by Jodi Taylor
Eventually, however, after seemingly endless lurching, we arrived. Either that or one or more of our carriers had passed out. However, there was no shouting or screaming – always a good sign – and the chair was lowered to the ground with only a slight bump. Van Owen sighed and straightened her tiara – again.
I pulled my palla around me as protection against the bright sunshine and the contaminating glances of the hoi polloi, and with as much dignity as we could muster, we disembarked.
Peterson paid the chairmen a small sum and instructed them to wait. Because we never meant to go in. As we all strove to make clear to Dr Bairstow in our subsequent reports – we never meant to go in, sir. We didn’t think they’d let us in, even if we wanted to. Which we didn’t. The plan was that we would stand around outside, mingling with those around us, identify those coming and going, hopefully catch a glimpse of mighty Caesar himself, judge the mood of the crowd, and return to the pod. Maybe doing it all again tomorrow until we had what we wanted. Honestly, Dr Bairstow, we never meant to go in.
I stood in the warm sunshine and under the guise of adjusting the graceful folds of my costume, took surreptitious stock of our surroundings. Guthrie and Markham were checking out the crowds – and crowds there were, milling around all over the street, hoping to gain entrance eventually and present their petitions. Van Owen and Peterson were listening to what was being said and trying to put names to faces, and I was scanning the property.
It looked a nice little piece of real estate. I saw a smallish villa with its entrance set back a little way between two flanking shops – a leather worker on one side and a wine-seller on the other. Given the rough nature of the neighbourhood – this was far from being the best address in town – Caesar’s affection for his first wife and her property must have been considerable.
The villa’s wooden doors were thrown open as a gesture of hospitality, but two enormous, shaven-headed, surly-looking door wardens sat at each side, arms folded, ready to deal with potential trouble-makers. They were big and they were solid and looked about as light-hearted as scrofula.
I knew the property had come to Caesar through his first wife, Cornelia Cinna. By all accounts, she was the love of his life. He married again after her death – in fact, his current wife, Calpurnia Pisonis was his third, but he’d never left this villa, bringing all his wives here. Not simultaneously, obviously. And now, obviously not a man who knew when to stop, he’d installed his mistress as well.
I felt a certain sympathy for Calpurnia Pisonis, living in the shadow of the first wife and now having to share her home with the most flamboyant and famous woman in the ancient world. Every man has a mistress, but they’re usually installed in a discreet set of rooms in a discreet part of town. He does not brazenly hold court with her as all Rome traipses in and out, ostensibly to pay their respects, but in reality, of course, to have a good gawk, suss out what’s going on, and report back to their wives. Which, admittedly was exactly why we were here as well, but we were carrying out important historical research, not just being nosey. An important distinction. However, as is so often the case with St Mary’s, events were about to spiral out of our control.
Because we never meant to go in …
We stood in a tight little group, causing no trouble at all and not attracting attention in any way, when a body slipped out from behind the door wardens and approached us. We agreed afterwards that it was probably because we had women in our party – the throng outside were exclusively male. And, quite honestly, if you didn’t know us, you would have agreed we were the last word in Roman respectability.
Seeing a man draw near, I stepped behind Peterson. Never speak if you can get a man to do it for you. It also serves as a useful basis for recriminations afterwards when it all goes pear-shaped.
Anyway, he was a shortish man and stockily built. Greek I suspected, especially with that beard. He carried a tablet and stylus and I decided he was a secretary, as many Greek slaves often are.
He was enquiring, quite civilly, as to our business this morning.
Peterson took a chance.
‘I am Decimus Aelius Sura. This is Rupilia Euphemia. We have recently returned to Rome from the country and wish to pay our respects to the lady of the house, Calpurnia Pisonis. However, should this not be convenient, we can call another day.’
Plainly not expecting to be granted access, he was already stepping backwards, but the Greek had other ideas. He spoke briefly and gestured towards the open doorway. Apparently, we were being invited to step inside to pay our respects to the lady of the house, and which lady of the house that would be remained to be seen.
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ said Peterson, softly, offering me his arm as we were escorted past the door wardens, neither of whom looked particularly impressed by us. Scylla on one hand and Charybdis on the other.
Van Owen fell in quietly behind me and Guthrie and Markham brought up the rear. I made sure to walk slowly, leaning heavily on an ebony cane that could so easily become a weapon, should the need arise.
We advanced with dignity through the vestibule and paused in the entrance to the atrium. I remembered I was a highborn Roman matriarch and didn’t gape, but it was a close thing.
Appearances, as I am continually learning, can be deceptive. This small villa, so nondescript from the outside, was beautifully appointed and decorated with taste and style.
Ahead of me, the traditional small pool with fountain bubbled cheerfully, to cool and refresh during the hot summer months. Around the edges of the atrium, doors opened into small offices – alae – in which I could see clerks and scribes bustling back and forth. Caesar was an important man – soon to be even more important if his plans succeeded (which they wouldn’t), and his clerical infrastructure was already in place.
