Undoubtedly had Marius been pressed, a private dwelling on the Palatine or Carinae would have been forthcoming for Caesar and his wife; indeed, Aurelia’s uncle and stepfather Marcus Aurelius Cotta had begged to use some of her large dowry to purchase this private dwelling. But the young couple had elected to follow Caesar Grandfather’s advice, and abandon the luxury of living in complete seclusion. Aurelia’s dowry had been invested in an insula, an apartment building in which the young couple could live until Caesar’s advancing career enabled him to buy a domus in a better part of town. A better part of town would not have been hard to find, for Aurelia’s insula lay in the heart of the Subura, Rome’s most heavily populated and poorest district, wedged into the declivity between the Esquiline Mount and the Viminal Hill—a seething mass of people of all races and creeds, with Romans of the Fourth and Fifth Classes and the Head Count mingled among it.
Yet Aurelia had found her metier, there in the Suburan insula. And the moment Caesar was gone and her first pregnancy over, she plunged with heart and mind into the business of being a landlady. The agents were dismissed, the books her own to keep, the tenants soon friends as well as clients. She dealt competently, sensibly and fearlessly with everything from murder to vandalism, and even compelled the crossroads college housed within her premises to behave itself. This club, formed of local men, was supposed—with the official sanction of the urban praetor—to care for the religious welfare and facilities of the big crossroads which lay beyond the apex of Aurelia’s triangular apartment building—its fountain, its roadbed and sidewalks, its shrine to the Lares of the Crossroads.
The custodian of the college and the leader of its denizens was one Lucius Decumius, a Roman of the Romans, though only of the Fourth Class. When Aurelia took over the management of her insula, she discovered that Lucius Decumius and his minions ran a protection agency on the side, terrorizing shopkeepers and caretakers for a mile around. But that she put a stop to; and in the process made a friend of Lucius Decumius.
Lacking milk, she had farmed out her children to the women of her insula, and opened the doors of a world to those impeccably aristocratic little patricians that under more normal circumstances they would never have dreamed existed. With the result that long before they could be expected to commence their formal schooling, the three of them spoke several different grades of Greek, Hebrew, Syrian, several Gallics, and three kinds of Latin—that of their ancestors, that of the lower Classes, and the argot peculiar only to the Subura. They had seen with their own eyes how the people of Rome’s stews lived and eaten all sorts of meals foreigners called good food, and were on first-name terms with the evil fellows of Lucius Decumius’s crossroads college tavern and officially sanctioned sodality.
All of which, Aurelia was convinced, could do them no real harm. She was not, however, an iconoclast or a reformer, and she held sternly to the tenets of her origins. But alongside all that, there lay in her a genuine love of proper work, and an abiding curiosity about and interest in humanity. Whereas in her sheltered youth she had clung to the example of Cornelia the Mother of the Gracchi, deeming that heroic and star-crossed lady the greatest Roman woman who ever lived, now in her growing maturity she clung to something more tangible and valuable—her mine of good sound common sense. So she saw nothing wrong in the polyglot chatter of her three little impeccably aristocratic patricians, and thought it excellent training for them to have to learn to cope with the fact that those they mixed with could never know or hope to know the heights of distinction theirs by birthright.
What Aurelia dreaded was the return of Gaius Julius Caesar, the husband and father who had never actually been either husband or father. Familiarity would have bred some degree of expertise in these two roles, but Gaius Julius Caesar had never grown at ease, let alone familiar. A Roman of her class, Aurelia neither knew nor much cared about the women he undoubtedly used from time to time to rid himself of his more basic needs, though she did know from her exposure to the lives of her tenants that women of other walks could be driven to screaming fits and murder for love of or jealousy of their men. To Aurelia, rather inexplicable. But a fact nonetheless. She just thanked the gods that she had been brought up to know better, and discipline her emotions better; it did not occur to her that there were many women of her own class who also suffered terrible torments of jealousy or frustration.
