Cleopatra and Antony (12 page)

Some of Caesar’s works were clearly influenced by what he had seen in Cleopatra’s Egypt. In 46, a hundred years after the Romans had razed Corinth, Caesar decided to refound the city by disposing of some of Rome’s surplus population there. The Egyptians’ ability to build canals linking branches of the Nile delta and Lake Mareotis had so impressed Caesar that, as part of the Corinth project, he launched a search for a feasible route between the Ionian and Aegean seas. Centuries later this resulted in the Corinth canal. On Cleopatra’s advice, Caesar probably made use of Egyptian geographers in his schemes to improve the canal system around Rome and, indeed, to drain the nearby Pon-tine Marshes, a project abandoned at his death and not eventually achieved until Mussolini’s time.

Cleopatra’s presence in Rome and Caesar’s experiences in Egypt also had a profound intellectual impact on Roman society and culture. His admiration for the Library of Alexandria inspired Caesar to establish a great library of Rome that, by bringing together the whole of Greek and Roman literature and knowledge, would outdo Alexandria and make Rome the cultural as well as political center of the world. Unlike the canals, this project was completed shortly after Caesar’s death.

Caesar’s discussions with Cleopatra and the professors who studied in the Museon and the Library of Alexandria also inspired his reform of the calendar. The first of the great Alexandrian astronomers was Aristarchus. Around 270, using a modified sundial to determine the height and course of the sun and the angle at which the sun shone on the moon, he had deduced that the sun was far from the earth. He also postulated that the earth circled the sun—a theory rejected by earthcentric astronomers for another eighteen centuries.

A few decades later, another of Alexandria’s astronomers estimated the circumference of the earth within 250 miles and calculated within a tenth of a degree the tilting of the arc of the earth’s rotation that gives us our seasons. About eighty years before Caesar’s visit to Alexandria, Hipparchus, working in the Museon, produced a catalog of the stars, with estimates of the distances between them. By studying when solstices occurred over a period of years, he validated the general accuracy of the Egyptian calendar, which was based on the sun and divided the year into 365 days, and estimated the length of the solar year within six minutes of the true figure of 365 days, five hours and forty-nine minutes.

The Roman calendar, by contrast, had developed from a lunar calendar and counted years from Romulus’ founding of the city. The Romans had at frequent intervals added extra days into their calendar, which had 355 days (divided initially into ten but soon into twelve months), to try to bring their calendar back into line with the seasons, which, of course, derived from the progress of the sun. However, by 46 the Roman calendar had drifted more than two months ahead of the seasons.

Guided by Sosigenes, a celebrated astronomer from the Museon, whom Caesar may have met during his time in Alexandria in 48 and 47 and who had come to Rome either as part of Cleopatra’s entourage or at Caesar’s direct request, Caesar determined on a once-and-for-all adjustment to align the Roman calendar with the solar year. He therefore introduced a calendar that had 365 days divided into twelve months, as at present, with an extra day in February every fourth year to keep the calendar in balance. (Such a calendar had been introduced into Egypt by Ptolemy III in 238, but the addition of the extra day every fourth year had not always been adhered to.)

Caesar’s calendar made January rather than March the first month of the year, but he retained the old names of the months, which meant that several—such as September, October and November—contained the wrong numeral in their title. However, the Senate soon changed that of Quintullus, the month of Caesar’s birth, to Julius (July) in his honor. The Romans did not have the concept of weeks or weekends, and Caesar did not change the division of the month, which was defined by particular days such as the kalends, the first of the month (and the origin of our word
calendar
); the ides, which fell in the middle of the month, either on the thirteenth or fifteenth depending on whether the month was a long or a short one; and the nones, the ninth day before the ides. Other days did not have particular names but were positioned by reference to their being before or after the named days. Certain days were specified in the calendar as lucky and others as unlucky. The Roman day did have twenty-four hours, but only at the equinox was each hour of equal length. Daylight was divided into twelve hours and darkness into another twelve, so that the length of an hour of daylight (and of night) differed from month to month. To tell the time, people used public sundials and water clocks, these last adjusted to fit the current season of the year.

To get the calendar back on track, Caesar added two months to the year 46, making it 445 days long and what Caesar called “the last year of confusions.” Confusion there certainly was in relation to commercial contracts, and a Roman governor in Gaul increased the annual taxes due for that year because it had extra days. Conservatives or traditionalists disparaged the change, which was promulgated across the Roman world by edict, as they did any of Caesar’s reforms, on this occasion suggesting that Caesar was not content with ruling the earth but wanted to rule the stars. When told that a particular constellation would be visible next morning, Cicero commented sourly, “Yes, in accordance with Caesar’s edict.”

However, as would soon become clear, Caesar could control neither the heavens nor his own bright star. Despite all Caesar’s power he was still, as Cicero pointed out, “the slave of the times.”

*The singular is rostrum, hence our English word.

*Today the marble head is in the Vatican Museum. Interestingly, a limestone statue of a woman of the Ptolemaic era holding a child on her shoulder in exactly this manner has been recovered from Aboukir Bay and is now on display in the National Museum of Alexandria.

