The Grass Crown (22 page)

This was Rome without her daytime vividness, the rich colors in which everything was painted bled to greys and glitters. Not that the city was quiet; torches flickered everywhere in dark alleys, the rumblings of carts and the bellowing of oxen drifted up to her ears because many of Rome’s shops and tradesmen took advantage of the lack of crowds night afforded, and had their goods delivered then. A group of drunken men weaved across the open space of the lower Forum, singing a popular ditty about—what else?—love. Quite a large escort of slaves shepherded a carefully closed litter between the Basilica Sempronia and the temple of Castor and Pollux—some important lady going home after a dinner party, no doubt. A tomcat on the prowl squalled his come-hithers at the moon and a dozen dogs began to bark, all of which amused the drunks so much that one of them lost his footing as they skirted the round black well of the Comitia, and tumbled down its tiers amid shouts of mirth from his friends.

Livia Drusa’s eyes strayed back to the loggia of the Domitius Ahenobarbus house below, and rested upon its vacant expanse wistfully. A long time ago, it seemed—before her marriage, at any rate—she had been cut off from all companionship, even of girls her own age, and had filled her empty life with books; and fallen in love with someone, someone she had no hope of meeting. In those days she used to sit here during the hours of sunlight and watch that balcony beneath for the tall, red-haired young man who had so strongly attracted her that she wove whole fantasies around him, pretending he was King Odysseus of Ithaca and she was his faithful Queen Penelope, waiting for him to come home. For years the very infrequent glimpses she caught of him—for he was not a frequent visitor, she decided—were sufficient to fuel this private, tormenting enchantment, a state of mind that had persisted after her marriage, and only served to increase her misery. His identity eluded her, though she knew he was not a Domitius Ahenobarbus, for that was a squat family, albeit red-haired; all the Famous Families had a look about them, and he did not look like an Ahenobarbus.

Never would she forget the day of her disillusionment; it had been the day her father-in-law was convicted of treason in the Plebeian Assembly; the day her brother’s steward, Cratippus, had hurried across to the other side of the Palatine and plucked her and baby Servilia out of the Servilius Caepio house, brought them here for safety. Quite a day, that one had been! For the first time, watching Servilia Caepionis with Drusus, she saw how a wife could play up to her husband; for the first time she realized women were not always excluded from serious family discussions; for the first time she had tasted unwatered wine. And then, when all the upheavals had seemed over and done with, Servilia Caepionis had supplied the tall, red-haired Odysseus on the loggia below with a name. Marcus Porcius Cato Salonianus. No king, he! Not even a true nobleman, but the grandson of a Tusculan peasant on one side and the great-grandson of a Celtiberian slave on the other.

In that moment, Livia Drusa had grown up.

“There you are!” said Caepio’s voice sharply. “What are you doing out here in the freezing cold, woman? Come inside!”

Obediently Livia Drusa rose and went to her hateful bed.

At the end of February, Quintus Servilius Caepio left on his journey, having told Livia Drusa that she must not expect him back for at least a year, perhaps longer. That had surprised her until he explained that it was essential, having sunk all his money into this venture in Italian Gaul, that he stay there to supervise every aspect of it. His sexual attentions had been many and prolonged, for—he said—he wanted a son, and it would keep her occupied in his absence if she became pregnant. During the earlier years of her marriage these intimacies had distressed her greatly, but after she learned the name of her adored red-haired King Odysseus, Caepio’s lovemaking had simply become a boring inconvenience unattended by revulsion. Saying nothing to her husband of her own plans to fill in the time while he was away, she waved him off; she then waited one market interval of eight days before seeking an interview with her brother.

“Marcus Livius, I have a great favor to ask,” she began, seated in his client’s chair; she looked surprised, laughed. “Ye gods! Do you know this is the first time I’ve sat here since the day you persuaded me to marry Quintus Servilius?”

Drusus’s olive skin darkened. He looked down at his hands, folded on his desk. “Eight years ago,” he said neutrally.

“Yes, it was,” she said, then laughed again. “However, I did not sit myself here today to talk about what happened eight years ago, brother. I’m here to ask a favor.”

“If I can grant it, Livia Drusa, I would be very pleased,” he said, grateful that she was letting him off so lightly.

Many times he had longed to apologize to her, beg her to forgive him for that dreadful mistake; her constant unhappiness had not been lost on him, and it was he who had had to admit to himself that hers had been the true reading of Caepio’s dreary character. But pride had stoppered up his mouth, and always at the back of his mind had lurked the conviction that, in marrying her to Caepio, he had at least averted any possibility she might turn out like her mother. That frightful woman had embarrassed him for years by turning up—in conversation, at least—as someone’s butt after a particularly sordid love affair had foundered, as they always, always did.

“Well?” he prompted when Livia Drusa did not go on.

Frowning, she licked her lips, then raised her lovely eyes to look directly at him. “Marcus Livius, for a very long time I have been aware that my husband and I have outstayed our welcome.”

“You’re wrong,” he countered quickly, “but if in any way I have inadvertently given you that impression, then I apologize. Truly, sister, you have always been welcome—and you always will be welcome in my house.”

