The Grass Crown (87 page)

“Mama! Not—”

Aelia managed a laugh. “No, no, of course I wouldn’t do that, Cornelia! You’d be haunted by it for the rest of your life! I so much want you to have a wonderful life, dearest girl of mine.” She sat up straighter, looked purposeful. “I’m going to your grandmother Marcia, at Cumae.”

“Grandmother? Oh no, she’s such a stick!”

“Nonsense! I stayed with her for three months last summer, and I had a most pleasant time. She writes to me often these days, mostly because she’s lonely, Cornelia. At sixty-seven, she’s afraid of being completely abandoned. It is a terrible fate to have no one there but slaves when you die. Sextus Julius didn’t visit her often, yet when he died she felt it keenly. I don’t think Gaius Julius has seen her in four or five years, and she doesn’t get on with Aurelia or Claudia. Or her grandchildren.”

“That’s what I mean, Mama. She’s so crotchety and hard to please. I know! She looked after us until you came.”

“As a matter of fact, she and I get along together very well. We always did. And we were friends long before I married your father. It was she who recommended me to your father as a suitable wife. So she owes me a favor. If I go to live with her, I will be wanted, I will have a useful job to do, and I will be under no sort of obligation to her. Once I’m over the shock of this divorce, I think I’ll enjoy both the life and her company,” said Aelia firmly.

This perfect solution plucked out of what had seemed to be an empty bag was received with genuine gratitude by the consul Pompeius Rufus and his family. Though no member of his family would have denied Aelia a permanent home, they could now offer her a temporary one with honest pleasure.

“I don’t understand Lucius Cornelius!” said the consul Pompeius Rufus to Aelia a day later. “When I saw him I tried to bring the matter of this divorce up, if only to explain why it was that I am sheltering you. And he—he turned on me with such a look on his face! I dried up! I tell you, I dried up. Terrible! I thought I knew him. The trouble is, I must continue to like him for the sake of our joint office. We promised the electors we’d work together in close harmony, and I can’t go back on that promise.”

“Of course you can’t,” said Aelia warmly. “Quintus Pompeius, it has never been my intention to turn you against Lucius Cornelius, believe me! What happens between husband and wife is a very private thing, and to all outside eyes it must seem inexplicable when a marriage terminates for no apparent reason. There are always reasons, and usually they’re adequate. Who knows? Lucius Cornelius might genuinely wish for other children. His only son is dead, he has no heir. And he really doesn’t have much money, you know, so I understand the dowry. I will be all right. If you could arrange to have someone carry this letter to Cumae for me and wait for a reply from Marcia, we’ll know very soon what arrangements I can make.”

Quintus Pompeius looked at the ground, face redder than his hair. “Lucius Cornelius has sent round your clothes and belongings, Aelia. I am very sorry.”

“Well, that’s good news!” said Aelia, maintaining her calm. “I was beginning to think he’d thrown them away.”

“All of Rome is talking.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “About what?”

“This divorce. His cruelty to you. It isn’t being received well.” Quintus Pompeius Rufus cleared his throat. “You happen to be one of the most liked and respected women in Rome. The story is everywhere, including your penniless state. In the Forum this morning he was booed and hissed.”

“Oh, poor Lucius Cornelius!” she said sadly. “He would have hated that.”

“If he did, he didn’t show it. He just walked on as if nothing was happening.” Quintus Pompeius sighed. “Why, Aelia? Why?” He shook his head. “After so many years, it doesn’t make sense! If he wanted another son, why didn’t he divorce you after Young Sulla died? that’s three years ago now.”

The answer to Pompeius Rufus’s question came to Aelia’s ears before she received the letter from Marcia bidding her come to Cumae.

This time it was the younger Quintus Pompeius who brought the news home, so out of breath he could hardly speak.

“What is it?” asked Aelia when Cornelia Sulla would not.

“Lucius—Cornelius! He’s married—Scaurus’s widow!”

Cornelia Sulla did not look surprised. “Then he can afford to pay you back your dowry, Mama,” she said, tight-lipped. “She’s as rich as Croesus.”

Young Pompeius Rufus accepted a cup of water, drained it, and began to speak more coherently. “It happened late this morning. No one knew of it except Quintus Metellus Pius and Mamercus Lepidus Livianus. I suppose they had to know! Quintus Metellus Pius is her first cousin, and Mamercus Lepidus Livianus is the executor of Marcus Aemilius Scaurus’s will.”

