There were chariot races, athletic competitions, and equestrian exhibitions in the newly expanded Circus Maximus. There were contests in which gladiators were pitted against wild beasts. Spectacular reenactments of famous battles were staged in a special enclosure on the Field of Mars, in which hundreds of captives and condemned men fought to the death. A naval battle was waged on a man-made lake created especially for the purpose, using a thousand men on each side. Many died fighting or were drowned when their ships were set afire and sank.
The citizens of Rome grew sated with spectacle. The gory gladiator contests and staged battles created carnage on such a huge scale that some spectators began to question whether Caesar had not already caused enough bloodshed. Others were outraged at the profligacy of Caesar's expenditures. It was said that the dictator had robbed the whole world of its wealth and was now squandering his ill-gotten gains like a drunken brigand.
Most dissenters did no more than grumble, but at one point a group of disgruntled soldiers staged a small riot in the Forum. Caesar, chancing to come upon the disturbance with his lictors, apprehended one of the ringleaders with his own hands. The priest of Mars declared that three of the rioters must be put to death. The executions were carried out as a religious rite-yet another occasion for celebration. The men were sacrificed on the Field of Mars. Their heads were placed on stakes in the Forum. Did their grisly punishment remind people of the atrocities of Sulla? Such thoughts were spoken only in whispers.
Eventually, the celebrations came to an end. Life went on.
To deal with the last remnants of the Pompeian opposition, Caesar left Rome for Spain. Gaius Octavius had fallen ill and could not travel with him. In the month of Martius (by the new calendar), a decisive battle took place on the plains of Munda. Caesar lost a thousand men. The enemy lost thirty thousand. The opposition was crushed. Young Octavius arrived too late to take part in the slaughter.
Back in Rome, Marc Antony put aside Cytheris and married Fulvia. She encouraged him to travel to the Spanish frontier, where he placed himself at Caesar's disposal, and the two men were reconciled.
Brutus completed his term as governor of Cisalpine Gaul, then was appointed by Caesar to serve as a praetor in Rome. Just when he appeared to be solidly in Caesar's camp and rising in the dictator's favor, he married Porcia, the daughter of Cato-a union that must surely have displeased Caesar. Beyond his glib facade, there was an independent and unpredictable streak in Brutus's character.
Cicero was suffering a terrible year. First, his beloved daughter died in childbirth. When Publilia made some tactless comment about the tragedy, Cicero summarily divorced her. Alone and miserable, with his personal life in shambles and his political ambitions at an end, he had withdrawn to one of his country estates to seek the consolations of philosophy.
Cleopatra was back in Egypt. By all accounts, she was a competent ruler and a steadfast ally of Rome. She was said to be planning another visit to Rome in the coming year. Her son remained unacknowledged by Caesar.
Arsinoe was residing in exile in Ephesus. At Rupa's insistence, I sent her a letter asking after her health. She never replied. Perhaps the letter was seized by her keepers.
Despite Caesar's apparent invincibility, his wife's morbid dread of the future was as acute as ever. Following the death of Porsenna, Calpurnia found a new haruspex. His name was Spurinna, and he appeared to exercise an equally powerful hold over her.
Now Caesar was on his way back to Rome, where preparations were underway for his Spanish Triumph. The event was to be stupendous, eclipsing even last year's triumphs. I would have dreaded the forthcoming pomp and ceremony, but for one reason: to take part in the planning, arriving ahead of Caesar, my son Meto was finally returning to Rome.
I expected him at any moment. Diana had promised to show him immediately to the garden upon his arrival, so that I might see him alone for a little while before the rest of the family greeted him and claimed his attention.
Shadows were lengthening. The September air grew chill. I wrapped my cloak around me. I was beginning to despair of his arrival, when Diana appeared. I read the smile on her face. Meto stepped from behind her. Diana withdrew.
I rose to embrace him. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. When at last I stepped back, I did what I always did upon seeing him after a long absence: I surveyed his body for any new scars and checked his limbs for any signs of lameness. But the gods continued to protect him, despite the terrible risks he took in battle. He was as sound and whole as when I last saw him.
How remarkably handsome he had become! I can say this without vanity, since he was not of my making.
Mopsus brought wine and water. Meto asked about the family.
"All are well," I said. "They'll join us soon. Even your brother is here, if you can believe it. I almost never see Eco these days. He got back just yesterday from a job that took him all the way to Athens."
Meto laughed. "Eco the Finder! He must stay very busy, seeking truth and justice for the people of Rome while you sit here in your garden, Papa, basking in your retirement."
I merely nodded.
Meto inquired about events in Rome. I told him the latest news, then asked about his life on the battlefield.
"Actually, now that the fighting is over, I've put aside my sword and picked up my stylus," he said. "I spend most of my time working on the latest volume of Caesar's memoirs."
"It must be a great challenge, to distill such extraordinary experiences into a few words."
"Indeed! But the research is the biggest challenge."
"Research? It's a memoir, not a work of history. You lived every moment of it. Or rather, Caesar did."
"Yes, but Caesar is very keen to verify every factual statement and all the various claims he makes. For example, did you know that he's fought a total of fifty pitched battles? Fifty! That's a record, as far as I can determine-more than any other commander in the history of Rome. The closest competitor I can find is Marcus Marcellus, the conqueror of Syracuse, who lived a hundred and fifty years ago. And he fought only thirty-nine battles."
"How remarkable," I said. "Fifty battles…" How many men had died in those battles? How many had been maimed for life? How many women and children had been enslaved? Fifty was a large, round number. It would look very impressive in Caesar's memoirs.
"And here's another remarkable figure," said Meto. He spoke in a hush. He was excited to share his work with me, and I was touched. "Of course, it isn't exact, because making such a calculation presents all sorts of difficulties and possibilities for error-overcounting, undercounting, and so forth-but I did the best I could, and I think I did a pretty good job."
"A good job with what?"
"Caesar asked me to calculate the number of those who died as a result of all his campaigns-well, those who were actually killed in battle, not counting citizens who died from hardship and disease and such; although we have some idea of that figure from the census he commissioned last year that shows the population of the city is only half what it was before the civil war."
"Only half?" I whispered. Half the population of Rome, wiped from the face of the earth…
"Anyway, after I gathered all the information I could, and sorted through all the various estimates, the number I came up with was one million one hundred and ninety-two thousand."
I wrinkled my brow. "What exactly does that number represent?"
"The number of people killed by Caesar in his fifty battles."
"How extraordinary," I said; though, in fact, the number meant nothing to me. How could anyone grasp such a number? I tried to imagine seeing the faces of all those 1,192,000 who had died, one at a time. It was inconceivable. No mortal could hold such a number in his head. A great many people had died; that was all one could say, really.