Caesar's Women (97 page)

The next stop was her mirror, a gift from tata that avia did not approve of, for it was mounted on a pivoted stand and its highly polished silver surface reflected the viewer from head to foot. She took off all her clothes and considered herself. Too thin! Hardly any breasts! No dimples! Whereupon she burst into tears, cast herself upon her bed and wept herself to sleep, the hand he had kissed tucked against her cheek.

“She threw Pompeius's bust out,” said Aurelia to Caesar the next morning.

“Edepol! I really thought she liked him.”

“Nonsense, Caesar, it's an excellent sign! She is no longer satisfied with a replica, she wants the real man.”

“You relieve me.” Caesar picked up his beaker of hot water and lemon juice, sipped it with what looked like enjoyment. “He's coming to dinner again today, used a trip to Campania tomorrow as an excuse for coming back so soon.”

“Today will complete the conquest,” said Aurelia.

Caesar grinned. “I think the conquest was complete the moment she walked into the dining room. I've known Pompeius for years, and he's hooked so thoroughly he hasn't even felt the barb. Don't you remember the day he arrived at Aunt Julia's to claim Mucia?”

“Yes, I do. Vividly. Reeking of attar of roses and as silly as a foal in a field. He wasn't at all like that yesterday.”

“He's grown up a bit. Mucia was older than he. The attraction isn't the same. Julia is seventeen, he's now forty-six.” Caesar shuddered. “Mater, that's nearly thirty years' difference in ages! Am I being too coldblooded? I wouldn't have her unhappy.”

“She won't be. Pompeius seems to have the knack of pleasing his wives as long as he remains in love with them. He'll never fall out of love with Julia, she's his vanished youth.” Aurelia cleared her throat, went a little red. “I am sure you are a splendid lover, Caesar, but living with a woman not of your own family bores you. Pompeius enjoys married life—provided the woman is suitable for his ambitions. He can look no higher than a Julia.”

He didn't seem to want to look any higher than a Julia. If anything saved Pompey's reputation after Cato's attack, it was the daze Julia induced in him as he went round the Forum that morning, having quite forgotten that he had resolved never to appear in public again. As it was, he drifted here and there to talk to anyone who appeared, and was so transparently unconcerned about the Cato diatribe that many decided yesterday's reaction had been pure shock. Today there was no resentment and no embarrassment.

She filled the inside of his eyes; her image transposed itself on every face he looked at. Child and woman all at one. Goddess too. So feminine, so beautifully mannered, so unaffected! Had she liked him? She seemed to, yet nothing in her behavior could he interpret as a signal, a lure. But she was betrothed. To Brutus. Not only callow, but downright ugly. How could a creature so pure and untainted bear all those disgusting pimples? Of course they'd been contracted for years, so the match wasn't of her asking. In social and political terms it was an excellent union. There were also the fruits of the Gold of Tolosa.

And after dinner in the Domus Publica that afternoon it was on the tip of Pompey's tongue to ask for her, Brutus notwithstanding. What held him back? That old dread of lowering himself in the eyes of a nobleman as patrician as Gaius Julius Caesar. Who could give his daughter to anyone in Rome. Had given her to an aristocrat of clout and wealth and ancestry. Men like Caesar didn't stop to think how the girl might feel, or consider her wishes. Any more, he supposed, than he did himself. His own daughter was promised to Faustus Sulla for one reason only: Faustus Sulla was the product of a union between a patrician Cornelius Sulla—the greatest ever of his family—and the granddaughter of Metellus Calvus the Bald, daughter of Metellus Dalmaticus—who had first been wife to Scaurus Princeps Senatus.

No, Caesar would have no wish to break off a legal contract with a Junius Brutus adopted into the Servilii Caepiones in order to give his only child to a Pompeius from Picenum! Dying to ask, Pompey would never ask. So oceans deep in love and unable to banish this goddess from the forefront of his mind, Pompey went off to Campania on land committee business and accomplished almost nothing. He burned for her; he wanted her as he had never wanted in his life before. And went back to the Domus Publica for yet another dinner the day after he returned to Rome.

Yes, she was glad to see him! By this third meeting they had reached a stage whereat she held out her hand expecting him to kiss it lightly, and plunged immediately into a conversation which excluded Caesar and his mother, left to avoid each other's eyes in case they fell about laughing. The meal proceeded to its end.

