The October Horse (44 page)

When Caesar smiled at Octavia she smiled back to reveal perfect teeth and a dimple in her right cheek; their eyes met, and Caesar drew an involuntary breath of astonishment. Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia's gentle, peaceful soul looked out at him, warmed him to the marrow. She is Aunt Julia all over again. I shall give her a bottle of Aunt Julia's perfume and rejoice. This girl will inspire love in all who meet her, she is a pearl beyond price. From her face he turned to gaze at her brother, to see an unqualified affection. He adores her, this elder sister.

The meal was quite up to Philippus's standards, and included his favorite party fare—a smooth, yellowish mass of cream churned with eggs and honey inside an outer barrel filled with a mixture of snow and salt. It was brought at the gallop from the Mons Fiscellus, Italy's highest mountain. The two young people spooned up the icy, melting poultice ecstatically, as did Calpurnia and Philippus. Caesar refused it. So did Atia.

“Between the eggs and the cream, Uncle Gaius, I simply dare not,” she laughed, but nervously. “Here, have some strawberries.”

“For Philippus, out of season means nothing,” said Caesar, growing ever more intrigued at the apprehension in the air. He lay back against his bolster and eyed Philippus mockingly, one fair brow raised. “There has to be a reason for this occasion, Lucius. Enlighten me.”

“As my note said, a celebration of your return to Rome. Ah—however, there is an additional reason to celebrate, I admit,” said Philippus as smoothly as his iced cream.

Caesar braced himself. “Since my great-nephew has been a man for nearly eight months, it can't concern him. Therefore it must concern my great-niece. Is she betrothed?”

“She is,” said Philippus.

“Where's the prospective bridegroom?”

“On his Etrurian estates.”

“May I ask his name?”

“Gaius Claudius Marcellus Minor,” said Philippus airily.

“Minor.”

“Well, it couldn't be Major! He's still abroad, unpardoned.”

“I wasn't aware that Minor had been pardoned.”

“Since he did nothing wrong and remained in Italy, why does he need a pardon?” Philippus asked, beginning to sound truculent.

“Because he was senior consul when I crossed the Rubicon, and made no attempt to persuade Pompeius Magnus and the boni to reach an accommodation with me.”

“Come, Caesar, you know he was ill! Lentulus Crus did all the work, though as junior consul he didn't hold the fasces for January. Once sworn in, Marcellus Minor was obliged to take to his bed, and there he remained for many moons. Since none of the physicians could find a reason for his sickness, I've always been of the opinion that it was Minor's way of avoiding the displeasure of his far more militant brother and first cousin.”

“A coward, you're implying.”

“No, not a coward! Oh, sometimes you're too much the lawyer, Caesar! Marcellus Minor is simply a prudent man with the foresight to see that you can't be beaten. It's no disgrace for any man to deal craftily with his more unperceptive relatives,” said Philippus, grimacing. “Relatives can be a terrible nuisance—look at me, handicapped with a mother like Palla and a half brother who tried to murder his own father! Not to mention my father, who tergiversated perpetually. They're the reasons why I adopted Epicureanism and have remained resolutely neutral all my political life. And look at you, with Marcus Antonius!”

Philippus scowled and clenched his fists, then disciplined himself to relax. “After Pharsalus, Marcellus Minor made a good recovery, and he's been attending the Senate ever since you left for Africa. Not even Antonius objected to his presence, and Lepidus welcomed him.”

Caesar kept his face expressionless, but his eyes didn't thaw. “Does this match please you, Octavia?” he asked, looking at her, and remembering that Aunt Julia had gone to Gaius Marius in a spirit of self-sacrifice, though apparently she had loved him. Caesar preferred to remember the pain Marius caused her.

Octavia shivered. “Yes, it pleases me, Uncle Gaius.”

“Did you ask for this match?”

“It is not my place to ask,” she said, the pink fading from her cheeks and lips.

“Have you met him, this forty-five-year-old?”

“Yes, Uncle Gaius.”

“And you can look forward to married life with him?”

“Yes, Uncle Gaius.”

“Is there anyone you would prefer to marry?”

“No, Uncle Gaius,” she whispered.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

The big, terrified eyes lifted to his; her skin was ashen now. “Yes, Uncle Gaius.”

“Then,” said Caesar, putting down his strawberries, “I offer you my felicitations, Octavia. However, as Pontifex Maximus, I forbid marriage confarreatio. An ordinary marriage, and you will retain the full control of your dowry.”

