The Triumph Of Caesar rsr-12

by Steven Saylor

  "Hideous, aren't they?" said Cytheris, noting my fascination. "Antony dotes on them like children. He has names for them all! You'd think he had captured them himself. He says that someday he may build a fleet of warships and use the best of these to ornament them."

  "His own fleet of ships? Caesar might have something to say about that."

  "Ah, yes… Caesar." She made a wry face.

  As we walked through the house it appeared to me that the rooms had been depleted of some of their furniture and ornaments. There were niches without statues and walls where paintings had been removed. It had the half-vacant feeling of a house where someone is moving in or moving out.

  Completely secluded from the street, the garden at the center of the house was unusually large and splendid, full of fragrant roses in bloom and pebble-strewn pathways decorated with fountains and statues. Set amid the little arbors of myrtle and cypress were many dining couches piled with plump cushions. Clearly, the occupants of the house spent a great deal of time in this space, which could accommodate many guests.

  Cytheris led us to a secluded corner, collapsed on a couch with a sigh, and gestured for Rupa and me to do likewise. There was no need to call for wine. A slave bearing a tray with a pitcher and cups appeared before I had time to settle myself.

  "So, Gordianus, tell me everything about your stay in Egypt. Are the Alexandrians as mad as ever? Do they still hate Romans? Did you meet Cleopatra?"

  "Yes, yes, and yes."

  "Really? I keep telling Antony he should invite her here, since she's in Rome for a visit, but he says it wouldn't do. He'd be embarrassed to present his concubine to a queen, I suppose, but Antony says it's because Caesar is still disputing his claim to this house."

  "Yes, I was curious about that. I thought the House of the Beaks and all its contents were to be sold at a public auction, to benefit the Treasury."

  Cytheris laughed. "Oh yes, there's going to be an auction-but don't bother to come, because Antony's already given the best things to our friends. Every time we throw a party, no one is allowed to leave without a piece of silver or a rare scroll or whatever else they're up for carrying. Antony tells me, 'I'd rather your actor friends end up with Pompey's spoils than some rich banker friend of Caesar's.' Have a look around, Gordianus, and see what you might like to take home with you. Rupa's big and strong. He could probably carry that statue of Cupid over there."

  "You are joking?"

  "Are you not a friend, Gordianus? You've met Antony, haven't you?"

  "A few times, over the years."

  "And doesn't he like you? Antony likes everyone. Well, everyone except Cicero. Antony says Caesar should have executed Cicero after Pharsalus, instead of pardoning him. 'Shows just how little my opinion counts with Caesar these days,' as poor Antony says. But you were going to tell me about Alexandria, Gordianus. If you're going to earn that Cupid, you'll have to cough up an amusing anecdote or two."

  "I'm afraid my time in Egypt was not particularly amusing."

  "But you must have had many adventures. You were there for months, and right in the middle of that nasty little war between Cleopatra and her brother, with Caesar showing up to play kingmaker. You must have had a brush or two with death-or perhaps a dalliance with one of the queen's handmaidens?" Cytheris raised an eyebrow.

  "Well, I suppose I could tell you about the narrow escape we had from a rioting mob, when we had to find our way through a secret passage beneath of the tomb of Alexander the Great…"

  Cytheris sat forward. "Yes! That's exactly the sort of tale I want to hear! Hilarion, bring more wine. We must keep Gordianus's throat well lubricated."

  I regaled her with that story, and thought of a few more incidents in Alexandria that might amuse her, and then steered the conversation back to the subject of the house.

  "How beautiful it is, here in your garden. And what a splendid house this is. No wonder Pompey loved it. But I still don't quite understand; does Antony own the house or not?"

  The wine had relaxed her considerably. She spoke freely. "That depends on whom you ask. When Caesar saw that Antony was dragging his heels, they exchanged some harsh words. Caesar pressed the matter. 'Throw a final party there if you must, then auction the damned place and get out!' But Antony wouldn't budge. He was quite blunt. 'The way I see it,' he told Caesar, 'I deserve this house as much as anyone. I did my part to bring down Pompey, no less than you, and this is my reward!' The two of them have carried on a pissing match about it ever since. Officially, Caesar insists on an auction, but I think he may have finally given up, or maybe he's just too busy arranging his upcoming triumphs to keep pestering Antony. So Antony's plan now is to hold some semblance of an auction-toss out Pompey's moth-eaten togas and get rid of the dented silver-then declare that the auction is done and go on living here. I want to redecorate the whole place, anyway. Pompey's wife had dreadful taste in furniture."

