I appraised the statue for a long moment. "I see the goddess Venus. She stands with one arm bent back to touch her shoulder, and her other arm slightly extended-"
"The pose is exquisite, is it not?"
I nodded. "Yes. One of her breasts is bare-"
"Her naked breast captures the exact weight and texture of actual flesh, does it not? You can almost feel the supple, warm skin beneath your fingertips. You can almost see her bosom rise and fall, as if she breathes."
"Yes," I whispered.
"And her face?"
"Serene. Wise. Beautiful." I thought of Arsinoe's face, when Rupa kissed her toe.
"And the molding of her gown, the way the folds bend and drape?"
I shook my head in amazement. "They look as if the slightest breeze might stir them."
"Exactly! What you see is made of stone, and yet, the longer you look at her, the more she appears to be alive, breathing, watching-as if she might step down from her pedestal at any moment."
The effect was indeed uncanny. I truly felt as if the statue of Venus gazed back at me. Unnerved, I lowered my eyes. At the base of the statue, I noticed the finishing detail which Arcesilaus had been adding when we entered. It was the artist's famous hallmark, an image of a rampant satyr.
"Now, come over here." He gripped my arm and led me to the statue of Cleopatra. "What do you see?"
I frowned. "It seems a bit unfair to make a comparison. The statue is lying on its side, after all."
"And would it look any less stiff and lifeless if it stood upright?"
"It's a different sort of statue," I argued. "It depicts a living human being, for one thing, not a goddess."
"And yet it seems less alive, less present in the room than does the image of Venus!"
He was right. The workmanship of Cleopatra's statue was decidedly inferior. The gilded bronze, which had been so dazzling under the hot sun, was less impressive in the dim light of the sanctuary; in fact, it looked a bit tawdry. The statue was not without beauty, but compared to the Venus, it was only a lifeless piece of metal.
"It hurts my eyes even to look at it!" declared Arcesilaus. "Yet Caesar insists that it be placed here in the temple, where it will upset the whole balance."
"Perhaps it will only point out the superior nature of your Venus," I said.
"That's not how it works!" he snapped. "Bad art diminishes good art. The closer the proximity, the greater the damage."
"Have you pointed this out to Caesar?"
" 'You've been working on the Venus for a long time,' he told me. 'I realize you're exhausted, and here I am, posing you yet another challenge. But you'll rise to it, Arcesilaus! You'll find the ideal spot for the queen's image. You can do it!' As if this were just another part of my commission, an opportunity to create something harmonious and beautiful, for which I should be grateful-instead of an insult to everything I've achieved in a lifetime of making art!"
I drew a sharp breath. How harmless was Arcesilaus's rant? Had he ever before expressed such rancor against Caesar? And had Hieronymus been there to hear it? I couldn't remember encountering any mention of the sculptor's animosity against Caesar in Hieronymus's reports.
"Why do you think Caesar wants this statue in the temple?" I asked. "Can there be a religious purpose? Cleopatra is linked to the Egyptian goddess Isis-"
"So she is," said Arcesilaus. "But Isis is a manifestation of the Greek goddess Artemis, our goddess Diana-not Venus. No, the image of Cleopatra cannot possibly be construed as another image of Venus. Isn't it obvious why Caesar wants that statue in a temple that honors his ancestress? He means to honor the mother of his own child."
"I think you're wrong there," I said, remembering my recent conversation with Caesar, and the absence of Caesarion in the Egyptian Triumph. And yet, a man like Caesar liked to keep all his options open. He also liked to keep people guessing.
"Perhaps you know Caesar's mind better than I do," granted Arcesilaus. "Why did he send you here today, anyway? It wasn't about this other thing, was it?" He indicated another corner of the sanctuary, where a large placard made of cloth on a wooden frame was propped against a wall. I drew closer and examined it. It was an image of a calendar painted in the traditional style, with the abbreviated names of months across the top and columns of numerals beneath marking the days, with the Kalends, Ides, Nones, and various holidays indicated. It was very artistically rendered in many colors, with exquisitely wrought letters.
