“I don’t like anyone to touch me,” said Servilia.
Her mother smiled. “Hopefully that will change! Anyway, I was made to marry a man I don’t like to touch me. A man I dislike. I still dislike him. And yet, some sort of feeling does grow. I love you, and I love Lilla. How then can I not love tata with at least a part of me, when he helped make you and Lilla?”
A look of distaste spread across Servilia’s face. “Oh, really, Mama, you are stupid! First you say you dislike tata, then you say you love him. That’s nonsense!”
“No, it’s human, Servilia. Loving and liking are two utterly different emotions.”
“Well, I intend to like and love the husband my tata chooses for me,” Servilia announced in tones of great superiority.
“I hope time proves you right,” said Livia Drusa, and tried to shift the emphasis of this uncomfortable conversation. “I am very happy at the moment. Do you know why?”
The black head went over to one side as Servilia considered, then she shook it while she nodded it. “I know why, but I don’t know why you ought. You’re happy because you’re living in this awful place, and you’re going to have a baby.’’ The dark eyes gleamed.’’ And ... 1 think you have a friend.”
A look of terrible fear came into Livia Drusa’s face, a look so alive and haunted that the child shivered in sudden excitement, in surprise; for the shaft had not been aimed in earnest, it was pure instinct arising out of her own keenly felt lack of a friend.
“Of course I have a friend!” cried the mother, wiping all fear from her face. She smiled. “He talks to me from inside.”
“He won’t be my friend,” said Servilia.
“Oh, Servilia, don’t say such things! He will be the best friend you ever have—a brother is, believe me!”
“Uncle Marcus is your brother, but he forced you to marry my tata when you didn’t like him.”
“A fact which doesn’t make him any less my friend. Brothers and sisters grow up together. They know each other better than they ever know anyone else, and they learn to like each other,” said Livia Drusa warmly.
“You can’t learn to like someone you dislike.”
“And there you’re wrong. You can if you try.”
Servilia produced a rude noise. “In that case, why haven’t you learned to like tata?”
“He’s not my brother!” cried Livia Drusa, wondering where she could go next. Why wouldn’t this child cooperate? Why did she persist in being so obdurate, so obtuse? Because, the mother answered herself, she’s her father’s daughter. Oh, she is like him! Only cleverer by far. More cunning.
She said, “Porcella, all I want for you is that you be happy. And I promise you that I’ll never let your tata marry you to someone you dislike.”
“You mightn’t be here when I marry,” said the child.
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Well, your mother wasn’t, was she?”
“My mother is a different case entirely,” said Livia Drusa, looking sorrowful. “She isn’t dead, you know.”
“I know that. She lives with Uncle Mamercus, but we don’t talk to her. She’s a loose woman,” said Servilia.
“Where did you hear that?”
“From tata.’”
“You don’t even know what a loose woman is!”
“I do so. She’s a woman who forgets she’s patrician.”
Livia Drusa suppressed a smile. “That’s an interesting definition, Servilia. Do you think you’ll ever forget you’re a patrician?’’
“Never!” said the child scornfully. “I shall grow up to be everything my tata wants me to be.”
“I didn’t know you’d talked to tata so much!”
“We talked together all the time,” lied Servilia, so well that her mother did not detect the lie. Ignored by both her parents, Servilia had aligned herself with her father early in her little life, as he seemed to her more powerful, more necessary than Livia Drusa. So her childish daydreams all revolved around enjoying a degree of intimacy with her father that common sense said would never happen; her father deemed daughters a nuisance, wanted a son. How did she know this? Because she slid like a wraith around her Uncle Marcus’s house, listening to everyone from hidden corners, and hearing much she ought not have heard. And always, it had seemed to Servilia, it was her father who spoke like a true Roman, not her Uncle Marcus—and certainly not that Italian nobody Silo. Missing her father desperately, the child now feared the inevitable—that when her mother produced a boy, all hope of becoming her father’s favorite would be over.
