nature and the succeeding seasons. But you cannot attain peace, Caesar, as a peasant would. I knew why you asked me here today and I have thought about what I must say.'
He picked up a strawberry and held it up between thumb and forefinger, for a moment against the light, and then replaced it.
'The story of Cincinnatus,' he said, 'is the ideal of every true Roman. To plough harmonious fields, to be summoned from that worthy work, proper to every good man and our rightful heritage, in order to save the State; then to be offered the supreme power of the dictatorship; to put on the toga of State to discharge his duty, defeat the enemies of the Republic and receive the grateful plaudits of his fellow-citizens; then to resign his office, lay aside his toga and resume his place behind the plough, enriching and taming the soil of Italy; is that not the perfect life, as it is the perfect story which every true Roman has imbibed almost with his mother's milk?' I nodded, but could not speak, for my heart was full. He picked up the strawberry again.
'The most perfect and delectable fruit of the earth,' he said. 'It comes from Nemi, doesn't it, from benign fields by the water's edge? But in the woods of Nemi lies a grimmer tale. There stands the Temple of Diana, guarded by its sole priest, a man who can never safely sleep, but must, night after night, prowl round the shadowy temple, a drawn sword in his hand. He is, as you know, Caesar, a priest and a murderer, a runaway slave who won the right to guard the holy place of the Goddess by slaying him who was priest before. How men are chosen for this cruel, arduous, and sacred duty we cannot tell. That they are divinely selected we cannot doubt. That his mission is holy, however cruel and fraught with fear, dismay and anguish, is certain. He performs what the Goddess commands in response to some necessity that is beyond human understanding. His life is a symbol perhaps of the decay and corruption of the world which can only be pardoned by the benign action of the Gods and by love. Without Diana there is no fertility; without fertility neither joy nor life. Yet this paradox remains: that Diana's temple, the home of the Great Goddess who brings forth life, is guarded by a murderer's sword, and that the priest himself must die, ingloriously, ignorant perhaps even of the nobility and importance of his achievement. We cannot fathom the mystery, but we can acknowledge its truth.'
He paused, and cast on me a look of the utmost tenderness, in which love, pity and respect, such as I have never seen on another countenance, were mingled. I looked into that sad and noble face, in which the refined delicacy of feature could not hide the strength that derived from his complete honesty, and felt my courage return.
'Caesar,' he said, 'I know little of history and less of politics. But listen. Cincinnatus is legend; he belongs to a young world when everything was straightforward, and right-doing was rewarded by a calm spirit. As legend, it is for children, it is an ideal to present to them that they may grow up seeing and admiring whatever is good, straight and true. But the priest of Diana who guards the Golden Bough and the Temple at Nemi presents no legend but myth, which reveals the truth darkly to grown men. The world has gone beyond Cincinnatus, and you cannot lay aside your toga and return to the plough. You are bound for life to prowl with naked unsheathed sword round the Temple that is Rome. Forgive me.' He smiled sadly and laid his hand on mine in understanding and pity. Thus, I took my perturbed spirit to the four people whom I loved and to whom I might look for guidance; and though all indicated the same path to me, it was the poet who led me by the hand unscathed through the briars that concealed its entrance and past the wild jaws of the beasts that threatened my passage.
ELEVEN
The great wagon-wheels of Mars and Bellona were set in motion. Rome simmered in feverish heat as it had done in the summer after my father's murder. Once again there was taking of sides, jockeying for position (as the chariot-drivers do in the circus), dark eyeing of old acquaintances. Once again true social intercourse was corrupted.
The most terrible stories reached us from the East; Antony, whether because of drink, infatuation, the strange madness of power with which the Gods can afflict great men and render them unmindful of Nemesis, was losing all proportion, all sense of the connection of things. He celebrated a Triumph for his Parthian War, in Alexandria. Do I need to spell out the enormity of this gesture? A Triumph, I surely do not need to tell you, is an honour granted to a Roman general by the Conscript Fathers of the Senate; it may be celebrated only in Rome, for it is not merely a personal honour, it is a proclamation of the greatness and genius of the city. To arrogate to oneself the right to determine one's entitlement to a Triumph is sheer madness, an act of hubris, unforgivable by men, indubitably punished by the Gods of Rome.
