Steven Saylor - The Triumph Of Caesar

"Show us the queen! Show us the queen!"

"There should at least be a picture of her…"

"Preferably naked!"

The wags in the crowd remained unaware that Cleopatra was among them, seated amid the dignitaries. I looked across the way, and saw that she had moved back from the parapet, as if to further conceal herself. Her face showed no expression.

The inevitable chants followed, speculating on the activities of Caesar and the Egyptian queen during their long boat trip up the Nile. Many in the crowd already knew these lewd ditties and joined in at once, clapping in unison as they recited one verse after another. Men share such bits of doggerel in the Forum; wives bring them home from the marketplace; soon, even children know them by heart. For all his earthly glory, Caesar was powerless to stop the spread of a rude joke or an awful pun at his expense.

I gazed at Cleopatra across the way. Her face remained impassive, but even at such a distance I could see that her cheeks had reddened a bit. The queen was not used to being mocked.

Then, abruptly, the ditties fell silent and the clapping stopped. As if conjured by the will of the crowd, Cleopatra suddenly loomed before them-or rather, her image loomed, for approaching on the path, mounted on a platform and pulled by a team of Nubian slaves, was a breathtaking statue of her.

It was larger than life and appeared to be made of solid gold, though it was probably gilded bronze. The gilt shimmered brightly beneath the sun; flashes of golden light dazzled my eyes. The queen was portrayed not in the outlandish garb of the pharaohs, which the Ptolemies had appropriated when they assumed the rule of Egypt, but in elegant Greek dress, wearing a simple diadem on her brow. The statue's face had a stern, almost mannish quality; perhaps the sculptor made his subject look older and plainer than she was, so as to emphasize her qualities as a ruler of men rather than an object of male desire. The face, with its sparkling lapis eyes and elusive smile, nonetheless projected a powerful feminine allure; one could see why a man like Caesar had been captivated by such a woman.

I drew a sharp breath. Caesar's inclusion of the statue-a gift from the queen herself? — was a considerable gamble. Who could predict the crowd's reaction? Or did he brazenly parade the statue for just that reason, as a means to gauge the temper of the Roman mob? If the statue had been a piece of captured booty, and Cleopatra a vanquished enemy, there would have been no controversy; but Caesar's war in Egypt had affirmed Cleopatra's claim to the throne, so the appearance of the statue seemed to be a celebration of the queen herself. Here, for all to see, in golden splendor, was the exotic creature who claimed to have borne Caesar's son and whom many thought was encouraging Caesar's royal ambitions. If the crowd found the statue offensive, they might break into a full-scale riot.

I looked around me, wondering if our high seats would prove to be our salvation or our doom. Would we remain above the rampaging mob or be driven up and over the top, to fall to our deaths? There was also the possibility that the crowd might realize that Cleopatra was present and vent their fury against her.

I gazed at the queen in her box across the way. Our eyes met. Cleopatra nodded slightly, to show that she recognized me. She saw the alarm on my face, and her own expression grew apprehensive. She raised her eyebrows slightly. She frowned.

But the reaction of the crowd was far from violent. A hush fell over the throng. There were no jeers, no cries of outrage, not even any ribald jests. The golden statue seemed to cast a spell. People gazed up in wonder as it passed before them.

Across the way, I saw the queen of Egypt smile. She turned to confer with someone in her entourage. She turned back and began to stand. Did she intend to draw attention to herself, to make her presence known to the crowd?

Before that could happen, the moment passed. The mood of the crowd abruptly changed. The air rang with jeers, shouts, and taunts, for immediately following Cleopatra's statue came the procession of Egyptian prisoners. From the golden glory of the queen, the crowd's attention was drawn to the abject misery and wretchedness of her vanquished enemies.

Cleopatra sat. Her smile vanished.

The few surviving officers of Ptolemy's army were paraded before us in chains and rags and tattered Egyptian headdresses. A few of these were eunuchs, and the crowd peered at their near-naked bodies curiously, looking for distinguishing characteristics. To be sure, the eunuchs were not as hirsute as some of their compatriots, but their bodies had none of the voluptuousness of women; perhaps because they had been fed so poorly, all the prisoners looked gaunt and bony. Nor did the eunuchs express emotions differently from their fellows. The eunuchs and the other exhibited the same range of reactions: a few stared back defiantly at the crowd; some hid their faces; and many trembled and wept, broken by their humiliation and the approach of death.

The last but one of the prisoners was Ganymedes. I had last seen him in a shimmering, wide-sleeved gown and a khat headdress, with kohl outlining his eyes. Now he wore only a filthy loincloth, and his undressed hair hung in tendrils around his pale, winkled face. His chains robbed him of any pretense of dignity; the shackles on his ankles and wrists forced him to bow and take shambling steps. He was barefoot and his feet were bleeding.

Someone in the crowd hurled a piece of fruit-a green, unripe fig-and struck him between his legs. Ganymedes flinched but did not cry out. Others hurled more bits of fruit and even stones, always aiming for the same spot. They were mocking him with blows that would have made an intact man scream with agony but served only to humiliate the eunuch by drawing attention to the part of his anatomy that had been amputated.

Following Ganymedes, at a distance which clearly set her apart, was Arsinoe. The princess, too, was barefoot and dressed in rags, baring more of her arms and legs than was considered decent for a high-born woman in public, inviting the prurient inspection of the crowd. The manner in which she was chained seemed calculated to emphasize her debasement; her ankles were connected by a short chain and her hands were bound tightly behind her, forcing her to mince forward with her shoulders back and her breasts thrust forward. But the position also allowed her to hold her chin high. Her face was clearly visible, and her expression was surprisingly composed. She looked neither fearful nor defiant; there was neither hatred nor panic in her eyes. Her face was sphinxlike, without emotion, as if her thoughts were completely elsewhere, far removed from the degradation to which her body was being subjected.

As Arsinoe slowly drew nearer below us, I looked from her face to that of Cleopatra. They appeared to wear the same expression, despite the difference in their situations. Cleopatra watched her sister's march to oblivion without showing the least sign of regret or rejoicing. Arsinoe moved toward her fate with no more expression than if she were gazing at the slow, steady, unending flow of the Nile. Of what stuff were these Ptolemies made?

What had Caesar presumed would happen, when he decided to parade a helpless young woman in his triumph? He had presided over the rape of many cities; he had seen the merciless reaction of his soldiers to the sight of tender females stripped of all protection. Did he think the Roman mob would react in the same way at the sight of Arsinoe in chains, allowing a desire to revel in her debasement to overcome any impulse toward pity?

I would not have been surprised to see the onlookers pelt Arsinoe with fruit, cruelly aiming for her breasts, and taunt her with lascivious remarks and perhaps even reach out to strip the remaining rags from her body, forcing her to walk naked to her death.