The Triumph Of Caesar rsr-12

by Steven Saylor

  I refrained from saying any of this. Uncle Gnaeus's boasting was merely a distraction. Calpurnia wanted to know whether Cleopatra or Arsinoe posed any threat to her husband. Hieronymus's notes on his visits were worthless in this regard. I had to rely on my own observations and instincts.

  "It's my belief that the Queen of Egypt came to Rome with one goal in mind: to persuade Caesar to acknowledge her son as his offspring."

  "Something he will never do!" said Calpurnia. "For one thing, the child isn't Caesar's. Porsenna has studied the matter."

  "Is that right?" I said.

  The haruspex smiled. "I managed to obtain a few strands of the boy's hair, never mind how. I performed a sacrifice. When the hair and the entrails of the sacrificial beast were burned, the pattern of the smoke clearly indicated that the child has no Roman blood whatsoever. The science of haruspicy is never wrong in such matters."

  "It's probably the whelp of that lackey of hers, the one who toted her about inside a carpet," said Uncle Gnaeus. "Any woman who would resort to such an indignity would probably allow even a servant to have his way with her."

  I doubted this. If there was anything Cleopatra took seriously, it was the dignity of her person. For a woman who considered herself a goddess, copulation was a serious and sacred matter. "Is Caesar aware of the results of this divination?"

  Calpurnia made a face. "Caesar does not always accord sufficient importance to the ancient ways of knowing."

  "He observes the rituals, but he lacks true understanding." Uncle Gnaeus shook his head.

  "Enough, Uncle!" said Calpurnia sharply. "Now is not the time to discuss Caesar's deficiencies in matters of religious insight. Let the Finder finish his report."

  "As I said, the queen came to Rome hoping to establish her son's legitimacy. She hoped tomorrow's triumph might celebrate that event. Her intentions have been thwarted. I think she misunderstood how the Roman people might react to such an announcement. I think she misunderstood the true nature of a Roman triumph. Caesar corrected her mistaken viewpoints."

  "What does she intend to do now?" said Calpurnia.

  "Cleopatra is a pragmatic woman-pragmatic enough to hide in a carpet if it serves her purpose. But she's also tremendously willful. I wouldn't want to disappoint her. I certainly wouldn't want to be her enemy."

  "And is Caesar, having disappointed her, now her enemy?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps you should ask Caesar what he thinks. I'm much more certain about the feelings of Princess Arsinoe. I have no doubt that she would do away with both Caesar and Cleopatra, if she possibly could."

  "But how could she do such a thing?"

  "Does Arsinoe have allies in the city? With your network of agents, you're more likely to know that than I am, Calpurnia."

  "But what is your feeling about these Egyptians, Finder? What does your instinct tell you?"

  What a question, from the once hardheaded Calpurnia! Had she entirely abandoned cold logic and deduction in favor of divination and intuition?

  I sighed. "Here is what I think. Cleopatra almost certainly could kill Caesar if she wanted to, but she probably doesn't. Arsinoe would kill him without hesitation if she could, but she almost certainly can't."

  "Then Caesar will survive tomorrow's triumph?" Calpurnia looked at her uncle, then at the haruspex, and finally at me. She was demanding reassurance.

  "I have no reason to think otherwise," I said, and prayed to Fortuna that I was right.

  Rupa and I crossed the Palatine at twilight. The streets were almost deserted. For many people, this had been a day to recover from the festivities of the Gallic Triumph and to rest up for the next day's Egyptian Triumph. The only people stirring were slaves on ladders outside houses, setting torches in sconces to light the doorways and illuminate patches of the street.

  We rounded a corner. My house came into sight, a little way down the winding street. A small company of armed lictors was standing outside my door. Rupa gripped my arm to alert me.

  "Yes, I see them, Rupa. Lictors at the door-never a good sign." I tried to keep my tone light, but my heart was pounding.

