“No, Antonius. I won’t walk the streets of my city in fear of my life. A man dies only once. The dread of death causes far more misery than the thing itself, and I shall not submit to it. It’s only a short walk from here to the house of Lucius, and an even shorter walk from there to my house. I shall be perfectly safe.”
Antonius began to protest, but Caesar silenced him with a look.
As the two of them crossed the Palatine Hill alone under moonlight, Lucius as always felt a bit uncomfortable in his great-uncle’s presence, and sensed that Caesar felt uneasy, as well. Several times Caesar began to speak, then fell silent. The world’s greatest general and second-greatest orator—for even Caesar ceded the highest place to the eloquent Cicero—seemed unable to express himself.
“To Hades with this!” he finally muttered. “I shall say it as plainly as I can. Lucius, your grandfather…”
“The one they call Unlucky?”
“Yes. He did me a very great favor once. He saved my life.”
“How did he do that, Uncle?”
“This is very difficult to talk about. In fact, I’ve never told this story to anyone. But you deserve to know the truth about your grandparents, Lucius, and the sacrifice they made for my sake. This was during Sulla’s dictatorship, at the height of the proscriptions. I was very young, only a year or so older than you are now. I was in great danger. I was also very ill, suffering from the quartan ague.” He looked up at the moon. By its soft light Lucius caught a glimpse of the youth Caesar once had been. “Maybe that’s why I refuse to fear death now; I had enough of fearing death when I was young. Anyway, I was skulking from house to house, hiding from Sulla’s henchmen, but at the home of your grandparents a fellow named Phagites caught up with me…”
He proceeded to tell Lucius about the bribe that Lucius’s grandfather paid to save his life, and later, in the presence of Sulla himself, the extraordinary sacrifice that was required of Julia and Lucius the Unlucky—the dissolution of their marriage when Caesar refused to divorce his wife at Sulla’s whim.
“Your grandmother was heartbroken, but she adapted swiftly; that was her nature. But your grandfather was never the same. He was a broken man. He had acted honorably, yet he felt dishonored. He saw no way to right the wrong that had been done to him. If he had lived, eventually I might have found some way to make recompense, some means to help him regain his self-respect. But he died while he was still quite young, and before I could make my mark on the world.”
They had been strolling at a slow pace. Caesar abruptly halted. “Do you know how he died?”
“He fell on a patch of ice.”
“Yes. Do you know where?”
Lucius shrugged. “Somewhere here on the Palatine, I think.”
“It was on the very spot where we now stand.”
Under the silver moonlight, it was not hard to imagine the paving stones glazed with ice. Lucius shivered. “By your reckoning, Uncle, his was a good death—swift and without warning. Perhaps the gods granted him an early death as a kind of mercy.”
“Perhaps. But the debt I owed to your grandfather has weighed upon me ever since. Not even the gods can change the past, and the dead are beyond our reach. But I can make certain that you, Lucius, will have every opportunity to earn your own place of honor. I would have done so anyway, because you’re my kin; but I wanted you to know of your grandfather’s sacrifice, so that between the two of us there is an understanding of what came before. I should be gratified to see you attain the dignity that your grandfather believed he had lost.”
Lucius considered this. “Thank you for telling me, Uncle. I’m not sure what else I can say.” Silently, he wondered about the words Caesar had spoken with such gravity. What did “dignity” and “honor” mean now? In a world ruled by a king, the ancient Course of Honor, with each man competing against equals to become first man in the state, had become meaningless.
Caesar seemed to read his thoughts. “In the future, the Course of Honor will not have quite the same significance as it did for our ancestors. But ambitious men will still be able to earn Roma’s gratitude, along with personal wealth and glory, on the battlefield. Shall I confide a secret to you, Lucius? Something I haven’t shared even with Antonius?”
