The Triumph Of Caesar rsr-12 Read online

  "I know what you think, Uncle Gnaeus. But if you cannot say words of support, say nothing!"

  This served to silence Gnaeus Calpurnius, who dropped Calpurnia's hand and returned his gaze to me. He seemed to regard me with a combination of pity, scorn, and exasperation. I followed Calpurnia out of the garden and back indoors, glad to escape the old priest's scrutiny.

  We walked down another long hallway. The rooms in this part of the house were more cluttered and less elegantly furnished. Finally we arrived at a small chamber, dimly lit by a single window high in the wall. It appeared to be a storage room. Odds and ends were piled against the walls-a rolled carpet, boxes full of blank parchment and writing materials, chairs one atop another.

  In the center of the room, a body had been laid upon a makeshift bier. Flowers and spices had been strewn around it to mask the inevitable scent of putrefaction, but the body could not have been lifeless for more than a day, for it was still stiff. Presumably the corpse had been discovered after rigor began, for the petrified body retained the posture of an agonizing death, with shoulders hunched and limbs contracted. The hands were clutching the chest at a bloodstained spot directly over the heart. I avoided looking at the face, but even from the corner of my eye I could see that the jaw was tightly clenched and the lips were drawn back in a hideous grimace.

  The body was clothed in a simple tunic. The darkened bloodstain was vivid against the pale blue fabric. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the garment-it had a black border in a common Greek key pattern-yet it seemed familiar to me.

  "Where did you find the poor fellow?" I said.

  "In a private alley that runs alongside this house," said Calpurnia. "The slaves use it to come and go, as do a few others-like this man-who don't wish to call at the front door."

  "A secret entrance for your secret agents?"

  "Sometimes. He was discovered at dawn, lying on the paving stones just outside the door."

  "The body was already stiff?"

  "Yes, just as you see him now."

  "Then he had probably been dead-and lying undisturbed-for at least four hours. That's when rigor begins."

  "That's certainly possible. To my knowledge, no one used that passageway during the night, so he could have been lying there since sundown. I presume he came here to tell me something, but before he could rap at the door-"

  "Someone stabbed him. Are there more wounds?"

  "Only this one."

  "So he died of a single stab wound to the heart." His assailant must have been very lucky, or very quick, or else must have known the victim. How else could someone draw close enough to land such a perfect blow?

  "Was there a trail of blood in the passageway?"

  "No. He fell where he was stabbed." Calpurnia shuddered.

  "His tunic… looks familiar," I said, feeling uneasy.

  "Does it? Perhaps you should look at his face."

  I stepped closer. The scent of flowers and spices filled my nostrils. My heart pounded in my chest. My mouth was dry.

  "Hieronymus!" I whispered.

  II

  Although his features were contorted almost beyond recognition, there could be no doubt. It was my friend Hieronymus, the Scapegoat of Massilia, who lay dead upon the bier. His teeth were bared in a grimace and his eyes were wide open.

  "This was your agent? Hieronymus?"

  Calpurnia nodded.

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  It had been three years since I'd met him in Massilia, when the city was besieged by Caesar. Following an ancient custom, the Massilians chose a citizen upon whom they would lavish every imaginable luxury until the day they cast him from the Sacrifice Rock as an offering to the gods to avert catastrophe. Hieronymus had been selected for the role, not as an honor but as a way to get rid of him once and for all. His father had been a powerful man who lost his fortune, then committed suicide. Hieronymus began life at the very top of Massilian society, then found himself at the bottom. His very existence was an embarrassment to the city's ruling class, who valued nothing but success and despised nothing more than failure. His caustic wit had not won him any friends, either.

  Hieronymus saved my life in Massilia. When I returned to Rome, he came with me and took up residence in my household. After I left for Egypt, he struck out on his own; so my daughter, Diana, told me, saying she had run into him occasionally in the city. But since my return, I had not heard from him. This did not surprise me, as Hieronymus was something of a misanthrope. Nor had I sought him; I had become such a hermit that it took a summons from Caesar's wife to get me out of my house. I assumed our paths would cross sooner or later, if he was still in the city, and still alive. Amid the chaos and confusion of the long, bloody civil war, Hieronymus was just another friend of whom I had lost track.

