Colleen McCullough - 6. The October Horse - A Novel of Caesar and Cleopatra

Servilia might have been pardoned for presuming that when her son left Rome the next day for his villa in Tusculum, he did so to avoid her, but such was not the case. There was no room in his mind for his mother. Traveling the fifteen miles in a comfortable hired carpentum, Brutus had more agreeable things to think about: his new wife, Porcia, sat beside him. With none but Lucius Caesar's freedmen for witnesses, they had been married by the Chief Augur and flamen Quirinalis at his house; judging by his calm reception of their request that he marry them, Lucius Caesar might conduct unexpected weddings every day. He bound their hands together with his red leather strap, told them that they were now husband and wife, and wished them well at his front door. Though there was no one in Rome with whom he wished to share this fascinating piece of news, no sooner was the happy couple gone than he was at his desk writing to Cousin Gaius, en route from Spain to Rome. Because it was so close to Rome, Tusculum was not possessed of those massive villas Rome's mighty or wealthy owned in places like Misenum, Baiae and Herculaneum; Tusculan villas tended to be smallish and old, fairly close to the neighbors. On one boundary Brutus's villa had Livius Drusus Nero's place, on another Cato's place (now the property of a decorated ex-centurion senator), the Via Tusculana on its third side, and Cicero's villa on the fourth. This last was a nuisance, as Cicero was always popping around when he knew Brutus was in occupation, but when Brutus and Porcia arrived late in the afternoon, Brutus knew that Cicero's schedule would not bring him knocking on their door that evening, even were he aware that Brutus was in residence. The servants had prepared a meal which neither of the diners had the appetite to eat; as soon as it was proper to abandon the wedding feast, Brutus took Porcia on a tour of the house, then, quite terrified, led his new wife to her marriage bed. He knew from those talks with Porcia after she had married Bibulus that her opinion of connubial intimacy was not high, and he knew that his own sexual prowess was minimal. The flesh had never plagued Brutus during adolescence and young manhood the way it seemed to plague most men; what natural urges he had experienced had been channeled into intellectual pursuits. A great deal of this had been Cato's fault, for Cato believed that a man should go to his wife quite as virginal as she; that was the old Roman way, as well as a part of Cato's interpretation of Stoicism. But some of it had been due to Servilia, whose contempt for his lack of masculinity had stripped him of confidence in all the avenues of his life. And then there had been Julia, whom he had loved so ardently for so long. Nine years younger than he, Julia was never the recipient of anything more than a chaste kiss; then, when she was seventeen and Brutus's wait almost over, Caesar had married her to Pompey the Great. A terrible business, made worse because Servilia had taken huge pleasure in telling him that Julia was ardently in love with her old man, that she had found Brutus boring and ugly. Despite marriage to Bibulus, Porcia was hardly better prepared for this wedding night than Brutus, for Bibulus had been married twice before, to two Domitias of the Ahenobarbi, both of whom that arch-predator, Caesar, had seduced. Eighteen years old, she had been given to Bibulus by her father arbitrarily, and found herself the bride of an embittered man in his late forties, a man who already had two sons by his first Domitia, and then Lucius by his second Domitia. Enormously flattered though Bibulus was by Cato's gift of his only daughter, she didn't exactly suit his tastes. For one thing, she was six feet tall to his five feet four; for another, Porcia was not every man's idea of a beautiful woman. Bibulus had done his duty in a rather indifferent way, made no attempt to please her, and then sat back to revel in the fact that his third wife was Cato's daughter: that this was one wife Caesar could never plunder. Only the gods knew what might have happened had Bibulus returned to Rome after governing Syria; his two elder sons were murdered in Alexandria, which left him Lucius. Had he returned, he may well have decided to sire children by Porcia. But he didn't, of course. Caesar had crossed the Rubicon while Bibulus lingered in Ephesus, and Rome never saw him again. Porcia became a widow without ever being a well-used wife. So they sat side by side on the edge of the bed, wordless and afraid. Very much in love with each other, but having no idea how intimacy would affect that love. The light outside was still high and bright, for this was midsummer; finally Brutus turned his head and took in that wealth of brilliant red hair, experienced a desire she would surely not find repugnant. "May I let down your hair?" he asked. Her grey eyes, Cato's except for the fright, widened. "If you like," she said. "Just don't lose the pins because I think I forgot to pack any." Not to lose the pins was a facet of Brutus's careful nature anyway; he plucked them out one by one and put them in a heap on the bedside table, going about his