He commenced walking again, in the direction of Lucius’s house. “My military ambitions—my ambitions for Roma—are even greater than Antonius and the others assume. The idea of conquering Parthia greatly excites them, as you saw, but that is as far as their imaginations can reach. Caesar’s plans extend far beyond the conquest of Parthia. My dream is to take Parthia, yes—and then to traverse the far side of the Euxine Sea and circle back, conquer Scythia and Germania and all the lands that border them, cross the channel to Britannia, and then return to Italy by way of Gaul, ending where I began. When Caesar is finished, Roma’s dominion will comprise a true world empire, bounded on every side by ocean.”
Lucius was awed by the grandeur of this vision. He was flattered that Caesar should confide in him. But Caesar was not finished.
“No such empire has ever existed before; even Alexander’s empire was not as far-flung. And of course, upon his death, the lands Alexander conquered did not remain unified but were divided among his heirs, with a great deal of confusion and bloodshed. Alexander’s general Ptolemy did the best, when he took Egypt; Queen Cleopatra is his direct descendent. But what will happen to Roma’s empire when I die, Lucius? Will it be a single kingdom with a single ruler? Will it be carefully divided into many kingdoms, all closely allied? Or will it be splintered into rival kingdoms, each at war with the other?”
“Might it not become a republic again, Uncle?”
Caesar smiled, as if at a whimsical notion. “Anything is possible, I suppose—even that! No man of my generation could find a way to make the Republic work, but perhaps men of a later day will be able to do so. Meanwhile, I think ahead. I do my best to shape the course of the future. It may be that I will live to be very old and that I will work out a means to pass on my legacy intact; or I may die tonight, as my father and his father died, struck down by the gods without warning. At present, my will provides for my heirs, and of course you are among them, Lucius. But if my power endures and if my plans come to fruition, more complicated arrangements will be required.
“I tell you all this, Lucius, because it may be that the gods have in mind for you a very special destiny. Through your descent from the Julii, you are the offspring of Venus, no less than I myself. Through your father’s line, you carry one of the oldest names in Roma’s history. The Pinarii are very ancient—but you, Lucius, are very young. You’ve accomplished nothing, as yet; but neither have you made mistakes. Prepare yourself. Be loyal to me. Prove yourself in battle. Observe the conduct of other men; adopt their virtues and avoid their vices. I’m thinking specifically of Antonius. I know you feel close to him. But you have it in you to become a far better man than he is.”
Lucius frowned. “You place great trust in Antonius.”
“I do. But I’m not blind to his faults.”
Having been taken so deeply into Caesar’s confidence, Lucius felt emboldened to ask him about the incident a month earlier, when Antonius had three times offered Caesar the diadem during the Lupercalia.
“You were there,” said Caesar. “You saw all that took place. What did you think?”
“I think you staged the incident, like a play, to test the citizen’s reaction to a crown. When you saw that so many disapproved, you reassured them that you had no desire to be their king.”
Caesar nodded. “In politics, reality and appearance are of equal importance. You cannot attend to one and neglect the other. A man must determine both what he is, and what others believe him to be. It’s a tricky business, this matter of crowns and titles. Shall I tell you another secret?”
Lucius nodded.
“Tomorrow, before the debate regarding the Parthian command, one of my loyal senators will make an announcement regarding the Sibylline Books. It appears that the priests
in charge of interpreting the verses have discovered a most remarkable passage, which indicates that the Parthians can be conquered only by a king. I refused the diadem that was offered to me by Antonius at the Lupercalia, to the applause of the people. But what if the Senate should implore Caesar to accept a royal title, to ensure the conquest of Parthia?”
“You will become a king, then?” said Lucius. “And this will happen tomorrow?”
Caesar smiled wryly. “This is the plan: The Senate will declare that Caesar is king of all Roman provinces outside Italy, with the right to wear a crown in any place other than Italy, on land or sea. This technicality will satisfy both Caesar’s need for authority and the need of the Senate and the citizens to believe themselves free of a king. Caesar will be king of the rest of the world, on Roma’s behalf.”
Lucius frowned. “Auguries and omens, and the Sibylline Books—are they merely tools for men to use? Do they not truly express the will of the gods?”
