them.
Love for Fulvia, he thought, looking down at her scornfully, was gone forever. Stupid, stupid cunnus! Wearing the armor and publicly emasculating him.
‘I want you gone from this house by tomorrow,’ he said, her right wrist in his hold, dragging her into a sitting position under Achilles. ‘Let Atticus keep his charity for the deserving. I’ll be writing to him today to tell him that, and he can’t afford to offend me, no matter how much money he has. You’re a disgrace as a wife and a woman, Fulvia! I want nothing more to do with you. I will send you notice of divorce immediately.’
‘But,’ she said, sobbing, ‘I fled without money or property, Marcus! I need money to live!’
‘Apply to your bankers. You’re a rich woman and sui iuris.’ He began yelling for the servants. ‘Clean her up and then kick her out!’ he said to the steward, who was almost fainting in fear. He turned on his heel and was gone.
Fulvia sat against the wall for a long time, hardly conscious of the terrified girls who bathed her face, tried to staunch the bleeding and the tears. Once she had laughed at hearing of this or that woman and her broken heart, believing that no heart could break. Now she knew differently. Marcus Antonius had broken her heart beyond mending.
Word flew around Athens of how Antony had treated his wife, but few who heard had much sympathy for Fulvia, who had done the unforgivable: usurped men’s prerogatives. The tales of her exploits in the Forum when married to Publius Clodius came out for an airing, together with the scenes she created outside the Senate House doors, and her possible collaboration with Clodius when he had profaned the rites of the Bona Dea.
Not that Antony cared what Athens said. He, a Roman man, knew that the city’s Roman men would think no worse of him.
Besides, he was busy writing letters, an arduous task. His first was curt and short, to Titus Pomponius Atticus, informing him that Imperator Marcus Antonius, Triumvir, would thank him if he kept his nose out of Marcus Antonius’s affairs, and have nothing to do with Fulvia. His second was to Fulvia, informing her that she was hereby divorced for unwomanly conduct, and that she was forbidden to see her two sons by him. His third was to Gnaeus Asinius Pollio, asking him what on earth was going on in Italia, and would he kindly keep his legions ready to march south in case he, Marcus Antonius, was denied entry to the country by the Octavianus-loving populace of Brundisium? His fourth was to the ethnarch of Athens, thanking that worthy for his city’s kindness and loyalty to (implied) the right Romans; therefore it pleased Imperator Marcus Antonius, Triumvir, to gift Athens with the island of Aegina and some other minor isles associated with it. That ought to make the Athenians happy, he thought.
He might have written more letters, were it not for the arrival of Tiberius Claudius Nero, who paid him a formal call the moment he had installed his wife and toddling son in good lodgings nearby.
‘Faugh!’ Nero exclaimed, nostrils flaring. ‘Sextus Pompeius is a barbarian! Though what else could one expect from a member of an upstart clan from Picenum? You can have no idea what kind of headquarters he keeps – rats, mice, rotting garbage. I didn’t dare expose my family to the filth and disease, though they weren’t the worst Pompeius had to offer. We hadn’t unpacked our belongings before some of his dandified “admiral” freedmen were sniffing around my wife – I had to chop a slice out of some low fellow’s arm! And would you believe it, Pompeius actually sided with the cur? I told him what I thought, then I put Livia Drusilla and my son on the next ship for Athens.’
Antony listened to this with dreamy memories in his head of how Caesar felt about Nero – ‘inepte’ was the kindest word Caesar could find to describe him. Gaining more from what Nero didn’t say, Antony decided that Nero had arrived at Sextus Pompeius’s lair, strutted around it like a cockerel, carped and criticized, and finally made himself so intolerable that Sextus had thrown him out. A more insufferable snob than Nero would be hard to find, and the Pompeii were very sensitive about their Picentine origins.
‘So what do you intend to do now, Nero?’ he asked.
‘Live within my means, which are not limitless,’ Nero said stiffly, his dark, saturnine countenance growing even prouder.
‘And your wife?’ Antony asked slyly.
‘Livia Drusilla is a good wife. She does as she’s told, which is more than you can say about your wife!’
A typical Neronian statement; he seemed to have no inbuilt monitor to warn him that some things were best left unsaid. I ought, thought Antony savagely, to seduce her! What a life she must lead, married to this inepte!
‘Bring her to dinner this afternoon, Nero,’ he said jovially. ‘Think of it as money saved – no need to send your cook to the market until tomorrow.’
‘I thank you,’ Nero said, unwinding to his full, spindling height. Left arm cuddling folds of toga, he stalked out, leaving Antony chuckling softly.
Plancus came in, horror written large upon his face. ‘Oh, Edepol, Antonius! What’s Nero doing here?’
‘Apart from insulting everyone he meets? I suspect that he made himself so unwelcome in Sextus Pompeius’s headquarters that he was told to leave. You can come to dinner this afternoon and share the joys of his company. He’s bringing his wife, who must be a terrible bore to put up with him. Just who is she?’
‘His cousin – fairly close, actually. Her father was a Claudius Nero adopted by the famous tribune of the plebs, Livius Drusus, hence her name, Livia Drusilla. Nero is the son of Drusus’s blood brother, Tiberius Nero. Of course she’s an heiress – a lot of money in the Livius Drusus family. Once, Cicero hoped Nero would marry his Tullia, but she preferred Dolabella. A worse husband in most ways, but at least he was a merry fellow. Didn’t you move in those circles when Clodius was alive, Antonius?’
‘I did. And you’re right, Dolabella was good company. But it’s not Nero gives your face that look, Plancus. What’s up?’
‘A packet from Ephesus. I had one too, but yours is from your cousin Caninius, so it ought to say more.’ Plancus sat in the client’s chair facing Antony across the desk, eyes bright.
Antony broke the seal, unrolled his cousin’s epistle and mumbled his way through it, a long business accompanied by frowns and curses. ‘I wish,’ he complained, ‘that more men had taken Caesar’s hint and put a dot over the beginning of a new word. I do it now, so do Pollio, Ventidius and – though I hate to say it – Octavianus. Turns a continuous scrawl into something a man can read almost at a glance.’ He went back to his mumbling, finally sighed and put the scroll down.
‘How can I be in two places at once?’ he asked Plancus. ‘By rights I should be in Asia Province shoring it up against attack from Labienus, instead I’m forced to sit closer to Italia and keep my legions within call. Pacorus has overrun Syria and all the petty princelings have thrown in their lot with the Parthians, even Amblichus. Caninius says that Saxa’s legions defected to Pacorus – Saxa was forced to flee to Apamaea, then took ship for Cilicia. No one has heard from him since, but rumor has it that his brother was killed in Syria. Labienus is busy overrunning Cilicia Pedia and eastern Cappadocia.’
‘And of course there are no legions east of Ephesus.’
‘Nor will there be in Ephesus, I’m afraid. Asia Province will have to fend for itself until I can sort out the mess in Italia. I’ve already sent to Caninius to bring the legions to Macedonia,’ said Antony, sounding grim.
‘Is
