Colleen McCullough - 4. Caesar's Women

Thus it was that Quintus Lutatius Catulus sought an interview with Gaius Julius Caesar in his rooms on the Vicus Patricii between the Fabricius dye works and the Suburan Baths. It took place on the day before the election, quite early in the morning. The subtle splendor of Caesar's office took Catulus aback; he hadn't heard that his first cousin once removed had a fine eye for furniture and superior taste, nor had he imagined a side like that to Caesar. Is there nothing the man hasn't been gifted with? he asked himself, sitting down on a couch before he could be bidden occupy the client's chair. In which assumption he did Caesar an injustice; no one of Catulus's rank would have been relegated to the client's chair. "Well, tomorrow is the big day," said Caesar, smiling as he handed a rock crystal goblet of watered wine to his guest. "That's what I've come to see you about," said Catulus, and took a sip of what turned out to be an excellent vintage. "Good wine, but I don't know it," he said, sidetracked. "I grow it myself, actually," said Caesar. "Near Bovillae?" "No, in a little vineyard I own in Campania." "That accounts for it." "What was it you wished to discuss, cousin?" asked Caesar, not about to be sidetracked into oenology. Catulus drew a deep breath. "It has come to my attention, Caesar, that your financial affairs are in a state of acute embarrassment. I'm here to ask you not to stand for election as the Pontifex Maximus. In return for doing me that favor, I will undertake to give you two hundred silver talents." He reached into the sinus of his toga and withdrew a small rolled paper which he extended to Caesar. Not so much as a glance did Caesar give it, nor did he make any attempt to take it. Instead, he sighed. "You would have done better to use the money to bribe the electors," he said. "Two hundred talents would have helped." "This seemed more efficient." "But wasted, cousin. I don't want your money." "You can't afford not to take it." "That is true. But I refuse to take it nonetheless." The little roll remained in Catulus's extended hand. "Do please reconsider," he said, two spots of crimson beginning to show in his cheeks. "Put your money away, Quintus Lutatius. When the election is held tomorrow I will be there in my particolored toga to ask the voters to return me as Pontifex Maximus. No matter what." "I beg you, Gaius Julius, one more time. Take the money!'' "I beg you, Quintus Lutatius, one more time. Desist! Whereupon Catulus threw the rock crystal goblet down on the floor and walked out. Caesar sat for a moment gazing at the starred pink puddle spreading across the minute checkerboard of mosaic tiles; then he rose, went to the service room for a rag, and wiped the mess up. The goblet fell into small crazed pieces the moment he put his hand upon it, so he carefully collected all the fragments into the rag, bunched it into a parcel, and threw it into the refuse container in the service room. Armed with a fresh rag, he then completed his cleaning.