“Perhaps both propositions are true. Auguries and the rest are tools, yes; and the man who masters those tools does so because he is favored by the gods. It is a remarkable thing, how frequently divine will coincides with the designs of successful men.” Caesar smiled. “Of course, not every omen is favorable. If I listened to every warning I receive from every soothsayer on every street corner in Roma, I might never leave my house, and I certainly would not venture out to address the Senate tomorrow!”
“Have you received a specific warning?”
“Too many to relate! Shooting stars, goats born two-headed, tears from statues, letters mysteriously formed in the sand—all sorts of portents have been brought to my attention in the last month. Some of these warnings specifically cite the Ides of Martius as a day of ill omen. That’s one reason Antonius has been playing mother hen lately. He thinks I should be surrounded by a bodyguard at all times. But Caesar has decided to ignore these so-called omens and do as he wishes.”
Their quiet conversation was abruptly interrupted by loud voices from a side street. A group of men was heading straight toward them. Caesar seized Lucius’s arm and pulled him into a doorway.
The men began to sing, loudly and badly out of tune. They were obviously drunk. One of them spotted the two figures in the shadows of the doorway and stepped closer, peering at them.
“Numa’s balls! If it isn’t the spawn of Venus himself—our beloved dictator!”
“Who?” shouted one of his companions.
“Gaius Julius Caesar!”
“You liar!”
“No, I swear! Come see for yourselves.”
The men crowded around the doorway. Recognizing Caesar, they were briefly awed, then began a buffoonish mime of bowing and prostrating themselves. “King Caesar!” they cried. “All hail the king!”
Caesar showed no fear. He smiled and graciously acknowledged their gestures with a nod.
One of them staggered back and flung out his arms, miming a crucifixion. “Look at me! I’m a pirate! Oh, great Caesar, have mercy on me!”
Another pulled his tunic up to hide his head. “Look at me! I’m Pompeius after he landed in Egypt! Merciful Caesar, give me back my head!”
“And I’m the Queen of the Nile!” said another, mincing about and putting his fists inside his tunic to mime enormous breasts. “Ravish me, great Caesar! Our baby will be the next king of Egypt!”
They continued with their buffoonery for a while, then seemed to forget what they were doing. Waving good-bye, they moved on and broke into another song. Only when they were out of sight did Caesar relax his grip on Lucius’s arm.
Lucius looked at his great-uncle’s face in the moonlight. Caesar’s eyes glittered with a peculiar excitement. However briefly, Caesar had felt a moment of genuine fear. Its passing seemed to have left him neither angry nor shaken, but exhilarated.
The next day was the Ides of Martius.
Lucius awoke drenched with sweat. His room was dark. The faint blue light that precedes the dawn silhouetted the shutters drawn across his window. Somewhere in the distance a cock was crowing.
He had been experiencing one of those strange dreams in which the dreamer is both participant and observer, aware that he is dreaming and yet unable to stop the dream. In it, Caesar had died. A great multitude had gathered to hear the reading of his will. On the steps of a temple, a Vestal virgin produced a scroll and handed it to Marcus Antonius. Antonius unrolled the document and proceeded to read. Lucius stood at the front of the crowd, but strain as he might, he could not hear the names being read. The roar of the crowd was too great. He wanted to tell the others to be quiet, but he could not open his mouth to speak. He could not move at all. Antonius continued to read, but Lucius could not hear, speak, or move.
The dream was not exactly a nightmare, yet he awoke feeling shaken and covered with sweat. He staggered from his bed and opened the shutters. The cock crowed again. The view from his window showed a jumble of rooftops, the irregular spires of cypress trees, and a glimpse of the Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline, rebuilt since its destruction by fire in Sulla’s time. All was bathed in soft light; the world might have been made of ancient, weathered marble, without color or sharp edges.
Lucius filled his lungs with cool, bracing air. The glaze of sweat evaporated from his flesh and left him covered with goosebumps. The dream had been oppressive and disturbing, but now he was awake. The world was just as he had left it, and the first glimmer of sunlight across the rooftops marked the beginning of a day like any other.
And yet, in a matter of hours, Caesar would receive the Senate’s command to begin the conquest of Parthia. He would be declared king of all provinces beyond Italy. The age of the Republic would end, and a new age would begin.
