The Triumph Of Caesar

XVI

The next day, for the Asian Triumph, we arrived a bit late, and with our party incomplete. There was some minor crisis with little Beth, and after much discussion, Diana convinced her mother to come along while she stayed home. Our seats were waiting for us in the viewing stands. We missed the opening procession of senators and magistrates-small loss! — but managed to take our places just as the trumpets were sounding to mark the parade of trophies.

The rebellious King Pharnaces had overrun Cappadocia, Armenia, and Pontus. All these regions, which Caesar had subsequently reclaimed, were represented by precious objects donated by the grateful inhabitants. A golden crown and other treasures, with which Pharnaces had attempted to placate Caesar upon his arrival in Asia, were also displayed, along with a statue of the moon goddess Bellona, the principal deity of the Cappadocians, to whom Caesar had sacrificed before he began the campaign.

Among the captured weapons and machines of war, Pharnaces's own chariot was wheeled before us. It was an impressive vehicle. The carriage was heavily plated, and fearsome-looking blades projected from the wheels.

A placard displayed the flight of Pharnaces at the battle of Zela. The king was shown in his chariot, his crown tumbling from his head, his face a mask of panic. On one side of him loomed a stern-looking Caesar, his hands on hips. On the other side loomed Pharnaces's treacherous henchman Asander, the man who would murder him, flashing a wicked grin. The crowd bust into laughter at the sight of these exaggerated but cleverly rendered caricatures.

I could see that a very large placard was approaching, as wide as the pathway would permit and twice as tall as the men carrying it. The sight of it elicited a tumultuous cheer as it passed. When it came into view, I saw why. In a single battle, within five days after his arrival and within four hours after sighting the enemy, Caesar had vanquished Pharnaces. The magnitude of his victory was impressive; its speed was astonishing. Rendered in huge golden letters upon the placard were the words I CAME, I SAW, I CONQUERED.

Always eager to take up a chant, the crowd began to repeat Caesar's terse boast. One side shouted, "Came!" The other side shouted, "Saw!" Then, all together, as loudly as possible: "Conquered!"

I had been feeling the call of nature ever since we sat and could wait no longer. "I think I shall go, stand, and relieve myself."

"Take Rupa with you," said Bethesda.

He rose to accompany me, but I waved him back. "No, Rupa, there are some things it is safe for me to do all by myself. Stay and watch-and don't get into any trouble!"

Bethesda gave me an exasperated look, but I ignored her. I made my way to the aisle, descended the steps, and threaded a path through the crowd. The nearest public latrines, built directly above the Cloaca Maxima, were not far away.

The chamber was one of the largest public facilities in the Forum, but when I stepped inside I found myself alone. The most exciting part of the triumph for many spectators-the procession of prisoners-was coming up, and probably no one wanted to miss it. I had my choice of whichever of the scores of holes I wanted. I followed my nose to the freshest-smelling part of the room and stood before the receptacle. The roar of the crowd outside echoed through the stone chamber, sounding strangely distant.

I was just beginning when someone entered the chamber.

From the corner of my eye, I saw that he wore priestly garments. I took a closer look and I saw that it was Calpurnia's uncle, Gnaeus Calpurnius. He must have left his place in the procession to come relieve himself. He gave me a grunt of recognition as he walked up to a nearby receptacle and made ready, hitching up his robes. He had interrupted me, and I was slow to start again. He was slow to begin at all, which was not surprising for a man his age. We stood in silence for a long moment.

"Hot today," he finally said, staring straight ahead.

"Yes," I said, a little surprised that he would deign to strike up a conversation with me, even about the weather. "Though not as hot as yesterday, I think."

He grunted. I kept my gaze politely averted, but from the corner of my eye I saw that Uncle Gnaeus appeared to be adjusting himself, yet to no avail, for still I heard no release.

"My niece has great faith in you," he said.

"Does she?"

"Should she?" He turned his head slightly and trained a single eye upon me. "Or are you no better than the other one, the one who got himself killed, wasting her time and filling her head with yet more nonsense?"

"Hieronymus was my friend," I said quietly. "I would prefer that you not speak ill of him in my presence." My flow began. "Tell me, did you ever discuss astronomy with him?"

"What?"

"Hieronymus made notations having to do with the movements of the stars and such. You're a keeper of the calendar, aren't you? I thought perhaps you gave him instruction."

He snorted. "Do you seriously think I would waste my time giving sacred instruction to one of my niece's minions, and a foreigner, at that? Now tell me, Finder, are you wasting Calpurnia's time? Have you discovered anything of interest? Are you at all close to doing so?"

