The Triumph of Caesar (14 page)

Other members of the priesthoods followed, wearing long robes and mantles over their heads. These included the keepers of the Sibylline Books, the augurs responsible for divination, the flamens devoted to various deities, and the priests who maintained the calendar and reckoned sacred dates. Among this last group I saw a familiar face, the white-haired uncle of Calpurnia, Gnaeus Calpurnius, whom I had seen briefly in the garden at her house. Clearly, Uncle Gnaeus was in his element on this day, a priest among priests taking part in a great occasion. His expression was at once solemn and joyous; he had that smug look one often sees on priests, of knowing a little more than ordinary people and rather enjoying this superior knowledge. Now that I realized the priesthood to which he was attached, it occurred to me that it might have been Uncle Gnaeus who piqued Hieronymus's interest in the calendar, and perhaps even assisted him with astronomical calculations—if, indeed, he had deigned to have anything to do with Hieronymus. I made a mental note to ask him about it, if the opportunity arose.

Next came a band of trumpeters, blaring the ancient summons to arms, as if a hostile enemy approached. In fact, behind the trumpeters, an enemy did approach—the captive chiefs of the conquered Gauls. There were a great many of these prisoners; the Gauls were divided into scores of tribes, and Caesar had subdued them all. These once-proud warriors were dressed in rags. They shambled forward with their heads bowed, chained to one another. The crowed laughed and jeered and pelted them with rotten fruit.

At their head was Vercingetorix. He was as I had seen him in the Tullianum, nearly naked and covered with filth, but his appearance was even more appalling under bright sunlight. His eyes were hollow. His lips were dry and cracked. His hair and his beard were as tangled as a bird's nest. His fingernails were like claws, so long they had begun to curl. His shoes had disintegrated while he walked; bits of shredded leather trailed from his ankles, and each step left a bloody footprint on the paving stones.

Confused and exhausted, he suddenly came to a halt. A soldier pacing alongside the prisoners, like a herd dog, ran up and struck him with a whip. The crowd roared.

"Fight back, Gaul!" someone yelled.

"Show us what you're made of!"

"King of the Gauls? King of the cowards!"

Vercingetorix lurched forward and almost fell. One of the other chieftains reached out to steady him. The soldier struck the man across the face and sent him reeling back. Spectators jeered and clapped and jumped up and down with excitement.

The chastened prisoners quickened their pace. A moment later, they passed beyond my sight. Bethesda touched my arm and gave me a sympathetic look. I realized I was gripping the edge of the shelf so firmly that my knuckles had turned white.

So this was the end of Vercingetorix. For him, the day would end where it began, back at the Tullianum, where he would be lowered into the pit and strangled. In quick succession, the other chieftains would meet the same fate. There would be no last-minute rescue. There would not be even a final show of defiance or pride or anger, only submission and silence. He had been broken to the ultimate degree that could still leave him breathing and able to walk. Caesar's torturers were exquisitely skilled at obtaining exactly what they wanted from a victim, and Vercingetorix had proved to be no exception.

Next came musicians and a troupe of mincing mimes who mocked the chieftains who had just passed. The tension aroused in the crowd by the sight of their enemies melted into screams of laughter. The mime who played Vercingetorix—recognizable by a ludicrously oversized version of the warrior's famous winged helmet, which almost swallowed his head—confronted a mime meant to be Caesar, to judge by his glittering armor and red cape. Their mock swordfight, attended by a great deal of buffoonery, excited squeals of laughter from the children watching and ended when the Caesar mime appeared to plunge his sword up the fundament of the Vercingetorix mime, who first gave a high-pitched scream, then cocked his head to one side and started rolling his hips, as if he enjoyed the penetration. The crowd loved this.

Dancers, musicians, and a chorus of singers followed. People clapped their hands and sang along to marching songs they had learned from their grandparents. "Onward Roman soldiers, for Jupiter you fight! The way of Rome is forward, the cause of Rome is right. . . ."

