Thus it was to her that he poured out the story of the meeting at Metellus Scipio’s, and she, dearest and sweetest pet, listened with tears in her eyes.
“Even Metellus Scipio suffered little parental supervision,” she said at the end of the story, “while the others are far too old to remember what it was like when they lived at home with the paterfamilias.”
“Silanus is all right,” said Brutus gruffly, fighting tears himself, “but I am so terribly afraid of my mother! Uncle Cato isn’t afraid of anyone, that’s the trouble.”
Neither of them had any idea of the relationship between her father and his mother—any more than, indeed, did Uncle Cato. So Julia felt no constraints about communicating her dislike of Servilia to Brutus, and said, “I do understand, Brutus dear.” She shivered, turned pale. “She has no compassion, no comprehension of her strength or her power to dominate. I think she is strong enough to blunt the shears of Atropos.”
“I agree with you,” said Brutus, sighing.
Time to cheer him up, make him feel better about himself. Julia said, smiling and reaching out to stroke his shoulder-length black curls, “I think you handle her beautifully, Brutus. You stay out of her way and do nothing to annoy her. If Uncle Cato had to live with her, he might understand your situation.”
“Uncle Cato did live with her,” said Brutus dolefully.
“Yes, but when she was a girl,” said Julia, stroking.
Her touch triggered an impulse to kiss her, but Brutus did not, contenting himself with caressing the back of her hand as she drew it away from his hair. She was not long turned thirteen, and though her womanhood was now manifested by two exquisite little pointed bumps inside the bosom of her dress, Brutus knew she was not yet ready for kisses. He was also imbued with a sense of honor that had come from all his reading of the conservative Latin writers like Cato the Censor, and he deemed it wrong to stimulate a physical response in her that would end in making life for both of them uncomfortable. Aurelia trusted them, never supervised their meetings. Therefore he could not take advantage of that trust.
Of course it would have been better for both of them had he done so, for then Julia’s increasing sexual aversion to him would have surfaced at an early enough age to make the breaking of their engagement an easier business. But because he did not touch or kiss her, Julia could find no reasonable excuse for going to her father and begging to be released from what she knew would be a ghastly marriage, no matter how obedient a wife she forced herself to be.
The trouble was that Brutus had so much money! Bad enough at the time of the betrothal, but a hundred times worse now that he had inherited the fortune of his mother’s family as well. Like everyone else in Rome, Julia knew the story of the Gold of Tolosa, and what it had bought for the Servilii Caepiones. Brutus’s money would be such a help to her father, of that there could be no doubt. Avia said it was her duty as her father’s only child to make his life in the Forum more prestigious, to increase his dignitas. And there was only one way in which a girl could do this: she had to marry as much money and clout as she could. Brutus may not have been any girl’s idea of marital bliss, but in respect of money and clout he had no rival. Therefore she would do her duty and marry someone whom she just didn’t want to make love to her. Tata was more important.
Thus when Caesar came to visit later that afternoon, Julia behaved as if Brutus were the fiancé of her dreams.
“You’re growing up,” said Caesar, whose presence in his home was rare enough these days that he could see her evolving.
“Only five years to go,” she said solemnly.
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh; “that’s all, tata.”
He settled her into the crook of his arm and kissed the top of her head, unaware that Julia belonged to that type of girl who could dream of no more wonderful husband than one exactly like her father: mature, famous, handsome, a shaper of events.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Brutus came.”
He laughed. “That is not news, Julia!”
“Perhaps it is,” she said demurely, and related what she had been told about the meeting at the house of Metellus Scipio.
“The gall of Cato!” he exclaimed when she was done, “to demand large amounts of money from a twenty-year-old boy!”
“They didn’t get anywhere, thanks to his mother.”
“You don’t like Servilia, do you?”
“I’m in Brutus’s shoes, tata. She terrifies me.”
“Why, exactly?”
This she found difficult to elucidate for the benefit of one famous for his love of undeniable facts. “It’s just a sort of feeling. Whenever I see her, I think of an evil black snake.”
