The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 33

"Those who worship Venus must come to her wholeheartedly," I finally said, pulling back from him a bit. "My mind is clouded with all that has pa.s.sed this night before we entered her temple."

"Ask the G.o.ddess to remove it," he said. His voice was low and persuasive. "She can do so."

I marveled at how he could put aside troubling thoughts and be only here. The echoing s.p.a.ce of the pristine temple indeed seemed to be crying out for some warmth, some stirring, to break the spell of incompleteness within it.

I let him guide me back into the utter darkness of the apse, behind the base of the Venus statue. He left the lantern on the floor in front of it, and a soft, diffuse light shone from around the sides.

"Have you not a villa for this?" I protested weakly. "A villa, with a room appointed with couches and coverlets, and windows opening onto a garden that lets in the smells of paradise?"

"You know well I have," he said, "but it is missing one thing all lovers want, and which we have never tasted: privacy. Behold a paradox: the richer you are, the less of it you have. Now we shall have it, by heaven. We shall have it."

His voice was warm in my ear, and I felt myself melting with it. He was right; we were alone as we had rarely been before, and might never be again.

He eased the sleeve of my gown down over my arm and kissed my shoulder lingeringly. I could feel my own bones beneath his lips, and became at once aware of my body; the confusing thoughts of the mind began to take flight.

"I love you," I said. "I would die for you."

"Hush," he said. "No talk of dying. That belongs to poets, not to queens." He kissed me then, strongly, and I returned it, clinging to him in the darkness. We were alone. He was mine, and I was his.

The G.o.ddess above us looked down with favor.

Brilliant sun. Piercingly blue sky. A slight breeze on this day, the first Triumph. I sat in the special stand of seats constructed along the Via Sacra to enable exalted guests to observe the last, most important part of the Triumphal parade that wound its way through the Forum and then up to the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter. We would wait a long time in the sun, which is why Caesar had ordered silk canopies to be erected over us. They flapped now, billowing as each breeze pa.s.sed through them, diluting the light and turning it blue.

Ptolemy was beside me, and in the other places of honor were Calpurnia, Octavia, Caesar's nephew Quintus Pedius, and his great-nephew Lucius Pinarius. He had a very small family.

People had begun waiting long before dawn along the route he would pa.s.s: from the Campus Martius and through the Circus Maximus before circling the Palatine Hill and entering the Forum. I could hear the roars and shouts from far away as he appeared at each station, and wondered what they were seeing; I was impatient to behold it.

At midday I saw a slight movement from the far end of the Forum, and soon a company of men appeared. Slowly, very slowly, they wound their way down the Via Sacra, past the Temple of Vesta, past the Temple of Castor and Pollux, past the half-finished porticoes of the Basilica Julia, and then abreast of us. The faint strains of music grew louder, and the leaders of the procession, the musicians with their trumpets and pipes, pa.s.sed by. Behind them came a company of priests, swaying as they lifted their thuribles of incense high, the sweet perfume burning in the summer air.

Then came a vast company of dignitaries, the officers of the city of Rome, and behind them the senators, walking proudly in their magisterial togas; there must have been more than five hundred of them.

Then a shout went up from the far side of the Forum, and as the elaborately decorated wagons trundled into view, I knew why. It was the spoils, heaped high in carriages built of Gallic timber and inlaid with citruswood. Spears bristled from the wagons, shields rattled, the wagons strained under the weight of the gold and silver. Sometimes a goblet or a platter would fall off, and people would dash out and grab it, like dogs lapping up leavings from a table.

Wagon after wagon groaned past, sagging under its mountain of gold. The wheels of one got stuck between the paving stones, and had to be heaved out. Caesar must have raided every hamlet, stripped every rural altar of its trappings. There must be nothing left in Gaul of value.

A company of men paraded past, holding signs with the names of battles: Alesia, Agedinc.u.m, Bibracte, Lugdunum, Gregovia, Avaric.u.m--unfamiliar names for the wild, unknown places where Caesar had conquered.

A decorated wagon with an effigy of the ocean in chains rolled past, with a sign denoting the invasion of Britain.

Then came a company of prisoners, long-haired chieftains, clad in leather and furs. Behind them, walking alone, came a tall figure in chains. It was Vercingetorix, the Gallic chieftain who had led a mighty uprising of the Arverni tribe against Caesar and had finally been defeated at Alesia, where Caesar had emerged victorious against an enemy five times his number. Vercingetorix had lost none of his proud bearing in the six years he had been waiting for his march through the Forum on his way to death, and the crowd, jeering freely at the other prisoners, fell silent as he pa.s.sed by.

