Hand of Isis (31 page)

One woman who was invited from time to time was the wife of Caesar’s right hand, Marcus Antonius. Fulvia was a handsome woman in her mid-thirties, with a proud chin and long black hair that she wore in the absolute latest fashions and the air of someone who knows she is a great beauty. Perhaps she had been, fifteen years before, but she had the kind of looks that did not last once youthful prettiness was done. Fulvia, more than any other, set out to make herself charming to the Queen. And it was she who suggested a garden party.

Cleopatra protested that surely it was too cold, but Fulvia laughed. “Just a small party! After all, the weather has turned and we shall have flowers soon. The almonds are budding already. If you bring some braziers out for the fainthearted to gather around, it will be quite warm.”

And who’s to have the charge of that, I thought. And who will be fretting and worrying over the temperature and trying to make sure the guests don’t freeze. Me, of course. It’s worrying enough to have a party outside somewhere it rains frequently.

“We always have garden parties in the winter,” Fulvia said. “It’s too warm in the summer. Besides, your garden is charming.”

Caesar leaned back on his couch, smiling. “It sounds as though you must have a party, my dear. If only because Fulvia will not remove her teeth otherwise.”

Marcus Antonius, who shared his couch with Fulvia, colored. “She doesn’t mean to be pushy, do you, Fulvia?”

Caesar laughed and blew a kiss in Fulvia’s direction. “Of course she does. But there’s no harm in it, and possibly some good. Your wife has a head for politics, Marcus.”

Fulvia reached up as though catching the kiss and pointedly clasped it to her bosom, leaning back against Antonius. “I think it would do the Queen good to be seen by more people, that’s all.” She looked at Cleopatra. “You could come and watch the Lupercalia procession from our house.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” Cleopatra said gracefully, looking for a cue from Caesar. Of course she did know perfectly well. It was in her briefing scrolls.

“It’s a fertility festival,” Antonius said, shifting on his couch. “There’s a sacrifice and a rite. It’s special this year because Caesar has created a third college of priests for it.”

“Of which you are the first magister,” Caesar said, holding out his cup. I refilled it without him even looking around. “Thus guaranteeing a good turnout for the procession. Who among the ladies of Rome will not want to watch Marcus Antonius run nude through the city striking people with thongs?”

Antonius held his empty cup out too. “It’s for fertility,” he said again to the Queen. “It’s a blessing on women to be touched by the whips, so women who are pregnant or who want to be crowd the ropes so that they can be blessed.”

“I see,” Cleopatra said. “And are you suggesting I need such a blessing?”

Caesar laughed. “I think she does well enough with her own old goat not to need the goats of the Lupercal!”

Antonius roared, his cup shaking back and forth while I tried to refill it.

The Queen arched an eyebrow. “I had not taken you for a priest, Antonius.”

“Antonius has been an Initiate of Dionysos for many years,” Fulvia said.

Marcus Antonius stilled the cup and shot her a glance. “Not so many years, I hope,” he said. “After all, Caesar only legalized the worship of Dionysos in Rome four years ago.”

“Of course she means in the last four years,” Caesar said, his eyes dancing. “I am certain you had nothing to do with Dionysos before, law-abiding and temperate as you are.”

The Queen lifted her cup for me to refill. There was still half the wine left, but then she never liked to drink the dregs. “The worship of Dionysos was illegal?” I imagine she was as shocked as I, though it did not sound in her voice. Of course we had heard of such things, in the past or in barbarous lands, but the idea of rendering any religion illegal in a place so close as Rome, so recently as four years ago, was frightening.

“Oh yes,” Caesar said, lounging back on his cushions. “Most of the Eastern religions have been illegal at one time or another. Isis and Serapis were, for a while. The worship of Dionysos was thought to lead women to infidelity, and therefore be incompatible with Roman values. It’s foolish, of course, to think that ideas can be banned and kept out, like a man with a leaking boat bailing furiously while the water flows in between the planks.” He took a sip. “Better to bring things into the light than to hide them. Darkness is where the rumors of human sacrifice and rape breed.”