“When do you marry Brutus?” Pompey asked her then, low-voiced.

“In January or February of next year. Brutus wanted to marry this year, but tata said no. I must be eighteen.”

“Arid when are you eighteen?”

“On the Nones of January.”

“It's the beginning of May, so that's eight months off.”

Her face changed, a look of distress crept into her eyes. Yet she answered with absolute composure. “Not very long.”

“Do you love Brutus?”

That question provoked a tiny inward panic, it reflected itself in her gaze, for she would not—could not?— look away. “He and I have been friends since I was little. I will learn to love him.”

“What if you fall in love with someone else?''

She blinked away what looked suspiciously like moisture. “I can't let that happen, Gnaeus Pompeius.”

“Don't you think it might happen in spite of resolutions?”

“Yes, I think it might,” she said gravely.

“What would you do then?”

“Endeavor to forget.”

He smiled. “That seems a shame.”

“It would not be honorable, Gnaeus Pompeius, so I would have to forget. If love can grow, it can also die.”

He looked very sad. “I've seen a lot of death in my time, Julia. Battlefields, my mother, my poor father, my first wife. But it's never something I can view with dispassion. At least,” he added honestly, “not from where I stand now. I'd hate to see anything that grew in you have to die.”

The tears were too close, she would have to leave. “Will you excuse me, tata?” she asked of her father.

“Are you feeling well, Julia?” Caesar asked.

“A little headache, that's all.”

“I think you must excuse me as well, Caesar,” said Aurelia, rising. “If she has a headache, she'll need some syrup of poppies.”

Which left Caesar and Pompey alone. An inclination of the head, and Eutychus supervised the clearing away of the dishes. Caesar poured Pompey unwatered wine.

“You and Julia get on well together,” he said.

“It would be a stupid man who didn't get on well with her,” Pompey said gruffly. “She's unique.”

“I like her too.” Caesar smiled. “In all her little life she's never caused a trouble, never given me an argument, never committed a peccatum.”

“She doesn't love that awkward, shambling fellow Brutus.”

“I am aware of it,” Caesar said tranquilly.

“Then how can you let her marry him?” Pompey demanded, irate.

“How can you let Pompeia marry Faustus Sulla?”

“That's different.”

“In what way?”

“Pompeia and Faustus Sulla are in love!”

“Were they not, would you break the engagement off?”

“Of course not!”

“Then there you are.” Caesar refilled the goblet.

“Still,” Pompey said after a pause, gazing into the rosy depths of his wine, “it seems a special shame with Julia. My Pompeia is a lusty, strapping girl, always roaring round the house. She'll be able to look after herself. Whereas Julia's so frail.”

“An illusion,” said Caesar. “Julia's actually very strong.”

“Oh yes, that she is. But every bruise will show.”

Startled, Caesar turned his head to look into Pompey's eyes. “That was a very perceptive remark, Magnus. It's out of character.”

“Maybe I just see her more clearly than I do other people.”

“Why should you do that?”

“Oh, I don't know.…”

“Are you in love with her, Magnus?”

Pompey looked away. “What man wouldn't be?” he muttered.

“Would you like to marry her?”

The stem of the goblet, solid silver, snapped; wine went on the table and floor, but Pompey never even noticed. He shuddered, threw the bowl of the vessel down, “I would give everything I am and have to marry her!”

“Well then,” Caesar said placidly, “I had better get moving.”

Two enormous eyes fixed themselves on Caesar's face; Pompey drew a deep breath. “You mean you'd give her to me?”

“It would be an honor.”

“Oh!” gasped Pompey, flung himself backward on the couch and nearly fell off it. “Oh, Caesar!—whatever you want, whenever you want it—I'll take care of her, you'll never regret it, she'll be better treated than the Queen of Egypt!”

“I sincerely hope so!” said Caesar, laughing. “One hears that the Queen of Egypt has been supplanted by her husband's half sister from an Idumaean concubine.”

But all and any answers were wasted on Pompey, who continued to lie gazing ecstatically at the ceiling. Then he rolled over. “May I see her?” he asked.

“I think not, Magnus. Go home like a good fellow and leave me to disentangle the threads this day has woven. The Servilius Caepio cum Junius Silanus household will be in an uproar.”

“I'll pay her dowry to Brutus,” Pompey said instantly.

“You will not,” said Caesar, holding out his hand. “Get up, man, get up!” He grinned. “I confess I never thought to have a son-in-law six years older than I am!”