task with burgeoning delight. It really did feel alive, such masses of it, and never once cut; his finger's ran through it, then shook it out into a cascade of fire that puddled on the bed. "Oh, it's so beautiful!" he whispered. No one had ever called anything about her beautiful; Porcia shivered with pleasure. Then his hands were plucking at her awful homespun dress, pulled its sash off, unbuttoned the placket up its back and tugged it down over her shoulders, tried to work her arms out of its sleeves. She helped him until she realized her breasts were bared, and clutched its folds across her chest. "Please let me look," he begged. "Please!" This was so new why would anyone want to look? Still, when his hands covered hers and gently persuaded them downward, she let him, gritted her teeth and stared straight ahead. Brutus gazed enraptured. Who would ever have guessed that her ghastly tentlike dresses contained these exquisite, small and firm breasts with such deliciously pink little nipples? "Oh, they're beautiful!" he breathed, and kissed one. Her skin leaped, a warmth kindled and spread through her. "Stand up, let me see all of you," he commanded in a voice he hadn't known he possessed strong, rich, throaty. Amazed at it, amazed at herself, she obeyed; the dress fell around her feet, leaving her clad only in her coarse linen undergarment. He disposed of that too, but so reverently that she felt no urge to hide that part of herself that Bibulus had never bothered to inspect. Well, both his Domitias had been red-haired. "You're fire everywhere!" said Brutus, awed. Then he reached out his arms and gathered her to him, she still standing, he with his face on her belly, and he began to move it back and forth against her skin, pressing kisses on her, his hands moving over her back, stroking her flanks. She fell forward on to the bed as he struggled with his tunic; now it was her turn to help. Gasping at the shock of it, they felt the wonder of true contact, couldn't get enough, wrapped their arms about each other and kissed hungrily, passionately. He slipped inside her smoothly, filling Porcia with joy, with strange feeling she had never known, sensations that worked up and up and up until she cried out even as he cried out. "I love you," he said, still erect. "And I have always loved you, always!" "Again?" "Yes, yes! Forever again!"

With no Brutus to pick at, Servilia went to visit Cleopatra after her son departed for Tusculum. She found Lucius Caesar there, a real pleasure; he was one of the most cultivated men in Rome. The three of them settled to a lively discussion of the "Cato" and the "Anti-Cato," all on Caesar's side, of course, though Servilia and Lucius Caesar were dubious of the wisdom of the "Anti-Cato." "Especially, said Servilia, "because of its literary merit. That has guaranteed it a wide audience." "Lucius Piso says he doesn't care what it says, the prose is superb Caesar at his best," said Cleopatra. "Yes, but that's Piso, who'd read a book about a beetle if the prose were superb," Lucius Caesar objected. He raised a brow at Servilia "Was it you who supplied Caesar with the anecdotes no one knew about?" he asked. "Naturally," purred Servilia, "though I don't have Caesar's gift for picking the eyes out of, for instance, Cato's poetry. I just sent him the lot. There were drawers full of it, you know." "It tempts the gods to speak ill of the dead," Lucius remarked. The two women stared at him in astonishment. "I fail to see that," Cleopatra said. "If people are horrible while they're alive, why should the Gods oblige one to be mealymouthed about them just because they've had the consideration to die? I can assure you that when my father died, I offered thanks to the Gods. I certainly didn't change my opinion of him or of my elder brother. And after Arsino dies, I won't be saying any nice things about her." "I agree," said Servilia. "Hypocrisy is detestable." Lucius Caesar retreated, hands up in surrender. "Ladies, ladies! I'm merely echoing most of Rome!" "Including my stupid son," Servilia snarled. "He actually had the temerity to write an 'Anti-Anti-Cato,' or whatever one calls a refutation of a refutation." "I can understand that," said Lucius. "He's very tied to Cato, after all." "Not anymore," said Servilia grimly. "Cato's dead." "You don't think Brutus's marriage to Porcia constitutes a continuing tie to Cato?" Lucius asked in all innocence. How could a large, airy, light-filled room suddenly darken as if the sun outside was totally eclipsed? For the room did darken, its atmosphere fizzing with sparks of invisible lightning that emanated from Servilia, who had gone absolutely rigid. Cleopatra and Lucius Caesar sat gaping for a moment, then Cleopatra moved to her friend's side. "Servilia! Servilia! What is it?" she asked, picking up a hand to chafe it. The hand was snatched away. "Marriage to Porcia?" "Surely you know," Lucius floundered. The air was now suffused with blackness. "I do not know! How do you know?" "I married them this morning." Servilia got up jerkily and walked out, screaming for her litter, her servants. "I was sure she knew!" said Lucius to Cleopatra. Cleopatra drew a breath. "I am not famous for my pity, Lucius, but I pity Brutus and Porcia."