by Karen Essex
The long colonnade that led to the Curia was lined with dangling balls hanging from coarse ropes. Pedestrians walked right past the odd-looking spheres, occasionally stopping to admire one, or to laugh at it, or to read the inscriptions that rested on podiums below. Curious, the princess quickened her step. She heard the ever-present footsteps of the guards increase their pace behind her.
When she got within a few feet of the spectacle, she stopped, clutching her arm to her stomach. Timon caught her from behind, steadying her and turning her away from the sight. He turned around and said to Auletes and the others, “Your Majesty, please stay back.”
He hugged Kleopatra protectively. “I have become so accustomed to the sight that I have forgotten how horrifying it is to the newcomer,”
The suspended objects were not balls, but human heads—severed heads hung as a reminder to those who conspired against the prevailing powers. The skin had turned a putrid green, the mouths twisted in final cries of anguish, eyes rolled back deep into their sockets. Kleopatra raised herself up and broke free of Timon’s grasp, riveted before a face that could not stare back. Below it was a simple inscription: “Enemy of the State.” Other heads warranted more elaborate anecdotes of their political wrongdoing. Romans continued to walk right past, paying no attention to either the Greek princess or the grotesque sight. It was as if the withering heads were part of a mosaic they had seen many times. Only the occasional curiosity-seeker stopped to read the accounts of the crimes posted beneath the dismembered body part.
None of these heads had belonged to bodies of foreigners. Each had been a Roman, proscribed and executed by a fellow Roman when the political tide had turned against him. This was not a new strategy, Timon said. Heads had been hanging in the Forum for over one hundred years, and over the same issues.
“In the old days, every Roman from the richest to the poorest was a farmer. A simple man who arose early and worked late into the day at his land. Now every Roman believes he should live like a king and have a king’s power, too. These are the men who failed in that pursuit, or who interfered with the plans of others.”
“I have seen enough,” Auletes said. “Please take us back to our quarters.” Auletes let Timon and the guard walk ahead. “How can these people intercede in our affairs?” the king hissed to his daughter and his mistress. “Look at the mess they’ve made of their own nation.”
“It is a puzzle, Father. They wish to rule the world, but they cannot even rule themselves. What will be the end of it?”
“No word from home. No word from Demetrius. And Rome sends not one man in the direction of Egypt to help us. Not one man. We are living on borrowed money in this place that the gods seemed to have abandoned to madmen. What will become of us, my child?”
Kleopatra did not answer. What might she, a girl of twelve, do that a king could not do? Auletes sighed heavily as he stepped into the carriage, which tipped toward the princess as her father’s weight shook its balance. She recoiled, hoping that the king’s bulk would not cause the carriage to topple upon her, crushing her to death in this strange and jeopardous city.
THIRTEEN
Caesar threw back his head and laughed. The senate, he reflected, was like the male organ: flaccid and strong, hard and soft, aggressive and retreating. Rigid and shriveled. Presently, it had two testicles—Cato and Cicero. Caesar had successfully removed one. Now the other must follow so that castration would be complete.
He was alone in his quarters in Cisalpine Gaul—not so far from Rome that it was not constantly on his mind—where he had encamped to make sure that things in Rome went his way before he was too far away to do anything about it, should the political tide turn against him. Eight legions under his command, within a two-day march of the city, would encourage Fortune to remain on his side.
He lay back in the pony-hair recliner that had been carried from the capital for his use. Normally not one for luxury, he liked the way the soft coat felt against his neck and the back of his arms and legs after a long day of work. He rested his body and thought about Cicero. Cicero was basically all talk, but what talk it was. How beautifully executed and impassioned those vitriolic speeches. And how often had he turned his gift for speech and for derision against his friend Caesar. Cicero’s passionate verbosity bolstered the courage of the senators who were opposed to Caesar, making them feel stronger, braver, and more willing to oppose Caesar than they really were. Therefore, Cicero must go, at least for a time.
