The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

“Gag the bastard and get him out of my sight!” Agrippa ordered.

  “Fungulus!” I heard Athauhnu chuckle as he applied the gag.

  IV.

  De Reconciliatione Gabinia

  MY REUNION WITH GABINIA

  Gabinius was right about one thing. Caesar released him from arrest almost as soon as he was notified. However, he did confine him to his villa until he could arrange for his passage back to Rome.

  Caesar also asked Spina Medicus to see what he could do about Iunior’s face. Spina did what he could, but confided in me later that Iunior would never be called pulcher, “pretty boy.” I just wish I could have been a fly on the wall when Iunior had to listen to Spina’s Aventine argot as he stitched up the hole across his face. Caesar decided there would be no official charges—Romanitas, of course.

  Caesar quickly dispatched a detail from his praetorian escort under Agrippa to secure the military harbor. Agrippa reported that there was nothing out of balance with the military accounts and stores. So, at Agrippa’s recommendation, Caesar appointed Macro harbormaster with the rank, pay, and privileges of centurio ad manum, answerable to Caesar alone, through Agrippa, of course.

  Caesar decided to do nothing about the contraband. He explained that he could use the equipment for his own Gallic allies. As far as the other crates that were in warehouse V, Caesar took no official notice, as long as Gabinius’ share reached Caesar’s purse, through Macro and Agrippa—Romanitas, of course.

  I received a summons three days later, the day before we were to return north with Caesar to the army encamped around Bibracte. The message was delivered to my cubiculum by one of the famuli, the household slaves of our host, whom I had never met. It came in the form of an expensive piece of parchment, folded and sealed, smelling strongly of lilacs. It read, “The Lady Gabinia Calpurnia would welcome the pleasure of a visit by Gaius Marius Insubrecus, Decurio Praetorianus Caesaris, this afternoon at the seventh hour.”

  There was no need for a response. The Lady Gabinia Calpurnia could not imagine such an invitation being turned down.

  Athauhnu, who didn’t have much to occupy himself with—except sampling our invisible host’s fine Roman wines and his continuing education in Latin slang—decided to accompany me. We rode over to the villa where Gabinia and her now well-confined brother were staying. The villa was a couple thousand passus to the east, situated on a gentle hill with a view of the city and the sea and surrounded by vineyards. We arrived punctually at the seventh hour.

  I was excited at the prospect of seeing Gabi again. In my mind, she was still the young goddess, Dea Diana, with whom I had taken wild rides up into the green hills of Gallia Cisalpina and with whom I had shared kisses in a magical, Arcadian grove.

  When we arrived, Athauhnu and I were received by the household staff. Although slaves, they were attired in the finest livery. In fact, the maior domus, the supervisor of the household, was well-coiffed and manicured, dressed in a fine linen tunic, and smelled, well, as good as a girl.

  Athauhnu was quite impressed. But, since, at that time, Athauhnu still sported brightly colored Gallic bracae and kept his hair long and his mustachios bushy and down past his chin, the maior domus was significantly less impressed with him.

  As every well-trained domestic knows, it is never good policy to insult a Gallus comatus, a long-haired Gaul, who shows up on your doorstep with a spatha almost three pedes in length and a palmus in width strapped to his waist, especially when that long-haired Gaul is accompanied by a Roman ruffian sporting an apple-sized, reddish-purple bruise on his forehead and wearing a wide military belt, from which hung a razor-sharp pugio.

  So, we were immediately led through the vestibulum, across the atrium, past an impluvium, in which shimmering, crystal-clear water gave life to a gold, blue, and green mosaic of frolicking shepherds, satyrs, and fauns, and finally to the peristylium. The pescina there, which was fed by a bubbling fountain flowing through a satyr’s marble lips, was filled with multi-colored carp gliding silently and gracefully under deep-green lily pads.

  We were seated behind the pillars, out of the sun, and served a light, slightly chilled white wine, a bowl of black and green olives, and cheeses cut into bite-sized pieces. The maior domus announced that he would inform her ladyship that we had arrived. Meanwhile, should we desire anything, the servants would be happy to take care of our every need.

  I noticed the long, somewhat worried look he gave Athauhnu as he left the room. I could have sworn Athauhnu gave him a big wink in return.

