“In what way?”
“Insists on paying him his last stipend in cistophori.”
“What’s wrong with that? They’re good silver, and worth four denarii each.”
“Provided you can get anyone to accept them,” Pompey chuckled. “I brought back bags and bags and bags of the things, but I never intended them to be given to people in payment. You know how suspicious people are of foreign coins! I suggested the Treasury melt them down and turn them into bullion.”
“That means the Treasury doesn’t like Quintus Cicero.”
“I wonder why.”
At which point Eutychus knocked to say that dinner was being served, and the two men walked the short distance to the dining room. Unless employed to accommodate a larger party, five of the couches were pushed out of the way; the remaining couch, with two chairs facing its length across a long and narrow table of knee height, sat in the prettiest part of the room, looking out at the colonnade and main peristyle.
When Caesar and Pompey entered two servants helped them remove their togas, so huge and clumsy that it was quite impossible to recline in them. These were carefully folded and put aside while the men walked to the back edge of the couch, sat upon it, took off their senatorial shoes with the consular crescent buckles, and let the same two servants wash their feet. Pompey of course occupied the locus consularis end of the couch, this being the place of honor. They lay half on their stomachs and half on their left hips, with the left arm and elbow supported by a round bolster. As their feet were at the back edge of the couch, their faces hovered near the table, whatever was upon it well within reach. Bowls were presented for them to wash their hands, cloths to dry them.
Pompey was feeling much better, didn’t hurt the way he had. He gazed approvingly at the peristyle outside, with its fabulous frescoes of Vestal Virgins and magnificent marble pool and fountains. A pity it didn’t get more sun. Then he began to track the frescoes adorning the dining room walls, which unfolded the story of the battle at Lake Regillus when Castor and Pollux saved Rome.
And just as he took in the doorway, the Goddess Diana came into the room. She had to be Diana! Goddess of the moonlit night, half not there, moving with such grace and silver beauty that she made no sound. The maiden Goddess unknown by men, who looked upon her and pined away, so chaste and indifferent was she. But this Diana, now halfway across the room, saw him staring and stumbled slightly, blue eyes widening.
“Magnus, this is my daughter, Julia.” Caesar indicated the chair opposite Pompey’s end of the couch. “Sit there, Julia, and keep our guest company. Ah, here’s my mother!”
Aurelia seated herself opposite Caesar, while some of the servants began to bring food in, and others set down goblets, poured wine and water. The women, Pompey noted, drank water only.
How beautiful she was! How delicious, how delightful! And after that little stumble she behaved as a dream creature might, pointing out the dishes their cooks did best, suggesting that he try this or that with a smile containing no hint of shyness, but not sensuously inviting either. He ventured a question about what she did with her days (who cared about her days—what did she do with her nights when the moon rode high and her chariot took her to the stars?) and she answered that she read books or went for walks or visited the Vestals or her friends, an answer given in a deep soft voice like black wings against a luminous sky. When she leaned forward he could see how tender and delicate her chest was, though sight of her breasts eluded him. Her arms were frail yet round, with a tiny dimple in each elbow, and her eyes were set in skin faintly shadowed with violet, a sheen of the moon’s silver on each eyelid. Such long, transparent lashes! And brows so fair they could scarcely be seen. She wore no paint, and her pale pink mouth drove him mad to kiss it, so full and folded was it, with creases at the corners promising laughter.
For all that either of them noticed, Caesar and Aurelia might not have existed. They spoke of Homer and Hesiod, Xenophon and Pindar, and of his travels in the East; she hung on his words as if his tongue was as gifted as Cicero’s, and plied him with all kinds of questions about everything from the Albanians to the crawlies near the Caspian Sea. Had he seen Ararat? What was the Jewish temple like? Did people really walk on the waters of the Palus Asphaltites? Had he ever seen a black person? What did King Tigranes look like? Was it true that the Amazons had once lived in Pontus at the mouth of the river Thermodon? Had he ever seen an Amazon? Alexander the Great was supposed to have met their Queen somewhere along the river Jaxartes. Oh, what wonderful names they were, Oxus and Araxes and Jaxartes—how did human tongues manage to invent such alien sounds?