“It has to be a temporary measure,” he had told Clodius on his last day in Rome. “I do not wish him any lasting harm, despite his faults.”
“He does have those,” agreed Clodius, who did not have Caesar’s affection for the old man. “Vanity never had a better friend. Politically, he hops from side to side like children at a game of rope. His gift for invective exceeds all his other qualities. And he simply will not shut up, even when I tell him to do so.”
“I have to admit that all that is true, but, well, I love the old thing.” Cicero had so helped Caesar with the composition he was writing on Latin grammar that he intended to dedicate the work to him. He did not approve of Cicero’s rather florid writing style; it was so out of date. But it had its own beauty, as things of the past often did. As far as Caesar was concerned, there were but two minds in Rome large enough to hold the subtleties of politics, philosophy, art, literature, science, and rhetoric all at once, and to be expert in each of those aspects of study—his and Cicero’s. Of course, Cicero’s talents did not expand to the other arena of Caesar’s genius, the military. But no matter. He had been brave enough when called upon by his country. Now he would pay for that bravery, but not too dearly. In happier times sure to come, Caesar would make certain that Cicero survived, even thrived, once more.
“What shall it be?” Caesar had asked. “Do you have a plan?”
“Let this be my little surprise, darling. My birthday gift to you. It’s the least I can do for your patronage,” Clodius said with his usual impish twinkle. Caesar could hardly wait.
Clodius had been a marvelous investment. Not once had Caesar regretted what he did to put the man into the position of power he now held, the Tribune of the People. He recalled Clodius’s surprise when Caesar informed him that he would get him elected to the office, which was not open to members of the nobility—indeed, had been created to protect the plebeian class from the senate’s absolute authority.
“How do you propose that I run for tribune, Julius, when my name is as old and as patrician as yours?”
“Well, it’s the only way you’ll be able to veto the senate,” replied Caesar. “It simply has to be done. Besides, the lower classes absolutely adore you. It won’t be a problem.”
For once Caesar had beaten Clodius at his own game, concocting a scheme that even Clodius had to admit exceeded his genius. As Pontifex Maximus, the religious authority of Rome, Caesar arranged for Clodius to be legally adopted by a plebeian. In itself, that was not so much a feat; how many of their noble peers had adopted adult sons to procure an heir? The scandal was that the adoptive father chosen was still a juvenile, and both tradition and the law insisted the father be at least eighteen years older than the adopted son. But the boy was all Caesar could scare up in time for the ceremony. The senate protested the audacity, but they could not overrule Caesar in the matter. He had sprung it on them so quickly that they were unprepared to do anything but watch agape as thirty-year-old Clodius became the son of a boy who had yet to grow a beard. Caesar and Clodius worked together like an Olympic relay team. And now, even though he was in Gaul and such a long distance from the locus of Roman politics, he, Julius Caesar, the aristocrat cum man of the people, would still be in control, thanks to his man in Rome, Clodius.
Caesar was relieved to be away. He had feared he would never be able to leave Rome, what with the senate’s incessant investigations into his actions. Never weary of talk, talk, talk, the senate had held a three-day debate on whether Caesar’s legislation the year before ha
d been passed legally. It was tiresome, and finally he got irritated and told them to sort it out themselves. He had a province to govern—a province where tribes were at war with one another and would soon turn on Rome if he did not subdue them at once.
“You are like old women, Senators,” he told them. Like old women, but without that canny wisdom crones acquire once past the hope of arousing the lusts of men.
Once Caesar and his legions marched out of the gates of Rome and toward Gaul, Clodius, on Caesar’s behalf, acted with a ferocity and a speed that left them entirely at his and Caesar’s mercy—a quality cultivated by Caesar but missing entirely from Clodius’s quirky character. Clodius organized the masses who had come to Rome to take advantage of the free offerings of corn. He united these disparate nationalities of men—these vagabonds with no purpose save putting a little bread on the table—into Neighborhood Associations. Within a month, they had control over every precinct in the city. A prodigy, thought Caesar. An equal.