Antonius nodded gravely. “The worship of Dionysos isn’t like that. People don’t understand.”

“But perhaps you will teach them, Marcus,” Caesar said.

“And you are not an initiate yourself?” Cleopatra asked.

Caesar shook his head. “My heart is given to Venus. She is a jealous mistress.”

“And surely Mars,” Fulvia proclaimed, “powerful in war as you are.”

“I hope that I have enjoyed His favor,” Caesar said carefully, “if only as His gift for His beloved’s son.”

Cleopatra said what I would have, as though we shared one thought. “It is dangerous to be the son of the Lady of the Sea,” she said.

He reached across from his couch, clasping her hand. “You worry too much, my dear,” he said.

A
nd so we were stuck with having a garden party.

Or rather, I was stuck with it. Of course the day of the party, two days before the first day of March, was cold, rainy, and unpleasant. I was up before dawn, getting slaves to rig awnings over the paved terrace that looked toward the Tiber and the city, and putting up a big striped tent in the garden so that there would be room for six more couches there. I could do nothing about the wet grass, and while there would have to be a brazier in the tent to keep the chill off, its legs and its heat would probably scar the grass. I cursed Fulvia under my breath as we moved the brazier around in the cold rain.

By midmorning the rain had stopped and it had started to clear, though the brisk wind off the river was chilly. The slaves took the couch cushions out and arranged them, six under the tent and six on the terrace, four groups of three. I thought that the damp would damage the good wood, but they were Caesar’s, not ours.

By now the scent of roasting meat was excruciatingly lovely. Caesar’s cook knew his business, I thought. Since this was an intimate little “family party” Caesarion would have to make an appearance, so I went inside to make sure his nurse had bathed him, and to pick out a tunic for him that would send precisely the right message. I chose one in sky blue, with embroidered borders, but not too fancy or Greek. As I laid it out, I glanced out the window. Yes, it was definitely clearing, and by noon it might be beautiful. I wondered if Emrys would be in the escort today. If he were, I’d have no more time than to smile at him. But in two days I would have a full day off, and Emrys was not on the duty schedule. We could go about the city if the weather wasn’t too bad.

There was some little problem in the kitchen just short of noon, so I wasn’t there when the first guests began to arrive. By the time I came out again there were eight or so people, standing around the way people always do when they’re first to a party and wish they weren’t. Caesar wasn’t there yet, so there was no point in trying to corner him.

The only one of the party who seemed relaxed was a toddling baby a year younger than Caesarion, who was trying his best to get muddy before the rest of the guests arrived. His mother was chasing him around the garden, her saffron-colored gown already streaked at the hem, but she didn’t seem upset about it. I helped her corner him beside the barren rose hedge.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, as he trampled on my gown leaving muddy footprints. She scooped him up kicking.

“I’m quite used to it,” I said, smiling. “I have charge of Caesarion, so it happens all the time.”

“Ah.” She put her head to the side, reminding me of nothing so much as a clever, dark-eyed little bird. “Then you’ll be one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, the ones who run things.”

“I’m Charmian,” I said. “And I am grateful for the Queen’s trust, yes.”

“Roman women are a little more subtle about running things,” she said. “I’m Octavia Minor. Marcellus’ wife.” She cocked her head back toward a florid man in a very formal toga who was bending the ear of a fair youth.

“And how are you . . .”

“Caesar’s great-niece,” she said. “Not to be confused with my older sister, the famous wit. She’s the one with the symposia full of poets. I’m the one with the kicking child.” She attempted to right the boy, who was now hanging upside down over her arm.

I laughed. “And what is his name?”

“Another Marcellus,” she said. “I suppose it will be Marcellus First, Second, and Third by the time I’m finished. Admittedly we Romans are not particularly creative in our names. And it does cause a certain degree of confusion, though you can generally tell who someone’s family is even if you’ve no clue who they are.”

