by Jack Lindsay
“Are you with child?” she asked, abruptly.
“No,” said Porcia, who, to Servilia’s relief, did not take the question as a curious salutation; but the thought had penetrated to her mind. She had borne a son to her first husband Bibulus; but she had never thought of giving Brutus a son, she felt too complete in the lap of his love. For a moment she wondered if this attitude was wrong, if Brutus had complained to his mother; then she relapsed into her mood of fevered aloofness, waiting without agitation for the coming of Brutus. He would come in his own time. He had slain Caesar, as it had been fated.
But despite Porcia’s quietness Servilia was still taken aback by her own remark. “I was now thinking of Tertulla,” she said, apologetically. “I’m on my way to visit her, and I thought you might like to come with me.” She had meant no such visit, but felt vaguely afraid of Porcia’s apathy.
Porcia rose readily and then stopped. “I must stay here. I must be here to receive Marcus.”
“But you’ll be in lots of time. Tertulla’s no distance. A message would bring you back in a few moments.”
Porcia shook her head, frowning. “I must stay here.”
Servilia saw that Porcia could not be moved, and was glad in a way to escape alone. She kissed Porcia’s unresisting cheeks and went; and only as she reached the litter outside did she realise that neither of them had spoken a word about Caesar’s death. She told the men to carry her to the house of Cassius, thinking how different Tertulla was. Perhaps it wasn’t advisable for cousins to marry, even if the Athenians didn’t object to the union of half-brother and half-sister. There seemed something wrong with Porcia, though Brutus was absurdly loving; but Tertulla was normal in every way.
Tertulla was lying down in a loose woollen shift dyed orange, discontentedly considering the weight of the child she carried. It was being unable to see what was going on inside one that worried; if one could only take out the funny little baby, have a look at it, and then put it back again, there would be pleasure in carrying. She had heard of Caesar’s death, and merely shrugged her shoulders, and gone on lying down, wriggling her toes and watching them. So that was the reason why Cassius had made her go on that visit to Brutus on the evening of the 14th. The thought irritated her excessively, for the one thing she could not stand nowadays was being moved about. She wanted to lie on the couch, eat fruit, wriggle her toes, and listen for any movements of the babe within.
Servilia entered solicitously, and at once Tertulla found all her irritation centre on the intruder. Before Servilia could say a word, Tertulla stared into her face and burst out, “I can see by the way that you’re looking at me that you knew all along what was going on. Now tell a lie and say you didn’t.”
Servilia stood back, blinking nervously, making no denial. Tertulla’s protest grew in strength. “How could you do it? I can’t bear you any longer. It was you that put Marcus up to it, and he dragged poor Gaius in. I know it was all you. Marcus always does what you tell him. He ought to be ashamed of himself, a grown man. I suppose when he does anything wrong he comes to you and asks you to smack his bottom. But why did you want to go killing Caesar? I hate you all.”
“You mustn’t talk like that,” said Servilia, feebly. “Marcus and Gaius know what is best —”
“They’re fools, pigs, black beetles, murderers!” retorted Tertulla. “I’m ashamed of you all, and you the most.” She paused, and then started weeping. “O mother, how could you do it? He was so sweet, and he used to be your lover.”
Servilia was petrified. The room revolved in darkening spirals. She grasped a chair to steady herself. “You don’t know what you’re saying —”
“I do. Everyone knows it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was his daughter, but it’s no use asking you. You wouldn’t tell me the truth, and I don’t suppose you know for sure. I hope I am. I’d rather be his daughter than the man you married. I loved Caesar.” So she had, she loved him, he was a darling man. “He gave me a wonderful pearl, almost as big as the one he gave you, and he kissed me. I’d have given myself to him if he’d asked me. There, I would.”
Servilia was stricken dumb. Her mind would not function. She had never thought anyone knew for certain. A few people might have suspected; but how could Tertulla be so sure? An icy fear gripped her heart. If Tertulla knew, surely Marcus must know too. Servilia grasped her throat with one hand and beat wildly at the air with the other. “You mustn’t say such things ... thoughtless girl ... no one knew ... only a friend ...”