“We’re going to go after Pompey next,” Clodius had said.
“In that you must be extremely careful. After all, he is my ally and my son-in-law,” Caesar said. “I do not wish to alienate Pompey.” At least not yet.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Clodius had said cheerily before Caesar left. “They’ll all blame me. You shan’t even be here. How could anyone blame you?”
Caesar was barely outside the city limits when Clodius incited a crowd outside the Forum to harangue Pompey as he judged cases. Pompey was so surprised that he left the Forum. Then Clodius let Pompey’s conquered enemy Tigranes out of prison and made him a drinking pal. Caesar knew how irritating this must be to Pompey, for Pompey was terribly proud of the foreign leaders he had imprisoned in the capital.
As a final blow, Clodius sent an armed slave into the senate who attempted to murder Pompey. It was a false assassination attempt; no one wished Pompey dead. But believing he had barely escaped harm, Pompey retreated to his villa in the Alban Hills. Now Caesar was informed that he refused to leave it. He had abdicated all responsibility—he, whom the senate considered their greatest weapon.
Caesar could not quite figure Pompey. His accomplishments rivaled Alexander’s: He had conquered Sicily, Africa, and the east; the former two, practically before he had grown a full beard. He was the world’s most feared man, certainly more widely feared than Caesar. He had defeated the venerable tyrant Mithridates, who had conducted a campaign of military terror against Rome for generations. He was rich, he was powerful, he was handsome to the point of intimidation, and the world hailed him Magnus. Yet, according to Clodius’s letters, Pompey spent his days lingering in his fruit grove, paralyzed by Clodius’s acts of terror against him, claiming that he was a private citizen, that Clodius was an elected armed tribune, and that he was powerless to move against him. In the end, Caesar wondered if Pompey had a slight disorder of character.
A great man, Caesar thought, but a limited man. Pompey required a person of power like Sulla, or a body of power like the senate, to motivate him. He possessed leadership qualities, but he lacked the independent initiative of someone like Caesar. Pompey and those of his ilk believed that something had to motivate power, something tangible like a document or a system of government or an army. They did not understand what Caesar understood: that power was its own animator, its own genius. For those who understood its essence, power could simply be summoned. All else fell within its sway, and the flood tide soon followed.
Caesar had one other concern. He had sent a strong letter to Clodius reminding him that his daughter Julia resided at the villa with Pompey. “I am making her personal safety your responsibility,” Caesar had said. He let Clodius have free reign because he knew how the man thrilled to these public displays of bullying. But he had his limits. Clodius, sensing this, wrote back with urgency that the girl Julia was safe and would always be so as long as he, Clodius, breathed the air of Rome. Pompey was quite obsessed with the girl and spent his days indoors, not only to avoid Clodius, but also to enjoy the affections of his spry young wife.
How long had it been since he, Caesar, had allowed himself to be distracted from duty by a lover? When he was very young, the king Nikomedes had so intrigued him with the luxuries of a foreign court that, for a time, he forgot all ambition and functioned as a Greek love toy to His Majesty. That ended soon enough. There were others. Servilia in the beginning, when she was young and full of greedy appetites, before she became such an accomplished schemer. His first wife, Cornelia, to be sure. A woman of deep desire, but devoid of artifice. Unusual. He had not witnessed it again in a female, outside the odd provincial, too ignorant or too hopeless to indulge in ambition. A boy here and there, but it never lasted past a day or two. Pompeia. Sometimes he missed her velvety cries in the middle of the night. He imagined Clodius did, too. But to preserve their alliance they had both needed to relinquish her joys.
It had been a very long time since he had allowed himself to be distracted as Pompey was doing at this moment with his daughter. And it would be a very long time until he would again be able to be free for such dalliance. There was so much to do.
Caesar reached down and picked up the most recent missive from Clodius.
