“Ah, good man.” He approached Malchus and his captive, chins lowered, gleaming hand extended. Herclides relinquished the box.
While we waited for the women to dress, I looked in on the balneator. The guard was just regaining consciousness and the manager of the establishment was nursing a purpling bruise on his tanned bald pate. A pile of coins, restored by the villains under the watchful eyes of Betto and Valens, lay on the table in a heap. As soon as the old man saw me, he put a protective arm around the money.
“The deal’s off,” he said. “You can take your custom elsewhere.” He tossed two sesterces to my side of the table.
“None of this was my doing,” I protested. Not that I had any intention of returning.
“Look behind you,” he said, patting a damp cloth to his temple. “You see that?” There was nothing there, but I could not resist the urge to turn my head. “That’s trouble. It follows you like a three-legged dog. You get to be my age, son, you get to trust an itchy chin. Didn’t at first. Ignored it when my first wife said she was going off to visit her folks in Herculaneum. Dido, you know, she made a bit of a racket of an evening, if you get my drift. The night she left, I heard an awfully familiar song. Turns out she was only three doors down and one story up.” He leaned forward, put his forearms on the table and laced his fingers. “Let me tell you, when you came through that door, the sudden urge to scratch was a powerful thing. But your gold made me stupid.”
“For your trouble,” I said, placing five silver denarii down next to his two coins. Do not say it. I know what you are thinking: the crafty balneator coaxed those coins from a gullible dupe. Perhaps. The thing is, time and again I had seen Crassus wave his lictors aside to empty his purse into the dirty, straining hands that reached for him every time he climbed the senate steps. Could I do any less? The irony is not lost on me. Observing my master year after year, one of the more lasting lessons I have learned is that generosity costs nothing in the end. Then again, Crassus may simply have been trolling for votes.
Chapter IX
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
I found Crassus in the main kitchen, pestering the cooks and dipping a long bronze spoon into this and that for a taste. It was almost the twelfth hour and the sun was setting. Lamps were being lit throughout the house; shafts of flecked gold slanted in through every western window, hitting their marks of floor and furniture with unerring accuracy. It was growing cool; dominus wore two tunics, the plain one hidden by his favorite when at home, a fine wool affair with sleeves past the elbows, dyed in broad light and dark blue stripes. In recent years, to alleviate the discomfort of the irritating appearance of bunions, he had taken to walking around the house barefoot. He wore no belt, setting free the few pounds that old age and a less rigorous lifestyle had earned him. From the familia, he kept few such secrets; from Rome, his vanity would never countenance such informality. A statesman must always look, and more importantly, play the part. On the other hand, most statesmen wore a gown so ponderously shapeless that it obscured all but head and feet from scrutiny. Congratulations to the inventor of the toga, who realized that a Roman’s life was often not as abstemious as his Roman statues would have us believe.
From the pantry at the opposite end of the sweltering workroom, Curio entered, scroll and pen in hand. “Alexander, I’ve been looking for you. The boar you ordered is tainted. I’ve sacked your merchant and have a list here of replacements.”
I ignored Lucius, strode in and stood opposite dominus across the main work table. “A word, dominus?” I blurted with enough emotion to cause Eirene to stop stirring the pea soup. Heads turned, then froze like a crowd before the priest’s knife descends upon the sacrifice.
“Oh my,” Crassus said, taking the topmost deviled egg from an otherwise perfectly arranged tray. He took a bite, hummed his appreciation, and with his mouth not quite empty said, “Your atriensis is cross with me. Ladies and gentlemen, I must leave your good company, for I cannot bear to suffer my chastisement publicly. Come, Alexander, let us walk in the peristyle, so I may at least enjoy the purpling clouds while I discover what it is that has upset you so.”
Before we could make good our departure, Hanno came lurching around the corner and skidded straight into me. “Master!” he cried, his forehead buried in my chest. I hugged him briefly and squatted to his height.
