by Sam Starbuck
“So,” Cassius said, “a feast tomorrow night, for the locals?”
“Seems a little backwards, debauching their daughters and then inviting the fathers to dine with us,” Aristus observed.
Brutus was unperturbed. “Well, if anyone comes at us with a club, we’ll know not to invite him.”
“I suppose it’s the right of the patrician class to do these things in any order they please.”
“Where’d you get that idea?” Brutus asked, amused. “See, Aristus, this is why I had to leave your excellent Greek and mathematical tutelage and come back to Rome. Some things one has to learn in the house of one’s father.”
“Perhaps sometimes one had better not, though,” Cassius murmured. Brutus sighed; it was true that not all the lessons of his youth had been good ones, but he’d learned them nonetheless. Marcus Brutus the Elder had been executed by Pompey when Brutus was a young man, but that was Rome for you. He’d had to set it aside and fight for Pompey for the good of the country, and he’d long ago mourned his father and laid him to rest with a monument fitting his station. Cassius had held the grudge longer, but then, Cassius had been the one in whose arms Brutus had wept the one time he’d broken long enough to shed tears for his honored father.
“The point is,” Brutus said, “there is a way of doing things that preserves propriety, and sometimes the rules are very strict. But it’s not as though we snatched those girls out of a field, or forced them once they were in the villa. And there’s no shame in carrying a patrician’s by-blow, if it comes to that.”
“Like the sons of the gods,” Cassius agreed, laughing. “Half-bred bastards, but no worse for it. I know of two likely youngsters in Rome—”
“Not mine,” Brutus said easily.
“I imagine not,” Aristus said, and then glanced at him. “You’ve always given the impression of being an upstanding, faithful man.”
Brutus didn’t miss the half-truth—given the impression—but he ignored it.
“Why are we discussing class and politics, anyway?” Cassius asked, still amused, though he looked like he was forcing it a little. He seemed to be sensitive around the subject of Rome. Perhaps, given his questions, around the subject of Caesar. Though these days, more and more, they were one and the same. “It’s a beautiful morning and we’re not in Rome now. Surely there are more interesting topics.”
“The horse-boy said you were reading this morning,” Brutus said to Aristus. “Something new?”
“Philosophy.” Aristus shrugged. “These new children and their new ideas—one’s much like another.”
“Something we agree on,” Cassius said.
They spent most of the day on their visits, riding from farmhouse to farmhouse, inviting the men and their wives to the feast to be held at the Villa Rustica Bruti the following evening. Most families welcomed them in, insisting with the subservient tyranny of the small landowner that they have a cup of weak homemade wine, and sometimes a pickled delicacy of the sort farmers’ wives set aside for special guests.
“I feel like I’ve been brined,” Cassius remarked as they turned their horses toward the villa. He drank from his waterskin, spat, and drank again. Brutus smiled indulgently.
“It’s good to accept their hospitality,” he said. “Does us no harm and makes them feel like the patricians care for them.”
“And the sad thing is, he does,” Cassius said to Aristus, who had maintained an austere, mostly silent attitude as Brutus spoke with the farmers.
“If men in power ignore the people, they don’t remain in power long,” Brutus said. “At heart I’m lazier than you are, Cassius; I like to rule without much effort.”
“This isn’t effort?” Aristus asked.
“Less than keeping an army and putting down insurrections. It’s good statesmanship, that’s all.”
“Just think of the triumphs you could have if you were a less wise man,” Cassius teased.
“There’s no triumph in putting down one’s own countrymen.”
Cassius grimaced. “Tell that to Caesar.”
“He knows my feelings,” Brutus said sternly.
“It bears repeating,” Cassius said.
“Then you tell him.”
“He already mistrusts me.”
“Does he?” Aristus asked, and Brutus couldn’t tell whether there was curiosity or malice behind the bland question.
Cassius shrugged, tapped his heels to the horse’s flank, and trotted on ahead of them. “I could use something sweet after all that vinegar,” he said. “I’ll see you back at the villa!”
