“Surely it’s the availability of iron dictates the location of foundries,” said Silo, now listening eagerly. “That’s why Pisae and Populonia grew into foundry towns, isn’t it? Because of the iron shipped directly from Ilva?”
“A fallacy,” said Caepio, waxing articulate for once. “In actual fact, it’s the availability of good charcoal-making trees makes Pisae and Populonia so desirable as foundry towns. The same will hold true in eastern Italian Gaul. The making of charcoal is a manufacturing process, and ironworks gulp down ten times the amount of charcoal they do of metal. That’s why my project in eastern Italian Gaul is as much to do with establishing towns of charcoal-makers as it is towns of steel-makers. I shall buy land suitable for the building of houses and workshops, then persuade smiths and charcoal-makers to settle in my little towns. Work will go on much easier among a number of similar little businesses than where a man is surrounded by many unrelated businesses.”
“But won’t the competition between all these similar little businesses be deadly, and buyers too hard to find?” asked Silo, concealing his mounting excitement.
“I don’t see why,” said Caepio, who really had studied his subject, and had made surprising headway in it. “If, for instance, a praefectus fabrum belonging to an army is looking for—say, ten thousand shirts of mail, ten thousand helmets, ten thousand swords and daggers, and ten thousand spears—isn’t he going to head for places where he can go from one foundry to another without needing to search a hundred back streets to find every single one? And won’t it be easier for a man owning a nice little foundry with— say, ten free men and ten slaves working for him—to sell what he produces without crying his wares all over town, because his clients know where to go?”
“You’re right, Quintus Servilius,” said Drusus thoughtfully. “The armies of the present do indeed require ten thousand steel thises and thats, and always in a hurry. It was different in the old days, when soldiers were men of property. On a lad’s seventeenth birthday his tata gave him his mail-shirt, his helmet, his sword, his dagger, his shield and his spears; his mama gave him his caligae, the cover for his shield, his kitbag, his horsehair plume and his sagum; and his sisters knitted him warm socks and wove him six or seven tunics. For the rest of his life he kept his gear— and in most cases, when his own campaigning days were over, he passed his gear on to his son or his grandson. But since Gaius Marius enlisted the Head Count in our armies, nine out of every ten recruits can’t even afford the price of a scarf to tie around their necks to prevent their mail-shirts from chafing—let alone have mothers and fathers and sisters able to fit them out like proper soldiers. All of a sudden we have whole armies of recruits as naked of military equipment as the least noncombatant in the old days. The demand has outstripped the supply—yet from somewhere it must be found! We cannot possibly send our legionaries into battle without the proper gear.”
“This answers a question,” said Silo. “I wondered why so many retired veterans were coming to me begging for loans to set themselves up in business as smiths! You are absolutely right, Quintus Servilius. It will be near enough to a generation before these projected steel centers of yours will have to start looking for something other than military gear to make. In fact, as leader of my people, I am scratching my head as to where to find arms and armor for the legions I have no doubt we’ll be asked to furnish for Rome in the not far distant future. The same must be true for the Samnites—and probably for the other Italian peoples too.”
“You should think of Spain,” said Drusus to Caepio. “I imagine there must still be forests near the iron mines.”
“In Further Spain, yes,” said Caepio, grinning delightedly because he was suddenly the center of respectful attention, a novel experience for him. “The old Carthaginian mines of the Orospeda have long exhausted their timber resources, but all the new mines are in well-forested areas.”
“How long will it be before your towns start producing?” asked Silo casually.
“In Italian Gaul, hopefully within two years. Of course,” added Caepio quickly, “I have nothing to do with the businesses or the goods they produce. I wouldn’t do anything which would incur displeasure from the censors. All I personally intend to do is to build the towns and then collect the rents—quite, quite proper for a senator.”
“Laudable of you,” said Silo ironically. “I hope you’re going to situate your towns on good waterways as well as in close proximity to forests.”