I shuddered. In the next Triumph, Arsinoe would walk in his footsteps, pa.s.sing before us in defeat. The shame, the unendurable shame of it!

Following Vercingetorix paraded the sacrificial animals bound for the temple, columns of white oxen with gilded horns, garlanded and curried, the thanksgiving offering Caesar would make for his victories.

From the farther end of the Forum a vast shout arose, and I knew that Caesar had finally entered it. Preceding him came the lictors--all seventy-two of them, allowed because Caesar had been dictator three times. They carried those ugly bundles of branches and the gleaming axes, and I liked them no better this time. Their ceremonial red capes made bright spots like blood as they pa.s.sed by.

Then Caesar himself, high in a golden chariot pulled by four horses. He stood like a G.o.d, dressed in purple and gold, looking out at the people. In his left hand he held an ivory scepter surmounted by an eagle, and in his right a laurel branch. Behind him stood a slave, holding the heavy gold crown of Jupiter over his head, a crown too weighty for a mortal brow.

A frenzied shout arose from the throats of all who beheld him. They showered him with flowers, with personal tokens and treasures, with bracelets and earrings.

Behind him, slight and straight, rode Octavian in his own chariot, as the only other adult male in Caesar's family.

The Triumphal chariot pa.s.sed us by, moving on like the chariot of Phoebus transiting the sky, and I saw wave after wave of people rising to their feet and shouting.

Then, suddenly, the procession stopped. The Triumphal chariot sagged and lurched. I heard a buzz of confusion. Caesar stepped out.

The axle of the chariot had snapped, just as he drew abreast of the Temple of Fortune. He dismounted and stood on the pavement, then immediately walked to the steps leading up the Capitoline Hill to the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, where he was supposed to ascend to dedicate his wreath and scepter.

He fell to his knees at the first step, and shouted in a ringing voice, "Behold! I will climb to the Temple on my knees, as a sign of my submission to the will of Fate!" And he did so, laboriously making his way up the long incline, his purple toga trailing on the ground behind him.

The people roared their approval; by quick thinking, Caesar had turned a bad omen into an occasion of good grace. But the incident unnerved me. It was very bad.

Behind Caesar came his troops, the men who had made his victories possible. They were happy, shouting lo triumphe! lo triumphe!--Hail, G.o.d of Triumph!--and singing at the top of their lungs. But I was not so happy when I heard the words of their verses: .

Home we bring our bald wh.o.r.emonger; Romans, bck your wives away.

All the bags of gold you lent him Went his Gallic tarts to pay.

The crowd roared at that, and cheered. Then followed more verses: .

Gaul was was brought to shame by Caesar; brought to shame by Caesar; By King Nicomedes, he.

Here comes Caesar, wreathed in triumph For his Gallic victory!

Nicomedes wears no laurels, Though the greatest of the three.

Nicomedes--that king of Bithynia that his enemies claimed had been Caesar's lover! I had thought it was a lie. Someone had shown me the libel Cicero had written in private letters: "Caesar was led by Nicomedes' attendants to the royal bedchamber, where he lay on a golden couch, dressed in a purple shift. ... So this descendant of Venus lost his virginity in Bithynia." Evidently the soldiers preferred to keep the lie alive.

Now the crowd screamed with laughter. And there was worse to come.

Caesar tarried in Egypt Taking in all the spoils The Lighthouse, the Library Queen Cleopatra and Her many-perfumed oils.

More roars of laughter. I watched Calpurnia; she was smiling gamely, and I attempted to do likewise, but I was furious.

More verses followed: .

If you do right You will be punished But if you do wrong You will be King.

I stiffened when I heard the word King King. Why was that word on everyone's lips in connection with Caesar? Why was he suspected of it? I knew his a.s.sociation with me must be part of it. Who keeps company with a queen but a king? And when they saw what he had put in the Temple of Venus Genetrix . . .

A seemingly endless file of the soldiers marched past, following Caesar. At their forefront I heard wild cries of joy, and I was later told they were receiving gifts for their courage and loyalty: ten thousand denarii denarii for each centurion, five thousand for each legionary. The crowds were surging; other soldiers had to hold them back. The poor, too, expected to receive largesse. for each centurion, five thousand for each legionary. The crowds were surging; other soldiers had to hold them back. The poor, too, expected to receive largesse.

After the sea of soldiers pa.s.sed, it was over. The sun had swung around until it was almost shining in our eyes, despite the canopy. I saw a procession of litters coming down the Via Sacra, swaying in rhythm with their bearers. All the honored spectators from this section were to be transported to the Circus Maximus, where the celebratory chariot races would be held, as part of the Triumphal Games. Caesar would open them; as foreign rulers, Ptolemy and I would be seated nearby. But I would not be next to Caesar; Calpurnia and Octavian would have that honor.

