The City War Page 9

  “A warning to Caesar?”

  “Not quite. More like . . .” Trebonius sipped thoughtfully. “A warning to him, to guard Caesar well. This attack is coming, but now he knows, and now he’ll be vigilant. Really,” he added, “it’s more just this way.”

  Brutus stared at him. “More just?” he asked.

  “Well.” Trebonius shifted uncomfortably. “It seems that way. But look, Brutus, my point is just this—if Caesar does come after me, or if I disappear, you’ll know he knows. If he does nothing, we’re in the clear with Antonius. Either way, you can still go forward, just . . . more carefully.”

  “Or you could have left Antonius alone.”

  “Late for that advice now,” Trebonius said with a nervous smile.

  Brutus nodded and emptied his glass. “Fine. Go home. If you die tomorrow, I’ll think fondly of you. If you don’t, I’ll have a job for you when we take action.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You’re going to keep Antonius busy.”

  Trebonius gaped at him, then laughed.

  “All right, Brutus,” he said, rising to leave. “You’re a just man. Let the punishment fit the crime. I’ll see myself out. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Did anyone see you come in?”

  “No . . .”

  “Then make sure nobody sees you leaving,” Brutus advised. Trebonius nodded, and Brutus was left alone in the triclinium.

  After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he called, “Tiresias, come out from behind the door.”

  Tiresias shuffled out into the dim lantern light reluctantly, shame etched across his youthful features. One hand was clenching a small knife sheathed at his belt.

  “You heard it all?” Brutus asked.

  “I was worried for Dominus,” Tiresias said in a small voice. His fingers danced along the knife’s hilt, and he let his hand fall.

  “Understandable, perhaps,” Brutus said, eyeing the knife. “You know things have been . . . tense lately.”

  “I thought perhaps it was always like this in the city, until I heard the steward talking.”

  “Tell me what it is you think you know from what you heard.”

  Tiresias drew closer, eyes darting around the room.

  “Come on, boy, you’re the only one here who listens at doors,” Brutus scolded.

  “None of the servants know,” Tiresias began, then shook his head. “Well, they might suspect something, but none know what to suspect. But . . . I hear the talk of Caesar’s power, and sometimes in the street the talk of making him emperor.”

  “What do you think of an emperor for Rome?” Brutus asked.

  “I think it would be no change for Tiresias the steward’s boy,” Tiresias said. “It might be different for Dominus Brutus the Senator. And then, of course, my fate is tied to yours, Dominus.”

  “For good or ill, eh?”

  Tiresias smiled warmly. A stab of affection shot through Brutus, unlooked-for and surprising. “For good. Very much for good. I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done for me.”

  “Well, I appreciate your loyalty,” Brutus said gruffly, looking away.

  “Are you going to kill Caesar, Dominus?” Tiresias asked. He sounded curious more than anything. Brutus didn’t answer.

  He felt a hand on his arm, the fingers rough from work, a callus on the thumb from the stylus. He almost shrugged it off, almost slapped the boy back; it was insolence at best, insult at worst for a servant to touch him unasked. But the smooth palm was warm and the touch reassuring. It seemed no matter what action he took, he had one young man on his side, at least.

  “Yes,” he said finally, turning, leaning until he could rest his head on Tiresias’s shoulder. Tiresias raised his other hand to cradle his head, fingers threading in his hair. “They can say it’s the only choice, they can call me a leader, but I am going to—” He broke off with a sharp inhale, unwilling to say the actual words. “And I don’t know if it’s right.”

  “Dominus could not do wrong,” Tiresias murmured in his ear. “He is good and just and kind. But also tired, I think,” he added lightly, and eased Brutus off the couch, stepping back. “Shall I light the way back to your bed?” He picked the lantern up and held it so it lit the space between them. It caught the shadows of the boy’s cheekbones, the slightly-too-soft curve of his jaw, his wide dark eyes and thick eyebrows, his small mouth. It struck Brutus that he was, above all other things, a beautiful young man. He lost himself, for a little while, in contemplating Tiresias’s smooth skin.

