“Would you like,” he asked Pompeia, lifting himself up on an elbow to look at her, “a stick of celery?”
She blinked her preposterously long, dark lashes. “A stick of celery?” she asked vaguely.
“To crunch on while I work,” he said. “It would give you something to do, and I’d hear you doing it.”
Pompeia giggled because some infatuated youth had once told her it was the most delicious sound, tinkling water over gemstones in the bed of a little brook. “Oh, you are silly!” she said.
Back he flopped, but not on top of her. “You are absolutely right,” he said. “I am indeed silly.”
And to his mother, in the morning: “Do not expect to see much of me here, Mater.”
“Oh dear,” said Aurelia placidly. “Like that, is it?”
“I’d rather masturbate!” he said savagely, and left before he could get a tongue-lashing for vulgarity.
*
Being curator of the Via Appia, he was learning, made far greater demands on his purse than he had expected, despite his mother’s warning. The great road connecting Rome with Brundisium cried out for some loving care, as it was never adequately maintained. Though it had to endure the tramp of numberless armies and the wheels of countless baggage trains, it was so old it had become rather taken for granted; beyond Capua especially it suffered.
The Treasury quaestors that year were surprisingly sympathetic, though they included young Caepio, whose relationship to Cato and the boni had predisposed Caesar to think he would have to battle ceaselessly for funds. Funds were forthcoming; just never enough. So when the cost of bridge making and resurfacing outran his public funds, Caesar contributed his own. Nothing unusual about that; Rome always expected private donations too.
The work, of course, appealed to him enormously, so he supervised it himself and did all the engineering. After he married Pompeia he hardly visited Rome. Naturally he followed Pompey’s progress in that fabulous campaign against the pirates, and had to admit that he could scarcely have bettered it himself. This went as far as applauding Pompey’s clemency as the war wound itself up along the Cilician coast, and Pompey dealt with his thousands of captives by resettling them in deserted towns far from the sea. He had, in fact, done everything the right way, from ensuring that his friend and amanuensis Varro was decorated with a Naval Crown to supervising the sharing out of the spoils in such a way that no legate was able to snaffle more than he was entitled to, and the Treasury plumped out considerably. He had taken the soaring citadel of Coracesium the best way, by bribery from within, and when that place fell, no pirate left alive could delude himself that Rome did not now own what had become Mare Nostrum, Our Sea. The campaign had extended into the Euxine, and here too Pompey carried all before him. Megadates and his lizardlike twin, Pharnaces, had been executed; the grain supply to Rome was organized and out of future danger.
Only in the matter of Crete had he failed at all, and that was due to Metellus Little Goat, who adamantly refused to honor Pompey’s superior imperium, snubbed his legate Lucius Octavius when he arrived to smooth things over, and was generally held to have been the cause of Lucius Cornelius Sisenna’s fatal stroke. Though Pompey could have dispossessed him, that would have meant going to war against him, as Metellus made plain. So in the end Pompey did the sensible thing, left Crete to Metellus and thereby tacitly agreed to share a tiny part of the glory with the inflexible grandson of Metellus Macedonicus. For this campaign against the pirates was, as Pompey had said to Caesar, simply a warm-up, a way to stretch his muscles for a greater task.
Thus Pompey made no move to return to Rome; he lingered in the province of Asia during the winter, and engaged himself in settling it down, reconciling it to a new wave of tax-farmers his own censors had made possible. Of course Pompey had no need to return to Rome, preferred to be elsewhere; he had another trusty tribune of the plebs to replace the retiring Aulus Gabinius—in fact he had two. One, Gaius Memmius, was the son of his sister and her first husband, that Gaius Memmius who had perished in Spain during service with Pompey against Sertorius. The other, Gaius Manilius, was the more able of the pair, and assigned the most difficult task: to obtain for Pompey the command against King Mithridates and King Tigranes.
