Antony and Cleopatra (65 page)

“I hear all kinds of weird rumors in Rome, Plancus, so many that I don’t know what to believe,” Octavian said, wondering what Plancus’s price was going to be.

“Believe the worst of them and you won’t go far wrong.”

“Then how can I convince these donkeys here in Rome that it’s Cleopatra’s war, not Antonius’s?”

“You mean they still think Antonius commands?”

“Yes. They simply can’t stomach the idea that a foreign woman is capable of dominating the great Marcus Antonius.”

“Nor could I, until I saw it for myself.” Plancus tittered. “Perhaps you ought to arrange for tours to Samos—that’s where they are at the moment, en route to Athens—for the unbelievers. Once seen, never forgotten.”

“Levity, Plancus, does not become you.”

“Seriously, then, Caesar. I could
perhaps
offer you better ammunition, but there is a price.”

Dear, unapologetic Plancus! Straight out with it, no dancing around. “Name your price.”

“A suffect consulship next year for my nevvy, Titius.”

“He’s none too popular in Rome since he executed Sextus.”

“He did the deed, yes, but the order came from Antonius.”

“I can certainly procure him the job, but I can’t protect him from his detractors.”

“He can afford bodyguards. Is it a done deal, then?”

“Yes. Now what can you offer me in return?”

“When Antonius was in Antioch, still in the last stages of his recovery from wine, he made his will. Whether it remains his last, I don’t know, but Titius and I witnessed it. I believe he took it off to Alexandria with him when he went—Sosius presented it in Rome, at any rate.”

Octavian frowned. “What has Antonius’s will to do with it?”

“Everything,” said Plancus simply.

“Not an adequate answer. Expatiate.”

“He was in a good mood when we witnessed it, and passed a few remarks that made both Titius and me think it was a highly suspect document. Treasonous, in fact, if a document not seen until after its author’s death can be held treasonous. Antonius clearly didn’t think posthumous treason exists, hence his unguarded comments.”

“Be more specific, Plancus, please!”

“I can’t. Antonius was too obscure. But Titius and I think it would profit you to take a look at Antonius’s will.”

“How can I do that? A man’s will is sacrosanct.”

“That’s your problem, Caesar.”

“Can’t you tell me anything about its contents? Exactly what remarks did he make?”

Already standing, Plancus twitched folds of toga into place, apparently absorbed. “We really ought to design a garment more suitable for sitting in than the toga…. How he loved Alexandria and That Woman…. Yes, togas are a nuisance…. How her son ought to have his rights…. Oh, bother! There’s a mark on it!” And out he sailed, still primping.

Not so treasonous, then. Except that Plancus had genuinely seemed to think Antony’s will would help him. Since any suffect consulship for Titius was many months into the future, Plancus would surely have known that, if he dangled a false bait under Octavian’s nose, Titius would never sit on the curule dais. But how to gain access to Antony’s will?
How?

“I remember that Divus Julius told me the Vestals held over two million wills—upstairs, downstairs, part of the basement,” he said to Livia Drusilla, the only one to whom he could confide such incendiary news. “They have a system. Wills from provinces and foreign countries in one area, Italian wills in another, and Roman wills somewhere else. But Divus Julius didn’t elaborate on the system, and at the time I wasn’t to know how important the subject would become, so I didn’t push him to elaborate. Stupid, stupid!” He thumped a fist on his knee.

“Don’t worry, Caesar, you’ll attain your ends.” Livia Drusilla’s large, stripey navy-blue eyes turned contemplative; she sat thinking, then chuckled. “You might begin by doing something nice for Octavia,” she said then, “and since I am a notoriously jealous wife, you will have to do it for me too.”

“You, jealous of Octavia?” he asked incredulously.

“But people outside our intimate circle of friends aren’t to know how matters stand between Octavia and me, are they? All Rome is indignant over the divorce—silly man! He ought never to have evicted her and the children, it damages him more than all your canards about Cleopatra’s influence over him.” The beautiful face took on a soft, dreamy expression. “It would be splendid if your agents could tell the people of Rome and Italia how much you love your sister and your wife, with what tender consideration you regard them. I am sure that if you were to let Lepidus take up residence in the Domus Publica, Lepidus would be so grateful that he would propose a tiny honor for Octavia and me as a thank-you.”

