The Triumph of Caesar (10 page)

The darkness grew thick around me. The dank air chilled my lungs. "Yes," I whispered. "Pluto . . . is the name."

"So, Hieronymus the Scapegoat arrived in Hades ahead of me. Too bad for him! He seemed to be having such a good time, being alive in the world. When he visited, I made him tell me all about the parties he went to. He described the houses of the rich and powerful, the sweet-smelling gardens, the banquets with food of every sort piled high. Oh, yes, the food!" In the darkness, I heard his stomach grumble.

"Can this be right?" he whispered. "Does a dead man's empty belly groan in Hades?"

I couldn't tell if he was joking, mad, or simply spinning a fantasy, as men do in unbearable circumstances. I only knew that he was speaking freely, which was what I wanted.

"Yes, Hieronymus loved life," I said.

"How did he die?"

"He was stabbed."

"Ha! By a jealous husband? Or some great warrior he insulted?"

"I honestly don't know. You say he was your only visitor?"

"Yes."

"No one else has come to see you?"

"No one except the warders."

"But you weren't always kept in the Tullianum, were you?" Usually the prison was only for those awaiting imminent judgment or execution.

"No. For a long time—months and months, years and years—I was kept here and there, in cages and boxes and holes in the ground. Moved from one of Caesar's estates to another, I presume, to keep my followers from knowing my whereabouts."

The siege of Alesia had ended more than six years ago. With that victory, Rome's conquest of Gaul was complete. Normally, Caesar would have returned to Rome to celebrate his triumph over the Gauls as soon as events allowed, certainly within a year or two; but his quarrel with the Senate and the eventual civil war had intervened. Vercingetorix should have been executed years ago. Instead he had been kept in captivity all this time, living a nonlife while awaiting a terrible death. No wonder he seemed more a ghost than a man.

"How did they treat you, in those cages and holes?"

"Not badly. No, not badly at all. I was fed well enough. Kept reasonably clean. Beaten only when I tried to escape or made other trouble. They needed to keep me alive, you see, for Caesar's triumph. You can't humiliate a dead man by parading him through the Forum. You can't inflict suffering on a corpse. No, they needed to keep me alive, indefinitely, so they never starved me and they never beat me beyond my endurance. They made sure I had no way to kill myself. They even sent a physician once or twice, when I was ill.

"Then everything changed. The time grew near. They brought me to Rome. I knew, when they lowered me into this pit, that I would never come out again until the day of my death. They began to starve me. They beat me, for no reason. They tortured me. They made me sleep in my own waste. For Caesar's triumph, they didn't want a strong, proud Gaul walking upright through the Forum. They wanted a broken man, a cringing, pathetic creature covered in filth, a laughingstock, an object of ridicule, something for children to jeer at and old men to spit on."

He suddenly lurched forward, pulling his shackles taut. I gave a start and almost dropped the lamp. "Tell me I'm right!" he cried. "Tell me you're Pluto and the ordeal is already over! They say the dead forget their troubles when they cross to the underworld and drink from the river Lethe. Have I drunk from the river? Have I forgotten the day of my death?"

My heart pounded in my chest. My hand shook, causing the lamplight to flicker. "Who knows what you've forgotten? Tell me what you
remember,
Vercingetorix. Tell me . . . about the plot to kill Caesar."

He fell silent. Was he puzzled or angry or too shrewd to answer? At last he spoke. "What are you talking about?"

"Surely your people won't let your death go unavenged. Are the Gauls not bitter? Are they not proud? Can they allow the great Vercingetorix to die and do nothing to avenge his death?"

Again, there was silence; it went on so long that I became unnerved, imagining that he had slipped from his chains somehow and was drawing toward me. I braced myself and stood upright, letting the lamp's steady glow illuminate my face.

"I have no people," he finally said. "The best of the Gauls died at Alesia. The survivors were sold into slavery. The traitors who sided with Caesar received their reward." This was true; all over Gaul, Caesar had placed the native chieftains who had supported him in positions of authority over the rest. Some he had even elevated to the Roman Senate.

"But the Gauls have other ways to inflict harm on a man," I whispered. "Druid magic! How you must long for Caesar's death. Have you placed a curse on him?"

