Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar
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He came to full consciousness slowly, perhaps because inside his mind there now dwelled an absolute terror of his mother, who could eat Cato’s flesh with relish. But eventually he had no other choice than to open his eyes and stare up at her.
“Get up and sit on the couch.”
Brutus got up and sat on the couch.
“Do you know what all that was about?”
“No, Mama,” he whispered.
“Not even when Cato called me a strumpet?”
“No, Mama,” he whispered.
“I am not a strumpet, Brutus.”
“No, Mama.”
“However,” said Servilia, disposing herself in a chair from which she could move quickly to Brutus’s side if she needed, “you are definitely old enough to understand the ways of the world, so it is time I enlightened you about certain matters anyway. What all that was about,” she went on in conversational tones, “is the fact that for some years Julia’s father has been my lover.”
He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands, quite unable to put two thoughts together, a hapless mass of misery and bewildered pain. First, all that in Concord while he stood at its doors listening—then, reporting to his mother—then, a blissful interval of wrestling with the writings of Fabius Pictor—then, Uncle Cato charging in and seizing his ear—then, Uncle Cato shouting at his mother—then, Mama attacking Uncle Cato, and—and—The full horror of what his mother had done after that struck Brutus afresh; he shivered and shuddered, wept desolately behind his hands.
Now this. Mama and Caesar were lovers, had been lovers for years. How did he feel about this? How was he supposed to feel about this? Brutus liked guidance; he hated the rudderless sensation of having to make a decision—especially a decision about emotions—without having first learned how people like Plato and Aristotle regarded these unruly, illogical and mystifying entities. Somehow he didn’t seem able to feel anything about this. All that between Mama and Uncle Cato over this! But why? Mama was a law unto herself; surely Uncle Cato realized that. If Mama had a lover, there would be good reason. And if Caesar was Mama’s lover, there would be good reason. Mama did nothing without good reason. Nothing!
Further than that he hadn’t managed to get when Servilia, tired of his silent weeping, spoke. “Cato,” she said, “is not all there, Brutus. He never was, even as a baby. Mormolyce got at him. He hasn’t improved with the passage of time. He’s thick, narrow, bigoted and unbelievably complacent. It is none of his business what I do with my life, any more than you are his business.”
“I never realized how much you hate him,” said Brutus, lifting his hands from his face to look at her. “Mama, you’ve scarred him for life! For life!”
“Good!” she said, looking genuinely pleased. Then her eyes fully assimilated the picture her son presented, and she winced. Because of the pimples he couldn’t shave, had to content himself with a close clipping of his dense black beard; between the huge pimples and the snot smeared everywhere, he was more than merely ugly. He was ghastly. Her hand scrabbled behind her until it located a small soft cloth near the wine and water flagons; she tossed it to him. “Wipe your face and blow your nose, Brutus, please! I do not acknowledge Cato’s criticisms of you, but there are certainly times when you disappoint me dreadfully.”
“I know,” he whispered, “I know.”
“Oh well, never mind!” she said bracingly, got up and went to stand behind him, her arm about his bent shoulders. “You have birth, wealth, education and clout. And you are not yet twenty-one years old. Time is bound to improve you, my son, but time will not do the same for Cato. Nothing can improve Cato.”
Her arm felt like a cylinder of hot lead, but he didn’t dare shrug it off. He straightened a little. “May I go, Mama?”
“Yes, provided that you understand my position.”
“I understand it, Mama.”
“What I do is my affair, Brutus, nor am I about to offer you one single excuse for the relationship between Caesar and me. Silanus knows. He has known for a very long time. That Caesar, Silanus and I have preferred to keep our secret is logical.”
Light broke on Brutus. “Tertia!” he gasped. “Tertia is Caesar’s daughter, not Silanus’s! She looks like Julia.”
Servilia regarded her son with some admiration. “How very perspicacious of you, Brutus. Yes, Tertia belongs to Caesar.”
“And Silanus knows.”
“From the beginning.”
