Page 16 of Cleopatra

16

SERVILIA

C aesar had been away from Rome for more than two years. The silence was so long, so absolute, that it felt like a little death. And I knew he had not returned to me at the first possible moment. Once the war in Egypt had been won, he lingered in the east with Cleopatra, drifting down the Nile on her golden barge to see crocodiles and the pyramids of the old kings, if the rumours are to be believed. The distance between us spun and stretched like wool on a spindle. Perhaps he stayed with Cleopatra for political reasons, to cement an allegiance. But for once I agreed with the gossips – it was not politics which made him remain by her side but Cleopatra herself. I decided that I would not ask him directly if this was true, or why he didn’t hurry back to me. I feared that the truth might not make me happy. He always had the capacity to hold more than one woman in his heart at once.

Then at last Caesar returned to Rome, and he came alone, leaving the Egyptian queen behind. The afternoon of his return, the sunshine clarified like butter. I now lived in an estate on the banks of the Tiber surrounded by vineyards. I was nervous at the prospect of seeing him, excitement heating the blood in my veins. I strolled down to the lower gardens, feigning calm. I saw him before he noticed me, and I watched him sitting on a low bench set before a swirling pool. He looked older, thinner. His hair was entirely white, like dandelion fluff. Then, he saw me, and rose at once and started towards me, his arms open. I hesitated and stood back, at a little distance.

‘I missed you,’ he said.

I searched his face for dissemblance but found none. He just looked tired. He was far from the youth I’d first loved. I said nothing. He’d been away a long time, and in a queen’s bed. We needed to find our way back to each other. Sensing my reserve, he stepped towards me and looked at me steadily.

‘You are the love that I choose, Servilia. No. That’s not true. I have no choice in loving you.’

I stared at him and felt something clenched within my chest unfurl. I still did not speak.

‘Please, sit with me.’

Sighing, I sat down next to him. Before us the green waters foamed and roared. A kingfisher dabbled by the banks, the light gilded and iridescent on its wing. Caesar clasped a box on his lap so tightly that his fingertips were white. He opened it, and inside I saw the largest, smoothest pearl I’d ever glimpsed, like he’d snared the full moon and secreted it inside this box, pale and glowing. It was a jewel belonging to the heavens, not the earth.

He cleared his throat and began to speak. He’d rehearsed his speech, but to my surprise the great, unrufflable senator sounded nervous.

‘Servilia, tides wash in and roll away, but you remain, as everlasting as the sands and as infinite. I’ve never wearied of you or of loving you. This pearl isn’t enough. Not for you. You deserve the best of what belongs to the gods, but this is the choicest offering a mortal can give.’

I let him place the pearl in the palm of my hand, it rested there as large and round as a bantam egg. Its surface was smooth and luminous white.

‘It was always you, Servilia,’ he said, his voice soft.

I would never wear such a jewel, it was not my style. I was always simple in my taste and dress, rarely wearing jewellery or decorations of any kind. Yet, the gifting of it would tell all Rome what I was to Caesar. Even his wife must know. And Cleopatra. The pearl itself would sit hidden in my room, unseen. To the rest of the world it was a symbol of my power and my sway over Caesar. But I understood what it really meant: the pearl showed Caesar’s love and also his fear. He could not bear to be without me. He loved me, not beyond everything, but almost. I accepted his love along with his pearl. I chose to believe him and to accept what he could give me of himself. What choice did I have? I loved him.

I had him to myself for more than a year. Although even before Cleopatra’s arrival, her presence still infringed upon us. I tried hard not to resent it. I heard that she’d given birth to a child, a boy, called Caesarion – son of Caesar. I asked Caesar if the boy was his, and he simply replied, ‘The boy is Cleopatra’s. He’s not a Roman. But I do not dislike his name.’ This, I understood, was his acknowledgement that the baby was indeed his. By this time Caesar had been married three times and only ever had one child, a daughter, Julia, now dead. His third wife, Calpurnia, never conceived and was unlikely to do so. I’d come to accept Calpurnia. Often, to my surprise, I felt sorry for her. I did not marry again when my second husband, Silanus, died and it had stung when Caesar didn’t choose me and instead married Calpurnia but I was in my forty-second year when Silanus passed after a long illness, and it was no longer certain that I would bear a new husband any children.

