Page 14 of Cleopatra

14

SERVILIA

M y life with Caesar was always a caravan of partings – some tender and full of anguish. Others, hot with rage. We always came back together. Even though Pompey was dead, Caesar did not return to Rome or to me. While there were whispers that he’d found solace in the arms of the Egyptian queen, I had no reason to think that this liaison would be unlike his others – fleeting as the tide. I did not experience the sharp knife of jealousy; my discomfort was quieter and simpler. I missed him.

As was always the way when I missed him, memories of our times together turned over and over in my mind. I conjured the past out from longing. He’d never entirely belonged to me. He was married and for many years so was I. There was a brief, honeyed period – before I was obliged to take my second husband – when it was simply Julius, Brutus and me. Those were some of the happiest times of my life. We were not a family for Caesar had his own. And perhaps it is to my shame that I did not wonder how this might affect his wife, Cornelia; I was too happy to have him with us.

I loved those times together. We existed as a little company of three. Caesar would sometimes remain and eat with us rather than return home. He would tell Brutus stories of his campaigns in Gaul and Italy, and Brutus listened, wide-eyed and amazed, as though Odysseus himself was seated at the table, recounting his own battles in Troy, his bloody struggles with the gods. And when it was time for the slaves to put him to bed, Brutus would plead to stay up late and hear more, only reluctantly retreating when he’d extracted a promise from Caesar to return again tomorrow and continue the story. I was happy. And while I knew it could not last forever, I tried to exist only in that moment. If I thought too much about the fragility of it, then the glass would break, and it would be finished, the joy leaking away. And I knew I was playing make-believe, but that made it no less precious. It was an illusion of something I could never have with Julius, but the illusion was so beautiful, so longed for. That I wished for it so hard, and he did not, was a pain that I had to be careful not to allow to spoil the time we had. Julius was content to love me, have me, enjoy the company of myself and Brutus and not wish for more. He had other obligations and ambitions.

Caesar never suggested or allowed me to believe for a moment that he would leave Cornelia, even as he assured me of his love. And I was foolish to think that this could continue just because I might wish it. Inevitably, as I grew complacent hoping that things might simply drift on always as they were – Caesar having one family of blood, and the other of love – everything shifted again. One day, Brutus came home early from my brother’s house. Caesar was there, we had already risen from bed and were simply talking together in the garden, and I was hoping he would stay and eat with us. But as Brutus found us beside the fountain in the viridarium, I saw to my dismay that he was not alone. He brought with him my brother Cato. Cato, his face pale and puffy, looked out of place in the garden surrounded by the scented shrubs and criss-crossing streams. He kept his arms stiffly at his sides. He was a man who belonged indoors amongst his papers. I registered his presence with dread. I did not wish for him to find me here with Caesar. I wondered, with unusual resentment, whether Brutus had described Julius’s visits to his uncle. There were whispers of our affair in Rome. But those did not concern me. Rome was always full of rumours carried on the wind. Cato never usually listened to rumour, but I realised, with rising trepidation, he would try to find out for certain whether there was any truth to this one. And Caesar’s casual presence in my garden, his hand trailing in the cool waters of the rill, loudly confirmed the fact of our relationship.

Cato stood as rigid as the statue of Neptune in the pool beside him, his face robed with its customary scowl, which intensified as Caesar greeted him with warmth, unperturbed. No, Caesar would no longer stay and eat with us, he said in reply to Cato’s invitation, he must return and dine with his wife. I was irritated at my brother’s assumption of the role of host, and then immediately saddened by Caesar’s refusal. His uncharacteristic reference to Cornelia. I felt a pang of loss as he took his leave. As I watched him walk away, I knew with a grinding of dread that these halcyon days had just been snatched away. I longed to call him back, dismiss my brother. Of course I could not.

Cato and I withdrew to the tablinum and sat as the slaves served us the dinner intended for Julius, plates of all his favourite dishes – simple fare but beautifully prepared. Cato and I barely ate; perhaps he sensed he was dining on another man’s choices. Then, he was always abstentious, rarely drank wine; that he had in common with Julius. Brutus dined with us, the only one with any appetite and unperturbed by the uneasy silence, looking at his uncle with a reverence and loving awe.

After the tedious meal was finished Brutus retreated to bed and I longed to follow him, knowing what must come. Cato called for wine. He poured me a glass and walking slowly across the room pressed it into my hands, saying, ‘Sister, drink.’

He did not take one himself. Then he sat back down with his head slumped, almost touching his chest, for so long that I thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep. Then, suddenly, he looked up at me and said, ‘It’s time. You’ve been a widow for nearly a year. You are a young woman, breedable, and it is your duty to marry again. And I see that you have recovered neatly from your grief.’

I ignored this arch jab at Caesar. I tried to formulate words that my brother would understand to express my love and need for Caesar. That he was necessary to my very existence, that I hadn’t realised I’d been sleeping until Julius woke me. The words desiccated in my mouth. I said nothing. My brother did not understand such things.

‘These appetites you have discovered, you will satisfy again in marriage,’ he said as though sensing a part of my reluctance but failing entirely to understand. My desire was for Caesar, not for any other man.