  Now I had found him again, lying lifeless on a bier in the house of Caesar's wife-who was telling me that Hieronymus had been her spy. The notion was absurd!

  Or was it?

  In a flash I saw how such a thing must have happened. Having resided with me, observing how I made a living and hearing my stories of past investigations, how like Hieronymus to conclude that any fool could do the same. What skills were required, except perseverance and cheek? What resources were needed, beyond a circle of knowledgeable informants, many of whom Hieronymus had already met through me? He knew I had dealt with Calpurnia shortly before my departure and that I had come away from those dealings with a great deal of money. After I left for Egypt, he must have approached her and offered his services.

  "But why did you hire him?" I asked. "What sort of information could Hieronymus possibly have obtained for you? He was an outsider, a foreigner. He spoke with a Greek accent. He could never pass as a citizen."

  "He had no need to be anything other than himself," said Calpurnia. "His notoriety opened doors."

  "Notoriety? The man shunned society."

  "Perhaps, but society did not shun him. Everyone in Rome had heard of the Scapegoat. And as Hieronymus quickly discovered, once he began making the rounds, there was hardly a household in Rome that wouldn't admit him if he paid a call. He was a curiosity, don't you see? Exotic, mysterious-the famous Scapegoat of Massilia, the sacrificial victim who was never sacrificed. In times such as these, a man who can cheat death is a man people want to meet. The superstitious hoped that some of his good fortune might rub off. The curious merely wanted to take a good look at him. And once he was admitted to a household, Hieronymus could be quite charming-"

  "Charming? He had a tongue like a viper!"

  "Amusing, then. Never at a loss for an epigram. Very erudite."

  This was true. As a child, before his father fell into ruin, Hieronymus had received an excellent education from his tutors. He could recite long passages from the Iliad and knew the Greek tragedies by heart. When he chose to show off his learning, it was usually to comic effect-an ironic rejoinder, a whimsical metaphor, an absurdly high-flown bit of poetry that deflated the self-importance of his listener.

  "I suppose Hieronymus was something of a character," I admitted, "and a good companion, when you got to know him. I can see how he might have been accepted in the households of your friends… and your enemies."

  I looked down at his face. It seemed his grimace had softened a bit. Was the rigor beginning to pass? I looked at his long, gangly limbs; at the pale, thin hair on his head; at the narrow strip of wispy beard that outlined his sharp chin. What a bitter irony, to survive a terrible fate in his native city, only to meet death in a such a manner-alone, in a dark alley, far from home.

  "Hieronymus, Hieronymus!" I whispered. "Who did this to you?"

  "We don't know who killed him," said Calpurnia quietly, "or why. It might have been any of the subjects on whom he's been delivering reports. Perhaps, Gordianus, if you were to read those reports and pursue the threads that Hieronymus was following, you might discover who killed him."

  I grunted. "And in the meantime, I'd be doing just as you wish-fo
llowing in Hieronymus's footsteps and looking for threats to Caesar." How brazenly she played upon my sympathies to get what she wanted from me! "Why can't you deduce for yourself what Hieronymus discovered? You say he delivered reports. I presume you've read them. You must know what he was up to."

  Calpurnia shook her head. "Like all informants, Hieronymus was never entirely forthcoming. It's human nature to hold something back-for the next meeting, the next payment. Hieronymus was more… frustrating in that regard than most of my agents. I knew he wasn't telling me everything, but, given his unique potential, I decided to be patient with him. Perhaps if I had been less indulgent and more demanding, he might still be alive."

  "Or we might at least know who killed him," said Porsenna.

  I glared at the haruspex until he lowered his eyes.

  "Don't blame Porsenna," said Calpurnia. "No one recruited Hieronymus. He sought me out to offer his services."

