The will was altered forthwith, and taken back to repose in the Vestal pigeonholes.
Still she moped. Her tears dropped like rain, her once restless hands were folded in her lap like two unbaked leaves of pastry waiting for the cook to fill them. Everyone worried; everyone understood there was nothing to be done save wait for time to heal. If there was time.
For Sulla it was time.
Julilla’s latest missive said:
I love you, even though the months and now the years have shown me how little my love is returned, how little my fate matters to you. Last June I turned eighteen, by rights I should be married, but I have managed to postpone that evil necessity by making myself ill. I must marry you, you and no one but you, my most beloved, my dearest Lucius Cornelius. And so my father hesitates, unable to present me to anyone as a suitable or desirable bride, and I shall keep it that way until you come to me and say that you will marry me. Once you said I was a baby, I would grow out of my immature love for you, but surely so long after— it is almost two years—I have proven my worth, I have proven that my love for you is as constant as the return of the sun from the south each spring. She is gone, your thin Greek lady I hated with every breath I drew, and cursed, and wished dead dead dead. You see how powerful I am, Lucius Cornelius? Why then do you not understand that you cannot escape me? No heart can be as full of love as mine and not generate reciprocation. You do love me, I know you love me. Give in, Lucius Cornelius, give in. Come and see me, kneel down beside my bed of pain and sorrow, let me draw down your head onto my breast, and offer me your kiss. Don’t sentence me to die! Choose to let me live. Choose to marry me.
Yes, for Sulla it was time. Time to end many things. Time to slough off Clitumna, and Julilla, and all those other dreadful human commitments which tied his spirit down and cast such eerie shadows into the corners of his mind. Even Metrobius must go.
Thus midway through October Sulla went to knock on Gaius Julius Caesar’s door at an hour when he could confidently expect the master of the house to be at home. And confidently expect that the women of the house would be banished to their quarters; Gaius Julius Caesar was not the kind of husband or father to permit his womenfolk to rub shoulders with his clients or his men friends. For though a part of his reason for knocking on Gaius Julius Caesar’s door was to rid himself of Julilla, he had no wish to set eyes on her; every part of him, every thinking component, every source of energy, must be focused on Gaius Julius Caesar and what he had to say to Gaius Julius Caesar. What he had to say must be said without arousing any suspicion or mistrust.
He had already gone with Caesar to have Nicopolis’s will probated, and come into his inheritance so easily, so free from reproach, that he was doubly wary. Even when he had presented himself to the censors, Scaurus and Drusus, everything went as smoothly as a well-orchestrated theatrical production, for Caesar had insisted upon going with him, and stood guarantor for the authenticity of all the papers he had had to produce for censorial scrutiny. At the end of it all, none other than Marcus Livius Drusus and Marcus Aemilius Scaurus had risen to their feet and shaken him by the hand and congratulated him sincerely. It was like a dream—but was it possible he would never again have to wake?
So, without the slightest need to contrive it, imperceptibly he had slipped into an acquaintance with Gaius Julius Caesar that ripened into a rather distant kind of friendly tolerance. To the Caesar house he never went; the acquaintance was pursued in the Forum. Both Caesar’s sons were in Africa with their brother-in-law, Gaius Marius, but he had come to know Marcia a little in the weeks since Nicopolis had died, for she had made it her business to visit Clitumna. And it had not been hard to see that Marcia eyed him askance; Clitumna, he suspected, was not as discreet as she might have been about the bizarre relationship among Sulla and herself and Nicopolis. However, he knew very well that Marcia found him dangerously attractive, though her manner gave him to understand that she had classified his attractiveness somewhere between the alien beauty of a snake and a scorpion.
Thus Sulla’s anxieties as he knocked on Gaius Julius Caesar’s door halfway through October, aware that he did not dare postpone the next phase of his plans any further. He must act before Clitumna began to cheer up. And that meant he had to be sure of Gaius Julius Caesar.
The lad on door duty opened to him immediately, and did not hesitate to admit him, which indicated to Sulla that he had been placed on Caesar’s list of those he was prepared to see anytime he was home.
