“Dismiss the slaves two days from now at the same time. If I can, I will be here,” he said, rejoicing inwardly. It was far more than he had hoped for at the beginning. Instead of the private pleasure of rolling Pompey’s wife once in a while, the stakes had become frighteningly large.
“Go quickly!” she said, catching his nervousness.
He nodded and ran at last, taking the first corner at a sprint. She watched him go and jumped as her husband’s soldiers clattered by a few moments later. He would lead them a merry dance, she thought, and for the first time since her arrival in Greece, her heart beat wildly with excitement.
CHAPTER 10
The festival of Bona Dea was in full cry and Rome was filled with women. On this one day each year, the men closed their doors and went to sleep early while the free women of the city drank and sang and danced. Some went bare-breasted, reveling in the festival’s freedoms while their families were safely at home.
Many male citizens climbed to the roofs of their houses to watch the proceedings, but if they were seen, a barrage of stones would send them back out of sight. It would have been even less pleasant to be caught alone in the streets. Every year there were stories of young men who had been cornered after curiosity kept them out too long. Some of them were found trussed and naked the following morning, still too shocked to talk about what had happened.
Belas watched the old house of Marius from a high window opposite, wondering how to get closer. He had seen Caesar bid his wife a laughing farewell before heading off for an all-night meeting with his officers. The consul had left it late to make a dignified passage and his men were hooted as they marched down the Quirinal hill toward the forum. The normal rules were suspended for the Bona Dea, and Belas had enjoyed the consul’s evident discomfort. There was no dignity in trying to resist the women’s festival, even for members of the Senate.
From his vantage point, Belas watched with interest as a group of vestal virgins came whooping up the hill, accompanied by the sensual beat of drums and flutes. The two leaders were naked to the waist and their breasts bounced most attractively, in Belas’s opinion, their long, oiled legs gleaming in the light of torches. He did not dare to lean out where they might glance up and see him. The vestals in particular could be wicked when they caught sight of a man on that night. It was death even to touch one of them and the sentence was always enforced. Belas reassured himself nervously that he had locked the door of the house below, after renting his room for the evening.
Marius’s house was growing busy with the guests Pompeia had invited. As the wife of a consul, she had gained an instant social prestige and was clearly enjoying her new status. Belas watched the women of the great families arrive from all over the city and tapped his fingers on the windowsill in frustration at not being able to see what went on inside. Most men in Rome were prepared to add to the rumors of the festival, but Belas knew the gossip was based on very little. The secrets of the Bona Dea were well kept.
He strained to see through the open gate when it was not blocked with new arrivals. Large though the house was, Belas thought the grounds must be bursting with noble daughters. Their voices were raucous as they sang and laughed and chanted, knowing full well that men would hear and wonder what debauchery they were attempting.
Belas did not want to be there and he had told Servilia as much, saying that Pompeia could not very well shame Caesar on that night, above all others. She had been firm and he had taken his place in the high room that overlooked the street, with nothing but a little cheese and bread for companionship. It would be a long night on such a lonely vigil.
As the moon rose, there were tantalizing glimpses of flesh in the street below, as all inhibitions were shed. Belas fidgeted as he waited through the hours, tormented by his own imagination. He could hear a woman snoring somewhere nearby, perhaps in the very doorway to his refuge. Sweat clung to his skin as he squinted through the glow of torches and tried not to picture the wine they would be pouring down each other’s skins, dark red on gold.
Lost in his reverie, he did not at first notice anything unusual about the swaying figure that came up the hill. Her hair was long and bound tightly in a club on her neck. She wore a cloak that fluttered in the breeze, revealing a stola as black as night underneath. Belas heard her footsteps patter on the stones below, pausing as they reached the house he watched.
He could not help but look again, his heart hammering as he edged closer to the window and peered down. His hands gripped the sill with sudden tension, his mouth opening to whisper a curse. What he saw was surely impossible.
The figure carried a limp wineskin like the scrotum of an old man. Belas watched as she tilted up her head so that the light from the torches caught the line of her throat. It was not a woman. The painted face was skillfully done and even the gait was female, despite the apparent drunkenness. But Belas had played women in the great theaters and he was certain. In the shadows, he applauded the man’s daring and wondered how long it would be before he was discovered. They would not be gentle. Midnight had come and gone and no man had the right to walk the city in those hours. If the vestals caught the interloper, he would be lucky not to be held down and castrated. Belas shuddered at the thought and considered offering the stranger sanctuary until dawn. He was taking a breath to do so when he saw the man’s movements become subtly sharper as he looked into the garden.
The drunkenness too was feigned, Belas realized. The stranger was no young fool on a dare for his friends then, but someone more dangerous. Could he be an assassin? Belas cursed to himself that he had no way to contact Servilia during the Bona Dea. No matter what happened, he did not dare leave the sanctuary of his little room.
He watched as the man took in the sights and sounds that were denied to Belas and then staggered inside the gates to the scented gardens beyond. Belas was left alone, consumed with curiosity. Even in his wildest youth, he would not have risked being out on that festival.