  "And your soothsayer-the man who claims to see the future! — advised you to take him on. And now this: the end of Hieronymus." Tears filled my eyes. I refused to shed them while they watched. I averted my face. "Leave me alone with him," I whispered. After a pause, I heard the rustling of their clothing as they left the room.

  I touched the corpse's brow. The rigor had begun to release its grip. I straightened the fingers of the bloodstained hands that clutched his chest. I straightened his legs. I smoothed the grimace from his face and closed his eyes.

  "Hieronymus!" I whispered. "When I arrived in Massilia-friendless, miserable, in terrible danger-you took me in. You protected me. You shared your wisdom. You made me laugh. I thought I saw you die, there in Massilia, but you returned from the dead! You came with me to Rome, and I was able to repay your hospitality." I shook my head. "It's hard to see a friend die once. Now I've had to bear your death twice! For now you truly are dead, my friend."

  I ran my fingers over his. What long, elegant hands he had!

  I stood silently for a while, then left the room. Calpurnia and Porsenna were waiting for me in the next room.

  I cleared my throat. "These written reports…"

  Porsenna had already fetched them. He held up a leather tube for carrying scrolls and parchments.

  Begrudgingly, I took the collection of documents from Porsenna. "I'll begin reading these tonight. If I have questions, I'll expect you to answer them. If there seems to be a chance that I might discover how Hieronymus died… and who killed him…"

  Calpurnia could not suppress a smile of victory.

  "But I'll take no payment from you, Calpurnia. And I'll take no directions from your haruspex. Whatever I discover, I may share with you-or I may not. I work for myself, not for you. I do this for Hieronymus, not for Caesar."

  Her smile faded. Her eyes narrowed. She considered for a moment, then nodded her assent.

  On my way out, I passed her uncle, who still sat in the garden. Gnaeus Calpurnius clutched his priestly robes and glared at me.

  There was not a cloud in the sky and the sun was at its zenith as I left the house of Calpurnia and crossed the Palatine Hill. I moved through a bright, glaring world without shadows. The thick, hot air seemed to eddy sluggishly around me. The windowless walls of the houses of the rich, colored in shades of saffron and rust, looked hot enough to scorch my fingertips.

  The month was September, but the weather was hardly autumnal. When I was a boy, September was a month for playing amid fallen leaves and donning cloaks to ward off the chill. No more; September had become the middle of the summer. Those who knew about such things said the Roman calendar was flawed and had gradually fallen out of step with the seasons. The problem was worse now than ever before; the calendar was a full two months behind the place where it should be. Autumn festivals, spring festivals, and summer feast days were still celebrated according to the calendar but made no sense. There was something absurd about making sacrifices to the gods of the harvest when the harvest was another sixty days in the future, or celebrating the parole of Proserpine from Hades when there was still frost on the ground.

  Was it only old-timers like me who felt acutely the absurdity of our disjointed calendar? Perhaps the young simply took it for granted that September had become a month of long sweltering days and short nights too hot for sleeping; but to me, the broken calendar represented a broken world. The civil war, which had spread to every corner of the Mediterranean from Egypt to Spain, was over at last, but amid the wreckage lay the centuries-old republic of Rome. We had a calendar that could no longer reckon the days and a Senate that could no longer govern.

  But we also had Julius Caesar, and Caesar would put everything right. So his supporters claimed; so Caesar promised. He would rebuild the Roman state, making it stronger than ever. He had even pledged to fix the calendar; according to rumor, the details would be announced at the conclusion of his upcoming triumphs, after which the requisite number of days-two months' worth-would be added to the current year, and the forthcoming year, with newly proportioned months, would commence in harmony with the seasons and the passage of the sun.

  But could Caesar repair the broken people of Rome? Even the gods cannot restore a severed hand or a plucked-out eye to a body maimed by warfare. Others, whose bodies might show no signs of damage from violence or deprivation, had nonetheless been changed by the fear and uncertainty that hung over their lives for so many years, while Caesar and Pompey struggled for dominion. Something about those men and women was not as it had been before, not quite right. No doctor could diagnose their nameless disease, yet it burned inside them nonetheless, changing them from the inside out. Like the calendar, they still functioned, but no longer in harmony with the cosmos.

