Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

“Yes, I thought it proper to scent the house, though there’s no actual need for it.”

“No need?”

“To cloak any scent … from the body. Because there is no body.”

“No body…” I suddenly realized that if any part of Cinna remained, it would be the head carried on a spear through the Forum. In such cases, when a corpse was intentionally defiled by a mob, it was traditional to throw the remains in the Tiber. Was that what had become of Cinna’s head? Or was it still mounted on a spear in the Forum? Surely not. Or … was it here in the house, somehow retrieved by his friends or household slaves, the only thing left to display of the man’s remains? Was it in the next room, placed on a bier for visitors to see? The thought was too grotesque to speak aloud, but Fulvia read my thoughts.

“No body … and no head. There’s nothing of Cinna left. No remains to be cremated or buried.”

“What became of him?” I asked.

“You were there, were you not? So I was told.” As usual, her intelligence was far-reaching and correct.

“Yes.”

“And what exactly did you witness?” Fulvia looked at me keenly.

“I was struck on the head. Twice. Thus the bandages.”

She nodded. “So I presumed. Yet you’re well enough to leave your house?”

“Yes. But what I saw yesterday … is a bit of a blur. And so ghastly I had rather forget. But … I did see his head, being carried off. Was it not … found later?”

“The head has vanished, along with the rest of him,” said Fulvia. “Probably thrown into the Tiber.”

I nodded. “How much does Sappho know?”

“She knows that her father died by violence, that he was beheaded, that there’s nothing left of him to show.”

“And the reason it happened? Because the mob mistook him for the other Cinna?”

“Yes. As you can imagine, she’s quite distraught.”

I nodded. “So you’ve come to help? That’s good of you, Fulvia.”

“My responsibility is a bit greater than that. I suppose you don’t know—why should you?—that Sappho was Cinna’s only heir, and that Antony is named as Sappho’s guardian in her father’s will. When Cinna asked, not long ago, if we would accept the responsibility, Antony and I of course agreed. ”

“Never realizing…”

“Who could have foreseen what happened to Cinna?”

“Only the gods,” I said. “If indeed the gods see anything that happens on earth. Or care.”

“You mustn’t speak impiously, Gordianus. Especially in a grieving household. Here, step through, since you’ve come to pay your respects.” She led Davus and me to the next room, where a funeral bier had been set up, complete with flowers and aromatic herbs. On the bier, where the corpse should have been, was the bloody tunic Cinna had been wearing when he died, flattened and laid out to suggest the form of the missing body. I drew a sharp breath.

“Surely his toga would be better, if there must be a garment to represent him.”

“But this is what he was wearing when he died. Caesar’s bloody toga was kept and shown to the mourners. Why not the same for Cinna?”

“Yes, I suppose…” Again I felt nauseated. I swayed on my feet.

“Are you unwell, Gordianus?”

“It will pass. The sight of so much blood…”

“On the day of the f-f-funeral, we shall burn it.” This was said by Sappho as she stepped into the room. She wore a black gown with long sleeves and a cowl pulled back to form a plush collar. Her narrow face looked stark white against the black. “Since we have no body, this will have to do. On the f-f-funeral day, we shall burn it, here in the atrium, and the smoke will travel through the opening in the ceiling. If we had nothing to burn … how else could the f-f-funeral end?”

Except for her stutter, she sounded quite calm. He face was expressionless, but there were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were red and swollen.

“I tried to warn him,” she went on. “But he insisted. It was the dream.…”

“A dream?”

“His dream of Caesar drove him from the house.”

“Yes, he told me about it. Caesar insisted he come to a dinner party.… ”

“And Caesar showed him the abyss. My father then felt compelled to go to Caesar’s f-f-funeral … to join Caesar … in the abyss. That dream must have been sent to him by a god. Don’t you think so, F-F-Fulvia?”

Fulvia stepped toward her and put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, but Sappho shrugged it off.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Sappho stared at me without blinking. “You saw? You heard? Is it true, what they say—that the crowd took up that awful chant? ‘I’m glad he’s dead, Cinna said. Now look what’s left—just his head!’” She flashed a crazed smile and giggled, as people sometimes do in the most awful situations.

“Who told you that?” I was shocked that anyone had recited such filth to her.

“What more can you tell me, F-F-Finder? You must tell me everything.”

I shook my head. “I think you know too much already, Sappho.”

Suddenly, as if a mask had cracked and fallen away, I saw on her face a twisted expression almost too horrible to look at. She began to twitch and thrash. I stepped toward her, thinking to restrain her, but Fulvia waved me back, then threw her arms around the girl, holding her tightly.

“There, there, you poor grieving child!” cried Fulvia.

The old nursemaid appeared and joined Fulvia in restraining Sappho.

“Where were you, Polyxo?” cried Fulvia, sounding angry. “Why did you let her leave her room?”

“I dozed off—only for a moment,” said Polyxo. “I was up all night, tending to her, comforting her. I fell asleep. I couldn’t help it.”

Fulvia slapped the old slave woman across the face. The noise seemed to shock Sappho, who suddenly became rigid, then shivered and began to weep.

“ Now, Polyxo!” snapped Fulvia. “Take her to her room.”

With one arm around the girl, clutching her tightly, the old nursemaid led Sappho away.

“You must excuse Sappho,” said Fulvia, catching her breath. “She has a nervous disposition even at the best of times. She’s been that way ever since her mother died, when Sappho was still a child. After all that’s happened, she’s totally distraught. Her grief has induced a kind of delirium.”

“Perhaps reality is too awful to face,” I said.

“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Fulvia. “And when reality is too terrible to bear, who knows what forces may be unleashed?”

XLVI

“I think perhaps those blows to my head did more damage than I realized,” I said, gazing into the flickering flames of a brazier that needed stirring. I was standing in the garden, with only Diana nearby. The mild day had become a mild evening, with just enough of a nip in the air to merit a warming fire.

Diana approached and used an iron rod to stir the burning wood. The flames leaped higher. Glowing cinders flew and quickly faded.

“Are you serious, Papa?” She put down the iron and touched my forehead, searching for fever and tilting her head when she detected none.

“Perhaps befuddlement has become my natural state. Your father is an old man, after all.”

“What are you talking about, Papa? What’s troubling you?”

“I should have foreseen the death of Caesar.”

“Oh, Papa! No one saw it coming. Not Meto, not Cicero—not Caesar himself.”

“Spurinna did.”

“Because he issued a vague warning with a month for it to play out? ‘Beware’ is hardly a prediction of murder.”

“Beware,” I whispered, thinking of the Greek word written at Cinna’s doorstep. A prediction of his murder? But how was that possible, since he was murdered by mistake?