CHAPTER 10

Appian relates how Caesar made the long journey from Rome in just twenty-seven days. As he bounced about in a springless carriage he composed a lengthy poem entitled, appropriately enough, “The Journey,” but now lost. On March 17, 45, at the battle of Munda, east of modern Seville, he defeated the Pompeian forces, but only after fierce fighting, during which the fifty-four-year-old Caesar dismounted, grabbed a shield and shamed his faltering troops by rushing at the enemy. He later told his supporters that although he had often fought for victory, this was the first time he had fought for his life. Sextus managed to escape, but a few days after the battle his elder brother, Gnaeus, was caught and killed, ending the rising. Caesar, who had usually been merciful during the civil war, punished the rebels without mercy—executing them in droves and ordering their heads, including that of Gnaeus, to be displayed on spikes. Perhaps hot blood and a consciousness of the closeness of the conflict hardened his heart, together with a desire to signal that no further risings would be tolerated.

Cleopatra’s movements during this time are unclear. Cicero, writing in 44, seems to suggest that some while earlier she had left Caesar’s estate. She might have taken the opportunity to return briefly to Alexandria to reassure herself that all was well there. However, she would have known that King Bogud of Mauretania was once again assisting Caesar, just as he had in North Africa, and that with him would be Eunoe. Cleopatra therefore would not have wished to absent herself from Rome for long. Far better to remain and be ready to greet the returning conqueror and remind him of all he had been missing.

Antony did not wait for Caesar’s return to congratulate him. Anxious to regain Caesar’s favor, he hurried off to join him in southern Gaul and was delighted by Caesar’s response. His old patron conspicuously honored him, choosing him as his traveling companion in preference even to his young great-nephew, Octavian.
*
Ill health had prevented Octavian from accompanying Caesar when he left for Spain, but after recovering sufficiently he had followed after him, surviving shipwreck and enemy-infested roads to reach him. Being displaced from Caesar’s carriage by Antony and relegated to traveling in the chariot behind must have seemed a poor reward.

Curiously, during the long, bumpy journey back to Italy, though the two men talked of many things, comfortable in their reestablished amity, Antony failed to mention that an old drinking friend, Gaius Trebonius, had hinted of a plot to murder Caesar. He had been sounding Antony out to see whether he might wish to join it. Antony had firmly refused but did not see fit, as he lolled by Caesar’s side, to warn him of the plotting that in a few months would claim his life. Perhaps for the moment he was hedging his bets. Perhaps he did not wish to incriminate a friend.

In early October 45, restored to health, Caesar marched in glory into his capital. This time the Triumph lauding his Spanish victories made no pretense he had conquered anyone other than dissident and treacherous Romans. It concluded with a feast for the entire population of Rome, not once but twice. In a gesture designed to whip up popular adulation, Caesar dismissed the first repast as too meager and ordered it to be repeated four days later with “more succulent provender.” However, his grandiose gesture increased rather than stifled people’s unease, and it is indicative that he could not see this. The greater the honors heaped on Caesar, the more isolated he was becoming and thus the more faulty his judgment. Unlike the citizens of Alexandria, Romans were not conditioned to living gods. To many, Caesar appeared to have forgotten the warning words whispered by the slave in his ear during his Triumphs: “Remember you are human.”

Unsurprisingly, resentment focused on the continued presence by Caesar’s side of his Egyptian mistress, whose statue gleamed portentously within the temple of Venus. While Romans were indulgent, even admiring, of their leaders’ sexual peccadilloes while on campaign, back in Rome it was a different matter. Sex was seen as diminishing physical prowess—the week before a fight, gladiators’ penises were fitted with an apparatus of metal bolts to prevent them ejaculating and diluting their strength. Additionally, sexual overindulgence, indeed any kind of overindulgence or lack of self-control, was viewed as a character defect. Caesar was condemned, not admired, for succumbing to Cleopatra’s sexual magnetism. If a man could not govern his own appetites, how could he govern other people?

Some, though, saw Cleopatra as something far more dangerous than just Caesar’s mistress. To them she epitomized an unwholesome, alien, royal and despotic influence on republican Rome. Stories spread that the besotted Caesar intended to shift his capital to Alexandria—even that he planned to marry Cleopatra. Suetonius related that a tribune, Helvius Cinna, “admitted to several persons that he had a bill drawn up in due form, which Caesar had ordered him to propose to the people in his own absence, making it lawful for Caesar to marry what wives he wished, and as many as he wished, for the purpose of begetting [legitimate] children.” The accusation was probably fabricated but the very fact that such stories gained credence shows the suspicion and resentment toward the Egyptian queen, for if Caesar wished to take another wife, surely it would be Cleopatra.

Caesar, though, was thoroughly preoccupied with what he intended to be the most glorious and ambitious campaign of his career—crushing the Parthian Empire. Rome had not yet avenged the Parthians’ humiliating defeat of Crassus at Carrhae in 53, and their horsemen were now menacing Rome’s eastern provinces, raiding into Syria. The Parthians were originally seminomads from the southeastern shores of the Caspian Sea. In the decades following Alexander’s defeat of the Persians they had increased their territories to include Mesopotamia, and by this time their empire extended from the borders of Roman Syria in the west to the Indus in the east, and to the south embraced much of Persia, giving them a dominant position across the eastern trade routes. The conquest of Parthia would therefore be an immense undertaking in which the support of Rome’s allies—especially the wealthy Cleopatra—in providing money, ships and men would be essential. However, the rewards would be commensurately great.

