Стивен Сейлор: The Throne of Caesar

“Yes, I noticed the specific time period of the warning,” I said. “Perhaps Spurinna wants to be taken along on the expedition. He can deliver a new omen every thirty days, and make himself invaluable to Caesar in perpetuity, rolling ever forward like the new calendar Caesar gave us.”

“Are you implying that the soothsayer manufactured the omen to augment his own importance?” said Cicero. “Yes, that’s certainly possible. On the other hand, it could be that Spurinna actually knows something, or thinks he knows something, about an actual plot to harm our dictator.”

“Then why not tell Caesar outright what he knows or suspects?”

“Yes, why be so devious? But that’s the way with some people, especially those unskilled in rhetoric, who must use whatever means of persuasion they can. Or … could it be that Spurinna, though in every way an ally, even a creature, of Caesar, was taken aback when he saw the Dictator’s purple robes and golden chair? Perhaps Spurinna, as a friend of Caesar, nonetheless thought the man needed to be taken down a peg—and to do so, the haruspex tried to humble him with a warning, thus to turn away the Evil Eye of the envious.”

“Like that fellow who stands behind a Roman general in his chariot when there’s a triumph,” said Davus, “reminding him that he’s as mortal as every other man.”

I looked sidelong at my son-in-law, who every now and then could be quite astute. I shook my head. “Your mind is too subtle for the likes of me, Cicero. What does all this matter, anyway? It’s my understanding that Caesar paid no attention to the omen. He still wears purple. He still sits in that golden chair when it suits him. He goes wherever he pleases all over the city, no longer bothering to take along his famous band of bodyguards from Spain. I should think Caesar knows better than Spurinna who wishes him ill and if they’re dangerous, and nonetheless he chooses to walk about unguarded. ”

“But what if Spurinna was motivated to speak because he knows of some real danger?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps you have some secret knowledge of a threat to Caesar,” I said.

Cicero jumped up from his chair. “That’s exactly the problem! I don’t know what’s going on! Caesar hardly speaks to me. When he does, he shares nothing of importance. His friends and allies snub me. Some, like Antony, openly despise me. As for what remains of the opposition—fine, upstanding Romans, men of honor and good pedigree, brave young men—they no longer include me in their deliberations. Oh, they make a show of respecting me. They address me as Consul, to honor my past service to the state. They invite me to dinner. They ask me to read from my latest treatise, and laugh in all the right places. But I’m always the first to go home from those dinners. The host bids me farewell, and the rest of the guests linger behind. I see the looks they give one another, as if to say, ‘Thank goodness the old fellow is finally leaving! Now we can let down our guard and talk about what’s really on our minds.’”

“Surely not,” I said. “What dinner host would ever want to see the back of Marcus Tullius Cicero?” I kept a straight face, but Tiro shot me a reprimanding look. “Who are these men, anyway?”

Cicero bit his lower lip. “I’m talking about men much younger than myself, in their twenties and thirties, or barely into their forties. They survived the civil war with their lives intact, if not their fortunes. They still harbor certain ambitions that were instilled in them from boyhood—to win elections, to lead armies by appointment of the Senate, perhaps even to be elected consul. Thwarted ambitions—since only one man now decides who will command the legions or serve as magistrates. They smile and nod to the Dictator. They feign gratitude for the crumbs he gives them. They pretend to be satisfied, but they’re not. How could they be?”

“What are these younger men to you, Cicero? And what are you to them?”

He sighed. “They are the upstart new generation, and I am the wise elder—by Hercules, how did I ever grow old enough for that to happen?” He cocked his head a certain way, with a bemused expression, and for just a moment I saw him as he had been when I first met him—an ambitious young advocate, more sure of himself than he had any reason to be, brimming with enthusiasm, on fire to make the world sit up and take notice of him. Then the moment passed and I saw him as he was now. A spark of that youthful flame yet remained in his eyes, but dampened by bitterness and regret.

“The civil war was very hard on our generation, Cicero. There aren’t many of us ‘wise elders’ left. You and I are lucky to still be alive.”

“All the more reason you might think these younger men would be eager to seek my advice and take advantage of my experience.”

“Yet you sense that something is going on behind your back. Is it that you think there’s a plot against Caesar, and you feel left out?” I said.

“Of course not!” He spoke a bit too quickly.

“Or is it that you suspect such a plot, and you wish to stop it?”

He began to answer, then caught himself and exchanged a guarded look with Tiro. He spoke slowly and carefully. “If there were such a plot, one might wish to thwart it not just to save Caesar but also to save the conspirators from themselves. That is, if one believed that the murder of Caesar would serve only to open yet another Pandora’s box of chaos.”

“And is that what you believe, Cicero? That Rome is better off with Caesar alive than with Caesar dead?”

He spoke even more cautiously. “Caesar has been voted dictator for the duration of his lifetime—”

“By a Roman Senate packed with men chosen by Caesar himself.”

“In a matter of days he’ll meet with the Senate to make some final appointments and ratify some last bits of pending legislation, and then he’ll join his troops and head for Parthia. Perhaps he’ll rendezvous with Queen Cleopatra in Egypt on the way; Caesar will need the grain of the Nile to feed his army. And then … but who knows what will happen to Caesar in the months and years to come? Crassus staged the last Roman invasion of Parthia. His legions were annihilated and his head ended up as a stage prop for a king. Of course, Caesar is ten times—no, a hundred times—the military leader Crassus was. No one doubts that he’ll have his way with the Parthians. But once he’s conquered Parthia, repeating the success of Alexander the Great, like Alexander he may find it necessary to stay in that part of the world to govern it. Caesar may never come back to Rome.”

“Alexander might have returned to Macedon had he not died suddenly, so far from home.”

“Caesar, too, someday will die.”

“Is that the counsel you’d give to any hotheads who’d like to see Caesar dead and out of the way? To patiently await their turn, because every man dies sooner or later? No wonder the youngbloods see you off to bed before they get down to business!”

This was so harsh that even Davus furrowed his brow and frowned at me. If I spoke out of turn, it was because Cicero had touched a nerve. Where Caesar went, so too would Meto go. If Caesar never came back, I might never see my son again.

“Apologies, Cicero. You’re absolutely right that the younger generation of senators should be looking to you for insight and inspiration. You’re a survivor, if nothing else.”

“Cicero is much more than that,” said Tiro, rising to his old master’s defense. “He saved the state once, when he was consul and put down Catilina’s insurrection. He may just save the state again, if given the chance.”

I drew a deep breath. So that was it—Cicero thought he might yet become the savior of the Roman Republic. The puttering, even pathetic old scholar was just a pose. Cicero aspired to write the next chapter of Roman history, and thought himself capable of doing so—if only other Romans would look to him for leadership.