4. Caesar's Women Read online

  4. Caesar's Women

  Colleen Mccullough

  COLLEEN McCULLOUGH

  CAESAR'S WOMEN PART I from JUNE of 68 B.C. until MARCH of 66 B.C.

  "Brutus, I don't like the look of your skin. Come here to the light, please." The fifteen year old made no sign that he had heard, simply remained hunched over a single sheet of Fannian paper with his reed pen, its ink long since dried, poised in midair. "Come here, Brutus. At once," said his mother placidly. He knew her, so down went the pen; though he wasn't mortally afraid of her, he wasn't about to court her displeasure. One summons might be safely ignored, but a second summons meant she expected to be obeyed, even by him. Rising, he walked across to where Servilia stood by the window, its shutters wide because Rome was sweltering in an unseasonably early heatwave. Though she was short and Brutus had recently begun to grow into what she hoped was going to be tallness, his head was not very far above hers; she put up one hand to clutch his chin, and peered closely at several angry red lumps welling under the skin around his mouth. Her hand released him, moved to push the loose dark curls away from his brow: more eruptions! "How I wish you'd keep your hair cut!" she said, tugging at a lock which threatened to obscure his sight and tugging hard enough to make his eyes water. "Mama, short hair is unintellectual," he protested. "Short hair is practical. It stays off your face and doesn't irritate your skin. Oh, Brutus, what a trial you're becoming!" "If you wanted a crop skulled warrior son, Mama, you should have had more boys with Silanus instead of a couple of girls." "One son is affordable. Two sons stretch the money further than it wants to go. Besides, if I'd given Silanus a son, you wouldn't be his heir as well as your father's." She strode across to the desk where he had been working and stirred the various scrolls upon it with impatient fingers. "Look at this mess! No wonder your shoulders are round and you're swaybacked. Get out onto the Campus Martius with Cassius and the other boys from school, don't waste your time trying to condense the whole of Thucydides onto one sheet of paper." "I happen to write the best epitomes in Rome," said her son, his tone lofty. Servilia eyed him ironically. "Thucydides," she said, "was no profligate with words, yet it took him many books to tell the story of the conflict between Athens and Sparta. What advantage is there in destroying his beautiful Greek so that lazy Romans can crib a bare outline, then congratulate themselves that they know all about the Peloponnesian War?'' "Literature," Brutus persevered, "is becoming too vast for any man to encompass without resorting to summaries." "Your skin is breaking down," said Servilia, returning to what really interested her. "That's common enough in boys my age." "But not in my plans for you." "And may the Gods help anyone or anything not in your plans for me!" he shouted, suddenly angry. "Get dressed, we're going out" was all she answered, and left the room. When he entered the atrium of Silanus's commodious house, Brutus was wearing the purple bordered toga of childhood, for he would not officially become a man until December and the feast of Juventas arrived. His mother was already waiting, and watched him critically as he came toward her. Yes, he definitely was round shouldered, sway backed. Such a lovely little boy he had been! Lovely even last January, when she had commissioned a bust of him from Antenor, the best portrait sculptor in all Italia. But now puberty was asserting itself more aggressively, his early beauty was fading, even to her prejudiced gaze. His eyes were still large and dark and dreamy, interestingly heavy lidded, but his nose wasn't growing into the imposing Roman edifice she had hoped for, remaining stubbornly short and bulb tipped like her own. And the skin which had been so exquisitely olive colored, smooth and flawless, now filled her with dread what if he was going to be one of the horribly unlucky ones and produced such noxious pustules that he scarred? Fifteen was too soon! Fifteen meant a protracted infestation. Pimples! How disgusting and mundane. Well, beginning tomorrow she would make enquiries among the physicians and herbalists and whether he liked it or not, he was going to the Campus Martius every day for proper exercise and tutoring in the martial skills he would need when he turned seventeen and had to enrol in Rome's legions. As a contubernalis, of course, not as a mere ranker soldier; he would be a cadet on the personal staff of some consular commander who would ask for him by name. His birth and status assured it. The steward let them out into the narrow Palatine street; Servilia turned toward the Forum and began to walk briskly, her son hurrying to keep up. "Where are we going?" he asked, still chafing because she had dragged him away from epitomizing Thucydides. "To Aurelia's." Had his mind not been wrestling with the problem of how to pack a mine of information into a single sentence and had the day been more clement his heart would have leaped joyously; instead