Lucius Decumius was already there, perched on the couch, his legs swinging clear of the exquisitely colored merman on the floor, his eyes upon a scroll he held between his hands.
“Making sure the College accounts are in order for the urban praetor’s audit?” asked Caesar, closing the door.
“Something like that,” Lucius Decumius answered, letting the scroll fly shut with a snap.
Caesar crossed to consult the cylinder of a water clock. “According to this little beast, it’s time to go downstairs, dad. Perhaps she won’t be punctual, especially if Silanus has no love of chronometers, but somehow the lady didn’t strike me as a person who ignores the passage of time.”
“You won’t want me here, Pavo, so I’ll just shove her in the door and go home,” said Lucius Decumius, exiting promptly.
Caesar seated himself at his desk to write a letter to Queen Oradaltis in Bithynia, but though he wrote as expeditiously as he did everything else, he had not done more than put paper in front of him when the door opened and Servilia entered. His assessment was right: she was not a lady who ignored time.
Rising, he went round the desk to greet her, intrigued when she extended her hand the way a man would. He shook it with exactly the courteous pressure such small bones demanded, but as he would have shaken a man’s hand. There was a chair ready at his desk, though before she arrived he had not been sure whether to conduct this interview across a desk or more cozily ensconced in closer proximity. His mother had been right: Servilia was not easy to read. So he ushered her to the chair opposite, then returned to his own. Hands clasped loosely on the desk in front of him, he looked at her solemnly.
Well preserved if she was nearing thirty-seven years of age, he decided, and elegantly dressed in a vermilion robe whose color skated perilously close to the flame of a prostitute’s toga and yet contrived to appear unimpeachably respectable. Yes, she was clever! Thick and so black its highlights shone more blue than red, her hair was pulled back from a center parting to meet a separate wing covering the upper tip of each ear, the whole then knotted into a bun on the nape of her neck. Unusual, but again respectable. A small, somewhat pursed mouth, good clear white skin, heavily lidded black eyes fringed with long and curling black lashes, brows he suspected she plucked heavily, and—most interesting of all—a slight sagging in the muscles of her right cheek that he had also noticed in the son, Brutus.
Time to break the silence, since it appeared she was not about to do so. “How may I help you, domina?” he asked formally.
“Decimus Silanus is our paterfamilias, Gaius Julius, but there are certain things pertaining to the affairs of my late first husband, Marcus Junius Brutus, that I prefer to deal with myself. My present husband is not a well man, so I try to spare him extra burdens. It is important that you do not misunderstand my actions, which may seem on the surface to usurp duties more normally in the sphere of the paterfamilias,” she said with even greater formality.
The expression of aloof interest his face had displayed since he sat down did not change; Caesar merely leaned back a little in his chair. “I will not misunderstand,” he said.
Impossible to say she relaxed at that, for she had not seemed from the moment of her entry to be anything other than relaxed. Yet a more assured tinge crept into her wariness; it looked at him out of her eyes. “You met my son, Marcus Junius Brutus, the day before yesterday,” she said.
“A nice boy.”
“I think so, yes.”
“Still technically a child.”
“For some few months yet. This matter concerns him, and he insists it will not wait.” A faint smile touched the left corner of her mouth, which seemed from watching her speak to be more mobile than the right corner. “Youth is impetuous.”
“He didn’t seem impetuous to me,” said Caesar.
“Nor is he in most things.”
“So I am to gather that your errand is on behalf of something young Marcus Junius Brutus wants?”
“That is correct.”
“Well,” said Caesar, exhaling deeply, “having established the proper protocol, perhaps you’ll tell me what he wants.”
“He wishes to espouse your daughter, Julia.”
Masterly self-control! applauded Servilia, unable to detect any reaction in eyes, face, body.
“She’s only eight,” said Caesar.
“And he not yet officially a man. However, he wishes it.”
“He may change his mind.”
“So I told him. But he assures me he will not, and he ended in convincing me of his sincerity.”
“I’m not sure I want to betroth Julia yet.”