“I shall choose sites on navigable rivers,” said Caepio.
“The Gauls are good smiths,” said Drusus.
“But not organized enough to prosper as they ought,” said Caepio, and looked smug, an expression he was beginning to produce regularly. “Once I organize them, they’ll do much better.”
“Commerce is your forte, Quintus Servilius, I see it clearly,” said Silo. “You should abandon the Senate, become a knight. That way, you could own the foundries and charcoal works too.”
“What, and have to deal with people!” asked Caepio, appalled. “No, no! Let others do that!”
“Won’t you be collecting the rents in person?” asked Silo slyly, eyes directed at the floor.
“Certainly not!” cried Caepio, rising to the bait. “I am establishing a nice little company of agents in Placentia to do all that. It might be considered permissible for your cousin Aurelia to collect her own rents, Marcus Livius,” he said to Drusus, “but personally I consider it in very poor taste.”
There had been a time when the mere mention of Aurelia’s name would have twisted Drusus’s heart, for he had been one of the most ardent suitors for her hand; but these days, secure in the knowledge that he loved his wife, he could grin at his brother-in-law and say, carelessly, “Aurelia is impossible to measure by any standards other than her own. I think her taste impeccable.”
All through this, the women had sat on their chairs without offering a single contribution to the conversation—not because they had nothing to say, but rather because their participation was not encouraged. They were used to sitting in silence.
*
After dinner Livia Drusa excused herself, pleading work which would not wait, and left her sister-in-law Servilia Caepionis in the nursery with little Drusus Nero. It was very dark and very cold, so Livia Drusa instructed a servant to bring her a wrap, swaddled herself in it, and walked through the atrium onto the loggia, where no one would think to look for her and she could enjoy an hour of peace. Alone. Wonderfully, thankfully alone.
So he was going away! At last he was going away! Even when he served as a quaestor he had chosen duty inside Rome, and never once in the three years his father had lived in exile before he died had Caepio ventured to Smyrna to see him. Save for that short period during the first year of their marriage when he had served as a tribune of the soldiers and survived the battle of Arausio suspiciously unscathed, Quintus Servilius Caepio had never been away from his wife.
What gnat was whining around in his mind at the moment Livia Drusa did not know—nor did she care, provided the gnat drove him to travel. Presumably his financial circumstances had finally become pinched enough to prod him into doing something to improve them, though many times through the years Livia Drusa had privately wondered whether her husband was truly as poor as he said he was. How her brother had put up with them, she did not know. Not only was his house not his own; he had even been obliged to take down his peerless collection of paintings. How horrified their father would have been! For their father had built this huge domus purely to display his works of art fittingly. Oh, Marcus Livius, why did you force me to marry him?
Eight years of marriage and two children hadn’t reconciled Livia Drusa to her fate. The early years of the marriage, however, had been the worst, a descent into the slough of despond; once she reached its bottom she learned to cope better with her unhappiness, and she never had forgotten her brother’s words to her when he had finally succeeded in breaking her:
“I expect you to behave tow
ard Quintus Servilius as any young woman would who welcomed her marriage. You will let him know that you are pleased, and you will treat him with unfailing deference, respect, interest, and concern. At no time—even in the privacy of your bedroom after you are married—will you give Quintus Servilius the slightest indication that he is not the husband of your choice.”
Drusus had marched her to the shrine in the atrium where the family gods were honored—Vesta of the hearth, the Di Penates of the pantry, and the Lar Familiaris—and made her swear a terrible oath that she would do as he had told her. The time when she had hated her brother for his action had long passed, of course. Maturity had done that, and constant exposure to a side of Drusus she had not known existed.