  Tiresias smiled as if he knew all the secrets of the universe, turned lightly on his heel, and led Brutus back to his chamber.

  Brutus put the encounter—both with Trebonius and with the boy—out of his head in the weeks that followed. There was too much to do to worry that Antonius might tell Caesar he was thought ill of, and at any rate Caesar almost certainly knew there were men who were discontented with his actions, whether or not he knew they were slowly uniting. When no harm befell Trebonius, they could only assume Antonius had kept his peace.

  And he didn’t want to worry about Tiresias, or what it meant that he had been so struck by the charms of a servant.

  Still, it seemed fate had somehow intertwined Tiresias and Antonius; the next time Brutus spoke with him, it was on the feast of the Lupercalia, when young high-born men of the cult ran the streets naked, striking women with the skins of sacrificial goats to grant them fertility and easy labor. Marcus Antonius was one of the men running. He was perhaps a little old for it, but he was a priest of the cult and of the right birth, and it had caused a stir of pleased interest among the people. Who was Brutus to object?

  On the morning of the festival, he found Tiresias in a little-used room on the upper floor of the villa, leaning through the window and watching the people gather on the streets below. He had a far-off look on his face, an almost wistful expression, and he was wearing his best tunic.

  “Waiting for the luperci to run past, Tiresias?” Brutus asked, leaning through the window next to him. Tiresias started, then gave him a shy smile. “Marcus Antonius is running this year. They say the women who normally line up to receive the blessing are lining up just to see him run naked through the street.”

  “Well, he’s a handsome man,” Tiresias said, leaning his chin on his hand. “My father knew him in the war. He had no high opinion of him. But he’s all right to look at.”

  Brutus turned to him, resting an elbow on the windowsill. “I’m going down to the Forum to see Caesar greet them at the end of their run and hear his oration. You can come along, if you like.”

  Tiresias glanced at him uncertainly. “You’re not . . . not going to . . .”

  Brutus shook his head. “No, not today. Not on a festival day.” He peered closer. “Would you come with me, if you knew . . .?”

  “Of course,” Tiresias said. “If you asked, I’d do it for you.”

  “You’re hardly grown, Tiresias.”

  “Men my age fight in wars,” Tiresias said with a shrug. “I have lived as I wished to live, if not for very long. I’m not afraid of dying.”

  “You aren’t, are you?” Brutus asked, tilting his head.

  “Are you?”

  “I was, when I was your age. Now I’m only afraid of what’s not known. Which is more than I’d like, at present,” Brutus admitted. “But that’s neither here nor there. My point was that you’ve done well these past few months. The steward praises you. It’s only right a boy should have a treat now and then, and it’s fun to watch the luperci come in.”

  Tiresias’s smile widened. “Dominus is very kind,” he said, turning back to the street. “But I’ll see the run better from here.”

  “Perhaps. Don’t let the steward catch you loitering.”

  “He never comes upstairs if he can help it,” Tiresias said, his voice rising in an imitation of the older man. “His knees aren’t what they once were, you know!”

  Brutus laughed and leaned back from the window. “I’d notic
ed he sends you up more often than he comes himself. Well, enjoy the show. I’ll be back late, probably. Domina is having some friends of hers in after the feasting, so be sure you look sharp once it’s done.”

  “Yes, Dominus,” Tiresias said, and turned back to the street as Brutus left. When he walked out to start on his way to the Forum, he looked up; Tiresias smiled as he caught his eye. Brutus felt the boy’s eyes on him all the way down the road.

  His sense of peace, of contentment and, for the first time in a long time, of safety, lasted only so long as it took Marcus Antonius to complete his run through the streets of Rome. Perhaps a little longer; he watched the luperci arrive in the Forum and saw Caesar embrace them as everyone prepared for one of Caesar’s impressive but concise speeches before the procession and the feast. Brutus sat among the other senators and, as he often did these days, felt awkward and exposed next to Cassius. It seemed like the pair of them shared a secret so big he was sure it must somehow be visible.

  “Do you know the count of our assembly?” Cassius asked in a low voice, leaning in as Caesar approached the rostrum. “Over fifty men support us now. Support you now.”