Belas waited impatiently, expecting a sudden eruption of indignant screams as the man’s fraud was discovered. When it didn’t come immediately, he found himself shifting from foot to foot with the tension.
It took a long time to realize the man wasn’t going to come out, forcibly or otherwise. So concerned had he been with the danger that when the suspicion first struck him, Belas froze, almost in indignation. He did not believe the stranger could fool so many women for long, if at all, so had he been expected? In the darkness, Belas considered the possibilities. The man could have been a prostitute, perhaps, hired for the evening. That was infinitely preferable to a cold-blooded adventurer who might at that very moment be lowering Pompeia onto a silken couch. Belas began to hum to himself, as he sometimes did in moments of worry. He knew he had to look into the house.
He crept down two flights of stairs in pitch darkness until he could feel the polished wood of the door to the street. Gingerly, he opened it and glanced out. The snoring woman fell in as he removed her support and Belas froze as she slumped at his feet. She did not wake as he took her under the armpits and moved her to one side. He could feel his pulses throbbing as he watched her for movement. He deserved better pay for such a night.
Belas offered up a prayer to all the most masculine of Roman gods to keep him safe and darted across the street, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. With exaggerated caution, he peeped around the gatepost of the old Marius house, his imagination running riot.
A naked woman lay sprawled just inside the gate, with an empty wineskin at her side. Even through his fear, Belas realized she was a beauty, but not Pompeia. Sudden laughter from the house made him shrink back and Belas glanced up and down the street outside, terrified that he would be discovered by someone coming up behind. He shuddered as he imagined their glee. He crept further into the gardens and hid as a pair of women came past, only inches from discovering him. The fear was too much and he could smell his own acrid sweat.
He was almost ready to leave when he saw his stranger
once more. The disguise was spoilt by the casual strength of the man as he walked into the open with a naked woman in his arms. She had her legs curled up like a kitten and was murmuring as he carried her toward some private place. Belas could only shake his head at the stranger’s brazenness. He still wore the dress, but his arms were too heavily muscled to be female. The woman seemed to be trying to sing through a spate of hiccups. As her head lolled, Belas caught a glimpse of Pompeia’s features and watched in amazement as she wrapped an arm about the man’s neck and pulled his head down to her lips. She had rarely looked finer, Belas could see, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and swaying as she kissed the stranger. Her cheeks were flushed with wine and passion and Belas rather envied the man who had risked everything to be there in that garden.
It occurred to him that if he left and said nothing, there would be little damage done to anyone. Part of him wanted to do just that, but he had accepted Servilia’s gold and everything that entailed.
“Is she worth your life?” he said suddenly, pitching his voice to carry.
The stranger almost dropped Pompeia at the sound and turned quickly toward the source. Belas ducked out of sight and scurried away. He was back across the street before any alarm could be given.
He had done his work and the young man knew he had been seen. Belas sighed as he watched the chaos that ensued from his high window. The stranger had disappeared, perhaps through the gardens to climb a wall to safety. The rest of the women in the house were roused by their mistress and they searched the area with oaths and threats. One of them even thumped on the door opposite, but Belas had barred it securely and could smile. He wondered if the stranger had been returning from a bed rather than going to one. The man deserved something for his efforts, after all. By the time morning came, there was going to be trouble.
Julius yawned as he ate the cold lamb and roasted onions that had survived the night. With the first gray light of dawn showing in the forum, the plans and discussions had begun to blur into one another until he knew it was time to call an end to it. Adàn too was yawning hugely, having spent the entire session with two other scribes taking down orders and keeping the records in perfect detail.
It was strange to be in the Curia without a single senator on the benches. Filling the seats with the officers of his legions had given an air of a military court and Julius wished the real Senate could see the efficiency of these men. There had been no wasted, pompous speeches throughout the long hours of darkness: there was too much real work to do.
Despite the freedoms of the festival, they had heard little to disturb the long watches of the night. In a breach of tradition, Julius had posted soldiers on the Senate house steps to prevent any of the more foolhardy women from coming close enough to interfere. It seemed to have worked, but the dawn light still brought a few smiles to the chamber as it signaled an end to the Bona Dea and the chance to get to bed at last.
Julius looked proudly round at the men who had assembled at his order. As well as the seven generals, he had called his most senior centurions and military tribunes to hear the final arrangements for leaving Rome behind them. More than three hundred men were packed into the seats and at times the discussion had been as noisy and jocular as a full Senate debate.
Though he was weary, Julius was content with the preparations for war. The fleet was waiting to sail at Ostia and he had the men to fill them, now that three more of his legions had come south and set up tents in the Campus Martius. Mark Antony was steady in his role as consul and every soldier in the room knew the main plans for the first landings in Greece, if not the final date.
“One more month,” Julius murmured to Domitius at his side, “then we will be free to go to war again.”
“One more throw for the whole game,” Domitius replied, echoing a conversation on the Rubicon months before.
