“Oh no,” Caesar said softly, “let’s not make things too easy for Pompeius. The longer he waits the more heartfelt his gratitude will be. You’re my man corpus animusque, Vatinius, and I want our hero Magnus to understand that. He’s been a long time in the East, he’s used to sweating.”
The boni were sweating too, though they had a tribune of the plebs just entering office who was more satisfactory than Aufidius Lurco and Cornelius Cornutus. He was Quintus Fufius Calenus, who turned out to be more than a match for the other nine put together. At the start of his year, however, it was difficult to see that, which accounted for some of the despondency of the boni.
“Somehow we have to get Caesar,” said Gaius Piso to Bibulus, Catulus and Cato.
“Difficult, considering the Bona Dea,” said Catulus, shivering. “He behaved absolutely as he ought, and all of Rome knows it. He divorced Pompeia without claiming her dowry, and that remark about Caesar’s wife having to be above suspicion was so apt it’s passed into Forum lore already. A brilliant move! It says he thinks she’s innocent, yet protocol demands that she go. If you had a wife at home, Piso—or you, Bibulus!—you’d know there’s not a woman in Rome will hear Caesar criticized. Hortensia dins in my ear as hard as Lutatia dins in Hortensius’s. Quite why is beyond me, but the women don’t want Clodius sent for public trial, and they all know Caesar agrees with them. Women,” Catulus finished gloomily, “are an underestimated force in the scheme of things.”
“I’ll have another wife at home shortly,” said Bibulus.
“Who?”
“Another Domitia. Cato has fixed me up.”
“More like you’re fixing Caesar up,” snarled Gaius Piso. “If I were you, I’d stay single. That’s what I’m going to do.”
To all of which Cato vouchsafed no comment, simply sat with his chin on his hand looking depressed.
The year had not turned out to be a wonderful success for Cato, who had been compelled to learn yet another lesson the hard way: that to exhaust one’s competition early on left one with no adversaries to shine against. Once Metellus Nepos left to join Pompey the Great, Cato’s term as a tribune of the plebs dwindled to insignificance. The only subsequent action he took was not a popular one, especially with his closest friends among the boni; when the new harvest saw grain prices soar to a record high, he legislated to give grain to the populace at ten sesterces the modius—at a cost of well over a thousand talents to the Treasury. And Caesar had voted for it in the House, where Cato had most correctly first proposed it. With a very graceful speech suggesting a huge change of heart in Cato, and thanking him for his foresight. How galling to know that men like Caesar understood perfectly that what he had proposed was both sensible and ahead of events, whereas men like Gaius Piso and Ahenobarbus had squealed louder than pigs. They had even accused him of trying to become a bigger demagogue than Saturninus by wooing the Head Count!
“We’ll have to get Caesar attached for debt,” said Bibulus.
“We can’t do that with honor,” said Catulus.
“We can if we don’t have anything to do with it.”
“Daydreams, Bibulus!” from Gaius Piso. “The only way is to prevent the praetors of this year from having provinces, and when we attempted to prorogue the present governors we were howled down.”
“There is another way,” said Bibulus.
Cato lifted his chin from his hand. “How?”
“The lots for praetorian provinces will be drawn on New Year’s Day. I’ve spoken to Fufius Calenus, and he’s happy to veto the drawing of the lots on the grounds that nothing official can be decided until the matter of the Bona Dea sacrilege is dealt with. And,” said Bibulus contentedly, “since the women are nagging that no action be taken and at least half the Senate is highly susceptible to nagging women, that means Fufius Calenus can go on vetoing for months. All we have to do is whisper in a few moneylending ears that this year’s praetors will never go to provinces.”
“There’s one thing I have to say for Caesar,” Cato barked, “and that is that he’s sharpened your wits, Bibulus. In the old days you wouldn’t have managed.”
It was on the tip of Bibulus’s tongue to say something rude to Cato, but he didn’t; he just smiled sickly at Catulus.
Catulus reacted rather strangely. “I agree to the plan,” he said, “on one condition—that we don’t mention it to Metellus Scipio.”
