Fortuna

by Nicholas Maes

  He shook his head. They were so rough and yet so tender, these puzzling people.

  “You can’t fight slaves on an empty belly, Magnus! Have more sheep! It’s fresh off the grill!”

  “I can’t chase Spartacus if I’m stuffed like Maccus in the fabula Atellanae! It’s Caesar who should eat more! He’s thin as a rake!”

  “If I eat any more, I’ll turn into a sheep and become another face in the crowd!”

  “But at least you’ll grow your hair back, Caesar! Instead of those strands, you’ll have a rug of wool!”

  Felix was watching the proceedings with interest. They were in the triclinium with the other guests, Aceticus, Cicero, and Julius Caesar. The room was spacious, although the ceiling was low. Its mosaic floor displayed a complex design, at the heart of which was Bacchus, the merry god of wine. The walls were panelled and showed scenes of famous myths: Romulus slaying his brother Remus, the Horatii and Curiatii, and Dido cursing Aeneas.

  The room’s arrangement came as no surprise as he’d attended such a feast just the night before. The dining room held three long couches, forming a square with one side missing. Three tables sat in the middle of this space, each laden with platters of food. Crassus was on the head couch, reclining in the middle, with Caesar to his left and Pompey to his right. Aceticus and Cicero were lying across from Felix. Along with Carolyn, he occupied the leftmost lectus.

  “Speaking of Spartacus,” Pompey drawled, “will you be attending me, Aceticus?”

  “Of course, domine,” the historian answered. “I’d be honoured to follow.”

  “What business does an old man have with war?” Crassus asked.

  “He wishes to see the campaign,” Pompey explained, “so that he can describe it in his upcoming book.”

  “I wonder if he’ll mention me,” Crassus growled. “It’s funny how I’m the commander-in-chief, yet no one notices my imperium….”

  Crassus’s remark triggered a discussion with Pompey. As the other guests listened — Caesar seemed amused — Felix addressed Carolyn. She was looking at her plate and was famished still. She’d eaten a few oysters and a boiled egg, but had ignored the sheep, for obvious reasons.

  “Aceticus will be marching with Pompey,” he whispered.

  “That’s good news,” she answered dully. “If Pompey lets us tag along, guarding Aceticus should be easy.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. Look,” he insisted, “you have to eat. Starving yourself won’t bring the sheep back to life.”

  “I can’t believe they’d kill an animal like that.”

  “We would too if we didn’t clone our food.”

  “We don’t clone humans. That doesn’t mean we slaughter them.”

  “You know what I’m saying. They kill these animals because they have to eat. And you do, too. You can’t guard Aceticus on an empty stomach.”

  When Carolyn nodded grudgingly, Felix asked a slave if he could serve her some meat. She bit into it moments later and admitted it was tasty.

  By now the conversation had changed direction.

  “So Caesar,” Crassus asked, setting down his wine, “are you pleased with the congiarium?”

  “Very,” he answered. “It went well.” His voice was deep and beautifully pitched. He was just another guest in the room, but it was impossible for the others to take their eyes off him.

  “It’s a form of bribery and upsets our traditions,” Cicero protested. “These plebs will vote for you in the next elections, but only because you’ve given them free grain.”

  “They will vote for me,” Caesar corrected him, “because I appeal to their reason and not their sentiment. Instead of begging them to keep our ways alive, I ask them to consider where their own profit lies. By approaching them in this logical vein, I’ll make them the equal of their so-called betters.”

  “Be careful Caesar,” Cicero countered. “A state that’s ‘reasonable’ and rejects its past will alter itself beyond all recognition. Who can say what sort of change you’ll usher in and whether it will work to people’s profit or pain? The past binds citizens together, like mortar binding bricks to form a house. If you dispense with it too breezily, people will see no reason to behave as one.”

  “The present owes nothing to the past,” Caesar said with a dismissive shrug. “And you’re not worried about our traditions as much as the change of status that you might suffer. Have no fear, Cicero. By appealing to the plebs’ good sense, the worst I can do is turn them into nobiles like you.”