“Is Gaius Julius receiving?” he asked.
“He is, Lucius Cornelius. Please wait,” said the lad, and sped off toward Caesar’s study.
Prepared to wait for a little while, Sulla strolled into the modest atrium, noting that this room, so plain and unadorned, contrived to make Clitumna’s atrium look like the anteroom to an Eastern potentate’s harem. And as he debated the nature of Caesar’s atrium, Julilla walked into it.
For how long had she persuaded every servant likely to be given door duty that she must be told the moment Lucius Cornelius came to call? And how long would it be before the lad sped where he ought to have sped in the beginning, to tell Caesar who had come to call?
These two questions flew into Sulla’s mind faster than it took a flicker of lightning to extinguish itself, faster than the responses of his body to the shock of the sight of her.
His knees gave way; he had to put out a hand to grab at the first object it could find, which happened to be an old silver-gilt ewer standing on a side table. Since the ewer was not anchored to the table, his frantic clutching at it unseated it, and it fell to the floor with a ringing, clanging crash just as Julilla, hands over her face, ran out of the room again.
The noise echoed like the interior of the Sibyl’s cave at Cumae, and brought everyone running. Aware that he had lost every last vestige of what little color he owned, and that he had broken out in a chilling sweat of fear and anguish, Sulla elected to let his legs buckle completely, slid down the length of his toga to the floor, and sat there with his head between his knees and his eyes fast closed, trying to blot out the image of the skeleton wrapped in Julilla’s golden skin.
When Caesar and Marcia got him to his feet and assisted him to walk into the study, he had reason to be thankful for the grey tinge in his face, the faint blueness about his lips; for he really did present the picture of a man genuinely ill.
A draft of unwatered wine brought him to a semblance of normality, and he was able to sit up on the couch with a sigh, wiping his brow with one hand. Had either of them seen? And where had Julilla gone? What to say? What to do?
Caesar looked very grim. So did Marcia.
“I’m sorry, Gaius Julius,” he said, sipping again at the wine. “A faintness—I don’t know what came over me.”
“Take your time, Lucius Cornelius,” said Caesar. “I know what came over you. You saw a ghost.”
No, this was not the man to cheat—at least not blatantly. He was far too intelligent, far too perceptive.
“Was it the little girl?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Caesar, and nodded a dismissal to his wife, who left at once, and without a look or a murmur..
“I used to see her several years ago around the Porticus Margaritaria in the company of her friends,” said Sulla, “and I thought she was—oh, everything a young Roman girl should be—always laughing, never vulgar—I don’t know. And then once on the Palatium—I was in pain—a pain of the soul, you understand—”
“Yes, I think I do,” said Caesar.
“She thought I was ill, and asked if she could help me. I wasn’t very nice to her—all I could think was that you wouldn’t want her striking up an acquaintance with the likes of me. But she wouldn’t be put off, and I just couldn’t manage to be rude enough. Do you know what she did?” Sulla’s eyes were even stranger than usual, for the pupils had dilated and now were huge, and around them were two thin rings of pallid grey-white, and two rings of grey-black outside of that; they gazed up at Caesar
a little blindly, and did not look human.
“What did she do?” asked Caesar gently.
“She made me a grass crown! She made me a grass crown and she put it on my head. Me! And I saw—I saw—something!”
A silence fell. Because neither man could fathom how to break it, it lingered for many moments, moments during which each man assembled his thoughts and circled warily, wondering if the other was an ally or an adversary. Neither wanted to force the issue.
“Well,” said Caesar finally, sighing, “what did you come to see me about, Lucius Cornelius?”
It was his way of saying that he accepted the fact of Sulla’s innocence, no matter what interpretation he might have put upon the conduct of his daughter. And it was his way of saying that he wished to hear no more on the subject of his daughter; Sulla, whose thoughts had dwelled upon bringing up Julilla’s letters, decided not to.
His original purpose in coming to see Caesar now seemed very far away, and quite unreal. But Sulla squared his shoulders and got off the couch, seated himself in the more manly chair on the client’s side of Caesar’s desk, and assumed the air of a client.