Brutus would have given chase, but Aristus seemed in no hurry—indeed, he seemed to want to hang back. Perhaps Cassius would work out whatever was gnawing at him on the ride.
“Tell me, Aristus,” he said, remembering the morning’s remark, “is it jealousy that makes you dislike Cassius, or fear that he’s going to mislead me?”
Aristus frowned at him. “You were my student, Brutus, not my wife.”
“Something you may wish to remember.”
“Oh, believe me,” Aristus sighed, “I never forget. I’m sure you know your own mind best, Brutus, but your . . . friend comes close to dissent with the state sometimes. Not that I care; it isn’t my state. But you might. That’s my sole concern.”
“Cassius is all grumble. Has been ever since he was a child. He hates tyranny, but he tends to see it even where it doesn’t exist.”
“Does it exist in Rome?”
Brutus glanced sidelong at Aristus. “Do you have an opinion of it?”
“My opinion is that Caesar is very powerful, and perhaps that’s a good thing for you. But I can’t imagine your friendship with Cassius endears you to our Princeps. Or that your favor with Caesar sits well with Cassius.”
“I can hardly stop associating with either one. Caesar is Princeps of the Senate, and he was a friend of my mother’s when she was alive. Cassius—we served in the army together, fought battles together. He’s a friend. He’s married to my sister.”
“Yes, and you are married to Porcia,” Aristus said, and urged his horse onward after Cassius. Brutus had no time to reply, and the speed at which they traveled after that left him no leisure to answer.
It was not the first time Brutus had hosted a feast at the villa. The local farmers knew what to expect, and Brutus knew what to provide: a slightly salacious, slightly luxurious evening that would impress on them the wealth he commanded while reminding them of his respect for the plebians. It was a drunken affair, but quietly so. The most notable thing about the entire feast was, in Brutus’s opinion, Aristus leaving early—perhaps a little snobbishly—and the girl he’d enjoyed a few days previous leaving shortly after, looking coy. Brutus loved his teacher, but he hoped he wasn’t making more trouble for himself than necessary.
As things began to settle—the food all eaten, the toasts and sacrifices made, the farmers drifting into small groups to speak among themselves—he slipped out unobtrusively while Cassius was making the rounds. He ducked through the servants’ entrance, hoping to catch a few breaths of air that wasn’t stale from food and the heat of too many bodies.
The laughter was muted through the walls, and he heard a few men calling to their wives or children as they left the villa, preparing for the journey home. There were horses tied up in the yard, and a few carts; he expected Tiresias to be among the horses, but the boy was nowhere to be—
No, there he was, holding hands with one of the local girls, head bent toward hers. He wasn’t much taller than her, and from the look of it she was older. Even as Brutus’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Tiresias step away and draw her into the stable.
He shouldn’t have followed, but he was curious. And besides, if Tiresias was neglecting his duties to woo a farmer’s daughter, the boy could use a cuff around the head. A little insolence was perhaps expected, but if he couldn’t do his job for three days in a row, he wouldn’t be welcome at the villa in Rome.
Besides, it woul
d be a little funny to catch him in the act and give him a good scare.
Brutus followed them down the yard and into the stable, creeping soundlessly the way he’d learned in the army, the full toga he wore tucked high around his calves. The stable smelled good, with the earthy, familiar odor of animals and fresh, sweet hay. Horses snorted to each other but ignored him as he moved through the shadows. He heard Tiresias say something and the girl’s laughing reply, then the rustle of clothing and a low moan—
And then a sharp inhale he knew wasn’t made in pleasure, and a shriek of surprise. Too much too fast, little horse-boy.
But then he heard the girl cry, “Pervert!” and he had just enough time to duck into an empty stall before she ran past, clutching her overtunic around her. Brutus watched her go, intrigued, and then stepped out of the stall, peering into the next one where the noise had come from.
