Caesar's Women

by Colleen McCullough

  Mucia Tertia. Widow of Young Marius, wife of Pompey the Great. Mother of Pompey's children, boy, girl, boy. Why had he never got round to her? Perhaps because he still felt about her the way he had about Bibulus's wife, Domitia: the prospect of cuckolding Pompey was so alluring he kept postponing the actual deed. Domitia (the cousin of Cato's brother-in-law, Ahenobarbus) was now an accomplished fact, though Bibulus hadn't heard about it yet. He would! What fun! Only—did Caesar really want to annoy Pompey in a way he understood Pompey particularly would loathe? He might need Pompey, just as Pompey might need him. What a pity. Of all the women on his list, Caesar fancied Mucia Tertia most. And that she fancied him he had known for years. Now ... was it worth it? Probably not. Probably not. Conscious of a twinge of regret, Caesar mentally erased Mucia Tertia's name from his list.

  Which turned out to be just as well. With the year drawing to its close, Labienus returned from his estates in Picenum and moved into the very modest house he had recently bought on the Palatium, which was the less settled and more unfashionable side of the Palatine. And the very next day hied himself off to see Caesar just sufficiently too late for anyone left in Aurelia's apartment to assume he was Caesar's client.

  "But let's not talk here, Titus Labienus," said Caesar, and drew him back toward the door. "I have rooms down the street."

  "This is very nice," said Labienus, ensconced in a comfortable chair and with weak watered wine at his elbow.

  "Considerably quieter," said Caesar, sitting in another chair but not with the desk between them; he did not wish to give this man the impression that business was the order of the day. "I am interested to know," he said, sipping water, "why Pompeius didn't conserve you for the year after next."

  "Because he didn't expect to be in the East for so long," said Labienus. "Until he decided he couldn't abandon Syria with the Jewish question unsettled, he really thought he'd be home by next spring. Didn't he tell you that in his letter?"

  So Labienus knew all about the letter. Caesar grinned. "You know him at least as well as I do, Labienus. He did ask me to give you any assistance I could, and he also told me about the Jewish difficulties. What he neglected to mention was that he had planned to be home earlier than he said he was going to be."

  The black eyes flashed, but not with laughter; Labienus had little sense of humor. "Well, that's it, that's the reason. So instead of a brilliant tribunate of the plebs, I'm going to have no more to do than legislate to allow Magnus to wear full triumphal regalia at the games."

  "With or without minim all over his face?"

  That did provoke a short laugh. “You know Magnus, Caesar! He wouldn't wear minim even during his triumph itself."

  Caesar was beginning to understand the situation a little better. "Are you Magnus's client?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes. What man from Picenum isn't?"

  "Yet you didn't go east with him."

  "He wouldn't even use Afranius and Petreius when he cleaned up the pirates, though he did manage to slip them in after some of the big names when he went to war against the kings. And Lollius Palicanus, Aulus Gabinius. Mind you, I didn't have a senatorial census, which is why I couldn't stand as quaestor. A poor man's only way into the Senate is to become tribune of the plebs and then hope he makes enough money before the next lot of censors to qualify to stay in the Senate," said Labienus harshly.

  "I always thought Magnus was very open-handed. Hasn't he offered to assist you?"

  "He saves his largesse for those in a position to do great things for him. You might say that under his original plans, I was on a promise."

  "And it isn't a very big promise now that triumphal regalia is the most important thing on his tribunician schedule."

  "Exactly."

  Caesar sighed, stretched his legs out. "I take it," he said, "that you would like to leave a name behind you after your year in the College is over."

  "I would."

  "It's a long time since we were both junior military tribunes under Vatia Isauricus, and I'm sorry the years since haven't been kind to you. Unfortunately my own finances don't permit of a trifling loan, and I do understand that I can't function as your patron. However, Titus Labienus, in four years I will be consul, which means that in five years I will be going to a province. I do not intend to be a tame governor in a tame province. Wherever I go, there will be plenty of military work to do, and I will need some excellent people to work as my legates. In particular, I will need one legate who will have propraetorian status whom I can trust to campaign as well without me as with me. What I remember about you is your military sense. So I'll make a pact with you here and now. Number one, that I'll find something for you to do during your tribunate of the plebs that will make your year a memorable one. And number two, that when I go as proconsul to my province, I'll make sure you come with me as my chief legate with propraetorian status," said Caesar.