“Whyever not?” asked Cato blankly.
“Because I couldn’t stand the eternal litany—destroy Caesar this and destroy Caesar that, but we never do!”
“This time,” said Bibulus, “we can’t possibly fail. Publius Clodius will never come to trial.”
“That means he’ll suffer too. He’s a newly elected quaestor who won’t get duties if the lots aren’t drawn,” said Gaius Piso.
*
The war in the Senate to try Publius Clodius broke out just after the New Year’s Day fiasco in the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus (much improved inside since last year—Catulus had taken Caesar’s warning seriously). Perhaps because business ground to a halt, it was decided to elect new censors; two conservatives in Gaius Scribonius Curio and Gaius Cassius Longinus were returned, which promised a fairly co-operative censorship—provided the tribunes of the plebs left them alone, which was not a foregone conclusion with Fufius Calenus in office.
The senior consul was a Piso Frugi adopted into the Pupius branch from the Calpurnius branch of the family, and he was one of those with a nagging wife. He therefore adamantly opposed any trial for Publius Clodius.
“The cult of Bona Dea is outside the province of the State,” he said flatly, “and I question the legality of anything beyond what has already been done—a pronouncement by the College of Pontifices that Publius Clodius did commit sacrilege. But his crime is not in the statutes. He did not molest a Vestal Virgin, nor attempt to tamper with the persons or rites of any official Roman God. Nothing can take away from the enormity of what he did, but I am one of those who agree with the city’s women—let Bona Dea exact retribution in her own way and her own time.”
A statement which did not sit at all well with his junior colleague, Messala Niger. “I will not rest until Publius Clodius is tried!” he declared, and sounded as if he meant it. “If there is no law on the tablets, then I suggest we draft one! It isn’t good enough to bleat that a guilty man can’t be tried because our laws don’t have a pigeonhole to fit his crime! It’s easy enough to make room for Publius Clodius, and I move that we do so now!”
Only Clodius, thought Caesar in wry amusement, could manage to sit on the back benches looking as if the subject concerned everyone save him, while the argument raged back and forth and Piso Frugi came close to blows with Messala Niger.
In the midst of which Pompey the Great took up residence on the Campus Martius, having disbanded his army because the Senate couldn’t discuss his triumph until the problem of the Bona Dea was solved. His bill of divorcement had preceded him by many days, though no one had seen Mucia Tertia. And rumor said Caesar was the culprit! It therefore gave Caesar great pleasure to attend a special contio in the Circus Flaminius, a venue permitting Pompey to speak. Very poorly, as Cicero was heard to say tartly.
At the end of January, Piso Frugi began to retreat when the new censors joined the fray, and agreed to draft a bill to enable the prosecution of Publius Clodius for a new kind of sacrilege.
“It’s a complete farce,” Piso Frugi said, “but farces are dear to every Roman heart, so I suppose it’s fitting. You’re fools, the lot of you! He’ll get off, and that puts him in a far better position than if he continued to exist under a cloud.”
A good legal draftsman, Piso Frugi prepared the bill himself, which was a severe one if looked at from the point of view of the penalty—exile for life and full forfeiture of all wealth—but also contained a curious clause to the effect that the praetor chosen to preside over the special court had to hand-pick the jury himself—meaning that the court president held Clodius�
�s fate in his hands. A pro-Clodian praetor meant a lenient jury. A pro-conviction praetor meant the harshest jury possible.
This put the boni in a cleft stick. On the one hand they didn’t want Clodius tried at all, because the moment it was put in train the praetorian provinces would be drawn; on the other hand they didn’t want Clodius convicted because Catulus thought the Bona Dea affair outside the realm of men and the State.
“Are Caesar’s creditors at all worried?” asked Catulus.
“Oh yes,” said Bibulus. “If we can manage to keep vetoing proceedings against Clodius until March, it will really look as if the lots won’t be drawn. Then they’ll act.”
“Can we keep going another month?”
“Easily.”