This was all he thought Caesar was to me – all any relationship outside marriage could be – carnal and base. In that moment I hated Cato. I hated all of Rome for what they now demanded of me. And I could not argue against them. It would be like shouting at the moon not to wane and pleading with the tide not to turn. My only escape would be to marry Caesar. And he would not leave Cornelia. For a moment I almost hated him too.

I understood what was expected of me. I could not defy my brother, nor the rest of my family. I was still a member of the Servilii, one of the oldest and most respected clans in all Rome. As a woman I could not join the senate nor become a praetor nor win great victories against our enemies, but I could bear sons, join our family in marriage to the other noble houses of Rome. My duty was clear and irrefutable, to challenge it was to defy Rome and her gods. I listened, obedient and weary, as Cato suggested various matches. I felt dizzy, and Cato ordered me to drink some of the wine. It did not help. My heart was already claimed. And I couldn’t help but note that these men were not the very best of Rome, they were the bruised apples. My choice was limited. Despite the prominence of my own family name, I was still the widow of a rebel.

Caesar visited me again about a week after my brother’s first visit. We lay together, but now there was melancholy to our time together; the sun had retreated from us and we were already in shadow. He kissed me and I turned away; now my desire was sated, anger rose inside me like steam. I reeled off with distaste the list of men my brother had put forward. I hoped that discussing my prospective husband would rile my lover into action, that when I revealed the paucity of my choices to Caesar, he would at last decide to marry me himself, have mercy upon me. To my dismay, he betrayed no jealousy as I recited the list of other men, listening with acute interest, offering his opinion but never his hand. Hurt and humiliated, tears stung my eyes. He saw them and took my hand and kissed it.

‘I cannot marry you, Servilia,’ he said softly.

I snatched back my hand and refused to look at him. ‘You can. You choose not to.’

‘I already have a wife.’

‘Men divorce their wives every day in Rome.’

‘I don’t.’

The pain was acute. He loved me and yet there were bounds to his love. Caesar wouldn’t divorce Cornelia. He didn’t divorce her on pain of death and confiscation of all his property, he wouldn’t divorce her for me. Not for mere love. My choice of suitors was compromised because what I offered any potential husband politically was limited. My family and connections were good but I was tarnished. In marriage, Caesar only ever acted for political advantage and expediency, and I had nothing to offer him other than my own self. I was simply not enough. I was everything he wanted in his lover, but I was insufficient to be his wife. He accepted that his rejection meant I must marry another man, and this thought didn’t seem to trouble him. I wanted him to defy pragmatism for love. But that was wishing for a river to turn course and flow upstream. He loved me, but his ambition was brutal and absolute.

I wouldn’t speak to him again that afternoon, and after offering empty words of comfort, he finally left me alone to my unhappiness. For a while I tried to withdraw from him. When he called to see me, I instructed the slaves to tell him that I was out. He knew they lied, but left me alone, pretending to believe them. And yet, when I heard him leave, I wept, longing for his company, almost calling him back. Cato visited twice each week, bringing a possible suitor with him. I served them wine and listened politely with no interest. I only required that they would be a good and kind stepfather to my son.

They were all the same. I knew that I must choose one, but how to make a choice when I was indifferent to them all? And then Decius Junius Silanus visited me late one morning. He was an undistinguished politician a few years older than me. Apparently we’d met several times before, although I had no memory of him. He came alone, without my brother who was recovering from yet another cold. I served him wine and he sat on the sofa. We exchanged pleasantries and then lapsed into silence that I made no effort to fill. He set down his wine and looked at me, his expression thoughtful.

‘You will not love me. I know that. I admire Caesar and I cannot compete with him. And I know how it is between you. If you agree to be my wife, I’d ask you not to stop but to pause. I need to know that my children are my own. After the children, I will ask no more from you. And, I will not divorce you unless you ask me to.’

I listened in surprise and then I looked at him and saw him for the first time, jolted out of my indifference by his kindness. His eyes were grey, soft. I understood that Silanus was a good man. He would not ask of me more than I could give. I agreed.

I sent for Caesar, and he came at once. I served him a meal beneath the vines. His favourite dishes like old times. We discussed poetry and the new threat of war and Brutus’s education, but not what must come. When we finished eating, he unwrapped me with great tenderness, and after we had made love, we lay together naked in the open air. My skin was prickled with gooseflesh, as the sun now lacked any real heat. He stroked my back, running his finger along the ripples of my spine, and I told Caesar who I’d chosen.

‘Silanus? A reasonable choice. A sensible man,’ he said.

And then I told him that we must part, for a while at least. To my surprise he looked stricken. He kissed every part of me, my lips, my breasts, the soles of my feet as though bidding all of me farewell.

I ensured that I bled before my marriage to Silanus. After we were married, Brutus and I moved into his villa, renting out mine to a wealthy family arrived from Cyprus. I had inherited property both from my father and my first husband, learning to manage these estates so they ran smoothly with a profit. My new husband accepted that these were mine and not part of my dowry, and if he needed extra money to put on games or to invest in an upcoming election, he would come and ask me, explaining how it would benefit our family. I always gave it to him, but I asked careful questions as to how it would be spent.