As pale as her daughter, Atia rose to her feet with rare clumsiness. ' “Calpurnia, come and see Octavia's wedding chest.”

The three women left very quickly, heads down.

Voice conversational, Caesar addressed Philippus. “This is a very strange alliance, my friend. You have betrothed Caesar's great-niece to one of Caesar's enemies. What gives you the right to do that?”

“I have every right,” Philippus said, dark eyes burning. “I am the paterfamilias. You are not. When Marcellus Minor came to me with his offer, I considered it by far the best I've had.”

“Your status as paterfamilias is debatable. Legally I would have said she's in her brother's hand, now he's of age. Did you consult her brother?”

“Yes,” said Philippus between his teeth, “I did.”

“And what was your answer, Octavius?”

The official man slid off the couch and transferred himself to the chair opposite Caesar, a place from which he could look at his great-uncle directly. “I considered the offer carefully, Uncle Gaius, and advised my stepfather to accept it.”

“Give me your reasons, Octavius.”

The lad's breathing had become audible, a moist rattle on every expiration, but he was clearly not about to back down, even though the emotional strain, according to Hapd'efan'e, was of an order to produce wheezing.

“First of all, Marcellus Minor had come into possession of the estates of his brother, Marcus, and his first cousin, Gaius Major. He bought them at auction. When you listed the estates confiscate, Uncle, you did not list Minor's, so my stepfather and I assumed Minor was an eligible suitor. Thus his wealth was my first reason. Secondly, the Claudii Marcelli are a great family of plebeian nobles with consuls going back many generations, and strong ties to the patrician Cornelii of the Lentulus branch. Octavia's children by Marcellus Minor will have great social and political clout. Thirdly, I do not consider that the conduct of either this man or his brother, Marcus the consul, has been dishonest or unethical, though I admit that Marcus was a terrible enemy to you. But he and Minor adhered to the Republican cause because they deemed it right, and you of all men, Uncle Gaius, have never castigated men for that. Had the suitor been Gaius Marcellus Major, my decision would have been different, for he lied to the Senate and lied to Pompeius Magnus. Offenses you and I—and all decent men—find abhorrent. Fourthly, I watched Octavia very closely when they met, and talked to her afterward. Though you may not like him, Uncle, Octavia liked him very well. He is not ill looking, he is well-read, cultured, good-natured and besottedly in love with my sister. Fifthly, his future position in Rome depends heavily upon your favor. Marriage to Octavia strengthens that position. Which leads me to my sixth point, that he will be an excellent husband. I doubt Octavia will ever be able to reproach him for infidelity or treatment I for one would find repellent.”

Octavius squared his narrow shoulders. “Such are my reasons for thinking him a suitable husband for my sister.”

Caesar burst out laughing. “Good for you, young man! Not even Caesar could have been more dispassionate. I see that when I call the Senate to a meeting, I'll have to make much of Gaius Claudius Marcellus Minor, crafty enough to pretend illness, shrewd enough to buy his brother's and his first cousin's property, and enterprising enough to cement his position with Caesar Dictator by a politic marriage.” He straightened on the couch. “Tell me, Octavius, if the situation were to change and an even more desirable marriage offer for your sister were to surface, would you break off the engagement?”

“Of course, Caesar. I love my sister very much, but we take pains to make our women understand that they must always help us enhance our careers and our families by marrying where they are instructed to marry. Octavia has wanted for nothing, from the most expensive clothes to an education worthy of Cicero. She is aware that the price of her comfort and privilege is obedience.”

The wheezing was dying away; Octavius had come through his ordeal relatively unscathed.

“What's the gossip?” Caesar asked Philippus, who had sagged in relief.

“I hear that Cicero is at his villa in Tusculum writing a new masterpiece,” Philippus said uneasily. This had not been a restful dinner, and he could already feel a need for laserpicium.

“I detect a note of ominousness. The subject?”

“A eulogy on Cato.”

“Oh, I see. From that, I deduce that he still refuses to take his place in the Senate?”

“Yes, though Atticus is trying to make him see sense.”

“No one can!” said Caesar savagely. “What else?”

“Poor little Varro is beside himself. While Master of the Horse Antonius used his authority to strip Varro of some of his nicer estates, which he put in his own name. The income is handy now that he isn't Master of the Horse. The moneylenders are dunning him for repayment of the loan he took out to buy that monument to bad taste, Pompeius's palace on the Carinae.”

“Thank you for that snippet of information. I will attend to it,” Caesar said grimly.