“Whyever not? My own daughters are both contracted already, and they are younger than Julia.”
“Julia’s dowry is very small.”
“No news to me, Gaius Julius. However, my son’s fortune is large. He doesn’t need a wealthy bride. His own father left him extremely well provided for, and he is Silanus’s heir too.”
“You may yet have a son to Silanus.”
“Possibly.”
“But not probably, eh?”
“Silanus throws daughters.”
Caesar leaned forward again, still appearing detached. “Tell me why I should agree to the match, Servilia.”
Her brows rose. “I should have thought that was self-evident! How could Julia look higher for a husband? On my side Brutus is a patrician Servilius, on his father’s side he goes back to Lucius Junius Brutus, the founder of the Republic. All of which you know. His fortune is splendid, his political career will certainly carry him to the consulship, and he may well end in being censor now that the censorship is restored. There is a blood relationship through the Rutilii as well as through both the Servilii Caepiones and the Livii Drusi. There is also amicitia through Brutus’s grandfather’s devotion to your uncle by marriage, Gaius Marius. I am aware that you are closely related to Sulla’s family, but neither my own family nor my husband had any quarrel with Sulla. Your own dichotomy between Marius and Sulla is more pronounced than any Brutus can lay claim to.”
“Oh, you argue like an advocate!” said Caesar appreciatively, and finally smiled.
“I will take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
Caesar got up and walked round the desk, held out his hand to help her rise.
“Am I to have no answer, Gaius Julius?”
“You will have an answer, but not today.”
“When, then?” she asked, walking to the door.
A faint but alluring perfume came stealing from her as she preceded Caesar, who was about to tell her he would give her his answer after the elections when he suddenly noticed something that fascinated him into wanting to see her again sooner than that. Though she was irreproachably covered up as her class and status demanded, the back of her robe had sagged to expose the skin over neck and spine to the middle of her shoulder blades, and there like a finely feathered track a central growth of black fuzz traveled down from her head to disappear into the depths of her clothing. It looked silky rather than coarse and lay flat against her white skin, but it was not lying as it was intended to lie because whoever had dried her back after her bath hadn’t cared enough to smooth it carefully into a crest along the well-padded knobs of her spine. How it cried out for that small attention!
“Come back tomorrow, if that is convenient,” said Caesar, reaching past her to open the door.
No attendant waited on the minute stair landing, so he walked her down two flights to the vestibule. But when he would have taken her outside, she stopped him.
“Thank you, Gaius Julius, this far will do,” she said.
“You’re sure? It’s not the best neighborhood.”
“I have an escort. Until tomorrow, then.”
Back up the stairs to the last lingering tendrils of that subtle perfume and a feeling that somehow the room was emptier than it had ever been. Servilia… She was deep and every layer was differently hard, iron and marble and basalt
and adamas. Not at all nice. Not feminine, either, despite those large and shapely breasts. It might prove disastrous to turn one’s back on her, for in his fancy she had two faces like Janus, one to see where she was going and one to see who followed behind. A total monster. Little wonder everyone said Silanus looked sicker and sicker. No paterfamilias would intercede for Brutus; she hadn’t needed to explain that to him. Clearly Servilia managed her own affairs, including her son, no matter what the law said. So was betrothal to Julia her idea, or did it indeed stem from Brutus? Aurelia might know. He would go home and ask her.
And home he went, still thinking about Servilia, what it would be like to regulate and discipline that thin line of black fuzz down her back.
“Mater,” he said, erupting into her office, “I need an urgent consultation, so stop what you’re doing and come into my study!”
Down went Aurelia’s pen; she stared at Caesar in amazement. “It’s rent day,” she said.
“I don’t care if it’s quarter day.”
He was gone before he had quite finished that short sentence, leaving Aurelia to abandon her accounts in a state of shock. Not like Caesar! What had gotten into him?
“Well?’’ she asked, stalking into his tablinum to find him standing with his hands behind his back and rocking from heels to toes and back again. His toga lay in a massive heap on the floor, so she bent to pick it up, then tossed it out the door into the dining room before shutting herself in.