“Poor Silanus!”
“Don’t waste your pity on undeserving objects.”
A tiny spark of courage crept into Brutus’s breast. “And what of Caesar?” he asked. “Do you love him?”
“More than anyone in this world except for you.”
“Oh, poor Caesar!” said Brutus, and escaped before she could say another word, his heart pounding at his temerity.
Silanus had made sure that this only male child had a large and comfortable suite of rooms for himself, with a pleasant outlook onto the peristyle. Here Brutus fled, but not for long. After washing his face, trimming his beard back to a minimal stubble, combing his hair and summoning his servant to assist him into his toga, he left Silanus’s brooding house. He did not walk Rome’s streets alone, however. As darkness had fallen, he went escorted by two slaves bearing torches.
“May I see Julia, Eutychus?” he asked at Caesar’s door.
“It is very late, domine, but I will find out if she is up,” said the steward respectfully, admitting him into the house.
Of course she would see him; Brutus trod up the stairs and knocked upon her door.
When she opened it she took him into her arms and just held him, her cheek against his hair. And the most exquisite feelings of utter peace and infinite warmth seeped through him from skin to bones; Brutus finally understood what some people meant when they said there was nothing lovelier than coming home. Home was Julia. His love for her welled up and up and up; the tears slid from beneath his lowered lids in healing bliss; he clung to her and inhaled the smell of her, delicate as all else about her. Julia, Julia, Julia…
Without conscious volition his hands slid around her back, he lifted his head from her shoulder and groped for her mouth with his own, so fumbling and inexpert that she did not understand his intention until it was too late to draw away without hurting his feelings. So Julia experienced her first kiss at least filled with pity for its giver, and found it not nearly as unpleasant as she had feared. His lips felt quite nice, soft and dry, and with her eyes closed she could not see his face. Nor did he attempt further intimacies. Two more of the same kind of kisses, then he released her.
“Oh, Julia, I love you so!”
What could she say except, “I love you too, Brutus”? ‘ Then she drew him inside and seated him on a couch, though she very properly went to a chair some distance away, and left the door a little ajar.
Her sitting room was large and, at least in Brutus’s eyes, especially beautiful. Her hand had been upon it, and her hand was not ordinary. The frescoes were of airy birds and frail flowers in pale clear colors, the furniture was slender and graceful, and there was not one touch of Tyrian purple to be seen, nor any gilt.
“Your mother and my father,” she said.
“What does it mean?”
“For them, or for us?”
“For us. How can we know what it means for them?”
“I suppose,” she said slowly, “it can do us no harm. There are no laws forbidding them love because of us, though I imagine it will be frowned upon.”
“My mother’s virtue is above reproach, and this doesn’t change that!” snapped Brutus, sounding truculently defensive.
“Of course it doesn’t change that. My father represents a unique circumstance in your mother’s life. Servilia is no Palla or Sempronia Tuditani.”
“Oh, Julia, it’s so wonderful that you always understand!”
“Understanding them is easy, Brutus. My father can’t be lumped in with other men, just as your m
other is a singularity among women.” She shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps their relationship was inevitable, given the sort of people they are.”
“You and I have a half sister in common,” said Brutus abruptly. “Tertia is your father’s, not Silanus’s.”
Julia stilled, then gasped, then laughed in delight. “Oh, I have a sister! How lovely!”
“Don’t, Julia, please don’t! Neither of us can ever admit to that, even within our families.”
Her smile wobbled, faded. “Oh. Yes, of course you’re right, Brutus.” Tears gathered but did not fall. “I must never show it to her. All the same,” she said more brightly, “I know.”
“Though she does look like you, she’s not a bit like you, Julia. In nature Tertia takes after my mother.”
“Oh, rubbish! How can you tell at four years of age?”
“Easily,” said Brutus grimly. “She’s going to be betrothed to Gaius Cassius because his mother and my mother compared our horoscopes. Our lives are closely linked, apparently through Tertia.”