  Labienus drew a breath. "What I remember about you, Caesar, is your military sense. How odd! Mucia said you were worth watching. She spoke of you, I thought, with more respect than she ever does of Magnus."

  "Mucia?"

  The black gaze was very level. "That's right."

  "Well, well! How many people know?" asked Caesar.

  "None, I hope."

  "Doesn't he lock her up in his stronghold while he's away? That's what he used to do."

  "She's not a child anymore—if she ever was," said Titus Labienus, eyes flashing again. "She's like me, she's had a hard life. You learn from a hard life. We find ways."

  “Next time you see her, tell her that the secret is safe with me," said Caesar, smiling. "If Magnus finds out, you'll get no help from that quarter. So are you interested in my proposition?"

  "I most certainly am."

  After Labienus departed Caesar continued to sit without moving. Mucia Tertia had a lover, and she hadn't needed to venture outside Picenum to find him. What an extraordinary choice! He couldn't think of three men more different from each other than Young Marius, Pompeius Magnus and Titus Labienus. That was a searching lady. Did Labienus please her more than the other two, or was he simply a diversion brought about by loneliness and lack of a wide field to choose from?

  Nothing surer than that Pompey would find out. The lovers might delude themselves no one knew, but if the affair had been going on in Picenum, discovery was inevitable. Pompey's letter did not indicate anyone had tattled yet, but it was only a matter of time. And then Titus Labienus stood to lose everything Pompey might have given him, though clearly his hopes of Pompey's favor had already waned. Maybe his intriguing with Mucia Tertia had arisen out of disillusionment with Pompey? Very possible.

  All of which scarcely mattered; what occupied Caesar's mind was how to make Labienus's year as a tribune of the plebs a memorable one. Difficult if not impossible in this present climate of political torpor and uninspiring curule magistrates. About the only thing capable of kindling a fire beneath the rear ends of these slugs was a fearsomely radical land bill suggesting that every last iugerum of Rome's ager publicus be given away to the poor, and that wouldn't please Pompey at all—Pompey needed Rome's public lands as a gift for his troops.

  When the new tribunes of the plebs entered office on the tenth day of December, the diversity among its members became glaringly obvious. Caecilius Rufus actually had the temerity to propose that the disgraced ex-consuls-elect Publius Sulla and Publius Autronius be allowed to stand for the consulship in the future; that all nine of his colleagues vetoed Caecilius's bill came as no surprise. No surprise either was the response to Labienus's bill giving Pompey the right to wear full triumphal regalia at all public games; it swept into law.

  The surprise came from Publius Servilius Rullus when he said that every last iugerum of Rome's ager publicus both in Italy and abroad be given away to the poor. Shades of the Gracchi! Rullus lit the fire turning senatorial slugs into ravening wolves.

  "If Rullus succeeds, when Magnus comes home there'll be no State land left for his veterans," said L
abienus to Caesar.

  "Ah, but Rullus neglected to mention that fact," replied Caesar, unruffled. "As he chose to present his bill in the House before taking it to the Comitia, he really ought to have made mention of Magnus's soldiers."

  "He didn't have to mention them. Everyone knows."

  "True. But if there's one thing every man of substance detests, it's land bills. The ager publicus is sacred. Too many senatorial families of enormous influence rent it and make money out of it. Bad enough to propose giving some of it away to a victorious general's troops, but to demand that all of it be given away to Head Count vermin? Anathema! If Rullus had only come out and said directly that what Rome no longer owns cannot be awarded to Magnus's troops, he might have gained support from some very peculiar quarters. As it is, the bill will die."

  "You'll oppose it?" asked Labienus.