For a moment he acted as if she hadn’t yet arrived, then started, glanced at her in mingled amusement and—exhilaration? before moving to seat her in the chair she always used.
“My dear Caesar, can’t you stay still, even if you can’t sit down? You look like an alley cat with the wind in its tail.”
That struck him as exquisitely funny; he roared with laughter. “I probably feel like an alley cat with the wind in its tail!”
Rent day disappeared; Aurelia realized from what interview with whom Caesar must just have emerged. “Oho! Servilia!”
“Servilia,” he echoed, and sat down, suddenly recovering from that fizzing state of exaltation.
“In love, are we?” asked the mother clinically.
He considered that, shook his head. “I doubt it. In lust, perhaps, though I’m not even sure of that. I dislike her, I think.”
“A promising beginning. You’re bored.”
“True. Certainly bored with all these women who gaze adoringly and lie down to let me wipe my feet on them.”
“She won’t do that for you, Caesar.”
“I know, I know.”
“What did she want to see you for? To start an affair?”
“Oh, we haven’t progressed anywhere as far along as that, Mater. In fact, I have no idea whether my lust is reciprocated. It may well not be, because it only really began when she turned her back on me to go.”
“I grow more curious by the moment. What did she want?”
“Guess,” he said, grinning.
“Don’t play games with me!”
“You won’t guess?”
“I’ll do more than refuse to guess, Caesar, if you don’t stop acting like a ten-year-old. I shall leave.”
“No, no, stay there, Mater, I’ll behave. It just feels so good to be faced with a challenge, a little bit of terra incognita.”
“Yes, I do understand that,” she said, and smiled. “Tell me.”
“She came on young Brutus’s behalf. To ask that I consent to a betrothal between young Brutus and Julia.”
That obviously came as a surprise; Aurelia blinked several times. “How extraordinary!”
“The thing is, Mater, whose idea is it? Hers or Brutus’s?”
Aurelia put her head on one side and thought. Finally she nodded and said, “Brutus’s, I would think. When one’s dearly loved granddaughter is a mere child, one doesn’t expect things like that to happen, but upon reflection there have been signs. He does tend to look at her like a particularly dense sheep,”
“You’re full of the most remarkable animal metaphors today, Mater! From alley cats to sheep.”
“Stop being facetious, even if you are in lust for the boy’s mother. Julia’s future is too important.”
He sobered instantly. “Yes, of course. Considered in the crudest light, it is a wonderful offer, even for a Julia.”
“I agree, especially at this time, before your own political career is anywhere near its zenith. Betrothal to a Junius Brutus whose mother is a Servilius Caepio would gather you immense support among the boni, Caesar. All the Junii, both the patrician and the plebeian Servilii, Hortensius, some of the Domitii, quite a few of the Caecilii Metelli—even Catulus would have to pause.”
“Tempting,” said Caesar.
“Very tempting if the boy is serious.”
“His mother assures me he is.”
“I believe he is too. Nor does he strike me as the kind to blow hot and cold. A very sober and cautious boy, Brutus.”
“Would Julia like it?” asked Caesar, frowning.
Aurelia’s brows rose. “That’s an odd question coming from you. You’re her father, her marital fate is entirely in your hands, and you’ve never given me any reason to suppose you would consider letting her marry for love. She’s too important, she’s your only child. Besides, Julia will do as she’s told. I’ve brought her up to understand that things like marriage are not hers to dictate.”
“But I would like her to like the idea.”
“You are not usually a prey to sentiment, Caesar. Is it that you don’t care much for the boy yourself?” she asked shrewdly.
He sighed. “Partly, perhaps. Oh, I didn’t dislike him the way I dislike his mother. But he seemed a dull dog.”
“Animal metaphors!”
That made him laugh, but briefly. “She’s such a sweet little thing, and so lively. Her mother and I were so happy that I’d like to see her happy in her marriage.”
“Dull dogs make good husbands,” said Aurelia.
“You’re in favor of the match.”