“Well, Servilia,” said Livia Drusa briskly, “I am very glad that you can like your tata. But you’ll have to display a little maturity when he comes home and you talk together again. What I’ve told you about my own dislike of him is a confidence. Our secret.”
“Why? Doesn’t he already know?”
Livia Drusa frowned, puzzled. “If you talk to your father so much, Servilia, you surely know he has not the slightest idea I dislike him. Your tata is not a perceptive kind of man. If he were, I may not have disliked him.”
“Oh, well, we never waste time discussing you,” said Servilia contemptuously. “We talk about important things.”
“For a seven-year-old, you’re very good at hurting people.”
“I’d never hurt my tata,” said the seven-year-old.
“Good for you! Remember what I said, however. What I’ve told you—or tried to tell you—today is our secret. I’ve honored you with a confidence, and I expect you to treat that confidence as a Roman patrician woman would—with respect.”
*
When Lucius Valerius Flaccus and Marcus Antonius Orator were elected censors in April, Quintus Poppaedius Silo arrived at Drusus’s house in a mood of great excitement.
“Oh, how wonderful to be able to talk without Quintus Servilius around!” exclaimed Silo with a grin; he never made any bones about his antipathy toward Caepio, any more than Caepio disguised his own antipathy.
Understanding this—and secretly agreeing with Silo even if family loyalties prevented his saying so—Drusus ignored the remark. “What’s brought you to the boil?” he asked.
“Our censors! They’re planning the most comprehensive census ever taken, and they’re going to change the way it’s taken.” Silo raised his arms above his head exultantly. “Oh, Marcus Livius, you have no idea how pessimistic I had become about the Italian situation! I had begun to see no other way out of our dilemma than secession and war with Rome.”
This being the first Drusus had heard of Silo’s fears, he sat very straight in his chair and looked at Silo in alarm. “Secession? War?” he asked. “Quintus Poppaedius, how can you even say such words? Truly, the Italian situation will be solved by peaceful means—I am dedicated to that end!”
“I know you are, my friend, and you must believe me when I say that secession and war are far from what I want. Italy doesn’t need these alternatives any more than Rome does. The cost in money and men would cripple our nations for decades afterward, no matter which side won. There are no spoils in civil wars.”
“Don’t even think of it!”
Silo wriggled on his chair, put his arms on Drusus’s desk and leaned forward eagerly. “That’s just it, I’m not thinking of it! Because I’ve suddenly seen a way to enfranchise enough Italians to make a big difference in how Rome feels about us.”
“You mean a mass enfranchisement?”
“Not total enfranchisement, that would be impossible. But great enough that once the thing is done, total enfranchisement will follow,” said Silo.
“How?” asked Drusus, feeling a little cheated; he had always thought of himself as ahead of Silo in the planning of full Roman citizenship for the Italians, but it now appeared his complacence had been mistaken.
“Well, as you know, the censors have always cared more about discovering who and what live inside Rome than anything else. The rural and provincial censuses have been tardy and completely voluntary. A rural man
wanting to register has had to go to the duumviri of his municipality or town, or else journey to the nearest place with municipal status. And in the provinces, a man has had to go to the governor, which can be a long journey. Those who care make the trip. Those who don’t promise themselves they’ll do it next time and simply trust that the clerks of the census transfer their names from the old rolls to the new—which mostly they do.”
“I am quite aware of all this,” said Drusus gently.
“It doesn’t matter, I think you must hear it again right now. Our new censors, Marcus Livius, are a curious pair. I’ve never thought of Antonius Orator as particularly efficient, yet I suppose when you think about the kind of campaign he had to wage against the pirates, he must be. As for Lucius Valerius, flamen Martialis and consular, all I remember about him is what a mess he made of Saturninus’s last year in office, when Gaius Marius was too ill to govern. However, they do say that there’s no man born without a talent of some kind! Now it turns out that Lucius Valerius has a talent for—I suppose you’d have to call it logistics. I came in through the Colline Gate today, and I was walking across the lower Forum when Lucius Valerius appeared.” Silo opened his strange eyes wide, and heaved a theatrical gasp. “Imagine my surprise when he hailed me, asked me if I had any time to talk! An Italian! Naturally I said I was entirely his to command. Turns out he wanted me to recommend him the names of some Roman citizen Marsi who would be willing to take a census of citizens and Latin Rights citizens in Marsic territory. By dint of looking stupid, in the end I got the whole story out of him. They—he and Antonius Orator, that is—intend to employ a special staff of what they’re calling census clerks, and send them all over Italy and Italian Gaul late this year and early next year to conduct a census in the rural fastnesses. According to Lucius Valerius, your new censors are worried that the system as it has always been practised overlooks a large group of rural citizens and Latins who are unwilling to bestir themselves to register. What do you think of that?”
