XIX

For the rest of the day, Diana and I sorted and read through Hieronymus's notes. She questioned me about the material I had already read, and I did the same with her. We divided the material that remained unexamined, determined to read every word before the day was done.

Whether against my will or not, Diana had insinuated herself into my work, so it seemed pointless not to bring her fully into the process, to take advantage of her interest and of her sometimes surprisingly keen insight. She spotted certain meanings within Hieronymus's puns that had eluded me, and, being more abreast of current gossip, caught certain allusions to personal relationships and such that I had overlooked. But none of her insights added materially to our knowledge of who had killed Hieronymus, or whether that person posed a threat to Caesar, or when or how the killer might strike again.

Despite all our combined efforts, and a great deal of discussion and speculation, I went to bed that night believing I was no closer to knowing the truth than before.

The next day, along with everyone else in Rome, my family set out to witness the African Triumph. Since we would later be attending the dedication of the Temple of Venus Genetrix, a sacred ritual, I wore my best toga.

For a great many people, I suspect, attending Caesar's fourth and final triumph was done more from perseverance than pleasure. It is a Roman trait-to see a thing through to its end; the same dogged determination that has made us the possessors of a vast empire applies to every other aspect of life. Just as our generals do not raise sieges or surrender on the battlefield, no matter how great the casualties, so Romans do not walk out in the middle of plays, no matter how boring the performance; and those who can read do not begin a book without finishing it. And, by Jupiter, no matter how repetitious all the pomp and spectacle, the people of Rome did not attend Caesar's three consecutive triumphs without attending the fourth and final one as well.

Senators paraded (with Brutus and Cicero looking more bored and aloof than ever); trumpets sounded; and the oxen lumbered by, along with the priests and the camilli, the boys and girls who would take part in the sacrifices.

Captured treasures and trophies were presented. Caesar did not presume to show off the Roman arms he had captured in battle-even his most loyal partisans would not have approved of that-but there were a number of placards illustrating the ends met by his Roman opponents in Africa. We beheld a succession of suicides, each more wretched than the last.

Metellus Scipio, Pompey's successor as commander in chief, after being defeated by Caesar at the battle of Thapsus, stabbed himself and leaped into the sea. The placard showed him in mid-jump above stormy waves, with blood trailing from his wound.

Another leader of the opposition, Marcus Petreius, fled after the battle of Thapsus and holed up for a while with King Juba. When the two realized they had no further hope, they held a sumptuous banquet and engaged in a ritual combat, so that at least one could have an honorable death. Juba won the contest. The placard showed Petreius lying dead of his wounds and the king in the act of falling on his own bloody sword.

Cato's suicide had been the messiest. He might have received a pardon from Caesar, but he did not desire it. After a quiet evening with friends, he withdrew to his chambers and attempted to disembowel himself. His effort was only partly successful, perhaps due to a wounded hand, and when he knocked over a table, his servants came running to find their master's belly bleeding and cut open, but with his bowels intact. A physician was called to stuff his entrails back inside and to sew him up, an indignity to which Cato, in a dazed state, submitted. But when he regained consciousness and saw what had happened, he tore open the wound, pulled out his bowels with his bare hands, and suffered an agonizing death.

The placard depicting the death of Cato was obscenely graphic. The crowd was already uneasy after viewing the previous illustrations. When the image of Cato passed before them, they grumbled sullenly and many began to boo.

The restiveness of the crowd was relieved somewhat by the animal show, which introduced an African beast never before seen in Rome. With their long necks, the creatures towered above the throng; the tallest of them loped by on eye level with those of us in the top of the stands. A crier explained that this was the camelopard, so-called because in some respects it resembled the camel, having long, spindly legs and a camel-like face, while its spotted skin resembled that of a leopard. But its extremely long neck made the creature unique. Children laughed and grown men gawked. The spectacle provided by the camelopards did much to restore the crowd's good mood.

There were no Romans among the paraded captives, only Africans, Numidians, and other foreign allies of the opposition. But here, too, Caesar provided an unexpected novelty. As Arsinoe had been the first princess to be paraded in a triumph, and Ganymedes and his fellow eunuchs were the first of their kind, so this triumph also featured a first: a baby. The last and most prized of the captives did not walk with the rest; he might have been able to toddle but could not possibly have kept up. Instead, he reclined upon a small litter carried by other captives. There were gasps and cries of astonishment as people realized what they were seeing: the infant son of the late King Juba.

I scanned the faces of the dignitaries in the box opposite our seats, curious to see their reaction. Among the staid ambassadors and diplomats, I saw a beautiful woman: Fulvia. The woman who intended to marry Marc Antony was still chiefly regarded as the widow of Curio, Caesar's lieutenant, whose head had been taken by King Juba as a trophy early in the war. Caesar had given Fulvia a place of honor to view this triumph, which celebrated Juba's downfall. As she gazed at Juba's tiny namesake among the captives, there was a look of grim satisfaction on her face.

But most of the women in the crowd-and most of the men, for that matter-had a different reaction. People frowned, muttered, and shook their heads. Some looked aghast. Did Caesar intend to have the child strangled at the conclusion of his triumph? Did he imagine that such a killing would be pleasing to Jupiter?

We were not kept in suspense for long. A crier announced that Caesar intended to show clemency to the infant son of Juba. The child would be spared, just as Arsinoe had been spared.

A sigh of relief spread through the crowd. "Caesar is merciful!" people shouted, and "Good for Caesar!"

I looked at Fulvia, whose face registered a different reaction. She lowered her eyes and clenched her jaw.

When had Caesar decided to spare young Juba? He apparently had planned to execute Arsinoe, and changed his mind only at the last moment in response of the crowd's reaction. Had he likewise planned to kill Juba's child, until the affair with Arsinoe made him realize that the mob would not stand for it? Caesar was not above slaughtering infants. How many babies had been among the forty thousand victims at Avaricum in Gaul? Caesar had taken no steps to spare those children, even to make them slaves.

At length, Caesar appeared in his gold chariot; even he seemed to be a bit tired of so much triumphing. Waging war and wrangling with political rivals wears on a man, but so does pomp and ceremony. The smile on his face looked forced and brittle.

Following Caesar, at the head of the veterans of the African campaign, rode young Gaius Octavius. He was outfitted as a decorated officer, even though he had taken no part in the African campaign, or in any other military operation. At the sight of him, people cheered; he made a dashing figure, and sometimes appearances are all that matter. The smile on his lips was ambiguous. Was he embarrassed to be receiving accolades he had not earned? Was he scornful of the masses who cheered him for no reason? Or was he simply a young man happy to be riding in the company of his distinguished older relative, pleased with himself and with his special place in the world?