Page 20 of Cleopatra

20

SERVILIA

I walked out in the garden, placing tributes to Mars and Diana on their altar. I’d not forgotten how they’d delivered my retribution upon Pompey, and I gave them regular offerings in gratitude. I had not seen Cleopatra since I’d called upon her and played with her little son. I hoped her boy would never suffer the same fear and loss as mine. As I laid nuts, wine and a small bouquet of spring flowers – narcissi, primroses and columbine – before their statues, I found myself murmuring a prayer for the safe-keeping of both our boys. They too were connected, not through blood but love; Caesar loved them both as his sons. As I took deep, cooling breaths laced with the scent of new spring flowers, I experienced something like peace and hope, the tickle of early sunshine on my face.

There was discussion of Caesar taking his legions and defeating the Parthians. Usually, I’d learn of his departure for a campaign with a mixture of resignation and dread, yet now I heard of his plans with something more like relief. I thought it best that he journey far from Rome and from Cleopatra. I worried about the influence she had over him; she put kindling onto the furnace of his ambition. Until her arrival, I’d never sensed in him a desire to be king. Perhaps he could exorcise some of his more reckless ambitions on the battlefield.

I heard a familiar voice calling my name and turning, I saw Brutus walking towards me. I smiled to see him. The sight of him was always as the sun sliding out from behind a cloud. Today, however, he did not smile back and I could tell from the way he strode towards me that he was out of spirits. He’d barely greeted me before he said, voice rising in anger, ‘I do not like to speak of Caesar with disrespect for I know what he means to you, but I fear his mind is overturned. By age or excess of power, I cannot tell.’

‘Careful, Brutus,’ I said, a note of warning in my voice. However annoyed I was with Caesar, I did not like anyone else to speak ill of him.

‘Believe me when I say that I am trying. This is the most civility I can muster.’

His face was pale, and there were little round suns of anger on each cheek – the same tell as when he was a boy – but it was with tremendous calm that Brutus recounted to me how Antony had offered Julius a crown of laurels in front of the Lupercal crowd. I could hear no more and interrupted.

‘This is not real. You come here to tease and provoke me. For what reason I cannot tell.’

Brutus started, affronted. ‘Mother, when have I ever behaved in such a way? Least of all towards you. This is a faithful account of what happened. Marc Antony offered Julius Caesar a crown of laurels, three times. And three times, Caesar refused. But, there was hope in his hesitation. It was clear that if the crowd had urged him enough, he would have accepted. And he was disappointed that they did not. Consul, senator, dictator for life, none of these are enough for your friend, Mother. He hankers now for a crown. And not one of plaited laurels but gold.’

‘Peace. He’s not only my friend, but yours too, Brutus,’ I said, my tone sharp.

‘And that is why I’m here. I love Caesar. And I love Rome. Until now, I believed those two loves not only compatible, but commensurate. That by loving Caesar, I did also love Rome.’

I stared at Brutus. The flowers on the altar already looked drab and several had blown away in the breeze. ‘It is still true. To love Caesar is to love Rome,’ I insisted.

He said nothing, only looked at me. I never wanted my son to lie to me, but now I wished his account was an absurd fabrication, a false fireside tale. Yet, as I studied my son, serious, set now in earnest middle age, his brow furrowed and lips pursed with worry, I knew he told the truth, or what he believed it to be. Brutus could never lie to me, even as a boy; caught in some misdeed and fibbing to the slaves to escape punishment, he’d confess to me, the moment he was summoned into my presence. I taught him that the lie was worse than the misdeed. There was no crime he could commit that I would not forgive, but he must never lie to me. With dismay I knew he told the truth now.

I felt a snag in my chest as I tried to picture the scene as Brutus described it: the boisterous crowds, thick with wine and good cheer and brimful of affection for Caesar, singing raucous songs of his victories. Then, Antony strutting alongside, busy with his own self-importance, and conjuring a bouquet of laurels like a cheap magician. Caesar waving at them to stop, but full of expectation that they would not. Expecting that this would be his first, unofficial coronation, a display of false modesty and sham spontaneity. The thought of it made me wince for I’d always held Caesar and his judgement in the highest regard. I considered him capable of cruelty and self-regard, but never did I think he could display such hubris or stupidity. Had he forgotten that this was Rome? I did not blame Cleopatra, for all that she infuriated me. Queens always have their own schemes, and it was up to Caesar to recognise that. She did not know either Rome or Romans and if he paid heed to her then that was more of his own foolishness.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ I promised Brutus.

Brutus shrugged. ‘He listens to no one anymore. Not even you.’

Years later, people would tell one another of the strange signs that supposedly appeared across Rome at this time, and every citizen, even those not yet born, are now certain that they saw graves spew out rotting corpses, lions whelp in the forum or are eager to recount how they witnessed a bloody comet smear the sky with scarlet entrails. I do remember the comet, but not that it was red. Clodia told me breathlessly about a pig that delivered a litter of piglets without eyes. I sent out a slave to make enquiries, for if this was true, it was indeed an ill omen. The slave could find neither the pig nor a person who’d witnessed this strange happening. The monstrous litter was always at one remove, but that everyone believed these tales while eagerly searching for more signs unsettled me.

I’d been too angry to see Caesar since Lupercal and had avoided meeting either him or Cleopatra. Yet, time dulled the keen edge of my temper as fury cooled to fear. I was invited to dinner at my daughter and Lepidus’s villa and despite knowing Caesar was likely to be there too, I accepted. Simply, I missed him.