The words died away, and she was filled with agonising horror at herself. “O God help me, I could have saved him, and I let him die,” she cried, frantically, and threw herself over Tertulla’s legs, weeping uncontrollably. Why should she pretend to herself any longer that she hadn’t loved Caesar, loved him always?
*
Antonius was drunk, and had not wanted to take her, and for that reason she had made him take her, though she loathed his wine-sour breath, the tedium of his wine-numbed embrace. Now she lay thinking. She hated him, as always, for having taken her, for rolling into slumber while she throbbed awake. She hated him because the embrace was ended for him, but for her it might prelude nine months of fearful waiting. She hated him because he would go out into action tomorrow and she would sit at home.
But he was hers. Already her mind was busy, fighting to protect him, to attack all the other competitors for the vacant throne of power. She hated him, but she would have thrown her body between him and the arrow twanging from the bow of an enemy. She had borne him a son and had little more care for the child than for his father; but if milk had failed the world, she would have stabbed her breast and fed the child with blood.
Thinking in the darkness lay Fulvia, while sweat broke out of the pores of her inflamed body. She tossed about. She bit at her wrist and lay face down, one leg hanging out of the bed over the bed-rail, her toes tearing at the bear-skin rug. In the room across the passage Lucius lay with his ear against the wall, listening. Was the creaking still going on in the room opposite? He clenched his teeth and ran a finger savagely down the scar on his cheek.
*
The politicians slept, and the people slept, even those without shelter or those who had been drinking, gambling, and kissing; and whereas the politicians, whether fretting conservatives or stranded Caesarians like Antonius, had no longer taken thought of Caesar, seeing him as a dead man whose work for good or bad was done, the people heard only one cry in their hearts: “Caesar has died for us.”
And they knew that Caesar was still their guardian, still the power to which they must look for comfort and sustenance. Did not all god-like figures die in martyrdom? Did not Dionysus have his body torn to pieces that the worshippers might be fed with his flesh and blood? Did not Adonis die gored in the arms of his mother-mistress that his body might yet spurt to new life in the earth, in the little pots of earth and water that the lamenting women called the Gardens of Adonis? Did not Attis die on the sacred tree that life might never die? Did not Osiris sail out into the waters, an image of clay and corn with face painted yellow and cheekbones green, and yet he came to life again in the harvest? Did not all these gods go down into darkness, into the rotting heat of hell, where the worm lives, and were they not raised from that darkness into the light again?
Ah, yes, every true god died that man might live. His flesh and blood became the bread and the wine of the mother-earth into which he died, embracing, and out of which, embracing, he was reborn. For thus life repeated itself; and the daughter, conceiving, turned her beloved, who was a son, into a father, herself becoming a mother; and the child was both of them reincarnated; and the joyous rings of marriage redeemed the spasm of birth; and life went on.
That was the voice of the people.
V — A COMPROMISE IS ARRANGED
It was into a world of doubt and sick oppressiveness that Antonius woke. What was he doing? He was playing a fool’s game. He didn’t want Caesar’s place; he wouldn’t know what to do with it if he h
ad it. Power, which seemed so glorious when he was a subordinate, was now seen as something threatening, a horrible isolation of fear and responsibility, a voice that would sound forever into a man’s ear until, mad with sleeplessness, he would die. The conspirators were right; no single man should dominate the State utterly, for no man dare. Caesar was a mere freak; and anyhow he had wanted to get away to the Parthian War, for command in the campaigning field was a different matter. The quicker Caesar was forgotten the better for everyone. The problem for Antonius was simply to save himself from being crushed.
Fulvia was watching him with her dark eyes as he sat up in bed. He stretched himself and kicked the bedclothes off his naked body, stripping her at the same time. She made no complaint. Antonius thumped vigorously on his hairy chest and called for wine. A boy entered with a decanter and cups on a tray. Antonius drank, beating lightly at his chest, his head thrown back.
“Hirtius will be here soon with the news that Decimus Brutus has renounced Cisalpine Gaul,” said Fulvia, refusing a drink.
Antonius felt courage return. At least he would get a good province out of the muddle. He would have it given for five years by a special dispensation like that with which Caesar had begun in Gaul.
