The Triumph Of Caesar rsr-12

by Steven Saylor

  Caesar was in the tent. So was Uncle Gnaeus, with his knife.

  I rose from the bench and ran toward the tent. The lictor, following Diana, had abandoned his post, and I was able to slip inside unopposed.

  My eyes were slow to adjust to the filtered light. I saw a confusion of people and objects-priests, camilli, garlands, sacred vessels. At the far end of the tent, I saw the calendar. Arcesilaus was still working to complete his last-minute corrections. Caesar, his back to me, was hovering over the artist, his arms crossed, tapping the ground impatiently with one foot.

  "Papa!"

  Diana had been apprehended by the lictor, who was roughly escorting her back toward the entrance. But Uncle Gnaeus, still dressed in his bloodstained vestments, seized her arm as she passed by.

  "Leave the girl with me, lictor." His voice was low but insistent.

  "Are you sure, pontifex?"

  "Yes. Go back to guarding the entrance."

  "What about this fellow?" The lictor indicated me.

  "He'll be leaving very soon. Very quietly. Isn't that right, Gordianus?" Uncle Gnaeus spoke through clenched teeth. His grip on Diana's arm was very tight. In his other hand, he held the knife.

  My heart pounded in my chest. The moment felt unreal-far more unreal than my dream-conversation with Hieronymus. I spoke in a whisper. "Gnaeus Calpurnius, you can't succeed. I won't let you. I have only to shout a warning to Caesar."

  "But you won't do that. Not while I'm holding your daughter. Now, go. Quietly!"

  I shook my head. "If you hurt Diana, if I shout-Don't you see, it can't happen now, not the way you intended, not in the middle of Caesar's presentation, for all Rome to witness. Your grand gesture has been spoiled."

  He considered for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. It can't happen as I planned. I'll do it here in the tent, then. What matters is that the thing is done, not how or where or who sees it. As long as you and the girl keep your mouths shut, I needn't harm either of you. It will take only a moment for me to cross the tent and do what I have to do. Stay silent, Gordianus. And you do the same, girl, while we walk together toward Caesar."

  I stood frozen to the spot. What did I owe to Caesar? Nothing. Was he worth my daughter's life? Certainly not. How many crimes had Caesar committed? How many deaths had he caused, how much suffering had he inflicted on others? Was there any reason at all that I should try to save his life?

  I heard Diana's answer in my head. "People are beginning to live again-to hope, to plan, to think about the future… If Caesar were to be murdered… the killing would start all over again…"

  Amid the preoccupied priests and camilli who chattered among themselves, preparing for the next part of the ceremony, Gnaeus Calpurnius was making his way across the tent, taking Diana with him. Caesar stood with his back to us. He and Arcesilaus were exchanging heated words about the calendar-why was it not ready, and who was responsible for the mistake? How strange that the conqueror of the world should be spending his last moments on earth wrangling over such an insignificant detail!

  I stood dumbfounded. It was going to happen-not as I had dreamed it but as circumstance and the will of Gnaeus Calpurnius decreed. In a matter of heartbeats, Caesar would be dead, and the fate of the world would diverge from whatever course Caesar had intended.

  "Gordianus! Uncle Gnaeus! What's going on?"

  Sweeping past the lictor, Calpurnia followed me into the tent. She spoke in a loud, gruff whisper. Caesar didn't hear, but Uncle Gnaeus did. Distracted, he turned and looked at his niece.

  There was only an instant in which the thing could be done. I acted without thinking. When men do such things, we say that the will of a god animates them, but I felt nothing, experienced nothing, thought nothing as I seized a libation bowl from a camillus standing nearby, flipped it upside down, and flung it at the man who held my daughter.

  The shallow bowl hurtled spinning through the air and struck Uncle Gnaeus squarely on the forehead. He lost his grip on Diana; she slipped away from him in the blink of an eye. With a stupefied expression, he staggered backward, then forward. He lurched toward Caesar, out of control. He still held the knife. For a dreadful moment I thought he would yet sink the blade into Caesar's chest-for Caesar had turned and now stood facing him, looking confused. But Uncle Gnaeus careened past Caesar, past Arcesilaus, and hurtled headlong into the calendar.