  “If I knew that was the worst you could do, I wouldn’t complain. But what if the plebs, drunk on reason, throw our mores out and make us like them? Reason is a threshing blade. By all means it harvests the autumn crop, but it trims every stalk to an identical height and allows no excellence to thrive whatsoever.”

  “Equality is the future,” Caesar said with a laugh.

  “And if this equality eradicates our virtue?” Cicero cried.

  “Virtue is just an excuse for sticking with the past. The real values we’re pursuing are comfort and equality.”

  “Virtue is independent of comfort,” Cicero exclaimed. “It shines forth in times of need or plenty, war or peace, labour or leisure. The starving man needs no food to gain virtue, nor the poor man money, nor the sick man health. By championing reason, equality and comfort, and expecting no show of virtue in return, you treat our people as if they were swine and cattle.”

  “Perhaps that’s so,” Caesar conceded, “but it is the future, whether you like or not.”

  As the others spoke in turn, Felix mulled over this exchange. His own world was a product of Caesar’s views, one in which comfort and equality thrived, but in which virtue was practically non-existent. Three days ago he would have quarrelled with Caesar and agreed with Cicero. Now that the world was under threat and the plague was rearing its head again, he was thinking Caesar might be right and comfort was more desirable than virtue. Unless …

  He flinched. Caesar was eyeing him and he had to focus.

  “Gentlemen, we’ve ignored our foreign guests. I gather, adolescens, you are of Gallic descent and a very fine poet. And your cousin is from Aquitania. This is a rare opportunity and I’d like to profit from your knowledge. Tell me. What is Gaul like, the parts we Romans haven’t conquered yet?”

  Caesar winked at the room, as if to say, “Let’s have some fun.” His smile quickly vanished, however, when Felix cleared his throat and addressed his question squarely. If he impressed the group, he told himself, Pompey might let them follow his army and enable them to watch Aceticus closely. At the same time he could have some fun of his own.

  “I’m glad to answer your questions, Gaius Julius Caesar,” he replied. “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres, quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam qui ipsorum lingua Celtae, nostra Galli appellantur. Hi omnes lingua, institutis, legibus inter se differunt….”

  He would later translate for Carolyn: “All of Gaul is divided into three parts. The Belgae live in one of these, the Aquitani in a second, while the third is inhabited by the Galli, who call themselves Celts in their native language. These three peoples differ from each other in their language, laws, and institutions….”

  Like the night before, the guests let out a gasp. All loved to hear first-rate Latin recited, and this little speech was immensely polished. The group applauded loudly and shook their heads in admiration.

  “Last night you feasted us on poetry,” Crassus said, “and tonight you have graced us with this beautiful prose. I can’t thank you enough. You have stirred my spirit.”

  “Adolescens,” Cicero added, “my own Latin is inferior to none, but clearly your gift is equal to mine. What joy to hear such balance and precision! Surely such speech is food for the gods!”

  “I could polish my history for fifty years, and still not achieve your ease of expression,” Aceticus wailed. His tone was heavy and pregnant with envy.

  “For delighting us,” Pompey said, “ask any favou
r and I shall grant it on the spot.”

  Caesar was the last to speak. “I swear, adolescens, if I were to write a book, this would be my style. My head buzzes because your speech is so close to my own.”

  These compliments paid, the men turned to other subjects. Crassus mentioned a plague in the south, and the others discussed this frightening outbreak. Felix turned to Carolyn, grinning widely.

  “You look pleased,” she said.

  “I am,” he answered. “I just quoted from a book that Caesar will write one day. No wonder he enjoyed my speech so much.”

  He explained that Pompey had also promised him a favour. This meant they’d be able to escort his troops and guard Aceticus against assassination. Everything was working out better than he’d hoped.

  “Maybe so,” Carolyn said, “but you’re taking risks. By quoting from these future works, you just might trigger a butterfly effect. If I were you, I’d be more careful.”