  “For my sake and that of the gods, Gaius, not here,” Brutus hissed back.

  “The day after tomorrow, dine with me. We must set a date. Cimber and Casca will be there.”

  “Fine,” Brutus replied shortly. “Quiet!”

  Cassius grinned at him. “Yes, Senator.”

  Caesar began to speak, his low bellow carrying well across the open air of the forum.

  It didn’t take long for Cassius to begin talking again. “I was thinking. Perhaps we should go to Gaul instead of Byzantium. We could take a few legions, make some noise. Might take us out of ourselves.”

  Brutus barely heard the words. “What’s Antonius doing?”

  “What?” Cassius asked, following his gaze.

  Antonius hadn’t washed the sacrificial blood off his face or put on real clothing, though he’d tied a length of linen around his waist haphazardly, mostly preserving his dignity. He still had the luperci thong in his left hand, and some other object in his right. He was creeping along the edge of the Forum toward the rostrum, making sure to stay out of Caesar’s line of sight.

  “Oh no,” Cassius breathed as the object in Antonius’s hand caught the light—a twist of wire with laurel branches bound to it and adorned in gold. Not just a crown for a returning general; a crown for an emperor. “Can we stop him?”

  “Not from here,” Brutus said. “What do you want me to do, stand up and—”

  Antonius lifted the crown behind Caesar and let it fall onto his head. Caesar flinched, ducked away, and turned, and then seemed to realize what had happened. There was a smattering of applause, which chilled Brutus to his bones. Caesar shot Antonius a grin, reached up, and took the crown off, setting it aside.

  This time there was nothing polite about the roar of approval from the assembled plebs standing in the Forum. Cassius looked at Brutus, wide-eyed.

  “He’s playing to them,” Brutus said grimly.

  “He refused the crown.”

  “Watch,” Brutus replied, because he knew what was coming. When Caesar was absorbed in his speech once more, Antonius picked up the crown again. Brutus rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as Antonius dropped it on Caesar’s head a second time.

  Caesar took it off—the crowd roared—and said in an oratory whisper that echoed around the Forum, “Take it to the Capitol and crown Jupiter with it. He is more worthy.”

  Antonius took the crown and ran off. The crowd screamed their approval. Caesar bowed, and it was a full count of a hundred before he could continue his speech over the cheering.

  “What just happened?” Cassius asked.

  “Politics,” Brutus said grimly.

  Brutus left the Forum after Caesar’s oration, too unsettled to mask his anger and unwilling for it to be seen as the others paraded to the Capitol. Instead he went home, hurrying through streets mainly empty now that the running had ended. As he strode into the house, he tore off the heavy outer wrapping of his toga, throwing it aside in the vestibulum. Porcia wouldn’t be home for a few hours still, and most of the servants had either gone down to the Forum or were spending the afternoon hiding from any extra work the steward would assign. The steward himself was nowhere to be found; perhaps he was asleep.

  Brutus stormed into the triclinium, anger still mounting inside him, and laced his fingers behind his head, willing the rage to subside. In its place surged a feeling of impotence and anxiety, the kind of restless unease he’d sometimes felt before battle. Caesar had tested the waters, or perhaps Antonius had acted independently. Either way, now the man had made a show of not declaring himself emperor in name when he intended to do just that in action. He had so much popular appeal—the people of Rome were so stupid about their leaders . . .

  A set of clay cups sat on the table in the triclinium, delicate but ordinary drinking vessels, and he didn’t realize he’d fetched one up and hurled it angrily against a wall until he saw it shatter. He slammed a hand down on the table to stop from repeating his action, the other hand rubbing his face.

  “Dominus?” a voice called, and a heartbeat later, Tiresias put his head through the doorway, curious and concerned.

  “It’s fine, Tiresias, I just . . . dropped a cup,” he said, trying to master the shaking in his voice. “Fetch a broom and sweep it up.”

  Tiresias, instead of obeying, took a step into the room, then another. He looked at the mark on the wall where the cup had hit.

  “We didn’t expect you back so soon,” he ventured. “Was the celebration cut short?”