The Drusus of her childhood and adolescence was stern, aloof, indifferent to her—how afraid of him she had been! Only after the fall and exile of her father-in-law did she come to know what Drusus was really like. Or perhaps, she reasoned (for she too had that cool Livius Drusus head), Drusus had changed after the battle of Arausio—and after he grew fond of his wife. Certainly he had softened, become more approachable, though he never mentioned his forcing her to marry Caepio, nor unbound her from that frightful oath. Most of all, she admired him for his steadfast loyalty to her, his sister, and to Caepio, his brother-in-law—he never complained by word or look about their presence in his house. Which was why she had nearly choked this evening when Drusus had actually come back at Caepio for criticizing Quintus Poppaedius Silo.
How articulate Caepio had been tonight! Warmed to his theme, explained what he was doing quite logically and enthusiastically, seemed so far to have proceeded in a practical and businesslike way. Maybe Silo was right—maybe Caepio was by nature a commercial person, a knight businessman. What he planned to do sounded exciting. And profitable. Oh, how wonderful to live in our own house! thought Livia Drusa, who longed for it.
A huge burst of laughter erupted from the maw of the staircase leading from the loggia down to the servants’ crowded quarters below; Livia Drusa started, shivered, squeezed herself very small in case the noise meant slaves would suddenly come scurrying across the loggia to the atrium door. Sure enough, up came a little group of men, still chuckling among themselves as they chattered away in Greek, some patois they spoke so rapidly Livia Drusa had no idea what the joke could be. They were so happy! Why? What did they possess she did not? Answer: a chance at freedom, the Roman citizenship, and the right to lead their own lives. They were paid, she was not; they were rich in friends and companionship, she was not; they could form intimate relationships among themselves without criticism or interference, she could not. That this answer was not quite accurate concerned Livia Drusa not at all; in her mind, it was the truth.
They didn’t see her. Livia Drusa relaxed again. A gibbous moon, just waning from the full, had risen high enough now to illuminate the depths of the city of Rome. She turned on her marble bench, put her arms on the balustrade, and looked at the Forum Romanum. Drusus’s house was right on the corner of the Germalus of the Palatine where the Clivus Victoriae turned at right angles to run along the length of the Forum Romanum, so it possessed a wonderful view; in earlier days the view had extended to the left into the Velabrum when the vacant space of the area Flacciana had existed next door, but now the huge porticus Quintus Lutatius Catulus Caesar had erected on it reared columns skyward, and blocked that old lookout. For the rest, nothing had changed. The house of Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus Pontifex Maximus still jutted further forward below Drusus’s house, affording her sight of its loggia.
This was Rome without her daytime vividness, the rich colors in which everything was painted bled to greys and glitters. Not that the city was quiet; torches flickered everywhere in dark alleys, the rumblings of carts and the bellowing of oxen drifted up to her ears because many of Rome’s shops and tradesmen took advantage of the lack of crowds night afforded, and had their goods delivered then. A group of drunken men weaved across the open space of the lower Forum, singing a popular ditty about—what else?—love. Quite a large escort of slaves shepherded a carefully closed litter between the Basilica Sempronia and the temple of Castor and Pollux—some important lady going home after a dinner party, no doubt. A tomcat on the prowl squalled his come-hithers at the moon and a dozen dogs began to bark, all of which amused the drunks so much that one of them lost his footing as they skirted the round black well of the Comitia, and tumbled down its tiers amid shouts of mirth from his friends.
Livia Drusa’s eyes strayed back to the loggia of the Domitius Ahenobarbus house below, and rested upon its vacant expanse wistfully. A long time ago, it seemed—before her marriage, at any rate—she had been cut off from all companionship, even of girls her own age, and had filled her empty life with books; and fallen in love with someone, someone she had no hope of meeting. In those days she used to sit here during the hours of sunlight and watch that balcony beneath for the tall, red-haired young man who had so strongly attracted her that she wove whole fantasies around him, pretending he was King Odysseus of Ithaca and she was his faithful Queen Penelope, waiting for him to come home. For years the very infrequent glimpses she caught of him—for he was not a frequent visitor, she decided—were sufficient to fuel this private, tormenting enchantment, a state of mind that had persisted after her marriage, and only served to increase her misery. His identity eluded her, though she knew he was not a Domitius Ahenobarbus, for that was a squat family, albeit red-haired; all the Famous Families had a look about them, and he did not look like an Ahenobarbus.
