase, and the price offered. Also, of course, the servant would have to be one not indispensable to her Majesty — not that any are strictly indispensable, for that would be to make her Divine Presence dependent on a menial. So let me hear what you offer — and of course who the servant is.”

  “I want to buy one of the kitchen-maids,” blurted Gallus, feeling a fool. “Not for myself. I’ve never seen the girl. It’s a present for a friend.”

  “Who, doubtless, has also never inspected Queen Cleopatra’s scullery,” replied Ammonios, without a smile. He was inclined to have the youth thrown out; but these were touchy days and the youth was obviously a Roman citizen. So he curbed his impatience, stroked his beard, and went on: “What do you offer for this unknown wench?”

  Gallus looked round, hoping that no one else was watching, and, to the despair of Leonidas, produced the gold necklace and pendant. “I’ll give you this in exchange.”

  Ammonios took the necklace in astonishment. Who was the scullery-girl that allured so richly? If it had been one of the toilet-girls who would be a valuable asset in a beauty-parlour! His trained eye told him that the trinket was of great value. Learning the girl’s name, he issued his orders; and in a few moments Karni stood before them, bowing with a smile of ingratiating consequence, for she supposed that some further benefits were to follow on her last night’s exploit. Ammonios considered her attentively and could see no difference from any other scullery-maid. The youth was crazed. Well, so were all lovers, as was obvious; Ammonios himself, never having been in love, was content to register the fact objectively. Still the necklace was good, and the gems were gems, not perishable flesh and blood; and Karni could easily be marked down as dying on the road of dysentery. There were always some slaves who died when a household moved about. The necklace would become the property of Ammonios. He quickly dropped it into his sleeve, wishing to call no more attention to it.

  “You can have her,” he said. “But I’m too hurried to go through the formalities of sale. We leave this afternoon. If you’ll take the risk of an informal sale, she’s yours.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” said Gallus, shrinking under the candid gaze of Karni and wanting to get away.

  “Then remove her as quickly as the nature of the beast will allow,” replied Ammonios, and turned to continue with his checking of the list and his internal debate as to what articles could be stolen with impunity. The gold necklace weighed in his sleeve: a good piece of business.

  “Will you pack what clothes you have?” said Gallus, clumsily, wondering what Karni was thinking.

  “Certainly I will,” she answered, giving him a look which rather worried him. “I won’t be a few moments. Wait for me here.”

  Leonidas regarded his master with eyes of questioning sorrow and jealousy. How were three of them going to live in one room? This was going too far. It wasn’t that Leonidas objected to Gallus having Karni or any other girl as a sleeping-partner; he objected to the way she was sure to boss him about and spoil the cooking. Karni looked the worst kind of self-assertive girl.

  Gallus noticed the look of worry, misinterpreted it, and snapped at him. “I’m not buying her for myself, you loon. She’s for Amos.”

  The news lightened the spirits of Leonidas considerably, though he was still annoyed at the necklace (the price of a house with a kitchen) being sacrificed for a worthless Jew; but before he had time to fabricate further thoughts, Karni returned bowed down beneath a small wooden case, two bundles, and a leather bag; and to his unspeakable rage he was instructed by Gallus to carry the whole lot. Gallus and Karni walked on ahead.

  “I saw the gold and jewels you gave for me,” said Karni, smoothing down her dress over her breasts with a self-possessed air. “You could have got two or three of us for that. I mean, you could have got two or three of the others to wait on me.” She added, with a shy bridling glance: “Where did you see me? I saw you outside the Macellum, didn’t I? You winked at me.”

  “No, no,” protested Gallus, gulping. “I’m not buying you for myself. It’s for Amos.”

  “O,” she said; and as he didn’t like to look at her, he wasn’t sure if she was overcome with joy or surprise or disappointment.

  *

  Nothing more was said till they reached Figtree Yard and the perspiring Leonidas had thrown the baggage on to the floor with unnecessary violence, making three trips up the stairs to emphasise the weight he’d carried: a rebuke lost on the others. Karni was too busy at making herself at home on the bed, and Gallus at settling down on the stool — he had never noticed before how impossible it was to sit squarely on the creaking thing. Leonidas now had nothing left to sit on except the windowsill, which was high and narrow; the stove, which was very grimy; or the floor, which was undignified. He stood in a corner with folded arms, glowering.