“Am I too old for her? I mean, in ten years' time—”

“Women,” said Caesar as he guided Pompey in the direction of the door, “are very strange, Magnus. I have often noticed that they don't seem prone to look elsewhere if they're happy at home.”

“Mucia, you're hinting.”

“You left her alone for so long, that was the trouble. Don't do it to my daughter, who wouldn't betray you if you stayed away for twenty years, but would definitely not thrive.”

“My military days are done,” said Pompey. He stopped, wet his lips nervously. “When can we marry? She said you wouldn't let her marry Brutus until she turned eighteen.”

“What's suitable for Brutus and suitable for Pompeius Magnus are two different things. May is unlucky for weddings, but if it's within the next three days the omens aren't too bad. Two days hence, then.”

“I'll come round tomorrow.”

“You won't come round again until the wedding day—and don't chatter about it to anyone, even your philosophers,” said Caesar, shutting the door firmly in Pompey's face.

“Mater! Mater!” the prospective father-in-law shouted from the bottom of the front stairs.

Down came his mother at a clip not appropriate for a respected Roman matron of her years. “Is it?” she asked, hands clasped about his right forearm, her eyes shining.

“It is. We've done it, Mater, we've done it! He's gone home somewhere up in the aether, and looking like a schoolboy.”

“Oh, Caesar! He's yours now no matter what!”

“And that is no exaggeration. How about Julia?”

“She'll leave us for the moon when she knows. I've been upstairs listening patiently to a weepy jumble of apologies for falling in love with Pompeius Magnus and protests at having to marry a dreary bore like Brutus. It all came out because Pompeius pressed his suit over dinner.” Aurelia sighed through the midst of a huge smile. “How lovely, my son! We've succeeded in getting what we want, yet we've also made two other people extremely happy. A good day's work!”

“A better day's work than tomorrow will bring.”

Aurelia's face fell. “Servilia.”

“I was going to say, Brutus.”

“Oh yes, poor young man! But it isn't Brutus who'll plunge the dagger in. I'd watch Servilia.”

Eutychus coughed delicately, slyly concealing his pleasure; trust the senior servants of a household to know which way the wind blew!

“What is it?” Caesar asked.

“Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is at the outside door, Caesar, but he refuses to come in. He said he'd like a quick word with you.”

“I've had a brilliant idea!” cried Pompey, feverishly wringing Caesar's hand.

“No more visits today, Magnus, please! What idea?”

“Tell Brutus I'd be delighted to give him Pompeia in exchange for Julia. I'll dower her with whatever he asks—five hundred, a thousand—makes no difference to me. More important to keep him happy than oblige Faustus Sulla, eh?”

By an Herculean effort Caesar kept his face straight. “Why, thank you, Magnus. I'll relay the offer, but don't do anything rash. Brutus mightn't feel like marrying anyone for a while.”

Off went Pompey for the second time, waving cheerfully.

“What was all that about?” asked Aurelia.

“He wants to give Brutus his own daughter in exchange for Julia. Faustus Sulla can't compete with the Gold of Tolosa, it seems. Still, it's good to see Magnus back in character. I was beginning to wonder at his newfound sensitivity and perception.”

“You surely won't mention his offer to Brutus and Servilia?”

“I'll have to. But at least I have time to compose a tactful reply to deliver to my future son-in-law. Mind you, it's as well he lives on the Carinae. Any closer to the Palatine and he'd hear what Servilia said for himself.”

“When is the wedding to be? May and June are so unlucky!”

“Two days from now. Make offerings, Mater. So will I. I'd rather it was an accomplished thing before Rome gets to know.” He bent to kiss his mother's cheek. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off to see Marcus Crassus.”

As she knew perfectly well why he was seeking Crassus without needing to ask, Caesar's mother went off to swear Eutychus to silence and plan the wedding feast. What a pity secrecy meant no guests. Still, Cardixa and Burgundus could act as witnesses, and the Vestal Virgins help the Pontifex Maximus officiate.

“Burning the midnight oil as usual?” Caesar asked.

Crassus jumped, splattering ink across his neat rows of Ms, Cs, Ls and Xs. “Will you please stop picking the lock on my door?”

“You don't leave me an alternative, though if you like I'll rig up a bell and cord for you. I'm quite deedy at that sort of thing,” said Caesar, strolling up the room.