It hadn’t occurred to Servilia to think of Brutus’s plight because she viewed him as a mortally insulted possession, not as a person. She loved Brutus as much as she loved Caesar, but she saw her son inside her own skin, assumed he felt what she felt, yet could never work out why his behavior over the years was not her behavior. Fancy falling over in a fainting fit!
“Poor Julia!” she said, mind on her pearl.
That provoked a laugh from Julia’s grandmother. “Poor Julia, nothing! She’s absolutely ecstatic.”
The blood drained from Servilia’s face, the pearl vanished. “You surely don’t mean—?”
“What, didn’t Caesar tell you? He must have felt sorry for Brutus! It’s a love match, Servilia.”
“It can’t be!”
“I assure you it is. Julia and Pompeius are in love.”
“But she loves Brutus!”
“No, she never loved Brutus, that’s the tragedy of it for him. She was marrying him because her father said she must. Because we all wanted it, and she’s a dear, obedient child.”
“She’s searching for her father,” Servilia said flatly.
“Perhaps so.”
“But Pompeius isn’t Caesar in any way. She’ll rue it.”
“I believe she’ll be very happy. She understands that Pompeius is very different from Caesar, but the similarities are also there. They’re both soldiers, both brave, both heroic. Julia has never been particularly conscious of her status, she doesn’t worship the Patriciate. What you would find utterly repugnant in Pompeius will not dismay Julia in the least. I imagine she’ll refine him a little, but she’s actually well satisfied with him the way he is.”
“I’m disappointed in her,” Servilia muttered.
“Then be glad for Brutus, that he’s free.” Aurelia got up because Eutychus himself brought the sweet wine and little cakes. “Fluid finds its own level, don’t you think?” she asked, pouring wine and water into precious vessels. “If Pompeius pleases Julia—and he does!—then Brutus would not have pleased her. And that is no slur upon Brutus. Look on the business positively, Servilia, and persuade Brutus to do the same. He’ll find someone else.”
*
The marriage between Pompey the Great and Caesar’s daughter took place the next day in the temple atrium of the Domus Publica. Because it was an unlucky time for weddings Caesar offered for his daughter everywhere he could think might help her, while his mother had gone the rounds of female deities making offerings too. Though it had long gone out of fashion to marry confarreatio, even among patricians, when Caesar suggested to Pompey that this union be confarreatio, Pompey agreed eagerly.
“I don’t insist, Magnus, but I would like it.”
“Oh, so would I! This is the last time for me, Caesar.”
“I hope so. Divorce from a confarreatio marriage is well-nigh impossible.”
“There won’t be any divorce,” Pompey said confidently.
Julia wore the wedding clothes her grandmother had woven herself for her own wedding forty-six years before, and thought them finer and softer than anything to be bought in the Street of the Weavers. Her hair—thick, fine, straight and so long she could sit on it—was divided into six locks and pinned up beneath a tiara identical to those worn by the Vestal Virgins, of seven rolled woolen sausages. The gown was saffron, the shoes and fine veil of vivid flame.
Both bride and groom had to produce ten witnesses, a difficulty when the ceremony was supposed to be secret.
Pompey solved his dilemma by enlisting ten Picentine clients visiting the city, and Caesar by drafting Cardixa, Burgundus, Eutychus (all Roman citizens for many years), and the six Vestal Virgins. Because the rite was confarreatio a special seat had to be made by joining two separate chairs and covering them with a sheepskin; both the flamen Dialis and the Pontifex Maximus had to be present, not a trouble because Caesar was Pontifex Maximus and had been flamen Dialis (none other could exist until after his death). Aurelia, who was Caesar’s tenth witness, acted as the pronuba, the matron of honor.
When Pompey arrived dressed in his gold-embroidered purple triumphal toga, the palm-embroidered triumphal tunic beneath it, the little group sighed sentimentally and escorted him to the sheepskin seat, where Julia already sat, face hidden by her veil. Ensconced beside her, Pompey suffered the folds of an enormous flame-colored veil now draped by Caesar and Aurelia across both their heads; Aurelia took their right hands and bound them together with a flame-colored leather strap, which was the actual joining. From that moment they were married. But one of the sacred cakes made from spelt had to be broken, eaten half by bride and half by groom, while the witnesses solemnly testified that all was in order, they were now man and wife.