It is impossible to know what was in Cleopatra’s mind during her time in Rome, but her detractors were probably right to fear her intentions. In Alexandria she had deliberately bound herself to the Roman world’s most powerful man to secure her personal position. Now in Rome she perhaps began to glimpse an important, even central role for her kingdom in what might follow. For Cleopatra, the future in early 44 must have seemed ripe with possibilities. Like Caesar, she was capable of thinking on a grand scale, innovatively pushing forward the boundaries of the practicable. If Caesar conquered Parthia, he would be leader of the Mediterranean world’s only remaining superpower. What could he then not do for those he owed—and, indeed, for those he loved? And what better heir to this great empire than a boy with the blood of Alexander’s people and also of Caesar in his veins, her beloved Caesarion?

Others were less enthusiastic about Caesar’s eastern adventure, which he himself estimated would take three to four years to accomplish. Although the campaign would remove him from Rome, they knew that during his absence he would appoint compliant cronies to rule on his behalf. Caesar’s powers to dictate how Rome would be governed seemed removed by only a hair’s breadth from those of a king. When the custodians of the Sibylline Books conveniently “discovered” a prophecy that “only a king can conquer the Parthians,” this fed the rumors that Caesar intended to use the Parthian campaign as a springboard to kingship.

So did Caesar’s behavior, which was becoming increasingly autocratic. His arrogant attitude was no doubt influenced by his belief that the Senate needed to be subjected to his strong, executive direction in order for the empire to be ruled effectively—and by the increasing impatience and intolerance of an aging man with many plans and little time for the constitutional process and the tedious business of conciliating opponents for whom he had long felt only contempt. Also, one of the driving forces behind his career had always been his consciousness of his
dignitas
and the respect to which he felt himself entitled. Perhaps he felt that by now his achievements were such that he and his actions were beyond question or scrutiny.

When, without warning, Caesar resigned as consul and named two supporters as consuls for the remainder of 45, it caused great offense. He seemed to be treating the consulship as a mere gift for services rendered rather than a serious office held on behalf of the people. He also extended eligibility for citizenship to more parts of the empire and increased the number of senators from six hundred to nine hundred to enable him to reward his supporters and friends. The new senators included a number of freedmen, even Gauls. While these actions wisely reflected the growing diversity of the Roman empire and gave a greater stake in Rome’s success to those living in her provinces, Roman traditionalists joked about senators wearing trousers who were such strangers to Rome they could not find their way to the Senate house. To them Caesar’s reforms seemed a gesture of contempt toward Rome’s ancient institutions and their own treasured privileges.
*

Whatever the senators’ private fears, in public, as if uncertain what else to do, they continued hectically heaping honors upon Caesar, declaring his birthday a public holiday and conferring on him the right to sit on a golden chair in the Senate and wear the golden wreath of the ancient Etruscan monarchs. Caesar had already taken to appearing in the high red boots of the Alban kings. In addition, the Senate sycophantically agreed that Caesar was to have his own shrine and his own priest—Antony—and, on his death, was to become Divus Julius (Julius the god). Most significantly of all, Caesar was appointed dictator perpetuus (dictator for life), an honor he accepted in February 44 after only a little hesitation. His head now appeared on Roman coins—the first time any living Roman had been so honored and dangerously close, in the eyes of some, to the personality cult surrounding royal rulers such as Cleopatra in Egypt.

All that was lacking was the title of king. The previous month, when a man had hailed Caesar as Rex, he had replied that no, he was Caesar. However, when the tribunes had the man arrested, Caesar punished them, not the man. A few days after Caesar had become dictator for life, he presided from his gilded chair on the speaker’s rostrum over the feast of the Lupercalia. This was an ancient spring fertility ritual. First, priests sacrificed a dog and some goats. Then the goats were skinned and well-born young men wound the skins around their otherwise naked bodies and, glistening with oil, ran through the streets lightly striking women with strips of the fresh hairy goat hide to make them fertile or, if pregnant, to ensure a safe and easy delivery.

As consul for 44, Antony was participating. Even though at thirty-eight he was beyond his first youth, he was still proud of his physique. Clad only in his bloody goatskin loincloth, he ran up to the platform in the Forum where Caesar was seated on his golden throne and wearing his golden wreath. Several times he tried to place a laurel-decked diadem on Caesar’s head. Whether Caesar knew in advance of Antony’s gesture is unclear. What is certain is that there was no responding roar of enthusiasm from the crowd. Instead, “a groan echoed all round the Forum.” According to Plutarch, “The amazing thing was that, although they were already, for all practical purposes, under the rule of a king, they rejected the title, as if it represented the loss of freedom.” Caesar firmly declined the diadem and ordered it to be sent to the Capitol and dedicated to Jupiter, Rome’s only king.