The Triumph of Caesar (27 page)

He jumped from the platform and with a loud grunt bent down to pick up his tools. When he stood straight, he glared at me for a moment, then was distracted again by Diana. The fire in his eyes burned even hotter. His lips curled into a leer. When he was younger, men called Arcesilaus a lover; nowadays they called him a letch. I snapped my fingers to regain his attention.

His face went blank for a moment, then registered glum resignation. "Well? What does Caesar want now? Out with it!" When I hesitated, stumped for an answer, he threw down his tools again. "And don't tell me it has anything to do with
that
abomination!" He pointed past us, toward one of the corners of the sanctuary nearest the entrance. Partially wrapped in ropes and canvas, lying on its side, was the gilded statue of Cleopatra that had been displayed in the Egyptian Triumph.

"What is that doing here?" I said.

"My question, exactly!" Arcesilaus stormed over and stopped in front of the statue of the Egyptian queen. For a moment, I thought he might kick it. Instead, he glowered at the thing, stamped his feet, and came storming back. "What indeed is that—that atrocity—doing in this temple? Don't ask me. Ask Caesar!"

"Are you telling me Caesar intends to install it here, in the Temple of Venus?"

" 'As close to the statue of the goddess as possible'—his exact words. 'Without, of course, detracting from the integrity of your own work'—also his exact words. 'Without detracting'—as if such a thing were possible! The temple has been built to house the statue; the statue has been designed to fulfill the sacred purpose of the temple. The two things are one and indivisible. To introduce another element, especially a piece of garbage such as that thing—"

"The spectators at the triumph liked it well enough," said Diana. "People appeared to be quite impressed by it."

He scowled at her. "I preferred you with your mouth shut."

"That's uncalled for!" I said.

"Do you agree with your daughter, then? Do you think a drunken mob is capable of exercising artistic judgment? Is that what we've come to? Between chanting obscene ditties, they were momentarily awed by a gaudy statue, so now the thing deserves to be installed in a sacred temple, next to the work of the greatest sculptor in the world? Thank the gods, Lucullus is no longer alive to see this!"

He was close to tears. He grabbed my arm. Rupa darted forward, but Arcesilaus meant me no harm. He pulled me toward the statue of Venus.

"Look at her!" he commanded. "She isn't even finished yet—a few places need polishing, and no color has yet been added. But look at her, and tell me what you see."

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 Arsinoë'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 and 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 Arsinoë 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.