"Oh, you argue like an advocate!" said Caesar appreciatively, and finally smiled.
"I will take that as a compliment."
"You should."
Caesar got up and walked round the desk, held out his hand to help her rise.
"Am I to have no answer, Gaius Julius?"
"You will have an answer, but not today."
"When, then?" she asked, walking to the door.
A faint but alluring perfume came stealing from her as she preceded Caesar, who was about to tell her he would give her his answer after the elections when he suddenly noticed something that fascinated him into wanting to see her again sooner than that. Though she was irreproachably covered up as her class and status demanded, the back of her robe had sagged to expose the skin over neck and spine to the middle of her shoulder blades, and there like a finely feathered track a central growth of black fuzz traveled down from her head to disappear into the depths of her clothing. It looked silky rather than coarse and lay flat against her white skin, but it was not lying as it was intended to lie because whoever had dried her back after her bath hadn't cared enough to smooth it carefully into a crest along the well-padded knobs of her spine. How it cried out for that small attention!
"Come back tomorrow, if that is convenient," said Caesar, reaching past her to open the door.
No attendant waited on the minute stair landing, so he walked her down two flights to the vestibule. But when he would have taken her outside, she stopped him.
"Thank you, Gaius Julius, this far will do," she said.
"You're sure? It's not the best neighborhood."
"I have an escort. Until tomorrow, then."
Back up the stairs to the last lingering tendrils of that subtle perfume and a feeling that somehow the room was emptier than it had ever been. Servilia... She was deep and every layer was differently hard, iron and marble and basalt and adamas. Not at all nice. Not feminine, either, despite those large and shapely breasts. It might prove disastrous to turn one's back on her, for in his fancy she had two faces like Janus, one to see where she was going and one to see who followed behind. A total monster. Little wonder everyone said Silanus looked sicker and sicker. No paterfamilias would intercede for Brutus; she hadn't needed to explain that to him. Clearly Servilia managed her own affairs, including her son, no matter what the law said. So was betrothal to Julia her idea, or did it indeed stem from Brutus? Aurelia might know. He would go home and ask her.
And home he went, still thinking about Servilia, what it would be like to regulate and discipline that thin line of black fuzz down her back.
"Mater," he said, erupting into her office, "I need an urgent consultation, so stop what you're doing and come into my study!"
Down went Aurelia's pen; she stared at Caesar in amazement. "It's rent day," she said.
"I don't care if it's quarter day."
He was gone before he had quite finished that short sentence, leaving Aurelia to abandon her accounts in a state of shock. Not like Caesar! What had gotten into him?
“Well?'' she asked, stalking into his tablinum to find him standing with his hands behind his back and rocking from heels to toes and back again. His toga lay in a massive heap on the floor, so she bent to pick it up, then tossed it out the door into the dining room before shutting herself in.
For a moment he acted as if she hadn't yet arrived, then started, glanced at her in mingled amusement and— exhilaration? before moving to seat her in the chair she always used.
"My dear Caesar, can't you stay still, even if you can't sit down? You look like an alley cat with the wind in its tail."
That struck him as exquisitely funny; he roared with laughter. "I probably feel like an alley cat with the wind in its tail!"
Rent day disappeared; Aurelia realized from what interview with whom Caesar must just have emerged. "Oho! Servilia!"
"Servilia," he echoed, and sat down, suddenly recovering from that fizzing state of exaltation.
"In love, are we?" asked the mother clinically.
He considered that, shook his head. "I doubt it. In lust, perhaps, though I'm not even sure of that. I dislike her, I think."
"A promising beginning. You're bored."
"True. Certainly bored with all these women who gaze adoringly and lie down to let me wipe my feet on them."
"She won't do that for you, Caesar."
"I know, I know."
"What did she want to see you for? To start an affair?"
"Oh, we haven't progressed anywhere as far along as that, Mater. In fact, I have no idea whether my lust is reciprocated. It may well not be, because it only really began when she turned her back on me to go."
