Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“It will be my honor, Caesar.”

“And you, Gordianus…”

“Yes, Caesar?”

“Come to the Regia the second hour after sunrise, and wear your senatorial toga. I want you and your son to be in my entourage when I walk to the Senate meeting.”

“Are you sure, Caesar?”

“When I am unsure of a thing, Finder, I do not say it.” He stared at me for a long moment, then finally released me from his stern gaze with the faintest hint of a smile.

As we stepped into the garden, a bolt of lightning split the sky and struck the earth somewhere very near. The thundercrack was so loud it made my heart jump in my chest. I happened to be glancing at Caesar when the lightning flashed. By its searing illumination he seemed transformed into a statue of white marble.

The illusion ended in the blink of an eye, but Caesar remained unmoving, statue-like, for so long that Meto touched his arm. Caesar blinked and gave a slight jerk, as if coming to his senses. He touched his forehead and winced, then brushed aside Meto’s hand, as if to assure him that nothing was amiss.

“All of you, to bed,” said Caesar, addressing us as if we were soldiers on the eve of a battle. “Sleep well. Tomorrow promises to be a very memorable day.”

DAY SIX: MARCH 15

The Ides

XXX

There was thunder and lightning all night long. Sheets of rain pelted the roof above my head.

By daybreak the storm had passed. The world seemed sparkling and newly made. The streets were washed clean and the air was so clear that from my doorstep I could count every stone of the distant Temple of Jupiter atop the Capitoline.

Dressed in my borrowed toga, breathing in the fresh, moist air, I made my way with Meto down the steep road that descended from the Palatine Hill to the Forum, and then toward the Dictator’s house.

When staying in the city, Caesar, as Pontifex Maximus, resided in the Regia, which since the earliest days of Rome had been the official residence of the head of the state religion. The mansion had been subject to numerous renovations over the centuries. The latest addition was a magnificent marble pediment to decorate the facade. Caesar had petitioned the Senate for permission to add this pediment. The effect was to make the mansion look more like a temple—suitable housing for a descendant of Venus.

Outside the Regia, a large number of lictors were milling in the street. Roman magistrates are traditionally accompanied by these ceremonial bodyguards, armed with fasces, axes bundled in wooden rods—the ancient weapons for protecting the person and dignity of Rome’s rulers on official occasions. As dictator, Caesar was entitled to twenty-four lictors, apparently. They were no substitute for the Spanish bodyguards that Caesar had dismissed—hulking, war-hardened brutes—but at least they would provide a dignified escort for Caesar and his entourage as we made our way to the Senate meeting. While the rest of us walked, it appeared that Caesar would be conveyed in a gilded litter with purple cushions. Among the four slaves who would bear this small but splendid vehicle I recognized Hipparchus, who had waited for me outside the Salacious Tavern.

The doors of the Regia were wide open. Meto and I ascended the short flight of steps and joined the toga-clad crowd gathered in the vestibule. On the occasion of his final address to the Senate before leaving Rome, the Dictator had invited a great many magistrates and senators to join his retinue. I felt honored to be among them and at the same time not so special after all, seeing how many of us there were. Standing out in the crowd was the imposing figure of Marc Antony in his consul’s toga, talking to Cinna. When the two of them saw Meto and me, they both nodded. Antony turned to talk to someone else. Cinna made his way through the crowd to join us.

He looked rather haggard, as if he hadn’t slept well, but his face lit up as he looked me up and down.

“Gordianus, how splendid you look! Clearly, this was the toga the gods meant for you to wear on this day. What do you think, Meto? Doesn’t your father look splendid?”

“He does, indeed. But where’s Caesar?”

“Already out and about. There was some ceremony he had to attend at daybreak at Calvinus’s house, not far from here, something to do with Calvinus being named Master of the Horse for the coming year. But Caesar should be back at any moment, and then we’ll all head for the Senate meeting.”

“How did the speechwriting go?” I asked

Cinna shuddered. “What a ghastly night! Caesar was up and down, up and down, waking me at all hours to do a bit of tinkering to this passage or that. Really, if Caesar is to be this demanding during the campaign, I think I shall expire from exhaustion.”

“He does ask a great deal from his collaborators,” said Meto with a thin smile.

“But the speech is good?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. ‘Quite the finest speech I will ever have given,’ Caesar told me, when at last he let me flee to my bed and catch an hour of sleep.” Cinna flashed a crooked smile. “But his voice was so oddly strained when he said that, it rather spoiled my enjoyment of the compliment. What a peculiar mood he was in last night. Didn’t you think so?”

This question was addressed to Meto, who slowly nodded and lowered his voice so that only Cinna and I could hear. “I’ve seen Caesar like this before. Sometimes, when the demands on him are very great, he falls prey to the falling sickness.”

“You mean he falls unconscious, or suffers a seizure?” said Cinna. “So I’ve heard, though I’ve never witnessed it. Nor did I witness such a thing last night.”

“Ah, but the sickness takes many forms,” said Meto. “Sometimes he merely suffers a headache, or dizziness, or moods that change without reason. He laughs too much, or loses his temper, or doesn’t remember something I told him just a moment before.”

“I see. Yes, he did seem to be in a bit of a fog when he left for Calvinus’s house this morning. But I put that down to his lack of sleep, and Calpurnia’s pestering.”

“Calpurnia?” I said.

“While we were going over the speech one last time, she burst into the room, raving about some nightmare she’d had. Something about the pediment of this place crashing down and trapping Caesar underneath. Well, that dream was caused by all that crashing thunder, don’t you think?”

At that moment I happened to spy Calpurnia herself. She had just stepped into the room in a surprising state of undress, wearing house slippers and a thin cloak pulled over her nightgown. She cast an anxious gaze over the crowd—seeking Caesar, I thought—and then her eyes fell on me. She made an emphatic gesture that I should come to her, then stepped back, out of the room.

Meto and Cinna, having seen, both gave me an understanding nod when I excused myself. I slipped across the room and then down a short hallway. A hand seized my arm and pulled me into a small, windowless chamber lit by a single lamp. Its flame illuminated the face of Calpurnia.

Never a great beauty, but handsome in an austere way, she looked considerably aged since I had last seen her. Rather than giving her face a warm glow, the flickering light made her look sallow and deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She looked very pale and drawn, almost ill.

“Finder, you must help me.” Though it seemed impossible that anyone could overhear, she spoke in a hushed voice.

“Of course.”

“Caesar must not attend the Senate meeting today.”

“I’m not sure I could—”

“You must convince him.”

“How?”

“I know he gave you a list of men he’s worried about. Caesar told me.”

I nodded. “Did he also tell you that I had nothing to report?”