“Her name! I can’t remember her name!” said Aelia in wonder.

“Caecilia Metella Dalmatica. But everyone just calls her Dalmatica, I was told. They’re saying that years ago—not long after Saturninus died—she was so much in love with Lucius Cornelius that she made a complete fool of herself—and of Marcus Aemilius Scaurus. They say Lucius Cornelius wouldn’t look at her. Then her husband shut her away completely, and no one seems to have seen anything of her since.”

“Oh yes, I remember the incident well,” said Aelia. “I just couldn’t remember her name. Not that Lucius Cornelius ever discussed it with me. But until Marcus Aemilius Scaurus did shut her away, I was not allowed to be out of our house if Lucius Cornelius was at home. He took enormous care that Marcus Aemilius Scaurus should know there was no impropriety on his part.” Aelia sighed. “Not that it made any difference. Marcus Aemilius Scaurus still made sure he lost in the praetorian elections.”

“She’ll have no joy from my father,” said Cornelia Sulla grimly. “No woman ever has had joy from him.”

“Don’t say such things, Cornelia!”

“Oh, Mama, I’m not a child anymore! I have a child of my own! And I know him better than you do because I don’t love him the way you do! I’m blood of his blood—and sometimes that thought makes me so afraid! My father is a monster. And women bring out the worst in him. My real mother committed suicide—and no one will ever convince me that it wasn’t over something my father did to her!”

“You’ll never know, Cornelia, so don’t think about it,” said young Quintus Pompeius sternly.

Aelia looked suddenly surprised. “How odd! If you had asked me whom he might have married, I would have said, Aurelia!”

Cornelia Sulla nodded. “So would I. They’ve always been as chummy as two harpies on a rock. Different feathers. Same birds.” She shrugged, said it. “Birds, nothing! Monsters, both of them.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met Caecilia Metella Dalmatica,” said Aelia, anxious to draw Cornelia Sulla away from dangerous statements, “even when she was following my husband around.”

“Not your husband anymore, Mama! Her husband.”

“Hardly anyone knows her,” said young Pompeius Rufus, also anxious to pacify Cornelia Sulla. “Marcus Scaurus kept her in total isolation after that one indiscretion, innocent though it was. There are two children, a girl and a boy, but no one knows them. Or her. And since Marcus Scaurus died, she’s been more invisible, than ever. that’s why the whole city is buzzing.” He held out his cup for more water. “Today is the first day after her period of mourning. And that’s yet another reason why all of Rome is buzzing.”

“He must love her very much,” said Aelia.

“Rubbish!” said Cornelia Sulla. “He doesn’t love anyone.”

After the white anger in which he had left Aelia standing on the Clivus Victoriae alone, Sulla underwent his usual plummet into black depression during the hours following. Partly to twist the knife in the colossal wound he knew he had inflicted upon the too-nice, too-boring Aelia, he went the next morning to the house of Metellus Pius. His interest in the Widow Scaurus was as old and cold as his mood; what he wanted was to make Aelia suffer. Divorce was not enough. He must find some better way to twist the knife. And what better way than to marry someone else immediately, make it look as if that was why he had divorced her? These women, he thought as he walked to the house of Metellus Pius, they have driven me mad since I was a very young man. Since I gave up selling myself to men because I was stupid enough to think women easier victims. But I have been the victim. Their victim. I killed Nicopolis and Clitumna. And, thank every god there is, Julilla killed herself. But it’s too dangerous to kill Aelia. And divorce isn’t enough. She’s been expecting that for years.

He found the Piglet deeply immersed in conversation with his new quaestor, Mamercus Aemilius Lepidus Livianus. A stroke of truly wonderful luck to find both of them together—but wasn’t he always Fortune’s favorite?

It was quite understandable that Mamercus and the Piglet should be closeted together, yet such was the aura around Sulla in one of his darker moods that the pair of them found themselves greeting him with the nervous agitation of a couple discovered in the act of making love to each other.

Good officers both, they sat down only after he was seated, then stared at him without finding a single thing to say.

“Had your tongues cut out?” asked Sulla.

Metellus Pius jumped, startled. “No, Lucius Cornelius! No! Forgive me, my thoughts were muh-muh-miles away.”

“Yours too, Mamercus?” asked Sulla.

But Mamercus, slow and steady and trusty, discovered a smile buried in his courage. “Actually, yes,” he said.