"I'm doing my best," I said. And in some ways doing much better than you, I thought, for still there was no relief for Uncle Gnaeus. No wonder he was so irritable!

He snorted. "Just as I thought. You've found nothing, because there is nothing to find. This menace to Caesar that consumes my niece is entirely imaginary, created from thin air by that haruspex, Porsenna."

"If that's true, then why did someone murder Hieronymus?"

"Your friend was poking his nose into other people's business-powerful people, dangerous people. Who knows what embarrassing or incriminating information he may have uncovered, having nothing at all to do with Caesar? The Scapegoat surely offended someone, but his death is hardly proof of a plot against Caesar."

What he said made sense, yet I found myself recalling the cryptic "key" that Hieronymus had mentioned in his journal. I repeated the words aloud. " 'Look all around! The truth is not found in the words, but the words may be found in the truth.' "

"What in Hades is that supposed to mean?"

"I wish I knew," I said. Then, seemingly from nowhere, a memory came to me, and I felt a sudden chill.

"What's that look on your face?" said Uncle Gnaeus.

I shivered. "A long time ago, in a public latrine here in the Forum, I was very nearly murdered. By Hercules, I'd almost forgotten! It was thirty-five years ago, during the trial of Sextus Roscius, the first time I worked with Cicero. A hired killer followed me into a latrine near the Temple of Castor. We were alone. He pulled a knife-"

"All very interesting, I'm sure, but perhaps you could leave a man in peace!"

I turned and left at once, almost feeling sorry for Uncle Gnaeus. Judging by the silence, he still had not managed to begin relieving himself.

The crowd had grown even thicker than before. I looked in vain for a way to pass through. The din of the shouting and laughter was deafening.

I realized I had no desire to return to my seat in the stands. I had seen quite enough of doomed, humiliated prisoners, of Caesar in his ceremonial chariot, and of lictors and cavalry officers and marching legionaries.

I suddenly longed to be anywhere else. I started walking, heading away from the triumph, fleeing the crush and the noise. At length, taking a roundabout path of least resistance, I found myself at the Flaminian Gate in the old city walls.

I kept walking. Once through the gate, I was outside the city proper, on the Field of Mars. When I was a boy, much of this area had still been literally a field, with vast parade grounds. Some areas of the Field of Mars remained undeveloped, but in my lifetime the greater part of it had been filled with new tenements and temples and public buildings. It had become one of the liveliest neighborhoods of Rome.

But on this day, the streets were almost deserted. From beyond the Capitoline Hill, which now loomed between me and the Forum, I could still hear the roar of the crowd but more and more faintly as I continued to walk toward the great bend of the Tiber. I felt a sense of freedom and escape-from haughty Uncle Gnaeus, from Caesar, from Calpurnia, from my fretful wife, and even from Rupa, my constant companion in recent days.

At length I came to the new neighborhood of shops and apartments that had sprung up around Pompey's Theater, where I had come to visit Arsinoe. Was she there still, returned to her high prison, but alone now, without Ganymedes to look after her?

I wandered past the empty porticos. All the shops were closed. I came to the entrance to the theater itself. The gate was open and unmanned. I wandered inside.

The tiers of seats were empty. I gazed up row after row, fascinated by the play of sunlight and shadow on the repeating semicircles, all the way to the top, where the Temple of Venus stood. Lost in thought, I slowly ascended the steps.

I remembered the enormous controversy that erupted when Pompey announced his plans to build the theater. For centuries, conservative priests and politicians had thwarted the construction of a permanent theater in Rome, arguing that such an extravagance would lead the Romans to become as decadent as the stagestruck Greeks. Pompey circumvented their objections by adding a temple to the complex, so that the whole structure could be consecrated as a religious building. The design was clever; the rows of theater seats also served as steps leading up to the sanctuary at the summit.

"Can you hear me?"

I was not alone. A lone figure with a white beard, dressed in a tunic of many colors, had stepped onto the stage.

"I said, can you hear me up there? Don't simply nod. Speak."

"Yes!" I shouted.

"No need to yell. That's the whole point: acoustics. I'm barely talking above normal volume now, and yet you can hear me perfectly well, can't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. La-la-la, la-la-la. Fo-di-da, fo-di-da." He continued to utter a series of nonsensical noises. I realized he was a performer limbering his throat, but I laughed aloud anyway.

"Well, I can see you're going to be an easy audience!" he said. "Sit. Listen. You can help me with my timing."