  What a long way Cytheris had come, from working as a street dancer in Alexandria to cohabiting with one of the world's most powerful men. An actress and a foreigner, speaking ill of Pompey's wife and brazenly living in Pompey's house, in defiance of Caesar himself!

  "But surely," I said, "Antony must realize how this might look to those who accuse Caesar of betraying the common people. They might say Caesar's behaving like Sulla, allowing a henchman to distribute the spoils of war to a small circle of favorites rather than using them for the common good."

  "The common people aren't that stupid. Every gossip in Rome knows that Antony is keeping the house against Caesar's wishes."

  "But I should think that's even worse, from Caesar's point of view. The people will see that he allows open defiance. A dictator can't afford to tolerate disobedience. It makes him look weak."

  Cytheris smiled. "No, it makes Antony look like a spoiled brat, and Caesar like an indulgent parent. Is he not the father of the Roman people now? And isn't Antony his most brilliant protege, a little stubborn and reckless at times but worth a bit of spoiling in the long run? Never mind that the two of them are hardly speaking at the moment. That will pass."

  Was this really what Cytheris believed? Or was she glossing over a deeper anxiety? Had Caesar become a menace to her world?

  And what were Antony's feelings? To me, he had always seemed a bluff, brash fellow, completely open about his likes and dislikes, an unlikely candidate for conspiracy. But anyone who had risen as high as Antony undoubtedly possessed the instinct for self-preservation at any cost that characterized such men and women. Just how serious was his falling-out with Caesar?

  Even as these questions flashed through my mind, Cytheris spotted him across the garden, smiled, and waved. Antony came striding over, wearing a tunic that was a bit more brief than many would consider seemly; it certainly showed off his brawny legs. The rumpled yellow garment looked as if he might have slept in it, and there was a long wine stain down the front. He looked and moved as if he might be slightly hungover. He cast a curious, heavy-lidded glance in my direction, then bent forward to plant a kiss on Cytheris's cheek. She whispered something in his ear-my name, no doubt-and he gave me a halting nod of recognition.

  "Gordianus… yes, of course, Meto's father! By Hercules, how long has it been?"

  "Since our paths crossed? Quite some time."

  "And yet, they cross again." Was there a glint of suspicion in his bleary eyes? Antony's face combined the poet and the brute, making his expression hard to read. He had a harsh profile, with his dented nose, craggy brows, and jutting chin; but there was something gentle about the curve of his full lips and a soulful quality in his eyes. I would have called him a bit homely, but women seemed to find his looks fascinating.

  He grunted and held out his hand. A slave put a cup of wine in it. "Where is Meto nowadays? I suppose he must be back in Rome, for…" He was surely going to say "the Gallic Triumph," for Meto had served Caesar in Gaul, as had Antony, but his voice trailed away.

  "No, Meto is in Spain, I'm afraid."

  Antony
grunted. "Scouting the extent of young Pompey's forces, no doubt. You and Meto were both in Alexandria, weren't you, while Caesar was there?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "But now you're back."

  "Can you believe it?" said Cytheris. "We met by chance outside the Temple of Tellus. And this is Rupa, who's Gordianus's son now. Rupa is an old friend from my days in Alexandria."

  "Ah, yes," said Antony, "all roads circle back to Alexandria, it seems. I shall have to return there myself someday. But I seem to recall hearing… yes, I'm certain someone told us that you were missing in Egypt and presumed to be dead, Gordianus. Now who was it who told us that? I can recall standing in this very garden, and somehow your name came up, and some fellow… Cytheris, help me remember."

  "Oh, I know!" she said. "It was the Scapegoat."

  "Scapegoat?"

  "The Massilian. You know-Hieronymus. He's the one who told us the rumor of Gordianus's demise. He seemed quite upset. He hardly ate or drank a thing that night."