When she’d married Caesar, Calpurnia was a young teenager, small and birdlike with the black eyes of a thrush, a fine down lining her skinny arms. She was pious and grave and whenever I visited the temple, she always seemed to be there, deep in prayer. I don’t think I ever saw her laugh. Even though Caesar chose to marry her in the hope of sons, they had no children. Perhaps that’s what inspired all her visits to the temple: to beseech the gods to ripen her womb. Despite her piety and offerings, the gods didn’t listen. I must admit that there were some in Rome who muttered that he might as well have married me for love, instead of Calpurnia for youth. I listened to them, not entirely without satisfaction, but I no longer wanted to be his nor anyone’s wife.

I wondered how he felt with his only son not only a bastard, but a foreigner. I found myself thinking of that boy often. I used to wish that Caesar and I could have had a child together. But, over the course of a long life, it’s a small sorrow – the niggle of a pebble caught inside a shoe, and I was kept busy with my children and grandchildren.

For the time being, Cleopatra stayed in Egypt, tending to both her baby and her court. New mothers are vulnerable, when they are also queens that danger multiplies like locusts on a wheat crop, and I was not surprised by her staying in Alexandria. While I was curious about her and the boy, I preferred to be curious from afar. I liked a sea between us. I told myself that there was no reason for the Egyptian queen to journey all the way to Rome. A little later, I heard that she’d married her youngest brother, a child of about ten, in the peculiar and unsavoury traditions of the Egyptians and the Ptolemies. I almost pitied her in this. I could not imagine any woman, queen or not, wanting to marry her brother. I had not sought to change my widowed status. I’d observed my friend Clodia and her freedom in her widowhood. I liked that my money was my own. And, for myself, I didn’t need or want a husband, I had children – two daughters and a son – and I had Caesar. Other than my children, I had no one to please but myself. My brother Cato had died, and while I grieved his loss, it was not without relief. From my safe distance in Rome, I allowed myself to feel pity for Cleopatra.

Then, the whispers began: Cleopatra was coming to see Caesar. And soon, all anyone could speak of was her arrival in Rome. For all that Rome was a republic, they were transfixed by the arrival of the Egyptian queen. They thrilled with disapproval. I felt them all study me for signs of jealousy. For more than two decades Caesar and I had endured despite five marriages between us, numberless foreign paramours as well as the steady trickle of Roman matrons and senators’ wives. I learned, if not to take interest in these other women, to accept them, for their relationship with Caesar had no bearing on his with me. He never lied or tried to conceal their existence. Between us there was the ease of familiarity and affection, and yet also an edge of unknowable otherness. Caesar desired many women, bedding plenty for he could not see a dish without sampling. In the beginning, I would watch him, wondering if he was the same with them as with me. But as the years went by, and women continued to pass through his bed, never staying longer than a year or two, I understood that I was the only constant. Rome was no longer titillated by our relationship.

But the arrival of the Egyptian queen set the tongues wagging again with great excitement. They all wondered how I would manage with this sudden rival. This exotic and exquisite queen, the same age as my own daughter. I bore it outwardly with fortitude, complaining only to my friend Clodia of my annoyance. At fifty, I hoped to be beyond the reach of the scurrilous tongues. But unfortunately, it was my age and widow-hood that seemed to provoke and delight the gossips. It was me who Rome seemed to think would be mad with jealousy rather than Calpurnia. No one seemed to trouble themselves as to what she would feel. Perhaps wives are safer when a new lover appears than the old mistress. Especially when she herself is, if not old, then not in the first bloom of youth.

That brief year after Caesar’s return my life had been a sheltered mooring, away from the squalls that continually swept through Rome. I should have known that nothing ever lasts. Calm and delight are never permanent – only ever a lull. Some periods of tranquillity are longer than others, but the wheel will always turn. And it was Cleopatra’s arrival that spun the wheel round and round, dizzying us all.