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"I was glad he threw the goblet down so hard," said Caesar to his mother the next morning at dawn when tie called to receive her blessing. "Oh, Caesar, how can you be glad? I know the thing well and I know how much you paid for it." "I bought it as perfect, yet it turned out to be flawed." "Ask for your money back." Which provoked an exclamation of annoyance. Mater, Mater, when will you learn? The crux of the matter has nothing to do with buying the wretched thing! It was flawed. I want no flawed items in my possession." Because she just didn't understand, Aurelia abandoned the subject. "Be successful, my dearest son," she said, kissing his brow. "I won't come to the Forum, I'll wait here for you." "If I lose, Mater," he said with his most beautiful smile, "you'll wait for a long time! If I lose, I won't be able to come home at all." And off he went, clad in his priest's toga of scarlet and purple stripes, with hundreds of clients and every Suburan man streaming after him down the Vicus Patricii, and a feminine head poking out of every window to wish him luck. Faintly she heard him call to his windowed well wishers: "One day Caesar's luck will be proverbial!" After which Aurelia sat at her desk and totted up endless columns of figures on her ivory abacus, though she never wrote one answer down, nor remembered afterward that she had worked so diligently with nothing to show for it. He didn't seem to be away very long, actually; later she learned it had been all of six springtime hours. And when she heard his voice issuing jubilantly from the reception room, she hadn't the strength to get up; he had to go to find her. "You regard the new Pontifex Maximus!" he cried from the doorway, hands clasped above his head. "Oh, Caesar!" she said, and wept. Nothing else could have unmanned him, for in all his life he could never remember her shedding a tear. He gulped, face collapsing, stumbled into the room and lifted her to her feet, his arms about her, her arms about him, both of them weeping. "Not even for Cinnilla," he said when he was able. "I did, but not in front of you." He used his handkerchief to mop his face, then performed the same service for her. "We won, Mater, we won! I'm still in the arena, and I still have a sword in my hand." Her smile was shaky, but it was a smile. "How many people are out in the reception room?" she asked. "A terrible crush, that's all I know." "Did you win by much?" "In all seventeen tribes." "Even in Catulus's? And Vatia's?" I polled more votes in their two tribes than they did put together, can you imagine it?" "This is a sweet victory," she whispered, "but why?" "One or the other of them ought to have stepped down. Two of them split their vote," said Caesar, beginning to feel that he could face a room jammed with people. "Besides which, I was Jupiter Optimus Maximus's own priest when I was young, and Sulla stripped me of it. The Pontifex Maximus belongs to the Great God too. My clients did a lot of talking in the Well of the Comitia before the vote was taken, and right up until the last tribe polled." He grinned. I told you, Mater, that there is more to electioneering than mere bribery. Hardly a man who voted wasn't convinced I would be lucky for Rome because I have always belonged to Jupiter Optimus Maximus." "It could as easily have gone against you. They might have concluded that a man who had been flamen Dialis would be unlucky for Rome." "No! Men always wait for someone to tell them how they ought to feel about the Gods. I just made sure I got in before the opposition thought of that tack. Needless to say, they didn't."

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Metellus Scipio had not lived in the Domus Publica of the Pontifex Maximus since his marriage to Aemilia Lepida some years before, and the Piglet's barren Licinia had died before him. The State residence of the Pontifex Maximus was vacant. Naturally no one at the Piglet's funeral had thought it in good taste to remark on the fact that this one un elected Pontifex Maximus had been inflicted upon Rome by Sulla as a wicked joke because Metellus Pius stammered dreadfully whenever he was under stress. This tendency to stammer had led to every ceremony's being fraught with the additional tension of wondering whether the Pontifex Maximus would get all the words out properly. For every ceremony had to be perfect, in word as well as in execution; were it not perfect, it had to begin all over again. The new Pontifex Maximus was hardly likely to stumble over a word, the more so as it was well known that he drank no wine. Yet another of Caesar's little electoral ploys, to have that morsel of information well bruited about during the pontifical election. And to have comments made about old men like Vatia Isauricus and Catulus beginning to wander. After nearly twenty years of having to worry about stammers, Rome was delighted to see a Pontifex Maximus in office who would give none but flawless performances. Hordes of clients and enthusiastic supporters came to offer their help in moving Caesar and his family to the Domus Publica in the Forum Romanum, though the Subura was desolate at the prospect of losing its most prestigious inhabitant. Especially old Lucius Decumius, who had worked indefatigably to see the thing done, yet knew his life would never be the same again with Caesar gone. "You're always welcome, Lucius Decumius," said Aurelia. "Won't be the same," said the old man gloomily. "I always knew you was here next door, that you was all right. But down there in the Forum among the temples and the Vestals! Ugh!" "Cheer up, dear friend," said the lady in her sixties with whom Lucius Decumius had fallen in love during her nineteenth year. "He doesn't intend to rent this apartment or give up his rooms down the Vicus Patricii. He says he still needs his bolt holes." That was the best news Lucius Decumius had heard in days! Off he went to tell his Crossroads Brethren that Caesar would still be a part of the Subura, skipping like a little boy.