  Athauhnu unbuckled his belt, hanging it on the back of a chair, and also removed his baldric, standing his sword in a corner within arm’s reach of his chair. Then, he sat down to enjoy his wine. I removed my soldier’s belt and pugio and hung them on the back of my chair. I was carrying no gladius that day since I assumed that this was a social visit.

  Speaking through a mouthful of olives, Athauhnu said, “Il’ puella tu’, your former girlfriend lives well, eh? Maybe you should give up soldiering and move in here with her.”

  I looked about and said, “Somehow I think the price would be too high.” Athauhnu just shrugged and began sampling the cheeses.

  The Lady Gabinia Calpurnia kept us cooling our heels for a good half hour until finally a young famila, one of her ancillae, her personal maids, came to collect me. We left Athauhnu in the peristylium, quite happy among the wine cups, olives, and cheeses. My belt and pugio remained on the back of my chair. The famila led me back into the house, and we finally arrived at a closed door just across from the impluvium we had passed earlier.

  When the famila knocked on the door, another door to the right opened slightly and a face appeared, the face of a particularly ugly man with a shaved head. The second door quickly closed, and I heard a pattern of knocks, which seemed to be coming from an internal common wall between the two rooms.

  Before I had a chance to puzzle it out, I heard a voice, a familiar voice, calling from behind the door before which I was standing. “Are you going to stand out there all day to tease me, you naughty boy? Intres, carissime! Darling, please come in!”

  It was Gabi!

  I entered the room. The famila remained outside and closed the door behind me. The room was dimly lit; its one window was covered with a white, translucent curtain, which moved slightly in the afternoon breeze. The atmosphere was somewhat cloying, thick with the scent of lilac and roses and with another darker scent, somewhat familiar, but I could not immediately put my finger on it.

  Again, I heard Gabi’s voice, “Are you just going to stand there, Gai? Come here to me! I’ve waited so long for this moment.”

  I looked deeper into the chamber and saw her. She was reclining on a couch. She was draped in a robe of some shimmering white material, which seemed to cling to her body as if the fabric were moist. She held her right arm up to invite me to join her.

  I took a seat in a chair next to her couch.

  “Not there, silly!” she playfully scolded, patting a spot on her couch, “Here . . . next to me.”

  I sat beside her. The fragrance was stronger here, an earthy aroma, moist earth, familiar, but distant, allusive.

  She reached across me to a table that stood next to her couch. She handed me a blue-green glass goblet holding a liquid with a slight yellow tint.

  “Wine?” she invited. “It’s a local Greek vintage, but lovely chilled on a warm day.”

  She picked up her own glass, clinked it lightly on mine and sipped. I drank. The taste was so light it seemed to evaporate on my tongue. Delicious. I tasted sweetness, a fruity sweetness, peaches, apples, an aftertaste of orange.

  “It’s horribly expensive, carissime,” Gabi confided. “But, my man is able to find it for me in Massalia . . . a special place he knows just off the agora.”

  I finally looked at the woman who was describing the wine. I could tell it was Gabi, but she had changed. Into what, I wasn’t sure: A woman? A woman of Rome?

  The girlish ponytail of my riding companion had
been replaced by a careful coiffure, curled and stylishly piled on her head. There were hints of gold in the chestnut hair I remembered from last summer. Her eyebrows were shaped, shaved, and stained black. Her eyelashes were thicker than I remembered, longer. There were hints of light blue above her eyes and a thin line of black kohl below. Her lips glistened, deep red, even in the dim light of the room. There was a slight pink blush high on her cheeks.

  I heard Gabi’s voice saying, “Are you just going to stare at me like some rusticus, Gai? Has the cat got your tongue? Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Glad—” I stammered. “Yes . . . yes, I am . . . I missed you.”

  MISSED YOU? my mind screamed at me. Now you really sound like a bumpkin!

  But, Gabi smiled at me. She didn’t seem to notice or to mind my infantile response. She placed her hand on my thigh. Her fingernails, long and red as blood, scored my flesh, just slightly. The hint of earthy moisture grew stronger, like a fleeting foetor, a faint putor lurking just beneath the light fragrances of lilac and roses.

  “You’re such a sweet boy,” she cooed. “And, I missed you too . . . our long rides into the hills . . . our enchanted little grotto . . . reading poetry. And, what we did. Do you remember? Our last ride before Daddy made me return to Rome.” Her finger nails slightly increased their pressure.

