“You sound like your previous master, Lucius Calpurnius Piso, a staunch follower of Epicurus.”
“Former master. You don’t see a slave plaque hanging around my neck, do you?” Curio’s eyes, grey or pale blue depending on the light, smiled benignly at me. Just now, they were cold and empty of color.
“Humble apologies. I misspoke. To be fair, you don’t see one hanging about mine, either, do you?”
“No, and I won’t, but that is of little consequence, since you are only required to don yours when you leave the grounds.”
I could have shown him my slave plaque, unique in all the Roman world, but it was becoming clear that nothing I could do or say to this man would put me on an equal footing, so why bother? It was also dawning on me that the ground upon which he stood was no place where I wished to stand.
I held out my hand for another scroll. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you, why is it, since Lucius Piso has given you your freedom and you have taken his name as is the custom, that you are not his client and he your patron? What brings you to the house of Crassus?”
“Have you ever been to Macedonia? Piso’s been governor there since his consulship, and every step since our departure has been a stride taken in the wrong direction. How I have longed for the art, the culture, the speeches from the rostra, the games, the baths, the forums. I’ve even missed the smell.”
“You are a true Roman.” Imagine the burning sarcasm I could not quite extinguish.
It went unremarked, for Curio was far more interested in the words about to come from his own lips than the two he watched, impatiently waiting for them to stop moving. “Piso is a man of his word. I was born into his house. He swore to my mother that on my 30th birthday he would give me my freedom, and this he did. A shame she did not live to see the day.”
“I am sorry for your loss. And what of your father?”
“I did not know my father.” A nerve unintentionally struck, Curio’s voice failed to hide unmistakable shame. My mind began its inevitable calculations, and could not help but wonder how close senator Piso and Curio’s mother had been.
“Forgive my intrusion,” I said.
Curio’s mask of imperturbability was back in place before I had finished speaking. “Governor Piso agreed that Thessalonica was no place for my ambition. He wrote your master who graciously gave me a place in this household. Lucius Piso formally released me of my obligations of respect and gratitude, and Marcus Crassus has done the same.”
“Very generous of them both, and most unusual. I find it strange, though, that dominus never spoke to me about it beforehand.”
“Or to me, that I would be taking direction from a slave.”
That put the hammer to the egg. “I see. There are many freedmen employed on this estate, or on several dozen other properties. Would you be more comfortable in some lesser post?”
Curio’s nasality rose a muffled notch. “I should confer with your dominus before I did anything unilaterally.”
“Be very clear about one thing, Lucius. Whether, when you stroll into town, your neck is free of obligatory ornamentation, or like me, for the past thirty years, you have devoted every waking moment to this man and his family, everyone in this household is a servant of our dominus. That includes his slaves, his freedmen, his children, his wife, me and most importantly as regards this conversation at this very moment, you. Is that understood?”
We completed our business in silence, and I almost apologized for my rant, born as it was not so much by what Lucius had said but by what he had implied: dominus wanted the man right where he was, and that frightened me. Later, when I asked Crassus about it, he responded by inquiring if it was now his duty to delay every decision he made until after he had laid it upon my table to receive my seal. Then he added that the day he actually gave me my own seal he might consider it, but neither circumstance was very likely. It was a short discussion.
Chapter IV
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
I never gave the scars on my back much thought anymore; the tug and pull of the pale ridges had drifted into the background of my consciousness. One can get past just about anything, given enough time, even when one shouldn’t.
Hanno was the only member of our society who regularly saw the ugly stripes. He became accustomed to the sight, but the first time it happened, unsettling for us both, he was assisting me with my bath. I had been looking forward to the moment since mid-morning; had I been paying attention I would have prepared him for such a lurid unveiling. I had folded my clothes onto a shelf and had turned from him to enter the calidarium. He emitted such a gasp of pain I thought he had accidentally stabbed himself with a stilus. (This was quite possible—he was constantly picking up whatever caught his eye for inspection, testing, even tasting.) Not this time. I whirled to see a look of horror on his face that slowly melted into one of pain, then sorrow. Tears welled as he came to me. He put his hands on my bare shoulders and made to turn me around. When I realized what he was doing, I stiffened and pulled away.