"I grow more curious by the moment. What did she want?"
"Guess," he said, grinning.
"Don't play games with me!"
"You won't guess?"
"I'll do more than refuse to guess, Caesar, if you don't stop acting like a ten-year-old. I shall leave."
"No, no, stay there, Mater, I'll behave. It just feels so good to be faced with a challenge, a little bit of terra incognita."
"Yes, I do understand that," she said, and smiled. "Tell me."
"She came on young Brutus's behalf. To ask that I consent to a betrothal between young Brutus and Julia."
That obviously came as a surprise; Aurelia blinked several times. "How extraordinary!"
“The thing is, Mater, whose idea is it? Hers or Brutus's?"
Aurelia put her head on one side and thought. Finally she nodded and said, "Brutus's, I would think. When one's dearly loved granddaughter is a mere child, one doesn't expect things like that to happen, but upon reflection there have been signs. He does tend to look at her like a particularly dense sheep,"
"You're full of the most remarkable animal metaphors today, Mater! From alley cats to sheep."
"Stop being facetious, even if you are in lust for the boy's mother. Julia's future is too important."
He sobered instantly. "Yes, of course. Considered in the crudest light, it is a wonderful offer, even for a Julia."
"I agree, especially at this time, before your own political career is anywhere near its zenith. Betrothal to a Junius Brutus whose mother is a Servilius Caepio would gather you immense support among the boni, Caesar. All the Junii, both the patrician and the plebeian Servilii, Hortensius, some of the Domitii, quite a few of the Caecilii Metelli—even Catulus would have to pause."
"Tempting," said Caesar.
"Very tempting if the boy is serious."
"His mother assures me he is."
"I believe he is too. Nor does he strike me as the kind to blow hot and cold. A very sober and cautious boy, Brutus."
"Would Julia like it?" asked Caesar, frowning.
Aurelia's brows rose. "That's an odd question coming from you. You're her father, her marital fate is entirely in your hands, and you've never given me any reason to suppose you would consider letting her marry for love. She's too important, she's your only child. Besides, Julia will do as she's told. I've brought her up to understand that things like marriage are not hers to dictate."
"But I would like her to like the idea."
"You are not usually a prey to sentiment, Caesar. Is it that you don't care much for the boy yourself?" she asked shrewdly.
He sighed. "Partly, perhaps. Oh, I didn't dislike him the way I dislike his mother. But he seemed a dull dog."
"Animal metaphors!"
That made him laugh, but briefly. "She's such a sweet little thing, and so lively. Her mother and I were so happy that I'd like to see her happy in her marriage."
"Dull dogs make good husbands," said Aurelia.
"You're in favor of the match."
“I am. If we let it go, another half as good may not come Julia's way. His sisters have snared young Lepidus and Vatia Isauricus's eldest son, so there are two very eligible matches gone already. Would you rather give her to a Claudius Pulcher or a Caecilius Metellus? Or Pompeius Magnus's son?"
&nb
sp; He shuddered, flinched. "You're absolutely right, Mater. Better a dull dog than ravening wolf or mangy cur! I was rather hoping for one of Crassus's sons."
Aurelia snorted. "Crassus is a good friend to you, Caesar, but you know perfectly well he'll not let either of his boys marry a girl with no dowry to speak of."
"Right again, Mater." He slapped his hands on his knees, a sign that he had made up his mind. "Marcus Junius Brutus let it be, then! Who knows? He might turn out as irresistibly handsome as Paris once he's over the pimple stage."
"I do wish you didn't have a tendency to levity, Caesar!" said his mother, rising to go back to her books. "It will hamper your career in the Forum, just as it does Cicero's from time to time. The poor boy will never be handsome. Or dashing."
"In which case," said Caesar with complete seriousness, "he is lucky. They never trust fellows who are too handsome."
"If women could vote," said Aurelia slyly, "that would soon change. Every Memmius would be King of Rome."