I did as I was told. I had come here seeking escape, after all. What better escape could I hope for, than a few moments in the theater?

He cleared his throat, then struck a dramatic pose. When he spoke again, his voice was utterly different. It had a rich, dark tone, full of curious inflections. It was an actor's voice, trained to fascinate.

"Friends and countrymen, welcome to the play. I am the playwright. This is the prologue-my chance to tell you what to think about the tale you're about to see. I could let you simply watch the play and make up your own minds-but being fickle Romans, I know better than to trust your judgment. Oh that's right, jeer and boo…" He broke from his pose. "Well? Jeer and boo!"

I obliged him with what I imagined would be a suitably obscene jeer, involving his mother.

"That's better," he said, and continued his soliloquy. "I know why you're all here: to celebrate a great man's good fortune. Not a good man's great fortune; that would be a different matter-and a different man."

I obligingly laughed at this witticism, which was clearly a jab at Caesar, the sponsor of the upcoming plays. My laughter may have sounded a bit forced, but Decimus Laberius-for now I recognized the man, one of the leading playwrights and performers of the Roman stage-seemed not to care if my reactions were sincere as long as I gave him a token response to help him with his timing.

"But why am I here?" he continued. "To be perfectly candid, I had rather be at home right now, with my feet up and my nose in a book. I've had enough of all this carrying-on and celebrating; it grates on an old man's nerves. Yet here I am, with a new play produced on demand, and why? Because I'm desperate to beat that fool Publilius Syrus out of the prize? No! I don't need a prize to tell me I'm a better playwright than that babbling freedman.

"No, I am here because the Goddess of Necessity compels me. To what depths of indignity has she thrust me, here at the end of my life? You see me at twice thirty years, a broken man. When I was thirty-or better yet, half thirty-oh, how young and proud I was! No power in heaven or on earth could bend me to its will. Neither begging nor bribery, cajoling nor threatening could move me one iota. But now-look at me jump!" Laberius executed a sudden leap and barely stopped himself from tumbling head over heels; his awkwardness was so convincing that I laughed out loud. He paused for a moment, as if waiting for the laughter of a huge audience to subside. "A most unbecoming activity for a man my age! So why do I jump? Because a certain man demands it.

"No, that's unfair. The fellow does not demand it. He asks. He makes a polite request. He says, 'Laberius, dear friend, best and boldest of playwrights, would you be so kind…' And Laberius-jumps!" He executed an even more fitful leap with a hair-raising recovery.

"And here's the rub: it matters not a fig that I should stand here and complain; he merely takes my mutterings as a compliment. Look, he's laughing now!" Laberius pointed at the box of honor in the midst of the seats, which was as empty as the rest of the theater. He shook his head. "Bitter are the twists and turns of Fortune. My own success has made me another's slave. The dazzling jewel of Fame had turned me into another man's ornament. My gift for words renders me… mute. But oh, can I jump!" Again he took a leap, but something in the halting movement was more pathetic than absurd, more pitiful than funny. I did not laugh at all.

He cocked his head. "Do you remember that game we played when we were boys called king of the hill? Well, I imagined I was very nearly at the top of that hill for a while, but then I took a tumble, and now I find myself at the bottom-just like all of you-looking up at the winner, who's so high above me I have to squint to see him." In a quavering childlike voice, so strange it gave me gooseflesh, he quoted from the ditty boys sang when they played the game:

"You will be king

if you can cling

to the height.

Do the thing

to prove you're right,

send 'em tumbling

with all your might!"

I sat forward in my seat, no longer pretending to be his attentive audience but genuinely riveted. In my mind, his voice conjured images of boys at play, so seemingly harmless in their rush to compete. But I also saw fields of dead bodies and heads on stakes, the terrible outcomes of those boyhood games carried into the world of men. I was reminded of how completely an actor could command the stage, controlling his audience's emotions with a change in the tone of his voice or a simple shrug of his shoulders.

"Ah, but I suppose I was getting too big for my toga anyway," said Laberius with a sigh. "I was due for a bit of taking down. Weren't we all, O people of the toga? We forgot the way of the world. All cannot be first, and the highest rank is the hardest to hold on to. From the pinnacle of success, the only direction is down. A man has his day and falls; his successor will fall in turn, and his successor, and so on. Only the immortals hold fast to their place in this universe, while everything around them changes in the blink of a god's eye.

"We rightly fear the gods. We rightly fear certain men, but mark my words: the man who is feared the most has the most to fear-"

A shrill voice, coming from behind me, interrupted him. "Laberius, you old fraud! You will never dare to speak that line from the stage. Why are you even bothering to rehearse it?"