No, when Caesar came home for good there was going to be trouble. Aurelia had no doubt of it. But put it aside for the day when it happened, and in the meantime enjoyed herself thoroughly, and didn’t worry about her three little impeccably aristocratic patricians, or which language they fancied speaking today. After all, didn’t the same sort of thing occur on the Palatine and the Carinae, when women gave their children into the charge of nurserymaids from every part of the globe? Only then the results were ignored, swept under the edge of some piece of furniture; even the children became conspirators at the art, and concealed what they felt for the girls and women they knew far better than they did their mothers.
Baby Gaius Julius, however, was a special case, and a very difficult one; even the capable Aurelia felt the breath of some unknown menace upon the back of her neck whenever she stopped long enough to think about this only son, about his qualities and his future. That he drove her to the brink of madness she had admitted to Julia and Aelia at Julia’s dinner party, and now was glad she had displayed this weakness, for out of it had come a suggestion from Aelia that Young Caesar be placed in the charge of a pedagogue.
Aurelia had heard of extremely bright children, naturally, but had long ago assumed that they came from poorer, humbler circumstances than the senatorial order; it was Marcus Aurelius Cotta, her uncle and stepfather, their parents had come to see, to solicit from him the wherewithal to give their extremely bright child a better start in life than they could afford—and in return to pledge themselves and their child as clients in his service for the rest of their lives. Cotta had always been pleased to oblige them, happy to think that when the child grew up, he and his sons would be able to avail themselves of the services of someone superlatively gifted. However, Cotta was also a practical and sensible man, so, as Aurelia had heard him say to his wife, Rutilia, one day,
“Unfortunately they don’t always live up to their promise, these children. Either their early flame burns too brightly, and they grow dark and cold and inert, or else they become too conceited or too confident, and come crashing down. But a few turn out to be of great use. And when they’re useful, they’re great treasures. That’s why I always agree to help the parents.”
What Cotta and Rutilia (who was Aurelia’s mother) thought of their extremely gifted grandchild Young Caesar, Aurelia didn’t know, for she had hidden her son’s precociousness from them as much as she could by not exposing him to them. In fact, she tried to hide Young Caesar from everyone. On one level his brilliance thrilled her, inspired her with all kinds of dreams for his future. But on most levels he depressed her deeply. Had she known his weaknesses and his flaws, she could have coped with him more easily; but who—even a mother—could possibly know the innate character weaknesses and flaws of a child not yet two years old? Before she held him up to satisfy the curiosity of the world, she wanted to feel more securely informed about him, more comfortable with him. And ever at the back of her mind there loomed the dread that he would not contain the strength and the detachment to deal with what a freak of nature had given him.
He was sensitive, she knew that; to crush him was easy. But he bounced back, possessed of some alien and therefore incomprehensible joyousness of being that she herself had never known. His enthusiasm was boundless, his mental processes so thirsty for information that he gobbled up knowledge like some vast fish the contents of its sea. What worried her most was his trustfulness, his anxiety to make friends of everyone, his impatience with her cautions to stop and think, that he not take it for granted that the whole world was there to serve his ends, that he understand the world contained many destructive
people.
Yet—how ridiculous, such heart searchings on behalf of a baby! Just because the mental processes were huge did not mean the experience matched it. For the moment, Young Caesar was simply a sponge soaking up whatever he found fluid enough to sink in, and what was not fluid enough, he proceeded to squeeze and pound to make it so. There were weaknesses and flaws, but his mother did not know whether they were permanent, or merely the passing phases of an enormous learning process. He was—for instance—utterly charming, and knew it, and played upon it, and bent people to his will. As he did with his Aunt Julia, peculiarly prone to fall for his ploys.
She didn’t want to raise a boy who relied upon such dark techniques as charm. Aurelia herself had no charm at all and despised those who had it, for she had seen how easily they got what they wanted, and how little they valued it once they had it. Charm was the mark of a lightweight, not a leader of men. Young Caesar would have to abandon it, for it would do him no good with those men and in those areas where seriousness and all the proper Roman virtues mattered most. He was also very pretty—another undesirable quality. Only how could one iron beauty out of a face, especially when both his parents had plenty of it?