"Not to mention every Caesar, eh? Thank you, Mater, but I prefer things the way they are."
Servilia did not mention her interview with Caesar when she returned home, either to Brutus or Silanus. Nor did she mention that on the morrow she was going to see him again. In most households the news would have leaked through the servants, but not in Servilia's domain. The two Greeks whom she employed as escorts whenever she ventured out were old retainers, and knew her better than to gossip, even among their compatriots. The tale of the nursemaid she had seen flogged and crucified for dropping baby Brutus had followed her from Brutus's house to Silanus's, and no one made the mistake of deeming Silanus strong enough to cope with his wife's temperament or temper. No other crucifixion had happened since, but of floggings there were sufficient to ensure instant obedience and permanently still tongues. Nor was it a household wherein slaves were manumitted, could don the Cap of Liberty and call themselves freedmen or freedwomen. Once you were sold into Servilia's keeping, you stayed a slave forever.
Thus when the two Greeks accompanied her to the bottom end of the Vicus Patricii the following morning, they made no attempt to see what lay inside the building, nor dreamed of creeping up the stairs a little later to listen at doors, peer through keyholes. Not that they suspected a liaison with some man; Servilia was too well known to be above reproach in that respect. She was a snob, and it was generally held by her entire world from peers to servants that she would deem Jupiter Optimus Maximus beneath her.
Perhaps she would have, had the Great God accosted her, but a liaison with Gaius Julius Caesar certainly occupied her mind most attractively as she trod up the stairs alone, finding it significant that this morning the peculiar and rather noisome little man of yesterday was not in evidence. The conviction that something other than a betrothal would come of her interview with Caesar had not occurred until, as he had ushered her to the door, she sensed a change in him quite palpable enough to trigger hope—nay, anticipation. Of course she knew what all of Rome knew, that he was fastidious to a fault about the condition of his women, that they had to be scrupulously clean. So she had bathed with extreme care and limited her perfume to a trace incapable of disguising natural odors underneath; luckily she didn't sweat beyond a modicum, and never wore a robe more than once between launderings. Yesterday she had worn vermilion: today she chose a rich deep amber, put amber pendants in her ears and amber beads around her neck. I am tricked out for a seduction, she thought, and knocked upon the door,
He answered it himself, saw her to the chair, sat behind his desk just as he had yesterday. But he didn't look at her as he had yesterday; today the eyes were not detached, not cold. They held something she had never seen in a man's eyes before, a spark of intimacy and ownership that did not set her back up or make her dismiss him as lewd or crude. Why did she think that spark honored her, distinguished her from all her fellow women?
"What have you decided, Gaius Julius?" she asked.
"To accept young Brutus's offer."
That pleased her; she smiled broadly for the first time in his acquaintance with her, and revealed that the right corner of her mouth was definitely less strong than the left. "Excellent!" she said, and sighed through a smaller, shyer smile.
"Your son means a great deal to you."
"He means everything to me," she said simply.
There was a sheet of paper on his desk; he glanced down at it. "I've drawn up a proper legal agreement to the betrothal of your son and my daughter," he said, "but if you prefer, we can keep the matter more informal for a while, at least until Brutus is further into his manhood. He may change his mind."
"He won't, and I won't," answered Servilia. "Let us conclude the business here and now."
"If you wish, but I should warn you that once an agreement is signed, both parties and their guardians at law are fully liable at law for breach-of-promise suits and compensation equal to the amount of the dowry."
"What is Julia's dowry?" Servilia asked.
"I've put it down at one hundred talents."
That provoked a gasp. "You don't have a hundred talents to dower her, Caesar!"
"At the moment, no. But Julia won't reach marriageable age until after I'm consul, for I have no intention of allowing her to marry before her eighteenth birthday. By the time that day arrives, I will have the hundred talents for her dowry."
"I believe you will," said Servilia slowly. "However, it means that should my son change his mind, he'll be a hundred talents poorer."