… I believe you are going to have trouble with the exiled Egyptian King. The king cannot repay his debts unless he can get back into his country, and Rabirius is in a tizzy about it. Rabirius visits the king often to see about his money, but the king’s solution is to borrow even more. He keeps telling Rabirius that he must use his influence to get someone, anyone, to act on their behalf. Then Rabirius comes to me. You know how he is, I cannot shut him up and so avoid his company when possible.
At some point, perhaps you should march into Egypt yourself. I know it would be highly irregular, but I believe there would be quite a lot in it for you. Perhaps you should make the offer to the king while Pompey hesitates. I hear he is out of his mind with Pompey’s indecision. I have made it known to him that he may call upon me for assistance, which would drive Pompey mad!
The information gathered thus far is from my man on the inside at Pompey’s. But he is afraid to be found out and wishes to be relieved of his duties. I fear I have overpaid him and he no longer wishes to disguise himself as a servant.
I have a very busy day ahead, darling, but you will hear from me shortly. It never ends. More later. P. C. P.
“My good friend,” began Auletes. “May we speak in earnest?”
Kleopatra cringed, turning her head away from the table and staring at a small fish darting about aimlessly in the fountain. Her father was going to humiliate himself once again and attempt to solicit Pompey’s aid in ousting Thea. They sat in the atrium eating a late afternoon snack of fresh fruits from the gardens and drinking wine from murrine cups that Pompey had confiscated from the tent of Mithridates. Pompey did not answer the king, but elbowed Kleopatra to retrieve her attention, pointing to the fawn in the forest scene painted on his delicate piece of plunder, “They say I could get twenty thousand apiece for these on the open market.”
“You must be tiring of our company. Do you not think we should make a plan to remove my wife from the throne?” asked the king. “As much as we are grateful for your hospitality, surely you are ready to help us return to our own country?”
“Let me slice you a mango,” said Pompey. He cut a thick piece of juicy orange fruit for the king and fed it to him with his own fingers. Probably to shut him up, thought Kleopatra. “Have you tried the varieties of grape?” he asked.
Auletes, mouth stuffed, shook his head.
“The politics of helping you are complex, my friend,” said Pompey. “Very complex indeed. I require your patience.”
Pompey’s Greek houseman walked briskly into the room. “Sir, the guards at the gate have informed me that a guest approaches. I’m afraid it’s the orator, Cicero, sir.”
“Great gods. What does he want? Why did someone not warn me that he was coming?”
“I just received word
, sir. He will arrive within the half hour.”
“A man of such fame,” said the king. “My daughter has read all his published speeches. In the Latin, of course. She is very learned, you know.”
“My friend, I am afraid that Cicero comes on unpleasant business,” said Pompey, twisting uncomfortably in his chair. “You see, in January, the Tribune of the People, Publius Clodius Pulcher, passed a piece of legislation that makes our noble Cicero a criminal.”
“You must explain this to me, my friend, because my government is very different from yours. We do not change our laws so frequently,” said the king.
“But Cicero is beloved in Rome, is he not?” asked Kleopatra. She was intrigued to know why the orator’s arrival made Pompey so terribly nervous. Were they not old allies?
“Many years ago, when Cicero was consul, there was an uprising in Rome, led by a man named Catiline. Many say he plotted an attempt to overthrow the entire government, and Cicero claimed to have special evidence of his guilt. Cicero had the conspirators arrested and executed.”
“As he should,” said Auletes pointedly. “Rebels must be put down. My wife, for instance.”
Ignoring him, Pompey continued. “But Cicero neglected to hold a trial. For this, he came under harsh criticism from some, while others supported him and hailed him as Savior of his Country, a name he never tires of hearing. He is very vain, you know.”
“But why is he indicted so many years later?” asked Kleopatra.
“Clodius is not very fond of Cicero. He wrote legislation making it illegal to execute any Roman without a trial, and he made it retroactive, specifically so that he might incriminate Cicero and have grounds to get rid of him. Such are the times we live in.” Pompey spoke slowly and indifferently, like a historian delivering a history lecture about a long-lost era rather than an active participant in the politics of the day.