After which Caesar sacrificed a pig on the altar and dedicated all of its succulent parts to Jupiter Farreus, who was that aspect of Jupiter responsible for the fruitful growth of the oldest wheat, emmer, and thereby, since the marriage cake of spelt had been made from emmer, also that aspect of Jupiter responsible for fruitful marriages. To offer all of the beast would please the God, take away the bad luck of marrying in May. Never had priest or father worked as hard as Caesar did to dispel the omens of marriage in May.
The feast was merry, the little group of guests happy because the happiness of bride and groom was so obvious; Pompey beamed, wouldn’t let his Julia’s hand go. Then they walked from the Domus Publica to Pompey’s vast and dazzling house on the Carinae, Pompey hurrying ahead to make all ready while three small boys escorted Julia and the wedding guests. And there was Pompey waiting on the threshold to carry his new wife across it; inside were the pans of fire and water to which he led her, watched as she passed her right hand through the flames, then through the water, and was unharmed. She was now the mistress of the house, commander of its fire and water. Aurelia and Cardixa, each married only once, took her to the bedchamber, undressed her and put her into the bed.
After the two old women left, the room was very quiet; Julia sat up in the bed and linked her hands around her knees, a curtain of hair falling forward to hide either side of her face. This was no sleeping cubicle! It was bigger than the Domus Publica dining room. And so very grand! Hardly a surface was untouched by gilt, the color scheme was red and black, the wall paintings a series of panels depicting various Gods and heroes in sexual mode. There was Hercules (who needed to be strong to carry the weight of his erect penis) with Queen Omphale; Theseus with Queen Hippolyta of the Amazons (though she had two breasts); Peleus with the sea goddess Thetis (he was making love to a female bottom half topped by a cuttlefish); Zeus assaulting a distressed-looking cow (Io); Venus and Mars colliding like warships; Apollo about to enter a tree with a knot resembling female parts (Daphne?).
Aurelia was too strict to have permitted such pictorial activity in her house, but Julia, a young woman of Rome, was neither unfamiliar with nor dismayed by this erotic decor. In some of the houses she visited, erotica was by no means limited to bedrooms. As a child it used to make her giggle, then later it became quite impossible to relate in any way to her and Brutus; being virgin, such art interested and intrigued her without having genuine reality.
Pompey entered the room in tunica palmata, his feet bare.
“How are you?” he asked anxiously, approaching the bed as warily as a dog a cat.
“Very well,” Julia said gravely.
“Urn—is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. I was just admiring the pictures.”
He blushed, waved his hands about. “Didn’t have time to do anything about it. Sorry,” he muttered.
“I don’t honestly mind.”
“Mucia liked them.” He sat down on his side of the bed.
“Do you have to redecorate your bedroom every time you change wives?” she asked, smiling.
That seemed to reassure him, for he smiled back. “It’s wise. Women like to put their own touch on things.”
“So shall I.” She reached out her hand. “Don’t be nervous, Gnaeus—do I c
all you Gnaeus?”
The hand was clasped tightly. “I like Magnus better.”
Her fingers moved in his. “I like it too.” She turned a little toward him. “Why are you nervous?”
“Because everyone else was just a woman,” he said, pushing the other hand through his hair. “You’re a goddess.”
To which she made no reply, too filled with first awareness of power; she had just married a very great and famous Roman, and he was afraid of her. That was very reassuring. And very nice. Anticipation began to work in her deliciously, so she lay back upon the pillows and did nothing more than look at him.
Which meant he had to do something. Oh, this was so important! Caesar’s daughter, directly descended from Venus. How had King Anchises managed when Love manifested herself before him and said he pleased her? Had he trembled like a leaf too? Had he wondered if he was up to the task? But then he remembered Diana walking into the room, and forgot about Venus. Still trembling, he leaned over and pulled the tapestry cover back, the linen sheet below it. And looked at her, white as marble faintly veined with blue, slender limbs and hips, little waist. How beautiful!
