“He must have his reasons,” she said coolly.
“Lady Tertulla, do you realize what will happen to him, and to you, if he does? If I am persona non grata, if charges are brought, proscriptions reinstated, you could lose everything. Do you want that to happen?”
“Of course not. But that is between you and him, and perhaps Pompeius. I am willingly married as much to my husband’s fate as to the man.”
”That is well, but I have made no such vows. I cannot afford to lose this accord. We must proceed as planned.”
“I have nothing to do with it.”
“On the contrary. I have recently learned that at this most delicate point in our negotiations, you may have everything to do with it. I know how he trusts your judgment. I need you to convince him to accept what we have already decided, nothing more.”
“That is not my place.”
“But my dear, I am making it your place.” Caesar spoke in a tone so gentle and friendly it was ominous. “I know you, Tertulla. You are a smart woman. You see the truth of my argument, don’t you.”
“Yes,” she said. There was no doubt of it.
“Then you will speak with him, tonight when he returns?”
“Yes. Now please go.”
“Unfortunately,” he said, sighing, “I cannot rely on your charm and wit alone. I must have something else from you, some little secret that only you and I share that guarantees you will be successful in persuading him to do the right thing.” Tertulla knew exactly where this was leading, and she did not need to hear any more. He had not moved from the bed. This was her chance. She bolted toward the door, but as she crossed in front of him, he reached out and got hold of a handful of the bedcovers to which she clung. She spun away, trying to extricate herself from the blanket, but lost her balance. Caesar was up now. He threw the coverlet aside and grabbed her thin tunic as she stumbled. The cotton stitching on the top left side of the sleeveless gown ripped and bared her shoulder. As they tussled, he upset the wine bottle, knocking it over. It spun on the floor, leaving an arc of dark liquid, a crescent moon, symbol of Astarte, ancient goddess of sexuality and war.
“Where are you running?” he asked, pulling her roughly to him, his wine-soaked breath on her cheek. “You see, I was right — you are a smart woman. You know exactly what secret we need to share.”
“Caesar, don’t do this. There is no need. I will do as you ask.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, “there probably is no need, per se.” He spun her around and pushed her the short distance to the chest of drawers, never letting go of what remained of her tunic. He shoved his body up against her from behind, pinning her against the wooden chest. He was strong, for such a small man. She reached out for balance and knocked the oil lamp to the floor. It’s tiny flame extinguished in the rush of air, and the clay shattered with a crash on the far side of the dresser. At the noise, they both froze, for neither, in their vastly different ways, wanted to be discovered.
A second later, Caesar slapped her on the back of her head. “I hope you didn’t do that on purpose.”
“You coward, you cockroach,” she spit through clenched teeth. She tried to elbow him, but he blocked the blow. Reaching round with her right hand, she struggled to find his eyes or his hair. It was a desperate, silent contest. Tertulla continued to fight against him, until suddenly she felt cold, sharp metal pressed against her throat. She froze and Caesar withdrew the knife.
“Tertulla, you are such a beautiful creature.” She could feel him pulling the belt from his waist with his free hand. “How long have we known each other, fifteen years? Ironic — your husband is exactly that much older than both of us. Not much between statesmen, granted, but don’t you think he’s getting a little long in the tooth for you?”
“Leave now, Caesar,” she implored, “and I shall say nothing of this.”
“Well, you see, that’s the thing of it. It’s occurred to me that I am certain you will say nothing, no matter what transpires in this room. I know, because you love your husband, and you will not see him disgraced. Neither will you see him risk financial and political ruin by breaking with me. You would do anything to protect him. I believe this of you. I believe it so strongly that I expect you to prove me right, right here, right now.” He stopped pushing against her just long enough to yank her tunic up to her waist. She felt him naked against her.
“No!” she groaned. But even as he pressed against her stiff legs with his knee, trying to part them, she knew she was lost.
“Come, Tertulla, do as you’re told,” he whispered sweetly in her ear. “Open for me, you arrogant, little whore. You’re all whores, in the end, aren’t you?” Caesar knew he had her when he felt the almost imperceptible release of Tertulla’s thigh muscles, enabling him to push her legs slightly apart. He pushed at her again, until her feet slipped apart on the cold floor.
I am going to let him rape me, she thought. Oh, Marcus! Forgive me! I love only you. I swear before all the gods, I belong to you alone. Juno, hear my prayer: let him leave no mark upon me, I beseech you. Protect my husband.
Even though she had now exposed herself and was offering no resistance, she was hardly ready for him, and he struggled to get inside her. The more he strained, the angrier she became.
“Know this, little man,” she said with all the venom she could inject into her voice, “when you have shriveled and departed, I will avenge myself upon you.”
“I shall hire a slave to do nothing but walk behind me,” he replied sarcastically. “And one more to taste my food.” Tertulla bit her lip, stifling a cry of pain, and Caesar moaned with her, for he had found that which he sought. Tertulla winced, and tears filled her eyes. She kept talking to herself to keep her mind as far away from what was happening to her as possible. She said prayers to all the gods, both Roman and any who might listen: to Juno and Inanna, Diana and Atargatis, Astarte and Ishtar; to any goddess who reviles the mistreatment of women and the vainglory of men. And when all her prayers were exhausted, she began listing the ways she might take revenge should the deities forsake her.
Caesar continued his frantic thrusting, but Tertulla had disappeared into her prayers and curses — she was hardly there. She did not resist, neither did she participate. Before long, Caesar found his conquest becoming a chore. Sweat beaded his brow and his breath became labored. All he wanted now was to be done with her. Her body may have yielded, but he felt as if her spirit stood apart, laughing at him.
This rebellious vision was almost confirmed when she said, “Haste, Julius, or my husband will discover how boring you are.” Her last word was turned into a grunt as Caesar responded with a vicious thrust that practically lifted her off her feet. The tears filled her eyes once more, for speaking to him had snapped her back into the present. She twisted her head away from him and prayed for the end of this nightmare.
That is the moment when she saw her husband staring at her in dumbfounded disbelief from behind the portiere. She knew it was him even though he was no more than a silhouette. His head jerked and she thought he was going to vomit. She felt her own gorge rise. Something glinted below his face — a dagger! He’s looking down at it. She willed him to look back at her, and he did! She warned him off with a shake of her head and the hope that he might somehow see the expression of desperation on her face. He must withdraw, he must! Caesar will kill him. The puglio he had held against her throat was somewhere nearby, but she could not see it. At his age and in his condition, Marcus would be no match for Caesar, even if he struck first. Could they overpower him together?
She would never know, for as she pleaded with her eyes for him to depart, his face slowly passed from view like a pale, lifeless moon disappearing behind clouds. His expression broke her heart.