Never would she forget the day of her disillusionment; it had been the day her father-in-law was convicted of treason in the Plebeian Assembly; the day her brother’s steward, Cratippus, had hurried across to the other side of the Palatine and plucked her and baby Servilia out of the Servilius Caepio house, brought them here for safety. Quite a day, that one had been! For the first time, watching Servilia Caepionis with Drusus, she saw how a wife could play up to her husband; for the first time she realized women were not always excluded from serious family discussions; for the first time she had tasted unwatered wine. And then, when all the upheavals had seemed over and done with, Servilia Caepionis had supplied the tall, red-haired Odysseus on the loggia below with a name. Marcus Porcius Cato Salonianus. No king, he! Not even a true nobleman, but the grandson of a Tusculan peasant on one side and the great-grandson of a Celtiberian slave on the other.
In that moment, Livia Drusa had grown up.
“There you are!” said Caepio’s voice sharply. “What are you doing out here in the freezing cold, woman? Come inside!”
Obediently Livia Drusa rose and went to her hateful bed.
2
At the end of February, Quintus Servilius Caepio left on his journey, having told Livia Drusa that she must not expect him back for at least a year, perhaps longer. That had surprised her until he explained that it was essential, having sunk all his money into this venture in Italian Gaul, that he stay there to supervise every aspect of it. His sexual attentions had been many and prolonged, for—he said—he wanted a son, and it would keep her occupied in his absence if she became pregnant. During the earlier years of her marriage these intimacies had distressed her greatly, but after she learned the name of her adored red-haired King Odysseus, Caepio’s lovemaking had simply become a boring inconvenience unattended by revulsion. Saying nothing to her husband of her own plans to fill in the time while he was away, she waved him off; she then waited one market interval of eight days before seeking an interview with her brother.
“Marcus Livius, I have a great favor to ask,” she began, seated in his client’s chair; she looked surprised, laughed. “Ye gods! Do you know this is the first time I’ve sat here since the day you persuaded me to marry Quintus Servilius?”
Drusus’s olive skin darkened. He looked down at his hands, folded on his desk. “Eight years ago,” he said neutrally.
“Yes, it was,” she said, then laughed again. “However, I did not sit myself here tod
ay to talk about what happened eight years ago, brother. I’m here to ask a favor.”
“If I can grant it, Livia Drusa, I would be very pleased,” he said, grateful that she was letting him off so lightly.
Many times he had longed to apologize to her, beg her to forgive him for that dreadful mistake; her constant unhappiness had not been lost on him, and it was he who had had to admit to himself that hers had been the true reading of Caepio’s dreary character. But pride had stoppered up his mouth, and always at the back of his mind had lurked the conviction that, in marrying her to Caepio, he had at least averted any possibility she might turn out like her mother. That frightful woman had embarrassed him for years by turning up—in conversation, at least—as someone’s butt after a particularly sordid love affair had foundered, as they always, always did.
“Well?” he prompted when Livia Drusa did not go on.
Frowning, she licked her lips, then raised her lovely eyes to look directly at him. “Marcus Livius, for a very long time I have been aware that my husband and I have outstayed our welcome.”
“You’re wrong,” he countered quickly, “but if in any way I have inadvertently given you that impression, then I apologize. Truly, sister, you have always been welcome— and you always will be welcome in my house.”
“I thank you. However, what I said is a fact. You and Servilia Caepionis have never had a chance to be alone, which may be one reason why she has failed to conceive.”
He winced. “I doubt it.”
“I do not.” She leaned forward earnestly. “Times are tranquil at the moment, Marcus Livius. You have no office in the government and you have had little Drusus Nero long enough to make the possibility of a child of your own much greater. So the old women say—and I believe them.”
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