“And Cassius must never know.”
That provoked a derisive snort from Brutus. “Oh, come now, Julia! Do you think someone won’t tell him? Though it can’t matter to him. Caesar’s blood is better than Silanus’s.”
And there, thought Julia, was his mother talking! She went back to the original subject. “About our parents,” she said.
“You think what lies between them cannot affect us?”
“Oh, it must affect us. But I think we ought to ignore it.”
“Then that,” he said, rising to his feet, “is what we will do. I must go, it’s very late.” At her door he lifted her hand and kissed it. “In four more years we will be married. It’s hard to wait, but Plato says the waiting will enhance our union.”
“Does he?’’ asked Julia, looking blank. “I must have missed that bit.”
“Well, I’m interpreting between the lines.”
“Of course. Men have a superior ability to do that, I’ve noticed it quite often.”
*
Night was just beginning to yield to day when Titus Labienus, Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer and Lucius Julius Caesar arrived at the Domus Publica to find Caesar wide awake and apparently none the worse for lack of sleep. Water, mild sweet wine, new-baked bread, virgin oil and an excellent honey from Hymettos had been placed on a console table at the back of the room, and Caesar waited patiently until his guests had helped themselves. He himself sipped something steaming from a carved stone cup, though he ate nothing.
“What’s that you’re drinking?” asked Metellus Celer, curious.
“Very hot water with a little vinegar.”
“Ye gods, how vile!”
“One gets used to it,” said Caesar tranquilly.
“Why would one want to?”
“Two reasons. The first, that I believe it is good for my health, which I intend to keep in rude excellence until I am an old man, and the second, that it inures my palate to all manner of insults from rancid oil to sour bread.”
“I’ll grant you the first reason, but what’s the virtue in the second unless you’ve espoused Stoicism? Why should you ever have to put up with poor food?”
“On campaign one often has to—at least, the way I campaign. Does Pompeius Magnus do you prouder, does he, Celer?”
“I should hope so! And every other general I’ve served under! Remind me not to campaign with you!”
“Well, in winter and spring the drink isn’t quite so vile. I replace the vinegar with lemon juice.”
Celer rolled his eyes; Labienus and Lucius Caesar laughed.
“All right, time to get down to business,” said Caesar as he seated himself behind his desk. “Please forgive my patron’s pose, but it seems more logical for me to sit where I can see all of you, and all of you can see me.”
“You are forgiven,” said Lucius Caesar gravely.
“Titus Labienus was here last night, so I have his reasons for voting with me yesterday,” Caesar said, “and I understand completely why you voted with me, Lucius. However, I am not entirely privy to your motives, Celer. Tell me now.”
The long-suffering husband of his own first cousin, Clodia, Metellus Celer was also the brother-in-law of Pompey the Great, as the mother of Celer and his younger brother, Metellus Nepos, was also Mucia Tertia’s mother. Devoted to each other, Celer and Nepos were liked and esteemed, for they were charming and convivial men.
To Caesar, Celer had never seemed particularly radical in his political leanings, until now respectably conservative. How he answered was critical to success; Caesar could not hope to carry out what he planned unless Celer was prepared to back him to the hilt.
Handsome face grim, Celer leaned forward, hands clenched into fists. “To begin with, Caesar, I disapprove of mushrooms like Cicero dictating policy to genuine Romans. Nor for one single moment will I condone the execution of Roman citizens without a trial! It does not escape me that Cicero’s ally turned out to be another quasi-Roman, Cato of the Saloniani. What are we coming to when those who presume to interpret our laws are descended from slaves or ancestorless bumpkins?”
An answer which—did Celer realize it?—also dismissed his relative by marriage Pompey the Great. However, provided no one was crass enough to mention this fact, it might conveniently be ignored.
“What can you do, Gaius?” asked Lucius Caesar.