He shook with mirth. “Have you ever seen an evil black snake, Julia?”
“No, but I’ve seen pictures of them. And of Medusa.” She closed her eyes and turned her face into his shoulder. “Do you like her, tata?”
That he could answer with perfect truth. “No.”
“Well then, there you are,’’ said his daughter.
“You’re quite right,” said Caesar. “There indeed I am!”
*
Naturally Aurelia was fascinated when Caesar recounted the story to her a few moments later.
“Isn’t it nice to think that even mutual detestation of you can’t obliterate ambition in either Catulus or Vatia Isauricus?” she asked, smiling slightly.
“Cato’s right, if they both stand they’ll split the vote. And if I have learned nothing else, I now know they’ll rig the lots. No Fabian voters in this particular election!”
“But both their tribes will vote.”
“I can deal with that provided that they both stand. Some of their natural partisans will see the strength of an argument from me that they should preserve their impartiality by voting for neither.”
“Oh, clever!”
“Electioneering,” said Caesar pensively, “is not merely a matter of bribery, though none of those hidebound fools can see that. Bribery is not a tool I dare use, even if I had the wish or the money to go in for it. If I am a candidate for an election, there will be half a hundred senatorial wolves baying for my blood—no vote or record or official will go uninvestigated. But there are many other ploys than bribery.”
“It’s a pity that the seventeen tribes which will vote will not be chosen until immediately beforehand,” said Aurelia. “If they were selected a few days in advance, you could import some rural voters. The name Julius Caesar means a great deal more to any rural voter than either Lutatius Catulus or Servilius Vatia.”
“Nonetheless, Mater, something can be done along those lines. There’s bound to be at least one urban tribe—Lucius Decumius will prove invaluable there. Crassus will enlist his tribe if it’s chosen. So will Magnus. And I do have influence in other tribes than Fabia.”
A small silence fell, during which Caesar’s face became grim; if Aurelia had been tempted to speak, sight of that change in his expression would have deterred her. It meant he was debating within himself whether to broach a less palatable subject, and the chances of that happening were greater if she effaced herself as much as possible. What less palatable subject could there be than money? So Aurelia held her peace.
“Crassus came to see me this morning,” said Caesar at last.
Still she said nothing.
“My creditors are restless.”
No word from Aurelia.
“The bills are still coming in from the days of my curule aedileship. That means I haven’t managed to pay back anything I took as a loan.”
Her eyes dropped to look at the surface of the desk.
“That includes the interest on the interest. There’s talk among them of impeaching me to the censors, and even with one of them my uncle, the censors would have to do what the law says they must. I would lose my seat in the Senate and all my goods would be sold up. That includes my lands.”
“Has Crassus any suggestio
ns?” she ventured to asked.
“That I get myself elected Pontifex Maximus.”
“He wouldn’t lend you money himself?”
“That,” said Caesar, “is a last resort as far as I’m concerned. Crassus is a great friend, but he’s not got hay on his horns for nothing. He lends without interest, but he expects to be paid the moment he calls a loan in. Pompeius Magnus will be back before I’m consul, and I need to keep Magnus on my side. But Crassus detests Magnus, has done ever since their joint consulship. I have to tread a line between the pair of them. Which means I dare not owe either of them money.”
“I see that. Will Pontifex Maximus do it?”
“Apparently so, with opponents as prestigious as Catulus and Vatia Isauricus. Victory would tell my creditors I will be praetor, and I will be senior consul. And that when I go to my consular province I’ll recoup my losses, if not before. They’ll be paid in the end, if not in the beginning. Though compound interest is ghastly and ought to be outlawed, it does have one advantage: creditors charging compound interest stand to make huge profits when a debt is paid, even if only in part.”
“Then you had better be elected Pontifex Maximus.”
“So I think.”
