The Triumph Of Caesar rsr-12

by Steven Saylor

  Many of those nobles, who had thought me barely worthy to serve them and certainly unworthy of their friendship, were dead now, while I, a humble citizen of no distinction, was still alive. For those aristocrats who had survived, what did the Course of Honor or nobility itself mean now, with one man installed in a permanent position at the apex of power?

  And what did this token of favor from the dictator mean to me? I pondered this question as I examined the little piece of carved bone in my hand by the soft morning light in my vestibule. I was already dressed in a toga, with a simple breakfast of farina and stewed fruit in my belly. Menenia had just arrived with the twins. Bethesda insisted that the family set out early to claim our seats, even though I tried to explain to her that the whole point of possessing such a token was to allow us to show up whenever we wanted, since the seats were reserved for us. I think she wanted us to be seated early so that we might be conspicuously visible to the arriving throng, ensconced in our place of privilege.

  With my family surrounding me, including Mopsus and Androcles ("We'll need them to fetch food and drinks," Bethesda had insisted), I set out, descending from the Palatine directly to the Forum, which was already more crowded than I would have expected at such an early hour. The stands with our seats were located near the end of the route, facing the foot of the Capitoline Hill and high enough to afford a panoramic view. Directly across from us were the most prestigious of the viewing stands, upon which curtained boxes with plush appointments had been erected for the comfort of important dignitaries. Those seats were still empty.

  Beyond and between the dignitaries' boxes, I could clearly see the trail that led up the slope of the Capitoline to the Carcer. Later, if I cared to, I could probably watch Arsinoe and Ganymedes being led to the very door of the prison, behind which they would meet their deaths in the pit of the Tullianum.

  While we waited for the procession to begin, I thought about what Caesar had said regarding his accident during the Gallic Triumph. If someone had deliberately severed the axle of his chariot, did the sabotage support Calpurnia's suspicions of a plot against Caesar? It was hard to see how; such an accident could hardly have been counted on to injure Caesar, much less kill him. Perhaps it had been devised merely to embarrass him, but by whom and for what reason? Renegade Gauls in the city might have wished to mar his victory over Vercingetorix, but how could they have obtained access to the sacred chariot? Caesar's veterans had felt free to tease him with lewd verses; might some of them have been so bold as to sever the axle to play a practical joke on him?

  Had Caesar only imagined signs of tampering, and, if so, what did such imaginings indicate about his state of mind? Or was Caesar's speculation about sabotage a ruse? He had seemed to reveal this concern in a genuinely unguarded moment, but did such a man ever speak without premeditation? It might be that Caesar was disseminating this rumor of sabotage with the intent of dispelling any notion that the accident was an evil omen, the result of divine displeasure rather than human intervention.

  "Husband!"

  My thoughts were interrupted by Bethesda. Her voice was hushed, her tone excited.

  "Husband, is that her?"

  I blinked and looked about. While I had been staring abstractedly into empty space, the stands around me had filled up. Below us, every spot along the route was taken. The Forum was a sea of spectators bisected by the broad path left open for the triumph.

  "Over there," Bethesda said insistently, "in the special seats. Is that really her?"

  I gazed across the way. The boxes for dignitaries had also filled up. Amid the gaudily attired ambassadors and emissaries and visiting heads of states sat a lone female, resplendent in a purple gown and a golden diadem. The walls and high parapet of the box kept her from being seen by the crowd around and below her, but because our seats were directly across from the box, we had a clear view of her.

  "Yes," I said. "That is Cleopatra."

  The queen had arrived without fanfare. No one in the crowd seemed to be aware of her presence. Barred by Caesar from taking part in the triumph, she was merely another spectator amid the thousands present that day.

  Bethesda squinted, tilted her head to one side, and frowned. "She's not as pretty as I had imagined."

  I looked sidelong at my wife and smiled. "She's certainly no rival to you."

  It was the right thing to say; Bethesda could not suppress a smile of triumph. And it was true. In her heyday, Bethesda had been much more beautiful than Cleopatra, and when I looked at Bethesda now, did I not still see the girl she had been?

  A deafening cheer rang out. The procession had begun.