“I love you, Magnus,” she said in that husky voice he found so attractive, “but I’m too thin! I’ll disappoint you.”
“Disappoint?” Pompey stared now at her face, his own terror of disappointing her vanishing. So vulnerable.
So young! Well, she would see the quality of his disappointment.
The outside of one thigh was nearest; he put his lips to it, felt her skin leap and shudder, the touch of her hand in his hair. Eyes closed, he laid his cheek against her flank and inched himself fully onto the bed. A goddess, a goddess… He would kiss every bit of her with reverence, with a delight almost unbearable, this unstained flower, this perfect jewel. The silver tresses were everywhere, hiding her breasts. Tendril by tendril he picked them off, lay them down around her and gazed, ravished, at smooth little nipples so pale a pink that they fused into her skin.
“Oh, Julia, Julia, I love you!” he cried. “My goddess, Diana of the moon, Diana of the night!”
Time enough to deal with virginity. Today she should know nothing save pleasure. Yes, pleasure first, all the pleasure he could give her from lips and mouth and tongue, from hands and his own skin. Let her know what marriage to Pompey the Great would always bring her, pleasure and pleasure and pleasure.
*
“We have passed a milestone,” said Cato to Bibulus that night in the peristyle garden of Bibulus’s house, where the junior consul sat gazing at the sky. “Not only have they divided up Campania and Italia like eastern potentates, now they seal their unholy bonds with virgin daughters.”
“Shooting star, left lower quadrant!” rapped Bibulus to the scribe who sat some distance away, patiently waiting to write down the stellar phenomena his master saw, the light of his tiny lamp focused on his wax tablet. Then Bibulus rose, said the prayers which concluded a session of watching the skies, and led Cato inside.
“Why are you surprised that Caesar should sell his daughter?’’ he asked, not bothering to ascertain of one of the hardest drinkers in Rome whether he wanted water in his wine. “I had wondered how he’d manage to bind Pompeius. I knew he would! But this is the best and cleverest way. One hears she’s absolutely exquisite.”
“You’ve not seen her either?”
“No one has, though no doubt that will change. Pompeius will parade her like a prize ewe. What is she, all of sixteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“Servilia can’t have been pleased.”
“Oh, he dealt with her very cleverly too,” said Cato, getting up to replenish his goblet. “He gave her a pearl worth six million sesterces—and paid Brutus the girl’s hundred-talent dowry.”
“Where did you hear all this?”
“From Brutus when he came to see me today. At least that’s one good turn Caesar has done the boni. From now on we have Brutus firmly in our camp. He’s even announcing that in future he’ll not be known as Caepio Brutus, simply as Brutus.”
“Brutus won’t be nearly as much use to us as a marital alliance will be to Caesar,” Bibulus said grimly.
“For the moment, no. But I have hopes for Brutus now he’s worked free of his mother. The pity of it is that he won’t hear a word against the girl. I offered him my Porcia once she’s of an age to marry, but he declined. Says he’s never going to marry.” Down went the rest of his wine; Cato swung about, hands clenched around the goblet. “Marcus, I could vomit! This is the most coldblooded, loathsome piece of political maneuvering I’ve ever heard of! Ever since Brutus came to see me I’ve been trying to keep a level head, trying to talk in a rational manner—I can’t one moment longer! Nothing we’ve ever done equals this! And it will work for Caesar, that’s the worst of it!”
“Sit down, Cato, please! I’ve already said it will work for Caesar. Be calm! We won’t beat him by ranting, or by showing our disgust at this marriage. Continue as you started, rationally.”
Cato did sit down, but not before he poured himself more wine. Bibulus frowned. Why did Cato drink so much? Not that it ever seemed to impair him; perhaps it was his way to maintain strength.
“Do you remember Lucius Vettius?” Bibulus asked.