He laughed bitterly. "If the Druids possessed true magic, would Gaul be a Roman province? There's nothing I can do to cause Caesar's death. But he'll die soon enough."

"How do you know that?"

"Every man dies, even Caesar. If not this year, then the next, or the year after. Vercingetorix dies. Caesar dies. The same fate awaits us all. Strange, that I should have to remind Pluto of that fact."

He began to weep. I moved the lamp so that I could see him. He shivered and trembled. He hid his face in his hands. Insects and glistening slugs crept amid the strands of his matted, filthy hair. A rat skittered between us. My stomach churned with nausea.

I tugged on the rope and called to the warder above. The winch gave a squeal. The rope pulled taut. I sat on the wooden plank and began to rise slowly. I turned my face up toward the opening, longing for light, desperate to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air.

VII

I hurried across the Forum with Rupa beside me, thankful for the simple freedom to gaze at the blue sky above and to run my fingertips over the smooth, sun-heated stone wall of a temple. From a food vendor near the Temple of Castor and Pollux I paused to buy a little pastry stuffed with fig paste and slathered with fish-pickle sauce. Rupa, who had never acquired a taste for Roman garum, waved his hand to signal that he wanted a pastry with fig paste only.

Together, eating as we walked, we passed the House of the Vestals and trudged up the Ramp to the crest of the Palatine. At the top, we turned down the winding lane that would take us to the house of Cicero, not far from my own.

As we rounded the crest of the hill, I had a clear view of the top of the Capitoline Hill across the way. The Temple of Jupiter, rebuilt after its destruction by fire during the days of Sulla, was as imposing as ever. In a prominent place before the temple, obscured by a canopy of sailcloth pending its unveiling, stood the bronze statue that would be dedicated the next day. What pose had Caesar struck for his grand image on the Capitoline? That of a mortal supplicant, a man more than other men but still obeisant to the king of the gods? Or something more grand, the upright, unbowed image of a descendant of Venus, a demigod and junior partner to the Olympians?

We arrived at Cicero's door. Rupa gave a polite knock with his foot. To the slave who perused us through the peephole I stated my name and the desire to see his master on personal business. A few moments later, we were admitted to the vestibule, then conducted down a hallway to Cicero's library.

He was balder and fatter than I remembered. He rose from his chair, laid aside the scroll he had been reading, and gave me a beaming smile.

"Gordianus! How long has it been? I thought—"

"I know. You thought I was dead." I sighed.

"Why, no. I knew you were back in Rome. I probably knew it the day you arrived. I walk by your house almost every day, you know. And neighbors talk. No, I was going to say, I thought you'd never come to see me."

"I've been keeping to myself."

He nodded. "So have I. A lot of that going around these days. Best to stay at home, with a stout fellow to guard the door. Dare to stick your head up, and you're liable to get it whacked off." He made a vivid gesture, slashing one hand across his throat.

Like the orator he was, he exaggerated. "Caesar isn't Sulla," I said. "I haven't seen the heads of his enemies on spikes down in the Forum."

"No, not yet . . . not yet . . ." His voice trailed off. "But can I offer refreshment to you and . . . your companion?"

"This is Rupa. I adopted him before I left for Egypt. He doesn't speak."

Cicero smiled. "You and your extended family! Isn't this your third adopted son? He's certainly the biggest of the lot. But silent, eh? Well, there's been an addition—and a subtraction—to my own household, as you may already know. But my new family member most certainly speaks—oh, how that girl can speak! Hopefully she'll return from her shopping before you leave, and you can meet her. But what can I offer you? Are you hungry?"

"We just had a bite, actually. Perhaps some liberally watered wine to wash it down?"

Cicero clapped his hands and sent a slave to fetch the refreshment. He cleared away some scrolls that were stacked on chairs and the three of us sat.

"Well, Gordianus, tell me your news, and then I'll tell you mine." From the look on his face, I saw he could hardly wait to talk about his new wife.

"My news is not happy, I'm afraid. While I was away, I think you made the acquaintance of a good friend of mine, Hieronymus of Massilia."

"Ah, yes! I heard the bad news. I sent a message of condolence to your house just this morning. I'd have come myself, but as I said, I don't go out much."

"You know about his death already?"