  First came the senators and magistrates. Again I saw Cicero and Brutus strolling side by side, talking to each other and ignoring the crowd, as if nothing of importance was taking place.

  The trumpeters followed. Their fanfare had a distinctly Egyptian flourish to it, and charged the air with anticipation. What wonders from the distant Nile would Caesar present to the people of Rome?

  The spoils of Gaul had been vast and impressive, but the items from Egypt were of another order of magnificence. They were not booty, strictly speaking, since Caesar had not conquered the country; his role had been to end the civil war between the royal siblings and install one of them on the throne. Many of the items displayed that day were gifts from Queen Cleopatra to demonstrate her gratitude to Caesar and to the people of Rome for taking her side in the war with her siblings.

  There was a towering black obelisk etched with hieroglyphs and decorated with gold bosses in the shape of lotus blossoms. There were bronze statues of various gods, including an incarnation of the Nile represented as an old man surrounded by river nymphs, with creatures of the deep entwined in his flowing beard. There was a grand procession of magnificent sphinxes, one after another, carved from granite and marble.

  The wagons bearing these massive objects were pulled not by beasts but by exotic-looking slaves from the teeming markets of Alexandria. These slaves came from far-off lands whose very names excited wonder-Nubia, Arabia, Ethiopia-and the sight of their dark, gleaming bodies excited almost as much comment as the treasures they were pulling.

  The crowd gasped with amazement at the appearance of the final sphinx. It was being pulled by the longest train of slaves, and at a distance appeared to loom far larger than the other sphinxes. This was a trick of the eye. It was not the sphinx but the slaves who were out of scale; these were the miniature people called Pygmies who were said to dwell in a land of dense forests near the source of the Nile. The incongruity of the sight appealed to the Roman sense of humor and prompted gales of laughter.

  A replica of the sarcophagus of Alexander was presented, along with several statues of the conqueror. The founding of Alexandria had been his most enduring accomplishment, and his burial place was one of the principle shrines of the city.

  There followed a visual catalog of the municipal achievements of Alexander's successors, the Ptolemies. A remarkably detailed model of Alexandria carved from ivory depicted the walls of the city, the great library and museum, the royal palace and the theater, the broad avenues decorated with ancient monuments, and the jetties embracing the great harbor. (Caesar had very nearly met his death in that harbor, when his ship was sunk in a naval engagement and he was forced to swim ashore).

  A towering model of the Pharos lighthouse rolled by, complete with a fiery beacon at the summit. This was followed by a model of the gigantic Temple of Serapis and a statue of the god whom the Greek Ptolemies had established as the chief deity of Egypt; Serapis resembled bearded Zeus, or Jupiter, sitting on a throne and wielding a scepter, but on his head he wore a grain basket for a crown and at his feet crouched a three-headed dog meant to be Cerberus but rendered in a style more akin to the jackal-headed Egyptian god, Anubis.

  An exotic bestiary followed, featuring the fabled creatures of the Nile and of regions even more remote. Muzzled crocodiles were paraded, fitted with harnesses attached to leashes held by teams of beast
masters: the creatures were so strong and unpredictable, it seemed to take all the keepers' strength to prevent them from lurching into the crowd. Images were displayed of the hippos potamios, the famous Nile river-horse, and of the rhinokeros, which looks like a leathery, overgrown boar brandishing a single monstrous tusk.

  The beast show ended with a genuine crowd-pleaser: a troupe of Pygmies rode by, mounted on the gigantic, flightless birds the Greeks call strouthokamelos, "camel-sparrows," famed for their magnificent feathers and absurdly long necks. They are said to hide their heads in the sand when frightened.

  There followed an exhibit celebrating the various crops grown along the Nile, the great granary of the Mediterranean, thanks to its yearly inundation. The pretty Egyptian maidens in pleated linen gowns carrying sheaves of grain were not as exciting as crocodiles on leashes, but they nonetheless garnered the crowd's applause, and cheers rang out for Caesar when a crier announced that a distribution of free grain to the citizenry would follow the triumph.