“I’ll make them give me both Gauls for five years.”
“That’s right.”
Fulvia stirred for the first time, lifting up her knees one after the other. There was a pain in the small of her back. She went on, “Give me a drink after all.”
Lucius came in without announcing himself. “Hirtius is waiting for you.”
“I’ll be with him,” said Antonius, springing up and slipping a tunic over his head. He pushed his feet into shoes and hastened out.
Lucius stood looking at Fulvia stretched without covering on the bed. She stared back darkly but without challenge. His eyes narrowed, he scratched his scarred cheek slowly, turned slowly on his heel, and went from the room without a word.
Fulvia finished her wine, and then called, “Send Pisidice in.”
The young girl entered, fresh-faced, wearing a pale blue shift. “Come and lie down beside me,” said Fulvia, gently. “I feel so heated, and you are always so cool. Tell me more about that home of yours, the village in the hills, the pool where you bathed.”
Pisidice snuggled against her, and Fulvia stroked the girl’s brown hair tenderly, listening to her faltered words, feeling the heat pass out of her body, lulled by the young voice. From a mountain-pool came the cool young body, like a mountain-sapling, growing straight out of clean soil. How beautiful was firm young flesh, before the fevers misted out of their lurking-holes in the marshy blood and the bones grew wearisome and the back of the loins was crossed with pains.
*
Hirtius eyed Antonius distrustfully. “So he agreed to give up his province. He wants free travelling-passes for himself, Brutus, and Cassius. And he wants a guard while he remains at Rome.”
Antonius laughed. “He can have his passes. Indeed I’ll see that he gets them so quickly he won’t need a guard. Thank you, Aulus.”
Hirtius looked up with a touch of scorn. “What are you going to do? How are you going to succeed where Caesar failed?”
“Why ask me that? There isn’t only me. There’s our whole party.”
Hirtius smiled contemptuously. “The heart’s gone out of things. Don’t talk of our party. It was only a pack of careerists. The few good men it had are among the murderers. There’s no hope for sanity in the State any longer. I believed in Caesar, and yet now that I see how everything rested on his shoulders, how he’s killed all initiative, I feel he was a force for evil. Not in himself. He was a great man, and he cared only for Rome. But in his effects. One man can’t live forever. The old constitution will have to come back — modified perhaps, but in essence the same. And now that I’ve done your work, I’m leaving Rome for a while. I’m no longer any use here. I don’t understand things, and I want to see them from a distance.”
Again he looked sharply at Antonius, and Antonius felt detected as a wretched charlatan. But what was he doing beyond saving his own skin and grabbing at some plunder as a necessary part of the process? Yet Caesar could have been criticised as doing no more than that; he had fought to save himself from political annihilation, and circumstances had forced him into his lonely seat of power. So Antonius argued, but could not convince himself; he knew he didn’t possess the urge that had made ambition and constructiveness one in Caesar. What was he to do then? Give way to a band of murderers who wanted only to set up their old game of place-seeking?
“Look to the end,” he said, with unaccustomed mildness; for he liked Hirtius, and had no arrogance except when opposed or frightened. “Don’t judge me, Aulus. I can’t surrender to these murderers. I think that’s the deepest thing I feel. But whatever I do, I’ll never forget I once served Caesar and still serve him.”
Hirtius was moved but not quite persuaded; he believed that Antonius was speaking the truth as he felt it, but he disliked Fulvia and Lucius. He nodded his head. “Heaven help us all, Marcus. I see dark days ahead.” Then he went.
Antonius turned to watch Fulvia enter. Once more he felt a fear that she would read his thoughts — or worse, that she had heard his confession to Hirtius. But he drew himself up. Why should he care what she knew? How could her taunts hurt him? But something in her fixed purpose stirred, as always, an answering lust in himself. Why shouldn’t he strive for power? Why shouldn’t he own the earth and die drunk, a god like young Alexander? There was no need to torment his conscience because he wasn’t full of administrative ideas like Caesar. Someone else would have to rule things, or at least have the honours of first citizen, however much the constitution was re-established. He would at least be better than the others; he wouldn’t allow the business classes or governors to sweat and bleed the poorer people and the provincials.