Cicero nodded. "I send a man every day to check the new entries in the death registry. These days, one must keep abreast, or else fall hopelessly behind. There's nothing more embarrassing than to meet an old friend, or someone I once defended in court, and not to know that the fellow's brother or son or father is dead. It makes one look uncaring, not to mention uninformed. Yes, I was sorry to learn of Hieronymus's death. How did it happen?"

"He was stabbed, here on the Palatine."

"Stabbed? In the street?"

"More or less."

"But this is terrible! Do we know who did it?"

"Not yet."

"Ha! Caesar claims to have made the city safe again, but there's more lawlessness than ever. Another reason I hardly budge from my house. So, Gordianus, are you on the trail of the killer? Slipping into your old role, playing the Finder to seek justice for poor Hieronymus? Venturing hither and yon, uncovering scandal and skullduggery and whatnot?"

"Something like that."

"Like the good old days, eh, when we were young, you and I, when there was a point to seeking out the truth and striving for justice. Will our grandchildren even know what a republic was? Or how the law courts operated? If we're to have a king, I suppose the king will mete out justice. No more juries, eh? There won't be much use for an old advocate like myself." His tone was more wistful than bitter.

I nodded sympathetically. "Speaking of Hieronymus, I was wondering how well you came to know him."

"Oh, I had him here to my house a few times. He greatly admired my library. He was a very scholarly fellow, you know. Awfully well-read. And what a memory! I had an old scroll of Homer that had suffered some water damage—needed to be patched where a few lines had been lost. Can you believe that Hieronymus was able to recite the missing lines by heart? He dictated them to Tiro, and we restored the missing text on the spot. Yes, he was the model of the well-versed Greek, proof that the Massilian academies are every bit as good as they're reputed to be."

I nodded. Would Cicero speak as glowingly if he could read the parts about himself in Hieronymus's journal? Those passages were especially full of pedantic wordplay, as if Hieronymus enjoyed making fun of Cicero by using overwrought rhetoric.

The old satyr seems completely unaware of how ridiculous he looks to everyone except the fellow he sees in the mirror; if he would pause to reflect, he would die of blushing. The little queen with bee-stung lips he calls "my honey" will sting him sooner or later. (Some say he married her for money, not honey.) A bad case of the hives is likely to kill an old satyr like Cicero. . . .

"Publilia!" Cicero abruptly exclaimed, and rose from his chair.

Rupa and I did likewise, for Cicero's young bride had entered the room.

"My honey! I didn't hear you come in." Cicero hurried toward her. He took a plump little arm in one hand and stroked her honey-blond hair with the other. "You flit like a butterfly. You come and go without a sound. Your dainty little feet barely touch the earth!"

Rupa shot me a look and rolled his eyes. I tried not to laugh.

"Publilia, this is Gordianus, an old friend. And this is his son Rupa."

The petite, round-faced girl gave me a polite nod, then turned her attention to Rupa, who, I have noticed, seems to be just the sort of fellow most fifteen-year-old girls enjoy looking at. Publilia perused him openly for a moment, then tittered and averted her eyes. Cicero appeared not to understand the cause of her chagrin, but he delighted in her childish laughter and joined in with a cackle of his own.

"She's a shy thing, really."

"No, I am not!" the girl protested, pulling her arm free. She pouted for a moment, then shot another glance at Rupa and smiled.

"Ah, I think all that shopping has tired out my little honey, hasn't it?" crooned Cicero. "Or is this heat making her cranky? Perhaps you should take a nap, my dear."

"I suppose I could go . . . lie down . . . for a bit." She looked Rupa up and down, and sighed. "Especially if you men are talking about boring old books."

"Actually, we were talking about death and murder," I said.

"Oh!" The girl gave an exaggerated shudder, causing her breasts to quiver. They were surprisingly large for a fifteen-year-old.

"Gordianus, you've frightened her!" protested Cicero. "You should be more careful what you say. Publilia is hardly more than a child."

"Indeed!" I said under my breath.

"Run along, my honey. Have a drink. Cool yourself; call one of the slaves to come fan you. I'll join you a bit later. You can show me that cloth you bought for your new gown."

"Red gossamer from Cos," she said, "so light and gauzy, you can see right through it!"