“I thank you. However, what I said is a fact. You and Servilia Caepionis have never had a chance to be alone, which may be one reason why she has failed to conceive.”

He winced. “I doubt it.”

“I do not.” She leaned forward earnestly. “Times are tranquil at the moment, Marcus Livius. You have no office in the government and you have had little Drusus Nero long enough to make the possibility of a child of your own much greater. So the old women say—and I believe them.”

Finding all this painful, he said, “Get to the point, do!”

“The point is that while Quintus Servilius is away, I would very much like to remove myself and my children to the country,” said Livia Drusa. “You have a little villa near Tusculum, which isn’t more than half a day’s journey from Rome. No one has lived in the house for years. Please, Marcus Livius, give it to me for a while! Let me live on my own!”

His eyes searched her face, looking for any evidence that she was planning some indiscretion. But he could find none.

“Did you ask Quintus Servilius?”

Keeping her eyes looking into his, Livia Drusa said steadily, “Of course I did.”

“He didn’t mention it to me.”

“How extraordinary!” She smiled. “But how like him!”

That provoked a laugh. “Well, sister, I can’t see why not, since Quintus Servilius said yes. As you say, Tusculum isn’t very far from Rome. I can keep an eye on you.”

Face transfigured, Livia Drusa thanked her brother profusely.

“When do you want to go?”

She rose to her feet. “At once. May I ask Cratippus to organize everything?”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, Livia Drusa, you’ll be missed. So will your daughters.”

“After putting an extra tail on the horse and changing the bunch of grapes to rather lurid apples?”

“It could as easily have been Drusus Nero in a couple of years’ time,” he said. “If you think about it, we were lucky. The paint was still wet, no harm was done. Father’s works of art are quite safe in the cellar, and there they’ll stay until the last child is fully grown.”

He rose too; they walked together down the colonnade to the mistress’s sitting room, where Servilia Caepionis was busy on her loom, weaving blankets for little Drusus Nero’s new bed.

“Our sister wants to leave us,” said Drusus, entering.

There could be no mistaking his wife’s dismay—nor her guilty pleasure. “Oh, Marcus Livius, that’s too bad! Why?”

But Drusus beat a quick retreat, leaving his sister to do her own explaining.

“I’m taking the girls to the villa at Tusculum. We’re going to live there until Quintus Servilius comes home again.”

“The villa at Tusculum?” asked Servilia Caepionis blankly. “But my dear Livia Drusa, it’s a tumbledown wreck of a place! It belonged to the first Livius, I believe.

There’s no bath or latrine, no decent kitchen, and it won’t be big enough.”

“I don’t care,” said Livia Drusa. She lifted her sister-in-law’s hand and held it to her cheek. “Dear lady of this house, I would live in a hovel for the chance to be the lady of a house! I don’t say that to hurt you, nor is it a reproach. From the day your brother and I moved in here, you have been graciousness itself. But you must understand my position. I want my own house. I want servants who don’t call me dominilla and take no notice of anything I say because they’ve known me since I was a baby. I want a bit of land to walk on, a bit of freedom from the crush of this dreadful city. Oh, please, Servilia Caepionis, understand!”

Two tears rolled down the cheeks of the lady of the house, and her lip quivered. “I do understand,” she said.

“Don’t grieve, be happy for me!”

They embraced, in full accord.

“I shall find Marcus Livius and Cratippus at once,” said Servilia Caepionis briskly, putting away her work and covering the loom against dust. “I insist that builders be hired to turn that antique villa into something comfortably livable for you.”

But Livia Drusa would not wait. Three days later she had packed up her daughters, her many buckets of books, Caepio’s very few servants, and set out for the farm at Tusculum.

Though she hadn’t visited it since childhood, she found it quite unchanged—a small plastered house painted a bilious yellow, with no garden to speak of, no proper facilities, very little air or light inside, and no peristyle. However, her brother had not wasted time; the place already teemed with the employees of a local builder, who was there in person to greet her, and promised that within two months the house would be livable.

Thus Livia Drusa installed herself amid a controlled chaos—plaster dust, the noise of hammers and mallets and saws, a constant volley of instructions and queries shouted in the broad Latin of Tusculans who might live only fifteen miles from Rome, but rarely if ever went there. Her daughters reacted typically; half-past-four-year-old Lilla was entranced, whereas that composed and secretive child Servilia all too obviously loathed the house, the building activity, and her mother, not necessarily in that order. However, Servilia’s mood was unobtrusive; Lilla’s boisterous participation in everything only added to the chaos.

Having placed her daughters under the charge of their nurse and Servilia’s dour old tutor, Livia Drusa set out the next morning to walk through the peace and beauty of the deep winter countryside, hardly able to believe that she had thrown off the shackles of a long imprisonment.

Though the calendar said it was spring, deep winter it was. Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus had not prodded the College of Pontifices he headed to do their duty and keep the shorter calendar year in time with the seasons. Not that Rome and her environs had endured a harsh winter that year; of snow there had been little, and the Tiber hadn’t frozen over at all. Thus the temperature was well above freezing, the wind was no more than an occasional breath, and there was good grass underfoot.