Anxious to leave his room and his uneasy dream behind, Lucius quickly dressed. He put on his best tunic, which was bright blue with a yellow hem, and strapped on his best pair of shoes. When the people began cheering Caesar’s decision to wage war against Parthia, it would not do for Caesar’s young kinsman to be seen wearing his second-best.
He left the house and wandered aimlessly for a while, watching the city awaken. At the great houses on the Palatine, slaves opened front doors to air the vestibules, extinguished the lamps that had burned all night, and swept the thresholds. Between two houses, Lucius caught a distant view of the Forum Boarium and the Tiber waterfront. Down in the marketplace, merchants were setting up shop. Many had special displays of baskets stuffed with food. Customers were already lining up to buy the baskets. Lucius had forgotten that this was the feast day of Anna Perenna, a holiday celebrated only by the plebeians.
Anna Perenna was the crone goddess, always portrayed with gray hair, a wrinkled face, and a stooped back; she wore a traveling cloak and carried baskets stuffed with food. Her legend dated to the early days of the Republic, when the plebeians staged their first so-called secession, withdrawing en masse from the city to protest the special privileges of the patricians and to demand tribunes for their protection. When the plebeians ran low on provisions, an old woman calling herself Anna Perenna appeared among them with baskets of food. No matter how much food people took from the baskets, the baskets remained miraculously full, and so the plebs never went hungry.
After the secession, Anna Perenna vanished, never to be seen again. On the day sacred to her, the Ides of Martius, plebeian families left the city to picnic on the banks of the Tiber. They gathered their own baskets of food, or bought ready-made baskets at the market. They pitched small tents and laid out blankets. Children played games with balls and sticks in the grass. Young couples courted in leafy bowers. Everyone ate and drank their fill, then dozed on the banks of the river. At sundown, the plebeian families would stream back into the city in an informal procession, singing songs of praise to Anna Perenna.
The holiday meant little to Lucius. Being a patrician, he had never taken part. Still, strolling across the Forum, passing families on their way to the river carrying food baskets, blankets, and toys, he found the
ir festive mood infectious. It further amused him to think that among all these carefree revelers, he alone knew what a momentous and memorable day this would turn out to be, thanks to the special requests that Caesar would put before the Senate.
Thinking of Caesar, Lucius walked to the area directly north of the ancient Forum, where a large tract of land had in recent years been cleared and rebuilt by his great-uncle and named after him. The Julian Forum was surrounded by a vast rectangular portico of gleaming marble columns. At one end stood the new temple dedicated to Venus, constructed of solid marble, the fulfillment of a vow Caesar had made to the goddess before his victory at Pharsalus. In front of the temple was a fountain adorned with nymphs. Dominating the open square was a magnificent statue of Caesar armored for battle and sitting atop a white charger.
Work on the forum was not finished. When it was done, the portico would open onto courtrooms and legal offices. The comings and goings of scribes, secretaries, judges, and advocates would make the Julian Forum one of the busiest spots in Roma. As it was, on this morning, Lucius was the only person present. He walked under the statue of Caesar, amused to see the very grave look on his great-uncle’s face, then past the fountain, which was full of water but not splashing. Its still face reflected the perfect proportions and dazzling marble facade of the Temple of Venus.
Lucius mounted the steps. A temple slave dozing beside the doorway stirred at his approach. Recognizing Lucius—the dictator’s kinsmen were frequent visitors to the temple of their ancestress—the slave hastily opened the doors for him.
In Lucius’s opinion, the inside of the temple was the most beautiful interior space in all of Roma, perhaps in all the world. The floors, walls, ceiling, and columns were made of solid marble in a staggering array of colors, and newly finished, so that every surface gleamed with a mirror-like polish. The facing walls of the short vestibule were decorated by two of the most famous paintings in the world, the Ajax and the Medea by the renowned artist Timomachus. Within the sanctuary, displayed in six cabinets, were the extraordinary collections of jewels and gemstones which Caesar had acquired in his travels. To Lucius, the most fascinating item was a savage-looking breastplate strung with tiny pearls from the island of Britannia.
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