A small shrine venerating the household gods stood in a niche on the right-hand wall. Frescos of running lions decorated the walls. The paint looked fresh. I wondered if these decorations dated from his first wife’s time and were simply renewed every couple of years.
The place was packed. Groups of men stood around, discussing politics, finance, and their favoured chariot teams: all the things men talk about. You could easily substitute football for gladiators and business suits for togas: nothing changes.
With a polite murmur, our guide disappeared. I squinted at the floor mosaics, trying to trace a line of superb leaping dolphins around the outside of the floor and then craned my neck to admire the view through the atrium across to the peristyle garden. Even this was crowded, with more groups of men sitting on benches and standing on flowerbeds, crushing the delicate plants even before they had time to flower.
I wondered how Calpurnia felt about this invasion of her privacy. Her house, the traditional setting for a Roman woman, was certainly no longer her home. The foreign woman had seen to that. Left to herself she might well have been happy playing hostess to her famous husband’s parties, running his affairs during his long absences, working quietly behind the scenes for his good. This was a matron’s accepted role, but now he stood, one foot poised, ready to rule the known world as Dictator Perpetuo of Rome. A king in everything but name. However, a king needs a queen and she must surely know that that queen would never be her. How did she feel?
I was about to find out.
The Greek was returning and he was not alone.
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Peterson. ‘Talk about stepping into the lions’ den.’
He was right. Dr Bairstow was going to go ballistic. Except for one or two notable exceptions, we usually try to keep our heads down. We don’t mix with the great and good. We linger discreetly in the background, observing, documenting, and surviving.
On the other hand, no one here was armed. The gathering was purely social with everyone busy eating and drinking at their host’s expense. Caesar wasn’t here. Cleopatra wasn’t here. We’d meet Calpurnia, compliment her on her lovely home, and withdraw. What could go wrong?
Where to begin?
‘Rupilia Euphemia! I heard you had returned to Rome after your stay in the country. How pleasant to see you again.’
I inclined my head graciously. She couldn’t possibly know me. Was she just exercising her undoubted social skills? I suspected something else. I suspected she was very fed up with being ignored in her own home. None of these people here today were anything to do with her. But now, suddenly, here we were, unexceptional guests of impeccable lineage who had called to see her – Calpurnia Pisonis – a person in her own right.
I couldn’t blame her. She had ten or fifteen men trampling her garden, twice that number cluttering up the atrium, ten times that number besieging her front door, and her household slaves were going frantic trying to serve refreshments to everyone … I was suddenly thoughtful, but that was for later. Concentrate on the now.
And concentrate we did, because before I could say a word, two enormous black men, oiled, glistening, and clad in leopard skins, strode into the atrium and took up a position in the tabulinum – the open office area between the atrium and the garden. Another two Nubians transported a huge golden chair. No – not a chair – a throne. If the over-ornate and tasteless decorations themselves weren’t a big enough clue, then the carved arms representing golden sphinxes gave the game way. The cushions were of gold and Egyptian lapis lazuli blue. There were a lot of them and they were probably needed. I’ve never sat on a throne myself, but they all look hideously uncomfortable to me. I’m obviously not cut out to be a princess. Stick a pea in my bed and far from having a bruised princess, you’d just have a squashed pea.
All around us, voices died in mid sentence. Beside me, Peterson groped for my hand and squeezed. He was the calmest man I knew – not difficult at St Mary’s where the word volatile doesn’t even begin to describe most of us – and for him, this was the equivalent of screaming hysterics.
Cleopatra was coming!
Glancing at our hostess, I could see she was less than entranced at the imminent arrival of supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world, and this was where it all started to go wrong.
In my defence, I can only say that I’m an historian. And human. Probably in that order. I could have kept my attention on my hostess for just a little longer. I could have exchanged a few words with her, perhaps. It would have been the polite and respectful thing to do, but I didn’t.
I craned my neck to see Cleopatra’s entrance. Just as everyone else was doing. I even took a few steps to one side of a better view. Then, too late, I remembered Calpurnia Pisonis and looked around. She was gone. I forgot her immediately.
I’ve always been in two minds about Cleopatra VII Thea Philopator. My first thought was – bloody hell, she’s ugly!
Because she was. Her nose was out of all proportion to the rest of her face. I spared a thought for her son, Caesarion. By all accounts, Caesar had an enormous conk as well. The poor little kid probably had more nose than the rest of Egypt and Rome put together. I had a sudden vision of him being towed around the ancient world behind this immense nasal feature.
For God’s sake, Maxwell. Focus!
My second thought was that you didn’t notice how ugly she was. Cleopatra had ‘it’. Whatever ‘it’ was, she had it in spades. She had more ‘it’ than the undoubtedly much prettier Calpurnia had or ever would have in her entire life.
After the shock of the nose, I was able to focus on her other features. She wore an elaborate wig, as did all Egyptian women, but I suspected her original hair was dark anyway. Neither did she did possess milk-white skin for which she was famed – and at this point I should probably mention that Professor Rapson had done considerable research on how many asses needed to be milked for just one bath and had sent me a report claiming it would have taken a herd of between five hundred and seven hundred lady donkeys to provide enough milk for a daily bath. What he expected me to do with this information was never entirely clear, but his attempt to requisition said donkeys for further research was firmly rejected by Dr Bairstow. But whether she wallowed in whey or not, Cleopatra’s skin remained obstinately olive.