“What ought I to think?” asked Drusus blankly.
“First of all, that it’s clear thinking, Marcus Livius.”
“Certainly! Businesslike too. But what special virtue does it possess to have you wagging your tail so hard?”
“My dear Drusus, if we Italians can get at these so-called census clerks, we’ll be able to ensure that they register large numbers of deserving Italians as Roman citizens! Not rabble, but men who ought by rights to have been Roman citizens years and years ago,” said Silo persuasively.
“You can’t do that,” said Drusus, his dark face stern. “It’s as unethical as it is illegal.”
“It’s morally right!”
“Morality is not at issue, Quintus Poppaedius. The law is. Every spurious citizen entered on the Roman rolls would be an illegal citizen. I couldn’t countenance that, any more than you should. No, say no more! Think about it, and you’ll see I’m right,” said Drusus firmly.
For a long moment Silo studied his friend’s expression, then flung his hands up in exasperation. “Oh, curse you, Marcus Livius! It would be so easy!”
“And just as easy to unravel once the deed was done. In registering these false citizens, you expose them to all the fury of Roman law—a flogging, their names inscribed on a blacklist, heavy fines,” said Drusus.
A sigh, a shrug. “Very well then, I do see your point,” said Silo grudgingly. “But it was a good idea.”
“No, it was a bad idea.” And from that stand, Marcus Livius Drusus would not be budged.
Silo said no more, but when the house—emptier these days—was stilled for the duration of the night, he took an example from the absent Livia Drusa without being aware he did, by going to sit outside on the balustrade of the loggia.
It had not occurred to him for one moment that Drusus would fail to see matters in the same way he did; had it, he would never have brought the subject up to Drusus. Perhaps, thought Silo sadly, this is one of the reasons why so many Romans say we Italians can never be Romans. I didn’t understand Drusus’s mind.
His position was now invidious, for he had advertised his intentions; he saw that he could not rely upon Drusus’s silence. Would Drusus go to Lucius Valerius Flaccus and Marcus Antonius Orator on the morrow, tell them what had been said?
His only alternative was to wait and see. And he would have to work very hard—but very subtly!—to convince Drusus that what had been said was a bright idea conceived between the Forum and the lip of the Palatine, something foolish and unworthy that a night’s sleep had squashed flat.
For he had no intention of abandoning his plan. Rather, its simplicity and finality only made its attractions grow. The censors expected many thousands of additional citizens to register! Why then should they query a markedly increased rural enrollment? He must travel at once to Bovianum to see Gaius Papius Mutilus the Samnite, then they must both travel to see the other Italian Ally leaders. By the time that the censors started seriously looking for their small army of clerks, the men who led the Italian Allies must be ready to act. To bribe clerks, to put clerks in office prepared to work secretly for the Italian cause, to alter or add to any rolls made available to them. The city of Rome he couldn’t tamper with, nor did he particularly want to. Non-citizens of Italian status within the city of Rome were not worth having; they had migrated from the lands of their fathers to live more meanly or more fatly within the environs of a huge metropolis, they were seduced beyond redemption.
For a long time he sat on the loggia, thoughts chasing across his mind, ways and means and ends to achieve the ultimate end—equality for every man within Italy.
And in the morning he set out to erase that indiscreet talk from Drusus’s mind, suitably penitent yet cheerful with it, as if it didn’t really matter in the least to him now that Drusus had shown him the error of his ways.
