The Year of Confusion(27)
“A pygmy shot me in the nose with an arrow.”
She glared for a while. “Please show me enough respect to make up a better lie than that.” So I had to give her the whole story and she was mollified. She never apologized for naming me a liar, though. We went to the triclinium and reclined while dinner was laid out. Hermes went off on some errand of his own.
A slave brought in the family lares and I performed a perfunctory libation. Then I took a cup, tore off a hunk of bread, dipped it in garlic-flavored oil and talked between bites and swallows. “Did you pay a visit to Servilia?”
“Oh, yes. She acted as if she had been expecting me. You’d think she was suspicious.”
“She has reason to be. How did it go?”
“To begin with, I was far from the only lady there. A woman as prominent as Servilia has flocks of callers.”
“Were there any notable names among them?” I asked, grabbing a handful of oil-cured olives.
“Fulvia was there, loaded with scandalous gossip.”
“Well, she’s the one to have it, being more than a bit scandalous herself.” The flamboyant Fulvia had been married to my old enemy Clodius, who was killed by my friend Milo, then she married Curio who had died fighting for Caesar in Africa. Recently she had married Marcus Antonius and was pushing his career as fiercely as she had those of her first two husbands. Julia named a few other prominent women.
“That sounds promising,” I said. “What was all the talk about?”
“The usual things. We had to listen to Servilia praising her son Brutus as the very paragon of Roman virtue. Fulvia described Antonius’s endowments in embarrassing detail. Several complained of the inconvenience the new calendar is causing them. They blame you.”
“Naturally. Anything germane to my investigation?” I pulled a plate of baked fish closer.
“Not at first, but then I am more subtle than you. I don’t reveal my intentions by diving straight into my subject of inquiry.”
“Very sensible,” I said, “and when in your circuitous fashion you finally got around to that subject, what did you learn?”
“You are trying to rush me,” she said, plucking grapes and popping them into her mouth one by one. “I dislike it when you rush me.”
It was going to be one of those times. “At your own speed, then.”
“That’s better.” She pushed the heap of grapes aside and picked up a dish of cherries and cream. Julia adored cherries and had a slave whose principal work was to remove their pits, a tedious and exacting task. She began to eat them with a golden spoon that had been a gift from Caesar.
“Atia arrived after the morning sacrifice at the Temple of Venus Genetrix. She had young Octavius with her. The air grew noticeably frosty. Servilia considers Octavius a rival for Caesar’s inheritance, of course.”
“Either way it’s a stretch,” I observed. “Octavius is a great-nephew, Brutus barely a relation at all. There’s no real reason he should adopt either of them. He could as well adopt me.” I caught her look. “Don’t even think it.”
She sighed. “It would never happen. For one thing, you aren’t ambitious. Caesar will adopt only someone ambitious. Brutus is ambitious, or at least Servilia is ambitious for him. Octavius is quiet but very deep. He’s spent a lot of time with Caesar lately.”
I barely knew Octavius and had only seen him a few times, from a distance. He was just another young man beginning his career and there were hundreds like him. I couldn’t keep track of them all. “Why was Atia there, since the two women detest one another?”
She ate another spoonful of cherries. “I’d thought you would have guessed by now.”
“You’re being—” then the light dawned. “Atia wants a horoscope cast for Octavius?”
“And who better to go to for advice than Servilia?”
“What is to stop Servilia from giving her bad advice?” I asked.
“She wouldn’t dare in front of all those women of their circle. Someone would be sure to tattle to Atia. That would put the tattler in a good position should Octavius prove to be the heir.” These women had a system of politics as complicated and cutthroat as that of the Senate.
“So there were two women at the gathering, each hoping to be in possession of Caesar’s heir.”
“Three,” she corrected. “Don’t forget Fulvia.”
“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” Marcus Antonius was yet another with eyes on the glorious inheritance. In Gaul, he had been Caesar’s right-hand man, supplanting the formidable Titus Labienus, who had turned against Caesar in the civil war. When Caesar was made dictator he named Antonius his Master of Horse, second in command and enforcer. In Roman public life of the day, Antonius was a character out of Plautus: a soldier-buffoon who had himself carried about in a lavish litter while slaves carried his golden drinking vessels before him on purple pillows like holy cult objects. Caesar had forced him to give up his foolishness for a while, but he kept lapsing. Despite his many faults it was almost impossible to dislike Antonius. He was the eternal boy-man. We loved the boy and feared the man.