The florid Marcellus seemed to be expounding on something at length to the youth, who looked bored.

Octavia shrugged. “He wanted to be early, so now he’s got nobody to talk to except my brother—Octavian, just to be confusing.”

“I’ve heard of him, of course,” I said, putting the pieces together. The young tribune that Emrys had disliked, the one who Caesar compared unfavorably to Agrippa. But surely Agrippa wouldn’t be here! He wasn’t related to Caesar, and his family was on the wrong side of politics. I looked around quickly to see if he had come with his friend, but I didn’t see him.

“Have you?” Octavia smiled. “I suppose you must keep track of it all. And my husband has been here before.”

“Yes,” I said, “I remember.” He had been part of a number of parties of distinguished men, though I did not have the impression he was any particular ally of Caesar’s. I wondered how he had come to be married to Caesar’s great-niece, but perhaps that predated the current political constellation. Octavia looked to be about my age, and could have been married for some years.

We were interrupted by the arrival of Marcus Antonius, who did have a way of filling a room. Fulvia was with him of course, wearing a gown of so saturated a crimson that it might as well have been purple. The cabochon amethysts she wore were also lovely, if a bit much for a small family garden party.

Antonius was expansive, advancing on everyone and greeting them like old friends, a pretty little boy Caesarion’s age on his shoulder.

“Oh yes,” Fulvia was saying to someone, “the baby’s home with his nurse. But I thought that Antyllus could come since it was just an informal little party, and that he could play with Caesarion.”

“Or Marcellus,” Octavia said, going to greet her.

“Of course,” Fulvia said warmly, but I saw her eyes sweeping the garden over Octavia’s shoulder, looking for more important people to talk to. One never wants to be standing alone at these things, but neither does one want to get trapped with someone below one on the ladder.

At that moment the Queen came out, and of course Fulvia dashed off to kiss her and greet her like her oldest friend, while Cleopatra returned her compliments with pretty effusion.

Everyone arrived in a rush then, and there was only one slave taking wraps and cloaks, so I hurried to help her, and then there was a hitch in getting the watered wine poured, so that the gentlemen at least could fortify themselves after coming all of the way across the river. Then Caesar arrived, and there was the usual disarray of a party when everyone is trying to get to the most powerful person in the room without seeming to be doing it. Caesarion won by doing what the others would not and pushing his way among the knees to grab Caesar by the ankles.

Caesar laughed and picked him up. I thought, even from a distance, that the laugh looked genuine. “The boy knows what he wants,” he said. “And he’s not afraid to be rude about getting it.”

“Just like Caesar,” Marcus Antonius said, but I don’t think anyone else found it nearly as funny.

“So,” Marcellus said, lifting his cup in his hand, “when are you planning to retire like Sulla? Isn’t it time you enjoyed life a bit?”

For a moment there was a dreadful pause, and then everyone went right on talking just a little bit too loudly.

Caesar laughed again, but his eyes were hard. “I don’t think I’m ready to be pastured, Marcellus. I’m afraid you won’t put me out to stud just yet!”

The Queen turned to Fulvia, asking her something about an upcoming festival, as though she hadn’t heard. Of course the one person missing at this event was Caesar’s wife. I imagined there was an equivalent function across town at her house on a different day. It seemed to me much less convenient than Pharaoh keeping more than one wife in the same palace. Of course, it was harder for them to poison one another this way.

Marcellus either didn’t know when to back down, or didn’t care. “It’s this Dictator for life business,” he said. “It’s upsetting. Even Sulla knew how to preserve the forms.”

