The Grass Crown (27 page)

She cheered up at once. “He will send for me, he will,” she said, walking with her uncle onto the colonnade.

“Now go with Stratonice,” said Drusus, and added sternly, “Try to be discreet, Servilia. For your aunt’s sake as well as your father’s—yes, your father’s!—you cannot say a word about what has transpired here this morning.”

“How can my talking hurt him? He’s the victim.”

“No man enjoys the humbling of his pride, Servilia. Take my word for it, your father won’t thank you if you chatter.”

Servilia shrugged, went off with her nursemaid; Drusus went then to visit his wife, and told her as much as he thought she needed to know. To his surprise, she took the news tranquilly.

“I’m just glad we know now what the matter is,” she said, remaining wrapped round by the bloom of her pregnancy. “Poor Livia Drusa! I am afraid, Marcus Livius, that I do not like my brother very much. The older he becomes, the more intractable he seems to get. Though I remember that when we were children, he used to torment the slaves’ children.”

Back to Livia Drusa, who was still sitting in the client’s chair, apparently composed.

He sat down again. “What a morning! Little did I know what I was unleashing when I asked Cratippus why he and the servants were so unhappy.”

“Were they unhappy?” asked Livia Drusa, puzzled.

“Yes. Because of you, my dear. They had heard Caepio beating you. You mustn’t forget they’ve known you all your life. They’re extremely fond of you, Livia Drusa.”

“Oh, how nice! I had no idea.”

“Nor did I, I confess. Ye gods, I’ve been dense! And I am very, very sorry for this mess.”

“Don’t be.” She sighed. “Did he take Servilia?”

Drusus grimaced. “No. He locked her in your room.”

“Oh, poor little thing! She adores him so!”

“I gathered that. I just can’t understand it.”

“What happens now, Marcus Livius?”

He shrugged. “To be honest, I haven’t the faintest inkling! Perhaps the best thing all of us can do is to behave as normally as possible under the circumstances, and wait to hear from—” He nearly said Caepio, as he had been doing all morning, but forced himself back to the old courtesy, and said, “Quintus Servilius.”

“And if he divorces me, as I imagine he will?”

“Then you’re well rid of him, I’d say.”

Livia Drusa’s major preoccupation now surfaced; she said anxiously, “What about Marcus Porcius Cato?”

“This man matters a great deal to you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he matters.”

“Is the boy his, Livia Drusa?”

How often she had worked at this in her mind! What would she say when some member of the family queried her son’s coloring, or his growing likeness to Marcus Porcius Cato? It seemed to her that Caepio owed her something in return for the years of patient servitude, her model behavior—and those beatings. Her son had a name. If she declared that Cato was his sire, he lost that name—and, given that he had been born under that name, he could not escape the taint of illegitimacy did she deny it to him. The date of his birth did not exclude Caepio as his father; she was the only person who knew beyond any doubt that Caepio was not his father.

“No, Marcus Livius, my son is Quintus Servilius’s child,” she said firmly. “My liaison with Marcus Porcius began after I knew I was pregnant.”

“It is a pity then that he has red hair,” said Drusus, no expression on his face.

Livia Drusa smiled wryly. “Have you never noticed the tricks Fortune delights in playing upon us mortals?” she asked. “From the time I met Marcus Porcius, I had a feeling Fortune was plotting cleverly. So when little Quintus came out with red hair, I was not at all surprised—though I am aware no one will believe me.”

“I will stand by you, sister,” said Drusus. “Through thick and thin, I will lend you every iota of support I can.”

Tears gathered in Livia Drusa’s eyes. “Oh, Marcus Livius, I do thank you for that!”

“It is the least I can do.” He cleared his throat. “As for Servilia Caepionis, you may rest assured she will support me—and therefore you.”

Caepio sent the divorce notification later that day, and followed it up with a private letter to Drusus that had Drusus metaphorically winded.

“Do you know what that insect says?” he demanded of his sister, who had been seen by several physicians, and was now relegated to her bed.

As she was lying on her stomach while two medical acolytes plastered the back of her from shoulders to ankles with bruise-drawing poultices, it was difficult for her to see Drusus’s face; she had to twist her neck until she could glimpse him out of the corners of her eyes. “What does he say?” she asked.