And terse pragmatic Pompey with his laconic style and his scant education was profoundly glad that life in the East and Theophanes had introduced him to reading; he produced words he hadn’t realized his mind had absorbed, and thoughts he hadn’t understood he could think. He would have died rather than disappoint this exquisite young thing watching his face as if it was the fount of all knowledge and the most wonderful sight she had ever beheld.
The food stayed on the table much longer than busy impatient Caesar usually tolerated, but as day began to turn to night outside in the peristyle he nodded imperceptibly to Eutychus, and the servants reappeared. Aurelia got up.
“Julia, it’s time we went,” she said.
Deep in a conversation about Aeschylus, Julia jumped, came back to reality.
“Oh, avia, is it?” she asked. “Where did the time go?”
But, noted Pompey, neither by word nor look did she convey any impression that she was unwilling to leave, or resented her grandmother’s termination of what she had told him was a special treat; when her father had guests she was not usually allowed to be in the dining room, as she was not yet eighteen.
She rose to her feet and held out her hand to Pompey in a friendly way, expecting him to shake it. But though Pompey was not prone to do such things, he took the hand as if it might fall to fragments, raised it to his lips and lightly kissed it.
“Thank you for your company, Julia,” he said, smiling into her eyes. “Brutus is a very lucky fellow.” And to Caesar after the women had gone, “Brutus really is a very lucky fellow.”
“I think so,” said Caesar, smiling at a thought of his own.
“I’ve never met anyone like her!”
“Julia is a pearl beyond price.”
After which there didn’t seem to be very much left to say. Pompey took his leave.
“Come again soon, Magnus,” said Caesar at the door.
“Tomorrow if you like! I have to go to Campania the day after, and I’ll be away a market interval at least. You were right. It’s not a satisfactory way to live, just three or four philosophers for company. Why do you suppose we house them at all?”
“For intelligent masculine company not likely to appeal to the women of the house as lovers. And to keep our Greek pure, though I hear Lucullus was careful to pop a few grammatical solecisms in the Greek version of his memoirs to satisfy the Greek literati who will not believe any Roman speaks and writes perfect Greek. For myself, the habit of housing philosophers is not one I’ve ever been tempted to adopt. They’re such parasites.”
“Rubbish! You don’t house them because you’re a forest cat. You prefer to live and hunt alone.”
“Oh no,” said Caesar softly. “I don’t live alone. I am one of the most fortunate men in Rome, I live with a Julia.”
Who went up to her rooms exalted and exhausted, her hand alive with the feel of his kiss. There on the shelf was the bust of Pompey; she walked across to it, took it off the shelf and dropped it into the refuse jar which lived in a corner. The statue was nothing, unneeded now she had seen and met and talked to the real man. Not as tall as tata, yet quite tall enough. Very broad-shouldered and muscular, and when he lay on the couch his belly stayed taut, no middle-aged spread to spoil him. A wonderful face, with the bluest eyes she had ever seen. And that hair! Pure gold, masses of it. The way it stood up from his brow in a qui
ff. So handsome! Not like tata, who was classically Roman, but more interesting because more unusual. As Julia liked small noses, she found nothing to criticize in that organ. He had nice legs too!
The next stop was her mirror, a gift from tata that avia did not approve of, for it was mounted on a pivoted stand and its highly polished silver surface reflected the viewer from head to foot. She took off all her clothes and considered herself. Too thin! Hardly any breasts! No dimples! Whereupon she burst into tears, cast herself upon her bed and wept herself to sleep, the hand he had kissed tucked against her cheek.
*
“She threw Pompeius’s bust out,” said Aurelia to Caesar the next morning.
“Edepol! I really thought she liked him.”
“Nonsense, Caesar, it’s an excellent sign! She is no longer satisfied with a replica, she wants the real man.”
“You relieve me.” Caesar picked up his beaker of hot water and lemon juice, sipped it with what looked like enjoyment. “He’s coming to dinner again today, used a trip to Campania tomorrow as an excuse for coming back so soon.”