  "No, no, certainly not! I shall support it vociferously," said Caesar, smiling. "If I support it, quite a lot of the fence-sitters will jump down to oppose it, if for no other reason than that they don't like what I like. Cicero is an excellent example. What's his new name for men like Rullus? Popularis—for the People rather than for the Senate. That rather appeals to me. I shall endeavor to be labeled a Popularis."

  "You'll annoy Magnus if you speak up for it."

  "Not once he reads the covering letter I'll send him together with a copy of my speech. Magnus knows a ewe from a ram."

  Labienus scowled. "All of this is going to take a lot of time, Caesar, yet none of it involves me. Where am I going?"

  "You've passed your bill to award Magnus triumphal regalia at the games, so now you'll sit on your hands and whistle until the fuss over Rullus abates. It will! Remember that it's best to be the last man left on his feet."

  "You have an idea."

  "No," said Caesar.

  "Oh, come!"

  Caesar smiled. "Rest easy, Labienus. Something will occur to me. It always does."

  When he went home Caesar sought out his mother. Her minute office was one room Pompeia never invaded; if nothing else about her mother-in-law frightened her, Aurelia's affinity for the lightning totting up of figures certainly did. Besides, it had been a clever idea to give his study over for Pompeia's use (Caesar had his other apartment in which to work). Tenure of the study and the master sleeping cubicle beyond it kept Pompeia out of the other parts of Aurelia's domain. Sounds of feminine laughter and chatter emanated from the study, but no one appeared from that direction to hinder Caesar's progress.

  "Who's with her?" he asked, seating himself in the chair on the far side of Aurelia's desk.

  The room was indeed so small that a stouter man than Caesar could not have squeezed into the space this chair occupied, but the hand of Aurelia was very evident in the economy and logic with which she had organized herself: shelves for scrolls and papers where she wouldn't hit her head on them as she rose from her own chair, tiered wooden trays on those parts of her desk not needed for her actual work, and leather book buckets relegated to the room's remote corners.

  "Who's with her?" he repeated when she didn't answer.

  Down went her pen. His mother looked up reluctantly, flexed her right hand, sighed. "A very silly lot," she said.

  “That I do not need to be told. Silliness attracts more silliness. But who?"

  "Both the Clodias. And Fulvia."

  "Oh! Racy as well as vacant. Is Pompeia intriguing with men, Mater?"

  "Definitely not. I don't permit her to entertain men here, and when she goes out I send Polyxena with her. Polyxena is my own woman, quite impossible to bribe or suborn. Of course Pompeia takes her own idiotic girl with her too, but both of them combined are no match for Polyxena, I assure you."

  Caesar looked, his mother thought, very tired. His year as president of the Murder Court had been an extremely busy one, and acquitted with all the thoroughness and energy for which he was becoming famous. Other court presidents might dally and take protracted vacations, but not Caesar. Naturally she knew he was in debt—and for how much—though time had taught her that money was a subject sure to create tension between them. So while she burned to quiz him about money matters, she bit her tongue and managed not to say a word. It was true that he did not allow himself to become depressed over a debt now mounting rapidly because he could not afford to pay back the principal; that some inexplicable part of him genuinely believed the money would be found; yet she also knew that money could lie like a grey shadow at the back of the most sanguine and optimistic of minds. As it lay like a grey shadow at the back of his mind, she was certain.

  And he was still heavily involved with Servilia. That was a relationship nothing seemed able to destroy. Besides which, Julia, menstruating regularly now that her thirteenth birthday was a month away, was displaying less and less enthusiasm for Brutus. Oh, nothing could provoke the girl into rudeness or even covert discourtesy, but instead of becoming more enamored of Brutus now that her womanhood was upon her, she was unmistakably cooling, the child's affection and pity replaced by—boredom? Yes, boredom. The one emotion no marriage could survive.