*
On the Kalends of February, Decimus Junius Silanus woke from a restless stupor vomiting blood. It was many moons since he had first put the little bronze bell beside his bed, though he used it so rarely that whenever it did ring the whole house woke.
“This is how Sulla died,” he said wearily to Servilia.
“No, Silanus,” she said in a bracing tone, “this is no more than an episode. Sulla’s plight was far worse. You’ll be all right. Who knows? It might be your body purging itself.”
“It’s my body disintegrating. I’m bleeding from the bowel as well, and soon there won’t be enough blood left.” He sighed, tried to smile. “At least I managed to be consul, my house has one more consular imago.”
Perhaps so many years of marriage did count for something; though she felt no grief, Servilia was stirred enough to reach for Silanus’s hand. “You were an excellent consul, Silanus.”
“I think so. It wasn’t an easy year, but I survived it.” He squeezed the warm dry fingers. “It’s you I didn’t manage to survive, Servilia.”
“You’ve been ill since before we married.”
He fell silent, his absurdly long fair lashes fanned against sunken cheeks. How handsome he is, thought his wife, and how I liked that when I first met him. I am going to be a widow for the second time.
“Is Brutus here?” he asked some time later, lifting tired lids. “I should like to speak to him.” And when Brutus came he looked beyond the dark unhappy face to Servilia. “Go outside, my dear, fetch the girls and wait. Brutus will bring you in.”
How she detested being dismissed! But she went, and Silanus made sure she was gone before he turned his head to see her son.
“Sit down on the foot of my bed, Brutus.”
Brutus obeyed, his black eyes in the flickering lamplight shining with tears.
“Is it me you weep for?” Silanus asked.
“Yes.”
“Weep for yourself, my son. When I’m gone she’ll be harder to deal with.”
“I don’t think,” said Brutus, suppressing a sob, “that that is possible, Father.”
“She’ll marry Caesar.”
“Oh yes.”
“Perhaps it will be good for her. He’s the strongest man I have ever met.”
“Then it will be war between them,” said Brutus.
“And Julia? How will the two of you fare if they marry?”
“About the same as we do now. We manage.”
Silanus plucked feebly at the bedclothes, seemed to shrink. “Oh, Brutus, my time is here!” he cried. “So much I had to say to you, but I’ve left it until too late. And isn’t that the story of my life?”
Weeping, Brutus fled to fetch his mother and sisters. Silanus managed to smile at them, then closed his eyes and died.
The funeral, though not held at State expense, was a huge affair not without its titillating side: the lover of the widow presided over the obsequies of the husband and gave a fine eulogy from the rostra as if he had never in his life met the widow, yet knew the husband enormously well.
“Who was responsible for Caesar’s giving the funeral oration?” asked Cicero of Catulus.
“Who do you think?”
“But it isn’t Servilia’s place!”
“Does Servilia have a place?”
“A pity Silanus had no sons.”
“A blessing, more like.”
They were trudging back from the Junius Silanus tomb, which lay to the south of the city alongside the Via Appia.
“Catulus, what are we going to do about Clodius’s sacrilege?”
“How does your wife feel about it, Cicero?”
“Torn. We men ought never to have stuck our noses in, but as we have, then Publius Clodius must be condemned.” Cicero stopped. “I must tell you, Quintus Lutatius, that I am placed in an extremely awkward and delicate situation.”
Catulus stopped. “You, Cicero? How?”
“Terentia thinks I’m having a love affair with Clodia.”
For a moment Catulus could do no more than gape; then he threw his head back and laughed until some of the other mourners stared at them curiously. They looked quite ridiculous, both in black mourning toga with the thin purple stripe of the knight on the right shoulder of the tunic, officially accoutred for a death; yet the one was howling with mirth, and the other stood in what was obviously furious indignation.
“And what’s so funny?” asked Cicero dangerously.
“You! Terentia!” gasped Catulus, wiping his eyes. “Cicero, she doesn’t—you—Clodia!”
“I’ll have you know that Clodia has been making sheep’s eyes at me for some time,” said Cicero stiffly.