  Gallus was undecided what next to do: to send for Amos or to go to the Aventine and beard Ezra. In his wavering the only immediate step he could devise was to send Leonidas out for some cakes, for he had an unformulated idea that Karni must be famished. But as soon as he’d sent Leonidas out, he realised that the last thing he wanted was to be left alone with Karni. The poor girl might think he’d sent Leonidas away for some base design.

  As soon as the last of Leonidas was heard thudding down the stairs, Karni rose from the bed, walked across the room, sat on the knees of Gallus, and kissed him. Gallus in his perplexity could think of nothing except that the stool-legs seemed to be bending and giving way; the girl was heavier than she looked; she was a nice, warm, pliable, excellent, attractive, almost wonderful girl, but she wasn’t Cytheris and she was the girl of Amos.

  “I think you’re a perfect friend,” he heard her saying, “and I do wish you’d tell me where you saw me. But before we go and see Amos, isn’t there something you’d like me to do for you? You got rid of that brute of a man of yours so sweetly ...”

  Gallus drew away and gently lifted her to her feet. “The stool’s breaking,” he said, apologetically. Then, in an attempt to ignore the situation, he patted her in a brotherly fashion. “You’re a good girl. It won’t be long now.”

  She pouted coyly: “Don’t you like me?”

  “Of course I do. But don’t you see I’m the friend of Amos?”

  “I know. That’s why I wanted ... It wouldn’t hurt him, would it?”

  “But I’m going to arrange for you to marry him.”

  “Yes, I knew you would, and I’m so thankful. But he hasn’t married me yet. Of course it would be different if we were married. But I wanted us all to be good friends together.”

  Gallus gave up trying to explain, and was saved from his misery by the sound of Leonidas falling up the stairs in his haste to return. Karni returned to the bed, and pouted in silence. She had only wanted to do the decent thing and repay the debt of her future husband in the simplest and most inexpensive way possible; but her new owner didn’t seem to understand. She hated him now. She was alone in the world, taken from the only surroundings she knew. He made her feel insecure, lost — as if shopkeepers all kept refusing a gold coin which she knew quite well wasn’t counterfeit. The whole basis of social exchange was destroyed. She wanted to cry.

  Indeed, as soon as she began to eat one of the hot cakes, she burst out crying; and Gallus, who had been brooding over the worthlessness of all womanhood and the utter lack of all honour on the benighted ea
rth, rushed in anguish to her assistance. She hung weeping in his arms, and then allowed herself to be fed with pieces of cake, laughing through her tears. It was quite a new sensation, and she couldn’t understand the man in the least. But she was feeling happier, safer. She rubbed her head against his cheek and smiled. He seemed to like her even if he wouldn’t take the only thing she had to offer. Quite inexplicable; but there was no denying the facts.

  Gallus was heavy-hearted. As she leaned against him, he found her entirely charming and wanted to ask her to run away with him — somewhere far away from Rome where they could forget Amos and Cytheris and the mad world of strife and ambition, where creatures lived only to hurt one another. But the impulse passed, leaving him with a sensation of pleasant weakness — very much the sensation that Karni was feeling.

  He sought to rebuild his world of good intentions. She was a dear girl; she hadn’t meant what she said — or rather, he’d misunderstood her to say more than she meant; she was an innocent child. And he could never forget Cytheris. What was the use of spoiling the life of Amos and Karni in a deluded effort?

  Leonidas watched the pair seated on the bed and revolved malign sarcasms in his brain. Wasn’t the girl big enough to feed herself? He was another person who found his world grown unreasonable; and it all began with Gallus asking for a woman and then rejecting the perfectly sound daughter of the auctioneer’s assistant on the floor below. “You’re the kindest man I ever met,” said Karni, still obscurely troubled at not having been permitted to make a due recompense; and as she thought of his kindness, she burst, to his distress, once more into tears.

  He decided to take her to Ezra. It was the quickest way to settle the matter and get a disturbing charge off his hands. So they set out again, Leonidas carrying the leather bag and grumbling to himself. Ezra showed no surprise when Gallus asked to speak alone with him, for he was used to being approached for loans; but he raised his brows when both Karni and Leonidas followed Gallus into the small office at the side. Gallus repented more than ever his rashness in interfering with other people’s affairs.