I looked over my shoulder and saw a striking figure, a man perhaps in his forties with touches of silver in his dark beard. He struck me as the type who's quite handsome in his youth but runs to fat in middle age. He was striding down the aisle toward the stage, followed by a troupe of actors.

"I'll rehearse the prologue just as I wrote it!" snapped Laberius. "Whether I deliver it that way… is another matter, and none of your business, Publilius Syrus. If the temper of the audience and the exigencies of performance call for a bit of spontaneous rewrite-"

"How about a spontaneous exit?" The newcomer had passed me and was fast approaching the stage. "You shouldn't even be here. This is the hour scheduled for my troupe to practice, and you know very well that we rehearse in secret. I can't have eavesdroppers plagiarizing my best lines."

"How dare you, Syrus? As if I would steal a single one of your tired platitudes. You-you freedman!"

"That right, insult a man who's actually made his way in this profession by merit! Go on, Laberius, off with you! Disappear! Send a puff of smoke out of your rear end and vanish through a trapdoor."

"You're the one who resorts to such vulgar stage effects, Syrus. I rely on words and the instrument of my body-"

"Well, get your instrument out of here! And take your assistant with you."

I cleared my throat. "Actually, I am not this man's assistant. I only happened to be-"

"Whoever you are, get out! Or I'll have Ajax throw you out." Syrus gestured to one of his actors. Whether Ajax was his name or his role in the play, it suited the man's brawny build. I suddenly regretted having wandered off on my own without Rupa.

I had no desire to become involved in a brawl between rival playwrights, though I was curious about the men themselves. Both Laberius and Syrus were listed by Hieronymus as frequent guests at Marc Antony's parties. Syrus must have known Hieronymus; he had sent a message of condolence to my house.

I headed out the way I had come, and was walking down a long portico when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Laberius.

"What did you think of my prologue, citizen?"

I shrugged. "Amusing. Provocative, I suppose. I'm not a great follower of the theater-"

"Yet you laughed in all the right places, and when I did the bit about the boys playing king of the hill, it gave you chills, didn't it? Admit it!"

"It did."

"Come with me, Citizen." He took my arm and steered me to a nearby doorway. The door was plain and unadorned, but the chamber into which it opened was quite grand. We had entered by a side door into the great meeting room in the theater complex. Pompey had built it expressly to accommodate gatherings of the Senate. The hall was an oval-shaped well, with seats on either side descending in tiers to the main floor. Marble was everywhere, in many colors and patterns. The design and workmanship of even the smallest detail was exquisite.

A common citizen like me is seldom allowed into such a place. I must have gawked like a tourist, for Laberius laughed and gave me a friendly pat on the back.

"Quite a room, isn't it? Come, see the man who built it."

We descended to the main floor. Laberius indulged in a bit of mummery, raising his arms and twirling like a speaker orating to his colleagues. He ended his little mime show by doing an about-face and bowing low before a statue placed conspicuously against the wall, where everyone in the hall could see it. I did not need to read the inscription on the pedestal to recognize Pompey, the man who had built this complex as a gift to the city and to serve as his crowning accomplishment.

The statue depicted Pompey in a toga, as a statesman rather than a soldier. On his blandly handsome face was an amiable, almost serene expression. My most enduring memory of Pompey's countenance was quite different. Once, in a rage, he tried to kill me with his bare hands, and the look on his face then had been anything but serene. I still had bad dreams, haunted by Pompey's face.

As depicted by this statue, the Great One looked harmless enough, gazing with a smile at the grand assembly room he had provided for his colleagues.

"A great patron of the theater," said Laberius, with a sigh. "Though, to give him his due, Caesar promises to be even more generous. For the upcoming competition, he's offering the winning playwright a prize of a million sesterces. A million! That could go a long way to easing an old man's retirement."

"So your reason for taking part in the festival isn't entirely because a dictator compels it," I said.

"No? I don't see much difference, jumping because I fear the man who tells me to jump, or doing it because he owns all the world's gold and promises to throw a few coins my way."

"Strong words, playwright!"

"When politicians give up on liberty, it falls to poets to preserve it. Or to write its epitaph."

"I don't know what your play is about, but with a prologue like that, can you really expect Caesar to give you the prize?"