It was, thought Caesar, feeling it prudent to be in Rome during that December and January, an easier task than Gabinius had faced—simply because Pompey had so decisively trounced his senatorial opposition by routing the pirates in the space of one short summer; at a fraction of the cost his campaign might have incurred; and too quickly to need land grants for troops, bonuses for contributing cities and states, compensation for borrowed fleets. At the end of that year, Rome was prepared to give Pompey anything he wanted.
In contrast, Lucius Licinius Lucullus had endured an atrocious year in the field, suffering defeats, mutinies, disasters. All of which placed him and his agents in Rome in no position to counter Manilius’s contention that Bithynia, Pontus and Cilicia should be given to Pompey immediately, and that Lucullus should be stripped of his command completely, ordered back to Rome in disgrace. Glabrio would lose his control of Bithynia and Pontus, but that could not impede Pompey’s appointment, as Glabrio had greedily rushed off to govern his province early in his consulship, and done Piso no service thereby. Nor had Quintus Marcius Rex, the governor of Cilicia, accomplished anything of note. The East was targeted for Pompey the Great.
Not that Catulus and Hortensius didn’t try. They fought an oratorical battle in Senate and Comitia, still opposing these extraordinary and all-embracing commands.
Manilius was proposing that Pompey be given imperium maius again, which would put him above any governor, and also proposing to include a clause which would allow Pompey to make peace and war without needing to ask or consult either Senate or People. This year, however, Caesar did not speak alone in support of Pompey. Now praetor in the Extortion Court, Cicero thundered forth in House and Comitia; so did the censors Poplicola and Lentulus Clodianus, and Gaius Scribonius Curio, and—a real triumph!—the consulars Gaius Cassius Longinus and no less than Publius Servilius Vatia Isauricus himself! How could Senate or People resist? Pompey got his command, and was able to shed a tear or two when he got the news as he toured his dispositions in Cilicia. Oh, the weight of these remorseless special commissions! Oh, how he wanted to go home to a life of peace and tranquillity! Oh, the exhaustion!
3
Servilia gave birth to her third daughter at the beginning of September, a fair-haired mite whose eyes promised to stay blue. Because Junia and Junilla were so much older and therefore used to their names by now, this Junia would be called Tertia, which meant Third and had a nice sound. The pregnancy had dragged terribly after Caesar had elected not to see her halfway through May, not helped because she was heaviest when the weather was hottest, and Silanus did not deem it wise to leave Rome for the seaside because of her condition at her age. He had continued to be kind and considerate. No one watching them could have suspected all was not well between them. Only Servilia recognized a new look in his eyes, part wounded and part sad, but as compassion was not a part of her nature, she dismissed it as a simple fact of life and did not soften toward him.
Knowing that the gossip grapevine would convey the news of his daughter’s arrival to Caesar, Servilia made no attempt to get in touch with him. A hard business anyway, and now compounded by Caesar’s new wife. What a shock that had been! Out of the blue, a fireball roaring down from a clear sky to flatten her, kill her, reduce her to a cinder. Jealousy ate at her night and day, for she knew the young lady, of course. No intelligence, no depth—but so beautiful with her off-red hair and vivid green eyes! A granddaughter of Sulla’s too. Rich. All the proper connections and a foot in each senatorial camp. How clever of Caesar to gratify his senses as well as enhance his political status! For having no way to ascertain her beloved’s frame of mind, Servilia assumed automatically that this was a love match. Well, rot him! How could she live without him? How could she live knowing s
ome other woman meant more to him than she did? How could she live?
Brutus saw Julia regularly, of course. At sixteen and now officially a man, Brutus was revolted by his mother’s pregnancy. He, a man, had a mother who was still—was still… Ye gods, the embarrassment, the humiliation!
But Julia saw things differently, and told him so. “How nice for her and Silanus,” the nine-year-old had said, smiling tenderly. “You mustn’t be angry with her, Brutus, truly. What happens if after we’ve been married for twenty or so years, we should have an extra child? Would you understand your oldest son’s anger?”
