The Woman of Andros and The Ides of March (15 page)

First, do listen to an old old friend’s advice: don’t go to that woman’s house. One can go on saying for years that one doesn’t listen to gossip, that the absent cannot defend themselves from slander, etc., etc.; but, after all, isn’t the provocation of so much gossip an offense in itself? I personally don’t believe that she poisoned her husband or that she has had improper relations with her brothers, but thousands do believe it. My grandson tells me that songs about her are sung in all the garrisons and taverns and verses about her are scribbled over all the Baths. There’s a nickname for her in everyone’s mouth which I won’t venture to put down here.

Really, the worst thing one
knows
about her is the influence she has over that whole Palatine set. It was she who began this business of dressing up as one of the people and mingling with the lowest elements of the city. She takes her friends out to the gladiators’ taverns and drinks all night with them, and dances for them, and I leave the rest to your imagination. She makes up picnic parties, Julia, and goes to the taverns out in the country among the herdsmen and the military posts out there. These are
facts.
One of the results of this anyone can see: it’s the effect on the language; it’s now smart to talk pure
pleb.
And there’s no doubt that she and she alone is responsible. Her position in society, her birth, her wealth, her beauty, and – for one must confess it – her fascination and intelligence have led society right down into the mud.

But at last she is frightened. And she has asked you to dinner because she is frightened.

Now listen: a very serious thing is brewing and one which will finally fall upon your shoulders for a decision.

[
In the following paragraphs a number of substitute expressions are employed: The Ox-eyed
(
in Greek
)
is Clodia; The Wild Boar is her brother, Clodius Pulcher; The Quail
(
a soubriquet conferred upon her by the ladies long before her marriage
)
is Pompeia, Caesar’s wife; The Thessalian
(
short for the Witch of Thessaly
)
is Servilia, the mother of Marcus Junius Brutus; and The Tapestry Class is both the Mysteries of the Good Goddess and the committee that directed their celebration. The Weathermaker is, of course, Caesar.
]

Abandoned though this woman is, I don’t believe in debarring her from
certain reunions;
but there’s no doubt that her disbarment is going to be proposed. She and
The Quail
were present at the last meeting of the Executive Council which took place just before she went south to Baiae. They asked the Chair –
The Thessalian
was sitting in your chair – to excuse them and they left early; and the minute they were gone groups all over the hall began talking about her. Aemilia Cimber said that if
The Ox-eyed
stood anywhere near her during
The Tapestry Class
she would strike her in the face. Fulvia Manso said that she would not strike her during the rites, but that she would leave at once and submit a complaint to the Supreme Pontiff. And
The Thessalian,
who being in the Chair should not have given any opinion at all, said that the first thing to do was to lay the matter before you and the President of the College of the Vestal Virgins.
Her
indignant tone, I must say, struck me as slightly comical, for we all know that she has not always been as dignified as she now pretends to be.

So there you are! I don’t think that you or your nephew would ever let her be disbarred, but what an idea! And what a scandal! You know, I don’t think even these older women realise any more what a
scandal
is. Last night I suddenly realised that within my memory there have been only three disbarments and in each case the woman immediately killed herself.

And yet, on the other hand, it is a frightful thing to think that
The Tapestry Class,
which is the most beautiful and sacred and wonderful thing, should include a creature like
The Ox-eyed.
Julia, I have never forgotten what your great husband said about it: ‘Those twenty hours during which our women draw together are like a column upholding Rome.’

It’s a great puzzle to all of us: why does
The Weathermaker
(I mean no disrespect, dear, as you know) allow
The Quail
to see so much of her? We are all so surprised by that. Because seeing
The Ox-eyed
inevitably entails seeing
The Wild Boar,
and no woman of principles could ever possibly want to see
The Wild Boar.

But let us change the subject.

I received a great honour yesterday which I must tell you about.
He
singled me out to talk to me.

I went, of course, with all Rome to call on Cato on the day commemorating his great ancestor. Thousands filled the streets near the house, trumpeters, flute players, priests. Inside the house the Dictator’s chair had been set up and, of course, everyone was agog. At last he came. And you know, my dear, how unpredictable he is! As my nephew says: he’s formal when you expect him to be informal, and informal when you expect him to be formal. He came walking through the Forum and up the hill without the sign of a retinue, just strolling between Marc Antony and Octavius. I tremble for him because it
is
dangerous; but that’s one of the things that the people really worship him for; that’s
Old Rome,
and you must have been able to hear the shouting from your own farm! He came into the house, bowing and smiling, and went right up to Cato and his family. Now you could hear an ant walk. Well, it’s no news to you that your nephew is a perfection. We could hear every word he said. First the gravity and the deference; even Cato was weeping and held his head very low. Then Caesar gradually became more informal; he included the family, and then he became very playful and
very funny
and soon the whole hall was laughing.

Cato answered well, but very briefly. All the agonising political differences seem to have been forgotten. Caesar accepted one of the cakes that were being passed around and then began addressing one bystander and then another. He refused to sit in the Dictator’s chair, but everything he does is so charming that it didn’t seem to be a slight on the house. And then, my dear, he espied
me,
and asking a servant for a chair he sat down beside me. You can
imagine
my state.

Has he ever forgotten a fact or a name? He remembered having spent four days with us at Anzio twenty years ago, all my relatives and all the guests. He very delicately warned me about my grandson’s political activities (but
what,
my dear, can I do about that!). Then he began asking me my opinion of the monthly Commemoration of the Founding of the City. Apparently he had remarked my presence – think of it, at half a mile distance and while he was marching up and down in that complicated ritual! What portions did I find most impressive, which passages were too long or too obscure for the people? Then he got onto religion itself, the auspices and the lucky and unlucky days.