  "Ah, yes… Hieronymus…" Antony nodded. "An odd character, that one. I thought he was another of your actor friends, my dear, until you explained where he came from. Claims to be a friend of yours, Gordianus."

  "Hieronymus," I whispered. "So you knew him?" What a stroke of fortune, that they should be the first to mention him, not I.

  "Oh, yes, the Scapegoat is one of Cytheris's pets." Antony did not sound entirely pleased.

  "Come, Antony, Hieronymus never fails to make you laugh. Admit it! Such a naughty tongue that fellow has."

  "Actually, I'm afraid I have some bad news about Hieronymus." I tried to make my face and voice register the emotion one feels when confronted, suddenly and unexpectedly, with the task of delivering sad news. I glanced at Rupa. His muteness made him a good companion for this investigation; he would never blurt out anything to give me away.

  "Hieronymus is dead," I said bluntly.

  "Oh, no!" Cytheris's surprise seemed genuine. Of course, she was a trained actress.

  Antony was harder to read. He furrowed his forehead and narrowed his eyes. "When did this happen?"

  "Two nights ago."

  "Where? How?"

  "He was stabbed, in an alley on the Palatine." This was true, if deliberately vague.

  "By whom?" asked Antony. He had once been charged with keeping order in Rome; news of a crime seemed to pique his interest.

  "I don't know. It happened at night. There seem to have been no witnesses."

  "How distressing!" said Cytheris. "Who would have wanted to kill poor, harmless Hieronymus? Was it a thief? I thought the days of robbery and murder in the streets were over."

  I shrugged and shook my head.

  "We must send a garland for the bier," said Cytheris. "The body…?"

  "Hieronymus lies in my vestibule."

  "Yes, beloved, send a garland," said Antony. "I'll let you take care of that." He squinted and shielded his eyes from the sunlight. "You'll have to excuse me now. Suddenly my head is pounding. No need to get up, Cytheris. Stay here in the garden with your guests."

  But she was already on her feet, gazing at him sympathetically and reaching out to gently stroke his temples. I saw it was time to go.

  "Thank you for the wine and the hospitality. I should return to my house now, in case anyone comes to pay his respects to Hieronymus."

  Antony nodded. "Let me know if you discover anything else about his death."

  "If you wish. I realize how busy you must be, with Caesar's triumphs approaching. I believe the first, to celebrate his conquest of Gaul, is the day after tomorrow. I know from Meto what an important role you played in that war."

  Antony scowled. "Be that as it may, I shall not be taking part in the Gallic Triumph."

  "No? But you were a cavalry commander at Alesia, weren't you? When Vercingetorix led a night attack against the Roman besiegers, it was only your swift response that saved the situation."

  Antony grunted. "Your son told you about that, did he?"

  "Caesar himself says so, in those memoirs of his. Surely you'll be riding in a place of honor, the first mounted officer behind Caesar's chariot? And I should think you would be among the privileged few to witness the execution of Vercingetorix in the Tullianum."

  "I'm sure they can manage to strangle the wretched Gaul without me. Do you know, Cytheris, I think we'll hold the auction that day, right here in the street outside the house. Let's see if we can lure any of the revelers away from the parade route to come gawk at Pompey's pinky rings and bedroom slippers."

  "But surely Caesar himself will insist that you take part," I said.

  "Caesar is a selfish, ungrateful-" Antony caught himself. "For months, after Pharsalus, I was left on my own, in charge of this unruly city, without any instructions from Caesar."

  "To be fair, Caesar was trapped inside the royal compound at Alexandria, with no way to send word," I said.

  "For part of that time, yes. But once he'd broken out, and defeated Ptolemy, did he hurry back to Rome? No, he took a leisurely trip up the Nile with Cleopatra. While he was sightseeing and doing who knows what else with the queen, I was facing an angry mob here in Rome, not even knowing whether Caesar was alive or dead! The situation was quite precarious, let me tell you! And Dolabella deliberately made it worse. It wasn't enough that the boy was sleeping with my wife-from whom I am now divorced, thank the gods. Oh, no! Dolabella insisted on promising wholesale debt relief to the poor, saying it was just what Caesar would have wanted. He raised the hopes of the rabble, whipped them to a frenzy, and pitted them against me. Do you know what he called that gathering he organized in the Forum? A demonstration. I called it a riot. If I hadn't ordered my men to restore the peace, there would have been a complete breakdown of order in this city, utter chaos, with looting and murders everywhere. I did what I had to do. But when Caesar finally returned, and heard all the complaints, did he thank me? Did he praise me, reward me? No! He scolded me in public-humiliated me! — and embraced Dolabella, saying what a good, clever boy he was to show such sensitivity to the needs of the poor."