“Clitumna,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you about her. Or it might be that I should talk to your wife about Clitumna. But the proper person to start with is you, certainly. She’s not herself. Well, you’re aware of that. Depressed— weepy—uninterested. Not at all the sort of behavior I’d call normal. Or even normal in this time of grief. The thing is, I don’t know what to do for the best.” He filled his chest with air. “I owe her a duty, Gaius Julius. Yes, she’s a poor silly vulgar sort of woman and not exactly an adornment to the neighborhood, but I do owe her a duty. She was good to my father, and she’s been good to me. And I don’t know what to do for the best about her, I really don’t.”
Caesar sat back in his chair, conscious that something about this petition jarred. Nothing did he doubt in Sulla’s story, for he had seen Clitumna himself, and listened often enough to Marcia on the subject. No, what perturbed him was Sulla’s coming to him seeking advice; not in character for Sulla, thought Caesar, who very much doubted that Sulla was experiencing any uncertainty what to do about his stepmother, who gossip said was his mistress as well. About that, Caesar wasn’t prepared to hazard a guess; if his coming here to seek help was any indication, it was probably a distorted lie, typical Palatine gossip. Just as was the rumor that Sulla’s stepmother had been sexually involved with the dead woman, Nicopolis. Just as was the rumor that Sulla had been sexually involved with both of them—and at the same time, no less! Marcia had indicated that she thought there was something fishy about the situation, but, when pressed, hadn’t been able to produce any concrete evidence. Caesar’s disinclination to believe these rumors was not mere naiveté; it was due more to a personal fastidiousness which not only dictated his own behavior, but reflected itself in his beliefs about the behavior of others. Proof positive was one thing, hearsay quite another. In spite of which, something did not ring true about Sulla’s coming here today to seek advice.
It was at this point that an answer occurred to Caesar. Not for one moment did he think there was anything established between Sulla and his younger daughter—but for a man of Sulla’s character to faint upon seeing a starved-looking young girl—incredible! Then had come that odd story about Julilla’s fashioning him a grass crown. Caesar of course understood the significance of that completely. Perhaps their congress had been limited to a very few times, and mostly in passing; but, decided Caesar, there was definitely something between them. Not shabby, not shoddy, not shifty either. Just something. Something worth watching carefully. Naturally he could not condone a relationship of any kind between them. And if they had an affinity for each other, that was too bad. Julilla must go to a man able to hold his head up in the circles to which the Caesars belonged.
While Caesar leaned back in his chair and considered these things, Sulla leaned back in his chair and wondered what was going through Caesar’s mind. Because of Julilla, the interview had not gone according to plan, even remotely. How could he have had so little self-control? Fainting! He, Lucius Cornelius Sulla! After betraying himself so obviously, he had had little choice save to explain himself to this watchful father, and that in turn had meant telling a part of the truth; had it helped Julilla, he would have told all of the truth, but he didn’t think Caesar would relish perusing those letters. I have made myself vulnerable to Gaius Julius Caesar, thought Sulla, and disliked the sensation very much.
“Have you any course of action in mind for Clitumna?” asked Caesar.
Sulla frowned. “Well, she has a villa at Circei, and I wondered if it might not be a good idea to persuade her to go down there and stay for a while,” he said.
“Why ask me?”
The frown deepened; Sulla saw the gulf open beneath his feet, and endeavored to leap it. “You are quite right, Gaius Julius. Why ask you? The truth is, I’m caught between Scylla and Charybdis, and I was hoping you’d extend me an oar and rescue me.”
“In what way can I rescue you? What do you mean?”
“I think Clitumna is suicidal,” said Sulla.
“Oh.”
“The thing is, how can I combat it? I’m a man, and with Nicopolis dead, there is literally no woman of Clitumna’s house or family—or even among her servants—in a position of sufficient trust and affection to help Clitumna through.” Sulla leaned forward, warming to his theme. “Rome isn’t the place for her now, Gaius Julius! But how can I send her down to Circei without a woman to rely on? I’m not sure that I’m a person she wants to see at the moment, and besides, I—I—I have things to do in Rome at the moment! What I was wondering was, would your wife be willing to accompany Clitumna down to Circei for a few weeks? This suicidal mood won’t last, I’m sure of that, but as of this moment, I’m very worried. The villa is very comfortable, and even though it’s turning cold, Circei is good for the health at any time of the year. It might benefit your wife to breathe a bit of sea air.”