I hosted a dinner party shortly after her arrival in the city. It was for the matrons of Rome, my closest friends; I invited only the wives, telling them to leave their husbands at home. My parties were renowned. I often hosted them for Caesar – my entertaining was more ribald and joyous than Calpurnia’s and senators knew that by gaining my ear, they’d gain Caesar’s. But, that night, I wanted to be free of politics and manoeuvrings and wanted simply to be amongst my friends. I served more wine than was respectable at a dinner for matrons and hired musicians from Persia to entertain us. My daughters came, my eldest, Junia, and the younger, Tertia. I invited my daughter-in-law Portia, hoping she would not accept. To my relief, she sent regrets. Brutus had always sought my opinion, but to my dismay, I discovered recently that I had a rival for his ear in Portia and her advice was mostly defective. Portia was my brother Cato’s daughter, and she had all her father’s certainty and self-regard but none of his wisdom. We did not argue but treated one another with absolute politeness. I invited her scrupulously to my house and she sent scrupulous regrets.

My daughter Junia was lucky in her husband, Lepidus. He was a politician of a different ilk to Caesar. Where Caesar charmed and persuaded, Lepidus wore them down with dullness. I sometimes wonder if senators agreed to his proposals merely to stop him talking. He was also unlike Caesar in his chastity and was utterly devoted to my daughter. Junia was happy, basking in the sunshine of his adoration. Happiness for those outside its bubble is wearisome in its monotony. She had that rare ability: to be content. I do not know how I produced such a tranquil, easy child.

Tertia was prettier than her sister and rebellious. From the moment she could walk, she hid from the slaves at bedtime. We’d discover her in the kennels hours later, sleeping fast amongst the dogs, a small figure amongst the heap of snoring hounds. She and her husband, Cassius, each had an impetuous streak, both of them choking on their own ambition but lacking Caesar’s patience and foresight.

At the party, we all reclined on couches in the triclinium, listening to the mellifluous song of the hired flute players mingling with the music of the fountains. Junia and Tertia shared a couch, squabbling amiably as they had when they were children. Junia was the drab copy of her sister, the faded, quickly rendered fresco completed by the apprentice and not the master. Yet, seeing them together filled me with a warm delight, richer than sipping any fortified wine. I liked to listen to their chatter. They became the children that they’d once been and I almost forgot that they were now mothers themselves. Together, they were simply the girls, my girls.

Everyone else was wondering loudly and all at once about Cleopatra. She’d arrived in Rome with a great retinue of slaves, and now lodged in one of Caesar’s villas. But no one had yet seen the queen herself. She remained cloistered within the villa and with no visitors apart from Caesar. The estate where he had established her was on the other side of the Tiber from us. I could just see it from the high bank at the top of my garden, the lights burning in the windows at dusk, although I was too far away to catch sight of the queen herself, even if she ventured out to take some air. For the first time in many years, I wondered how Caesar split his time between the two of us. I pushed the thought away. Yet there was something that irked me. Caesar was expedient in his choices of lovers, and his relationship with Cleopatra was not sensible. To bed her in Egypt was one thing, understandable since he was far from home and it served to remind her of her place beneath Rome, but to bring her here, host her not only as a foreign dignitary but as his lover, was impolitic. Romans might be fascinated by royalty but even now as the women chattered, their disapproval was loud and resolute. I’d never seen Caesar act outside of his own interest before.

Everyone looked to me for confirmation of the rumours, expecting that Caesar would have told me, firing a quiver full of questions at me.

‘Is she really married to her brother? He’s a child. Not even ten. He is here, is he not? Surely they don’t share a bed? And has she brought her son? The boy. Is the child truly Caesar’s? And her hair. Is it true that she wears it loose in braids, plaited with golden thread? Her teeth are painted black, and a third eye is painted upon her forehead. She’s a witch with magical powers in her tits. I heard she shits pearls.’

I held up my hands and their questions guttered out. ‘I don’t know the answers to any of these questions, although surely common sense must resolve some of them for you.’

I had never pressed Caesar for details regarding his other lovers, and I was not going to start now. ‘We must wait to satisfy our curiosity.’