His skin was worse than it had been a year ago, always in a state of eruption, yellow sores and red sores, sores which itched or burned, needed to be scratched or squeezed or torn at. Self-hate had fueled his hatred of his mother’s condition, and was hard to put by now at this reasonable and charitable question. He scowled, growled, but then said reluctantly, “I would understand his anger, yes, because I feel it. But I do see what you mean.”
“Then that’s a beginning, it will do,” said the little sage. “Servilia isn’t quite a girl anymore, avia explained that to me, and said that she would need lots of help and sympathy.”
“I’ll try,” said Brutus, “for you, Julia.” And took himself home to try.
All of which paled into insignificance when Servilia’s chance came not two weeks after she had borne Tertia. Her brother Caepio called to see her with interesting news.
One of the urban quaestors, he had been earmarked earlier in the year to assist Pompey in his campaign against the pirates, a task he had not thought would necessitate his leaving Rome.
“But I’ve been sent for, Servilia!” he cried, happiness shining in eyes and smile. “Gnaeus Pompeius wants quite a lot of money and accounts brought to him in Pergamum, and I am to make the journey. Isn’t that wonderful? I can go overland through Macedonia and visit my brother Cato. I miss him dreadfully!”
“How nice for you,” said Servilia listlessly, not in the least interested in Caepio’s passion for Cato, as it had been a part of all their lives for twenty-seven years.
“Pompeius doesn’t expect me before December, so if I get going immediately I can have quite a long time with Cato before I have to move on,” Caepio continued, still in that mood of happy anticipation. “The weather will hold until I leave Macedonia, and I can continue on by road.” He shivered. “I hate the sea!”
“Safe from pirates these days, I hear.”
“Thank you, I prefer terra firma.”
Caepio then proceeded to acquaint himself with baby Tertia, gooing and clucking as much out of genuine affection as out of duty, and comparing his sister’s child to his own, also a girl.
“Lovely little thing,” he said, preparing to depart. “Most distinguished bones. I wonder where she gets those from?”
Oh, thought Servilia. And here was I deluding myself that I am the only one to see a likeness to Caesar! Still, Porcius Cato though his blood was, Caepio had no malice in him, so his remark had been an innocent one.
Her mind clicked from that thought into an habitual sequel, Caepio’s manifest unworthiness to inherit the fruits of the Gold of Tolosa, followed by a burning resentment that her own son, Brutus, could not inherit. Caepio, the cuckoo in her family nest. Cato’s full brother, not her full brother.
It had been months since Servilia had been able to concentrate on anything beyond Caesar’s perfidy in marrying that young and delectable nincompoop, but those reflections on the fate of the Gold of Tolosa now flowed into a completely different channel unclouded by Caesar-induced emotions. For she glanced out of her open window and saw Sinon prancing blithely down the colonnade on the far side of the peristyle garden. Servilia loved this slave, though not in any fleshly sense. He had belonged to her husband, but not long after their marriage she had asked Silanus sweetly if he would transfer Sinon’s ownership to her. The deed accomplished, she had summoned Sinon and informed him of the change in his status, expecting horror, hoping for something else. She had got that something else, and loved Sinon ever since. For he had greeted her news with joy.
“It takes one to know one,” he had remarked impudently.
“If it does, Sinon, bear this in mind: I am your superior, I have the power.”
“I understand,” he answered, smirking. “That’s good, you know. As long as Decimus Junius remained my master, there was always the temptation to take things too far, and that might well have resulted in my downfall. With you as my mistress, I will never forget to watch my step. Very good, very good! But do remember, domina, that I am yours to command.”