Even though it was the long way around, we were taken up to the Capitoline Hill so that we could honor Jupiter by pa.s.sing his temple. Before it now stood Caesar's chariot, and in the inner recesses of the temple I could see the seated statue of Jupiter, sitting majestically in the dimness. Beside it was a new bronze one of Caesar, his foot upon a representation of the entire world. Later I was told that it had an inscription saying that Caesar was a demiG.o.d, and that Caesar had just ordered the inscription removed.

The doomed oxen were placidly awaiting their sacrifice, which would take place as soon as the last of the litters left. Priests were standing by, smiling benignly, even stroking the beasts.

We descended from the hill and made our way through an area crowded with shops, markets, and apartments, and then we were at the Circus Maximus, the enormous racetrack that lay in a valley between the Palatine and the Aventine Hills. Huge walls encircled it like a rim, inside of which tier after tier of seats rose. We were taken in through the entrance arch while soldiers held back an enormous crowd waiting to rush inside once all the dignitaries were seated. I could see that people were already in the special section under its arched roof. There was the purple toga--Caesar was there! We approached slowly, and I watched him, searching to see how he looked, how he behaved.

He seemed very tired, and his eyes kept sweeping the arena as if he expected an ambush. The day had told on him, and now, when he thought himself un.o.bserved for a moment, he had let his guard down. He looked every bit of his fifty-four years; there were harsh lines sculpted between his nose and mouth, and his neck was gaunt. His eyes were wary, not happy, on this day he had so longed for. Respectful, pleasant, he nodded to Calpurnia. Then he caught sight of us approaching, and he instantly altered his expression. Any doubts I had about his feelings for me were swept away: his face truly lit up, and the years lifted from it.

He stood, his purple toga with its gold embroidery glinting like an ancient treasure. He wore the gold laurel wreath, and its leaves encircled his head like a corona.

"Hail, great Triumphatorl Triumphatorl" I said. "The greatest on earth."

"Hail, great Queen of Egypt," he said. "And King of Egypt." He indicated Ptolemy. "Pray, take your seats of honor."

All the members of his family, small as it was, were seated around him. Where his son should have been, sat Octavian, who was only a great-nephew. But Caesar had had a son, and someday that son would sit beside him--Caesarion. a son, and someday that son would sit beside him--Caesarion.

Ptolemy and I were seated with a number of distinguished foreign visitors and envoys who had traveled for the occasion. The kingdoms of Galatia and Cappadocia, the cities of Lycia, Laodicea, Tarsus, and Xanthus sent amba.s.sadors--the east, that so fascinated and t.i.tillated Romans.

The stands filled rapidly as spectators rushed in like a wall of water. Their spirits were high; a wild excitement filled the air, as palpable as the heaviness just before a thunderstorm.

Caesar was talking to Calpurnia and Octavian, leaning over attentively. I saw that he was seated on a special chair; it was gilded and had a carved back. Undoubtedly it signified something; in Rome, everything did.

At last the arena was full. Every last place was taken, and the stands were a sea of color. The trumpeters, a company of at least fifty men, rose from their places and sounded their horns. The notes rang out, both glad and stirring. The noise of the crowd subsided.

A professional caller, a man with the loudest carrying voice I had ever heard, took his place at the railing before Caesar.

"Romans! n.o.ble guests!" he yelled. There were more than a hundred thousand spectators--could all of them hear him? His voice rang and echoed all around us. "We are here to honor our Triumphator Triumphator in the ancient way, inherited from our ancestors, with contests of valor and skill. Here before you the young knights will race their horses, to the glory of Jupiter and Caesar." in the ancient way, inherited from our ancestors, with contests of valor and skill. Here before you the young knights will race their horses, to the glory of Jupiter and Caesar."

A roar went up. He held up his hands for silence to continue. "We will begin with the ars desultoria. ars desultoria. Accept their offerings!" Accept their offerings!"

Caesar then stood up. He raised his right arm and cried, "Let the games begin!"

Immediately, from the gates at the far end of the Circus, two-horse pairs emerged, trotting nervously. The horses, the finest I had ever seen, gleamed in the afternoon sun. On their backs were young men who waved and bowed to the crowd, before coming to our section and making obeisance.