Hanno looked puzzled; he held up his mutilated hands to my face. “But Alexander,” he said. “Look.”
“No!” I said, slapping his hands away. “We are not the same.”
After half a month of explaining, then apologizing, he still had not forgiven me. In the end, only an unfeigned recognition that our scars did indeed make us brothers brought a smile back to his face. It also brought a number of restless nights to my bed chamber as I contemplated my admission.
Now, Hanno was warming scented oil and wiping down an iron strigil with a towel and the heel of his hand while I soaked in the steaming waters. It was just past the ninth hour. There were at least two hours before sundown; plenty of time to clean up after the day’s work before Crassus returned from the senate, which would not sit in session after dark. Romans take advantage of the light—even for the privileged class, the day begins soon after dawn and ends at sunset. As we were in the heart of winter, each of the twelve hours of the day were markedly foreshortened compared to summer, with the result that the entire city moved at a much brisker pace, not from the cold, but from the need to cram as much as possible into the shorter workday. That morning, Crassus and I had risen in the dark, before the first hour, to review by lamplight the notes for the day’s speeches. He was in the forum by the time the rest of us were having our morning cup of water.
“I’m glad to see you’re not using the public baths.”
At the sound of my master’s voice, I leapt up and whipped round to face him, as much to save him from the embarrassment of seeing his stripy handiwork as to relieve me of the discomfiture of exhibiting it. Hanno grabbed towels, pinched together by the two remaining fingers of each hand. The weight of the larger one caused it to slip from his grasp. Reddening and repeating apologies, he handed me the smaller and dropped awkwardly to his knees. Using the fallen bath sheet, he scrubbed at the water my turning had splashed upon Crassus’ senatorial shoes, the black ones with a “C” stitched in silver thread on the top of each boot. This was the traditional emblem for the original number of conscript fathers in that august deliberative body—one hundred. Six times that number were now accommodated in Sulla’s Curia Cornelia, resplendent in their white togas. Only a few were curule magistrates, allowed to wear the toga praetexta of their ancient office, embellished by a broad purple border. Crassus was one of the oldest, most venerated among them.
“I have instructed everyone to remain in the compound, if possible,” I said, “and if they must go down into town, not to do so without an escort.”
“Good,” Crassus said, wincing as the seat Hanno was guiding to him scraped along the floor. “It’s not safe in the city. Stop fussing, boy!” Hanno abandoned his attempt to wrestle the back of the chair into a parallel position behind dominus’ legs and stood with his hands at his sides, his chin trembling.
“It�
��s all right,” I said. “Fetch me one as well.” That brought the smile out again. He dragged another chair to me, but I stood there dripping, my towel being of a size that made it perfect for blowing one’s nose, but little else. I held it bunched in my hand, deciding not to risk a flood of tears by asking for another.
Crassus said, “Sit.” I sat. “Hannibal,” he added, “would you mind fetching us a bowl of olives?” Hanno was off like a lurching charioteer, leaving his grin hanging in the humid air.
“Shall we move to a more comfortable setting?” I asked, hoping to change into some dry clothes and get off this chair.
“I don’t know which prospect is worse—suffering that unfortunate’s drawbacks or attempting to talk my wife out of keeping him. Best leave it be. And no, we’ll stay here where it’s warm. It’s freezing outside.”
He did that on purpose. Splendid. I’ll be wearing the pattern of this woven cane seat on my bottom for hours. As I spoke, I thought how best to employ my towel. “Why all the precautions, dominus?” If I put it on the chair, I’ll have to rise to do so, and I had just been commanded to be seated. “Clodius’ faction wouldn’t harm us.” If I stuff it under my buttocks to give my cheeks some relief, Crassus will think me insane, or incontinent. If I drape it across my lap, I’ll appear a prude. “He’s praised you on the rostra and vilified Pompeius.” In the end, I mopped my brow with it and dropped it casually on the floor.