“That lady,” Catulus said, resuming his walk, “is harder to get inside than Nola. Why do you think Celer puts up with her? He knows how she operates! Coos and giggles and flutters her eyelashes, makes a complete fool of some poor man, then retreats behind her walls and bolts the gates. Tell Terentia not to be so silly. Clodia is probably having fun at your expense.”
“You tell Terentia not to be so silly.”
“Thank you, Cicero, but no. Do your own dirty work. I have enough to contend with in Hortensia, I don’t need to cross swords with Terentia.”
“Nor do I,” said Cicero miserably. “Celer wrote to me, you know. Well, he’s been doing that ever since he went to govern Italian Gaul!”
“Accusing you of being Clodia’s lover?” asked Catulus.
“No, no! He wants me to help Pompeius get land for his men. It’s very difficult.”
“It will be if you enlist in that cause, my friend!” said Catulus grimly. “I can tell you right now that Pompeius will get land for his men over my dead body!”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Then what are you rambling about?”
Out went Cicero’s arms; he ground his teeth. “I am not in the habit of rambling! But doesn’t Celer know that all of Rome is talking about Clodia and that new poet fellow, Catullus?”
“Well,” said Catulus comfortably, “if all of Rome is talking about Clodia and some poet fellow, then it can’t take you and Clodia very seriously, can it? Tell Terentia that.”
“Grrr!” grumped Cicero, and decided to walk in silence.
*
Very properly, Servilia left a space of some days between the death of Silanus and a note to Caesar asking for an interview—in the rooms on the Vicus Patricii.
The Caesar who went to meet her was not the usual Caesar; if the knowledge that this was likely to be a troubled confrontation had not been sufficient to cause a change, then the knowledge that his creditors were suddenly pressing certainly would have. The word was up and down the Clivus Argentarius that there would be no praetorian provinces this year, a state of affairs which turned Caesar from a likely bet into an irretrievable loss. Catulus, Cato, Bibulus and the rest of the boni, of course. They had found a way to deny provinces to the praetors after all, and Fufius Calenus was a very good tribune of the plebs. And if matters could be made worse, the economic situation achieved that; when someone as conservative as Cato saw the need to lower the price of the grain dole, then Rome was in severe straits indeed. Luck, what had suddenly become of Caesar’s luck? Or was Goddess Fortuna simply testing him
?
But it seemed Servilia was not in the mood to sort out her status; she greeted him fully clad and rather soberly, then sat in a chair and asked for wine.
“Missing Silanus?” he asked.
“Perhaps I am.” She began to turn the goblet between her hands, round and round. “Do you know anything about death, Caesar?”
“Only that it must come. I don’t worry about it as long as it’s quick. Were I to suffer Silanus’s fate, I’d fall on my sword.”
“Some of the Greeks say there is a life after it.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Not in the conscious sense. Death is an eternal sleep, of that I’m sure. We don’t float away disembodied yet continue to be ourselves. But no substance perishes, and there are worlds of forces we neither see nor understand. Our Gods belong in one such world, and they’re tangible enough to conclude contracts and pacts with us. But we don’t ever belong to it, in life or in death. We balance it. Without us, their world would not exist. So if the Greeks see anything, they see that. And who knows that the Gods are eternal? How long does a force last? Do new ones form when the old ones dwindle? What happens to a force when it is no more? Eternity is a dreamless sleep, even for the Gods. That I believe.”
“And yet,” said Servilia slowly, “when Silanus died something went out of the room. I didn’t see it go, I didn’t hear it. But it went, Caesar. The room was empty.”
“I suppose what went was an idea.”
“An idea?”
“Isn’t that what all of us are, an idea?”
“To ourselves, or to others?”
“To both, though not necessarily the same idea.”
“I don’t know. I only know what I sensed. What made Silanus live went away.”
“Drink your wine.”
She drained the cup. “I feel very strange, but not the way I felt when I was a child and so many people died. Nor the way I felt when Pompeius Magnus sent me Brutus’s ashes from Mutina.”
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