  The tone of the procession grew more martial as placards were exhibited showing incidents of the war. (Caesar had promised to tell the full story in his continuing memoirs, but that volume had not yet been published.) There were scenes of the battles in the harbor of Alexandria, in which the skies were filled with flaming missiles hurled from shipboard ballistae. Other scenes illustrated the long siege of the royal palace by the Egyptians, who attempted for months to penetrate Caesar's defenses or else to cut off his water supply, and failed at every turn. There were several scenes of the final, decisive battle on the banks of the Nile, where young King Ptolemy's royal barge was capsized by fleeing Egyptian soldiers. The king's remains were never found; nonetheless, a number of his personal effects had been retrieved from the Nile, including some of his ceremonial weapons and armor, and these magnificent pieces were displayed as trophies.

  Other scenes depicted the deaths of Caesar's chief enemies in Egypt. King Ptolemy's lord chamberlain, the eunuch Pothinus, had been forced by Caesar to drink poison for conspiring against him; the man had died before my eyes, cursing both Cleopatra and her brother. The placard illustrating his death portrayed him with exaggerated breasts and hips, which he had not possessed, and feminine makeup, which he had not worn; Pothinus was reduced to a Roman caricature of a eunuch. The crowd laughed and cheered as they were shown the picture of him writhing in agony at Caesar's feet, the death cup still clutched in his hand.

  Another placard showed the death of Achillas, the Egyptian general who had mounted the siege against Caesar; it was Arsinoe who eventually executed him for treachery. Achillas was a name of infamy in Rome, for he had been among the murderers of Pompey, delivering the blow that struck the Great One's head from his shoulders even before he could step ashore in Egypt.

  Curiously, there was no placard to illustrate Pompey's demise, or the subsequent presentation of Pompey's head as a gift from King Ptolemy to Caesar. Pompey's defeat at Pharsalus, his desperate flight to Egypt, and his ignominious death were not to figure in any of Caesar's triumphs. Whether for fear of hubris, or in deference to the lingering sentimental attachment many Romans felt for Pompey, Caesar did not seize the occasion to gloat over his rival's desecrated corpse.

  Others besides me noticed this omission; and clearly not everyone felt sentimental about the Great One. A man called out, "Where is Pompey's head? Show us the head!"

  Some joined in this call, but many others groaned, shushed their neighbors, and booed. A ripple of discord passed through the crowd, sparking restlessness and loosening tongues.

  "And while you're at it, show us Cleopatra!" someone yelled.

  "Yes, where's Cleopatra? Let's have a look at the little nymph who has Caesar so hot and bothered!"

  "Show us the queen! Show us the queen!"

  "There should at least be a picture of her…"

  "Preferably naked!"

  The wags in the crowd remained unaware that Cleopatra was among them, seated amid the dignitaries. I looked across the way, and saw that she had moved back from the parapet, as if to further conceal herself. Her face showed no expression.

  The inevitable chants followed, speculating on the activities of Caesar and the Egyptian queen during their long boat trip up the Nile. Many in the crowd already knew these lewd ditties and joined in at once, clapping in unison as they recited one verse after another. Men share such bits of doggerel in the Forum; wives bring them home from the marketplace; soon, even children know them by heart. For all his earthly glory, Caesar was powerless to stop the spread of a rude joke or an awful pun at his expense.

  I gazed at Cleopatra across the way. Her face remained impassive, but even at such a distance I could see that her cheeks had reddened a bit. The queen was not used to being mocked.

  Then, abruptly, the ditties fell silent and the clapping stopped. As if conjured by the will of the crowd, Cleopatra suddenly loomed before them-or rather, her image loomed, for approaching on the path, mounted on a platform and pulled by a team of Nubian slaves, was a breathtaking statue of her.

  It was larger than life and appeared to be made of solid gold, though it was probably gilded bronze. The gilt shimmered brightly beneath the sun; flashes of golden light dazzled my eyes. The queen was portrayed not in the outlandish garb of the pharaohs, which the Ptolemies had appropriated when they assumed the rule of Egypt, but in elegant Greek dress, wearing a simple diadem on her brow. The statue's face had a stern, almost mannish quality; perhaps the sculptor made his subject look older and plainer than she was, so as to emphasize her qualities as a ruler of men rather than an object of male desire. The face, with its sparkling lapis eyes and elusive smile, nonetheless projected a powerful feminine allure; one could see why a man like Caesar had been captivated by such a woman.

