Caesar's Women Read Free Page B

only his mother, to whom he came last.
    “Mater, you look well.”
    “I am well. And you,” she said in that dryly prosaic deep voice of hers, “look healed.”
    A remark which wounded him in some way, thought Servilia, startled. Aha! There are undercurrents here!
    “I am fully healed,” he said calmly as he sat down on the couch next to her, but on the far side of her from Servilia. “Is this party for any reason?” he asked.
    “It's our club. We meet once every eight days at someone's house. Today is my turn.”
    At which he rose, excusing himself on grounds of travel stains, though Servilia privately thought she had never seen a more immaculate traveler. But before he could leave the room Julia came up to him leading Brutus by the hand.
    “Tata, this is my friend Marcus Junius Brutus.”
    The smile and the greeting were expansive; Brutus was clearly impressed (as no doubt he was meant to be impressed, thought Servilia, still smarting). “Your son?” asked Caesar over Brutus's shoulder.
    “Yes.”
    “And do you have any by Silanus?” he asked.
    “No, just two daughters.”
    One brow flew up; Caesar grinned. Then he was gone.
    And somehow after that the rest of the party was— not quite an ordeal, more an insipid affair. It broke up well before the dinner hour, with Servilia a deliberate last to leave.
    “I have a certain matter I wish to discuss with Caesar,” she said to Aurelia at the door, with Brutus hanging behind her making sheep's eyes at Julia. “It wouldn't be seemly for me to come with his clients, so I was wondering if you would arrange that I see him in private. Fairly soon.”
    “Certainly,” said Aurelia. “I'll send a message.”
    No probing from Aurelia, nor even evidence of curiosity. That was a woman strictly minded her own business, thought the mother of Brutus with some gratitude, and departed.
    * * *
    Was it good to be home? Over fifteen months away. Not the first time nor the longest time, but this time had been official, and that made a difference. Because Governor Antistius Vetus had not taken a legate to Further Spain with him, Caesar had been the second most important Roman in the province—assizes, finances, administration. A lonely life, galloping from one end of Further Spain to the other at his usual headlong pace; no time to form real friendships with other Romans. Typical perhaps that the one man he had warmed to was not a Roman; typical too that Antistius Vetus the governor had not warmed to his second-in-command, though they got on well enough together and shared an occasional, rather business-filled conversation over dinner whenever they happened to be in the same city. If there was one difficulty about being a patrician of the Julii Caesares, it was that all his seniors to date were only too aware how much greater and more august his ancestry was than theirs. To a Roman of any kind, illustrious ancestors mattered more than anything else. And he always reminded his seniors of Sulla. The lineage, the obvious brilliance and efficiency, the striking physical appearance, the icy eyes …
    So was it good to be home? Caesar stared at the beautiful tidiness of his study, every surface dusted, every scroll in its bucket or pigeonhole, the pattern of elaborate leaves and flowers in the marquetry of his desk top on full display, only a ram's horn inkstand and a clay cup of pens to obscure it.
    At least the initial entry into his home had been more bearable than he had anticipated. When Eutychus had opened the door upon a scene of chattering women, his first impulse had been to run, but then he realized this was an excellent beginning; the emptiness of a home without his darling Cinnilla there would remain internal, need not be spoken. Sooner or later little Julia would bring it up, but not in those first moments, not until his eyes had grown accustomed to Cinnilla's absence, and would not fill with tears. He hardly remembered this apartment without her, who had lived as his