He did not stop there. The circumstances of the Triumph were as outrageous as the thing itself. There was no reverence in it; the occasion was made a pretext for the glorification of Cleopatra. She sat on a raised dais on a great carved throne of gold; she there received the gift of captives who should have been offered to Jupiter, the most high and mighty God. The next day, robed as Isis, Goddess of the Nile mud-flats, she shared a throne with Antony; their children, Cleopatra and Alexander, sat at their feet. With them was a lean boy of thirteen or fourteen, also Cleopatra's son – that was not doubted; she had had the impudence to name him Ptolemy Caesar or Caesarion and assert that he was my father's son – a lie notably exposed by the quite un-Roman cast of his features. But now, Antony, his face purple and his eye watery, swayed to his feet, beckoned the boy to him, embraced him, and, showing him to the legions, the eunuchs and slaves of Egypt, proclaimed that this was indeed Caesar's son, 'Kings of kings,' he cried, 'son of the Divine Julius and Cleopatra, mother of kings, and queen of kings.' 'It is a direct insult to you as that man's son,' Livia said.
'He is mad,' Octavia sighed. 'That woman has deranged his senses, and destroyed his judgement. I could almost weep if I weren't so angry.' 'Drink, more like,' said Agrippa.
'Wait,' said Maecenas, 'there is yet more. Carry on, boy,' he said to the messenger.
My agent, a young Greek called Nicias, shrugged his shoulders. 'I warn you,' he said, 'it gets still more bizarre. I only hope, Caesar, you will not treat me as my own countrymen, in their heroic days, used to treat the bearer of bad news. Well, Caesarion – you must allow me to call him that, for at the moment he bears no other name – had some difficulty in getting Antony back on to his throne, and he sat there for a long time in silence, while everyone grew very embarrassed and wondered if he was about to pass out. There could be no doubt by now that he was decidedly drunk, you see, and everyone was speculating nervously as to what would happen if… but then Cleopatra gave him a sort of jab with the wand which she was holding as a symbol of something – I'm not very well up in Egyptian symbolism, you'll have to forgive me, it strikes me as a Greek as terribly silly and a bit comical too – and he raised his great head – it's a marvellous head now, in his decline, you know, like a wounded lion's or that of an old bull standing knee deep in a swamp and ready to stand a last charge from an enemy who has already all but destroyed him. Well, he raised his head and for a moment a look crossed his face of invincible self-hatred, and he shot a glance at Cleopatra which was positively venomous – like Perseus holding up the Gorgon's head – and he began speaking again, but this time without any of the swagger of his first speech. And – you'll hardly credit it – he began parcelling out the Empire among the children: Alexander, a little squirt of nine or ten with a wandering eye, typical little Egyptian brat, was given Armenia and all the lands east of the Euphrates; and the girl Cleopatra, Lybia and Cyrenaica. Can you believe it? And…' 'What about Caesarion?'
'Nothing for liim; yet. It is said he will, in time, be made lord of Asia.' 'You see what that means,' Agrippa said. We all did.
'And then,' said Nicias, 'the whole company except for the detachments of legionaries began crying out and hailing Antony as Dionysus and Osiris, consort of the goddess-queen of Egypt and all that exaggerated Eastern nonsense.'
(Greeks are capable of the same sort of nonsense, you know, but Nicias, having identified himself with Rome, had become more Roman than the Romans in his distaste for such emotional and intellectual extravagance.)
'Antony,' he said, 'looked a bit sheepish, but he could hardly deny them.'
There was no need to take special measures to see that reports of this ceremony were disseminated through the city. The news ran fast, and bred fear and dismay. Everyone realized what was implicit in it; Cleopatra had not only seduced Antony; she had suborned his mind. Alexandria would displace Rome. The legions would be