“I’ve told you before, Hannibal, I am not your master. Now go with Lucius to pick a new butcher.”
“No! That’s boring.”
“Well, then, is there anyone who could use a little help in the kitchen?” A dozen hands rose, some with genuine enthusiasm. Dinner was delayed by only a quarter of an hour as a result of Hanno’s “assistance.”
Crassus handed the spoon to the cook standing closest to him and out we went into the cooling evening air. “That is your fault,” I told him. “It was you who told him to call me master.”
“I don’t mind,” Crassus said, licking a thumb. “Why do you?” I chose not to answer.
One of the peacocks had somehow strayed into the garden and lay beside the gravel path, the sweep of its tail an arrogant, opulent display, even in repose. It lifted its azurite head as we strolled passed, but otherwise ignored us. It had a right to feel safe. Lady Tertulla had issued orders forbidding the birds to be butchered and served alongside their artfully arranged feathers as was typical in other great homes. If they are sacred to Juno, she argued, they will be treated with no less honor in this house.
Crassus was right about the clouds: it was a singular sunset, and although our view of it was restricted by the peristyle to a rectangle of stately palaces in hues of orange, red and cream floating above our heads, the fading light fell upon us with a warm glow. How lovely it would be to stroll here with Livia, to hold her hand, to turn and pull her close. For a moment, I lost my grip on why it was we were here.
“You know,” said Crassus, “it isn’t that I don’t enjoy a quiet walk in the garden with you, Alexander, but typically I reserve those for my wife.”
Color rushed to my cheeks. “Forgive me, dominus. It is so beautiful this evening that I quite forgot myself.”
“Understandable. I am not the perfect partner for you either, I suspect. Ah, the luxury to be able to forget oneself,” he said his voice wistful, “how do you do it?” The question was rhetorical. We walked a pace or two, then Crassus regained his usual, affable condescension. “Our strolls, however, are more seemly when liberally enlivened with the spice of discourse. Now what is it you wanted to see me about so desperately that you needed to use that tone before the help?”
“Humble apologies, dominus. May I speak freely?”
“You may never speak freely, Alexander, but you may speak.”
“Very droll, dominus. I am serious.”
“As was I. What troubles you?”
I took a breath. “You, dominus. When I first came to you, you commanded me to challenge you, to teach you all I knew and all that I might learn, and never to cower before you.”
“I remember, and only occasionally regret the conversation.”
“Well then, I know speak under that aegis. You are hurting the city you love, and its people. Perhaps you are blind to the upheaval you are causing, perhaps you are not. I suspect the latter. Either way, you need to know that Rome suffers at your hands.”
“At my hands,” Crassus said pensively, rolling the sound of my accusation around in his mouth as if he were still back in the kitchen sampling tidbits. We walked a few more paces in the dimming light. When he spoke again, he held his left hand in his right while rolling the plain iron band around his third finger. “I have never removed this ring, not in thirty years. I have heard it said that a nerve connects this one finger directly to the heart, and that the band is worn here to symbolize the bond between husband and wife. Do you know of this, Alexander?”
“I have heard it, yes, but I am awa
re of no autopsy proving it either true or false.”
“I never gave it much thought,” he sighed, “one way or the other. But now I believe the theory has merit. Why is this? Because I can no longer feel the connection that held your mistress and I so close. Caesar cut it in Luca. I felt the fiber snap and recoil that night, felt the loose ends bunch and tighten. Since then, that severed cord has spread a foul numbness from here to here,” he said, pointing from his hand to his chest.
“Do not let him do this to you, dominus.”
“It is a thing accomplished and cannot be undone.” Crassus stopped walking and put a hand to his temples.
“Dominus, the city is in chaos. Publius Clodius sends out his gangs to replace considered government with reckless fear, and there is no one to stand against him. Pompeius replies with Milo and his men, violence to oppose violence. All this because you and Caesar, a man you hate, scheme to steal the consulship so you may share it with Pompeius, another you despise. It makes no sense.”