  The nearer we drew, the bigger the lictors appeared. Every one of them was half a head taller than Rupa and considerably broader. Veritable giants, they were; quite possibly Gauls, I thought, next to whom the Romans are a little people. Gallic senators, Gallic lictors-one of the chief complaints one heard against Caesar nowadays was that he had infested the city with Gauls. He had exterminated the Gauls who opposed him-Vercingetorix was presumably the last-and those who remained were loyal only to Caesar. Or were they? Everywhere I looked now, I sought threats to Caesar. Could even his own lictors be trusted?

  But more to the point: what were the dictator's bodyguards doing outside my house?

  As I approached the door, never breaking my stride, one of the men stepped forward to block my way.

  "Remove yourself," I said, trying to keep my voice from quavering. "My name is Gordianus. I am a citizen. This is my house."

  The man nodded. He looked at Rupa warily, but stepped aside.

  Even as I reached toward the door, it swung open. There before me, framed by the doorway, stood Caesar himself.

  I had not seen him face-to-face since our time together in Alexandria, where he had grown sleek and tan beneath the Egyptian sun. Now he looked thin and pale, almost as pale as his toga, and there was more gray than I remembered amid the scant hair on his head. For just an instant, I saw his face unguarded. The mouth was turned down, the eyes slightly vacant, the brow furrowed; he looked like a man with many worries. In the next instant he saw me, and his face was transformed by a beaming smile.

  "Gordianus! Just the man I've come to see. They told me you were out and didn't know when to expect you. I waited for a while anyway. How blessedly peaceful it is in your quaint little garden. I was about to leave-but here you are!"

  "Yes. Here I am."

  "And who's that, behind you? Ah, yes, Rupa. I remember him from Alexandria."

  "Those were memorable days, Dictator."

  Caesar laughed. "No need to address me formally, Gordianus. We've been through too much together."

  "Nonetheless, I am a Roman citizen, and you are my dictator. The office is a venerable one, is it not? Our ancestors created the dictatorship so that strong men could save the state in times of peril. The short list of citizens who have held the office is most distinguished."

  His smile twisted at one corner. "The dictatorship was tarnished by Sulla, to be sure. Hopefully, I can burnish it to its former luster in the hearts of the Roman people. Well, now that you're here, perhaps you might invite me to rest a bit longer in your garden."

  "Of course, Dictator. If your lictors will allow me to pass."

  In fact, no one was really blocking my way, but at a nod from Caesar, the lictors all drew back. Caesar himself stepped aside to make way for me.

  Bethesda, Diana, and Davus were standing in the vestibule. Mopsus and Androcles lurked behind them. Everyone looked stiff and uncomfortable; apparently they had just bade Caesar a formal farewell. As I passed, allowing Caesar to precede me, Diana whispered in my ear, "What in Hades does he want with you, Papa?"

  I answered her with a shrug, since I had no idea. Unless, of course, he was aware of his wife's activities and was about to tell me what he thought of my investigations on Calpurnia's behalf.

  Lamps had been lit in the house, but the garden was growing dark. I told Rupa to fetch some lights, but Caesar shook his head.

  "No need for that, Gordianus. I don't mind the darkness, if you don't. It's rather pleasant like this, smelling the jasmine and the roses in the warm twilight."

  We sat in chairs facing each other. In the gloaming, I found it difficult to make out his expression. Perhaps he liked it that way. It occurred to me that he must grow weary of being constantly scrutinized by others eager to read his thoughts and intentions.

  And then my heart gave a lurch and my mouth turned dry, for it suddenly struck me that Caesa
r might have come with news of Meto. Had something occurred in Spain, where the scattered remnants of Caesar's enemies were said to be gathering in hopes of mounting yet another challenge to his supremacy? I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could still my racing heart. Surely Caesar would not have greeted me with such a beaming smile if he had come to deliver bad news…

  I must have muttered Meto's name aloud, for Caesar smiled again-I could see that, even in the gloaming-and said the name back to me. "Meto-ah, yes, dear Meto. How I miss that boy! And so must you. Of course, he's hardly a boy anymore, is he?"

  "He turned thirty-three in Quinctilis," I said, my mouth dry.

  "That's right! Do you know, I think I forgot to send him a greeting. A bit late to do so now, even belatedly. I wish he could be here now, but his service in Spain is too important. I need men there I can trust, and your son's devotion to me is truly a gift from the gods."