he groaned. "Oh, not up into the slums today!" "Yes." "It's such a long way, and such a dismal address!" "The address may be dismal, my son, but the lady herself is impeccably connected. Everyone will be there." She paused, her eyes sliding slyly sideways. "Everyone, Brutus, everyone." To which he answered not a word. Her progress rendered easier by two ushering slaves, Servilia clattered down the Kingmakers' Steps into the pandemonium of the Forum Romanum, where all the world adored to gather, listen, watch, wander, rub shoulders with the Mighty. Neither Senate nor one of the Assemblies was meeting today and the courts were on a short vacation, but some of the Mighty were out and about nonetheless, distinguished by the bobbing red thonged bundles of rods their lictors carried shoulder high to proclaim their imperium. "It's so hilly, Mama! Can't you slow down?" panted Brutus as his mother marched up the Clivus Orbius on the far side of the Forum; he was sweating profusely. "If you exercised more, you wouldn't need to complain," said Servilia, unimpressed. Nauseating smells of foetor and decay assailed Brutus's nostrils as the towering tenements of the Subura pressed in and shut out the light of the sun; peeling walls oozed slime, the gutters guided dark and syrupy trickles into gratings, tiny unlit caverns that were shops passed by unnumbered. At least the dank shade made it cooler, but this was a side of Rome young Brutus could happily have done without, "everyone" notwithstanding. Eventually they arrived outside a quite presentable door of seasoned oak, well carved into panels and owning a brightly polished orichalcum knocker in the form of a lion's head with gaping jaws. One of Servilia's attendants plied it vigorously, and the door opened at once. There stood an elderly, rather plump Greek freedman, bowing deeply as he let them in. It was a gathering of women, of course; had Brutus only been old enough to put on his plain white toga virilis, graduate into the ranks of men, he would not have been allowed to accompany his mother. That thought provoked panic Mama must succeed in her petition, he must be able to continue to see his darling love after December and manhood! But betraying none of this, he abandoned Servilia's skirts the moment the gushing greetings began and slunk off into a quiet corner of the squeal filled room, there to do his best to blend into the unpretentious decor. "Brutus, ave," said a light yet husky voice. He turned his head, looked down, felt his chest cave in. "Ave, Julia." "Here, sit with me," the daughter of the house commanded, leading him to a pair of small chairs right in the corner. She settled in one while he lowered himself awkwardly into the other, herself as graceful and composed as a nesting swan. Only eight years old how could she already be so beautiful? wondered the dazzled Brutus, who knew her well because his mother was a great friend of her grandmother's. Fair like ice and snow, chin pointed, cheekbones arched, faintly pink lips as delicious as a strawberry, a pair of widely opened blue eyes that gazed with gentle liveliness on all that they beheld; if Brutus had dipped into the poetry of love, it was because of her whom he had loved for oh, years! Not truly understanding that it was love until quite recently, when she had turned her gaze on him with such a sweet smile that realization had dawned with the shock of a thunderclap. He had gone to his mother that very evening, and informed her that he wished to
marry Julia when she grew up. Servilia had stared, astonished. "My dear Brutus, she's a mere child! You'd have to wait nine or ten years for her." "She'll be betrothed long before she's old enough to marry," he had answered, his anguish plain. "Please, Mama, as soon as her father returns home, petition for her hand in marriage!" "You may well change your mind." "Never, never!" "Her dowry is minute." "But her birth is everything you could want in my wife." "True." The black eyes which could grow so hard rested on his face not unsympathetically; Servilia appreciated the strength of that argument. So she had turned it over in her mind for a moment, then nodded. Very well, Brutus, when her father is next in Rome, I'll ask. You don't need a rich bride, but it is essential that her birth match your own, and a Julia would be ideal. Especially this Julia. Patrician on both sides." And so they had left it to wait until Julia's father returned from his post as quaestor in Further Spain. The most junior of the important magistracies, quaestor. But trust Servilia to know that Julia's father had filled it extremely well. Odd that she had never met him, considering how small a group the true aristocrats of Rome were. She was one; he was another. But, feminine rumor had it, he was something of an outsider among his own kind, too busy for the social round most of his peers cultivated whenever they were in Rome. It would have been easier to sue for his daughter's hand on Brutus's behalf did she know him already, though she had little doubt what his answer would be. Brutus was highly eligible, even in the eyes of a Julian.