"A calendar?" I said.
"The calendar," said Arcesilaus. "Hardly a subject worthy of my talents, but since Caesar means to announce his new calendar at the same time that he dedicates the temple, he wanted an image to unveil, so I made this thing myself. What do you think?"
"It's a object of beauty. Very elegant."
"I don't suppose you've come to check the accuracy? Someone is supposed to do that before tomorrow."
"No."
He frowned. "Why did Caesar send you here?"
"Send me?"
"That's what you said, that Caesar sent you."
"No, I said I came on his behalf."
"What's the difference?" Arcesilaus scowled.
"I wanted to check that the route from the Forum to the temple was safe for Caesar to traverse-"
"Is that your job?"
I considered how to answer. "Well, as a matter of fact, it's the sort of thing my son Meto does on Caesar's behalf; but Meto is away from Rome. And as long as I was here, I thought I'd have a look inside the temple." Not one word of this was a lie.
Arcesilaus was indignant. "Do you mean I've been wasting my time standing here and talking to you, and for no good reason? Get out, all three of you, at once!"
I took Diana by the arm and turned toward the exit. Arcesilaus's demeanor was so threatening that Rupa lagged behind, as if to make sure the artist didn't follow us. But when I looked back, he had returned to the statue of Cleopatra and was glaring down at it. While I watched, he gave it a hard kick, then shouted a curse to Venus. While the dull, hollow ring of the metal resounded through the chamber, Arcesilaus hopped about and clutched his injured toe.
XIX
For the rest of the day, Diana and I sorted and read through Hieronymus's notes. She questioned me about the material I had already read, and I did the same with her. We divided the material that remained unexamined, determined to read every word before the day was done.
Whether against my will or not, Diana had insinuated herself into my work, so it seemed pointless not to bring her fully into the process, to take advantage of her interest and of her sometimes surprisingly keen insight. She spotted certain meanings within Hieronymus's puns that had eluded me, and, being more abreast of current gossip, caught certain allusions to personal relationships and such that I had overlooked. But none of her insights added materially to our knowledge of who had killed Hieronymus, or whether that person posed a threat to Caesar, or when or how the killer might strike again.
Despite all our combined efforts, and a great deal of discussion and speculation, I went to bed that night believing I was no closer to knowing the truth than before.
The next day, along with everyone else in Rome, my family set out to witness the African Triumph. Since we would later be attending the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix, a sacred ritual, I wore my best toga.
For a great many people, I suspect, attending Caesar's fourth and final triumph was done more from perseverance than pleasure. It is a Roman trait-to see a thing through to its end; the same dogged determination that has made us the possessors of a vast empire applies to every other aspect of life. Just as our generals do not raise sieges or surrender on the battlefield, no matter how great the casualties, so Romans do not walk out in the middle of plays, no matter how boring the performance; and those who can read do not begin a book without finishing it. And, by Jupiter, no matter how repetitious all the pomp and spectacle, the people of Rome did not attend Caesar's three consecutive triumphs without attending the fourth an
d final one as well.
Senators paraded (with Brutus and Cicero looking more bored and aloof than ever); trumpets sounded; and the oxen lumbered by, along with the priests and the camilli, the boys and girls who would take part in the sacrifices.
Captured treasures and trophies were presented. Caesar did not presume to show off the Roman arms he had captured in battle-even his most loyal partisans would not have approved of that-but there were a number of placards illustrating the ends met by his Roman opponents in Africa. We beheld a succession of suicides, each more wretched than the last.
Metellus Scipio, Pompey's successor as commander in chief, after being defeated by Caesar at the battle of Thapsus, stabbed himself and leaped into the sea. The placard showed him in mid-jump above stormy waves, with blood trailing from his wound.
