Did Caesar truly aspire to be the first pharaoh in more than five hundred years? If so, he would have all that wealth because unlike any Egyptian or Greek he would not hesitate to make those priests pay up. We Romans respect other peoples’ gods, but that has never stopped us from looting their temples, even those of gods to whom we pay the highest honors. Sulla and Pompey had plundered temples all over Greece and the East, their excuse being that they were collecting from rebellious or resisting cities, not from the gods themselves. They left the images and insignia of the gods alone but took everything else of value. No Roman had even that much respect for the ridiculous deities of Egypt.
How much ambition was it possible for one man to have? To surpass Alexander in conquest, even to surpass Romulus in prestige and honor, these were ambitious enough. Romulus had been deified. Did Caesar aim that high? Did he think to place himself among the immortal gods? The thought sent a shudder through me. This is what the Greeks call “hubris” and its consequences are famously terrible, not just for the offender but for the whole community. This is why a triumphing general has a slave standing behind him in his chariot to whisper from time to time, “Remember that you are mortal.” I am not superstitious, but there is such a thing as tempting the gods too far.
From the river I made my way back to the Forum. It was as good a place as any to be, since I had run out of leads to investigate. The political gossip being bandied about from end to end of the Forum was no less lively for the overbearing presence of a dictator. There were plenty of lesser offices that were still desirable because they were too small for such a man’s attention, others that were coveted for their prestige.
Consul was one of these. Though the dictatorship usurped the consular powers, Caesar kept the office alive. Each year, he was always one of the consuls, with some chosen politician acting as his colleague. At that date his colleague as co-consul was Antonius. There was much talk of who would take Caesar’s place as suffect consul when he left for Syria.
It seemed, if I was collecting the right gossip, that Caesar had chosen Publius Cornelius Dolabella, and according to report (unattributable, naturally) Antonius was furious about it. I remembered the man slightly. Three years previously he had been a tribune of the people and had proposed legislation canceling debts and remitting house rents, always a winner with the commons. His proposals had gone nowhere of course, but he had gained much popularity thereby.
It was entirely possible that his choice of causes was not lacking in self-interest. Dolabella was a notorious wastrel and many of the debts cancelled would be his own. Like many another such reprobate, Caesar, upon his return from Alexandria, had taken him under his wing, covered the worst of his debts, and hauled him off to Spain for some personal training and education. He was now firmly in the pro-Caesar camp. In just such a fashion had Caesar attached Scribonius Curio to his cause. Curio made him another useful tribune.
I couldn’t see that the choice could make much difference. Antonius’s prefecture of the City was where the real power lay and Caesar would undoubtedly leave Dolabella a minutely detailed list of every action he expected the second consul to take and a very long list of things he forbade him to do. Antonius would get his own list, which he would ignore, but Dolabella would never dare.
I crossed the broad pavement and pushed past some oxen hauling a wagonload of marble to the new basilica. There was a great crowd of people standing about before the huge building, and many of them were foreigners. Some were truly exotic specimens and I knew these were not the usual travelers come to see the sights of the famous city. The lictors on guard pushed them back if they got too close. I walked up to one of the fasces-bearing men I recognized.
“Hello, Otacilius. I’ve come to see the dictator. I take it from your presence that he’s here?”
“Certainly, Senator. Your name is on the list of those allowed in.” He stepped aside for me.
I suppose I should have felt uniquely privileged to have my name on that list. Perhaps I should have preened. It was certain that many other senators preened to be thus singled out. At that time I could only reflect that there had been a time when any citizen could walk into a basilica any time it struck his fancy to, even if the thing was under construction.
I found Caesar inside, and Cleopatra was with him, which came as no surprise to me, having seen the crowd of exotics loitering about outside. Caesar, uncharacteristically, was seated and looked rather drawn.
“Well, Decius Caecilius,” Caesar said when he saw me, “I hope you have brought me some good news. I could use some.”
At that moment some things began to fit together in my mind. They did not give me anything complete, but it was as if some bricks had been added to what was still a very incomplete wall. I must have looked strange because Cleopatra said, “Well? Can you not speak?”
Caesar raised a hand. “Patience. The gods are speaking to him. It happens sometimes. I’ve seen this before.”
“Caius Julius,” I said at length, “I think that in, oh, two days, I shall have the answer to these murders.”
“That is oddly imprecise, but if you have the killer for me, I shall be content.”
Cleopatra looked at me sharply. “You are certain of this?”
“I am,” I assured her. Actually, I had no such confidence, but I was not about to admit it in front of her. I smiled as if I knew something that she didn’t. I always hate it when people do that to me and was gratified to see her look of discomfiture. It might mean something. Or perhaps not. Everyone has something to hide and a person like Cleopatra has more than most.
“I’m sending the astronomers back to Alexandria,” Caesar said. “They’ve been here long enough.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” I assured him. “I’d hate to lose Sosigenes. The rest I don’t care much about.” As we spoke I noticed a man hovering in the background, beneath one of the interior arches. He was a tall, thin man, coiffed and bearded in Greek fashion. Beside him was a boy who carried a large, leather-covered chest slung from his shoulder. I knew the man well, as he had worked on me upon occasion in Gaul. He was Caesar’s personal physician.
The two showed no further interest in me so I took my leave of them and walked back out to the Forum with much to ponder about. Having made my boast, I now had to deliver. Caesar would be very displeased should I fail to hand him the killer on the day following the next. Not only the killer, but some sort of comprehensible explanation for what had been going on.
Hermes found me in the tavern near the old Curia where we ate frequently. It enjoyed a fine view of the ancient building, the meeting-place of the Senate since the days of the kings. At that time it was still gutted, its upper facade black-smudged, the marks of the rioting that followed the funeral of Clodius.
How like Caesar, I thought, to erect his immense basilica to his own glory practically next door while the most sacred of our ancient assembly-places stood derelict for want of someone to pony up the cash for restorations, forcing the Senate to meet in the Theater of Pompey. Maybe it was another way for him to display his contempt for the Senate. Or maybe he planned some unthinkably vast and elaborate new Curia, one that would outshine anything built by Pompey.
Hermes plunked himself down and began helping himself to my lunch. “Domitius drops by the messengers’ tavern from time to time.”
“I thought so. Men who share a profession or specialized skill usually like to get together with their fellows to talk shop. What do the others know about him?”
“He regales them with stories of Cleopatra’s house. They love to hear about the extravagances that go on in that place.”