“I was misguided,” he said to Drusus, but in light tones. “A night’s sleep told me you are absolutely right.”
“Good!” said Drusus, smiling.
3
Quintus Servilius Caepio did not come home until autumn of the following year, having traveled from Smyrna in Asia Province to Italian Gaul, then to Utica in Africa Province, to Gades in Further Spain, and finally back to Italian Gaul. Scattering great prosperity in his wake. But gathering even more prosperity unto himself. And slowly, slowly, the Gold of Tolosa became translated into other things; big tracts of rich land along the Baetis River in Further Spain, apartment buildings in Gades, Utica, Corduba, Hispalis, Old Carthage and New Carthage, Cirta, Nemausus, Arelate, and every major town in Italian Gaul and the Italian peninsula; the little steel and charcoal towns he created in Italian Gaul were joined by textile towns; and wherever the farmlands were superlative, Quintus Servilius Caepio bought. He used Italian banks rather than Roman, Italian companies rather than Roman. And nothing of his fortune did he leave in Roman Asia Minor.
When he arrived at the house of Marcus Livius Drusus in Rome, his coming was unheralded. In consequence, he discovered that his wife and daughters were absent.
“Where are they?” he demanded of his sister.
“Where you said they could be,” answered Servilia Caepionis, looking bewildered.
“What do you mean, I said?”
“They’re still living on Marcus Livius’s Tusculan farm,” she said, wishing Drusus would come home.
“Why on earth are they living there?”
“For peace and quiet.” Servilia Caepionis put her hand to her head. “Oh dear, I must have got it all muddled up! I was so sure Marcus Livius told me you had agreed to it.”
“I didn’t agree to anything,” said Caepio angrily. “I’ve been away for over a year and a half, I come home expecting to be welcomed by my wife and children, and I find them absent! This is ridiculous! What are they doing in Tusculum?”
One of the virtues the men of the Servilii Caepiones most prided themselves upon was sexual continence allied to marital fidelity; in all his time away, Caepio had not
availed himself of a woman. Consequently, the closer he got to Rome, the more urgent his expectations of his wife had become.
“Livia Drusa was tired of Rome and went to live in the old Livius Drusus villa at Tusculum,” said Servilia Caepionis, her heart beating fast. “Truly, I thought you had given your consent! But in all events, it has certainly done Livia Drusa no harm. I’ve never seen her look better. Or so happy.” She smiled at her only brother. “You have a little son, Quintus Servilius. He was born last December, on the Kalends.”
That was good news indeed, but not news capable of dispelling Caepio’s annoyance at discovering his wife absent, his own satiation postponed.
“Send someone to bring them back at once,” he said.
Drusus came in not long afterward to find his brother-in-law sitting stiffly in the study, no book in his hand, nor anything on his mind beyond Livia Drusa’s delinquency.
“What’s all this about Livia Drusa?” he demanded as Drusus came in, ignoring the outstretched hand and avoiding the brotherly salutation of a kiss.
Warned by his wife, Drusus took this calmly, simply went round his desk and sat down.
“Livia Drusa moved to my Tusculan farm while you were away,” said Drusus. “There’s nothing untoward in it, Quintus Servilius. She was tired of the city, is all. Certainly the move has benefited her, she’s very well indeed. And you have a son.”
“My sister said she was under the impression I had given my permission for this relocation,” said Caepio, and blew through his nose. “Well, I certainly didn’t!”
“Yes, Livia Drusa did say you’d given your permission,” said Drusus, unruffled. “However, that’s a minor thing. I daresay she didn’t think of it until after you’d gone, and saved herself a great deal of difficulty by telling us you had consented. When you see her, I think you’ll understand that she acted for the best. Her health and state of mind are better than I’ve ever known. Clearly, country life suits her.”
“She will have to be disciplined.”
Drusus raised one pointed brow. “That, Quintus Servilius, is none of my business. I don’t want to know about it. What I do want to know about is your trip away.”
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