Another leader of the opposition, Marcus Petreius, fled after the battle of Thapsus and holed up for a while with King Juba. When the two realized they had no further hope, they held a sumptuous banquet and engaged in a ritual combat, so that at least one could have an honorable death. Juba won the contest. The placard showed Petreius lying dead of his wounds and the king in the act of falling on his own bloody sword.
Cato's suicide had been the messiest. He might have received a pardon from Caesar, but he did not desire it. After a quiet evening with friends, he withdrew to his chambers and attempted to disembowel himself. His effort was only partly successful, perhaps due to a wounded hand, and when he knocked over a table, his servants came running to find their master's belly bleeding and cut open, but with his bowels intact. A physician was called to stuff his entrails back inside and to sew him up, an indignity to which Cato, in a dazed state, submitted. But when he regained consciousness and saw what had happened, he tore open the wound, pulled out his bowels with his bare hands, and suffered an agonizing death.
The placard depicting the death of Cato was obscenely graphic. The crowd was already uneasy after viewing the previous illustrations. When the image of Cato passed before them, they grumbled sullenly and many began to boo.
The restiveness of the crowd was relieved somewhat by the animal show, which introduced an African beast never before seen in Rome. With their long necks, the creatures towered above the throng; the tallest of them loped by on eye level with those of us in the top of the stands. A crier explained that this was the camelopard, so-called because in some respects it resembled the camel, having long, spindly legs and a camel-like face, while its spotted skin resembled that of a leopard. But its extremely long neck made the creature unique. Children laughed and grown men gawked. The spectacle provided by the camelopards did much to restore the crowd's good mood.
There were no Romans among the paraded captives, only Africans, Numidians, and other foreign allies of the opposition. But here, too, Caesar provided an unexpected novelty. As Arsinoe had been the first princess to be paraded in a triumph, and Ganymedes and his fellow eunuchs were the first of their kind, so this triumph also featured a first: a baby. The last and most prized of the captives did not walk with the rest; he might have been able to toddle but could not possibly have kept up. Instead, he reclined upon a small litter carried by other captives. There were gasps and cries of astonishment as people realized what they were seeing: the infant son of the late King Juba.
I scanned the faces of the dignitaries in the box opposite our seats, curious to see their reaction. Among the staid ambassadors and diplomats, I saw a beautiful woman: Fulvia. The woman who intended to marry Marc Antony was still chiefly regarded as the widow of Curio, Caesar's lieutenant, whose head had been taken by King Juba as a trophy early in the war. Caesar had given Fulvia a place of honor to view this triumph, which celebrated Juba's downfall. As she gazed at Juba's tiny namesake among the captives, there was a look of grim satisfaction on her face.
But most of the women in the crowd-and most of the men, for that matter-had a different reaction. People frowned, muttered, and shook their heads. Some looked aghast. Did Caesar intend to have the child strangled at the conclusion of his triumph? Did he imagine that such a killing would be pleasing to Jupiter?
We were not kept in suspense for long. A crier announced that Caesar intended to show clemency to the infant son of Juba. The child would be spared, just as Arsinoe had been spared.
A sigh of relief spread through the crowd. "Caesar is merciful!" people shouted, and "Good for Caesar!"
I looked at Fulvia, whose face registered a different reaction. She lowered her eyes and clenched her jaw.
When had Caesar decided to spare young Juba? He apparently had planned to execute Arsinoe, and changed his mind only at the last moment in response of the crowd's reaction. Had he likewise planned to kill Juba's child, until the affair with Arsinoe made him realize that the mob would not stand for it? Caesar was not above slaughtering infants. How many babies had been among the forty thousand victims at Avaricum in Gaul? Caesar had taken no steps to spare those children, even to make them slaves.
At length, Caesar appeared in his gold chariot; even he seemed to be a bit tired of so much triumphing. Waging war and wrangling with political rivals wears on a man, but so does pomp and ceremony. The smile on his face looked forced and brittle.