Happier than she had ever been in all her life, Livia Drusa wandered across the home field, clambered over a low stone wall, walked carefully around the perimeter of a field already under the plough, climbed another stone wall, and entered a place of grass and sheep. All bound up in their leather coats, the silly creatures galloped away from her when she tried to call them to her; shrugging and smiling, she walked on.

Beyond that field she found a boundary stone painted white, and beside it a little towered shrine, the ground before it still marked with the blood of some sacrifice. In the lowest branches of an overhanging tree there bobbed little woolen dolls, little woolen balls, and heads of garlic, all looking weatherworn and drab. Beyond the shrine was a clay pot turned upside down; curiously Livia Drusa lifted it, then dropped it back in a hurry; under it lay the decomposing body of a big toad.

Too citified to understand that if she went any further she would be trespassing—and that she was now on the land of someone scrupulous in his attentions to the gods of the soil and of boundaries—Livia Drusa strolled on. When she found the first crocus she knelt to look at its vivid yellow flower, rose again to gaze into the naked branches of the trees with an appreciation so new that trees might have been invented just for her.

An orchard of apples and pears came next, some of the pears still unpicked, a temptation to which Livia Drusa happily succumbed, finding her pear so sweet and juicy her hands became a sticky mess. Somewhere she could hear water running, so she walked through the carefully tended trees in the direction of the sound until she came upon a little brook. Its water was icy, but she didn’t care; she dabbled her hands and laughed softly to herself as she shook them dry in the sun, now high enough to have warmed the air. Off came her palla wrap; still kneeling beside the stream, she spread the huge piece of cloth out and folded it into a rectangle she could carry, then rose to her feet. And saw him.

He had been reading. The scroll was in his left hand, curled up again because he had quite forgotten it, so fixedly was he staring at this invader of his orchard. King Odysseus of Ithaca! Encountering his eyes, Livia Drusa caught her breath, for they were the very eyes of King Odysseus, large and grey and beautiful.

“Hello,” she called, smiling at him without shyness or any kind of discomfort. Having watched him for so many years from her balcony, he seemed indeed the wanderer returned at this moment, a man she knew at least as well as Queen Penelope had known her King Odysseus. So she threw the folded palla over her arm and began to walk toward him, still smiling, still talking.

“I stole a pear,” she said. “It was delicious! I didn’t know pears hung so long on trees. Whenever I go out of Rome, I go to the seaside in summer, and it isn’t the same.”

He said nothing, just followed her approach with those grey and luminous eyes.

I still love you, she was saying within herself. I still love you! I don’t care if you’re the progeny of a slave and a peasant. I love you. Like Penelope, I had forgotten love. But here you are again after so many years, and I still love you.

When she stopped, she was too close to him for this to be the chance encounter of two strangers; he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, and the big dark eyes looking now into his own were filled with recognition. With love. With welcome. It therefore seemed absolutely natural to step a very few inches closer to her, to put his arms around her. She put her face up and her arms about his neck, and both of them were smiling as they kissed. Old friends, old lovers, a husband and wife who had not seen each other for twenty years, torn apart by the machinations of others, divine and human. Triumphant in this reunion.

The sure strong touch of his hands was a recognition, she had no need to tell him where to go, what was fitting; he was the king of her heart, and always had been. As gravely as a child placed in charge of some precious treasure, she bared and offered him her breasts, went about him taking his clothes while he spread out her wrap upon the ground, then lay down beside him. Trembling her pleasure, she kissed his neck and sucked the lobe of his ear, held his face between her hands and found his mouth once more, caressed his body blissfully, mumbled a thousand endearments against his tongue.

Fruit, sweet and sticky—thin bare twigs tangled amid a bluest sky—the jerky pain of hair caught too tight—a tiny bird with stilled wings glued to the tendrils of a webby cloud—a huge lump of packed-down exultation struggling to be born, then suddenly soaring free, free—oh, in such an ecstasy!

They lay together on their clothing for hours, keeping each other warm with skin on skin, smiling foolishly at each other, amazed at finding each other, innocent of transgression, enmeshed in the deliciousness of all kinds of discoveries.

They talked too. He was married, she learned—to one Cuspia, daughter of a publicanus, and his sister was married to Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, the younger brother of the Pontifex Maximus; dowering his sister had been a staggering expense, one he had only managed to achieve by marrying his Cuspia, whose father was enormously wealthy. There were as yet no children, for he too could find nothing to admire or love in his spouse—she was, he said, already complaining to her father that he neglected her.

When Livia Drusa told him who she was, Marcus Porcius Cato Salonianus grew very still.

“Are you angry?” she asked, lifting herself up to look down on him anxiously.

He smiled, shook his head. “How can I be angry when the gods have answered me? They set you down here on the lands of my forefathers for me. The moment I saw you at the stream, I knew it. And if you are connected to so many powerful families, it must be yet another sign that I am indeed favored.”