  Aurelia's reception room could not compare to a Palatine atrium, but it was quite large enough comfortably to hold the dozen or so women who had invaded it. Open shutters looked out onto what was commonly regarded as a lovely garden, thanks to Gaius Matius in the other ground floor apartment; his was the hand had found roses able to bloom in the shade, coaxed grapevines into scaling the twelve storeys of latticed walls and balconies, trimmed box bushes into perfect globes, and rigged a cunning gravity feed to the chaste marble pool that allowed a rearing two tailed dolphin to spout water from its fearsome mouth. The walls of the reception room were well kept up and painted in the red style, the floor of cheap terrazzo had been burnished to an appealing reddish pink glow, and the ceiling had been painted to simulate a cloud fluffed noon sky, though it could claim no expensive gilding. Not the residence of one of the Mighty, but adequate for a junior senator, Brutus supposed as he sat watching Julia, watching the women; Julia caught him, so he looked too. His mother had seated herself next to Aurelia on a couch, where she managed to display herself to good advantage despite the fact that her hostess was, even at the age of fifty five, still held one of Rome's great beauties. Aurelia's figure was elegantly slim and it suited her to be in repose, for one didn't notice then that when she moved it was too briskly for grace. No hint of grey marred her ice brown hair, and her skin was smooth, creamy. It was she who had recommended Brutus's school to Servilia, for she was Servilia's chief confidante. From that thought Brutus's mind skipped to school, a typical digression for a mind which did tend to wander. His mother had not wished to send Brutus to school, afraid her little boy would be exposed to children of inferior rank and wealth, and worried that his studious nature would be laughed at. Better that Brutus have his own tutor at home. But then Brutus's stepfather had insisted that this only son needed the stimulus and competition of a school. "Some healthy activity and ordinary playmates'' was how Silanus had put it, not precisely jealous of the first place Brutus held in Servilia's heart, more concerned that when Brutus matured he should at least have learned to associate with various kinds of people. Naturally the school Aurelia recommended was an exclusive one, but pedagogues who ran schools had a distressingly independent turn of mind that led them to accept bright boys from less rarefied backgrounds than a Marcus Junius Brutus, not to mention two or three bright girls. With Servilia for mother, it was inevitable that Brutus should hate school, though Gaius Cassius Longinus, the fellow pupil of whom Servilia approved most, was from quite as good a family as a Junius Brutus. Brutus, however, tolerated Cassius only because to do so kept his mother happy. What had he in common with a loud and turbulent boy like Cassius, enamored of war, strife, deeds of great daring? Only the fact that he had quickly become teacher's pet had managed to reconcile Brutus to the awful ordeal of school. And fellows like Cassius. Unfortunately the person Brutus most yearned to call friend was his Uncle Cato; but Servilia refused to hear of his establishing any kind of intimacy with her despised half brother. Uncle Cato was descended, she never tired of reminding her son, from a Tusculan peasant and a Celtiberian slave, whereas in Brutus were united two separate lines of exalted antiquity, one from Lucius Junius Brutus, the founder of the Republic (who had deposed the last King of Rome, Tarquinius Superbus), and the other from Gaius Servilius Ahala (who had killed Maelius when Maelius had attempted to make himself King of Rome some decades into the new Republic). Therefore a Junius Brutus who was through his mother also a patrician Servilius could not possibly associate with upstart trash like Uncle Cato. "But your mother married Uncle Cato's father and had two children by him, Aunt Porcia and Uncle Cato!" Brutus had protested on one occasion. "And thereby disgraced herself forever!" snarled Servilia. "I do not acknowledge either that union or its progeny and neither, my lad, will you!" End of discussion. And the end of all hope that he might be allowed to see Uncle Cato any more frequently than family decency indicated. What a wonderful fellow Uncle Cato was! A true Stoic, enamored of Rome's old austere ways, averse to splash and show, quick to criticize the pretensions to potentatic grandeur of men like Pompey. Pompey the Great. Another upstart dismally lacking in the right ancestors. Pompey who had murdered Brutus's father, made a widow of his mother, enabled a lightweight like sickly Silanus to climb into her bed and sire two bubble headed girls Brutus grudgingly called sisters What are you thinking, Brutus?'' asked Julia, smiling. "Oh, nothing much," he answered vaguely. "That's an evasion. I want the truth!" I was thinking what a terrific fellow my Uncle