Following Caesar, at the head of the veterans of the African campaign, rode young Gaius Octavius. He was outfitted as a decorated officer, even though he had taken no part in the African campaign, or in any other military operation. At the sight of him, people cheered; he made a dashing figure, and sometimes appearances are all that matter. The smile on his lips was ambiguous. Was he embarrassed to be receiving accolades he had not earned? Was he scornful of the masses who cheered him for no reason? Or was he simply a young man happy to be riding in the company of his distinguished older relative, pleased with himself and with his special place in the world?
The triumph concluded without incident. The prisoners (except young Juba) were duly executed, and a sacrifice was offered in gratitude to Jupiter atop the Capitoline. Then, without a pause, attended by a vast retinue of officer, senators, and priests, Caesar began to make his way down the Capitoline, heading for the new Temple of Venus.
After the triumph, my family and I remained in the stands for a while, waiting for the crowd to thin. As we began to descend, I saw a now-familiar figure mounting the steps, heading toward us. It was Calpurnia's messenger. The look on his face was grim. He was too out of breath to speak. Without a word, he extended a tablet toward me. I took it from him, undid the ties, and opened it.
The letters had been so crudely scratched in the wax-as if in haste or great agitation-that for a moment I could make no sense of them. Then, all at once, the words jumped out at me:
Porsenna is dead. Come to me at once. The messenger will bring you.
I lowered the tablet. Bethesda was staring at me. "From her?" she said.
"Yes. I must go with this fellow."
"Take Rupa with you."
"Of course. And you and the family?"
"We shall attend the dedication of the temple, as we planned. In the standing area, I presume." While Caesar had arranged for us to have seats in the stands for his triumphs, he had not followed up with any such arrangement for the dedication. I had tried to explain to Bethesda that the seating for the ceremony was strictly limited, but she was not happy.
"If you hurry," I said, "perhaps you can still find a good spot, not too far back."
Diana drew close to me. "What does Calpurnia say? Is there some sort of trouble?"
"The haruspex is dead. Murdered, I presume."
"I should come with you, Papa."
"I think not. The woman is quite particular about whom she'll allow into her presence."
"But Rupa is going with you."
"Rupa is my bodyguard."
"If I were your son instead of your daughter, you'd take me along without question."
Whether this was true or not, I was no mood to argue, and the messenger was growing impatient. He deftly took the tablet from my hand, rubb
ed out the letters, and pulled at my toga.
"We should hurry, please!" he said.
"Davus, look after Diana," I said, fearful that she would try to follow against my orders. "Rupa, come with me."
We followed the man down the steps and into the crowd.
I had assumed that the messenger would lead me to the house of Calpurnia, but he turned in the opposite direction.
"Where are you taking us?" I said, suddenly suspicious.
"To the mistress, of course." He gripped my toga again. I knocked his hand away.
"This isn't the way to the Palatine."
"The Palatine?"
"Where she lives."
"She's not at home. She at the Temple of Venus. Please, hurry!"
Of course, I thought; the dictator's wife would have to attend the dedication, no matter what had happened to her haruspex. I followed quickly, realizing Diana and the family could have come at least partway with me, after all. But it was too late for them to rejoin me. We were separated by the crowd.
The open square before the temple was already thronged with people, and more were arriving from all directions. The standing area looked uncomfortably crowded-I had to wonder where Diana and the family would find space-but the benches nearer the temple were not yet filled; dignitaries are often the last to arrive. Some sat, while others milled about and conversed with their neighbors. The atmosphere was much like that at the theater before the crier announces that the play will begin.
In front of the seating area, at the foot of the temple steps, a large space was being kept clear by a row of lictors. Here, a marble altar had been erected for the ritual sacrifice. Close by the altar, a long ceremonial tent had been set up. Within the tent, those participating in the dedication could gather and prepare, unseen by the crowd.
The messenger led me toward the tent. The lictor at the entrance refused to let Rupa come inside. It seemed pointless to argue. The area within that tent was probably the safest, most secure place in all Rome.
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