The Triumph of Caesar (28 page)

I scanned the faces of the dignitaries in the box opposite our seats, curious to see their reaction. Among the staid ambassadors and diplomats, I saw a beautiful woman: Fulvia. The woman who intended to marry Marc Antony was still chiefly regarded as the widow of Curio, Caesar's lieutenant, whose head had been taken by King Juba as a trophy early in the war. Caesar had given Fulvia a place of honor to view this triumph, which celebrated Juba's downfall. As she gazed at Juba's tiny namesake among the captives, there was a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

But most of the women in the crowd—and most of the men, for that matter—had a different reaction. People frowned, muttered, and shook their heads. Some looked aghast. Did Caesar intend to have the child strangled at the conclusion of his triumph? Did he imagine that such a killing would be pleasing to Jupiter?

We were not kept in suspense for long. A crier announced that Caesar intended to show clemency to the infant son of Juba. The child would be spared, just as Arsinoë had been spared.

A sigh of relief spread through the crowd. "Caesar is merciful!" people shouted, and "Good for Caesar!"

I looked at Fulvia, whose face registered a different reaction. She lowered her eyes and clenched her jaw.

When had Caesar decided to spare young Juba? He apparently had planned to execute Arsinoë, and changed his mind only at the last moment in response of the crowd's reaction. Had he likewise planned to kill Juba's child, until the affair with Arsinoë made him realize that the mob would not stand for it? Caesar was not above slaughtering infants. How many babies had been among the forty thousand victims at Avaricum in Gaul? Caesar had taken no steps to spare those children, even to make them slaves.

At length, Caesar appeared in his gold chariot; even he seemed to be a bit tired of so much triumphing. Waging war and wrangling with political rivals wears on a man, but so does pomp and ceremony. The smile on his face looked forced and brittle.

Following Caesar, at the head of the veterans of the African campaign, rode young Gaius Octavius. He was outfitted as a decorated officer, even though he had taken no part in the African campaign, or in any other military operation. At the sight of him, people cheered; he made a dashing figure, and sometimes appearances are all that matter. The smile on his lips was ambiguous. Was he embarrassed to be receiving accolades he had not earned? Was he scornful of the masses who cheered him for no reason? Or was he simply a young man happy to be riding in the company of his distinguished older relative, pleased with himself and with his special place in the world?

The triumph concluded without incident. The prisoners (except young Juba) were duly executed, and a sacrifice was offered in gratitude to Jupiter atop the Capitoline. Then, without a pause, attended by a vast retinue of officer, senators, and priests, Caesar began to make his way down the Capitoline, heading for the new Temple of Venus.

After the triumph, my family and I remained in the stands for a while, waiting for the crowd to thin. As we began to descend, I saw a now-familiar figure mounting the steps, heading toward us. It was Calpurnia's messenger. The look on his face was grim. He was too out of breath to speak. Without a word, he extended a tablet toward me. I took it from him, undid the ties, and opened it.

The letters had been so crudely scratched in the wax—as if in haste or great agitation—that for a moment I could make no sense of them. Then, all at once, the words jumped out at me:

Porsenna is dead. Come to me at once. The messenger will bring you.

I lowered the tablet. Bethesda was staring at me. "From her?" she said.

"Yes. I must go with this fellow."

"Take Rupa with you."

"Of course. And you and the family?"

"We shall attend the dedication of the temple, as we planned. In the standing area, I presume." While Caesar had arranged for us to have seats in the stands for his triumphs, he had not followed up with any such arrangement for the dedication. I had tried to explain to Bethesda that the seating for the ceremony was strictly limited, but she was not happy.

"If you hurry," I said, "perhaps you can still find a good spot, not too far back."

Diana drew close to me. "What does Calpurnia say? Is there some sort of trouble?"

"The haruspex is dead. Murdered, I presume."

"I should come with you, Papa."

"I think not. The woman is quite particular about whom she'll allow into her presence."

"But Rupa is going with you."

"Rupa is my bodyguard."

"If I were your son instead of your daughter, you'd take me along without question."

