What does one do for the rest of the day, when the day begins with a funeral? Such days seem to take place outside normal time. A dull gloom settles over the world. After being made to confront mortality at its starkest, one is left to face the ensuing hours stripped of the simple comforts of a workday routine. Normal thought is impossible. A carefree laugh or an idle daydream are out of the question. We have looked into the abyss, then have stepped back from the precipice still alive, yes, but touched at our core by the chill of death. For the rest of the day, one must simply endure the gloom and wait for the setting of the sun and the eventual escape into sleep that will bring the day after.
But this was not a normal day for anyone in Rome. This was the day of the first of Caesar's four triumphs.
Even before we reentered the city by the Esquiline Gate, I could hear a dull roar from within the walls. When every man, woman, and child in Rome has cause to be out of doors at the same time, all talking to one another at once, the whole city hums like beehive. Such a buzzing seemed to emanate from every quarter of the city, but it grew noticeably louder as we drew near the Forum.
Everyone was in the streets, wearing their brightest holiday attire. (How my family stood out, all garbed in black!) Everyone was headed for the same place, drawn toward the heart of the hubbub. Amid the contagious excitement, Bethesda and Diana completely forgot their intention to return to the auction at the House of the Beaks. Impatient to witness the spectacle, Mopsus and Androcles repeatedly ran ahead and then circled back, entreating the rest of us to hurry.
We reached the Forum. The doors of every temple stood open, inviting the people to visit the gods, and the gods to witness the day's events. Garlands of flowers decorated every shrine and statue. Incense burned on every altar, filling the air with sweet fragrance.
Historians say that King Romulus celebrated the first triumphal procession in Rome after he slew Acron, king of the Caeninenses, in single combat. While Acron's body was still warm, Romulus cut down an oak tree and carved the trunk into the shape of a torso; then he stripped the armor from Acron's corpse and fastened it onto the effigy. Carrying the trophy over his shoulder and wearing a laurel crown, he walked through the streets of Rome while the citizens looked on in awe. He ascended the Capitoline. At the Temple of Jupiter, he made a solemn offering of Acron's armor to the god, in gratitude for Rome's triumph.
Romulus's victory march was the origin and model for all subsequent triumphs. Over the centuries, the pomp and ceremony of these celebrations grew ever more elaborate. King Tarquin the Elder was the first to ride a chariot instead of walk, and for the occasion he wore a gold-embroidered robe. In his day, only kings could celebrate a triumph, but with the coming of the republic, the Senate continued the tradition by granting triumphs to generals in recognition of a great military victory. Camillus, who liberated the city when it was occupied by the Gauls, was the first to harness four white horses to his chariot, in emulation of the quadriga statue atop Jupiter's temple, with its white horses pulling the king of the gods. In those days, the face and arms of a triumphant general were painted red to match the statue of Jupiter, which was dyed with cinnabar on holidays. What a strange sight that must have been!
I had witnessed a number of triumphs in my lifetime. The first I could remember was when I was six years old, and Caesar's granduncle Marius paraded the captured Numidian king Jugurtha through the streets before executing him. A few years later, after repelling an invasion by Germanic tribes, Marius celebrated another triumph. In the year before I met Cicero, I saw Sulla the Dictator celebrate his victory over King Mithradates of Pontus. Cicero himself had been voted a triumph by the Senate, for the dubious achievement of putting down a band of brigands during his year as governor of Cilicia, but the civil war had postponed that event, probably forever.
Pompey had celebrated three triumphs in his career, beginning at the age of twenty-four. The last and most lavish of these was some fifteen years ago, to mark his conquests in the East and his eradication of piracy in the Mediterranean. That triumph had been spread over two days of unprecedented pomp and largesse, featuring not only processions but also huge public banquets and a distribution of money to the citizens; and in a move that surprised everyone, Pompey had spared the intended victims, proving that mercy could be exercised by a victorious Roman general.
But of all the triumphs I had seen, the celebration put on by Caesar that day, and in the days to come, eclipsed them all.
