"Look at this mess! No wonder your shoulders are round and you're swaybacked. Get out onto the Campus Martius with Cassius and the other boys from school, don't waste your time trying to condense the whole of Thucydides onto one sheet of paper." "I happen to write the best epitomes in Rome," said her son, his tone lofty. Servilia eyed him ironically. "Thucydides," she said, "was no profligate with words, yet it took him many books to tell the story of the conflict between Athens and Sparta. What advantage is there in destroying his beautiful Greek so that lazy Romans can crib a bare outline, then congratulate themselves that they know all about the Peloponnesian War?'' "Literature," Brutus persevered, "is becoming too vast for any man to encompass without resorting to summaries." "Your skin is breaking down," said Servilia, returning to what really interested her. "That's common enough in boys my age." "But not in my plans for you." "And may the Gods help anyone or anything not in your plans for me!" he shouted, suddenly angry. "Get dressed, we're going out" was all she answered, and left the room. When he entered the atrium of Silanus's commodious house, Brutus was wearing the purple bordered toga of childhood, for he would not officially become a man until December and the feast of Juventas arrived. His mother was already waiting, and watched him critically as he came toward her. Yes, he definitely was round shouldered, sway backed. Such a lovely little boy he had been! Lovely even last January, when she had commissioned a bust of him from Antenor, the best portrait sculptor in all Italia. But now puberty was asserting itself more aggressively, his early beauty was fading, even to her prejudiced gaze. His eyes were still large and dark and dreamy, interestingly heavy lidded, but his nose wasn't growing into the imposing Roman edifice she had hoped for, remaining stubbornly short and bulb tipped like her own. And the skin which had been so exquisitely olive colored, smooth and flawless, now filled her with dread what if he was going to be one of the horribly unlucky ones and produced such noxious pustules that he scarred? Fifteen was too soon! Fifteen meant a protracted infestation.