The Triumph of Caesar (31 page)

Sure enough, I saw Diana, pleading and arguing with a lictor to let her enter. Above the tumult, I was able to hear her voice and catch a few phrases: "But you must . . . to warn him . . . Caesar will know who I am—tell him it's the sister of Meto Gordianus. . . ."

Hieronymus laid his hand on mine. I could not feel his touch. "I was never here, old friend," he said. "Yet I am always with you."

I was blinded by tears. I closed my eyes.

I gave a start. When I opened my eyes, Hieronymus was gone. I blinked and looked around, dazed.

The sacrifice was over. The priests and the camilli had vanished. The temple steps were vacant.

"Where is Uncle Gnaeus?" I whispered.

Next to me, Calpurnia raised an eyebrow. "Why, he's in the tent, of course, changing his vestments. He did a splendid job with the sacrifice. Haven't you been watching?"

"I must have . . . closed my eyes . . . for a moment. And Caesar?"

"He's in the tent, too. He should be stepping out to speak any moment now." Calpurnia frowned. "But isn't that your daughter over there, arguing with the lictor?"

Sure enough, Diana was at the entrance of the tent. It must have been the sound of her voice that woke me. "To warn him," I heard her say. "Don't you understand? If only my father were here, Caesar would . . ."

The grim-faced lictor was unmoved. Diana finally relented. She slumped her shoulders, defeated, and stepped back. The lictor let down his guard. Diana bolted past him and disappeared into the tent.

Caesar was in the tent. So was Uncle Gnaeus, with his knife.

I rose from the bench and ran toward the tent. The lictor, following Diana, had abandoned his post, and I was able to slip inside unopposed.

My eyes were slow to adjust to the filtered light. I saw a confusion of people and objects—priests, camilli, garlands, sacred vessels. At the far end of the tent, I saw the calendar. Arcesilaus was still working to complete his last-minute corrections. Caesar, his back to me, was hovering over the artist, his arms crossed, tapping the ground impatiently with one foot.

"Papa!"

Diana had been apprehended by the lictor, who was roughly escorting her back toward the entrance. But Uncle Gnaeus, still dressed in his bloodstained vestments, seized her arm as she passed by.

"Leave the girl with me, lictor." His voice was low but insistent.

"Are you sure, pontifex?"

"Yes. Go back to guarding the entrance."

"What about this fellow?" The lictor indicated me.

"He'll be leaving very soon. Very quietly. Isn't that right, Gordianus?" Uncle Gnaeus spoke through clenched teeth. His grip on Diana's arm was very tight. In his other hand, he held the knife.

My heart pounded in my chest. The moment felt unreal—far more unreal than my dream-conversation with Hieronymus. I spoke in a whisper. "Gnaeus Calpurnius, you can't succeed. I won't let you. I have only to shout a warning to Caesar."

"But you won't do that. Not while I'm holding your daughter. Now, go. Quietly!"

I shook my head. "If you hurt Diana, if I shout—Don't you see, it can't happen now, not the way you intended, not in the middle of Caesar's presentation, for all Rome to witness. Your grand gesture has been spoiled."

He considered for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. It can't happen as I planned. I'll do it here in the tent, then. What matters is that the thing is done, not how or where or who sees it. As long as you and the girl keep your mouths shut, I needn't harm either of you. It will take only a moment for me to cross the tent and do what I have to do. Stay silent, Gordianus. And you do the same, girl, while we walk together toward Caesar."

I stood frozen to the spot. What did I owe to Caesar? Nothing. Was he worth my daughter's life? Certainly not. How many crimes had Caesar committed? How many deaths had he caused, how much suffering had he inflicted on others? Was there any reason at all that I should try to save his life?

I heard Diana's answer in my head. "People are beginning to live again—to hope, to plan, to think about the future . . . If Caesar were to be murdered . . . the killing would start all over again. . . ."

Amid the preoccupied priests and camilli who chattered among themselves, preparing for the next part of the ceremony, Gnaeus Calpurnius was making his way across the tent, taking Diana with him. Caesar stood with his back to us. He and Arcesilaus were exchanging heated words about the calendar—why was it not ready, and who was responsible for the mistake? How strange that the conqueror of the world should be spending his last moments on earth wrangling over such an insignificant detail!