I split my time between tending to my own financial affairs and serving my new husband. Realising that I had grown proficient in money matters, he soon asked me to oversee his estates in addition to my own, as well as his slaves and other property. He treated me with affection and kindness, taking an interest in Brutus’s education. I hosted elaborate dinners to help further his career, where I served great toothy carp and oysters and stuffed pigs’ udders and the sweetest wines to the senators, praetors and high priests of Rome. I sought out the finest musicians and hired only the most honeyed singers from Macedonia and Thrace. Our household soon developed a reputation for the most convivial hospitality and amusing company. All the time I missed Caesar. His absence was a hunger that I could not feed. I listened to the interesting and amusing chatter of my guests but I only pretended to be diverted, for like a too-often-laundered tunic, the colour had washed out of the world. I saw Julius amongst company but I did not speak to him. He avoided the gatherings at my house, accepting only when his absence would be noted. Seeing him merely split open the wound.

Now with more distance, I must accept that we were not parted for so long, although to me it felt that time had slowed, grown lumpen and sluggish. Within a year, I felt Silanus’s child quicken within my belly. My joy was double. Firstly, that instinctive, reflexive joy which impending motherhood brings – the gods being benevolent – and secondly, while my belly was plugged with one child, I was in no danger of conceiving another. I could see Caesar again.

I informed Silanus of the happy news that he already suspected, and then only a little afterwards, I sent word to Caesar. He came to me at once, straight from the senate, my letter still tucked in his sleeve. He wished me all good felicities and then with only the slightest hesitation he folded me into his arms and kissed me. Our reunion was frenzied with joy. We knew now what it was to be without one another. As I led him into my bedroom, I worried briefly that he would not like my growing body, the soft swell of my stomach housing another man’s child. My breasts, usually small, were strained and mapped with a tributary of veins. I needn’t have worried. He saw only me. My pregnancy meant that he could be with me, so for him it was a source of pleasure and reprieve. He found me beautiful, whatever the waxing or waning of my belly and treated me with absolute tenderness. Silanus must have known about Caesar’s visits – I did not bribe the slaves for secrecy, such subterfuge felt beneath me – but he asked no questions and made no demands upon my body himself and instead spent long days away.

As my desire increased later in my pregnancy, so did the frequency of Julius’s visits. Silanus never objected. As I grew fat as the full moon, he rubbed my swollen feet and held me tightly while I wept in terror at the upcoming birth. I did not pretend to be brave with Julius. We both knew I might die when the child came. I did not want to leave either him or Brutus. And I was frightened of dying. I was frightened it would hurt. Julius, who had faced death many times in battle, never judged me for my fears. We’d both heard the inhuman screams of women who’d died in the birthing bed after hours or days of agony, their poor bloody and mutilated bodies as mangled as any legionnaire gutted on the battlefield. I saw my own terror reflected in his face. Sometimes exhausted, I fell asleep in his arms, and when I woke he was watching me, his face painted not with love but fear. He was more worried for me than he was for himself before any campaign. He did not want me to suffer nor to be without me.

When the birthing pains began, I sent word to Silanus. I spared Julius the worry and the terror. The birth was not as difficult as it had been with Brutus. Then, I had been only fourteen and I truly thought I would die. This time I expected the blood and rush of water and the endless twisting pain as my body turned itself inside out, breaking itself open to push out new life. The men were sent from the house, and the mid-wives arrived with the family women. The world shrank to this room. This bed. This pain. The noise. The noise was me, my screams coming from some other part of me. I screamed with my feet and my mouth and my eyes and I split apart and did not die. And then she was in my arms, slippery and still draped jauntily in her caul. Her whimpering screams took the place of mine. She was pink and bruised and angry. I held her. I was so full and so empty. I bled and bled, soaking the sheets and the mattress so thoroughly it had to be burned.

We stared at each other in wonder, my daughter and I. We were together and alone. I had survived. I had a daughter. I slept. I woke and looked for her. Panic rising, until I saw her asleep in a cradle beside me. The room was warm and full of women. They fed us both. This room was all the world. Neither my daughter nor I fully belonged to the mortal sphere, not yet. There were still hours, days when we might slide away. Time passed. How long, I do not know. We grew stronger. They opened the shutters and we blinked in the light. We chose to stay in the world, to live.

As I healed, I sat with my daughter propped on my knees and stared at her, the perfect bow of her lips. The black eyes. The pink gummy mouth, clamping to suck on my finger like a fish. I watched her suckle the wetnurse’s breast, my own breasts swollen and leaking milk until my dress was wringing. Caesar sent me his love and good wishes. My belly contracted with a final echo as I read his note. He and I must part again. I could not see him until my belly quickened once more.

Our lives would be a series of partings. I grew better at them. I came to understand that they were pauses, not endings. We’d always come back together. And yet, with Caesar in Alexandria, I wondered when the reunion would come. I wrote him letters and put them in my drawer, unsent.