There was a pause, and the conversation turned to discuss Caesar’s upcoming triumph, celebrating his conquest in Egypt. There was a hum of excitement as it had been some time since Rome had seen such a pageant.

‘Ten thousand slaves will walk through the streets.’

‘Who cares about slaves? I’ve heard there will be dragons and zebras.’

‘Zebras aren’t real! Don’t be stupid, Fulvia.’

‘And the conquered Egyptian queen.’

‘Cleopatra?’

‘No, silly. Her sister.’

At this point, one of the women clapped her hands, asking with a smile, ‘Who here has been conquered by Caesar?’

More than half of the room raised their hands. I did not. Everyone already knew about me. And, besides, I conquered him. They all laughed to see the forest of raised hands. I forced a smile but felt a nudge of humiliation. To be bedded by Caesar was a rite of passage, it seemed. Then, to my dismay, I noticed some of the women eyeing Tertia with interest, looks of disbelief on their faces when she did not raise her hand. There were rumours in Rome that I’d encouraged her to become Caesar’s lover. I knew that some soft-headed fools listened to such nonsense, but I’d hoped for better from my friends. I took a sip of wine, disappointed. To my surprise it was Fulvia who voiced an objection on my behalf.

‘What imbeciles are you, to listen to the base fantasies of men? Tertia might be an echo of her mother in youth, that does not mean she echoes her mother’s desires.’

There was embarrassed silence. Fulvia laughed loudly. ‘So it’s acceptable for you to harbour such filthy imaginings, but when I voice them aloud, you’re all suddenly shy. Oh, you are so easily offended, good women of Rome.’

I smiled, grateful to Fulvia, and exchanged amused glances with Clodia. Fulvia was not my friend, but I’d invited her as she was a woman with whom it was dangerous to quarrel. She was easily the most forceful woman in Rome, fearless, resolute and always outspoken. She governed her household and her husbands like Caesar his empire. I enjoyed the company of forthright women. I looked at her, rosy-cheeked, as pretty and plump as a well-tended dove, and yet I knew that her wholesome appearance belied her ruthlessness. She surveyed the company with eyes watchful and astute. She was also one of the wealthiest landlords in Rome and collected her rents with absolute precision and alacrity. The fact that Marc Antony had married her despite her fearsome reputation endeared him to me. Until their marriage, I’d considered the man a drunk and a liability, and had often urged Caesar to find a superior lieutenant, not to trust this licentious spendthrift as his proxy. And yet Antony’s marriage to Fulvia made me reconsider him. A man who is unafraid of a woman and confident enough to let her rule him has a strength beyond that in his arms or fists.

I tried to imagine Cleopatra reclining here with the rest of us, discussing who had bedded Caesar. Would the Egyptian queen have raised her hand? Smiled with the rest of us? The thought was so absurd, I laughed aloud.

‘Will you host the party after the triumph, mater ?’ asked Junia.

I shook my head. That honour must surely belong to Calpurnia.

I did not see Caesar for several days. He was occupied with business, but I did not mind. Time had taught me patience. That afternoon when I came to see him in the garden of his villa, he was quieter than usual, and I sensed a caution in him, although perhaps it was my own.

‘Is Calpurnia hosting the celebration for you after the triumph?’ I asked.

He hesitated; the silence twanged.

‘No. Cleopatra asked to have that honour.’

I stopped walking and turned to face him, appalled. I looked at him in horror. I was glad that there was no one to see me, for they would take my dismay for jealousy. It was not. It was shock at his foolishness. Every senator in Rome wanted to be the one to have the honour of celebrating Caesar if the revels were not to be hosted by his wife. But instead, he was granting the honour to Cleopatra. It made it appear as though he was sharing with her a morsel of his victory in the East. It was reckless and unconsidered. Every senator would be insulted. Caesar was making a political miscalculation giving her this honour. I’d never known him guided by anything other than his usually perfect political acumen. Then, Cleopatra wasn’t only his mistress, nor simply a queen. She was the mother of his only son. As I looked at Caesar, he would not meet my eye. A small space opened up in my chest, a hole that had not been there before.