  Even Calpurnia might be numbered among these invisible victims. The confederate of Caesar and mistress of his spy ring in the capital-rigorously logical, ruthlessly pragmatic-now confessed to being driven by dreams. She allowed a haruspex to conduct her affairs, and was doing so behind her husband's back.

  I came to the Ramp, the long, straight, tree-lined path that led down to a gateway between the House of the Vestals and the Temple of Castor and Pollux. I descended from the quiet calm of the Palatine to the hubbub of the Forum. Senators and magistrates attired in togas swept by me, followed by their retinues of scribes and sycophants, looking like little Caesars with their noses in the air, their posture and gait projecting an attitude that the world would come to an end if anyone dared to prevent them from reaching whatever meeting they were headed for. Their self-importance seemed all the more absurd, considering that Caesar's victory had rendered them irrelevant. The Senate had reconvened, but everyone knew that all power flowed from Caesar. His approval was needed for all important decisions. He held the key to the Treasury. He had bypassed elections to personally appoint the magistrates. He had parceled out the provincial governorships to his friends and supporters, and was busily filling the scores of vacancies in the Senate with creatures of his choosing. Some of these new senators, to the shock of old-timers like myself, were not even Romans but Gauls, men who had betrayed their own people to join Caesar and who were now receiving their rewards.

  Yet the business of the Forum carried on as if the civil war had never occurred. Or at least it appeared to be so; for the Forum was suffering from the same invisible malady that plagued the populace of Rome. On the surface, everything seemed to be back to normal. Priests made sacrifices on temple steps, Vestals tended the eternal hearth fire, and ordinary citizens sought redress from the magistrates. But below the surface, everything was askew. People were simply going through the motions, knowing that nothing was quite right, and might never be so again.

  I listened to snatches of conversation from men passing by. Everyone was talking about Caesar:

  "… may yet step down. That's the rumor I heard."

  "Return to private life, as Sulla did? Never! His supporters wouldn't allow it."

  "Nor would his enemies. They'd kill him!"

  "He has no enemies left, or none worth consider
ing."

  "Not true! Pompey's son is said to be in Spain right now, rallying a force to take on Caesar."

  My son Meto was in Spain, serving in Caesar's forces, so my ears pricked up at this.

  "If that's true," came the response, "Caesar will squash young Pompey like an insect! Just wait and see…"

  "… and Caesar may even name a new month after himself-the month of Julius! There's to be a complete revision of the calendar, done with the help of astronomers from Alexandria."

  "Well, it's about time-no pun intended!"

  "… and the whole thing will go on for four straight days, I heard."

  "Not four days in a row, you silly man! Four triumphs, yes, but each with a day between. We'll need those days of rest, to recover from so much drinking and feasting."

  "Imagine it! Four full-scale processions, plus public banquets for everyone in Rome, followed by plays and chariot races and gladiator games-I don't see how Caesar can afford to put on such a spectacle."

  "He can't afford not to. After all we've put up with, the people of Rome deserve a celebration! Besides, he has all the money in the world-literally. His conquests have made him the richest man in history. Why shouldn't he lavish some of the booty on us?"

  "I'm not sure it's right, celebrating with triumphs to mark the end of a civil war. So much Roman blood was spilled."

  "It's not just about the civil war. Have you forgotten his victory over Vercingetorix and the Gauls? The triumph for that is long overdue. And another triumph will be for putting down the revolt of Pharnaces in Asia, and that's certainly well deserved."

  "Granted, as may be the triumph for defeating King Ptolemy in Egypt, although that wasn't exactly a Roman conquest, was it? More like settling a family feud. The king's sister Cleopatra kept her throne."

  "Because she conquered Caesar!"

  "They say the queen is in Rome right now, here to watch her rebel sister, Arsinoe, paraded in chains and put to death to cap the Egyptian Triumph."