“I am. If we let it go, another half as good may not come Julia’s way. His sisters have snared young Lepidus and Vatia Isauricus’s eldest son, so there are two very eligible matches gone already. Would you rather give her to a Claudius Pulcher or a Caecilius Metellus? Or Pompeius Magnus’s son?”
He shuddered, flinched. “You’re absolutely right, Mater. Better a dull dog than ravening wolf or mangy cur! I was rather hoping for one of Crassus’s sons.”
Aurelia snorted. “Crassus is a good friend to you, Caesar, but you know perfectly well he’ll not let either of his boys marry a girl with no dowry to speak of.”
“Right again, Mater.” He slapped his hands on his knees, a sign that he had made up his mind. “Marcus Junius Brutus let it be, then! Who knows? He might turn out as irresistibly handsome as Paris once he’s over the pimple stage.”
“I do wish you didn’t have a tendency to levity, Caesar!” said his mother, rising to go back to her books. “It will hamper your career in the Forum, just as it does Cicero’s from time to time. The poor boy will never be handsome. Or dashing.”
“In which case,” said Caesar with complete seriousness, “he is lucky. They never trust fellows who are too handsome.”
“If women could vote,” said Aurelia slyly, “that would soon change. Every Memmius would be King of Rome.”
“Not to mention every Caesar, eh? Thank you, Mater, but I prefer things the way they are.”
*
Servilia did not mention her interview with Caesar when she returned home, either to Brutus or Silanus. Nor did she mention that on the morrow she was going to see him again. In most households the news would have leaked through the servants, but not in Servilia’s domain. The two Greeks whom she employed as escorts whenever she ventured out were old retainers, and knew her better than to gossip, even among their compatriots. The tale of the nursemaid she had seen flogged and crucified for dropping baby Brutus had followed her from Br
utus’s house to Silanus’s, and no one made the mistake of deeming Silanus strong enough to cope with his wife’s temperament or temper. No other crucifixion had happened since, but of floggings there were sufficient to ensure instant obedience and permanently still tongues. Nor was it a household wherein slaves were manumitted, could don the Cap of Liberty and call themselves freedmen or freedwomen. Once you were sold into Servilia’s keeping, you stayed a slave forever.
Thus when the two Greeks accompanied her to the bottom end of the Vicus Patricii the following morning, they made no attempt to see what lay inside the building, nor dreamed of creeping up the stairs a little later to listen at doors, peer through keyholes. Not that they suspected a liaison with some man; Servilia was too well known to be above reproach in that respect. She was a snob, and it was generally held by her entire world from peers to servants that she would deem Jupiter Optimus Maximus beneath her.
Perhaps she would have, had the Great God accosted her, but a liaison with Gaius Julius Caesar certainly occupied her mind most attractively as she trod up the stairs alone, finding it significant that this morning the peculiar and rather noisome little man of yesterday was not in evidence. The conviction that something other than a betrothal would come of her interview with Caesar had not occurred until, as he had ushered her to the door, she sensed a change in him quite palpable enough to trigger hope—nay, anticipation. Of course she knew what all of Rome knew, that he was fastidious to a fault about the condition of his women, that they had to be scrupulously clean. So she had bathed with extreme care and limited her perfume to a trace incapable of disguising natural odors underneath; luckily she didn’t sweat beyond a modicum, and never wore a robe more than once between launderings. Yesterday she had worn vermilion: today she chose a rich deep amber, put amber pendants in her ears and amber beads around her neck. I am tricked out for a seduction, she thought, and knocked upon the door,
He answered it himself, saw her to the chair, sat behind his desk just as he had yesterday. But he didn’t look at her as he had yesterday; today the eyes were not detached, not cold. They held something she had never seen in a man’s eyes before, a spark of intimacy and ownership that did not set her back up or make her dismiss him as lewd or crude. Why did she think that spark honored her, distinguished her from all her fellow women?
Masters of Rome Boxset: First Man in Rome, the Grass Crown, Fortune's Favourites, Caesar's Women, Caesar Page 369