  The placard was ripped asunder-that part of my dream, at least, came true. Uncle Gnaeus tumbled head over heels. The knife flew from his grasp. He came to a halt and lay groaning and dazed on the ground amid the ruined remains of the calendar.

  Red faced and sputtering, Arcesilaus looked ready to explode. Calpurnia let out a little scream and swooned; the lictor caught her. Diana ran into my arms; she trembled like a doe. The priests and camilli cried out in confusion. And Caesar…

  Caesar alone, of everyone in that tent, appreciated the absolute absurdity of the moment. Resplendent in his gold-embroidered toga, wearing his crown of laurel leaves, the descendant of Venus and master of the world put his hands on his hips, threw back his head, and laughed.

  XXII

  I sat in my garden.

  By the calendar-Caesar's new calendar-exactly a year had passed since the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix.

  In fact, the days that had transpired numbered substantially more than a year; before the new calendar could begin, some sixty or so days were simply added to the old calendar of Numa, which then expired forever.

  The correction had successfully realigned the days with the seasons. And so, on the twenty-sixth day of September, six days before the Kalends of October, in the year one of Caesar's calendar, I sat in my garden, enjoying the mild weather of early fall, noting wistfully how short the days were growing.

  It seemed strange, in a way, that September should again be an autumnal month and not the middle of summer; but a part of me, deep within, felt gratified beyond words. Man's calendar and the calendar of the cosmos had been reconciled. A flaw in the man-made world had been set right, and we had Caesar to thank for that.

  Sitting in my garden, I thought back to the events of a year ago.

  Immediately following Gnaeus Calpurnius's unwitting destruction of the placard, confusion reigned. Caesar laughed. Arcesilaus raged. Lictors sought to remove Diana and me from the tent, but I managed to make my way to Calpurnia. In a hurried whisper, I told her all I had realized about Uncle Gnaeus. She was in such a state that I couldn't be certain she understood me. The lictors swept me away.

  The ceremony proceeded. On the temple steps, showing not a trace of discomposure, Caesar announced the introduction of his new calendar, but without the placard and without Uncle Gnaeus, who was nowhere to be seen. Calpurnia, too, had vanished.

  Days passed. I attempted to visit Calpurnia. I was not admitted. Nor did I hear from her.

  I did not hear from Caesar, either. He might at least have thanked me for saving his life.

  I brooded in silence, until finally I wrote a message to Calpurnia. I pointed out that my purpose in assisting her had been, first and foremost, to discover the killer of Hieronymus and to obtain justice for my murdered friend. Did she understand what I had told her in the tent? Did Caesar understand what had occurred? What did the two of them intend to do about it? Rashly, perhaps, I demanded that the killer of Hieronymus must be punished. I told her I had no intention of seeing the matter swept under the carpet.

  The next day I received her reply:

  I regret to inform you that Uncle Gnaeus is no longer with us.

  The night of the dedication, he succumbed to a sudden illness-a fever followed by delirium, copious sweating, and a seizure which stopped his heart. He died like a proud Roman, praising the achievements of our ancestors to his final breath. "Numa" was the last word he spoke.

  You may remember his unfortunate fall in the tent, earlier that day. There are some who claim they saw a person throw an object at Uncle Gnaeus; Caesar himself did not witness the onset of my uncl
e's staggering fall, but I did, and I have explained to Caesar that it appeared to be caused by a sudden fit or spasm. Caesar apologized profusely for laughing at Uncle Gnaeus's clumsiness. He thinks this strange spasm must have been the first symptom of my uncle's illness. Caesar is surely right, as I am certain you will agree, should Caesar ever discuss the matter with you.

  The funeral was conducted in a very private manner, as my uncle would have wished. I made no public announcement, as I did not want sad news to spoil the people's enjoyment of Caesar's generous entertainments.

  As for the matter you raised in your last message to me, we shall never speak of it again.

  Along with the note, the messenger delivered a small but very heavy box. I considered sending it back-I had told Calpurnia I would accept no payment-but Bethesda had seen the box and demanded to know what was inside. I let her sort the coins and tally their value. The task gave her great pleasure.