I stood dumbfounded. It was going to happen—not as I had dreamed it but as circumstance and the will of Gnaeus Calpurnius decreed. In a matter of heartbeats, Caesar would be dead, and the fate of the world would diverge from whatever course Caesar had intended.

"Gordianus! Uncle Gnaeus! What's going on?"

Sweeping past the lictor, Calpurnia followed me into the tent. She spoke in a loud, gruff whisper. Caesar didn't hear, but Uncle Gnaeus did. Distracted, he turned and looked at his niece.

There was only an instant in which the thing could be done. I acted without thinking. When men do such things, we say that the will of a god animates them, but I felt nothing, experienced nothing, thought nothing as I seized a libation bowl from a camillus standing nearby, flipped it upside down, and flung it at the man who held my daughter.

The shallow bowl hurtled spinning through the air and struck Uncle Gnaeus squarely on the forehead. He lost his grip on Diana; she slipped away from him in the blink of an eye. With a stupefied expression, he staggered backward, then forward. He lurched toward Caesar, out of control. He still held the knife. For a dreadful moment I thought he would yet sink the blade into Caesar's chest—for Caesar had turned and now stood facing him, looking confused. But Uncle Gnaeus careened past Caesar, past Arcesilaus, and hurtled headlong into the calendar.

The placard was ripped asunder—that part of my dream, at least, came true. Uncle Gnaeus tumbled head over heels. The knife flew from his grasp. He came to a halt and lay groaning and dazed on the ground amid the ruined remains of the calendar.

Red faced and sputtering, Arcesilaus looked ready to explode. Calpurnia let out a little scream and swooned; the lictor caught her. Diana ran into my arms; she trembled like a doe. The priests and camilli cried out in confusion. And Caesar . . .

Caesar alone, of everyone in that tent, appreciated the absolute absurdity of the moment. Resplendent in his gold-embroidered toga, wearing his crown of laurel leaves, the descendant of Venus and master of the world put his hands on his hips, threw back his head, and laughed.

XXII

I sat in my garden.

By the calendar—Caesar's new calendar—exactly a year had passed since the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix.

In fact, the days that had transpired numbered substantially more than a year; before the new calendar could begin, some sixty or so days were simply added to the old calendar of Numa, which then expired forever.

The correction had successfully realigned the days with the seasons. And so, on the twenty-sixth day of September, six days before the Kalends of October, in the year one of Caesar's calendar, I sat in my garden, enjoying the mild weather of early fall, noting wistfully how short the days were growing.

It seemed strange, in a way, that September should again be an autumnal month and not the middle of summer; but a part of me, deep within, felt gratified beyond words. Man's calendar and the calendar of the cosmos had been reconciled. A flaw in the man-made world had been set right, and we had Caesar to thank for that.

Sitting in my garden, I thought back to the events of a year ago.

Immediately following Gnaeus Calpurnius's unwitting destruction of the placard, confusion reigned. Caesar laughed. Arcesilaus raged. Lictors sought to remove Diana and me from the tent, but I managed to make my way to Calpurnia. In a hurried whisper, I told her all I had realized about Uncle Gnaeus. She was in such a state that I couldn't be certain she understood me. The lictors swept me away.

The ceremony proceeded. On the temple steps, showing not a trace of discomposure, Caesar announced the introduction of his new calendar, but without the placard and without Uncle Gnaeus, who was nowhere to be seen. Calpurnia, too, had vanished.

Days passed. I attempted to visit Calpurnia. I was not admitted. Nor did I hear from her.

I did not hear from Caesar, either. He might at least have thanked me for saving his life.

I brooded in silence, until finally I wrote a message to Calpurnia. I pointed out that my purpose in assisting her had been, first and foremost, to discover the killer of Hieronymus and to obtain justice for my murdered friend. Did she understand what I had told her in the tent? Did Caesar understand what had occurred? What did the two of them intend to do about it? Rashly, perhaps, I demanded that the killer of Hieronymus must be punished. I told her I had no intention of seeing the matter swept under the carpet.

The next day I received her reply:

I regret to inform you that Uncle Gnaeus is no longer with us.