“I have no choice.”
“The people look to you for leadership. Take back your bribe to tribune Gaius Cato. Hold the election. You will win.”
“I must be certain. Without a second term as consul, I lose Syria.”
“The only certainty is that Romans are molested and beaten in the streets.”
“I will protect our people.”
“You cannot. Livia and Cornelia Metella came within moments of being raped today.”
Crassus' face contorted with pain. I thought his eyes were about to water, but instead, the cry sprang from his lips. “Alexander, with what philosophy can you heal me? Teach me some other way to repair this damaged heart, and I will be your attentive student.”
“Love your wife. Repair your marriage. If Aristotle could look upon you and lady Tertulla, he would declare your lives bound in a ‘relationship of shared virtue,’ the rarest and most noble of loves. Do not abandon her to seek revenge. Caesar’s crime was vicious and unimaginable. He believes that you are weak, that you will see no path but vengeance. If he is right, he has you. But you can be the stronger man; you do have a choice. Do not respond in kind. What he has done may not be forgivable, but, dominus, you must learn to make it forgettable.”
Crassus laughed, a dark, feral sound. “No human could do this thing. It is a task for a man with a heart carved from obsidian.”
“No, dominus.” I did something then I had never done in all my years bound to this man. I put my hand on his chest. He did not strike me. He did not step back. He waited, and I spoke. “It is a task worthy of this heart, of this man.” Crassus shook his head. I withdrew my hand, but did not surrender. “My lord, I beg of you, turn back from this course; only blood and sorrow lie at its end. No marriage should ever confront the test Caesar has forced upon yours. But the challenge lies before you; it cannot be avoided. Choose unwisely and everything you cherish will be destroyed. For the love of your wife, your people and your city, forget and forsake Caesar.”
The light of the day had almost gone, and Crassus stood before me, an aggregate of hardened shadows. He did not strike me down or call for guards to haul me away. He looked upon my face, but his eyes were focused on a point far distant and unreachable. In his gaze, I could see what he saw: humiliation, shame, and an anger that burned and sparkled on shimmering coals of memory; they would never be consumed. “I cannot forget,” he said. “I cannot forgive, and I will be avenged. You find my determination as unyielding and rigid as my sword? Know that it would crack and shatter before my lady’s. We are of one heart and one mind.”
“Then kill him.”
“Alexander, you surprise me.”
“In an hour Boaz could furnish me with the names of a hundred assassins.”
“The slave master could give you a thousand, but none would serve my purpose. I will not grant Caesar the most noble of deaths, a soldier’s death. I pray to Mars each day to keep him safe and unharmed until my return from Parthia. What is death by the blade but a moment’s agony. What justice lies at the point of a gladius? Would you have him poisoned? That is a woman’s way, and though it cause him to contort and foam till his bones splinter and his lungs ignite, it is yet an end too condensed, too generous for the man who raped my wife. Caesar has writ an indelible mark upon our marriage. He has besmirched our home with a permanent stain.”
“Dominus…”
“No, Alexander. I will not be satisfied till I have penned an equal scrawl across the remainder of his soulless existence.
“I will not be satisfied until I have stolen from him and destroyed the destiny he seeks—to return Rome to the days of kings; to be the first to ascend to his newly gilded throne to begin his dynasty.
“Until the day I walk the streets of our city and hear men both great and small respond with apathy and indifference to the name of Gaius Julius Caesar, I will not be satisfied.”
A stone bench lay just off the path where we stood; Crassus bent and reached for it. He sat, exhausted. The clouds above us, leached of color, now marched resolutely onwards, their greyed and ghostly bulks floating on the glow from a million lamps. “If you could only go to war alone,” I said.
“What? I am too tired for riddles, Alexander.”