Next came the spoils of war. Specially made wagons, festooned with garlands, were loaded with the captured armor of the enemy. Superbly crafted breastplates, helmets, and shields were mounted for display, as were the most impressive weapons of the enemy, including gleaming swords with elaborately decorated pommels, fearsome axes, and iron-tipped spears hewn from solid oak and carved with strange runes.

The grandest wagon was reserved for the armor and weapons of Vercingetorix. The crowd applauded the sight of his famous bronze helmet with massive feathered wings on either side. There was also a display of his personal belongings, including his signet ring for sealing documents, his private drinking cup of silver and horn, a fur cloak made from a bear he himself had killed, and even a pair of his boots, crafted of fine leather and tooled with intricate Celtic designs.

More wagons rolled by, carrying captured booty from every corner of Gaul, artfully displayed so that the crowd could take in each object as it slowly passed by. There were silver goblets and pitchers and vases, richly embroidered fabrics, woven goods with patterns never before seen in Rome, magnificent garments made of fur, elaborately wrought bronze lamps, copper bracelets, torques and armbands made of gold, and clasps and pins and brooches set with gemstones of remarkable size and color. There were bronze and stone statues, crude by Greek or Roman standards, depicting the strange gods who had failed to protect the Gauls.

More wagons passed, stuffed with coffers overflowing with gold and silver coins and bullion. At the sight of so much lucre, people gasped with excitement and their eyes glittered with greed. Word had spread that Caesar intended to distribute a considerable portion of the captured wealth of Gaul to the people of Rome. Every citizen could expect to receive at least three hundred sesterces. We would all profit from the pillaging of Gaul.

As impressive as were these displays of bullion and jewels and metalwork, the human booty of Gaul far exceeded its other plundered wealth. Caesar had gone to war on borrowed money, but from the sale of humans he had become phenomenally wealthy. His enslavement of the population had taken place on a vast scale; in his memoirs, he boasted of selling over fifty thousand of the Aduatuci tribe alone. In celebration of this achievement, a small sampling of the most striking of Caesar's captives was presented. By the hundreds, with hands chained behind their backs and constrained by the shackles on their ankles to take baby steps, giant warriors with long red mustaches and naked youths with flowing locks shuffled past, their heads hung in shame. Looking even more miserable, a seemingly endless succession of beautiful girls draped in sheer veils were made to prance and twirl for the amusement of the crowd. These slaves would be sold at a special auction the next day. Their display in the triumph was a preview for interested buyers. Those who could not afford such exquisite merchandise could at least stare at them with amazement and be proud that Caesar had made slaves of such outstanding human specimens.

Having satisfied the crowd's prurient interest in death, greed, and lust—showing off the doomed and humiliated leaders, then the magnificent spoils of war, then an assortment of the flesh made available for purchase, thanks to Caesar—the procession continued with its educational component.

The crowd was shown a series of painted placards made of cloth stretched across wooden frames. Some of these placards, mounted on poles, were small enough to be held aloft by a single man, but others were quite large and required several men to carry them. Placards proclaimed the name of every vanquished tribe and captured city; accompanying these were models of the most famous cities and forts of the Gauls, crafted from wood and ivory. More placards depicted notable features of the Gallic landscape—its rivers and mountains, forests and bays. Other placards were painted with vivid scenes of the war, in which Caesar was usually at the center, mounted atop his white charger and wearing his red cape.

Speakers recited vivid episodes from Caesar's memoirs extolling his own ingenuity and the bravery of the Romans legions. Large models of siege towers rolled by, along with actual battering rams, catapults, ballistae, and other machines of conquest, with signs identifying the battles in which they had been used. In his campaign against the Gauls, Caesar and his engineers had greatly advanced the science of war; the many battles and sieges had allowed them to perfect new methods of inflicting mayhem and death, and here were the artifacts of the unstoppable war machine that had crushed not only the Gauls but also every one of Caesar's rivals.

Next, marching in single file, came Caesar's private bodyguard. As the multitude of armed lictors went by, their numbers seemingly endless, the crowd gradually ceased its raucous cheering and grew quiet.

