Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“Which is against the law,” I said.

“As is murder,” said Meto. “I’d have gone to join Lepidus, but I wanted to come here first … to make sure all of you were safe…” He closed his eyes for a long moment. His shoulders slumped. I thought he might be asleep, until he spoke. “Papa, what did I see on the small table in the vestibule? The garment draped across it?”

“What do you think? It’s the senator’s toga that Cinna— my Cinna—lent me to wear today.”

“But why is it in the vestibule?”

“So that I’ll remember to return it to him, as soon as I safely can.”

“Return it? But what will you wear when the Senate meets, as they surely will, maybe as soon as tomorrow?”

I sighed. “Meto, despite Caesar’s intention, I was never formally inducted as a senator—”

“That makes no difference. Caesar made you a senator, he entered your name on the list, and a senator you are, as much as any of those others. ”

“I don’t think—”

“If Dolabella is consul and entitled to wear his toga, then so are you! You were appointed by Caesar no less than he was.” The first scattered drops of rain fell. Meto turned his face up, as if eager to receive them. I heard another peal of thunder. “This will be a huge question,” he said. “Are all the acts and appointments of Caesar still in force? They must be. Even the assassins will agree, since they were appointed to their magistracies by Caesar. Watch how they cling to their offices—the ungrateful bastards!”

“Brutus, for one, will dispute that I’m a senator,” I said, remembering his harsh words to me.

“Then ally yourself with those who’ll agree to confirm your status. Antony, perhaps. And Lepidus—the man with whom you shared Caesar’s last supper.”

“I shared it with Decimus, as well.”

“The most treacherous viper of all!”

“I’d rather not ally myself with anyone.”

“But you must, Papa. You’ll have to. Now, more than ever. Everyone must take sides.”

Not again, I thought, remembering all the suffering and horror I had seen over the long course of the civil war. Had a new war begun?

Like a vast spiderweb, jagged lightning bolts crisscrossed the sky.

“Not again,” I said, but my words were overwhelmed by a thunderclap so near and so powerful that it shook the ground beneath my feet.

DAY SEVEN: MARCH 16

XXXVII

The next morning, as soon as I’d washed my face and had a bite to eat, I called for a slave to help me put on the toga Cinna had lent me. Meto was already gone; no one could say where. I roused my sleepy son-in-law from my daughter’s bed and told him to comb his tangled hair and put on his best tunic. Whether as bodyguard or entourage of one, I wanted him to look his best when I paid a call on Cicero.

Why I felt compelled to visit Cicero I couldn’t say. Perhaps, like the dutiful but often diffident Finder I had been for so many years, I felt obliged to give him a final report, never mind that I hadn’t accepted his commission or that he already knew how the matter in question had turned out.

We walked down the rain-washed street to Cicero’s house. No sooner had I given my name to the door slave than Tiro appeared in the vestibule.

“I knew that had to be your voice,” he said. “I was thinking you’d come today.”

“Then we shared the same thought,” I said, “and perhaps you can tell me why I’ve come, since I can’t say myself.”

“Today is a new beginning.” I could tell that Tiro was deliberately suppressing any emotion in his voice. He was too well mannered to gloat over any man’s death. “When there’s a new beginning, it’s only fitting that friends should pay calls on one another.”

“Am I Cicero’s friend?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re mine, I hope.”

“And mine as well!” said Cicero, stepping into the vestibule. “Gordianus, old friend, it’s good to see you!” It had been years since I’d seen Cicero in such high spirits, not since the first days of his short-lived marriage to his teenage ward. “But don’t stand here in the vestibule. Come along to the garden, and bring that strapping son-in-law with you. That’s where we’ve all gathered.”

As I followed him through the house, I heard voices, growing louder and more distinct as we drew nearer.

“And the look on Antony’s face,” I heard Cassius saying, “when he finally got away from Trebonius and came around the corner and saw us, with our daggers held high. He knew what had happened in an instant. He was like a wineskin that’s gone flat, all the juice sucked out of him! A pity you weren’t there to see it, Cicero,” he added, raising his voice as his host came in sight.

In the garden, I saw not only Cassius but also Brutus, Decimus, and scowling Cinna the praetor, all dressed in plain tunics rather than togas. They stopped their conversation and turned to stare at me. There was a long silence.

“I thought the four of you were all barricaded on the Capitoline Hill,” I finally said.

Cassius put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone we’re here! This little party is strictly sub rosa.”

“We’re not prisoners,” said Cinna. “We are free men. Free at last, thanks to these brave fellows!”

“Yet you are not wearing your praetorian toga, Cinna,” I said. “You’re all in plain tunics. You’ve skulked down from the Capitoline at the break of day, incognito, to pay a visit to the man you left out of your conspiracy. Before you skulk back, are you finally ready to let Cicero in on your plans? Or are you here for his blessing?”

“Cicero is essential to our plans,” said Brutus, putting a hand on his host’s shoulder. Cicero beamed. “No other man in Rome has his prestige and his reputation for honor and decency. No other man has his skill as an orator. We look to you, Cicero, to put into words the justification for what we did, to persuade our fellow citizens who may not understand the righteousness of our cause.”

“Like the citizens who chased you out of the Forum and back up to the Capitoline yesterday?” I said.

“Were you among them, Finder, stirring up trouble?” Brutus glared at me.

“I was not. But I heard about it from someone who was there.”

“Let me guess—that adopted son of yours, Caesar’s little Ganymede,” said Cassius. He smirked. “And what are you doing, wearing a senator’s toga? Did you not hear Brutus yesterday tell you to take it off and never put it on again?”

“Friends, desist from bickering,” said Cicero.

“But Cicero, don’t you see?” said Brutus. “This fellow still imagines he’s one of us! Daring to go about in that toga. Why not dress your son Meto in a senator’s toga as well? I’m sure Caesar would have done it sooner or later. Yes, elevated even a freedman to the Senate, as a sort of thank-you gift to his … what did you call him, Cassius? Caesar’s little Ganymede? Exactly! Shall we be seeing wives and whores in the Senate as well? Why not Cleopatra?”

“Yes, why not Cleopatra?” said Cinna, his scowl becoming a leer as he rudely mimed the act of penetrating someone from behind, clutching invisible haunches and thrusting his hips.

“Now, now, Cinna,” said Cicero mildly, “we must be diplomatic in our dealings with foreigners, even with Egyptians. But I wonder, what is the queen up to today? What must she be thinking, holed up at Caesar’s villa outside the city, all her plans in shambles?”

“I imagine she’ll scuttle back to Egypt as quickly as she can,” said Cassius. “In my mind I picture her as a beetle, rolling a ball of dung—onward, onward, always busy. Don’t they worship dung beetles as gods in Egypt? Roll your little Caesarion all the way back to Egypt, queen beetle—and drown him in the Nile when you get there! ”