“Did you try to put it up her bum, Tiresias?” he asked, leaning on the half-open stall gate. “They don’t favor that, you kn—”
He broke off, because Tiresias was lying stunned in the hay, his face despairing in the dim moonlight filtering through. He hadn’t yet bothered to cover himself, and he fumbled for his tunic when Brutus appeared. He was fast, but not quite fast enough to hide his nudity—not the woman’s parts between his legs, nor the leathery dried phallus hanging from a belt low under his clothes.
Not a boy, then, his horse-boy.
“Well, what do we have here,” Brutus said as Tiresias desperately belted his—her—tunic and scrambled back. He bent and pulled the girl up easily by one arm, holding her tightly. “I hope you didn’t try to put this anywhere,” he added, grabbing the mockery of a man’s cock through her tunic. Too small to be a bull’s, too large for a pig’s; a goat, maybe, and apt at that. “What are you playing at, little pretender?”
“Let me go!” Tiresias cried. She swung a wild punch at him, landing it hard on his shoulder. Brutus swore and shook her; he saw the surprise in her face the moment she recognized him but she didn’t stop struggling.
“If you’re going to seduce a woman, you’d better make sure you aren’t one yourself,” he chided, tossing her back into the hay—half to avoid her wild flailing, half to shake her into obedience.
“I’m not!” she snarled back with what Brutus recognized as desperation borne of fear.
“Well, you’re hardly a man,” he drawled. She leapt up and tried to dodge him, but he sidestepped to block her way. She pulled back and glared up at him fiercely. He’d seen battle-tried soldiers with a less baleful stare.
“Thank you for your coin, Dominus,” she spat. “I have no more need of your employ. Let me go.”
Brutus stared at her, oddly delighted by her daring. She had nothing to lose, he realized. She was cornered like an animal, lashing out even though she knew she couldn’t win. “I should take back your pay, considering the false pretense under which you earned it.”
“Oh yes? And what else would you like to take?” She shoved at him hard enough to push him back. He caught her wrists and twisted them outward, trying to force her still. She kicked, and he dodged just far enough for her to hit his thigh instead of his balls.
“Calm down.” He pulled her around into a wrestling hold, her shoulders backed up against his chest, one of his arms around her throat. She twisted, trying to get her head low enough to bite him. “Stop struggling.”
“Then let me go!”
“Not until you tell me who you really are and where you come from.” He tightened his arm slightly. She choked a little, but stopped trying to claw the skin off his arm. After a moment, she went limp. “There, now.”
“Let me go,” she insisted.
“Tell me your name, your real name.”
“My real name is Tiresias!”
“The prophet who was both man and woman. Oh, you’re a clever thing. Educated and well-spoken. Tell me, prophet,” he said, leaning close to her ear, “where did that fine charger come from, the one your dear dead father left you? He was an equestrian, wasn’t he? Or should I ask if he still is?”
She drew a choking breath against his arm and let out a low, pained sob. Brutus eased away, enough to keep her caged without hurting her.
“If you send me back, he’ll drown me,” she said, her voice thick with fear. “Dominus, please, he’ll whip me and kill me.”
“You think you don’t deserve a whipping? Girls who play at being men—”
“I am a man!”
Brutus laughed. “Not more than a boy, if anything.”
“Then I am a boy!” she insisted. “I was meant to be a boy. My name is Tiresias!”
She managed to twist out of his hold, startling him, and turned to face him. Her hands were balled into fists, lips curled in a snarl.
“I’ll fight anyone who says I’m not,” she growled.
“Well, that’s a losing fight.” He crossed his arms. “Fine, if not your name, then your father’s. He should have got a son, if he can get girls like you.”
“He did,” she said, her voice low. “Two other sons and me.”
“Are they sons the way you are?” he asked, incredulous.
“I won’t tell you anything.”
“You will, or I’ll whip you myself. And I’ll whip you like a man would be whipped.”
“Then you’ll have done more for me than he ever did.”