“The knight Caesar had beaten with the rods, then gave away his furniture to scum?”
“The very one. He came to see me yesterday.”
“And?”
“He loathes Caesar,” Bibulus said contemplatively.
“I’m not surprised. The incident made him a laughingstock.”
“He offered me his services.”
“That doesn’t surprise me either. But how can you use him?”
“To drive a wedge between Caesar and his new son-in-law.”
Cato stared. “Impossible.”
“I agree the marriage makes it harder, but it’s not impossible. Pompeius is so suspicious of everybody, including Caesar. Julia notwithstanding,” said Bibulus. “After all, the girl is far too young to be dangerous in herself. She’ll tire the Great Man out, between her physical demands and the tantrums immature females can never resist throwing. Particularly if we can encourage Pompeius to mistrust his father-in-law.”
“The only way to do that,” said Cato, refilling his goblet, “is to make Pompeius think that Caesar intends to assassinate him.”
It was Bibulus’s turn to stare. “That we’d never do! I had political rivalry in mind.”
“We could, you know,” said Cato, nodding. “Pompeius’s sons aren’t old enough to succeed to his position, but Caesar is. With Caesar’s daughter married to him, a great many of Pompeius’s clients and adherents would gravitate to Caesar once Pompeius died.”
“Yes, they probably would. But how do you propose to put the thought into Pompeius’s mind?”
“Through Vettius,” Cato said, sipping more slowly; the wine was beginning to do its work, he was thinking lucidly. “And you.”
“I don’t know where you’re going,” said the junior consul.
“Before Pompeius and his new bride leave town, I suggest you send for him and warn him that there’s a plot afoot to kill him.”
“I can do that, yes. But why? To frighten him?”
“No, to divert suspicion from you when the plot comes out,” said Cato, smiling savagely. “A warning won’t frighten Pompeius, but it will predispose him to believe that there’s a plot.”
“Enlighten me, Cato. I like the sound of this,” said Bibulus.
*
An idyllically happy Pompey proposed to take Julia to Antium for the rest of May and part of June.
“She’s busy with the decorators right at this moment,” he said to Caesar, beaming fatuously. “While we’re away they’ll transform my house on the Carinae.” He sighed explosively. “What taste she has, Caesar! All light and airy, she says, no vulgar Tyrian purple and a lot less gilt. Birds, flowers and butterflies. I can’t work out why I didn’t think of it for myself! Though I’m insisting
that our bedroom be done like a moonlit forest.”
How to keep a straight face? Caesar managed, though it took considerable effort. “When are you off?” he asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Then we need to have a council of war today.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“With Marcus Crassus.”
Pompey’s face fell. “Oh, do we have to have him?”
“We do. Come back after dinner.”
By which time Caesar had managed to prevail upon Crassus to leave a series of important meetings to his inferiors.
They sat outside in the main peristyle, for it was a warm day and this location prevented anyone’s overhearing what was said.
“The second land bill will go through, despite Cato’s tactics and Bibulus’s sky watch,” Caesar announced.
“With you as patron of Capua, I note,” said Pompey, nuptial bliss evaporated now there was some hard talking to do.
“Only in that the bill is a lex Iulia, and I as its author am giving Capua full Roman-citizen status. However, Magnus, it’s you will be down there handing out the deeds to the lucky recipients, and you parading round the town. Capua will consider itself in your clientele, not in mine.”
“And I’ll be in the eastern parts of the Ager Campanus, which will regard me as patron,” said Crassus contentedly.
“What we have to discuss today isn’t the second land bill,” said Caesar. “My province for next year needs some talk, as I do not intend to be a proconsular surveyor. Also, we have to own next year’s senior magistrates. If we don’t, a lot of what I’ve passed into law this year will be invalidated next year.”
“Aulus Gabinius,” said Pompey instantly.
“I agree. The voters like him because his tribunate of the plebs produced some very useful measures, not to mention enabled you to clean up Our Sea. If all three of us work to that end, we ought to get him in as senior consul. But who for junior?’’
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 446