Whether this was true or not, I was no mood to argue, and the messenger was growing impatient. He deftly took the tablet from my hand, rubbed out the letters, and pulled at my toga.

"We should hurry, please!" he said.

"Davus, look after Diana," I said, fearful that she would try to follow against my orders. "Rupa, come with me."

We followed the man down the steps and into the crowd.

I had assumed that the messenger would lead me to the house of Calpurnia, but he turned in the opposite direction.

"Where are you taking us?" I said, suddenly suspicious.

"To the mistress, of course." He gripped my toga again. I knocked his hand away.

"This isn't the way to the Palatine."

"The Palatine?"

"Where she lives."

"She's not at home. She at the Temple of Venus. Please, hurry!"

Of course, I thought; the dictator's wife would have to attend the dedication, no matter what had happened to her haruspex. I followed quickly, realizing Diana and the family could have come at least partway with me, after all. But it was too late for them to rejoin me. We were separated by the crowd.

The open square before the temple was already thronged with people, and more were arriving from all directions. The standing area looked uncomfortably crowded—I had to wonder where Diana and the family would find space—but the benches nearer the temple were not yet filled; dignitaries are often the last to arrive. Some sat, while others milled about and conversed with their neighbors. The atmosphere was much like that at the theater before the crier announces that the play will begin.

In front of the seating area, at the foot of the temple steps, a large space was being kept clear by a row of lictors. Here, a marble altar had been erected for the ritual sacrifice. Close by the altar, a long ceremonial tent had been set up. Within the tent, those participating in the dedication could gather and prepare, unseen by the crowd.

The messenger led me toward the tent. The lictor at the entrance refused to let Rupa come inside. It seemed pointless to argue. The area within that tent was probably the safest, most secure place in all Rome.

I stepped from harsh sunlight into the diffused, warm glow of the tent. I smelled incense and flowers. As my eyes adjusted, the first thing I saw was the ox intended for sacrifice. It was a magnificent white beast, its horns garlanded with flowers and laurel leaves. It was circled by the young camilli holding shallow libation bowls to receive the spilled blood and the severed organs that would be offered to the goddess. Some of the boys and girls were washing the flanks of the ox with woolen cloths that had been dipped in warm, jasmine-scented water, while others were daubing the animal's hooves with cinnabar to stain them red. The ox stood quite still, its heavy-lidded eyes gazing straight ahead, seeming to bask in their attentions.

As my eyes continued to adjust, I saw others in the tent. Most were priests and lictors, but there were a few senators and other men in togas as well. Arcesilaus was also there, wearing a tunic covered with dust and spotted with paint. The large placard displaying the new calendar had been placed on a stand where it could be worked on, and he appeared to be making last-minute alterations with a set of paints, while another man—not a Roman, to judge by his Egyptian jewelry and pleated linen gown—looked on.

The artist glanced over his shoulder, saw me, and scowled. "You!" he said.

His perfunctory salutation canceled any need for pleasantries.

"Let me guess," I said. "The calendar contains an error, and this fellow is one of Cleopatra's astronomers from Alexandria, advising you on the necessary correction."

"And with plenty of time to spare!" said Arcesilaus sarcastically. "The fellow never showed up yesterday. Only now am I being told that the extra day in Februarius during a leap year is added
six
days before the Kalends of Martius,
not
eight. Ridiculous! So now, after all my painstaking effort, this little presentation will look as slapdash as if I'd turned it out on the spur of the moment. Caesar isn't paying me enough to endure this torment!"

His voice rose to a yell. He began to quake, vibrating like a plucked string, and raised his fists in the air, the veins in his biceps bulging like the vein in his forehead. The Alexandrian started back in fear, but Arcesilaus's attention was wholly on the placard. He looked as if he intended to beat it with his fists, and it was easy to imagine the delicate thing being totally demolished in a matter of heartbeats.

He was restrained by a hand on one shoulder.

"Don't do it, artist!" said Calpurnia. "Don't even think of it!" There was a shrill edge to her voice that made me shiver. Even the hot-blooded Arcesilaus was chilled by it. The vein pulsing across his forehead vanished, like a snake disappearing into the earth. Muttering, he turned back to the placard and resumed his work.