“Anything to foment confusion and disruption,” Crassus said. “Anything to stir up a hornet’s nest of dissatisfaction. He has no real love for me or the constitution, and I have never, nor would I ever stoop to solicit or accept his praise. Mind you, even if it was a hollow gesture to gain support for his political aims, his passage of a grain dole for the poor was admirable. How we’ll be able to import enough to perpetually feed 300,000 mouths and pay for it all is quite another matter.
“He is a dangerous fool, Alexander. He’s destroyed hapless Cicero; if that man wasn’t such a pugnacious prig, Pompeius and I might have forestalled his exile. I would have done, too, if I had known Clodius would incinerate and confiscate the poor blowhard’s property. Now Clodius’ gang of armed rabble terrorize citizens and senators alike. He claims he acts in the name of the people, but in truth, anarchy is his newfound god. If my purpose was not ineluctably fixed elsewhere, I should like very much to bring him to heel.”
Crassus shook his head. “This is a dangerous time for the Republic—Caesar’s ambition seems boundless; I must devote all my energies to exacting our revenge, but to do so I must mimic his audacity. It is a hard thing, Alexander—I am become part of the corruption and misgovernment I abhor.”
“Are you certain there is no other course you may follow?” Hanno returned with a bowl of glistening olives. Both Crassus and I held our breath until he had placed them on a small pedestal table between the two chairs and moved to stand with his back against the far wall. He took Tulio’s gift from his belt and I knew without looking that his eyes soon would be glazing over with each soothing stroke of the brush.
Crassus rolled an oily green olive between his thumb and index finger. He looked as though he might crush it rather than eat it. “I am certain of nothing but that I love Tertulla and revile the man who attacked her. I will have him ruined and exiled, or perish in the effort.”
I glanced at Hanno and gauged he was too distant to hear, and if he heard, to understand, and if he understood, to care. “My insides twist at the thought of your tribulation.”
“Who else knows?”
“In this house, only the three of us, but there is talk. For domina, it is easier to bury the fact than the memory.”
“We must protect her as best we can. I am sorry to disrupt the familia, but from this point on, my determination must brook no distraction. There is much to do, and the first step is to win the consulship.”
“In other words, your revenge hinges on doing Caesar’s bidding.”
“You might have phrased it less painfully, but yes.”
“The senate must grant him five more years in Gaul, and you must take Syria for your proconsulship.”
“And from there I will march on Parthia, the largest jewel not already set in the Roman crown.”
“Dominus, we have treaties with Parthia. The senate will never sanction such an adventure.”
“Do not belittle such an achievement with the wrong noun, Alexander. This is conquest. The senate will sanction a triumph quick enough when I bring their king home in chains, I promise you. Though I suppose you’re right—it will be an adventure. Wouldn’t you like to see the legacy of the Great Alexander: Antioch, Hierapolis, Seleucia?”
“A tempting offer, my lord, but traveling in the company of so many legionaries is bound to bring up too many disturbing memories. If you could manage to leave them behind?”
Crassus answered by reaching for another olive.
“One thing puzzles me, dominus,” I said. “If you must win this coming election and thus be granted Syria to govern after your year’s term, why have both you and Pompeius refused to announce your candidacies?”
“Lentulus, who now serves, is a good and honest consul, and a hardened conservative. He will not be bullied by any extra-legal decisions made by us at Luca. He has refused to take our names—the deadline for declaring is long past. His co-consul, Philippus, favors Caesar and the populares, and therefore badgers us to run. But he is not a man who can see beyond a single move on the board. I will not risk declaring myself a candidate while the mood in the city is fractious and uncertain. The senate will follow us, but between the grain shortage and the few but vocal optimates crying out against us, the outcome of a vote now would be uncertain.”
“You are stalling.”