*
The election to choose a new Pontifex Maximus and a fresh face for the College of Pontifices was set for twenty-four days’ time. Who would own the fresh face was no mystery; the only candidate was Metellus Scipio. Both Catulus and Vatia Isauricus declared themselves available for election as Pontifex Maximus.
Caesar threw himself into campaigning with as much relish as energy. Like Catilina, the name and ancestry were an enormous help, despite the fact that neither of the other two candidates was a New Man, or even one of the moderately prominent boni. The post normally went to a man who had already been consul, but this advantage both Catulus and Vatia Isauricus held was negated to some extent at least by their ages: Catulus was sixty-one and Vatia Isauricus sixty-eight. In Rome the pinnacle of a man’s ability, skills and prowess was considered to be his forty-third year, the year in which he ought to become consul. After that he was inevitably something of a has-been, no matter how huge his auctoritas or dignitas. He might be censor, Princeps Senatus, even consul a second time ten years further along, but once he attained the age of sixty he was inarguably past his prime. Though Caesar had not yet been praetor, he had been in the Senate for many years, he had been a pontifex for over a decade, he had shown himself a curule aedile of magnificence, he wore the Civic Crown on all public occasions, and he was known by the voters to be not only one of Rome’s highest aristocrats, but also a man of huge ability and potential. His work in the Murder Court and as an advocate had not gone unnoticed; nor had his scrupulous care of his clients. Caesar in short was the future. Catulus and Vatia Isauricus were definitely the past—and tainted, both of them, with the faint odium of having enjoyed Sulla’s favor. The majority of the voters who would turn up were knights, and Sulla had mercilessly persecuted the Ordo Equester. To counteract the undeniable fact that Caesar was Sulla’s nephew by marriage, Lucius Decumius was deputed to trot out the old stories of Caesar’s defying Sulla by refusing to divorce Cinna’s daughter, and almost dying from disease when in hiding from Sulla’s agents.
Three days before the election Cato summoned Catulus, Vatia Isauricus and Hortensius to a meeting at his house. This time there were no mushrooms like Cicero or youths like Caepio Brutus present. Even Metellus Scipio would have been a liability.
“I told you,” said Cato with his usual lack of tact, “that it was a mistake for both of you to stand. I’m asking now that one of you step down and throw his weight behind the other.”
“No,” said Catulus.
“No,” said Vatia Isauricus.
“Why can’t you understand that both of you split the vote?” cried Cato, pounding his fist on the dowdy table which served him as a desk. He looked gaunt and unwell, for last night had seen a heavy session with the wine flagon; ever since Caepio’s death Cato had turned to wine for solace, if solace it could be called. Sleep evaded him, Caepio’s shade haunted him, the occasional slave girl he used to assuage his sexual needs revolted him, and even talking to Athenodorus Cordylion, Munatius Rufus and Marcus Favonius could occupy his mind only for a short period at a time. He read and he read and he read, yet still his loneliness and unhappiness came between him and the words of Plato, Aristotle, even his own great-grandfather, Cato the Censor. Thus the wine flagon, and thus his shortness of temper as he glared at the two unyielding elderly noblemen who refused to see the mistake they were making.
“Cato is right,” said Hortensius, huffing. He too was not very young anymore, but as an augur he could not stand for Pontifex Maximus. Ambition could not cloud his wits, though his high living was beginning to. “One of you might beat Caesar, but both of you halve the votes either man alone could get.”
“Then it’s time to bribe,” said Catulus.
“Bribe?” yelled Cato, pounding the table until it shook. “There’s no point in even starting to bribe! Two hundred and twenty talents can’t buy you enough votes to beat Caesar!”
“Then,” said Catulus, “why don’t we bribe Caesar?”
The others stared at him.
“Caesar is close to two thousand talents in debt, and the debt is mounting every day because he can’t afford to pay back a sestertius,” said Catulus. “You may take it from me that my figures are correct.”
“Then I suggest,” said Cato, “that we report his situation to the censors and demand that they act immediately to remove Caesar from the Senate. That would get rid of him forever!”