  Instead of answering, Felix asked if she was finished with her meat. When she said no, he took some from her plate. The meat was fatty, rich, and delicious. He was thinking he’d never felt so accomplished before, so thrilled, so elated, so appreciated … when a crunch rang out and he grimaced in pain.

  He’d bitten down on a piece of bone.

  Chapter Nine

  “We’ll meet back here in an hour,” Pompey said, his eyes still bleary from last night’s drinking. “Don’t be late because I’m leaving once my bath is done.”

  As a chorus of voices promised to be punctual, Pompey led Caesar into the Balineum Fausti. After a moment’s hesitation, Aceticus followed.

  Before retiring the previous night, Felix had asked Pompey if he and his “cousin” could join his troops. Still delighted with Felix’s speech, Pompey had agreed. Shortly before sunrise his slave had roused them and they’d swallowed down some bread and milk. They’d then followed Pompey to the Campus Martius, along with Caesar and the old historian. As they’d passed the Balineum Fausti, Pompey had decided he needed to bathe and invited the rest of the group to join him.

  “It doesn’t look hygienic,” Carolyn told Felix, surveying a lofty entrance that was set with arches in which pigeons were roosting. The mosaic floor was cracked and faded, garbage was piled in the courtyard’s corners, and the walls’ red brick was pitted with age. An unshaven janitor was scratching at his armpits. It was likely he had body lice.

  “The Romans are known for their cleanliness,” Felix replied. “There are hundreds of baths like this in the city.”

  “That explains why the crowds smell so fresh,” she said acidly. “Still, we haven’t much choice. You’ll keep an eye on you know who?” She gestured to Aceticus.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not a good judge of such things, but he seems less cheerful.”

  “It’s funny you say that. I was thinking he seemed down, as well.”

  “Well, see you later. And don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

  Making a face, Felix entered the men’s section. Navigating a corridor and brushing past a curtain, he came upon the apodyteria. Here he handed his clothes to Pompey’s slave, Flaccus, who folded them neatly and placed them on a shelf. Promising to keep an eye on his belongings, he handed Felix a pair of clogs to protect his feet from the heated tiling underfoot.

  Felix entered the tepidarium, a square hall built of marble and stucco. It was twenty metres long and topped with a dome. The latter was built of travertine marble that was painted with a charming scene of the gods staring down from Mount Olympus. In addition to the handsome decor, the room was toasty warm. The floor was sitting on stacks of tiles (these were known as as hypocausts). They absorbed and spread the heat from a furnace. The more “stacks” there were, the hotter the room was.

  The hall contained a line of tables. Two strangers were lying on a pair of them and slaves were busy massaging their muscles. Groaning as their limbs were pounded, these men talked shop. One was a sausage-seller and complaining how the plague was cutting into his business. Aceticus wasn’t present so Felix passed on.

  Slipping past a curtain, he entered the caldarium. This space was hotter than the previous one and filled with billowing steam. It contained a pool in which a man sat, singing to the room. Moving forward gingerly, Felix almost knocked into a statue. There. Aceticus was in an alcove, the so-called laconicum or hottest part of the bath. He was stark naked, seated on a marble slab and easy pickings for any would-be assassin. Oblivious to his danger, he was rubbing oil into his skin. Again, Felix thought his spirits seemed down.

  “You’ve been abandoned, magister?” Felix asked.

  “Caesar and Pompey require privacy.” The old man sighed. “They’re in the palaestra, which is empty now. So yes, they have abandoned me. But sit, puer. Unless you wish to leave me, too?”

  Expressing thanks, Felix sat on the slab and winced at the touch of the heated stone. He was sweating heavily because of the steam. The man in the pool was singing louder now and his deep voice echoed round the chamber.

  “It should be interesting to see Pompey’s troops,” Felix said, as he reached for the oil and applied it to his skin. It was pleasant to the touch.

  “It is a task I will forego,” Aceticus said tersely. “Once we’ve finished here, I intend to go home.”

  “Oh?” Felix gasped, with a note of worry. If the historian went home, how would they protect him? “Are you not feeling up to the trip, magister?”

  “It’s not my health that concerns me,” the old man said, “so much as my talent.”