  Brutus gripped the edge of the table. “Only for me,” he muttered.

  Tiresias took another hesitant step forward. “What happened?” he asked softly. Brutus glanced at him, and he smiled. “What’s one more secret for me to keep, Dominus?”

  “Antonius tried to crown Caesar emperor,” Brutus said, letting go of the table. “Caesar declined twice. A very neat bit of political maneuvering. I don’t expect you’d understand—”

  “Why not?” Tiresias tipped his head. “Caesar shows the people he doesn’t intend to rule as royalty. It makes convincing them of the opposite that much harder.”

  Brutus sat on one of the couches and rolled his shoulders. “Well. Perhaps you do understand.”

  “It still doesn’t matter to me,” Tiresias pointed out. “But it concerns me because it matters to you.”

  Brutus felt the hesitant touch again, the hand on his arm, and then Tiresias draped his other arm around Brutus’s neck from behind, leaning over the couch he was sitting on. He let his head fall sideways to rest against Tiresias’s.

  “Is it anger, or fear?” Tiresias asked.

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  Tiresias nodded, bristly hair rubbing against Brutus’s temple. “Caesar is no good for you.”

  “He never was. But it’s not about me, Tiresias. It’s about Rome. This city, this country—it’s my job to protect it.”

  “Why?”

  Brutus sighed. “My ancestor, Lucius. He drove the kings from Italy. He helped put power in the hands of the Senate so the people would have a voice. We’ve profited from that ever since. My family owes it to Rome to protect her. It seems all my life I’ve failed to do so. Pointless wars, futile politics . . . and now I can’t even protect her from Caesar’s greatness and greed.”

  “You would give your life for Rome?” Tiresias asked softly.

  “Gladly.”

  “Then it’s not fear.”

  Brutus huffed. “You should be a philosopher.”

  “Perhaps I will, in time. For now, I’m content to serve you, Dominus.”

  Brutus raised a hand, holding Tiresias’s head against his own. “Why do you have so much faith in me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You earned it.”

  “Why does your faith matter so much to me?”

  Tiresias shrugged
, a mild gesture that barely shifted his body. “Because you earned it?”

  Brutus turned his head sharply, using his hand to turn Tiresias’s as well, until their foreheads were pressed together, one of Tiresias’s arms still around his neck. He moved blindly, lips finding Tiresias’s, skin prickling with awareness of his closeness. For a heartbeat he tensed when Tiresias made a surprised noise, but then Tiresias leaned into the kiss, mouth sliding open, smooth and wet under Brutus’s tongue.

  “The pure love of youth,” Brutus murmured into his mouth.

  “Not so pure,” Tiresias answered, and pulled back. Brutus watched him raise a hand to his lips.

  “Do you lie with men?” Brutus asked.

  “I never have. But then . . .” Tiresias shrugged, gesturing at his body.

  “Would you?”

  “Yes. No.” Tiresias pressed his lips together. “Seducing women made me feel . . . like a man. And pursuing a man would be different—and men do more than shriek and run when they find you aren’t what you look to be.”

  Brutus swallowed. “Would you lie with me?”

  “Dominus has only to ask,” Tiresias breathed, leaning in again, kissing him. Brutus stopped him with a hand in his hair, and Tiresias went still, obedient, almost pliant under his hand.

  “Not here,” Brutus said.

  “The servants are gone. Domina won’t be back until after nightfall.”

  Brutus nodded. “Go to my bedroom. Shutter the windows. Tell whoever is about that I’m not to be disturbed, and then return there.”

  Tiresias lowered his head slightly, a move surely calculated to seduce. “As Dominus wishes,” he said in a low voice, and leaned back from the couch. His hand drifted across Brutus’s thigh as he pulled away, and Brutus caught his wrist.

  “Discreetly,” he said. Tiresias nodded. “Go on.”

  He sat there long enough for Tiresias to have finished shuttering the bedroom, controlling his breathing, calming himself forcibly. The rage and worry had left him in a rush of lust, or perhaps fueled it; he wasn’t in the habit of seducing servants any more than Cassius would allow himself to be seduced within the city walls. They each had their rules.