  This was just the kind of spontaneous response I was hoping for. How might I goad him to further candor? I frowned and feigned surprise at his vehemence. I clucked my tongue. "Dolabella, that naughty fellow, sleeping with your Antonia! Presumably he did so behind the back of his own dear wife?"

  "The pathetic Tullia, Cicero's whelp? Dolabella divorced her-after finally getting her pregnant. But don't trick me into saying that cursed name again."

  "What name?" I ventured.

  Antony narrowed his eyes and glared at me, suspicious now that I was deliberately taunting him.

  "Ah, you mean Cicero," I said. "I realize that the two of you have been bitter enemies for a long time. But Caesar saw fit to pardon Cicero, did he not?"

  Antony gritted his teeth. "Yet another example of Caesar's outrageous-" He caught himself. He pinched the bridge of nose, grimaced, turned around, and left without another word.

  "Oh, dear," said Cytheris. "I'm afraid you set him off."

  "I hadn't realized the situation between Antony and Caesar was so delicate."

  "It's not as bad as it sounds, truly." She shook her head. "These headaches he's suffering-they worry me. It's not what you think. It isn't the drinking that causes them. It's the pressure he's under."

  "A man like Antony must have much on his mind."

  "Not enough, these days. That's the problem! These headaches never plague him when he's in the thick of things, having to contain a riot or lead a cavalry charge. It's the idleness afterward that brings them on. It's as if he's still releasing the pressure, after all those months of stress, running the city as Caesar's surrogate, facing one crisis after another, not knowing if Caesar would ever come back. It took a toll on him. Who can blame Antony if all he wants now is to throw parties and drink and sleep until noon?"

  "Who can blame him, indeed?" I said.

  V

  As Rupa and I departed from the House of the Beak
s and made our way back to the Palatine, I experienced a distinct sensation of being followed.

  Over the years I have learned to trust this sensation; it never misleads me. Unfortunately, my skill at spotting a stealthy pursuer has diminished over the years, even as my skill at sensing one has grown more acute. At one point, I asked Rupa to lag behind a bit, to see if we could outstalk my stalker, but the ruse didn't work. I arrived home safely but with the disturbing sensation of having been followed and no idea who had done so or why.

  I retired to the garden, found a shady spot, and resumed my reading of Hieronymus's reports and his private journal. There was little in them to hint at any danger that Antony might pose to Caesar; mostly Hieronymus listed in great detail who attended the parties at the House of the Beaks; what they wore, ate, and drank; and what they gossiped about. After my single interview with them, I could have done a better job of reporting on Antony's state of mind and speculating on any dangerous motivations that might be attributed to Cytheris.

  Hieronymus had uncovered something dangerous enough to get himself killed. It would appear he harbored no particular suspicions of Antony, and yet that very fact raised an alarm. How had Hieronymus put it? "The menace to Caesar will come at a time and from a direction we did not anticipate." To judge by his reports, Hieronymus had not anticipated any menace from Antony and Cytheris-or had he grown suspicious only when it was too late to save himself?

  I scribbled a few of my own notes toward assembling a report to Calpurnia, then skimmed more of the material. Which of Hieronymus's paths should I retrace next?

  I decided to talk to Vercingetorix as soon as possible. In two days, the man would be dead.

  Since his defeat and capture at Alesia six years ago, the former leader of the Gauls had been kept a prisoner. Had the civil war not intervened, Caesar would long ago have staged his Gallic Triumph, and Vercingetorix would be dead. Thus it had been since the earliest days of the Republic: when a victorious Roman general celebrates a triumph, his most prominent captives are paraded in fetters; and at the conclusion of the procession, they are taken to the dungeon chamber called the Tullianum and strangled to death, to the delight of the gods and the glory of Rome.