Cato is." Her wide brow crinkled. "Uncle Cato?" "You wouldn't know him, because he's not old enough to be in the Senate yet. In fact, he's almost as close to my age as he is to Mama's." "Is he the one who wouldn't permit the tribunes of the plebs to pull down an obstructing column inside the Basilica Porcia?'' "That's my Uncle Cato!" said Brutus proudly. Julia shrugged. "My father said it was stupid of him. If the column had been demolished, the tribunes of the plebs would have enjoyed more comfortable headquarters." "Uncle Cato was in the right. Cato the Censor put the column there when he built Rome's first basilica, and there it belongs according to the mos maiorum. Cato the Censor allowed the tribunes of the plebs to use his building as their headquarters because he understood their plight because they are magistrates elected by the Plebs alone, they don't represent the whole People, and can't use a temple as their headquarters. But he didn't give them the building, only the use of a part of it. They were grateful enough then. Now they want to alter what Cato the Censor paid to build. Uncle Cato won't condone the defacement of his great grandfather's landmark and namesake." Since Julia was by nature a peacemaker and disliked argument, she smiled again and rested her hand on Brutus's arm, squeezing it affectionately. He was such a spoiled baby, Brutus, so stuffy and full of self importance, yet she had known him for a long time, and though she didn't quite know why felt very sorry for him. Perhaps it was because his mother was such a a snaky person? "Well, that happened before my Aunt Julia and my mother died, so I daresay no one will ever demolish the column now," she said. "Your father's due home," said Brutus, mind veering to marriage. "Any day." Julia wriggled happily. "Oh, I do miss him!" "They say he's stirring up trouble in Italian Gaul on the far side of the river Padus," said Brutus, unconsciously echoing the subject becoming a lively debate among the group of women around Aurelia and Servilia. "Why should he do that?" Aurelia was asking, straight dark brows knitted. The famous purple eyes were glowering. "Truly, there are times when Rome and Roman noblemen disgust me! Why is it my son they always single out for criticism and political gossip?'' "Because he's too ta
ll, too handsome, too successful with the women, and too arrogant by far," said Cicero's wife, Terentia, as direct as she was sour. "Besides," added she who was married to a famous wordsmith and orator, he has such a wonderful way with both the spoken and the written word." Those qualities are innate, none of them merits the slanders of some I could mention by name!" snapped Aurelia. "Lucullus, you mean?" asked Pompey's wife, Mucia Tertia. "No, he at least can't be blamed for it," Terentia said. "I imagine King Tigranes and Armenia are occupying him to the exclusion of anything in Rome save the knights who can't make enough out of gathering the taxes in his provinces." "Bibulus is who you mean, now he's back in Rome," said a majestic figure seated in the best chair. Alone among a colorful band, she was clad from head to foot in white, so draped that it concealed whatever feminine charms she might have owned. Upon her regal head there reared a crown made of seven layered sausages rolled out of virgin wool; the thin veil draped upon it floated as she swung to look directly at the two women on the couch. Perpennia, chief of the Vestal Virgins, snorted with suppressed laughter. "Oh, poor Bibulus! He never can hide the nakedness of his animosity." "Which goes back to what I said, Aurelia," from Terentia. If your tall, handsome son will make enemies of tiny little fellows like Bibulus, he only has himself to blame when he's slandered. It is the height of folly to make a fool of a man in front of his peers by nicknaming him the Flea. Bibulus is an enemy for life." "What ridiculous nonsense! It happened ten years ago, when both of them were mere youths," said Aurelia. "Come now, you're well aware how sensitive tiny little men are to canards based on their size," said Terentia. "You're from an old political family, Aurelia. Politics is all about a man's public image. Your son injured Bibulus's public image. People still call him the Flea. He'll never forgive or forget." "Not to mention," said Servilia tartly, "that Bibulus has an avid audience for his slurs in creatures like Cato." "What precisely is Bibulus saying?" Aurelia asked, lips set. Oh, that instead of returning directly from Spain to Rome, your son has preferred to foment rebellion among the people in Italian Gaul who don't have the Roman citizenship," said Terentia. "That," said Servilia, "is absolute nonsense!" "And why," asked a man's deep voice, "is it nonsense, lady?" The room fell still until little Julia erupted out of her corner and flew to leap at the newcomer. "Tata! Oh, tata!" Caesar lifted her off the ground, kissed her lips and her cheek, hugged her, smoothed her frosty hair tenderly. "How is my