Dear, he is the most charming man in the world, but also – I have to say it – isn’t he
frightening?
He listens with such total attention to every little thing one struggles to say. And those great eyes are so flattering, flattering and frightening. They seem to say: ‘You and I are the only really sincere people here; we say what we really mean; we tell the truth.’ I hope I wasn’t a complete goose; but I wish someone had warned me that the Supreme Pontiff was going to ask me how, what, where, and when I think about religion, because that is what it finally came to. At last he took his leave and we could all go home. And I went straight to bed.

I ask you in a whisper, Julia: what
must
it be like to be his wife?

You asked me about Lucius Mamilius Turrinus.

Like you, I suddenly realised that I didn’t know a thing about him. I assumed that he had died or that he had sufficiently recovered to hold some post in the remoter parts of the Republic. Now in search of information of this kind I have found out that the best thing to do is to ask one of our old trusted servants. They constitute a sort of secret society; they know everything about us; and they’re proud of all they know. So I consulted our old freedman Rufus Tela, and, sure enough, here are the facts:

In the second battle with the Belgians, at the time that Caesar was almost caught, the enemy captured Turrinus. He had been gone thirty hours before Caesar realised that he was missing. Then, my dear, your nephew hurled a regiment at the enemy’s encampment. The regiment was almost annihilated, but it brought back Turrinus
in a pitiable state.
The enemy, in order to extract information from him, was progressively cutting off his limbs and depriving him of his senses. They had cut off an arm and a leg, perhaps more, put out his eyes, cropped his ears, and were about to burst his eardrums. Caesar saw that he received all possible care and since then he has been surrounded, by his own wish, with all possible secrecy. Rufus seems to know, though, that he lives in a beautiful villa on Capri, absolutely walled off. Of course, he’s still very rich and has a large household of secretaries, attendants, and all that.

Isn’t that a simply
heart-rending
story? Can’t life be simply
horrifying?
I remember him so well – handsome, rich, capable, obviously destined for the highest places in the state, and so charming. He almost married my Aurunculeia, but his father and all those Mamiliuses were too conservative for me, to say nothing of my husband. Apparently, he is still interested in politics and history and literature. He has an agent here in Rome who sends him all the news and books and gossip, but no one knows who the agent is. He seems to wish to be forgotten by all except a few close friends. Of course, I asked Rufus who goes to see him. Rufus said that he receives almost no one; that the actress Cytheris occasionally goes and reads to him, and that once a year, in the spring, the Dictator goes and stays a few days, but apparently never mentions his visits to anyone.

Rufus, who is pure gold, begged me not to repeat any of this to anyone but you. He’s a very remarkable old African and seems to respect something in the invalid’s wish to be forgotten. I’m going to do as he wishes and I know you will. I’m
horrified
by the length of this letter.

Come as soon as you can.

Clodia, at Capua, to her brother Publius Clodius Pulcher in Rome.

[
September 8
.]

[
From the villa of Quintus Lentulus Spinther and his wife Cassia.
]

Brainless:

S. T. E. Q. V. M. E. [
Clodia ironically employs an epistolary convention of the day meaning ‘If you and your army are enjoying good health, it is well’; by changing two letters she says ‘If you and your riffraff are well, it is bad.’
]

Plucked again. [
Caesar’s secret police had again gained access to a letter passing between them. The brother and sister arranged, however, that innocuous letters were carried in superficial concealment by their messengers as a screen for their real letters which were more thoroughly concealed.
]

Your letter was insane nonsense. You say:
They will not live forever.
How do you know? Neither he nor you nor anyone else knows how long he will live. You should make your plans as though he were to die tomorrow or live thirty years more. Only children, political orators, and poets talk of the future as though it were a thing one could know; fortunately for us we know nothing about it. You say:
There have been convulsions weekly.
[
Caesar’s attacks of epilepsy.
] I tell you you are wrong and you know my source of information. [
Caesar’s wife’s maid, Abra, had been recommended to that position by Clodia and was paid by Clodia to keep her informed of all that passed in Caesar’s house.
] You say:
Under this Cyclops there is nothing we can do.
Listen, you are no longer a boy. You are forty. When will you learn not to wait for chance but to build on what you have and to use each day to consolidate your position? Why have you never been anything more than Tribune?
Because your plans always begin with next month.
The gulf between today and next month you always try to overleap by the use of violence and your troops of bullies.
Ship’s-Snout
[
in Greek: this is Caesar
] rules the world and will continue to rule it for one day or for thirty years. You have no career, you are nothing, unless you accept that fact and work in and around it. And I tell you solemnly, any attempt to work
against it
would lead to your destruction.

You must regain your old favour with him. Never let him forget that you were once of powerful assistance to him. I know you hate him; that is of no importance. Hate and love have nothing to do with anything, as he knows well. Where would he have got, if he had
hated
Pompey?

Watch him, Brainless. You could learn a great deal.

You know his weak side: that indifference, that
absence
which people call his magnanimity. I’ll wager that he really likes you, because he likes what is spontaneous and uncomplicated, and that he’s practically forgotten that you were an idiotic trouble maker. And I’ll wager that he was secretly amused that for twenty years you kept Cicero trembling like a field mouse.

Watch him. You might begin by imitating his diligence. I believe it when they tell me that he writes seventy letters and documents a day. They fall over Italy like snow, every day – what am I saying, they fall over the world from Britain to Lebanon. Even at the Senate, even at dinner parties there’s a secretary behind him; the very second that the idea of a letter occurs to him he turns and dictates it in a whisper. One moment he’s telling a village in Belgium that it can change its name to his and he sends them a flute for the town band, the next moment he’s thought out a way of harmonising the Jewish dowry laws with Roman usage. He gave a water clock to a city in Algeria and wrote a fascinating letter
in the Arab mode.
Work, Publius, work.