His suggestion was greeted with gasps of horror.
“My dear Cato, we can’t do that!” bleated Hortensius. “He may be a pestilence, but he’s one of us!”
“No, no, no! He is not one of us! If he isn’t stopped he will tear all of us down, so I promise you!” roared Cato, fist hammering the defenseless table again. “Turn him in! Turn him in to the censors!”
“Absolutely not,” said Catulus.
“Absolutely not,” said Vatia Isauricus.
“Absolutely not,” said Hortensius.
“Then,” said Cato, looking cunning, “prevail upon someone well outside the Senate to turn him in—one of his creditors.”
Hortensius closed his eyes. A stauncher pillar of the boni than Cato did not exist, but there were times when the Tusculan peasant and the Celtiberian slave in him succeeded in overcoming truly Roman thought. Caesar was a kinsman to all of them, even Cato, no matter how remote the blood link might be—though in Catulus it was very close, come to think of it.
“Forget anything like that, Cato,” Hortensius said, opening his eyes wearily. “It is un-Roman. There is no more to be said.”
“We will deal with Caesar in the Roman way,” said Catulus. “If you are willing to divert the money you were to contribute toward bribing the electorate into bribing Caesar, then I will go to Caesar myself and offer it to him. Two hundred and twenty talents will make a fine first payment to his creditors. I am confident Metellus Scipio will agree.”
“Oh, so am I!” snarled Cato between his teeth. “However, you spineless lot of fools, you can count me out! I wouldn’t contribute a lead forgery to Caesar’s purse!”
*
Thus it was that Quintus Lutatius Catulus sought an interview with Gaius Julius Caesar in his rooms on the Vicus Patricii between the Fabricius dye works and the Suburan Baths. It took place on the day before the election, quite early in the morning. The subtle splendor of Caesar’s office took Catulus aback; he hadn’t heard that his first cousin once removed had a fine eye for furniture and superior taste, nor had he imagined a side like that to Caesar. Is there nothing the man hasn’t been gifted with? he asked himself, sitting down on a couch before he could be bidden occupy the client’s chair. In which assumption he did Caesar an injustice; no one of Catulus’s rank would have been relegated to the client’s chair.
“Well, t
omorrow is the big day,” said Caesar, smiling as he handed a rock-crystal goblet of watered wine to his guest.
“That’s what I’ve come to see you about,” said Catulus, and took a sip of what turned out to be an excellent vintage. “Good wine, but I don’t know it,” he said, sidetracked.
“I grow it myself, actually,” said Caesar.
“Near Bovillae?”
“No, in a little vineyard I own in Campania.”
“That accounts for it.”
“What was it you wished to discuss, cousin?” asked Caesar, not about to be sidetracked into oenology.
Catulus drew a deep breath. “It has come to my attention, Caesar, that your financial affairs are in a state of acute embarrassment. I’m here to ask you not to stand for election as the Pontifex Maximus. In return for doing me that favor, I will undertake to give you two hundred silver talents.” He reached into the sinus of his toga and withdrew a small rolled paper which he extended to Caesar.
Not so much as a glance did Caesar give it, nor did he make any attempt to take it. Instead, he sighed.
“You would have done better to use the money to bribe the electors,” he said. “Two hundred talents would have helped.”
“This seemed more efficient.”
“But wasted, cousin. I don’t want your money.”
“You can’t afford not to take it.”
“That is true. But I refuse to take it nonetheless.”
The little roll remained in Catulus’s extended hand. “Do please reconsider,” he said, two spots of crimson beginning to show in his cheeks.
“Put your money away, Quintus Lutatius. When the election is held tomorrow I will be there in my particolored toga to ask the voters to return me as Pontifex Maximus. No matter what.”
“I beg you, Gaius Julius, one more time. Take the money!’’
“I beg you, Quintus Lutatius, one more time. Desist!”
Whereupon Catulus threw the rock-crystal goblet down on the floor and walked out.
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