girl?" he asked, smiling for her alone. But "Oh, tata!" was all Julia could find to say, tucking her head into her father's shoulder. "Why is it nonsense, lady?" Caesar repeated, swinging the child comfortably into the crook of his right arm, the smile now that he gazed upon Servilia gone even from his eyes, which looked into hers in a way acknowledging her sex, yet dismissing it as unimportant. "Caesar, this is Servilia, wife of Decimus Junius Silanus," said Aurelia, apparently not at all offended that her son had so far found no time to greet her. "Why, Servilia?" he asked again, nodding at the name. She kept her voice cool and level, measured out her words like a jeweler his gold. "There's no logic in a rumor like that. Why should you bother to foment rebellion in Italian Gaul? If you went among those who don't have the citizenship and promised them that you would work on their behalf to get the franchise for them, it would be fitting conduct for a Roman nobleman who aspires to the consulship. You would simply be enlisting clients, which is proper and admirable for a man climbing the political ladder. I was married to a man who did foment rebellion in Italian Gaul, so I am in a position to know how desperate an alternative it is. Lepidus and my husband Brutus deemed it intolerable to live in Sulla's Rome. Their careers had foundered, whereas yours is just beginning. Ergo, what could you hope to gain by fomenting rebellion anywhere?" "Very true," he said, a trace of amusement creeping into the eyes she had judged a little cold until that spark came. "Certainly true," she answered. "Your career to date at least insofar as I know it suggests to me that if you did tour Italian Gaul talking to non citizens, you were gathering clients." His head went back, he laughed, looked magnificent and, she thought, knew very well that he looked magnificent. This man would do nothing without first calculating its effect on his audience, though the instinct telling her that was purely that, an instinct; he gave not a vestige of his calculation away. "It is true that I gathered clients." "There you are then," said Servilia, producing a smile of her own at the left corner of her small and secretive mouth. "No one can reproach you for that, Caesar." After which she added grandly, and in the most condescending tone, "Don't worry, I'll make sure the correct version of the incident is circulated." But that was going too far. Caesar was not about to be patronized by a Servilian, patrician branch of the clan or no; his eyes left her with a contemptuous flick, then rested on Mucia Tertia among the women, who had all listened enthralled to this exchange. He put little Julia down and went to clasp both Mucia Tertia's hands warmly. "How are you, wife of Pompeius?" he asked. She looked confused, muttered something inaudible. Soon he passed to Cornelia Sulla, who was Sulla's daughter and his own first cousin. One by one he worked his way around the group, all of whom he knew save for Servilia. Who watched his progress with great admiration once she had coped with the shock of his cutting her. Even Perpennia succumbed to the charm, and as for Terentia that redoubtable matron positively simpered! But then remained only his mother, to whom he came last. "Mater, you look well." "I am well. And you," she said in that dryly prosaic deep voice of hers, "look healed." A remark which wounded him in some way, thought Servilia, startled. Aha! There are undercurrents here! "I am fully healed," he said calmly as he sat down on the couch next to her, but on the far side of her from Servilia. "Is this party for any reason?" he asked. "It's our club. We meet once every eight days at someone's house. Today is my turn." At which he rose, excusing himself on grounds of travel stains, though Servilia privately thought she had never seen a more immaculate traveler. But before he could leave the room Julia came up to him leading Brutus by the hand. "Tata, this is my friend Marcus Junius Brutus." The smile and the greeting were expansive; Brutus was clearly impressed (as no doubt he was meant to be impressed, thought Servilia, still smarting). "Your son?" asked Caesar over Brutus's shoulder. "Yes." "And do you have any by Silanus?" he asked. "No, just two daughters." One brow flew up; Caesar grinned. Then he was gone. And somehow after that the rest of the party was not quite an ordeal, more an insipid affair. It broke up well before the dinner hour, with Servilia a deliberate last to leave. I have a certain matter I wish to discuss with Caesar," she said to Aurelia at the door, with Brutus hanging behind her making sheep's eyes at Julia. "It wouldn't be seemly for me to come with his clients, so I was wondering if you would arrange that I see him in private. Fairly soon." "Certainly," said Aurelia. "I'll send a message." No probing from Aurelia, nor even evidence of curiosity. That was a woman strictly minded her own business, thought the mother of Brutus with some gratitude, and departed.