"I have often wondered," Julius said, "what would have happened to our country had my father been less impetuous and had managed to prevail over my friend Octavius Caesar."
"Octavius," I said, "is my father."
"Yes," Julius said. "And he is my friend."
"There are those," I said, "who would have preferred such a victory over him."
Julius turned to me and smiled. In the starlight, I could see the heavy head and the delicate features. He did not resemble the busts of his father that I had seen.
"They are wrong," he said. "Marcus Antonius had the inherent weakness of trusting too much the mere presence of himself. He would have erred, and he would have fallen, sooner or later. He did not have the tenacity that the Emperor has."
"You seem to admire my father," I said.
"I admire him more than I do Marcus Antonius," he said.
"Even though-" I said, and paused.
He smiled again. "Yes. Even though Octavius had my father and my elder brother put to death… Antyllus was very much like Marcus Antonius. I believe Octavius saw that, and he did what was necessary. I was never fond of Antyllus, you know."
I believed I shivered, though the night was not cool.
"If you had been a few years older…"I said.
"It is quite likely that he would have put me to death also," Julius said quietly. "It would have been the necessary thing to do."
And then Marcella said petulantly and somewhat sleepily, "Oh, let's not talk of unpleasant things."
Julius turned to her. "We are not, my dear wife. We are talking of the world, and of the things that have happened in it."
Two weeks later^ we became lovers.
We became lovers in a way that I could not have foreseen. I believe I determined that evening that we should become lovers, and I foresaw nothing in my conquest of Julius Antonius that I had not seen before. Though I was fond of his wife, who was also my cousin, I knew her to be a trivial woman, as tiresome as I have found most women to be; and Julius I took to be a man like all men-as eager for the power of conquest as for the pleasure of love.
To one who has not become adept at the game, the steps of a seduction may appear ludicrous; but they are no more so than the steps of a dance. The dancers dance, and their skill is their pleasure. All is ordained, from the first exchange of glances until the final coupling. And the mutual pretense of both participants is an important part of the elaborate game-each pretends helplessness beneath the weight of passion, and each advance and withdrawal, each consent and refusal, is necessary to the successful consummation of the game. And yet the woman in such a game is always the victor; and I believe she must have a little contempt for her antagonist; for he is conquered and used, as he believes that he is conqueror and user. There have been times in my life when, out of boredom, I have abandoned the game, and have attacked frontally, as a conquering soldier might attack a villager; and always the man, however sophisticated, and however he might dissemble, was extraordinarily shocked. The end was the same, but the victory was, for me, never quite complete; for I had no secret to hide from him and, therefore, no power over his person.
And so I planned the seduction of Julius Antonius as carefully as a centurion might plan an advance upon the flank of an enemy, though in the ritual of this encounter, I thought, the enemy always wishes to be conquered. I gave him glances, and looked away hurriedly; I brushed against him, and drew away as if in confusion; and at last, one evening, I managed to arrange for us to be alone together at my house.
I languished on my couch; I said words that invited the hearer to offer comfort; I let my dress fall away from my legs a little, as if in distracted carelessness. Julius Antonius moved across the room and sat beside me. I pretended confusion, and let my breath come a little faster. I waited for the touch, and prepared a little speech about how fond I was of Marcella.
"My dear Julia," Julius said, "however attractive I find you, I must tell you at once that I do not intend to become another stallion in your stable of horses."
I believe that I was so startled that I sat upright on my couch. I must have been startled, for I said the most banal thing I can imagine: "What do you mean?"
Julius smiled. "Sempronius Gracchus. Quinctius Crispinus. Appius Pulcher. Cornelius Scipio. Your stable."
"They are my friends," I said.
"They are my associates," Julius said, "and they have been of service to me from time to time. But they are horses I would not run with. And they are unworthy of you."
"You are as disapproving," I said, "as my father."
"Do you hate your father so much, then, that you will not attend him?"
"No," I said quickly. "No. I do not hate him."
Then Julius looked at me intently. His eyes were dark, almost black; my father's were a pale blue; but Julius's eyes had that same intense and searching light, as if something were burning behind them.
He said: "If we become lovers, we shall do so in my own time and at terms more advantageous to us both."
And he touched me on the cheek, and he rose, and he left my room.
I sat where he left me for a long while, and I did not move.
I cannot remember my emotions at being so refused; it had not happened to me before. I must have been angry; and yet I believe that there must have been a part of me that was relieved, and grateful. I had, I suppose, begun to be bored.
For the next several days, I saw none of my friends. I refused invitations to parties, and once when Sempronius Gracchus called upon me unexpectedly, I had my maidservant, Phoebe, tell him that I was ill, and was receiving no visitors. And I did not see Julius Antonius-whether out of shame or anger, I did not know.
I did not see him for nearly two weeks. Then, late one afternoon, after a leisurely bath, I called for Phoebe to bring my oils and fresh clothing. She did not answer. I drew a large towel about me, and stepped into the courtyard. It was deserted. I called again. After a moment, I crossed the courtyard and entered my bedroom.
Julius Antonius stood in the room, his tunic bright in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the window, his face dark in the dimness above that light. For several moments neither of us moved. I shut the door behind me, and came a little into the room. Still Julius did not speak.
Then, very slowly, he came toward me. He took the large towel that I had wrapped around me and slowly unwound it from my body. Very gently he toweled my body dry, as if he were a slave of the bath. Still I did not move, or speak.
Then he moved back from me, and looked at me where I stood, as if I were a statue. I believe I was trembling. Then he stepped forward, and touched me with his hands.
Before that afternoon, I had not known the pleasures of love, though I thought I had. And in the months that came that pleasure fed upon itself, and multiplied; and I came to know the flesh of Julius Antonius as I had known nothing else in my life.
Even now, after these many years, I can taste the bitter sweetness of that body, and feel beneath me the firm warmth. It is odd that I can do so, for I know that the flesh of Julius Antonius now is smoke, and is dispersed into the air. That body is no more, and my body remains upon this earth. It is odd to know that.
No other man has touched me since that afternoon. No man shall touch me for as long as I shall live.
V. Letter: Paullus Fabius Maximus to Octavius Caesar (2 B. c.)
I do not know whether I write you now as a consular of Rome who is your friend, or as your friend who is consular. But write you I must, though we see each other almost daily; for I cannot bring myself to speak to you of this matter, and I cannot put what I have to say in one of the official reports that I give you regularly.