“I am doing what I must,” he said, his voice rising. “Time shoves rudely at my back, but I must not move too soon. I have this one chance, no more. I see that look on your face. Do not lecture me on legality or ethics, Alexander; it pains me more than you can know to abandon my principles, once inviolate, now doughy with expediency.” His words were spoken with shaky conviction; agitation creased his brow. He stood and paced back and forth in front of my chair. He grabbed another olive and destroyed it in his mouth.
“Dough will rise,” I said, “and harden when baked.”
Crassus turned to me and slammed a fist down on the arm rest of my chair as he spoke. “This is no time for your wit, Alexander!” He spit the olive pit onto the floor. I resisted the urge to pick it up. I glanced nervously at Hanno. He had put away his brush and now stood by the wall, his ruined hands before him, nervously linking, separating, then re-linking his four digits in two interlocking circles. He was swaying from side to side, aroused by Crassus' tone. I prayed he would not speak.
“When the people are alarmed, they look for stability,” I said. “The people love you, dominus. I was in the forum when Clodius took the rostra before half the city. ‘Who is murdering the people with famine?’ he asked, and the people responded, ‘Pompeius!’ ‘Who wants to go to Alexandria?’ he asked, and they shouted, ‘Pompeius!’ And when Clodius said, ‘Whom do you want to go?’ with one voice came the thundering reply: ‘Crassus!’”
“His armies are disbanded,” he replied dismissively, “and the man needs an occupation. Grain merchant suits Pompeius’ abilities. Let him negotiate with the Egyptians. As sweet a fruit as Egypt is, I must leave it for others to harvest. With Parthia’s riches we will buy the grain of ten Egypts, and Rome’s praise will be everlasting.”
“What of the senate and the people, dominus? You are the rock upon which they both depend.”
“You exaggerate to the point of transparency, Alexander. But, fine, for the moment, I shall be a rock. Caesar, then, is a comet that has struck our world, knocking it off-balance. What, then, can this rock do but be dislodged and roll down whatever slope his shaking sends it? It will take all my art to set things right again.
“To begin, the people will need a hero. I am not that man. Not yet.
Pompeius has played that role more successfully than I, certainly to more applause. Let Pompeius find the grain and wallow in the cheers of the crowd. It is what he loves best, so we will let him have his moment.”
“I am surprised to hear you say it.”
“Let him sweat to regain his popularity; it serves my purpose now. His theater is almost complete; it will be a monumental diversion.” I smiled at his unintended pun. “And when the grain starts to flow once more, sated citizens will make for pliant voters.” He suddenly looked at me as if I had just appeared in a puff of smoke. “Why are you shivering, Alexander? Here, take this.” Crassus undraped his senatorial toga, exposing his purple striped tunic, further sign of his rank. He stood and meant to drape the toga over me like a blanket. I rose as well, shocked. I held the huge garment at arm’s length, standing naked before him.
“No, dominus. I cannot wear this. Hanno, fetch my tunic. Hanno!” The boy pushed himself off the wall and took off at a sprint, which for him could be more likened to a leaping hop.
Crassus sat back down, dropping the toga in a heap on the floor. “As you wish,” he said, sounding like a child rebuffed after offering to share his dearest toy.
I retrieved my hand towel, then let it fall again. “Dominus,” I felt compelled to say, “it is a most generous offer. But that garment is not meant…”
“What, for the likes of you? Do you think I am unaware of the honor I do you? By Athena’s robes, Alexander, I do not understand you. Even when I extend my outstretched hand, you refuse to take it. Is the gap between us so great?”
I sat in wondrous silence for a moment, crafting my answer. “The fissure is broad and deep, dominus. Your gesture is well-meant, but can you not see that the gulf is widened by it, not bridged?”
“You will take nothing from me, will you?” he sighed. Hanno returned with my clothes and I quickly tied and wrapped my subligaculum about me and threw the tunic over my head. As I dressed, I shook off the muddled feeling that it was I who should have sympathy for Crassus. Let us return to politics, I thought, a less dangerous and more straightforward subject.
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 5