Before I could speak, Calpurnia gripped my arm and led me to a spot away from the others.

"My slave gave you the message?"

"Yes. Porsenna is dead?"

"Murdered! Stabbed, just like Hieronymus."

"When and how?"

"My messenger found Porsenna's body in his house on the Aventine less than an hour ago. Porsenna was to join me before the end of the triumph, so that we could come to the temple together—"

"You planned to appear with Porsenna in public, where Caesar might see the two of you together? I thought it was your wish that Caesar should never know you were consulting a haruspex."

"I don't care any longer what Caesar knows or doesn't know. The danger is too great—and this proves it! Yesterday, Porsenna was more certain than ever of the menace to Caesar. He told me that today would be the day of greatest danger, and the place of greatest danger would be here, at the dedication of the temple. And now, Porsenna is dead!"

"It was your messenger who found his body?"

"Yes."

"Call him over. Let me speak to him."

She summoned the slave.

"Your mistress sent you to the house of Porsenna on the Aventine. Had you been there before?"

"Yes," said the man, "many times." He had regained his breath, but his eyes had a haunted look. Clearly, he was recovering from a shock.

"Did Porsenna live alone?"

"Yes, except for a single slave."

"And what did you find when you went there today?"

"The door was unbarred. That was very strange. When I stepped inside, I found Porsenna's slave lying in the vestibule. His throat was cut. It took all my courage not to run!"

The messenger ventured a glance at his mistress, wanting her to take note of his bravery, but Calpurnia was not impressed. "Go on!" she snapped.

"I called for Porsenna, but there was no answer. I made my way to the garden. Porsenna was lying on his back, in a pool of blood. He had been stabbed through the heart."

"The heart?" I said. "Are you sure?"

"The wound was here." The slave pointed to his left breast.

"Was the blood wet or dry?"

He thought. "Mostly dry, but in places, still wet."

"Had there been a struggle?"

"I saw no signs of one."

I considered. "If the slave allowed the visitor into the vestibule, it may be that the killer was already known in the house. And Porsenna must not have feared the visitor, if he let the man join him in the garden, and then stood facing him, so that he could be stabbed in the chest."

"Conjecture!" said Calpurnia.

"Do you prefer conjuring tricks, like those Porsenna gave you? If his powers of prophecy were so great, how did he come to such an unexpected end?"

Calpurnia fell silent. Desperation mounted in her eyes. "Gordianus, what can we do?" she whispered.

"Surely Caesar has taken all precautions. I see lictors everywhere—"

"It's not enough! Porsenna told me yesterday: 'Shields cannot protect him. Blades cannot protect him. Amulets and talismans cannot protect him. No circle of men can stop the one who seeks to harm him. Only
I
can help you!' "

"Porsenna can't help you now. What do you think I can possibly do?"

She seized my arm and pulled me to a narrow opening in the tent. She peered out at the milling crowd with nervous, birdlike movements of her head. "Which of them is it? Which of them intends to kill Caesar, Gordianus?"

"I don't know."

"Go out among them. Listen to what they're saying. Look them in the eyes."

I shook my head. "Calpurnia, I've done my best. Not just for you but for Hieronymus. I wish—"

"They call you 'Finder,' don't they? Or they used to. Because you find the truth."

I sighed. "Sometimes."

"Others see but are blind, but when you see the truth, you know it! That's your gift. The truth is there to be found. The guilt is already written on someone's face. Go. Observe. Listen."

I took a deep breath. "I'll take a walk through the crowd," I said, partly because I was now desperate to escape Calpurnia but also because there was indeed a chance, however slight, that I might see or overhear something of significance.

"Go!" she said. "But return here before the ceremony begins. If something . . . goes amiss . . . I want you beside me."

I turned to leave. Calpurnia hurried across the tent to Uncle Gnaeus, who had just entered. He put his arms around her, and she hid her face against his shoulder. Uncle Gnaeus held her tightly and gave me a curt nod, as if to dismiss me and send me on my way.