  I relaxed. He had not come with bad news, after all. "I'm surprised you can spare a thought for such trivialities as birthdays. You must have so many things on your mind."

  "Indeed I do. Which is why I completely forgot about you yesterday, Gordianus."

  "But why should you have thought of me at all, Dictator?"

  He clucked his tongue, to chide me for my insistent formality. "Because of Meto, of course. Your son should have been with me yesterday, to celebrate the Gallic Triumph. He was with me everywhere in Gaul, at practically every moment. He was always there, always ready and eager to receive my dictation, sometimes in the middle of the night."

  I cleared my throat. Meto and I had never explicitly discussed his relationship with Caesar, but I had long assumed that my son had been receptive to more than Caesar's dictation. Their intimacy was none of my business, of course, and at any rate it seemed to have cooled with the passing years, as such affairs almost invariably do. As for their relationship as author and amanuensis, according to Meto, he himself had written a large part of Caesar's memoirs of the Gallic campaign, taking his imperator's raw notes and fleshing them into prose, with Caesar merely amending and approving a final version before it was copied and disseminated.

  Caesar's expression became impossible to read in the darkness, but the politician's bluffness fell away from his voice. His tone was wistful. "Can I speak to you candidly, Gordianus? To call Meto my loyal secretary is to make light of what he's meant to me over the years. Meto has fought for me, spied for me, even risked his life for me, not once but many times. He was there with me in Gaul, and at Pharsalus, and in Alexandria; he was with me in Asia and Africa. He should have been here for all my triumphs. Instead, he's on a vital mission in Spain, which is only further testament to his unflagging loyalty."

  Caesar sighed. "Meto has seen me at my best-and at my worst. Over the years, I've learned to trust him, to take off my armor in his presence, so to speak-not an easy thing for an old warrior to do. He's as close to me as a son-yet in no way have I ever presumed that I could take the place of his father."

  "Meto is not of my blood. I adopted him."

  "And yet you are as surely Meto's father as if you had made him yourself. I envy you that, Gordianus-having a son, especially a son like Meto."

  "Does Caesar have no son?" I thought of Cleopatra.

  He was silent for a long moment. "That… is a complicated question. Ironic, isn't it? One man produces a son-at long last! — yet hesitates to call himself the boy's father, while another man adopts a boy not of his blood and becomes a father in every way that matters to gods and mortals."

  Caesarion was his son, then-or so he believed. Caesar breathed deeply. "Do you know, this is the first time I've come to a complete halt in… well, I have no idea how long it's been! I can't relax like this in my own garden. Servants are always hovering, supplicants are in the vestibule, senators are at the door, my wife is forever fussing and fretting over me…"

  "Your wife?" Did he know of Calpurnia's fears and the divinations of her haruspex?

  "Calpurnia, the old dear. No man could have asked for a better wife in wartime. While I was away from the city, Calpurnia did everything necessary to see that my home was well run. She watched the other women of Rome with a careful eye; she made sure that any conspiracies against me came to nothing. There is the world of the bloody battlefield, and there is the world of the hearth and the loom, and any war-especially a civil war-must be waged in both arenas. Calpurnia was my commander for the home front, and she conducted herself brilliantly.

  "But now that the peace has been won…" He shook his head. "She's become a different woman. She fills her head with superstitious nonsense. She pesters me with dreams and portents. I wonder if it's not the influence of that crazy uncle of hers. Gnaeus Calpurnius is always in the house these days. The old fellow's a priest, and takes himself very seriously-so proud of his descent from King Numa!"

  I nodded, and considered the irony that the master of the world should be so unaware of events in his own household. From what I had observed, Uncle Gnaeus disapproved of his niece's obsession with the "superstitious nonsense" fostered by the haruspex Porsenna, of whom Caesar appeared to know nothing.

  He laughed softly. "But why am I telling you all this? It must be that gift you possess."

  "Gift?"

