Steven Saylor - The Triumph Of Caesar

"How did they treat you, in those cages and holes?"

"Not badly. No, not badly at all. I was fed well enough. Kept reasonably clean. Beaten only when I tried to escape or made other trouble. They needed to keep me alive, you see, for Caesar's triumph. You can't humiliate a dead man by parading him through the Forum. You can't inflict suffering on a corpse. No, they needed to keep me alive, indefinitely, so they never starved me and they never beat me beyond my endurance. They made sure I had no way to kill myself. They even sent a physician once or twice, when I was ill.

"Then everything changed. The time grew near. They brought me to Rome. I knew, when they lowered me into this pit, that I would never come out again until the day of my death. They began to starve me. They beat me, for no reason. They tortured me. They made me sleep in my own waste. For Caesar's triumph, they didn't want a strong, proud Gaul walking upright through the Forum. They wanted a broken man, a cringing, pathetic creature covered in filth, a laughingstock, an object of ridicule, something for children to jeer at and old men to spit on."

He suddenly lurched forward, pulling his shackles taut. I gave a start and almost dropped the lamp. "Tell me I'm right!" he cried. "Tell me you're Pluto and the ordeal is already over! They say the dead forget their troubles when they cross to the underworld and drink from the river Lethe. Have I drunk from the river? Have I forgotten the day of my death?"

My heart pounded in my chest. My hand shook, causing the lamplight to flicker. "Who knows what you've forgotten? Tell me what you remember, Vercingetorix. Tell me… about the plot to kill Caesar."

He fell silent. Was he puzzled or angry or too shrewd to answer? At last he spoke. "What are you talking about?"

"Surely your people won't let your death go unavenged. Are the Gauls not bitter? Are they not proud? Can they allow the great Vercingetorix to die and do nothing to avenge his death?"

Again, there was silence; it went on so long that I became unnerved, imagining that he had slipped from his chains somehow and was drawing toward me. I braced myself and stood upright, letting the lamp's steady glow illuminate my face.

"I have no people," he finally said. "The best of the Gauls died at Alesia. The survivors were sold into slavery. The traitors who sided with Caesar received their reward." This was true; all over Gaul, Caesar had placed the native chieftains who had supported him in positions of authority over the rest. Some he had even elevated to the Roman Senate.

"But the Gauls have other ways to inflict harm on a man," I whispered. "Druid magic! How you must long for Caesar's death. Have you placed a curse on him?"

He laughed bitterly. "If the Druids possessed true magic, would Gaul be a Roman province? There's nothing I can do to cause Caesar's death. But he'll die soon enough."

"How do you know that?"

"Every man dies, even Caesar. If not this year, then the next, or the year after. Vercingetorix dies. Caesar dies. The same fate awaits us all. Strange, that I should have to remind Pluto of that fact."

He began to weep. I moved the lamp so that I could see him. He shivered and trembled. He hid his face in his hands. Insects and glistening slugs crept amid the strands of his matted, filthy hair. A rat skittered between us. My stomach churned with nausea.

I tugged on the rope and called to the warder above. The winch gave a squeal. The rope pulled taut. I sat on the wooden plank and began to rise slowly. I turned my face up toward the opening, longing for light, desperate to fill my lungs with fresh, clean air.

I hurried across the Forum with Rupa beside me, thankful for the simple freedom to gaze at the blue sky above and to run my fingertips over the smooth, sun-heated stone wall of a temple. From a food vendor near the Temple of Castor and Pollux I paused to buy a little pastry stuffed with fig paste and slathered with fish-pickle sauce. Rupa, who had never acquired a taste for Roman garum, waved his hand to signal that he wanted a pastry with fig paste only.

Together, eating as we walked, we passed the House of the Vestals and trudged up the Ramp to the crest of the Palatine. At the top, we turned down the winding lane that would take us to the house of Cicero, not far from my own.

As we rounded the crest of the hill, I had a clear view of the top of the Capitoline Hill across the way. The Temple of Jupiter, rebuilt after its destruction by fire during the days of Sulla, was as imposing as ever. In a prominent place before the temple, obscured by a canopy of sailcloth pending its unveiling, stood the bronze statue that would be dedicated the next day. What pose had Caesar struck for his grand image on the Capitoline? That of a mortal supplicant, a man more than other men but still obeisant to the king of the gods? Or something more grand, the upright, unbowed image of a descendant of Venus, a demigod and junior partner to the Olympians?

We arrived at Cicero's door. Rupa gave a polite knock with his foot. To the slave who perused us through the peephole I stated my name and the desire to see his master on personal business. A few moments later, we were admitted to the vestibule, then conducted down a hallway to Cicero's library.

He was balder and fatter than I remembered. He rose from his chair, laid aside the scroll he had been reading, and gave me a beaming smile.

"Gordianus! How long has it been? I thought-"

"I know. You thought I was dead." I sighed.

"Why, no. I knew you were back in Rome. I probably knew it the day you arrived. I walk by your house almost every day, you know. And neighbors talk. No, I was going to say, I thought you'd never come to see me."

"I've been keeping to myself."

He nodded. "So have I. A lot of that going around these days. Best to stay at home, with a stout fellow to guard the door. Dare to stick your head up, and you're liable to get it whacked off." He made a vivid gesture, slashing one hand across his throat.

Like the orator he was, he exaggerated. "Caesar isn't Sulla," I said. "I haven't seen the heads of his enemies on spikes down in the Forum."

"No, not yet… not yet…" His voice trailed off. "But can I offer refreshment to you and… your companion?"

"This is Rupa. I adopted him before I left for Egypt. He doesn't speak."

Cicero smiled. "You and your extended family! Isn't this your third adopted son? He's certainly the biggest of the lot. But silent, eh? Well, there's been an addition-and a subtraction-to my own household, as you may already know. But my new family member most certainly speaks-oh, how that girl can speak! Hopefully she'll return from her shopping before you leave, and you can meet her. But what can I offer you? Are you hungry?"

"We just had a bite, actually. Perhaps some liberally watered wine to wash it down?"

Cicero clapped his hands and sent a slave to fetch the refreshment. He cleared away some scrolls that were stacked on chairs and the three of us sat.

"Well, Gordianus, tell me your news, and then I'll tell you mine." From the look on his face, I saw he could hardly wait to talk about his new wife.

"My news is not happy, I'm afraid. While I was away, I think you made the acquaintance of a good friend of mine, Hieronymus of Massilia."

"Ah, yes! I heard the bad news. I sent a message of condolence to your house just this morning. I'd have come myself, but as I said, I don't go out much."

"You know about his death already?"

Cicero nodded. "I send a man every day to check the new entries in the death registry. These days, one must keep abreast, or else fall hopelessly behind. There's nothing more embarrassing than to meet an old friend, or someone I once defended in court, and not to know that the fellow's brother or son or father is dead. It makes one look uncaring, not to mention uninformed. Yes, I was sorry to learn of Hieronymus's death. How did it happen?"