“And one other thing, Caesar, which I think you should know about, though I'm afraid it will come as a blow.”

“Deal the blow, Philippus.”

“Your secretary, Gaius Faberius.”

“I knew something was wrong. What's he done?”

“He's been selling the Roman citizenship to foreigners.”

Oh, Faberius, Faberius! After all these years! It seems no one save Caesar himself can wait one or two months more for his share of the booty. My triumphs are imminent, and Faberius's share would have earned him knight's status. Now he gets nothing.

“Is his graft on a grand scale?”

“Grand enough to buy a mansion on the Aventine.”

“He mentioned a house.”

“I wouldn't exactly call Afranius's old place a mere house.”

“Nor would I.” Caesar swung himself backward on the couch and waited for the servant to slip on his shoes, buckle them. “Octavius, walk me home,” he commanded. “Calpurnia can stay to talk to the women a little longer—I'll send a litter for her. Thank you, Philippus, for the welcome home party—and for the gossip. Most illuminating.”

The awkward guest gone, Philippus donned backless slippers and shuffled to his wife's sitting room, where he found Calpurnia and Octavia examining piles of new clothing while Atia watched.

“Did he settle down?” Atia whispered, coming to the door.

“Once Octavius spoke his piece, his mood became sanguine. Your son is a remarkable fellow, my dear.”

“Oh, the relief! Octavia really does want this marriage.”

“I think Caesar will make Octavius his heir.”

Her face went to stark terror. “Ecastor, no!”

•      •      •

As Philippus's commodious house lay on the Circus Maximus side of the Palatine and looked more west than north, Caesar and his companion, both togate, walked down to the upper Forum, then turned at the shopping center corner to descend the slope of the Clivus Sacer to the Domus Publica. Caesar stopped.

“Tell Trogus to send a litter for Calpurnia, would you?” he asked Octavius. “I want to inspect my new additions.”

[October 320.jpg]

Octavius was back in a moment; they resumed their walk down into the gathering shadows. The sun was low, bronzing the arched stories of the Tabularium and subtly changing the colors of the temples encrusting the Capitol above it. Though Jupiter Optimus Maximus dominated the higher hump and Juno Moneta the Arx, which was the lower hump, almost every inch of space was occupied by a temple to some god or aspect of a god, the oldest among them small and drab, the newest glowing with rich colors and glittering with gilding. Only the slight depression between the two humps, the Asylum, contained any free ground, planted with pencil pines and poplars, several ferny trees from Africa.

The Basilica Julia was completely finished; Caesar stood to regard its size and beauty with great satisfaction. Of two high stories, his new courthouse had a façade of colored marbles, Corinthian columns separated by arches in which stood statues of his ancestors from Aeneas through Romulus to that Quintus Marcius Rex who had built the aqueduct, and Gaius Marius, and Sulla, and Catulus Caesar. His mother was there, his first wife, Cinnilla, both Aunts Julia, and Julia, his daughter. That was the best part about being ruler of the world; he could erect statues of whomever he liked, including women.

“It's so wonderful that I come to look at it often,” said Octavius. “No more postponing the courts because of rain or snow.”

Caesar passed to the new Curia Hostilia, home of the Senate. The Well of the Comitia had gone to make room for it; he had built a new, much taller and larger rostra that faced up the full length of the Forum, adorned with statues and the columns that held the captured ships' beaks from which the rostra had gotten its name. There had been mutters that he was disturbing the mos maiorum with so much change, but he ignored them. Time that Rome looked better than places like Alexandria and Athens. Cato's new Basilica Porcia remained at the foot of the Hill of the Bankers because, though it was small, it was very recent and sufficiently attractive to warrant preserving.

Beyond the Basilica Porcia and the Curia Hostilia was the Forum Julium, a huge undertaking that had meant resuming the business premises facing on to the Hill of the Bankers and excavating the slope to flatness. Not only that, but the Servian Walls had intruded upon its back, so he had paid to relocate these massive fortifications in a jog that went around his new forum. It was a rectangular open space paved in marble and surrounded on all four sides with a colonnade of splendid Corinthian pillars of purple marble, their acanthus leaf capitals gilded. A magnificent fountain decorated with statues of nymphs played in the middle of the space, while its only building, a temple to Venus Genetrix, stood at the back atop a high podium of steps. The same purple marble, the same Corinthian pillars, and atop the peak of the temple's pediment, a golden biga—a statue of Victory driving two winged horses. The sun was almost gone; only the biga now reflected its rays.