The child ran toward her. A few times Lucius thought he would fall, but Caesarion remained upright for the entire distance. He threw himself against his mother and clutched her legs, then looked up at Lucius shyly. He seemed no different from any other child.
“How old is he?” said Lucius.
“Three years.”
“He looks big for his age.”
“Good. He needs to grow up fast.” The queen gestured to the handmaidens, who came to fetch Caesarion and then set about amusing him in the garden. “Now you must excuse me, Lucius Pinarius. Caesar will call on me later today, after his pronouncement to the Senate. I must prepare myself. I’m glad you came to visit. You and I should know one another better.”
Lucius headed back to the city.
He chose a path that led him through the Grove of the Furies. The secluded holy place was deserted and quiet except for the distant singing of revelers along the riverbank. Passing by the altar, Lucius recalled the story of Gaius Gracchus and the terrible fate he had met in this very spot, chased to ground by his enemies and killed by a trusted slave, who then slew himself. Lucius’s great-great-grandfather had been a friend of Gaius Gracchus, or so Lucius had been told; of the two men’s actual dealings with one another, Lucius knew nothing.
He recalled something that Cleopatra had said: We know so little of our ancestors, really, even we who can name them going back many generations. It was true. What did Lucius know about those who had come before him? He knew their names, from the lists kept by his family of marriages and offspring, and from the official records that listed the magistrates of the Republic. About some of them he had heard an anecdote or two, although the details often differed depending upon who told the story. In the vestibule of his father’s house there were wax images of some of the ancestors, so that Lucius had an idea of what they had looked like. But of the men and women themselves-their dreams and passions, their failures and triumphs-he knew virtually nothing. His ancestors were strangers to him.
Until the previous night, he had not even known of the terrible sacrifice made by his grandparents to save Caesar’s life. How much more did he not know? The magnitude of this ignorance overwhelmed him-so many lives, so full of incident and feeling, lost to his knowledge completely and forever. What had Cleopatra said? The past is as unknowable as the future. He suddenly perceived his existence as a tiny point illuminated by the thinnest crack of light-the now-poised between two infinities of darkness-before and after.
He left the grove, crossed the bridge, and wandered across the Forum Boarium. Close by the Temple of Hercules stood the Ara Maxima, the most ancient altar in all of Roma, dedicated to Hercules, who had saved the people from Cacus. Had there really been a Hercules and a Cacus, a hero and a monster? So the priests declared, and the historians agreed; so the monument attested. If the story was true, there had been a Pinarius among the Romans even then, and the Pinarii, up until the early days of the Republic, had been assigned the sacred duty of maintaining the Ara Maxima and celebrating the Feast of Hercules. They had shared this duty with a family called the Potitii, which no longer existed. Why had the Pinarii abandoned the duty? What had become of the Potitii? Lucius did not know.
From the Temple of Hercules he heard a man calling, “Shoo! Shoo!” A temple slave appeared at the open doorway, wielding a horsetail whisk to drive a fly from the sanctuary. Everyone knew that flies were forbidden to enter the temple, because flies had swarmed about Hercules and confounded him when he fought against Cacus. Nor could dogs come near, because the dog of Hercules had failed to warn him of the monster’s approach. These things must have occurred, or else why did rituals exist to commemorate them, many lifetimes later?
Lucius recalled the story of the Romans trapped by the Gauls atop the Capitoline; the geese raised the alarm, while the dogs failed to bark. To commemorate that event, each year a dog was impaled on a stake and paraded through the city, along with one of Juno’s sacred geese carried in a litter. The first time Lucius had witnessed this spectacle as a child, he had been puzzled and revolted by it, until his father had explained its meaning. Now when he saw the ritual each year, Lucius found it reassuring, a reminder both of the city’s past and of his own childhood and the first time he had seen the procession.
Thinking of all the many rituals that took place during the year, and all the traditions of the ancestors which had been so scrupulously preserved over the centuries, Lucius felt comforted. Religion existed to honor and placate the gods, but did it not also make the past and the future a little less mysterious, and therefore less frightening?
Lost in thought, Lucius wandered homeward. Turning a corner, he realized that he was very near the house of Brutus. An impulse had caused Lucius to call upon Cleopatra. An equally spontaneous impulse now prompted him to pay a visit to Brutus, who, according to rumor, was another of Caesar’s possible heirs.
Everyone knew that Caesar had been the lover of Brutus’s mother, Servilia. The fact had come out before Lucius was born, and on the floor of the Senate, of all places. Servilia was the half-sister of Cato, grandson of the famous Cato who had called for the destruction of Carthage. Cato had been one of Caesar’s bitterest enemies. Twenty years ago, during a heated debate in the Senate regarding an alleged conspiracy by the populist Catilina, Caesar had been seen to receive a note from a messenger. Cato, suspecting it might implicate Caesar in the plot, insisted that he read the note aloud. Caesar refused. Cato grew more suspicious and more vehement, until finally Caesar relented and read the message aloud. It was a love note from Servilia, Cato’s sister. Cato was humiliated. Caesar was much amused. From that day, his affair with Servilia was public knowledge, and the speculation began that he might be the father of her son, Marcus Junius Brutus. The special regard in which Caesar had always held Brutus, even when Brutus sided with Pompeius, had further fueled this speculation.
Whatever their relationship, Brutus was among the men whom Caesar had chosen to fill various posts when he began rebuilding the government. Currently Brutus was praetor in charge of the city, but in the coming year he would leave for Macedonia to serve as provincial governor. Because Caesar’s Parthian campaign might keep the dictator from Roma for an indefinite period, all such appointments had been made not for the usual one year but for five years.
Brutus was also a key member of the Senate, and it occurred to Lucius that he might already have left home, heading for the Field of Mars and the meeting of the Senate at the assembly hall in the Theater of Pompeius. But evidently Brutus was still at home, for as Lucius drew nearer to Brutus’s house, he saw several men in red-bordered senatorial togas being admitted at the front door. Lucius assumed they must be gathering before heading off in a group to the assembly hall. Clearly, it was not a good time for Lucius to pay a visit. Nonetheless, he continued in the same direction, toward Brutus’s house.
Suddenly he heard the sound of many footsteps behind him. A large group of men caught up with him and swept past him. Lucius saw a blur of togas, and glimpsed several familiar faces. Some of the senators must surely have recognized him, but not one of them uttered a greeting. They averted their eyes from him. As they hurried on, whispering among themselves, he thought he heard them speak his name. It was very strange.
The senators reached the house of Brutus, rapped on the door, and disappeared inside.
Lucius arrived at the threshold and stared dumbly at the door. What was going on in the house of Brutus? Something was not right. It occurred to him that the senators might have been bringing bad news-something to do with Caesar, perhaps? Lucius gathered his nerve and rapped on the door.