“Today will complete the conquest,” said Aurelia.
Caesar grinned. “I think the conquest was complete the moment she walked into the dining room. I’ve known Pompeius for years, and he’s hooked so thoroughly he hasn’t even felt the barb. Don’t you remember the day he arrived at Aunt Julia’s to claim Mucia?”
“Yes, I do. Vividly. Reeking of attar of roses and as silly as a foal in a field. He wasn’t at all like that yesterday.”
“He’s grown up a bit. Mucia was older than he. The attraction isn’t the same. Julia is seventeen, he’s now forty-six.” Caesar shuddered. “Mater, that’s nearly thirty years’ difference in ages! Am I being too coldblooded? I wouldn’t have her unhappy.”
“She won’t be. Pompeius seems to have the knack of pleasing his wives as long as he remains in love with them. He’ll never fall out of love with Julia, she’s his vanished youth.” Aurelia cleared her throat, went a little red. “I am sure you are a splendid lover, Caesar, but living with a woman not of your own family bores you. Pompeius enjoys married life—provided the woman is suitable for his ambitions. He can look no higher than a Julia.”
He didn’t seem to want to look any higher than a Julia. If anything saved Pompey’s reputation after Cato’s attack, it was the daze Julia induced in him as he went round the Forum that morning, having quite forgotten that he had resolved never to appear in public again. As it was, he drifted here and there to talk to anyone who appeared, and was so transparently unconcerned about the Cato diatribe that many decided yesterday’s reaction had been pure shock. Today there was no resentment and no embarrassment.
She filled the inside of his eyes; her image transposed itself on every face he looked at. Child and woman all at one. Goddess too. So feminine, so beautifully mannered, so unaffected! Had she liked him? She seemed to, yet nothing in her behavior could he interpret as a signal, a lure. But she was betrothed. To Brutus. Not only callow, but downright ugly. How could a creature so pure and untainted bear all those disgusting pimples? Of course they’d been contracted for years, so the match wasn’t of her asking. In social and political terms it was an excellent union. There were also the fruits of the Gold of Tolosa.
And after dinner in the Domus Publica that afternoon it was on the tip of Pompey’s tongue to ask for her, Brutus notwithstanding. What held him back? That old dread of lowering himself in the eyes of a nobleman as patrician as Gaius Julius Caesar. Who could give his daughter to anyone in Rome. Had given her to an aristocrat of clout and wealth and ancestry. Men like Caesar didn’t stop to think how the girl might feel, or consider her wishes. Any more, he supposed, than he did himself. His own daughter was promised to Faustus Sulla for one reason only: Faustus Sulla was the product of a union between a patrician Cornelius Sulla—the greatest ever of his family—and the granddaughter of Metellus Calvus the Bald, daughter of Metellus Dalmaticus—who had first been wife to Scaurus Princeps Senatus.
No, Caesar would have no wish to break off a legal contract with a Junius Brutus adopted into the Servilii Caepiones in order to give his only child to a Pompeius from Picenum! Dying to ask, Pompey would never ask. So oceans deep in love and unable to banish this goddess from the forefront of his mind, Pompey went off to Campania on land committee business and accomplished almost nothing. He burned for her; he wanted her as he had never wanted in his life before. And went back to the Domus Publica for yet another dinner the day after he returned to Rome.
Yes, she was glad to see him! By this third meeting they had reached a stage whereat she held out her hand expecting him to kiss it lightly, and plunged immediately into a conversation which excluded Caesar and his mother, left to avoid each other’s eyes in case they fell about laughing. The meal proceeded to its end.
“When do you marry Brutus?” Pompey asked her then, low-voiced.
“In January or February of next year. Brutus wanted to marry this year, but tata said no. I must be eighteen.”
“And when are you eighteen?”
“On the Nones of January.”
“It’s the beginning of May, so that’s eight months off.”
Her face changed, a look of distress crept into her eyes. Yet she answered with absolute composure. “Not very long.”
“Do you love Brutus?”