  Justice, of a sort, had prevailed. A year had passed, and in all that time I had received no more visits from Hieronymus, in my dreams or otherwise. Did that mean his lemur was at peace? I hoped so.

  The triumphs of Caesar marked the end of the old world and the beginning of the new, but the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix was only the midpoint in the festivities. The days that followed were full of yet more feasting and celebration, as the people of Rome were presented with a dazzling array of diversions, including plays, which were staged all over the city. Syrus took first place among the playwrights, and the prize of a million sesterces. Laberius-who presented his satire uncut, including the thinly veiled references to Caesar-came in second, and received half a million sesterces. Caesar's fawning admirer and his sardonic critic both became wealthy men, thanks to the largesse of the dictator.

  There were chariot races, athletic competitions, and equestrian exhibitions in the newly expanded Circus Maximus. There were contests in which gladiators were pitted against wild beasts. Spectacular reenactments of famous battles were staged in a special enclosure on the Field of Mars, in which hundreds of captives and condemned men fought to the death. A naval battle was waged on a man-made lake created especially for the purpose, using a thousand men on each side. Many died fighting or were drowned when their ships were set afire and sank.

  The citizens of Rome grew sated with spectacle. The gory gladiator contests and staged battles created carnage on such a huge scale that some spectators began to question whether Caesar had not already caused enough bloodshed. Others were outraged at the profligacy of Caesar's expenditures. It was said that the dictator had robbed the whole world of its wealth and was now squandering his ill-gotten gains like a drunken brigand.

  Most dissenters did no more than grumble, but at one point a group of disgruntled soldiers staged a small riot in the Forum. Caesar, chancing to come upon the disturbance with his lictors, apprehended one of the ringleaders with his own hands. The priest of Mars declared that three of the rioters must be put to death. The executions were carried out as a religious rite-yet another occasion for celebration. The men were sacrificed on the Field of Mars. Their heads were placed on stakes in the Forum. Did their grisly punishment remind people of the atrocities of Sulla? Such thoughts were spoken only in whispers.

  Eventually, the celebrations came to an end. Life went on.

  To deal with the last remnants of the Pompeian opposition, Caesar left Rome for Spain. Gaius Octavius had fallen ill and could not travel with him. In the month of Martius (by the new calendar), a decisive battle took place on the plains of Munda. Caesar lost a thousand men. The enemy lost thirty thousand. The opposition was crushed. Young Octavius arrived too late to take part in the slaughter.

  Back in Rome, Marc Antony put aside Cytheris and married Fulvia. She encouraged him to travel to the Spanish frontier, where he placed himself at Caesar's disposal, and the two men were reconciled.

  Brutus completed his term as governor of Cisalpine Gaul, then was appointed by Caesar to serve as a praetor in Rome. Just when he appeared to be solidly in Caesar's camp and rising in the dictator's favor, he married Porcia, the daughter of Cato-a union that must surely have displeased Caesar. Beyond his glib facade, there was an independent and unpredictable streak in Brutus's character.

  Cicero was suffering a terrible year. First, his beloved daughter died in childbirth. When Publilia made some tactless comment about the tragedy, Cicero summarily divorced her. Alone and miserable, with his personal life in shambles and his political ambitions at an end, he had withdrawn to one of his country estates to seek the consolations of philosophy.

  Cleopatra was back in Egypt. By all accounts, she was a competent ruler and a steadfast ally of Rome. She was said to be planning another visit to Rome in the coming year. Her son remained unacknowledged by Caesar.

  Arsinoe was residing in exile in Ephesus. At Rupa's insistence, I sent her a letter asking after her health. She never replied. Perhaps the letter was seized by her keepers.

  Despite Caesar's apparent invincibility, his wife's morbid dread of the future was as acute as ever. Following the death of Porsenna, Calpurnia found a new haruspex. His name was Spurinna, and he appeared to exercise an equally powerful hold over her.