There were some twenty pairs of them, and the horses seemed to be matched in size and speed. At first they all trotted abreast, once around the track, but then the first pair left the others behind and went into a full gallop, necks straining and feet flying. Their riders were stretched low on their necks, gripping the heaving withers. Suddenly one of them stood up, and leapt onto the back of the neighboring horse, while the other rider did likewise. For an instant they crossed each other in the air, hanging there in sickening immobility, while the horses thundered on. Then they slipped onto the horses' backs, and a cheer from the crowd went up. They turned backward and flipped themselves around, like acrobats, and all the while the horses hurtled forward. Scarves and handkerchiefs had been placed at intervals on the track, and the riders leaned so far down to scoop them up that their heads were right beside the pounding hooves. At each victorious feat, the crowd grew more excited. Behind the first pair there were now several others, all performing dangerous stunts on the galloping, skittish horses.

In attempting to grab a scarf near the sharp turn at one end of the Circus, one of the riders slipped off and his horse ran over him. A groan escaped from the crowd, but it was a groan that had a hungry edge to it. A team of men dashed from the sidelines to carry off the victim in a litter, but they were almost run down by the other horses and had to let the man lie there to be trampled for one more round.

Ptolemy was leaning forward, trembling with fear and excitement. "Is he dead?" he kept asking.

It surely looked as if he was. Before I could answer, another rider fell off; his head exploded in a red spray as his horse's hoof landed right in the middle of it. This one was indeed dead.

The sand was beginning to be streaked with red. I looked around at the Romans surrounding me. Their eyes were fixed on the arena, and they seemed to have little revulsion for what they saw. The noise in the stands was growing steadily, feeding on the violence as a fire feeds on straw.

The teams attempted increasingly more difficult feats, until the winners did two midair somersaults between the galloping horses, landing precariously on the slippery, sweating backs. Caesar awarded them the prize, and the remaining fourteen or fifteen pairs of foam-flecked horses were led off the track.

A company of workers ran out and began raking the sand, getting ready for the next event. A late-afternoon breeze had sprung up; normally this was the part of day reserved for relaxation. But the tension was mounting.

"Why do they want to kill people?" Ptolemy was asking. "Why does anyone want to be one of those riders?"

"Men are ever drawn to dangerous enterprises," I said. "No matter how dangerous a mission, someone will always volunteer for it." That fact had always puzzled me.

Just then there was a stirring in Caesar's section. Octavian had stood up and was making his way over to us.

"The most n.o.ble Triumphator Triumphator has asked that I sit with you and explain the proceedings," he said. The amba.s.sador from Tarsus quickly vacated his seat next to me. has asked that I sit with you and explain the proceedings," he said. The amba.s.sador from Tarsus quickly vacated his seat next to me.

"How thoughtful of the Triumphator Triumphator," I said. I nodded to Caesar.

"Did you enjoy the exhibition?" Octavian asked.

"For an exhibition, some men paid a high price--their lives," I said. "But their skill was impressive. What is the next event?"

Octavian smiled. "It is the favorite sport here in Rome--chariot races. Originally they were a religious rite. Today there will be ten four-horse teams, and the winners will come away with big purses of gold."

"Oh, that should be exciting!" said Ptolemy. "And safer."

Octavian shook his fair young head. "Hardly. Someone always gets killed. Sometimes three or four chariots get tangled up and are all destroyed. The sharp turns at each end of the Circus invariably cause some to turn over, even if nothing else goes wrong."

"Is that why everyone likes the races so much?" asked Ptolemy.

"I wouldn't say that," said Octavian.

"Then why don't they make them safer?" Ptolemy persisted.

"That would ruin the sport of it."

A shout rose, and I saw that the chariots were emerging from the entrance arches. Each team burst through the narrow arch, horses pulling at the reins, eager to run. Behind them the light chariots, with their drivers standing on the tiny platforms, wheeled and shone in the golden afternoon sunlight. The horses were as large as possible, while the chariots were small and feather-light--which meant they were unstable and easily bounced and overturned. The helmets of the men glistened, some with spikes, some with feathers, some with colored scarves.

Octavian had stood up, and was shouting. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were riveted on one particular chariot driven by a swarthy man and pulled by four bay horses with unusually thin, long legs.

"Those are mine," he said hoa.r.s.ely. " "From the stable of Arrius." I had never suspected he could show such fervor. "You choose one," he said.

There was another team of particularly well-favored horses, cream-colored, with gray manes and tails. I knew full well that a pleasing configuration did not always mean speed or stamina, just as a pleasant demeanor in men did not necessarily denote honesty, but I was still drawn to them. "The team with the small driver," I said.

"From Campania," he said. "They are reputed to be well fed and trained."

"Which is Caesar's favorite?" Ptolemy asked.

"He is partial to the blacks," said Octavian, "because that stable bred his own favorite riding horse. But they are more powerful than speedy."