Brutus studied her, from the fighting stance of her body, to the short hair on her head, to the flat plane of her chest. She must have bound her breasts—he’d heard of women who did that, but only legends and stories of far-off warrior tribes. He let his arms drop, but he stayed in the doorway of the stall, blocking her from running.
“Tell me what I ask and you can go,” he said finally. She gave him a suspicious look. “On my honor as a senator. I don’t want to see you drowned.”
She relaxed slowly, fingers uncurling, back straightening. She had the posture of a man, and she rode and walked like one, he would give her that much.
“My father is Garrus Licinius. He was a centurion under Caesar,” she said, sullenly. “He was raised to the equestrian order for his service, and he married rich enough to pay his dues.”
“He has a farm, I assume?”
“A large villa and a few tenant farms, a ways from where we met on the road.”
“And your fine charger, he was stolen from your father’s stable?”
“Mine by right. I broke him.”
“A girl, horse breaking?”
“I’m not a girl!”
“Oh, my apologies, Dominus,” he said, bowing his head. She jerked back with a sharp look. “Go on. Tell me why a child with a cunt between her legs isn’t a girl.”
“I wasn’t meant to be a girl. This stupid body is just my curse from the gods. Even my mother believes it. Believed it, while she lived,” she added, a shadow of grief crossing her face. It made him want to be gentle, not the way he would be with Porcia or the women he met in Rome, but with the young boys he knew who looked to him for guidance. Like his stepson, Porcia’s boy Lucius, when he’d been young and without a decent father to teach him.
“Tell me about this curse,” he said quietly.
“My mother thought for certain I’d be a boy,” Tiresias said, and the pain in her voice—deep for a woman’s, perhaps deeper by intent—was real. “The physician assured her of it, by the way I lay in the womb, low and forward. She’d carried two sons that way, but her only daughter—not me,” she added viciously when he opened his mouth, “her only daughter carried high, and died after birth.”
“And this curse?”
Tiresias gave him a miserable look. “It was so certain I would be born a boy. It was a difficult pregnancy. She made sacrifices to Mars for my safety.”
“Mars!”
“What else is there for a third son? I would have to be a soldier! She . . . she neglected Venus, and Juno, and . . .” She gestured helplessly. “When she saw me for the first time after the birthing, she thought I’d
been mutilated. My brothers say she screamed. She said Juno had cursed me.”
Brutus hid his sympathy, well aware she might still be lying to protect her skin. But he knew a little of this feeling; as a child he’d heard the whispers that his father wasn’t Marcus Brutus the Elder but his mother’s lover, Caesar himself. He’d seen the odd looks from Caesar when they were in the Senate together, and he knew of Caesar’s orders not to harm him during the civil war. He knew what it was like to be a son and not a son.
“As a child, I acted like a boy, and she indulged it,” Tiresias continued. “While she lived, my father indulged me too. I studied with my brothers, learned to ride and hunt. I thought . . . I thought they allowed it because they knew I was a boy the way I knew. Here,” she said, touching her heart. “But Father thought I was just playing at being an Amazon, and when Mother died, he told me I was to be Domina now, and would have to stop hunting and wrestling with my brothers. It was intolerable. And he found my . . .”
Her hand waved at her groin, at the thin shadow of the phallus belted to her.
“He said I was unnatural, that if I didn’t get rid of it and behave like a woman he’d kill me. So I took my horse and ran in the night.”
“Where were you planning to go?”
“Why does it matter, so long as it wasn’t there?” she cried, and seemed to break, covering her face with her hands and falling to her knees. “If you are to kill me, Dominus, do it quickly. Or let me do it myself as befits a nobleman’s son.”
Brutus sighed and ran a hand over his face. That was courage even for a young man.
“You’re a horse thief and a scoundrel,” he said. “You seduce women and lie to me. I won’t have dishonesty in my house, Tiresias.”
Tiresias was still and silent, awaiting the blow.
“But no father should force such a thing on a . . . a child with your courage,” he said slowly. “So, little libertine, I’ll make you a deal.”
“Oh, kill me or throw me out—”