When a man has lived in a place as long as I have lived in Rome, he learns a few of the city's secrets. I happened to know the best vantage point for watching a triumph. While other latecomers pressed toward the front of the crowd, stood on tiptoes, or gazed enviously at those who had arrived early to find seats among the stands, I led the family to the Temple of Fortuna built by Lucullus. At the side of the temple, an easy climb along the branch of an olive tree allowed access to a recessed marble shelf along one wall, just deep enough and wide enough for my entire family to sit, if we huddled close together. Even an old fellow like me could make the ascent with no trouble, and my reward was a comfortable perch above the heads of the crowd below, with a perfect view of the procession along the Sacred Way. Dressed as we were, we must have looked like a flock of ravens roosting on the little outcrop of marble.
A roar erupted as Bethesda was settling herself beside me. We were just in time to see the beginning of the parade.
Following tradition, the procession began with the senators. They were usually three hundred in number. The body had been greatly depleted by the civil war, but new appointments by Caesar had replenished their ranks. Dressed in their togas with red borders, the senators flowed down the Sacred Way like a river of white flecked with crimson. For many of the newcomers, this occasion marked their first public appearance. I could pick out the new senators by how stiffly they adopted the politician's standard pose-one hand clutching the folds of the toga, the other raised to wave to the crowd. These included, either appropriately or ironically considering the occasion, a number of Gallic chieftains who had allied themselves with Caesar. Not one of them sported long hair or a giant mustache; they were as well-groomed as their Roman colleagues. Still, keeping together in a group, they were easy to spot by their stature. The Gauls towered above the sea of white.
Cicero and Brutus, who were usually the type to put themselves out front, marched near the back of the contingent. They strode with their heads close together, conversing, as if more interested in each other's company than in what was happening around them. Their attitude seemed almost deliberately disrespectful of the occasion. What were those two talking about?
Next in the procession came the white oxen that would be sacrificed on the altar before the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline, attended by the priests who would slaughter them, bearing their ceremonial knives. The oxen had gilded horns, brightly colored fillets of twisted wool on their heads, and garlands of flowers around their necks. Following were the camilli, the specially chosen boys and girls who would attend the priests, carrying the shallow libation bowls in which they would receive the blood and the organs of the sacrificed oxen.
Other members of the priesthoods followed, wearing long robes and mantles over their heads. These included the keepers of the Sibylline Books, the augurs responsible for divination, the flamens devoted to various deities, and the priests who maintained the calendar and reckoned sacred dates. Among this last group I saw a familiar face, the white-haired uncle of Calpurnia, Gnaeus Calpurnius, whom I had seen briefly in the garden at her house. Clearly, Uncle Gnaeus was in his element on this day, a priest among priests taking part in a great occasion. His expression was at once solemn and joyous; he had that smug look one often sees on priests, of knowing a little more than ordinary people and rather enjoying this superior knowledge. Now that I realized the priesthood to which he was attached, it occurred to me that it might have been Uncle Gnaeus who piqued Hieronymus's interest in the calendar, and perhaps even assisted him with astronomical calculations-if, indeed, he had deigned to have anything to do with Hieronymus. I made a mental note to ask him about it, if the opportunity arose.
Next came a band of trumpeters, blaring the ancient summons to arms, as if a hostile enemy approached. In fact, behind the trumpeters, an enemy did approach-the captive chiefs of the conquered Gauls. There were a great many of these prisoners; the Gauls were divided into scores of tribes, and Caesar had subdued them all. These once-proud warriors were dressed in rags. They shambled forward with their heads bowed, chained to one another. The crowed laughed and jeered and pelted them with rotten fruit.
At their head was Vercingetorix. He was as I had seen him in the Tullianum, nearly naked and covered with filth, but his appearance was even more appalling under bright sunlight. His eyes were hollow. His lips were dry and cracked. His hair and his beard were as tangled as a bird's nest. His fingernails were like claws, so long they had begun to curl. His shoes had disintegrated while he walked; bits of shredded leather trailed from his ankles, and each step left a bloody footprint on the paving stones.