The evening was bright and cool. The villa was lit with so many candles and torches that it shone out into the darkness like a second moon. Brutus was invited too, but of course he declined, having no wish to be in the company of Caesar, nor his sister Junia or brother-in-law Lepidus. It saddened me, for I wanted my son and daughters together, and I resented how this quarrel between Caesar and Brutus was spreading through my family, souring the relationship between brother and sister. Brutus avoided Junia, for he knew that she sided with her husband, and was devoted to Caesar by proxy. For the rest of Rome, this quarrel was political, but for me it was in the heart of my family and cut into my own heart.

The party that night comprised of a small gathering of intimate and old friends, but Lepidus always liked to lavish displays of friendship upon Caesar, so the villa was crammed with borrowed slaves and the tables of the triclinium were crowded with more food than ten-fold the number of guests could possibly consume. Junia frowned, overanxious about the comfort of everyone, so worried we would not take pleasure that she could take none herself. I kissed her, whispering, ‘It is beautifully done, my love. All is well.’

From each room wafted the scent of roasted boar and game, caramelised nuts, every kind of poached fish and mulled wine. I strolled through the villa, eager to search out Caesar amongst the gathered guests. And at last, there he was, lounging on a sofa with an air of absolute assurance that drew all eyes to him. His gaze met mine and for a moment, as he smiled, I was a girl again wanting to be kissed, filled with hope and longing.

I settled on a sofa close to him. I would not share his sofa amongst company, but I was close enough to hear him charm everyone with his stories of bloody conquest and glory. As he described it, Rome was the only civilised city in the world, the one place worthy of the gods and their benevolence. The talk turned to war, for in only a few days Caesar was departing for his new campaign. Yet, as he discussed supplies and routes, I sensed a weariness in him; he sounded like a priest grown bored of his prayers, the words now rote, detached from their meaning and power. He was almost the same age as me, and I wondered if any part of him simply longed to stay at home. But lying still and growing fat on past success, adventuring only through his stories of old well-trampled glory, was not his way. Still, there was a shadow on him, the breath of Hades. What remained of his thinning hair was the colour of ash, and as he reached for a plate of figs, I noticed the protruding veins in his hand, the blotched skin.

As the evening progressed, the barrels of wine were emptied, and the chatter grew wilder, rumbunctious, and then, as is the way amongst old friends with many years between them, maudlin. Lepidus leaned forward, his teeth stained bloody with wine, and asked, ‘Do you not fear death in this new campaign, Julius?’

‘Fear it? No. But I shall be careful to avoid it. Like stepping round a large puddle,’ replied Caesar.

Lepidus did not seem to hear him, as he continued to speak, wine sloshing from his goblet onto the floor. ‘Battle is a good way for a man to die. Fast and glorious.’

Caesar snorted. ‘There’s rarely anything either glorious or fast about death in battle. Infection and agony perhaps. Glory only comes later, in the account.’

He turned to me and smiled, his voice softening. ‘And you, Servilia? How would you like to die? Surrounded by your grandchildren?’

‘No. I should not wish for company. Death is a lonely business. I should like to slide from sleep into death. Unwittingly.’

At this Caesar sat up. ‘I do not want it to steal upon me in my dreams. That is a slippery, underhand death.’

‘Then what is the best sort of death for a man?’ I asked.

‘One that is sudden and unexpected.’

I don’t remember what anyone else said or wished after that. I wish we’d enjoyed some time alone together, Caesar and I, but we didn’t. I don’t believe that I even spoke to him particularly again, only addressed some general remarks to the company. I was spendthrift with our time for I thought we had plenty of it, and I could waste hours, minutes. I expected that I would see him tomorrow or if not, then the next day. There were so many tomorrows ahead, too many to be miserly with. I was worried about him leaving to fight in his new war, but not unduly. He’d been away before and he always returned. He was Caesar.

So, I left early. He smiled at me as I departed, but we did not speak or kiss. There were no words for me to hoard later. And perhaps it is not even this last smile that I truly remember, but another assembled from a lifetime of partings.

When I arrived home, to my surprise I found my other children there. Brutus was holding court with Portia and Tertia, her husband Cassius, and a few other of their friends. I was relieved that at least two of my children were friends. They greeted me with affectionate warmth. ‘How was your evening, Mother?’ asked Tertia, taking my hand.

‘Come, sit with us a while,’ added Brutus.

I did, not wanting to offend even though they seemed a little drunk and too bright, the slaves attending them looking overly fatigued, and I paid them scant attention – I’d left one party wearied only to discover another in my own house, when I wanted only peace. If only I’d listened to their chatter properly. They discussed nothing of their plans before me, but if I had paid closer attention, maybe I would have suspected enough to draw it out of them.

I wonder, as I have a thousand times since, if I’d stayed and discovered their plot whether then I could have convinced my son of the disaster he would unleash, reminded him again of his love for the man who’d been as a father to him. Brutus always listened to me, heeded my advice. Then all the world and its future would have been different, the earth moulded from a different clay. But it was not, because I was tired and exhausted by their high spirits, and I bade them good night when I ought to have asked questions, and insisted on knowing why they drank so much and were in such a state of excitement. If my bed had not called to me. If my head had not ached. If I had not wished to remove myself from Portia’s braying laugh. Such small and fickle things decide the fate of an empire and a man.

They say that Calpurnia could not sleep that night. That she had premonitions, of Caesar’s body streaming with rivers of blood from every vein. Perhaps that is true, or perhaps she conjured the memory of her premonitions later. Afterwards, Cleopatra told me that she too was restless, filled with nameless dread. I only know that I had no shadow-filled dreams. I slept deeply and well, and for the last time.