Caesar's Women (2 page)

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 tall, 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.

* * *

Was it good to be home? Over fifteen months away. Not the first time nor the longest time, but this time had been official, and that made a difference. Because Governor Antistius Vetus had not taken a legate to Further Spain with him, Caesar had been the second most important Roman in the province—assizes, finances, administration. A lonely life, galloping from one end of Further Spain to the other at his usual headlong pace; no time to form real friendships with other Romans. Typical perhaps that the one man he had warmed to was not a Roman; typical too that Antistius Vetus the governor had not warmed to his second-in-command, though they got on well enough together and shared an occasional, rather business-filled conversation over dinner whenever they happened to be in the same city. If there was one difficulty about being a patrician of the Julii Caesares, it was that all his seniors to date were only too aware how much greater and more august his ancestry was than theirs. To a Roman of any kind, illustrious ancestors mattered more than anything else. And he always reminded his seniors of Sulla. The lineage, the obvious brilliance and efficiency, the striking physical appearance, the icy eyes …

So was it good to be home? Caesar stared at the beautiful tidiness of his study, every surface dusted, every scroll in its bucket or pigeonhole, the pattern of elaborate leaves and flowers in the marquetry of his desk top on full display, only a ram's horn inkstand and a clay cup of pens to obscure it.

At least the initial entry into his home had been more bearable than he had anticipated. When Eutychus had opened the door upon a scene of chattering women, his first impulse had been to run, but then he realized this was an excellent beginning; the emptiness of a home without his darling Cinnilla there would remain internal, need not be spoken. Sooner or later little Julia would bring it up, but not in those first moments, not until his eyes had grown accustomed to Cinnilla's absence, and would not fill with tears. He hardly remembered this apartment without her, who had lived as his sister before she was old enough to be wife, a part of his childhood as well as his manhood. Dear lady she had been, who now was ashes in a cold dark tomb.

His mother walked in, composed and aloof as always.

“Who's been spreading rumors about my visit to Italian Gaul?” he asked, drawing up a chair for her close to his own.

“Bibulus.”

“I see.” He sat down, sighing. “Well, that was only to be expected, I suppose. One can't insult a flea like Bibulus the way I insulted him and not become his enemy for the rest of one's days. How I disliked him!”

“How he continues to dislike you.”

“There are twenty quaestors, and I had luck. The lots gave me a post far from Bibulus. But he's almost exactly two years older than me, which means we'll always be in office together as we rise up the cursus honorum.”

“So you intend to take advantage of Sulla's dispensation for patricians, and stand for curule office two years earlier than plebeians like Bibulus,” said Aurelia, making it a statement.

“I'd be a fool not to, and a fool I am not, Mater,” said her son. “If I run for election as a praetor in my thirty-seventh year, I will have been in the Senate for sixteen of those years without counting the flamen Dialis years. That is quite long enough for any man to wait.”