Steven Saylor - The Triumph Of Caesar

Lamps had been lit in the house, but the garden was growing dark. I told Rupa to fetch some lights, but Caesar shook his head.

"No need for that, Gordianus. I don't mind the darkness, if you don't. It's rather pleasant like this, smelling the jasmine and the roses in the warm twilight."

We sat in chairs facing each other. In the gloaming, I found it difficult to make out his expression. Perhaps he liked it that way. It occurred to me that he must grow weary of being constantly scrutinized by others eager to read his thoughts and intentions.

And then my heart gave a lurch and my mouth turned dry, for it suddenly struck me that Caesar might have come with news of Meto. Had something occurred in Spain, where the scattered remnants of Caesar's enemies were said to be gathering in hopes of mounting yet another challenge to his supremacy? I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could still my racing heart. Surely Caesar would not have greeted me with such a beaming smile if he had come to deliver bad news…

I must have muttered Meto's name aloud, for Caesar smiled again-I could see that, even in the gloaming-and said the name back to me. "Meto-ah, yes, dear Meto. How I miss that boy! And so must you. Of course, he's hardly a boy anymore, is he?"

"He turned thirty-three in Quinctilis," I said, my mouth dry.

"That's right! Do you know, I think I forgot to send him a greeting. A bit late to do so now, even belatedly. I wish he could be here now, but his service in Spain is too important. I need men there I can trust, and your son's devotion to me is truly a gift from the gods."

I relaxed. He had not come with bad news, after all. "I'm surprised you can spare a thought for such trivialities as birthdays. You must have so many things on your mind."

"Indeed I do. Which is why I completely forgot about you yesterday, Gordianus."

"But why should you have thought of me at all, Dictator?"

He clucked his tongue, to chide me for my insistent formality. "Because of Meto, of course. Your son should have been with me yesterday, to celebrate the Gallic Triumph. He was with me everywhere in Gaul, at practically every moment. He was always there, always ready and eager to receive my dictation, sometimes in the middle of the night."

I cleared my throat. Meto and I had never explicitly discussed his relationship with Caesar, but I had long assumed that my son had been receptive to more than Caesar's dictation. Their intimacy was none of my business, of course, and at any rate it seemed to have cooled with the passing years, as such affairs almost invariably do. As for their relationship as author and amanuensis, according to Meto, he himself had written a large part of Caesar's memoirs of the Gallic campaign, taking his imperator's raw notes and fleshing them into prose, with Caesar merely amending and approving a final version before it was copied and disseminated.

Caesar's expression became impossible to read in the darkness, but the politician's bluffness fell away from his voice. His tone was wistful. "Can I speak to you candidly, Gordianus? To call Meto my loyal secretary is to make light of what he's meant to me over the years. Meto has fought for me, spied for me, even risked his life for me, not once but many times. He was there with me in Gaul, and at Pharsalus, and in Alexandria; he was with me in Asia and Africa. He should have been here for all my triumphs. Instead, he's on a vital mission in Spain, which is only further testament to his unflagging loyalty."

Caesar sighed. "Meto has seen me at my best-and at my worst. Over the years, I've learned to trust him, to take off my armor in his presence, so to speak-not an easy thing for an old warrior to do. He's as close to me as a son-yet in no way have I ever presumed that I could take the place of his father."

"Meto is not of my blood. I adopted him."

"And yet you are as surely Meto's father as if you had made him yourself. I envy you that, Gordianus-having a son, especially a son like Meto."

"Does Caesar have no son?" I thought of Cleopatra.

He was silent for a long moment. "That… is a complicated question. Ironic, isn't it? One man produces a son-at long last! — yet hesitates to call himself the boy's father, while another man adopts a boy not of his blood and becomes a father in every way that matters to gods and mortals."

Caesarion was his son, then-or so he believed. Caesar breathed deeply. "Do you know, this is the first time I've come to a complete halt in… well, I have no idea how long it's been! I can't relax like this in my own garden. Servants are always hovering, supplicants are in the vestibule, senators are at the door, my wife is forever fussing and fretting over me…"

"Your wife?" Did he know of Calpurnia's fears and the divinations of her haruspex?

"Calpurnia, the old dear. No man could have asked for a better wife in wartime. While I was away from the city, Calpurnia did everything necessary to see that my home was well run. She watched the other women of Rome with a careful eye; she made sure that any conspiracies against me came to nothing. There is the world of the bloody battlefield, and there is the world of the hearth and the loom, and any war-especially a civil war-must be waged in both arenas. Calpurnia was my commander for the home front, and she conducted herself brilliantly.

"But now that the peace has been won…" He shook his head. "She's become a different woman. She fills her head with superstitious nonsense. She pesters me with dreams and portents. I wonder if it's not the influence of that crazy uncle of hers. Gnaeus Calpurnius is always in the house these days. The old fellow's a priest, and takes himself very seriously-so proud of his descent from King Numa!"

I nodded, and considered the irony that the master of the world should be so unaware of events in his own household. From what I had observed, Uncle Gnaeus disapproved of his niece's obsession with the "superstitious nonsense" fostered by the haruspex Porsenna, of whom Caesar appeared to know nothing.

He laughed softly. "But why am I telling you all this? It must be that gift you possess."

"Gift?"

"Your special gift-the power to compel the truth from others. Cicero warned me about it a long time ago. Catilina said the same thing-do you remember him? — and Meto confirmed it. The gift of Gordianus-that must be what's loosened my tongue. Or perhaps… perhaps I'm just tired."

The moon had risen above the roofline. Its blue light gleamed on Caesar's bald pate. He turned his face upward into the moonbeam, and I saw that his eyes were closed. He fell silent and breathed so deeply that I thought he might have fallen asleep, until he sighed and spoke again.

"Ah, but I've strayed from the point of my visit. I wanted to give you this."

He produced a thin, square token carved from bone. I took it from him. Squinting under the moonlight, I saw there was a letter and a number painted on it.

"What's this, Dictator? What does 'F XII' refer to?"

"It's the section reserved for you and your family in the viewing stands. I'm told the seats are quite good. They're rather high up, but that's what you want for a spectacle, isn't it? A bit of distance? You wouldn't want to be too close; you're not the sort to make a rush at the captives as they pass or to bait the exotic animals. Just show that token to the usher, and he'll lead you and your family to your seats. They're reserved for tomorrow's triumph, and for the next two triumphs as well."

"This is for Meto's sake?"

"Because Meto cannot be here, yes, I'll honor Meto's father and family in his stead. But you deserve a seat on your own merits, Gordianus, at least for tomorrow's Egyptian Triumph. You were there in Alexandria, after all. You witnessed history in the making. Now you can witness the celebration."