Caesar visibly relaxed, looking as if an enormous load had suddenly vanished from his bowed back. “I see, Lucius Cornelius, I see. And I understand better than you think. My wife has indeed become the person Clitumna depends upon most. Unfortunately, I cannot spare her. You have seen Julilla, so you do not need to be told how desperate our situation is. My wife is needed at home. Nor would she consent to leave, fond of Clitumna though she is.”
Sulla looked eager. “Well, why couldn’t Julilla go down to Circei with them? The change might work wonders for her!”
But Caesar shook his head. “No, Lucius Cornelius, I am afraid it’s out of the question. I myself am fixed in Rome until the spring. I could not countenance the absence of my wife and daughter from Rome unless I could be with them, not because I am selfish enough to deny them a treat, but because I would worry about them all the time they were away. If Julilla was well, it would be different. So—no.”
“I understand, Gaius Julius, and I sympathize.” Sulla got up to go.
“Send Clitumna to Circei, Lucius Cornelius. She’ll be all right.” Caesar walked his guest to the front door, and opened it himself.
“Thank you forbearing with my foolishness,” said Sulla.
“It was no burden. In fact, I’m very glad you came. I think I can deal better with my daughter now. And I confess I like you the better for this morning’s events, Lucius Cornelius. Keep me informed about Clitumna.” And, smiling, Caesar held out his hand.
But the moment he closed the door behind Sulla, Caesar went to find Julilla. She was in her mother’s sitting room, weeping desolately, her head buried in her arms as she slumped against the worktable. One hand to her lips, Marcia rose as Caesar appeared in the doorway; together they crept out and left her weeping.
“Gaius Julius, it is terrible,” said Marcia, lips tight.
“Have they been seeing each other?”
A burning blush ran up under Marcia’s pale-brown skin; she shook her head so savagely that the pi
ns holding her hair in a prim bun loosened, and the bun dangled half-unrolled on the nape of her neck. “No, they haven’t been seeing each other!” She struck her hands together, wrung them. “Oh, the shame of it! The humiliation!”
Caesar possessed himself of the writhing hands and held them gently but firmly still. “Calm yourself, wife, calm yourself! Nothing can possibly be so bad that you drive yourself into an illness. Now tell me.”
“Such deceit! Such indelicacy!”
“Calm yourself. Start at the beginning.”
“It’s had nothing to do with him, it’s all her own doing! Our daughter, Gaius Julius, has spent the last two years shaming herself and her family by—by—throwing herself at the head of a man who is not only unfit to wipe the mud off her shoes, but who doesn’t even want her! And more than that, Gaius Julius, more than that! She has tried to capture his attention by starving herself and so forcing a guilt upon him he has done nothing to earn! Letters, Gaius Julius! Hundreds of letters her girl has delivered to him, accusing him of indifference and neglect, blaming him for her illness, pleading for his love the way a female dog grovels!” Marcia’s eyes poured tears, but they were tears of disillusionment, of a terrible anger.
“Calm yourself,” Caesar repeated yet again. “Come, Marcia, you can cry later. I must deal with Julilla, and you must see me deal with her.”
Marcia calmed herself, dried her eyes; together they went back to her sitting room.
Julilla was still weeping, hadn’t noticed that she was alone. Sighing, Caesar sat in his wife’s favorite chair, hunting in the sinus of his toga as he did so, and finally bringing out his handkerchief.
“Here, Julilla, blow your nose and stop crying, like a good girl,” he said, thrusting the cloth under her arm. “The waterworks are wasted. It’s time to talk.”
Most of Julilla’s tears had their source in terror at being found out, so the reassuringly strong firm impartial tone of her father’s voice enabled her to do as she was told. The waterworks turned off; she sat with her head down, her frail body shaken by convulsive hiccoughs.
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