Fulvia took in the news by a glance at his face. “So Decimus has surrendered,” she said. “The miserable coward.”
“And there’ll be hordes of veterans around the Senate,” replied Antonius, warming to the game. “They’ll scare the guts out of the weaklings. I’ll get the Two Gauls for five years, and we’re set up for life.”
Fulvia felt a sharp stab of disappointment. She wanted more than provinces and income. Her emotion of emptiness angered her. Only a baby cried for the moon and then was satisfied with a rush-candle. She would do neither, she wouldn’t weep for moon-lamps or be consoled by a flickering earth-light. What was the solution?
“Go and scare the Senate,” she said. “That’s the work for today, whatever tomorrow holds.” Surely tomorrow would produce a prize worth aiming at, an apple of gold that was edible, a sensation like the flawless fire inside a gem. The thought jerked her eyes open, dilating the pupils. One could never own more than one’s own body. Everything else was only an extension of the body, or food for it. Yet the loveliest dress, the richest food, the closest absorbing kiss, the clenching sweetness of power — they all faded, mutilating the flesh, not eternalising it. Perhaps Pisidice, her body still cool from mountain-waters, was nearer to something full and satisfying; but she too would lose it soon.
Antonius was feeling happier, concentrating on the task before him; and Fulvia forgot her stress as she watched his almost boyish face, and felt towards him as she had felt towards the nuzzled baby. Then that too faded.
Messengers had been thronging the streets all night. Rome was buzzing with new life, a sullen but vital purpose. For a moment Antonius, pausing in mid-bustle of giving orders, felt the hum and tread of myriads about him; and he was at the heart of their gathering, and life was good for that moment.
*
Antonius had chosen the Temple of Tellus for the session because it lay on the further side of the Forum from the Capitol, near his own house. The instructed mob had filled the Forum; bands of soldiers stood menacingly at every corner; pickets guarded every approach; about the Temple itself were ranks of well-drilled veterans, cheerily looking f
orward to demonstrations against any defenders of the murder. Antonius smiled securely at Lepidus as they walked down the short passage on the Esqueline slope leading to the Temple and the populous Subura beyond. The mob had filled every street and lane suffocatingly for miles round, and a deep-throated rumbling murmur filled the air.
Deeper Antonius felt his stirrings of anger against the conspirators. The people hailed him rapturously. He would give them their prey; they wanted to tear the Liberators limb from limb.
In the porch of the Earth-Goddess a few senators stood bleakly round, or stared at the large map of Italy on the wall with sightless eyes, listening to the increasing swell of voices and the trampling of feet. The map seemed hung there mockingly, inviting the revolutionaries to the parcelling-up of the big estates for pauper-colonists. The senators saluted with unwilling respect as Antonius, after making his sacrificial offering, passed through their ranks. Attendants were busy arranging the benches. Roar after roar announced the arrival of new senators. The populace, reinforced by all the veterans from miles round Rome, were taking no chances; they meant to intimidate each senator in turn. A particularly loud outburst of catcalls and howls greeted the praetor Cinna; and Dolabella, coming close behind, escaped with a mixture of insults and exhortations; no one knew exactly what part he was playing. Entering the Temple, he boldly took the consular chair which a slave had fixed for him, and Antonius made no protest. Gradually the House filled. Tight-lipped, pallid, the senators, who had received urgent appeals from the Capitol throughout the night, nerved themselves to the ordeal of passing through the mob and taking their seats.
To Antonius they all seemed thoroughly cowed. He sat amused in his raised chair, thinking how easy it was to grasp power, how the senators would wriggle and weaken when he declared the resignation of Cisalpine Gaul by Decimus Brutus. In a brief speech he told the House that he had called the session to deliberate what course best suited the interests of the State. He meant to allow the senators full space in which to dishearten themselves by exposing their irresolution; then he would take charge and gain his ends. The murderers must be exiled: for excuse he would allege that nothing else could save them from the mob’s frenzy. That would eliminate almost every able competitor.