He was staring at her with that dazzled air she could provoke when the subtlety of her mind outstripped his. “I wish I knew where you’re going, my dearest one, but I don’t.”

“Think of the hundreds of statues of Octavia you’ve erected throughout Rome and Italia, and the statues of me that have joined them. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a line could be added to their inscriptions? Some stunning new honor?”

“I’m still in the dark.”

“Persuade Lepidus Pontifex Maximus to award Octavia and me the status of Vestal Virgins in perpetuity.”

“But you’re not Vestals! Or virgins, for that matter!”

“Honorary, Caesar,
honorary
! Announce it with fanfares of trumpets in the marketplaces from Mediolanum and Aquileia to Rhegium and Tarentum! Your sister and your wife are exemplary beyond description, so much so that their marital chastity and conduct put them in the same league as the Vestals.”

“Go on!” he said eagerly.

“Our Vestal Virgin status will permit us to come and go in the Vestal side of the Domus Publica at—pardon my pun—will. There’s no need to involve Octavia if I have that privilege too, because I can find out for you exactly where Antonius’s will is stored. Appuleia won’t suspect my motives—why should she? Her mother is your half sister, she dines with us regularly, she likes me very much. I can’t steal the will for you, but if I find out where it is, you can lay your hands on it quickly.”

His hug left her crushed and breathless, but she didn’t mind being crushed and breathless. Nothing pleased Livia Drusilla more than being able to suggest a course of action that Caesar had not thought of for himself.

“Livia Drusilla, you’re brilliant!” he cried, releasing her.

“I know,” she said, giving him a little push. “Now start the business, my love! It’s going to take a few
nundinae
, and we can’t afford to wait too long.”

The heartache of losing his triumviral status wasn’t nearly as painful to Lepidus as his exile from the city of Rome, so when he had a visit from Octavian and heard what he had to do in order to move back into the Domus Publica, he agreed without hesitation to elevate Octavia and Livia Drusilla to Vestal Virgin rank. This was not a hollow honor. It endowed both women with sacrosanctity and inviolability; they could walk anywhere without threat, as no man, be he the lowest and most predatory, would dare to touch a Vestal Virgin. If he did, he was doomed for all eternity—he would be
sacer
—unholy, stripped of his citizenship, flogged, and beheaded, and all his property down to the meanest pottery beaker would be confiscated. His wife and children would starve.

All Rome and Italia rejoiced; if their approval was more on Octavia’s behalf than on Livia Drusilla’s, the latter lady did not care a rush. Instead, she invited herself to dinner in the Vestals’ dining room to meet her fellow priestesses.

Appuleia the Chief Vestal was a cousin of Octavian’s, and knew Livia Drusilla well, starting with the time when, young and pregnant, she had been sheltered in the Atrium Vestae before her marriage to Octavian.

“An omen,” Appuleia said to her as the seven settled to eat on chairs around a table. “I was so worried, I can confess that now. Oh, the relief when your stay didn’t have any religious consequences! It was an omen of this, I’m sure.”

Not a clever woman, Appuleia, yet the terrific reverence in which she was held had molded her into much of what was expected from a Chief Vestal. She was clad in pure white, a long-sleeved dress overlaid with a tunic slit up each side, the
bulla
medal on a chain around her neck, her hair hidden by a crown of seven rolled coils of wool atop each other, and the whole rounded off by a veil so fine it floated. She ruled her little flock with a rod of iron, mindful of the fact that Vestal chastity was Rome’s luck. From time to time a man (like Publius Clodius) had impugned some Vestal’s chastity and brought her to trial, but that wasn’t going to occur under the reign of Appuleia!

All the Vestals were seated around the table, liberally loaded with tasty food and a flagon of sparkling white wine from Alba Fucentia. The two underage Vestals drank water from the well of Juturna, whereas the other three, clad like Appuleia, were at liberty to partake of the wine. Livia Drusilla, the seventh, had not presumed to clothe herself as a Vestal, though she did wear white.

“My husband has spoken a little of your testamentary industry,” Livia Drusilla said when the children had gone, “but only in a vague way. Might it be possible for me to tour sometime?”

Appuleia’s face lit up. “Of course! Anytime.”

“Ah—now?”

“If you wish, certainly.”