  Now Caesar was on his way back to Rome, where preparations were underway for his Spanish Triumph. The event was to be stupendous, eclipsing even last year's triumphs. I would have dreaded the forthcoming pomp and ceremony, but for one reason: to take part in the planning, arriving ahead of Caesar, my son Meto was finally returning to Rome.

  I expected him at any moment. Diana had promised to show him immediately to the garden upon his arrival, so that I might see him alone for a little while before the rest of the family greeted him and claimed his attention.

  Shadows were lengthening. The September air grew chill. I wrapped my cloak around me. I was beginning to despair of his arrival, when Diana appeared. I read the smile on her face. Meto stepped from behind her. Diana withdrew.

  I rose to embrace him. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. When at last I stepped back, I did what I always did upon seeing him after a long absence: I surveyed his body for any new scars and checked his limbs for any signs of lameness. But the gods continued to protect him, despite the terrible risks he took in battle. He was as sound and whole as when I last saw him.

  How remarkably handsome he had become! I can say this without vanity, since he was not of my making.

  Mopsus brought wine and water. Meto asked about the family.

  "All are well," I said. "They'll join us soon. Even your brother is here, if you can believe it. I almost never see Eco these days. He got back just yesterday from a job that took him all the way to Athens."

  Meto laughed. "Eco the Finder! He must stay very busy, seeking truth and justice for the people of Rome while you sit here in your garden, Papa, basking in your retirement."

  I merely nodded.

  Meto inquired about events in Rome. I told him the latest news, then asked about his life on the battlefield.

  "Actually, now that the fighting is over, I've put aside my sword and picked up my stylus," he said. "I spend most of my time working on the latest volume of Caesar's memoirs."

  "It must be a great challenge, to distill such extraordinary experiences into a few words."

  "Indeed! But the research is the biggest challenge."

  "Research? It's a memoir, not a work of history. You lived every moment of it. Or rather, Caesar did."

  "Yes, but Caesar is very keen to verify every factual statement and all the various claims he makes. For example, did you know that he's fought a total of fifty pitched battles? Fifty! That's a record, as far as I can determine-more than any other commander in the history of Rome. The closest competitor I can find is Marcus Marcellus, the conqueror of Syracuse, who lived a hundred and fifty years ago. And he fought only thirty-nine battles."

  "How remarkable," I said. "Fifty battles…" How many men had died in those battles? How many had been maimed for life? How many women and c
hildren had been enslaved? Fifty was a large, round number. It would look very impressive in Caesar's memoirs.

  "And here's another remarkable figure," said Meto. He spoke in a hush. He was excited to share his work with me, and I was touched. "Of course, it isn't exact, because making such a calculation presents all sorts of difficulties and possibilities for error-overcounting, undercounting, and so forth-but I did the best I could, and I think I did a pretty good job."

  "A good job with what?"

  "Caesar asked me to calculate the number of those who died as a result of all his campaigns-well, those who were actually killed in battle, not counting citizens who died from hardship and disease and such; although we have some idea of that figure from the census he commissioned last year that shows the population of the city is only half what it was before the civil war."

  "Only half?" I whispered. Half the population of Rome, wiped from the face of the earth…

  "Anyway, after I gathered all the information I could, and sorted through all the various estimates, the number I came up with was one million one hundred and ninety-two thousand."

  I wrinkled my brow. "What exactly does that number represent?"

  "The number of people killed by Caesar in his fifty battles."

  "How extraordinary," I said; though, in fact, the number meant nothing to me. How could anyone grasp such a number? I tried to imagine seeing the faces of all those 1,192,000 who had died, one at a time. It was inconceivable. No mortal could hold such a number in his head. A great many people had died; that was all one could say, really.

  Apparently Caesar agreed. Meto shook his head ruefully. "And after all that work, all my careful calculations, Caesar has decided he doesn't want the number to appear in his memoirs. Can you imagine that?"

  "Actually, I can," I said quietly.

  "Ah, well, that number's likely to be superseded in the near future, anyway," said Meto. "Now that he's conquered the whole of the Mediterranean, it's almost inevitable that Caesar will look east and invade Parthia. That means mounting a huge expedition, probably by way of Egypt, perhaps as soon as next year."