Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

Cicero and Cinna laughed, but Brutus kept scowling at me.

“I wear this toga because Caesar bestowed it on me,” I said, very quietly, so as to get their attention. “Just as Caesar named you to be governor of Syria, Cassius, and you, Decimus, to be governor of Gaul, and you, Brutus, to become consul in due course. Will you give up those offices now that he’s dead? Will you nullify the appointments of others and not your own? Will you have Dolabella for consul but not Antony? That could become very tricky, especially with Lepidus’s legion camped in the Forum.”

From the sobered look on their faces, I knew the rumor Meto had heard the previous night must be true. To bring soldiers within the city was strictly illegal, but which laws applied now and which did not?

I looked at Decimus. “You he suspected least of all. Caesar trusted you implicitly. You dined with him one day and put a knife in him the next. Caesar spoke of the best way to die at that dinner—and your face betrayed no sign that you planned to murder him in a matter of hours.”

“A trick he learned from the Gauls,” said Cinna. “They’re masters at showing no emotion.”

“And at feigning friendliness?” I asked. “When you called on me ahead of the dinner to introduce yourself, Decimus, what was your intention?”

Decimus cocked his head. “It certainly wasn’t to make friends with you.”

“‘Scouting the terrain,’ my son called it.”

Decimus nodded. “You might say that. You were a blank to me. I knew you only by hearsay. I was curious to see if you might pose any threat to our plans—especially given your reputation for perceiving what others do not. Were you a man to watch out for? Perhaps even an agent for Caesar? But when I met you, any worries I had were put to rest. A nonentity, Brutus called you, and so you are, no matter that you dare to put on that toga and traipse about in public.”

I looked at our host. There was something almost comical about the way Cicero was wincing and wringing his hands. “Friends, there’s no need for harsh words, especially on such a happy day— ”

“Come, Davus, it’s time for us to go. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Cicero didn’t call me back. Nor did Tiro run after me to say farewell. I straightened my toga as I stepped into the street, feeling more awkward than ever inside it.

XXXVIII

I arrived home to see a very ornate litter outside my house. Neither the well-dressed bearers nor the expensive litter looked familiar to me, until I saw a golden lion’s head embroidered on the red curtains. That was one of Antony’s favorite images, a link to Hercules, who wore the skin of the Nemean lion as a cowl and cape. It seemed unlikely that Antony himself would use such a vehicle. He preferred to walk. (“Those legs were made to be used,” my admiring wife had observed, after seeing Antony run naked through the streets of Rome during the Lupercalia.)

When I stepped into the vestibule, the excited door slave opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him with my hand. “Fulvia is here,” I said.

The slave nodded.

“But why, I wonder?”

The slave gave me a blank look and shrugged, as if to say that the motives of a woman such as Fulvia were beyond his comprehension.

“Beyond my comprehension, as well,” I muttered to myself. “What in Hades is she doing here, on such a day?” It did not occur to me that she had come to see not me but my wife and daughter .

I heard women talking. As I stepped into the garden, Diana rushed to my side.

“Daughter, what are all these women doing here?” I asked, for along with Fulvia I saw a great many other well-dressed matrons, among them Bethesda, who smiled at me serenely, looking very pleased with herself.

“Oh, Papa, you don’t mind, do you? It’s a rehearsal for the Liberalia, and we were supposed to do it at Fulvia’s house, but that’s simply not possible, or so she says, because Antony and a great many other men are coming and going and trying to organize some sort of meeting—well, you can imagine why.”

“Yes, I can. What do you mean, a rehearsal?”

“Oh, Papa, the rituals are very complex and must be carried out perfectly. And the Liberalia is tomorrow! We all need much more practice if we’re to do it properly. We don’t want to disappoint Father Liber, do we?” She smiled as if making light of the matter, but in her eyes I saw steely determination.

“Disappointing your mother—I mean to say Father Liber, of course—is the last thing I wish to do,” I said

“Then you don’t mind vacating the house?”

“What?”

“Along with all the other males in the household. Only for a couple of hours.”

I grunted. It was too early in the day to visit the Salacious Tavern, even for me, even on such a day. Or was it? “Is that strictly necessary?”

“Absolutely!” said Fulvia, who had overheard our conversation and now stepped up to me.

“Welcome to my house,” I said, seeing her with fresh eyes. With Caesar gone, it struck me that the single most devious and ambitious mortal in Rome might well be the woman standing before me.

“Thank you, Finder, but your wife already welcomed us.” She laughed at the look on my face. “I’m teasing you, of course. But you will have to leave the house for a while.”

“You seem to be in very high spirits,” I said .

“Why not? The Liberalia is tomorrow.”

Why not? Caesar is dead, and no one knows what terrible things will happen next, I thought. “Will the Liberalia even take place? I should think … in light of what’s just happened … and the uncertainty…”

“In uncertain times, the only certain thing we have are the gods,” she said, “especially Father Liber. Of course the Liberalia will take place. We may have to cancel the public procession, and we may not accomplish all we would like to.…” She looked past me, into the middle distance as her voice trailed away.

“And every male must leave the house? Even me?”

“Especially you. Any man who witnesses the secret rites invites divine retribution. I would never wish the wrath of the Bacchantes to be visited on you, Finder.”

I briefly thought of Cinna’s poem, and of Orpheus and Pentheus, both decapitated and torn limb from limb by the mad female worshippers of Bacchus, also known as Father Liber. “That sort of thing happens only in the old myths, not nowadays.”

“Is that correct? Let’s not test the will of the god, Finder. You really must leave us while we practice. No man can ever witness the secret rituals of the Liberalia. Not even the Pontifex Maximus—” She stopped, realizing she was speaking of Caesar. Who would be Pontifex Maximus now?

I looked past Fulvia, at my wife. Standing in a crowd of wealthy-looking Palatine-dwelling Roman matrons and their daughters—now her peers, I thought with amazement—she had never looked happier. I sighed. “Of course I’ll do as you ask. I suppose I can think of errands to keep the male slaves busy for a few hours. What parts of the city will be safe, I wonder? And Davus and I will think of somewhere to go.…”

Fulvia touched my shoulder affectionately and actually leaned forward to give me a kiss on the cheek. “How smart you look in that toga,” she said. If Bethesda was her peer, was I now the peer of Antony? The idea seemed absurd—Brutus would say so—but the thought sent a shock through me. I was still realizing, in stages, the profound changes that Caesar had set in motion when he granted me the right to wear a senator’s toga, culminating now in a kiss—from Fulvia!

* * *

As promised, I thought of places to send the male slaves. As they dispersed down the street in front of my house, and the door closed behind me, I drew Davus aside.