Free The Grass Crown by Colleen McCullough Page A

Publius Rutilius Rufus that her little son, not yet two years old, was in urgent need of a pedagogue. But after many patient answers to many incredulous questions, her relatives began to believe her predicament.
    “I don’t know of a suitable fellow,” said Cotta, ruffling his thinning hair. “Your half brothers Gaius and Marcus are in the hands of the rhetors now, and young Lucius goes to school. I would have thought that the best thing to do would be to go to one of the really good vendors of slave pedagogues—Mamilius Malchus or Duronius Postumus. However, you’re set against any but a free man, so I don’t know what to tell you.”
    “Uncle Publius, you’ve been sitting there saying nothing for the last many moments,” said Aurelia.
    “So I have!” exclaimed that remarkable man guilelessly.
    “Does that mean you know of someone?”
    “Perhaps. But first I want to see Young Caesar for myself, and in circumstances where I can form my own opinion. You’ve kept him mighty dark, niece; and I can’t fathom why.”
    “He’s a dear little fellow,” said Rutilia sentimentally.
    “He’s a problem,” said his mother without any sentiment.
    “Well, I think it’s more than time we all went round to see Young Caesar for ourselves,” said Cotta, who was growing a little stout, and in consequence breathed noisily.
    But Aurelia struck her hands together in dismay, looking from one interested face to another with such trouble and pain in her own that the other three paused, shocked. They had known her since birth, and never before had seen her dealing with a situation she clearly felt beyond, her.
    “Oh, please!” she cried. “No! Don’t you understand? What you propose to do is exactly what I cannot allow to happen! My son must think of himself as ordinary! How can he do that if three people descend on him to quiz him—and gush over his answers!—and fill him with false ideas of his own importance?”
    A red spot burgeoned in each of Rutilia’s cheeks. “My dear girl, he is my grandson!” she said, tight-lipped.
    “Yes, Mama, I know, and you shall see him and ask him whatever you wish—but not yet! Not as-part of a crowd! He—is—so—clever! What any other child of his age wouldn’t think to question, he knows the answers to! Let Uncle Publius come on his own for the moment, please!”
    Cotta nudged his wife. “Good idea, Aurelia,” he said with great affability. “After all, he has his second birthday soon—halfway through Quinctilis, isn’t it? Aurelia can invite us to his birthday party, Rutilia, and we’ll be able to see for ourselves without the child’s suspecting a special motive for our presence.”
    Swallowing her ire, Rutilia nodded. “As you wish, Marcus Aurelius. Is that all right with you, daughter?”
    “Yes,” said Aurelia gruffly.
    Of course Publius Rutilius Rufus succumbed to Young Caesar’s ever-increasing mastery of charm, and thought him wonderful, and could hardly wait to tell his mother so.
    “I don’t know when I’ve taken such a fancy to anyone since you rejected every servant girl your parents chose for you, and came home yourself with Cardixa,” he said, smiling. “I thought then what a pearl beyond price you were! And now I find my pearl has produced—oh, not a moonbeam, but a slice of the sun.”
    “Stop waxing lyrical, Uncle Publius! This sort of thing is not why I asked you here to see him,” said the mother, edgy.
    But Publius Rutilius Rufus thought it imperative that she should understand, and sat down with her on a bench in the courtyard at the bottom of the light-well which pierced the center of the insula. It was a delightful spot, as the other ground-floor tenant, the knight Gaius Matius, had a flair for gardening that bordered on perfection. Aurelia called the light-well her hanging gardens of Babylon, for plants trailed over the balconies on every floor, and creepers rooted in the earth of the courtyard had over the years grown all the way to