  I drew a sharp breath. Caesar's inclusion of the statue-a gift from the queen herself? — was a considerable gamble. Who could predict the crowd's reaction? Or did he brazenly parade the statue for just that reason, as a means to gauge the temper of the Roman mob? If the statue had been a piece of captured booty, and Cleopatra a vanquished enemy, there would have been no controversy; but Caesar's war in Egypt had affirmed Cleopatra's claim to the throne, so the appearance of the statue seemed to be a celebration of the queen herself. Here, for all to see, in golden splendor, was the exotic creature who claimed to have borne Caesar's son and whom many thought was encouraging Caesar's royal ambitions. If the crowd found the statue offensive, they might break into a full-scale riot.

  I looked around me, wondering if our high seats would prove to be our salvation or our doom. Would we remain above the rampaging mob or be driven up and over the top, to fall to our deaths? There was also the possibility that the crowd might realize that Cleopatra was present and vent their fury against her.

  I gazed at the queen in her box across the way. Our eyes met. Cleopatra nodded slightly, to show that she recognized me. She saw the alarm on my face, and her own expression grew apprehensive. She raised her eyebrows slightly. She frowned.

  But the reaction of the crowd was far from violent. A hush fell over the throng. There were no jeers, no cries of outrage, not even any ribald jests. The golden statue seemed to cast a spell. People gazed up in wonder as it passed before them.

  Across the way, I saw the queen of Egypt smile. She turned to confer with someone in her entourage. She turned back and began to stand. Did she intend to draw attention to herself, to make her presence known to the crowd?

  Before that could happen, the moment passed. The mood of the crowd abruptly changed. The air rang with jeers, shouts, and taunts, for immediately following Cleopatra's statue came the procession of Egyptian prisoners. From the golden glory of the queen, the crowd's attention was drawn to the abject misery and wretchedness of her vanquished enemies.

  Cleopatra sat. Her smile vanished.

  The few surviving officers of Ptolemy's army were paraded before us in chains and rags and tattered Egyptian headdresses. A few of these were eunuchs, and the crowd peer
ed at their near-naked bodies curiously, looking for distinguishing characteristics. To be sure, the eunuchs were not as hirsute as some of their compatriots, but their bodies had none of the voluptuousness of women; perhaps because they had been fed so poorly, all the prisoners looked gaunt and bony. Nor did the eunuchs express emotions differently from their fellows. The eunuchs and the other exhibited the same range of reactions: a few stared back defiantly at the crowd; some hid their faces; and many trembled and wept, broken by their humiliation and the approach of death.

  The last but one of the prisoners was Ganymedes. I had last seen him in a shimmering, wide-sleeved gown and a khat headdress, with kohl outlining his eyes. Now he wore only a filthy loincloth, and his undressed hair hung in tendrils around his pale, winkled face. His chains robbed him of any pretense of dignity; the shackles on his ankles and wrists forced him to bow and take shambling steps. He was barefoot and his feet were bleeding.

  Someone in the crowd hurled a piece of fruit-a green, unripe fig-and struck him between his legs. Ganymedes flinched but did not cry out. Others hurled more bits of fruit and even stones, always aiming for the same spot. They were mocking him with blows that would have made an intact man scream with agony but served only to humiliate the eunuch by drawing attention to the part of his anatomy that had been amputated.

  Following Ganymedes, at a distance which clearly set her apart, was Arsinoe. The princess, too, was barefoot and dressed in rags, baring more of her arms and legs than was considered decent for a high-born woman in public, inviting the prurient inspection of the crowd. The manner in which she was chained seemed calculated to emphasize her debasement; her ankles were connected by a short chain and her hands were bound tightly behind her, forcing her to mince forward with her shoulders back and her breasts thrust forward. But the position also allowed her to hold her chin high. Her face was clearly visible, and her expression was surprisingly composed. She looked neither fearful nor defiant; there was neither hatred nor panic in her eyes. Her face was sphinxlike, without emotion, as if her thoughts were completely elsewhere, far removed from the degradation to which her body was being subjected.