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?
The triumph concluded without incident. The prisoners (except young Juba) were duly executed, and a sacrifice was offered in gratitude to Jupiter atop the Capitoline. Then, without a pause, attended by a vast retinue of officer, senators, and priests, Caesar began to make his way down the Capitoline, heading for the new Temple of Venus.
After the triumph, my family and I remained in the stands for a while, waiting for the crowd to thin. As we began to descend, I saw a now-familiar figure mounting the steps, heading toward us. It was Calpurnia's messenger. The look on his face was grim. He was too out of breath to speak. Without a word, he extended a tablet toward me. I took it from him, undid the ties, and opened it.
The letters had been so crudely scratched in the wax-as if in haste or great agitation-that for a moment I could make no sense of them. Then, all at once, the words jumped out at me:
Porsenna is dead. Come to me at once. The messenger will bring you.
I lowered the tablet. Bethesda was staring at me. "From her?" she said.
"Yes. I must go with this fellow."
"Take Rupa with you."
"Of course. And you and the family?"
"We shall attend the dedication of the temple, as we planned. In the standing area, I presume." While Caesar had arranged for us to have seats in the stands for his triumphs, he had not followed up with any such arrangement for the dedication. I had tried to explain to Bethesda that the seating for the ceremony was strictly limited, but she was not happy.
"If you hurry," I said, "perhaps you can still find a good spot, not too far back."
Diana drew close to me. "What does Calpurnia say? Is there some sort of trouble?"
"The haruspex is dead. Murdered, I presume."
"I should come with you, Papa."
"I think not. The woman is quite particular about whom she'll allow into her presence."
"But Rupa is going with you."
"Rupa is my bodyguard."
"If I were your son instead of your daughter, you'd take me along without question."
Whether this was true or not, I was no mood to argue, and the messenger was growing impatient. He deftly took the tablet from my hand, rubbed out the letters, and pulled at my toga.
"We should hurry, please!" he said.
"Davus, look after Diana," I said, fearful that she would try to follow against my orders. "Rupa, come with me."
We followed the man down the steps and into the crowd.
I had assumed that the messenger would lead me to the house of Calpurnia, but he turned in the opposite direction.
"Where are you taking us?" I said, suddenly suspicious.
"To the mistress, of course." He gripped my toga again. I knocked his hand away.
"This isn't the way to the Palatine."
"The Palatine?"