And command him she had from time to time. Cato, she knew from childhood, was afraid of absolutely nothing except large and hairy spiders, which reduced him to gibbering panic. So Sinon was often allowed to prowl out of Rome in search of large and hairy spiders, and was paid extremely well to introduce them into Cato’s house, from his bed to his couch to his desk drawers. Not once had he been detected at the business, either. Cato’s full sister, Porcia, who was married to Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, had an abiding horror of fat beetles. Sinon caught fat beetles and introduced them into that household. Then sometimes Servilia would instruct him to dump thousands of worms or fleas or flies or crickets or roaches into either residence, and send anonymous notes containing worm curses or flea curses or whatever curse was relevant. Until Caesar had entered her life, such activities had kept her amused. But since Caesar had entered her life, those diversions had not been necessary, and Sinon’s time had become all his own. He toiled not, save in the procurement of insect pests, as the mantle of the lady Servilia wrapped him round.
“Sinon!” she called.
He stopped, turned, came skipping up the colonnade and round the corner to her sitting room. Quite a pretty fellow, he had a certain grace and insouciance which made him likable to those who did not know him well; Silanus, for instance, still thought highly of him, and so did Brutus. Slight in build, he was a brown person—brown skin, light brown eyes, light brown hair. Pointed ears, pointed chin, pointed fingers. No wonder many of the servants made the sign to ward off the Evil Eye when Sinon appeared. There was a satyr quality to him.
“Domina?” he asked, stepping over the sill.
“Close the door, Sinon, then close the shutters.”
“Oh, goody, work!” he said, obeying.
“Sit down.”
He sat, gazing at her with a mixture of cheek and expectation. Spiders? Roaches? Perhaps she would graduate to snakes?
“How would you like your freedom, Sinon, with a fat purse of gold to go with it?’’ she asked.
That he did not expect. For a moment the satyr vanished to reveal another quasi-human less appealing underneath, some creature out of a children’s nightmare. Then it too disappeared, he merely looked alert and interested.
“I would like that very much, domina.”
“Have you any idea what I would ask you to do that could earn such a reward?”
“Murder at the very least,” he answered without hesitation.
“Quite so,” said Servilia. “Are you tempted?”
He shrugged. “Who would not be, in my position?”
“It takes courage to do murder.”
“I am aware of that. But I have courage.”
“You’re a Greek, and Greeks have no sense of honor. By that I mean they do not stay bought.”
“I would stay bought, domina, if all I had to do was murder and then could disappear with my fat purse of gold.”
Servilia was reclining on a couch, and did not alter her position in the slightest through all of this. But having got his answer, she straightened; her eyes grew absolutely cold and still. “I do not trust you because I trust nobody,” she said, “yet this is not a murder to be done in Rome, or even in Italia. It will have to be done somewhere between Thessalonica and the Hellespont, an ideal spot from which to disappear. But there are ways I can keep hold of you, Sinon, do not forget that. One is to pa
y you some of your reward now, and send the rest to a destination in Asia Province.”
“Ah, domina, but how do I know you will keep your side of the bargain?” Sinon asked softly.
Servilia’s nostrils flared, an unconscious hauteur. “I am a patrician Servilius Caepio,” she said.
“I appreciate that.”
“It is the only guarantee you need that I will keep my side of the bargain.”
“What do I have to do?”
“First of all, you have to procure a poison of the best kind. By that I mean a poison which will not fail, and a poison which will not be suspected.”
“I can do that.”
“My brother Quintus Servilius Caepio leaves for the East in a day or so,” said Servilia, level-voiced. “I will ask him if you may accompany him, as I have business for you to do in Asia Province. He will agree to take you, of course. There is no reason why he should not. He will be carrying scrip and accounts for Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus in Pergamum, and he will have no ready money to tempt you. For it is imperative, Sinon, that you do what I require you to do and then go without disturbing one single tiny thing. His brother Cato is a tribune of the soldiers in Macedonia, and his brother Cato is a far different fellow. Suspicious and hard, ruthless when offended. No doubt his brother Cato will go east to arrange my brother Caepio’s obsequies, it is in character for him to do so. And when he arrives, Sinon, there must be no suspicion that anything more than illness has put paid to the life of my brother Quintus Servilius Caepio.”
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