“Yes, he did,” Caesar said. “And in the end he left nothing different than when he began. The moment he was dead the chaos began again. I should be content indeed to retire and to think no further than the span of my years, if I did not have the future to think of.” He cupped Caesarion’s head in his hand, dark hair so like his, the same dark eyes. “But if I am to think of all our children, then it is not enough to walk away today or tomorrow with our work half-finished, with our borders insecure and our economy struggling. No, dear friends.” He shook his head. “Half measures will not do. I am determined to leave Rome on solid footing, so that we can all sleep well in our old age and our spirits rest when we are finished.”

“Well spoken,” Antonius said, and I saw the great-nephew’s eyebrow twitch. Who should be Caesar’s heir if not Caesarion? Octavian? Baby Marcellus, struggling in Octavia’s arms? Antonius himself? “And it is our friendship with Egypt that secures our trade to the east.”

“It has always been the pride of Egypt to be a staunch ally,” Cleopatra said, coming and standing beside Caesar. She did not touch him, but with Caesarion between them the message was unmistakable. “I will be saddened indeed to return to Alexandria in a few weeks, when the sailing season begins.”

“Oh, do you travel?” Octavia put in.

“Before the Kalends of April, I think,” the Queen said. “If the winds are favorable. I have been away from my kingdom for months, and Caesar goes to war.”

At that point some other guests arrived, and the conversation became more general. It was an hour or more before I had a chance to take two breaths in a row in one place.

I found myself under the awning over the terrace. Standing just outside the door, his eyes surveying the crowd, was the tall German bodyguard I remembered from Alexandria. “Sigismund is it?” I asked.

He grinned. “It is.”

I gestured to a passing slave. “Have you had anything to eat? Do you want anything?”

He shrugged. “Maybe just a bite while I’m standing here. I can’t sit down or get too distracted. Not with Caesar in a crowd like this.”

I waved the slave over and Sigismund took some bread with pickled fish off his tray.

“It’s not much of a crowd, is it? Not more than thirty people, and half of them family.”

Sigismund shook his head. “It’s not the big crowds we worry about. In the Forum or something like that we’ve got a cordon around Caesar. There are at least four bodyguards and sometimes the Auxiliaries, and the lictors. And Antonius, who’s as good as a bodyguard or two. Besides, it’s hard to carry out an assassination in a big crowd. Too uncertain. No, it’s at home or in private when we really have to sweat.”

“That seems counterintuitive,” I said.

“It’s not easy guarding a man like Caesar,” he said. “What if a man got in over the roof of his own house and jumped down through the impluvium? Or got in through a window when the household is asleep? Or came through these trees here and got up on the terrace?”

I looked toward the edge of the terrace. “It’s twice a man’s height to the bottom of the wall,” I said. “Do you really think someone could climb it?”

“Easily enough,” Sigismund said, “if they knew what they were doing. That’s why we have irregular patrols in the woods between here and the river, down the slope. Aurelianus takes care of that. It’s his ala that’s assigned to it. And even when Caesar’s in his bedroom, there’s always one of us within call.” He gave me another grin. “Professional curiosity? Aurelianus said you’ve taken a knife for the Queen.”

“I did,” I said. “It was a gut thrust, but fortunately I turned and it went in my thigh.”

Sigismund took a bite of the fish paste. “That’s lucky, all right.”

“Are you with him everywhere?” I asked.

“Everywhere,” Sigismund affirmed. “Everywhere except the privy and the Senate house. We’re not allowed in there.”

I felt a chill run up my spine, as though something had echoed that shouldn’t have. “Why not?” I asked.

“Caesar likes his privacy in the privy,” Sigismund said. “Thanks for the bite.” He stepped out into the sun again, his eyes on Caesar.

It was nothing, I thought, a passing uneasiness. And why not? If these were Caesar’s friends, then what did his enemies look like? And where were they at this very moment?

S
TILL
, the uneasiness stayed with me all of the rest of the day, long past the time that Caesarion was returned to his nurse and the guests began to leave. The crowd was definitely thinning when I ducked into the atrium for something and heard voices there.

“I tell you, they do you no good,” Marcus Antonius said heatedly.

I ducked behind a potted cedar.