“First of all, he denies paternity for every one of his three children! He refuses to return your dowry, and he accuses you of multiple infidelities. Nor will he repay me for the expense of housing him and his for the last seven and more years—his grounds, it appears, are that you were never his wife and your children are not his, but other men’s.”

Livia Drusa dropped her head into the pillow. “Ecastor! Marcus Livius, how can he do this to his daughters, if not to his son? Little Quintus is understandable, but Servilia and Lilla? This will break Servilia’s heart.”

“Oh, he has more to say than that!” said Drusus, waving the letter. “He is going to change his will to disinherit his three children. And then he has the gall to demand back from-me ’his’ ring! His ring!”

Livia Drusa knew which ring her brother referred to at once. An heirloom which had belonged to their father and his father before him, and said to be a seal-ring of Alexander the Great. From the time as a lad Quintus Servilius Caepio had become friends with Marcus Livius Drusus he had coveted the ring, watched it transferred from Drusus the Censor’s dead finger to Drusus’s living one, and finally, leaving for Smyrna and Italian Gaul, he had begged of Drusus that he be allowed to wear the ring as a good-luck charm. Drusus had not wanted to let his ring go, but felt churlish, and in the end handed it over. However, the moment Caepio returned, Drusus asked for his ring. At first Caepio had tried to find some reason why he ought to be allowed to keep it, but eventually took it off and gave it back, saying with a laugh which rang hollow,

“Oh, very well, very well! But the next time I go away, Marcus Livius, you must give it back to me—it’s a lucky gem.”

“How dare he!” snarled Drusus, clutching at his finger as if he expected Caepio to materialize at his elbow and snatch the ring, which was too small for any but the little finger, yet was too large for that; Alexander the Great had been a very small man.

“Take no notice, Marcus Livius,” Livia Drusa comforted, then turned her head again to look at him as best she could. “What will happen to my children?” she asked. “Can he do this thing?”

“Not after I’ve dealt with him,” said Drusus grimly. “Did he send you a letter too?”

“No. Just the bill of divorcement.”

“Then rest and get well, my dear.”

“What shall I tell the children?”

“Nothing, until I finish with their father.”

Back to his study went Marcus Livius Drusus, there to take a length of best-quality Pergamum parchment (he wanted what he wrote to stand the test of time), and reply to Caepio.

You are of course at liberty to deny the paternity of your three children, Quintus Servilius. But I am at liberty to swear that indeed they are your offspring, and so I will swear if it should come to that. In a court of law. You ate my bread and drank my wine from April in the year that Gaius Marius was consul for the third time until you left for abroad twenty-three months ago, and I then continued to feed, clothe, and shelter your wife and family while you were away. I defy you to find any evidence of infidelity on the part of my sister during the years in which you and she lived in this house. And if you examine the birth records of your son, you will see that he too must have been conceived in my house.

I would strongly suggest that you abandon any and all intentions to disinherit your three children. If you persist in your present attitude, I will undertake to conduct in a court of law a suit against you on behalf of your children. During my address to the jury I will make very free of certain information I have concerning the aurum Tolosanum, the whereabouts of huge sums of money you have removed from deposit in Smyrna and invested in banking houses, property and unsenatorial trade practices throughout the western end of the Middle Sea. Among the witnesses I would find myself forced to call would be several of Rome’s most prestigious doctors, all of whom can attest to the potentially maiming nature of the beatings you inflicted upon my sister. Further to this, I would be fully prepared to call my sister as a witness, and my steward, who heard what he heard.

As regards my sister’s dowry, the hundreds of thousands of sesterces you owe me for supporting you and yours—I will not soil my hands with repayment. Keep the money. It will do you no good.

Finally, there is the matter of my ring. Its status as a Livian family heirloom is so much a fact of public record that you would be wise to cease and desist from claiming it.