   
The night of the dedication, he succumbed to a sudden illness—a fever followed by delirium, copious sweating, and a seizure which stopped his heart. He died like a proud Roman, praising the achievements of our ancestors to his final breath. "Numa" was the last word he spoke.

   
You may remember his unfortunate fall in the tent, earlier that day. There are some who claim they saw a person throw an object at Uncle Gnaeus; Caesar himself did not witness the onset of my uncle's staggering fall, but I did, and I have explained to Caesar that it appeared to be caused by a sudden fit or spasm. Caesar apologized profusely for laughing at Uncle Gnaeus's clumsiness. He thinks this strange spasm must have been the first symptom of my uncle's illness. Caesar is surely right, as I am certain you will agree, should Caesar ever discuss the matter with you.

   
The funeral was conducted in a very private manner, as my uncle would have wished. I made no public announcement, as I did not want sad news to spoil the people's enjoyment of Caesar's generous entertainments.

   
As for the matter you raised in your last message to me, we shall never speak of it again.

Along with the note, the messenger delivered a small but very heavy box. I considered sending it back—I had told Calpurnia I would accept no payment—but Bethesda had seen the box and demanded to know what was inside. I let her sort the coins and tally their value. The task gave her great pleasure.

Justice, of a sort, had prevailed. A year had passed, and in all that time I had received no more visits from Hieronymus, in my dreams or otherwise. Did that mean his lemur was at peace? I hoped so.

The triumphs of Caesar marked the end of the old world and the beginning of the new, but the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix was only the midpoint in the festivities. The days that followed were full of yet more feasting and celebration, as the people of Rome were presented with a dazzling array of diversions, including plays, which were staged all over the city. Syrus took first place among the playwrights, and the prize of a million sesterces. Laberius—who presented his satire uncut, including the thinly veiled references to Caesar—came in second, and received half a million sesterces. Caesar's fawning admirer and his sardonic critic both became wealthy men, thanks to the largesse of the dictator.

There were chariot races, athletic competitions, and equestrian exhibitions in the newly expanded Circus Maximus. There were contests in which gladiators were pitted against wild beasts. Spectacular reenactments of famous battles were staged in a special enclosure on the Field of Mars, in which hundreds of captives and condemned men fought to the death. A naval battle was waged on a man-made lake created especially for the purpose, using a thousand men on each side. Many died fighting or were drowned when their ships were set afire and sank.

The citizens of Rome grew sated with spectacle. The gory gladiator contests and staged battles created carnage on such a huge scale that some spectators began to question whether Caesar had not already caused enough bloodshed. Others were outraged at the profligacy of Caesar's expenditures. It was said that the dictator had robbed the whole world of its wealth and was now squandering his ill-gotten gains like a drunken brigand.

Most dissenters did no more than grumble, but at one point a group of disgruntled soldiers staged a small riot in the Forum. Caesar, chancing to come upon the disturbance with his lictors, apprehended one of the ringleaders with his own hands. The priest of Mars declared that three of the rioters must be put to death. The executions were carried out as a religious rite—yet another occasion for celebration. The men were sacrificed on the Field of Mars. Their heads were placed on stakes in the Forum. Did their grisly punishment remind people of the atrocities of Sulla? Such thoughts were spoken only in whispers.

Eventually, the celebrations came to an end. Life went on.

To deal with the last remnants of the Pompeian opposition, Caesar left Rome for Spain. Gaius Octavius had fallen ill and could not travel with him. In the month of Martius (by the new calendar), a decisive battle took place on the plains of Munda. Caesar lost a thousand men. The enemy lost thirty thousand. The opposition was crushed. Young Octavius arrived too late to take part in the slaughter.

Back in Rome, Marc Antony put aside Cytheris and married Fulvia. She encouraged him to travel to the Spanish frontier, where he placed himself at Caesar's disposal, and the two men were reconciled.

Brutus completed his term as governor of Cisalpine Gaul, then was appointed by Caesar to serve as a praetor in Rome. Just when he appeared to be solidly in Caesar's camp and rising in the dictator's favor, he married Porcia, the daughter of Cato—a union that must surely have displeased Caesar. Beyond his glib facade, there was an independent and unpredictable streak in Brutus's character.