To remedy this, her face was covered in white makeup, emphasising the beautifully shaped but thick eyebrows that gave her face even more character. I suspected she kept the eyebrows to counter-balance the nose. Her eyes, so heavy-lidded as to be almost reptilian, were thickly outlined in kohl. Green eye shadow matched her eye colour and her lips, in contrast to Calpurnia’s, were full and a deep, dark crimson.
This was not a face to be forgotten. I’d never seen one like it before and I’ve not seen one like it since either. This was a face marked by Destiny. For good or ill, this was the face of a woman who would always be in control – who would take that Destiny and twist it to suit her own requirements. Maybe twist it until it snapped …
I pulled myself together and tried to concentrate. I wasn’t the only one. Everyone present stared, their mouths hanging open.
Accompanied by some half-dozen handmaidens – what do handmaidens do? I asked Peterson once and he just laughed and said the clue was in the word ‘hand’ – she paraded slowly around the atrium.
She was not wearing the white linen with which we always associate Egyptians. Perhaps it still wasn’t warm enough. She wore a long, golden gown of some kind of shimmering silk that trailed along the ground behind her. A blue and gold torque hung around her neck. Gold bracelets climbed her forearms, and on her head she wore the golden uraeus of Egypt. Just in case we’d forgotten she was a queen.
She reached her throne, turned, and faced the room. You could have heard a pin drop. For what was she waiting?
And then it happened. First one, and then another, and then a small group, and then everyone, because no one wanted to be the last … In a room full of Romans, republicans to a man, they bowed their heads.
I would never have believed it if I hadn’t been there. They bowed their heads. Caesar had chosen his queen well.
She allowed a small, triumphant smile to cross her face, and then, abruptly, she sat. Her dress settled in golden pools around her bare feet.
A sigh ran around the room.
I caught Van Owen’s eye and she gestured at our menfolk, every single one of whom was staring, transfixed. She rolled her eyes.
It was too much to hope we would be presented. In fact, we should leave. The presence of royalty meant the presence of soldiers and our superficial disguise would never stand up to close investigation. The sensible thing to do would be to depart. Immediately.
Therefore, we stayed. Actually, I don’t think wild horses could have dragged us out of that room. We’re historians. When it comes to sensible thinking, someone else has to do the heavy lifting.
In our defence, we would have stayed quietly at the back, preferably somewhere near the side entrance in case we had to make a quick getaway. We were just beginning to ooze our way unobtrusively in that direction, when Calpurnia Pisonis reappeared.
She made a signal and immediately the house slaves began to scoop up the used beakers and dishes and to lay out new refreshments. This time, the platters were of gold and silver. She stood unobtrusively in the corner, quietly directing operations. As yet, the Egyptian queen had beckoned no one forward, talking instead only to members of her own household.
Calpurnia Pisonis approached the throne, inclined her head briefly – respectful but not obsequious – and spoke. An elderly Egyptian secretary translated, although I suspected Cleopatra spoke Latin as well as Calpurnia herself.
Having received a br
ief nod of assent, Calpurnia Pisonis beckoned to us. Oh my God, we were about to be presented to Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.
It was Peterson who pulled himself together first. I knew I’d brought him along for a good reason.
He extended his arm to provide me with some much-needed support. We slowly skirted the pretty pool – I remember how loud the splashing water sounded in the sudden silence – and we presented ourselves to the glittering figure seated on the glittering throne.
Everyone regarded everyone else in complete silence. The Nubians stared over our heads. The handmaidens fiddled with their bracelets, bored. Cleopatra swept us with one brief look, which told her everything she needed to know about us, and turned her attention to her hostess.
Calpurnia’s voice sounded clearly. I notice she did not address Cleopatra directly, thus obviating the need for any formal address.
‘I beg leave to present Decimus Aelius Sura,’ and she melted away.
Peterson stepped forward, placed his hand on his heart, and nodded. A nice blend of formal and informal. Nice one, Tim. No Roman would kneel to a non-Roman, queen or not.
He half turned and opened his mouth to introduce Van Owen and me, but never got that far. There was a sudden commotion at the door and the room was suddenly full of soldiers.
I just had time to think, ‘Shit! Busted!, when Caesar himself marched into the room. I could hardly believe our luck. What a great day this was turning out to be.
Or not.
The effect on everyone was dramatic. The Egyptian queen immediately lost all interest in us, gazing expectantly over our shoulders as Caesar strode through the crowd, pausing to exchange greetings and forearm clasps with carefully selected people of influence, working the room like a modern politician. Ignoring his wife completely, he made a formal greeting to Cleopatra, who responded in kind.
And yes, he too had the most enormous nose, jutting from his face like a beak.
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Markham, behind me. ‘Imagine if they both sneezed simultaneously. It would be like a twenty-one gun nasal salute.’