“Not so sure of his constancy now?'' asked Caesar, grinning.
"Quite as sure," she said. "Let us conclude the business."
"Are you empowered to sign on Brutus's behalf, Servilia? It did not escape me that yesterday you called Silanus the boy's paterfamilias."
She wet her lips. "I am Brutus's legal guardian, Caesar, not Silanus. Yesterday I was concerned that you should think no worse of me for approaching you myself rather than sending my husband. We live in Silanus's house, of which he is indeed the paterfamilias. But Uncle Mamercus was the executor of my late husband's will, and of my own very large dowry. Before I married Silanus, Uncle Mamercus and I tidied up my affairs, which included my late husband's estates. Silanus was happy to agree that I should retain control of what is mine, and act as Brutus's guardian. The arrangement has worked well, and Silanus doesn't interfere."
"Never?" asked Caesar, eyes twinkling.
"Well, only once," Servilia admitted. "He insisted I should send Brutus to school rather than keep him at home to be tutored privately. I saw the force of his argument, and agreed to try it. Much to my surprise, school turned out to be good for Brutus. He has a natural tendency toward what he calls intellectualism, and his own pedagogue inside his own house would have reinforced it."
"Yes, one's own pedagogue does tend to do that," said Caesar gravely. "He's still at school, of course."
"Until the end of the year. Next year he'll go to the Forum and a grammaticus. Under the care of Uncle Mamercus."
“A splendid choice and a splendid future. Mamercus is a relation of mine too. Might I hope that you allow me to participate in Brutus's rhetorical education? After all, I am destined to be his father-in-law," said Caesar, getting up.
"That would delight me," said Servilia, conscious of a vast and unsettling disappointment. Nothing was going to happen! Her instincts had been terribly, dreadfully, horribly wrong!
He went round behind her chair, she thought to assist her departure, but somehow her legs refused to work; she had to continue to sit like a statue and feel ghastly.
"Do you know," came his voice—or a voice, so different and throaty was it—"that you have the most delicious little ridge of hair as far down your backbone as I can see? But no one tends it properly, it's rumpled and lies every which way. That is a shame, I thought so yesterday."
He touched the nape of her neck just below the great coil of her hair, and she thought at first it was his fingertips, sleek and languorous. But his head was immediate
ly behind hers, and both his hands came round to cup her breasts. His breath cooled her neck like a breeze on wet skin, and it was then she understood what he was doing. Licking that growth of superfluous hair she hated so much, that her mother had despised and derided until the day she died. Licking it first on one side and then the other, always toward the ridge of her spine, working slowly down, down. And all Servilia could do was to sit a prey to sensations she had not imagined existed, burned and drenched in a storm of feeling.
Married though she had been for eighteen years to two very different men, in all her life she had never known anything like this fiery and piercing explosion of the senses reaching outward from the focus of his tongue, diving inward to invade breasts and belly and core. At some stage she did manage to get up, not to help him untie the girdle below her breasts nor to ease the layers of her clothing off her shoulders and eventually to the floor—those he did for himself—but to stand while he followed the line of hair with his tongue until it dwindled to invisibility where the crease of her buttocks began. And if he produced a knife and plunged it to the hilt in my heart, she thought, I could not move an inch to stop him, would not even want to stop him. Nothing mattered save the ongoing gratification of a side of herself she had never dreamed she owned.
His own clothing, both toga and tunic, remained in place until he reached the end of his tongue's voyage, when she felt him step back from her, but could not turn to face him because if she let go the back of the chair she would fall.
"Oh, that's better," she heard him say. "That's how it must be, always. Perfect."
He came back to her and turned her round, pulling her arms to circle his waist, and she felt his skin at last, put up her face for the kiss he had not yet given her. But instead he lifted her up and carried her to the bedroom, set her down effortlessly on the sheets he had already turned down in readiness. Her eyes were closed, she could only sense him looming over her, but they opened when he put his nose to her navel and inhaled deeply.