"Why not? It would prove that he allows dissent, loves freedom, and has excellent taste. What harm can I do to Caesar? At my worst, I'm no more than the buzzing of a gnat in his ear. All my ranting is mere flattery to such a man. I meant what I said: 'It matters not a fig that I should stand here and complain; he merely takes my mutterings as a compliment.' "

"Still, that last bit-how did it go? 'The man who is feared the most…' "

" 'Has the most to fear.' "

"No tyrant likes to hear that sort of talk." Calpurnia certainly wouldn't like it, I thought.

"Better that such words be shouted in public than whispered in private," said Laberius. "At least I'm no hypocrite, like that no-talent Pig's Paunch."

"Who?"

"Syrus. That's his nickname. Since he arrived in Rome, he eats it at every meal."

"Which makes him a voluptuary, perhaps, but not a hypocrite."

"No one speaks more scathingly about the dictator behind his back than Syrus. Yet his so-called play consists of nothing but insipid platitudes in praise of Caesar."

"A million sesterces could purchase an endless supply of pig's paunch. But how do you know this? Syrus rehearses in secret."

Laberius snorted. "I know every line of drivel in his new play. 'A gift worthily bestowed is a gift to the giver.' 'Too much wrangling and the truth is lost sight of.' 'A quick refusal is a kindness half done.' One cloying banality after another!"

"But how do you know this?"

He smiled. "That fellow Ajax? Looks the strong, silent type-but indulge his weakness for wine, and he sings like a lark!"

I shook my head. In Caesar's Rome, even playwrights employed spies against each other!

"Let me understand you, Laberius. You're saying that you speak harshly about Caesar but pose no threat to him. But a man like Syrus, who appears completely obsequious-"

"Is far more likely to be up to no good. But Caesar knows this. He's a shrewd judge of character. How else has he kept his head on his shoulders?"

"Are you seriously suggesting that Syrus might pose a threat?"

"A grave threat! The man who wrote the line, 'You never defeat danger by refusing to face it,' could murder the theater outright!"

"I see. Tell me, who is this Publilius Syrus?"

"He was born a slave in Syria; thus the uncouth cognomen. Acquired the name Publilius from his master, when he was freed. How that came about, no one knows, but they say he was a beautiful boy; Syrus wouldn't be the first slave who rose in this world by trading on his looks. Made his way to Italy and presented himself as a playwright. He's had a bit of success in the hinterlands, doing the small-town festival circuit. Now he thinks he can make a name for himself in the big city. Ha! What passes for cleverness in Calabria won't make them chuckle in Rome. Of course, with an audience made up of Gallic senators and the like, who knows what for passes for popular taste nowadays?"

I sighed. "Indeed, persons of true refinement are few and far between. And now there is one less such person in the world. I'm thinking of a friend of mine who was murdered recently. He was a very cultured fellow and a true lover of the theater. I think perhaps you might have met him: Hieronymus of Massilia."

Laberius looked at me blankly.

"Perhaps at one of those parties Marc Antony is famous for?" I suggested.

"Ugh! Not my crowd. For those affairs, I show up early, recite a few lines, eat and drink my fill, and then run home to an early bed."

"But you attend such parties nonetheless. A free meal is a free meal?"

"The playwright's credo!"

"But you never encountered my friend Hieronymus?"

He shrugged. "The name is vaguely familiar. But if the fellow was the type to arrive late and stay till dawn, Syrus would've been more likely to make his acquaintance. Syrus is frequently seen staggering downhill from the House of the Beaks at dawn." He frowned. "But you say your friend was murdered-"

"We need not speak of it, since you didn't know him."

Laberius nodded respectfully, then seized my arm. "Now, citizen, if you would be so kind, take a seat about midway up. I'll stay down here and finish reciting my prologue. The acoustics here aren't the same as in the theater, but I can still practice my movements and hone my timing-"

"I'm afraid I should leave now."

"Without hearing the rest?"

"I'll hear it when you perform it for Caesar, I suppose."

"Citizen! I'm offering you a rare opportunity to witness theatrical history in the making, to hear the unexpurgated version-"

"That's the problem, I fear! You see, Laberius, I left the triumph and wandered in this direction in search of escape. I thought that's what I was in for, when I paused to listen to you in the theater. Instead, what did I hear? Topical satire about the state of Rome, veiled references to the dictator-the very things from which I was fleeing! No, thank you, playwright. If there's no escape from the dictator anywhere in Rome, not even in the theater, then I might as well spend the day with my loved ones. Which reminds me, my wife will be desperately worried by now. Hercules protect me-I must face the wrath of Bethesda! Now there's a subject for a play."

With a final glance at Pompey, who gazed over our heads with a placid smile, I took my leave of Decimus Laberius.