  "Your special gift-the power to compel the truth from others. Cicero warned me about it a long time ago. Catilina said the same thing-do you remember him? — and Meto confirmed it. The gift of Gordianus-that must be what's loosened my tongue. Or perhaps… perhaps I'm just tired."

  The moon had risen above the roofline. Its blue light gleamed on Caesar's bald pate. He turned his face upward into the moonbeam, and I saw that his eyes were closed. He fell silent and breathed so deeply that I thought he might have fallen asleep, until he sighed and spoke again.

  "Ah, but I've strayed from the point of my visit. I wanted to give you this."

  He produced a thin, square token carved from bone. I took it from him. Squinting under the moonlight, I saw there was a letter and a number painted on it.

  "What's this, Dictator? What does 'F XII' refer to?"

  "It's the section reserved for you and your family in the viewing stands. I'm told the seats are quite good. They're rather high up, but that's what you want for a spectacle, isn't it? A bit of distance? You wouldn't want to be too close; you're not the sort to make a rush at the captives as they pass or to bait the exotic animals. Just show that token to the usher, and he'll lead you and your family to your seats. They're reserved for tomorrow's triumph, and for the next two triumphs as well."

  "This is for Meto's sake?"

  "Because Meto cannot be here, yes, I'll honor Meto's father and family in his stead. But you deserve a seat on your own merits, Gordianus, at least for tomorrow's Egyptian Triumph. You were there in Alexandria, after all. You witnessed history in the making. Now you can witness the celebration."

  I began to object, but Caesar silenced me with a gesture. "No, don't thank me! You've earned this favor, Gordianus. It's the least I can do." He stood and straightened his toga. "I meant to ask: did you manage to find good seats for the Gallic Triumph on your own?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. There's a little ledge at Lucullus's Temple of Fortuna that affords a good view of the route."

  "Ah, yes." He nodded, then his face grew long. "If you were at the Temple of Fortuna, then you must have seen the… unexpected interruption."

  "When the axle of the chariot broke? Yes. But I thought you handled it very well. The episode provided a bit of relief from all that grandiose formality. Your soldiers must love you very much indeed to think they can tease you so mercilessly."

  "Yes," he said, his tone a bit cool. "A funny thing, that-the axle breaking. When we examined it later, it appeared almost as if someone had tampered with it."

  "Tampered?"

  "Caused it to break intentionally. It looked to me as if the wood had been partially sawed through. But it was impossible to be sure, the way the wood had splintered."

 
"Sabotage? But who would have done such a thing?"

  He shook his head. "It was probably a simple accident, after all. And now I really must be going. Calpurnia becomes especially worried if I'm not home after dark."

  I accompanied him through the house and into the vestibule, where the family still gathered, suspending their normal activities as long as the dictator was among us. Diana nudged Davus, who nudged Mopsus, who gave his little brother a kick. Androcles rushed to open the door, and Caesar, his thoughts now elsewhere, departed without another word.

  The family gathered around me. While they peppered me with questions, I peered at the token in the palm of my hand. I would have preferred to stay at home the next day, avoiding the Egyptian Triumph altogether, but now that Caesar himself had gone to the effort to present this gift to me, I could hardly be absent. On the morrow, I would have an excellent view of the princess Arsinoe and her minister Ganymedes as they took their final walk on this earth.

  XIII

  Bethesda was quite pleased when I showed her the token Caesar had given me and explained what it was good for. Such signs of favor from a social superior always seemed to matter to her far more than they did to me, perhaps because of her origins. She had been born a foreigner and a slave; now she was a Roman matron and proud of it, despite clinging to certain foreign ways.

  My own attitude toward the elite and the favors they could bestow was more problematical. Though born a Roman, I had realized from an early age that I would never become one of the so-called nobilitas, "those who are known" for having won public office; I never expected even to be allowed into the homes of such people. Now, after a lifetime of serving them, I was still not the sort of person they cared to invite to dinner. Rome's noble families are few in number and they closely guard their privileges, though outsiders of exceptional ability and ambition can occasionally join their ranks; Cicero was the prime example of such a New Man, the first of the Tullius family to be elected to office and set upon the Course of Honor in the quest to become consul for a year.