As a result of all this worry nothing but time would answer, she had got into the habit of being hard on the little boy, of finding far less excuse for his mistakes than for the transgressions of his sisters, of rubbing salt into his wounds instead of balm, of being very quick to criticize or scold him. As everyone else he knew tended to make much of him, and his sisters and cousins downright spoiled him, his mother felt someone had to play the role of Nasty Stepsister. If it had to be her, his mother, so be it. Cornelia the Mother of the Gracchi would not have hesitated.
*
The finding of a pedagogue suitable to take charge of a child who ought by rights to have been in the hands of women for years to come was not a task to daunt Aurelia, but rather, just the sort of thing she enjoyed. Sulla’s wife Aelia had advised strongly against buying a slave pedagogue, which did make Aurelia’s task harder. Not caring much for Sextus Caesar’s wife, Claudia, she did not think of going there for advice. Had Julia’s son been in the care of a pedagogue she would certainly have gone to Julia, but Young Marius, an only child, went to school so that he could enjoy the companionship of boys his own age. As, indeed, had been Aurelia’s intention with Young Caesar when the time came; she now realized the school alternative was out of the question. Her son would have oscillated between being everyone’s butt and everyone’s idol, and neither state would be good for him.
So Aurelia went to her mother, Rutilia, and her mother’s only brother, Publius Rutilius Rufus. Many times had Uncle Publius been of help to her, even including the subject of her marriage; for it had been he, when the list of her suitors became dauntingly long and august, who had advocated that she be allowed to marry whomsoever she liked. In that way, he had explained, only Aurelia could be blamed for choosing the wrong husband, and perhaps future enmity for her younger brothers could be avoided.
She packed all three of her children off upstairs to the Jewish floor, their favorite asylum in that crowded, noisy home of theirs, and betook herself to her stepfather’s house in a litter, accompanied by her Arvernian Gallic maid, Cardixa. Naturally Lucius Decumius and some of his followers would be waiting for her when she emerged from Cotta’s house on the Palatine; it would then be coming on for darkness, and the Suburan predators would be prowling.
So successfully had Aurelia’s secretiveness hidden her son’s extraordinary talents that she found it difficult to convince Cotta, Rutilia and Publius Rutilius Rufus that her little son, not yet two years old, was in urgent need of a pedagogue. But after many patient answers to many incredulous questions, her relatives began to believe her predicament.
“I don’t know of a suitable fellow,” said Cotta, ruffling his thinning hair. “Your half brothers Gaius and Marcus are in the hands of the rhetors now, and young Lucius goes to school. I would have thought that the best thing to do would be to go to one of the really good vendors of slave pedagogues—Mamilius Malchus or Duronius Postumus. However, you’re set against any but a free man, so I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Uncle Publius, you’ve been sitting there saying nothing for the last many moments,” said Aurelia.
“So I have!” exclaimed that remarkable man guilelessly.
“Does that mean you know of someone?”
“Perhaps. But first I want to see Young Caesar for myself, and in circumstances where I can form my own opinion. You’ve kept him mighty dark, niece; and I can’t fathom why.”
“He’s a dear little fellow,” said Rutilia sentimentally.
“He’s a problem,” said his mother without any sentiment.
“Well, I think it’s more than time we all went round to see Young Caesar for ourselves,” said Cotta, who was growing a little stout, and in consequence breathed noisily.
But Aurelia struck her hands together in dismay, looking from one interested face to another with such trouble and pain in her own that the other three paused, shocked. They had known her since birth, and never before had seen her dealing with a situation she clearly felt beyond, her.
“Oh, please!” she cried. “No! Don’t you understand? What you propose to do is exactly what I cannot allow to happen! My son must think of himself as ordinary! How can he do that if three people descend on him to quiz him— and gush over his answers!—and fill him with false ideas of his own importance?”
A red spot burgeoned in each of Rutilia’s cheeks. “My dear girl, he is my grandson!” she said, tight-lipped.