Julius laughed at the reference. “It seems that whenever I think I have mastered a game, I find I have been playing blind on a greater board. I send Caecilius to Greece to be captured, but instead we receive detailed reports every month that are more valuable than gold. The man is a fox, it seems, and the gods have a strange sense of humor.”
Domitius nodded, feeling the same sense of satisfaction that showed in Julius’s face. The reports from Caecilius were a vital part of their preparations, and those who knew he had been sent simply to sow mistrust of Brutus were privately pleased that stratagem had failed, at least so far. Even then, the war to come was only half the task that faced them. Julius was obsessed with leaving the city safe and they had worked for months to prepare Rome to be handed over to Mark Antony.
The new magistrates had taken to heart the single instruction Julius had given them: “Work faster and take no bribes.” Backed by their awe of the man, it had been enough to tackle some of the backlog of cases that had grown in the months preceding Pompey’s departure. Few of the officials had fallen back into corruption and those who did were at the mercy of their victims, now that complaints were taken seriously.
The city was working again, despite the upheavals. The people had been asked for their trust and had given it, at least for the present. Mark Antony would inherit a great deal of goodwill when the legions left. Julius had kept the promise he had made in the forum and provided ten full cohorts to keep the peace while he was gone. Leavened with more-experienced officers, the road guards from Corfinium had been perfect for that task and Julius had been happy to confirm Ahenobarbus as their general.
At that thought, Julius raised his cup to Ahenobarbus in a private salute. He did not regret sparing him, and the man’s stolid lack of imagination was well suited to the duties of keeping peace in Rome. Julius could see his pride as he returned the toast.
A soldier entered the chamber, one of those Julius had left guarding the bronze doors outside. Julius rose stiffly to his feet as he saw Servilia walked with him. With a clatter, the rest of his officers followed his example and in the silence they all heard the metallic whine of a plate as it spun on the marble floor before someone put his foot on it.
Servilia did not smile as she greeted him and it was with a sinking feeling that Julius regarded her.
“What brings you here?” he said.
Her glance took in the solid ranks of his officers and he understood she was reluctant to speak in public.
“Come to my house, on the Quirinal,” he said. “I will dismiss the men.”
“Not there, Consul,” she said, hesitating.
Julius lost his patience and took her by the arm, walking outside to the steps that led down to the forum. They could both see right across it and the clean air helped to settle his mind after the long hours of breathing the oil fumes of torches.
“I take no pleasure in this,” she began, “but I had a man watch your house last night.”
Julius glared at her, his thoughts jumping immediately to suspicion. “We will discuss your right to do so another time. Tell me what he saw,” he said.
She passed on the details that Belas had witnessed and watched him grow colder and angrier as she spoke. For a long time, he was silent, gazing out over the expanse of the forum. A few moments before he had wanted nothing more than sleep, but his light mood had been torn away by her words.
He clenched a fist unconsciously, before he forced himself to speak again. “I will have the truth of this from her.”
Pompeia’s eyes were red with weeping as Julius came storming in. He had left his soldiers in the street rather than have them witness this most private of meetings. One glance at her guilty expression and his humiliation was complete.
“I am sorry,” she said as she saw him, and before he could speak she began to sob like a child.
The question simmered in him like stomach acid, but the words had to be spoken aloud. “It’s true then?”
She could not look at him as she nodded, burying her face in a tearstained cloth. He stood in front of her, his hands opening and closing as he struggled to find a response.
“He came last night? Was it rape?” he said at last, knowing it was impossible. Attempting a rape on the Bona Dea would be tantamount to suicide. His thoughts had wrapped themselves so tightly that he could barely think at all. Shock was making him foolish, some small part of him noted, and he knew that when the anger finally came it would be terrible.
“No, not that. I can’t . . . I was drunk . . .”
Her sniveling began to grind at his stunned calm. Visions of the brutal punishments he could exact flashed into his mind, tempting him. His men would not dare to come into the house, even if he strangled her. His hands clutched convulsively, but he did not move closer.
Raised voices in the street made him turn, almost with relief at the distraction. He heard a strange voice shouting and when he glanced back at Pompeia he saw she had gone as pale as milk.
“Oh no . . .” she whispered. “Please don’t hurt him. He’s a fool.” She stood and reached for Julius.
He stepped back as if from a snake, his face twisting in rage. “He’s here?” he demanded. “He’s come back to my house?”
Julius strode to the front gate where his soldiers had pinned a bawling figure to the cobbled street. His mouth was bloody, but he struggled like a madman. Pompeia gave a cry of sheer horror as she saw him. Julius shook his head in amazement. The stranger Belas had seen was a youth, no more than eighteen years old. He had long hair to his shoulders, Julius noted sourly. Looking at him made Julius feel old and his bitterness increased.
The soldiers held the intruder in grim silence as they realized their general was with them. One of them had taken a cut to his lip in the struggle and was red-faced with exertion.
“Let him up,” Julius said, his hand dropping automatically to his gladius.
Pompeia cried out in panic and Julius turned to slap her hard across the face. The shock silenced her and her eyes filled with tears as the young man rose to his feet and stood to face his tormentors. He was breathing heavily as he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
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