  “I don’t understand….”

  “A man like you wouldn’t!” Aceticus cried. His tone was openly bitter now. “When I conceived my Historiae years ago, my intention was to rival Herodotus himself. My learning and insight would have been prodigious, and my language would have cut like tempered steel.”

  He paused and took a strigil in hand, a curved metal blade, about six inches long. Passing this along his arm, he removed the oil he’d applied minutes earlier.

  “After hearing your address last night,” he said, flicking the spent oil into a pail, “I realized how sterile my efforts are. You captured your subject with the force of a soldier, while my Historiae are the work of a man who’s never left his study for the world at large. Until yesterday my writing was a refuge from old age; after hearing you I understand my skills are non-existent.”

  “You exaggerate your failings, domine,” Felix observed, struggling hard to keep his limbs from trembling. Surely Aceticus wasn’t saying…?

  “If anything, I’m being kind to myself.” He had scraped the other arm free of oil and was working on his legs. “Our city is the wonder of the world. Word of our feats will dazzle future generations. Such tales require a brilliant handling and, as your speech taught me yesterday, I lack such talent. It pains me to say so, but I cannot join Pompey and chronicle his feats. His genius deserves better than my mediocrity. So I’ll return to Cremona and burn the pages I’ve written. That done, I shall speedily take leave of this world.”

  “You can’t!” Felix cried. “You have to continue! Your book will be inspiring, I promise!” His voice was so loud that it echoed round the chamber. The man in the pool stopped singing a moment, puzzled by this outburst. Seconds later, he resumed.

  “No, adolescens,” the historian said with a chuckle, flicking more oil into the pail. “If I don’t want critics to laugh at my style, silence is my best defence.” He stood and set the strigil down. “I will dress and bid Pompey farewell. If he needs someone to describe his feats, he can always turn to you.”

  That said, he strode off into the billowing steam. The tapping from his clogs grew steadily fainter as he returned to the tepidarium and proceeded to the changing rooms. Felix felt like vomiting. He’d spoiled everything! Embittered because of last night’s recital, Aceticus wouldn’t write his book. That meant Felix wouldn’t read it and the plague would triumph. Because he’d yearned to show how clever he was, he’d condemned the ent
ire planet to extinction. In fact, he’d done the assassin’s job for him.

  He had to change the old man’s mind! How, he didn’t know, but it had to be done. Grabbing the strigil, he scraped the oil off. He then shot into the steam and left the caldarium behind, along with the man’s loud singing. In the tepidarium he almost slipped in a puddle and had to slow down. Some bathers were leaving the apodyteria and good manners required him to let them pass. When he entered the changing room, Aceticus was gone.

  “The historian,” he asked Flaccus, as he pulled his clothes on, “did he come this way?”

  “He most certainly did.” Flaccus yawned. “But be careful, puer. His mood is sour and he’s inclined to bite.”

  Felix nodded as he draped his toga across shoulders. Rushing to the exit, he knocked into the janitor who was wiping a counter with an evil-looking rag.

  “Go easy, adolescens,” the fat man said. “Our legions can beat Spartacus without your help.”

  Ignoring the man, who screamed with laughter at his joke, Felix ran into the spacious courtyard. There. Aceticus was at its far end with his hands clasped behind him. He looked broken-hearted and Felix racked his brain for something cheerful to say. He barely noticed a figure who was stealing forward. This person was a bit shorter than Felix and dressed in a cloak too large for his limbs. He was also wearing an oversized hood that kept his features hidden.

  “Felix!” Carolyn called. Turning around, Felix spied her. She was exiting the baths and arranging the folds of her palla. She lifted her gaze and saw that Felix was watching. She nodded in greeting then froze in her tracks. An instant later she was racing toward him. With a frown of confusion, Felix spun about. Now he was sprinting forward, as well.

  The hooded guy was rushing the old man. He was two metres off and closing in quickly. In his right hand he was clutching a dagger. There was no mistaking his violent intentions. Aceticus had seen him, too; his sad frown had changed to a look of horror.