The Sacrilege(44)

“Arranging for some family obsequies,” Caesar said. “The goddess is an aspect of the ancestress of my house.” Caesar had just begun to stress the divine origins of the Julian clan. He omitted no opportunity to mention it. He left.

“That’s a man to watch,” said my old retainer Burrus. He had been waiting with the others in the atrium while Caesar and I conversed in my study. Burrus was a former centurion from the legion I had served with in Spain. He was gray as iron and had a face like a soldier’s dolabra.

“Why do you say that, Burrus?” I knew why I was uneasy about Caesar, but I was curious to know how a man like Burrus would read him.

“I don’t know the courts and the Senate like you, patron,” he said, “but I know the legions. Give that man command of one or two good legions, and he’ll work miracles.”

This astonished me. “Why on earth do you say that?”

“I’ve heard him speak before the Concilium Plebis. You saw him out on the street just now? Well, he’s always like that when addressing the plebs. Soldiers respond to a man who talks like that, sir. If he can soldier like he talks, they’ll do anything for him.”

I had thought that I knew Rome intimately, but here was something new to me. At the time I dismissed it. Talk was one thing, but the ability to endure the hard privations of a soldier’s life? I knew how much I detested military life. Caesar’s reputation for the love of ease and luxury exceeded my own by a wide margin, and my reputation in that area was by no means small. He could never amount to anything as a general. That was how much I knew.

Of far more interest to me were his cryptic words about Julia. Was he suggesting a union   between our houses? I could think of it in no other terms. Marriages between the great families were always political, but there were gradations of meaning. We Caecilii were an immense gens, but the Julians were tiny. At any given time they had no more than one or two marriageable daughters. Such an offer was serious indeed. If it was an offer. More likely, I thought, it was a distraction. That would mean that Caesar was afraid I would find out something he wanted to remain concealed.

The whole matter, or rather matters, had grown too confusing. I decided to narrow my attention. I decided that if I were to regain any perspective at all, I would have to grasp my courage in both hands and confront the person in Rome I feared above all others. I would go and question Clodia.

I dismissed my clients. After the morning’s delays, it would be futile for us all to troop off to attend Celer’s morning call. I was especially courteous in my dismissal, though. These men had stood by me unflinchingly when I was about to go to battle with my mortal foe, even though many of them were too old for a street brawl. It was only a client’s duty, and I was obligated to do the same for them, but an actual instance of fulfillment of the mutual obligation was special, and despite my lifelong reputation for laxness, I have never been accused of ingratitude by my clientela.

It was a daunting prospect, but I did not need to nerve myself up to the task as I might have on ordinary days. I had faced a death-fight with her brother and bearded Caesar already since breakfast, so a bout with Clodia was not as daunting as it might have been.

By the time I arrived at Celer’s house he had long since departed for the Curia on public business. The great house was quiet as his household staff busied themselves with their various domestic tasks. I told the majordomo to announce me to the lady Clodia and inform her that I requested an interview. He conducted me to a small waiting room off the atrium, and I stood about there for a few minutes until a barefoot slave girl appeared.

“Please come with me, sir,” the girl said. “My mistress will see you now.” I followed her. She was a slight but beautiful creature, with yellow Gallic hair. Clodia always surrounded herself with beautiful things: slave, freeborn, animal and inanimate.

She led me to a suite of rooms in a corner of the mansion. These rooms were plainly newer than the rest of the house, and Clodia’s touch was visible everywhere. The walls were painted by masters, mostly landscapes and mythological scenes, and the floors were mosaics of equal quality. Every humblest furnishing was exquisite. The vases and statuary were worth a good-sized town.

“A private interview, Decius? How brave.”

I turned from the lamp of Campanian bronze work I had been admiring. Clodia was as beautiful as any of the art in the room, and knew it. She stood in a doorway that opened onto a garden. It was a trick of hers with which I was all too familiar. It allowed light to pass through the sheer garments she favored. This day she had outdone herself. She wore a gown made of the famous, or rather infamous, Coan cloth. It was forbidden by every new pair of Censors, but that just meant that it was inadvisable to wear it in public. Her gown had been dyed purple, a further extravagance. She appeared to be surrounded by a fine violet mist.