“Quite a lot. Labienus, you will excuse me if I recapitulate what I said to you last night. Namely, exactly what it was Cicero did. The execution of citizens without trial is not the crux of the issue, but rather a by-product of it. The real crime lies in Cicero’s interpretation of the senatus consultum de re publica defendenda. I do not believe that this ultimate decree was ever intended as a blanket protection enabling the Senate or any other body of Roman men to do precisely as it likes. That is Cicero’s own interpretation.
“The ultimate decree was invented to deal with a civil disturbance of short duration, that of Gaius Gracchus. The same can be said of its employment during the revolution of Saturninus, though its shortcomings were more obvious then than when it was first used. It was invoked by Carbo against Sulla when he landed in Italia, and against Lepidus too. In the case of Lepidus, it was reinforced by Sulla’s constitution, which gave the Senate full and clear powers in all matters relating to war, if not to civil disturbances. The Senate chose to call Lepidus a war.
“That is not so today,” Caesar continued sternly. “The Senate is once more constrained by the three Comitia. Nor did any of the five men who were executed last night lead armed troops against Rome. In fact, none so much as picked up a weapon against any Roman, unless you count Caeparius’s resisting what he might have thought a simple attack on the Mulvian Bridge in the middle of the night. They were not declared public enemies. And, no matter how many arguments are advanced to prove their treasonous intentions, even now they are dead their intentions remain just that—no more and no less than intentions. Intentions, not concrete deeds! The letters were letters of intent, written before the fact.
“Who can say what the arrival of Catilina outside Rome might have done to their intentions? And with Catilina gone from the city, what happened to their intention to kill the consuls and praetors? Two men—neither of them among last night’s five dead men!—are said to have tried to enter Cicero’s house to murder him. Yet our consuls and our praetors are hale and hearty to this day! There’s not a scratch on them! Are we now to be executed without trial because of our intentions?”
“Oh, I wish you’d said that yesterday!” sighed Celer.
“So do I. However, I very much doubt that any argument had the power to move them once Cato got into stride. For all his fine words about keeping our speeches short, Cicero never even tried to stop his talking. I wish he’d continued until sunset.”
“Blame Servilia that he didn’t,” said Lucius Caesar, mentioning the unmentionable.
“Don’t worry, I do,” said Caesar, tight-lipped.
“That is precisely my point. Cicero has converted the Senatus Consultum Ultimum into a monster which can turn on any of us.”
“I fail to see what we can do in hindsight,” said Labienus.
“We can turn the monster against Cicero, who undoubtedly at this moment is scheming to have the Senate ratify his claim to the title pater patriae,” said Caesar, curling his lip. “He says he’s saved his country, whereas I maintain that his country is in no real danger, Catilina and his army notwithstanding. If ever a revolution was doomed to fail, this one is it. Lepidus was dismal enough. I’d call Catilina an outright joke, except that some good Roman soldiers will have to die putting him down.”
“What do you intend?” asked Labienus. “What can you?”
“I mean to cast the whole concept of the Senatus Consultum Ultimum into disrepute. You see, I intend to try someone for high treason who acted under its protection,” Caesar said.
Lucius Caesar gasped. “Cicero?”
“Certainly not Cicero—or Cato, for that matter. It’s far too soon to attempt retaliation against any of the men involved in this latest version. Were we to try, we’d find our own necks throttled. The time for that will come, cousin, but not yet. No, we’ll go after someone well known to have acted criminally under a far earlier Senatus Consultum Ultimum. Cicero was thoughtful enough to name our quarry in the House. Gaius Rabirius.”
Three pairs of eyes widened, but no one spoke for some time.
“Murder, you mean, surely,” said Celer eventually. “Gaius Rabirius was inarguably one of those on the Curia Hostilia roof, but that wasn’t treason. It was murder.”
“That’s not what the law says, Celer. Think about it. Murder becomes treason when it is done to usurp the legal prerogatives of the State. Therefore the murder of a Roman citizen being held for trial on charges of high treason is itself treasonous.”
“I begin to see where you’re going,” said Labienus, eyes glittering, “but you’d never succeed in getting into court.”