“Then I’ll give them another direction entirely—and that goes for both of you,” said Sulla with his most feral grin.

They said nothing, just waited.

“I want to marry Caecilia Metella Dalmatica.”

“Jupiter!” squeaked Metellus Pius.

“That’s not very original, Piglet,” said Sulla. He got up, moved to the door of Metellus Pius’s study and looked back, one brow raised. “I want to marry her tomorrow,” he said. “I ask both of you to think about it and let me have your answer by dinnertime. Since I want a son, I’ve divorced my wife for barrenness. But I do not want to replace her with a young and silly girl. I’m too old for adolescent antics. I want a mature woman who has proven her fertility by already having had two children, including a boy. I thought of Dalmatica because she seems—or seemed, years ago—to have a soft spot for me.”

With that he was gone, leaving Metellus Pius and Mamercus looking at each other, jaws hanging.

“Jupiter!” said Metellus Pius again, more feebly.

“It’s certainly a surprise,” said Mamercus, who was far less surprised than the Piglet because he didn’t know Sulla one hundredth as well as the Piglet did.

The Piglet now scratched his head, shook it. “Why her! Except in passing when Marcus Aemilius died, I haven’t thought of Dalmatica in years. She might be my first cousin, but after that business with Lucius Cornelius—how extraordinary!—she was locked up in her house under better security by far than the cells of the Lautumiae.” He stared at Mamercus. “As executor of the will, you must surely have seen her during the last few months.”

“To answer your first question first—why her?—I imagine her money won’t go astray,” said Mamercus. “As for your second question, I’ve seen her several times since Marcus Aemilius died, though not as often as I ought. I was already in the field at the time of his death, but I saw her then because I had to return to Rome to tidy up Marcus Aemilius’s affairs. And if you want an honest opinion, I’d say she wasn’t mourning the old man much at all. She seemed far more concerned with her children. Still, I found that absolutely reasonable. What was the age difference? Forty years?”

“All of that, I think. I remember when she married I felt sorry for her just a little. She was supposed to marry the son, but he suicided. My father gave her to Marcus Aemilius instead.”

“The thing which struck me was her timidity,” said Mamercus. “Or it could be that her confidence is gone. She’s afraid to go out of the house, even though I told her she might. She has no friends at all.”

“How could she have friends? I was quite serious when I said Marcus Aemilius locked her up,” said Metellus Pius.

“After he died,” said Mamercus reflectively, “she was of course alone in his house except for her children and a rather small group of slaves, considering the size of the establishment. But when I suggested this aunt or that cousin as a resident chaperone, she grew very upset. Wouldn’t hear of any of them. In the end I was obliged to hire a Roman couple of good stock and reputation to live with her. She said she understood the conventions had to be observed, especially considering that old indiscretion, but she preferred to live with strangers than relatives. It is pathetic, Quintus Caecilius! How old was she at the time of that indiscretion? Nineteen? And married to a man of sixty!”

The Piglet shrugged. “that’s marital luck, Mamercus. Look at me. Married to the younger daughter of Lucius Crassus Orator, whose older daughter has three sons already. Whereas my Licinia is still childless—and not for the want of trying, believe me! So we think we’ll ask for one of the nephews to adopt.”

Mamercus wrinkled his forehead, looked suddenly inspired. “I suggest you do what Lucius Cornelius wants to do! Divorce Licinia Minor for barrenness, and marry Dalmatica yourself.”

“No, Mamercus, I couldn’t. I’m very fond of my wife,” said the Piglet gruffly.

“Then ought we think seriously about Lucius Cornelius’s offer?”

“Oh, definitely. He’s not a wealthy man, but he has something better, you know. He’s a great man. My cousin Dalmatica has been married to a great man, so she’s accustomed to it. Lucius Cornelius is going to go far, Mamercus. I don’t know why I’m so utterly convinced of it, because I don’t see any way in which he can go much further. But he will! I know he will. He’s not a Marius. Nor is he a Scaurus. Yet I believe he will eclipse them both.”

Mamercus rose to his feet. “Then we’d better go round and see what Dalmatica has to say. There’s no possibility of a marriage tomorrow, however.”

“Why not? She can’t still be in mourning, surely!”

“No. Oddly enough, her mourning period finishes today. Which is why,” said Mamercus, “it would look suspicious if she was to marry tomorrow. In a few weeks, I think.”