Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

As they looked into each other’s eyes, I realized that my elevation to the Senate was a gift not to me, but to Meto. Having been born a slave, my son could never be considered for such an honor. I was to become a senator in his stead. No matter what I thought of the matter, for Meto’s sake I had to accept, and do so as graciously as I could.

* * *

The same litter and bearers that had delivered me to the garden estate were summoned to take me home. Meto joined me but said he would accompany me only part of the way, as he had business in the Forum .

I was stunned by what had happened, but Meto was ebullient. His smile and glittering eyes made him look like a child again, the high-spirited slave boy I had encountered long ago in Crassus’s villa on the Cup. How much had happened since then! No one could have foreseen the twists of fortune that lay ahead. Crassus, the richest man in the world, had been killed campaigning against the Parthians. Now his death was to be avenged by Caesar—accompanied by Meto, who had been the slave of Crassus. And I was to be a senator, like Crassus, like Cicero, like Caesar, and so many others I had dealt with over the years.

“You look dazed, Papa.”

“And you look overjoyed.”

“I am!”

“Then I’m happy for us both. Even though…” Even though this is madness, I was about to say, and then was struck by a chilling thought. What if the idea to make me a senator had come literally from a man not in his right mind?

“You’ve known Caesar a long time,” I said. “You’ve seen him in many situations. Does he seem entirely normal to you?”

Meto’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

“I thought he seemed a bit confused at times. And melancholy. Or changeable, I should say. Melancholy one moment, happy the next. Does he still suffer headaches? And bouts of falling sickness?”

Meto didn’t answer.

“I understand, if it’s something you can’t talk about. I respect the confidence he places in you, and the confidentiality he expects.”

Meto nodded slowly.

“Of course, he has a great deal on his mind,” I said. “So much business to finish here in Rome. So many preparations for the upcoming campaign. Really, it boggles the mind of a simple fellow like myself, all the logistics. I can’t imagine how Caesar does it.”

“He’s a truly remarkable man,” said Meto. “Although…”

I waited for him to gather his thoughts.

“There is something in what you say, Papa. By Hercules, you’re a keen observer. You noticed what many haven’t, not even men who see Caesar every day. There’s a … a slight haze about him sometimes, a dullness. I might put it down to the fact that he’s just getting older—except that I’ve never seen such a dullness about you, Papa, and you’re ten years his senior. I tell myself it’s as you suggest, his mind is simply overburdened with too many thoughts, more than any man could reasonably handle. But then, as you know, there’s the falling sickness. It went away for years, but just lately…” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t talk about it.”

“I understand.”

Meto smiled. “But the old fellow’s not so mad that he’s making you a senator by mistake!” He laughed, and I was so glad to see the shadow leave his face that I said no more about Caesar’s state of mind.

The litter crossed the Tiber. We passed through the riverside markets, not as crowded as before, and came to the Forum, where Meto called for the bearers to stop.

“I’ll leave you here,” he said, nimbly leaping from the compartment. “The bearers will see you safely home.” He rearranged the folds of his toga, then stepped closer to me. He looked very serious. His voice trembled. “Papa, I’m so proud of you!”

Tears came to my eyes. I nodded, unable to speak. Meto at last stepped back and gave a signal to the chief litter-bearer. With a slight jolt I was carried forward. Meto waved to me, then was lost to view, swallowed up by the crowds of men in togas going about their business in the Forum.

Days are short in the month of Martius. Already the light was beginning to fade. It would be the dinner hour soon, but I felt a bit thirsty.

I called to the litter-bearers to stop. The leader stepped to the compartment. He gave me a quizzical look but didn’t speak. He had probably been trained never to speak first.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Hipparchus.”

“Tell me, Hipparchus, do you know a place called the Salacious Tavern?”

He looked at me shrewdly. He shook his head to say no. His expression said otherwise .

“Take me there,” I said.

“My orders were to take you home.”

“And my orders are to take me to the tavern.”

He looked unsure.

“By Hercules, Hipparchus, I’m soon to be a member of the Roman Senate, believe it or not. If that’s worth anything at all, it should at least convince you to do as I say. Otherwise, I’ll get out and walk.”

“No, don’t do that. We’ll take you to the tavern. But then we’ll wait outside and take you home when you’re ready.”

“But then you’ll certainly get into trouble with Caesar, taking so long to return to him. No, just take me to the tavern and leave me there.”

Hipparchus looked dubious, but resumed his position and called to the others to follow his directions. We turned around and headed back the way we had come, left the Forum and entered the markets, then came to a cluttered area of workshops and warehouses. Little pillars were inscribed with the names of shops and businesses. Past the ninth signpost we came to a pillar that bore no name. Atop it stood an upright marble phallus. A lamp hanging from the post, not yet lit, was in the same suggestive shape. Crudely drawn graffiti on the walls were likewise mostly phallic in nature. The place exuded an odor of stale wine, cheap perfumes, and the various human excretions and odors meant to be hidden by the perfumes.

By fading daylight, the tavern presented a shabby appearance, more decrepit than lascivious. There were cracks in the plaster walls, and the wooden door looked a bit rotted in places. I stepped from the litter and rapped at the door.

A little trapdoor opened and a bloodshot eye peered at me. I had no need to speak; I was known to the management. The door opened and the keeper of the door stepped back to let me in.

I looked over my shoulder at Hipparchus. “You may go now. I’ve arrived at my destination.”

“We’ll stay here,” he said, “until you’re ready for us to take you home.”

“What, in the street? With every citizen who comes by taking a second look and thinking, ‘Doesn’t that litter belong to the Dictator? Is the master of the world inside, drinking and gambling and whoring?’ No, no, I insist that you move on. Go now. Move! Off with you!” I waved my hand for emphasis.

Hipparchus looked unhappy, but at last he called to the others to set off. I watched them disappear around a corner, then stepped inside the Salacious Tavern.

IX

Salacious Tavern was not the real name of the place. As far as I knew, it had no name. The colorful epithet had been coined by a famous poet no longer among the living, who in his verses had celebrated this lowly establishment. Probably most people thought the poet was describing a fictitious tavern, but those who had known Catullus—and had been inside the Salacious Tavern with the poet himself, as I had—knew the place was only too real. We would never call it anything else.

Perpetual twilight reigned inside the tavern. By night it was dimly lit by lamps and candles. By day the only light came from dusty shafts of sunlight that pierced the ill-fitting shutters on the windows. The place wasn’t crowded—only a handful of whores, gamblers, and drinkers were present—but as I stepped inside all eyes turned to me. I realized it was because I was wearing my toga, which I had put on so as to be presentable to the Dictator. I had never set foot in the tavern dressed so formally. The preferred outfit was something dark and shabby, to hide any wine stains. My white toga was as conspicuous in this setting as the purple robe of Caesar would be in the Senate House.