The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,99

would have been obliterated like one of Sulla’s proscriptions. Now that I am old and safe in this island refuge, and most of those I cared for have gone ahead of me to their rest, it is time for me to set it down. There will be little good to come from the telling even now, save for its release from my bosom, and the faintest hope that some day both Gaius Julius Caesar and Marcus Licinius Crassus will be seen in a light more clear than that which shines upon them now.

***

“Marcus. Sorry, I tried to wait up for you.” Tertulla stretched and rolled over to face the doorway. “The rain – it’s like a drug. And so much wine ...”

It was very dark. The wick in the bronze lamp on the chest across from the bed guttered, its oil almost spent. The single window that opened onto the peristyle was shuttered against the downpour and drapes were pulled in front of them. She could not make out the face of the man in the doorway, but she knew immediately that it was not Marcus. Whoever it was had pulled the portiere partially aside and was now standing just inside the room. He casually unclasped his cloak and threw it in the corner.

“Who are you? Where’s my husband?” Tertulla scrambled from the bed and pulled the coverlet around her.

“Oh, he’s still contemplating the fact that I am going to make him even more rich and powerful than he already is.”

“Caesar.” Her voice was flat, but her heart began pounding like the ramming rhythm of an attacking trireme. What was this satyr doing in their bedchamber, with her husband only steps away? The infamous philanderer. Even his soldiers sang of it in the streets.

“You don’t seem pleased.”

“I am not pleased. You must go.” In a louder voice she called, “Esther?” Cicero had said that Caesar had been at the root of Pompeius’ divorce from Mucia. She hadn’t believed it, of course, for why would he risk political suicide for a moment’s dalliance?

“Shhh. Lower your voice,” he said in a mock whisper. “You don’t want a scandal, do you? Don’t worry about the famula in the hall - I sent her off to more comfortable quarters.” As he spoke, he walked slowly toward the end of the lectus.

“What do you want?” Tertulla took a step backward, wondering if she could get past him to the door. Her mind fled back six years when he and Pompeia had visited the villa at Baiae. She had left no room for misunderstanding, and he and his soon-to-be-divorced wife had departed shortly thereafter. Since then, she had kept out of his way, feigning illness or some other excuse whenever Marcus wanted to socialize. She had seen Caesar maybe half a dozen times in as many years.

Now he was in her room in the middle of the night. Whatever lie he was about to tell her to explain this inappropriate intrusion, she knew the truth behind it. No honorable Roman would invade a matron’s privacy thus. She was stunned by his audacity. Would he attempt to seduce her with her husband close by and liable to return any second? Was he mad? Unless he knew there was little risk of that. Suddenly, she became truly afraid.

“Frankly, I need your help. I want to talk to you.”

“That’s fine, Julius. Let’s talk in the morning.” Tertulla could not keep the waver of fear out of her voice. She must think. He was right about creating a scandal. Even though it was common knowledge how much she and Crassus cared for each other, tongues would wag, and humiliation and disgrace would follow. Yet Caesar must know that he could never come between them. What truly worried her was how closely her husband’s fortunes now depended on the general’s success. Their fates were now interwoven beyond unraveling. Crassus promoted Caesar’s scheming in the senate, he had loaned him millions to stage huge entertainments for the plebs, and of course there was that business with Cataline. If Caesar fell, it would be almost impossible for Crassus to avoid being pulled down with him. She had warned him of the risk, but he had persisted. For better or worse, they were now tied to the proconsul’s ambition. And should the alliance end badly, with the two of them as enemies, her husband could very well be destroyed. Marcus might think he was a match for Caesar, but as much as she loved