The letter was sealed and a servant dispatched at once to carry it to Caepio’s new lair, the house of Lucius Marcius Philippus. Having been kicked sprawling, his servant limped back to inform Drusus that there would be no reply. Smiling a little, Drusus bestowed ten denarii upon his injured slave, then sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and amused himself by imagining Caepio’s thwarted rage. There would be no lawsuit, he knew. And no matter whose son little Quintus really was, officially he was going to remain Caepio’s. The heir to the Gold of Tolosa. His smile enlarging, Drusus found himself wanting badly to believe that little Quintus would turn out to be a long-necked, big-nosed, red-haired cuckoo in the Servilius Caepio nest. How delicious a retribution that would be for a wife-beater!

He went shortly thereafter to the nursery and called his niece Servilia out into the garden. Until today he hadn’t ever really noticed her save to smile at her in passing, or pat her on the head, or give her a gift at the appropriate time, or reflect that she was a surly little wretch, never smiled. How can Caepio deny her? he wondered; she was her father through and through, vengeful little beast. Drusus believed children should be neither seen nor heard when it came to adult affairs, and her behavior that morning had horrified him. Tattle-telling, malicious child! It would have served her right if Caepio had been allowed to do what he intended, and disown her.

Following on these thoughts, his face when Servilia came out of the nursery and down the path to the peristyle fountain was flinty, and his eyes were cold.

“Servilia, since you made yourself privy to the congress of your elders this morning, I thought it best to inform you myself that your father has seen fit to divorce your mother.”

“Oh, good!” said Servilia, honor satisfied. “I’ll pack my things and go to him now.”

“You will not,” said Drusus, enunciating very clearly. “He doesn’t want you.”

The child went so pale that under normal circumstances Drusus would have feared for her, and laid her down; as it was, he simply stood watching her rock. But she didn’t faint, she righted herself instead, and her color flowed back dark red.

“I do not believe you,” she said. “My tata wouldn’t do that to me, I know he wouldn’t!”

Drusus shrugged. “If you don’t believe me, go and see him yourself,” he said. “He’s not far away, just a few doors down at the house of Lucius Marcius Philippus. Go to him and ask him.”

“I will,” said Servilia hardily, and off she marched, her nurserymaid hurrying after her.

“Let her go, Stratonice,” said Drusus. “Just keep her company and make sure she comes back.”

How unhappy they all are, thought Drusus, staying where he was by the fountain. And how unhappy I would be were it not for my beloved Servilia Caepionis and our little son—and the child in her womb, settling down so cosily. His mood of contrition was wearing off, replaced by this urge to lash out at Servilia, since he couldn’t reach her father. And then, as the weak sun warmed his bones and some of the stirrings of the day subsided, his sense of fairness and justice righted itself; he became once more Marcus Livius Drusus, advocate of those who had been wronged. But never advocate of Quintus Servilius Caepio, wronged though he might be.

When Servilia reappeared he was still sitting by the sunny silvered stream of water gushing out of a scaly dolphin’s mouth, his eyes shut, his face its normal serene self.

“Uncle Marcus!” she said sharply.

He opened his eyes and managed a smile. “Hello,” he said. “What happened?”

“He doesn’t want me, he says I’m not his, he says I’m the daughter of someone else,” said the child, closed tight.

“Well, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Why should I? You’re on her side.”

“Servilia, you can’t remain unsympathetic toward your mother. It’s she who is wronged, not your father.”

“How can you say that? She had a lover!”

“If your father had been kinder to her, she wouldn’t have found a lover. No man can find excuse for beating his wife.”

“He should have killed her, not beaten her. I would have.”

Drusus gave up. “Oh, go away, you horrible girl!”

And hopefully, Drusus thought, closing his eyes again, Servilia would benefit from her father’s rejection. As time went on, she would draw closer to her mother. It was natural.

Finding himself hungry, he ate bread and olives and hard-boiled eggs with his wife shortly thereafter, and acquainted her more fully with what had happened. Since he knew her to have the Servilius Caepio sense of fitness and standing, he wasn’t sure how she would react to the news that her sister-in-law had been divorced because of an involvement with a man of servile origins. But—though the identity of Livia Drusa’s lover did disappoint her—Servilia Caepionis was too much in love with Drusus ever to go against him; long ago she had discovered that families always meant divided loyalties, so had elected to leave all her loyalty with Drusus. The years of sharing her house with Caepio had not endeared him to her, for the insecure inferiority of childhood had quite gone and she had lived with Drusus for long enough to have received some of his courage.