  All these were problems which gnawed at Aurelia, while others merely niggled. For instance, this apartment had become far too small for a man of Caesar's status. His clients could no longer gather all at once, and the address was a bad one for a man who would be senior consul within five years. Of that last fact Aurelia harbored no doubts whatsoever. Between the name, the ancestry, the manner, the looks, the charm, the ease and the intellectual ability, whatever election Caesar contested would see him returned at the top of the poll. He had enemies galore, but none capable of destroying his power base among the First and the Second Classes, vital for success in the Centuries. Not to mention that among the Classes too low to count in the Centuries he stood high above all his peers. Caesar moved among the Head Count as readily as among the consulars. However, it was not possible to broach the subject of a suitable house without money's raising its ugly face. So would she, or would she not? Ought she, or ought she not?

  Aurelia drew a deep breath, folded her hands one over the other on the table in front of her. “Caesar, next year you will be standing for praetor," she said, "and I foresee one very severe difficulty."

  "My address," he said instantly.

  Her smile was wry. "One thing I can never complain about—your astuteness."

  “Is this the prelude to another argument about money?"

  "No, it is not. Or perhaps it would be better to say, I hope not. Over the years I have managed to save a fair amount, and I could certainly borrow against this insula comfortably. Between the two, I could give you enough to purchase a good house on the Palatine or the Carinae."

  His mouth went thin. “That is most generous of you, Mater, but I will not accept money from you any more than I will from my friends. Understood?"

  Amazing to think she was in her sixty-second year. Not one single wrinkle marred the skin of face or neck, perhaps because she had plumped out a trifle; where age showed at all was in the creases which ran down either side of her nostrils to meet the corners of her mouth.

  "I thought you'd say that," she said, composure intact. Then she remarked, apropos it seemed of nothing, "I hear that Metellus Pius Pontifex Maximus is ailing."

  That startled him. "Who told you so?"

  “Clodia, for one. Her husband, Celer, says the whole family is desperately worried. And Aemilia Lepida, for another. Metellus Scipio is very cast down by the state of his father's health. He hasn't been well since his wife died."

  "It's certainly true that the old boy hasn't been attending any meetings of late," said Caesar.

  "Nor will he in the future. When I said he is ailing, I really meant he is dying."

  "And?" asked Caesar, for once baffled.

  "When he dies, the College of Pontifices will have to co-opt another Pontifex Maximus." The large and lustrous eyes which were Aurelia's best feature gleamed and narrowed. "If you were to be appointed Pontifex Maximus, Caesar, it would sol
ve several of your most pressing problems. First and foremost, it would demonstrate to your creditors that you are going to be consul beyond any doubt. That would mean your creditors would be more willing to carry your debts beyond your praetorship if necessary. I mean, if you draw Sardinia or Africa as your province in the praetor's lots, you won't be able to recoup your losses as a praetor governor. Should that happen, I would think your creditors will grow very restless indeed."

  The ghost of a smile kindled his eyes, but he kept his face straight. "Admirably summed up, Mater," he said.

  She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "Secondly, Pontifex Maximus would endow you with a splendid residence at the expense of the State, and as it is a lifetime position, the Domus Publica would be yours for life. It is within the Forum itself, very large and eminently suitable. So," his mother ended, her voice as level and unexcited as ever, "I have begun to canvass on your behalf among the wives of your fellow priests."

  Caesar sighed. "It's an admirable plan, Mater, but one which you cannot bring to fruition any more than I can. Between Catulus and Vatia Isauricus—not to mention at least half the others in the College!—I don't stand a chance. For one thing, the post normally goes to someone who has already been consul. For another, all the most conservative elements in the Senate adorn this College. They do not fancy me."

  "Nevertheless I shall go to work," said Aurelia.

  At which precise moment Caesar realized how it could be done. He threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Yes, Mater, by all means go to work!" he said, wiping away tears of mirth. "I know the answer—oh, what a furor it's bound to create!"

  "And the answer is?"

  "I came to see you about Titus Labienus, who is—as I'm sure you know—Pompeius Magnus's tame tribune of the plebs this year. Just to air my thoughts aloud. You're so clever that I find you a most useful wall for bouncing ideas off," he said.

  One thin black brow flew up, the corners of her mouth quivered. "Why, thank you! Am I a better wall to bounce off than Servilia?''