“When I speak, dominus, the house of Crassus listens. When you speak, all Rome pays heed. Where Crassus goes, tens of thousands must follow. How many must journey to the edge of our world to mete out Caesar’s castigation?” I knelt before him. “You are the better man, dominus. Will you travel thirteen hundred miles for honor’s sake when your wife waits for you not fifty feet from this very spot? Is there an altar large enough to hold the years and the lives that must be sacrificed to balance your scales of retribution?”
Crassus spoke not in anger, but with a voice tired beyond his years. “Did you know, Alexander, that when you first came to me, there yet lingered serious debate over whether or not slaves had souls? If my judgment had fallen on the ignorant side of that silly notion as we converse here in this serene garden, it would make the task much less irksome to fetch my pugio and end your animal life. I am an enlightened man, Alexander, and I delight in the small barbs and vexations you hurl at me. Your soul notwithstanding, my old friend, you have gone too far. Tell me, do you hold your life so cheaply, even now that your Livia is returned?”
Livia and I were shackled to him with the same invisible chains, yet I bridled to hear him speak of her. “She is not my Livia, and no, dominus, I hold nothing. You have graciously assumed the burden of holding my life in your hands for me since the day we met, thirty years ago.”
Crassus took one of my hands in both of his; they were warm and soft, the manicured nails buffed and unbroken. He smiled as a proud father smiles at his son; as a man so secure in his vision of the future that he will see no other. “You should be grateful, Alexander. Evidently I hold it more dearly than you yourself. You must not speak of this again. Do you understand?”
I understood that in that fading light, we had wrestled on the fulcrum between two futures: one bright, one bloody. I understood that I had failed him. I had failed us all. “I am not your enemy, dominus.”
“No,” he sighed. “You are not.” He pushed himself up off the bench. “It is dark. Let us go in.”
Chapter X
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
“Where’s my sword?” I asked.
Malchus and Betto both laughed. Hanno stood by as my second, ready to offer a towel or a footstool which he had strapped to his back. “Here you go,” Betto said, handing me a six-foot wooden pole with a leather-bound crosspiece that made the contrivance look distressingly like a miniature of a crucifixion cross. Then, without thinking, he tossed a shovel to Hanno, who had the good sense to step out of the way.
“Why are you trying to hurt me? Why is he trying to hurt me?” Under my tutelage, Hanno’s Latin was improving slowly. (Lady Tertulla had i
mplored me to assist, rightfully arguing that correct speech is the first step on the road toward civilized comportment.) The boy had already honed to a fine edge the cadence of indignation, though I cannot say from whom he had learned the art.
“Hannibal, I was not trying to—”
“You threw the shovel,” Hanno persisted. “I saw you throw the shovel.”
“Yes, I did throw it, but I—”
“Betto knows I catch bad. He knows.”
“Betto would never hurt you. He is your friend, Hannibal.”
“Friends don’t throw things.”
Betto muttered, “Sometimes they feel like throwing things.” He walked with disinclination to retrieve the shovel. As he passed Hanno he said, “Sorry.” Hanno looked at him as if he were a dog he wanted to pet but was afraid it might bite.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Betto had begun to dig through the dew-topped grass into the moist earth beneath.
“You’ll see.” We were standing just inside the track of the Circus Flaminius up on the Campus Martius. The sunrise was just brushing the tops of the hills to the north. At this hour there were few who shared the arena with us: a half-dozen chariot trainers, their riders and mounts blowing hot clouds as if they burned from within; ten pairs of men practicing with wooden swords and wicker shields in the grassy center of the field, their bare chests slick with sweat despite the dawn’s chill. The shops beyond the colonnade that encircled the stadium were still shuttered. Across the street, the sharp applause of hammers and chisels could already be heard coming from the construction site of Pompeius’ colossal theater. The temple dedicated to Venus Victrix, rising opposite the stage behind the great semi-circle of seating was so tall that, above and beyond the roof circling the Flaminius, I could see the gilt statues of Pompeius and the goddess burning in the morning sun.
I regarded the wooden contraption with disdain. “I thought you were going to show me how to defend myself. What am I supposed to do with this?”
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 10