So Livia Drusilla undertook the tour Divus Julius had made when he assumed the title of Pontifex Maximus, was shown the many racks of vellum upon which the details of a will were entered, led upstairs to see the staggering number of pigeonholes, downstairs to the basement, and through the storage facilities on the ground floor. It was fascinating, especially to a woman like this one, so meticulous and organized herself.

“Do you have a special area for senators?” she asked after much marveling as she walked around.

“Oh, yes. They’re here, on this floor.”

“And if they’ve been consuls, do you distinguish them from mere senators?”

“Of course.”

Livia Drusilla managed to look both coy and conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to show me my husband’s will,” she said, “but I would dearly love to see one of equal status. Where, for instance, is the will of Marcus Antonius?”

“Oh, he’s in a special place,” Appuleia answered at once, no suspicion crossing her mind. “Consul and Triumvir, but not really a part of Rome. He’s here, all by himself.”

She took Livia Drusilla over to a rack of pigeonholes beyond the screen which fenced off the lodgement office from strictly Vestal territory, and without hesitation withdrew a hefty scroll from a shelf it alone occupied. “There you are,” she said, handing Livia Drusilla the document.

Octavian’s wife balanced it experimentally, turned it over to look at the red seal: Hercules, IMP. M. ANT. TRI. Yes, this was Antony’s will. She gave it back immediately, laughing.

“He must have many bequests,” she said.

“All the great ones do. The shortest one of all was Divus Julius’s—such sagacity, such crispness!”

“Do you get to read them, then?”

Appuleia looked horrified. “No, no! Naturally we see a will after its author is dead, when his or her executor comes to take it. The executor must open it in our presence because we have to put V.V. at the end of each clause. That way, it cannot be added to after it leaves us.”

“Brilliant!” said Livia Drusilla. She pecked Appuleia on the cheek and squeezed her hand. “I must go, but one last, most important question—is any will ever opened before its author dies, my dear?”

Another look of horror. “No, never! That would be to break our vows, and that we’d never do.”

Back to the
domus Livia Drusilla,
where Livia Drusilla found her husband in his study. One glance at her face, and he sent his scribes and clerks out.

“Well?” he asked.

“I held Antonius’s will in my hand,” she said, “and I can tell you exactly where it’s stored.”

“So we’re that much ahead. Do you think Appuleia would let me open it?”

“Not even if you convicted her of unchastity and buried her under the ground with a jug of water and a loaf of bread. I’m afraid you’ll have to wrest it from her—and the others.”

“
Cacat!
”

“I suggest that you take your Germans to the Atrium Vestae in the middle of the night, Caesar, and cordon off the whole area outside its lodgement doors. It will have to be soon, because I was told that Lepidus will be taking up residence in the Pontifex Maximus’s side of the Domus Publica very shortly. There’s bound to be a racket, and you don’t want Lepidus rushing over from his side to see what’s amiss. Tomorrow night, no later.”

Octavian had to do a lot of pounding on the doors before a frightened face opened one a crack, and peered around it; the housekeeper. Two Germans thrust the woman away and ushered their master in amid a blaze of torches as other Germans followed him.

“Good!” Octavian said to Arminius. “With any luck, I’ll get it before the Vestals appear. They’ll have to dress.”

He almost made it.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Appuleia demanded from the door that led back into the Vestals’ private apartments.

Antony’s will in his hand, Octavian propped. “I’m confiscating a treasonous document,” he said loftily.

“Treasonous, my foot!” the Chief Vestal snapped, striding to impede his exit. “Give that back, Caesar Octavianus!”

For answer, he passed it over his head to Arminius, so tall that, when he held it high, Appuleia couldn’t reach it.

“You are
sacer!
” she gasped as three more Vestals entered.

“Nonsense! I’m a consular doing my duty.”

Appuleia produced a chilling scream. “Help, help, help!”

“Shut her up, Cornel,” Octavian said to another German.

When the three other Vestals commenced screaming, they too were held and silenced by Germans.

Octavian gazed at the four in that flickering glare of light, his eyes as coldly luminous as a black leopard’s. “I am removing this will from your custody,” he said, “and there’s nothing you can do to prevent me. For your own safety, I suggest that you say no word of what’s happened here to anybody. If you do, I cannot answer for my Germans, who have no reverence for Vestals, and love to deflower virgins of any sort.
Tacete
, ladies. I mean it.”