“Yes, Mama, I know, and you shall see him and ask him whatever you wish—but not yet! Not as-part of a crowd! He—is—so—clever! What any other child of his age wouldn’t think to question, he knows the answers to! Let Uncle Publius come on his own for the moment, please!”
Cotta nudged his wife. “Good idea, Aurelia,” he said with great affability. “After all, he has his second birthday soon—halfway through Quinctilis, isn’t it? Aurelia can invite us to his birthday party, Rutilia, and we’ll be able to see for ourselves without the child’s suspecting a special motive for our presence.”
Swallowing her ire, Rutilia nodded. “As you wish, Marcus Aurelius. Is that all right with you, daughter?”
“Yes,” said Aurelia gruffly.
Of course Publius Rutilius Rufus succumbed to Young Caesar’s ever-increasing mastery of charm, and thought him wonderful, and could hardly wait to tell his mother so.
“I don’t know when I’ve taken such a fancy to anyone since you rejected every servant girl your parents chose for you, and came home yourself with Cardixa,” he said, smiling. “I thought then what a pearl beyond price you were! And now I find my pearl has produced—oh, not a moonbeam, but a slice of the sun.”
“Stop waxing lyrical, Uncle Publius! This sort of thing is not why I asked you here to see him,” said the mother, edgy.
But Publius Rutilius Rufus thought it imperative that she should understand, and sat down with her on a bench in the courtyard at the bottom of the light-well which pierced the center of the insula. It was a delightful spot, as the other ground-floor tenant, the knight Gaius Matius, had a flair for gardening that bordered on perfection. Aurelia called the light-well her hanging gardens of Babylon, for plants trailed over the balconies on every floor, and creepers rooted in the earth of the courtyard had over the years grown all the way to the very top of the shaft. This being summer, the garden itself was redolent with the perfume of roses and wallflowers and violets, and blossoms drooped and reared in every shade of blue, pink, lilac, the year’s color scheme.
“My dear little niece,” said Publius Rutilius Rufus very seriously, taking both her hands in his, and making her turn to look into his eyes, “you must try to see what I see. Rome is no longer young, though by that I do not mean to imply that Rome is in her dotage. Only consider. . . Two hundred and forty-four years of the kings, then four hundred and eleven yea
rs of the Republic. Rome has been in existence now for six hundred and fifty-five years, growing ever mightier. But how many of the old families are still producing consuls, Aurelia? The Cornelii. The Servilii. The Valerii. The Postumii. The Claudii. The Aemilii. The Sulpicii. The Julii haven’t produced a consul in nearly four hundred years—though I think there will be several Julii in the curule chair in this generation. The Sergii are so poor they’ve been reduced to finding money by farming oysters. And the Pinarii are so poor they’ll do virtually anything to enrich themselves. Among the plebeian nobility matters are better than among the patricians. Yet it seems to me that if we are not careful, Rome will eventually belong to New Men— men without ancestors, men who can claim no connection to Rome’s beginnings, and therefore will be indifferent to what kind of place Rome becomes.”
The grip on her hands tightened. “Aurelia, your son is of the oldest and most illustrious lineage. Among the patrician families still surviving, only the Fabii can compare with the Julii, and the Fabii have had to adopt for three generations to fill the curule chair. Those among them who are genuine Fabii are so odd that they hide themselves away. Yet here in Young Caesar is a member of the old patriciate with all the energy and intelligence of a New Man. He is a hope for Rome of a kind I never thought to see. For I do believe that to grow even greater, Rome must be governed by those of the blood. I could never say this to Gaius Marius—whom I love, but whom I deplore. In the course of his phenomenal career Gaius Marius has done Rome more harm than half a hundred German invasions. The laws that he has tumbled, the traditions he has destroyed, the precedents he has created—the Brothers Gracchi at least were of the old nobility, and tackled what they saw as Rome’s troubles with some vestige of respect for the mos maiorum, the unwritten tenets of our ancestors. Whereas Gaius Marius has eroded the mos maiorum and left Rome prey to many kinds of wolves, creatures bearing no relationship whatsoever to the kind old wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus.”
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