Long ago, Romulus had surrounded himself with lictors, each bearing an ax to protect the person of the king and a bundle of rods to scourge anyone who defied him. When the monarchy gave way to the republic, the Senate assigned lictors to the consuls and other magistrates to protect them during their term of office. Despite their perpetually grim expressions and the fearsome weapons they carried, there was nothing alarming about the mere sight of a band of lictors; one saw them every day, crossing the Forum. What made the crowd uneasy that day, I think, was the sheer number of lictors. Never had I seen so many at one time. Not even the ancient kings had given themselves such a vast bodyguard. Even the most oblivious citizen was made to realize, by the sight of so many lictors, the unprecedented status that Caesar had claimed for himself.

Sobered by the parade of lictors, the crowd broke into a deafening roar when Caesar appeared. I saw the four snow-white horses first, tossing their proud heads and splendid manes, then caught a first glimpse of the golden ceremonial chariot. Caesar was wearing the traditional costume: a tunic embroidered with palm leaves, over which was draped a gold-embroidered toga. A wreath of laurel leaves covered his receding hairline. In his right hand he held a laurel bough, and in his left, a scepter. A slave stood behind him, holding above Caesar's head a golden crown ornamented with jewels.

While I watched, the slave leaned forward and whispered in Caesar's ear. No doubt he was reciting the ancient formula, "Remember, you are mortal!" The reminder was not meant to humble the triumphant general but to avert the so-called evil eye, the damage that could be inflicted by the gaze of the envious. Other talismans attached to the chariot served the same purpose—a tinkling bell; a scourge; and, placed in a hidden spot underneath by the Vestal virgins, the phallic amulet called a fascinum. The higher a man rose, the more protection he required against the evil eye.

Behind Caesar I saw the troops that followed, the foremost on horseback, and behind them, carrying military standards and spears adorned with laurel leaves, a great multitude of the legionaries who had served in Gaul.

Just as Caesar was passing before us, I heard a cracking noise, so sharp and loud that Mopsus and Androcles covered their ears. The ceremonial chariot lurched to a halt. Caesar was thrown violently forward. The slave holding the crown tumbled against him. The white horses clattered their hooves against the paving stones, tossed their heads, and whinnied.

My heart pounded in my chest. I felt an icy trickle down my spine. What was happening?

The nearest lictors turned and ran back to the chariot. Some of the officers on horseback sharply reined their mounts, but others bolted forward to see what was happening, with looks of alarm. Caesar was hidden from sight by the bodyguards and officers swarming around him. Confusion spread among the spectators.

I felt a sinking sensation.
Calpurnia was right, after all,
I thought.
There was a plot on Caesar's life
—
and now it's playing out right before my eyes. . . .

The hubbub around the chariot continued. There were murmurs and cries of panic from the crowd.

At last an officer on horseback broke from the group. He raised his arm and addressed the crowd.

"Be calm! There's nothing to worry about. Caesar is unharmed. The axle of the chariot broke, that's all. The triumph will continue as soon as another chariot can be brought." The officer rode off to address another part of the crowd.

" 'That's all,' the man says?" muttered someone in the crowd below me. "An evil omen, for sure!"

The crowd around Caesar thinned. He was standing near the stalled chariot. I could see now that the carriage had collapsed and the wheels were askew. Aware that all eyes were on him, Caesar did his best to adopt a nonchalant expression, but he looked a bit shaken nonetheless. He tapped one foot fretfully. It must be hard to maintain one's dignity after very nearly being thrown from a chariot.

The wait stretched on. To pass the time, the idle soldiers sang a marching song, then shouted cheers for Caesar. As the waiting continued and the mood became more relaxed, some of the rowdier soldiers took up a rude chant about their commander:

Lock up your money,
Roman bankers!
He took it all,
To spend in Gaul!

Lock up your women,
quivering Gauls!
Here Caesar comes,
So bold, so bald!

Lock up your law books,
Senators, consuls!
Hail, Dictator!
Crown you later!

There were many more verses, some of them mildly obscene. The crowd responded with gales of laughter. Roman troops are famous for making fun of their commanders, and the commanders are famous for enduring it. Caesar managed a crooked smile.