That question provoked a tiny inward panic, it reflected itself in her gaze, for she would not—could not?—look away. “He and I have been friends since I was little. I will learn to love him.”
“What if you fall in love with someone else?’’
She blinked away what looked suspiciously like moisture. “I can’t let that happen, Gnaeus Pompeius.”
“Don’t you think it might happen in spite of resolutions?”
“Yes, I think it might,” she said gravely.
“What would you do then?”
“Endeavor to forget.”
He smiled. “That seems a shame.”
“It would not be honorable, Gnaeus Pompeius, so I would have to forget. If love can grow, it can also die.”
He looked very sad. “I’ve seen a lot of death in my time, Julia. Battlefields, my mother, my poor father, my first wife. But it’s never something I can view with dispassion. At least,” he added honestly, “not from where I stand now. I’d hate to see anything that grew in you have to die.”
The tears were too close, she would have to leave. “Will you excuse me, tata?” she asked of her father.
“Are you feeling well, Julia?” Caesar asked.
“A little headache, that’s all.”
“I think you must excuse me as well, Caesar,” said Aurelia, rising. “If she has a headache, she’ll need some syrup of poppies.”
Which left Caesar and Pompey alone. An inclination of the head, and Eutychus supervised the clearing away of the dishes. Caesar poured Pompey unwatered wine.
“You and Julia get on well together,” he said.
“It would be a stupid man who didn’t get on well with her,” Pompey said gruffly. “She’s unique.”
“I like her too.” Caesar smiled. “In all her little life she’s never caused a trouble, never given me an argument, never committed a peccatum.”
“She doesn’t love that awkward, shambling fellow Brutus.”
“I am aware of it,” Caesar said tranquilly.
“Then how can you let her marry him?” Pompey demanded, irate.
“How can you let Pompeia marry Faustus Sulla?”
“That’s different.”
“In what way?”
“Pompeia and Faustus Sulla are in love!”
“Were they not, would you break the engagement off?”
“Of course not!”
“Then there you are.” Caesar refilled the goblet.
“Still,” Pompey said after a pause, gazing into the rosy depths of his wine, “it seems a special shame with Julia. My Pompeia is a lusty, strapping girl, always roaring round the hou
se. She’ll be able to look after herself. Whereas Julia’s so frail.”
“An illusion,” said Caesar. “Julia’s actually very strong.”
“Oh yes, that she is. But every bruise will show.”
Startled, Caesar turned his head to look into Pompey’s eyes. “That was a very perceptive remark, Magnus. It’s out of character.”
“Maybe I just see her more clearly than I do other people.”
“Why should you do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know….”
“Are you in love with her, Magnus?”
Pompey looked away. “What man wouldn’t be?” he muttered.
“Would you like to marry her?”
The stem of the goblet, solid silver, snapped; wine went on the table and floor, but Pompey never even noticed. He shuddered, threw the bowl of the vessel down, “I would give everything I am and have to marry her!”
“Well then,” Caesar said placidly, “I had better get moving.”
Two enormous eyes fixed themselves on Caesar’s face; Pompey drew a deep breath. “You mean you’d give her to me?”
“It would be an honor.”
“Oh!” gasped Pompey, flung himself backward on the couch and nearly fell off it. “Oh, Caesar!—whatever you want, whenever you want it—I’ll take care of her, you’ll never regret it, she’ll be better treated than the Queen of Egypt!”
“I sincerely hope so!” said Caesar, laughing. “One hears that the Queen of Egypt has been supplanted by her husband’s half sister from an Idumaean concubine.”
But all and any answers were wasted on Pompey, who continued to lie gazing ecstatically at the ceiling. Then he rolled over. “May I see her?” he asked.
“I think not, Magnus. Go home like a good fellow and leave me to disentangle the threads this day has woven. The Servilius Caepio cum Junius Silanus household will be in an uproar.”
“I’ll pay her dowry to Brutus,” Pompey said instantly.
“You will not,” said Caesar, holding out his hand. “Get up, man, get up!” He grinned. “I confess I never thought to have a son-in-law six years older than I am!”
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