  A wave of heat coursed through my body. I felt as if my face were glowing. The earthy moisture was overwhelming now. It was coming from her, coming from Gabi, so familiar.

  “Where are you, carissime?” I heard Gabi’s voice ask.

  “Huh? Oh . . . sorry, Gabi,” I stammered.

  “I love it when you call me that,” she cooed. “Gabi! No one calls me Gabi anymore. Now I’m Gabinia Calpurnia Matrona. Patronus to poor Piso’s former clients. My friends call me Pulchra. Remember when we talked about that in our enchanted grove? Pulchra poetarum . . . ‘Beauty of the Poets’! What a child I was. You know, I finally met Catullus. Very disappointing. A complete bore.”

  “Poor Piso?” I asked. “Is your husband—”

  “Is he dead?” I swear I heard her chuckle. “Months ago. Ate a plate of his favorite mushrooms and,” she snapped her fingers, “right into Charon’s boat. No heirs. At least none that couldn’t be handled. So, I have his house on the Palatine . . . the villas . . . his clients . . . the slaves . . . and all the rest. But, why would you care, carissime? Piso tried to have you killed. He was a jealous old sod.” She giggled again.

  “Yes, I knew that. But didn’t you—”

  “Now that that weasel’s out of the bag,” she interrupted, “I must apologize for what my silly brother tried to do to you. The boy can’t ever do anything right. But, that’s no excuse. You do forgive me . . . don’t you, carissime?” She seemed to pout a bit. She was stroking my thigh.

  I shrugged, “I paid him back . . . I could never understand why he kept trying—”

  “Trying what?” she interrupted again. Then, she realized what I was referring to. “Oh! That wasn’t Aulus. He gave up after the first attempt . . . never could see anything through, my brother. That was Milo who came after you in Mediolanum. Not Aulus. You surprised Milo, I think. But, that scorta . . . that whore helped you. What was her name?”

  “Milo?” I exclaimed. “Why would one of the chief gangsters in Rome want me dead?”

  Gabi looked away in a pout; she placed both hands lightly over her mouth.

  Then, she began, “Well, Gai . . . he was doing it for me.”

  Her right hand shot out and rested lightly on my chest. “He . . . he was jealous . . . and . . . I was angry at you. I said . . . I said something. I don’t remember what. But, poor Milo got it into his head that he should kill you . . . to make me happy, I imagine.”

  “Angry at me?” I began.

  “You told that awful man . . . Macro . . . the one who worked for Daddy . . . you told him—”

  I swear she blushed.

  “You told him we weren’t lovers . . . and he told Daddy. You can’t imagine how embarrassing that was for me. Clodia and Atia . . . that’s Caesar’s niece . . . they just told everybody. I couldn’t go out of the house for almost a week.”

  “Because we didn’t—” I had to stop. I couldn’t think of a word to finish that thought.

  “I told people, Gai! I told them that you were my lover . . . my wild, Gallic brigand!”

  Gabi was becoming angry. “All my girlfriends were jealous . . . wild . . . They only had those pasty-faced, inbred patrician boys sniffing around their stolae. But, I had you! A wild Gallic rogue . . . carrying me off into the hills. And, you said it didn’t happen!”

  Gabi had worked her way up into quite a pique. “You said nothing happened. And Daddy believed you! Everybody believed you! I was a laughing stock. I couldn’t show my face. That’s why I sent that sicarius . . . one of Milo’s top hitters . . . up to Aquileia.”

  “You?” I stammered. “The fake slave?” I rubbed the scar on my arm. “You sent him?”

  “Of course I sent him!” Gabi hissed.

  Then, she seemed to catch herself. She looked away, caught her breath. Then, her shoulders seemed to shake. When she looked up, she had tears in her eyes. She reached out to me, placed her hand over mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Gai,” she sobbed. “That’s why I invited you here. One of the reasons . . . mostly . . . I . . . I just wanted to see you again . . . I had to see you again. But, I wanted to tell you . . . It bothered me so . . . I’m so glad they . . . they . . . didn’t hurt you. I know now, I could never have lived with that. . . I . . . I—”

  I didn’t hear what she was saying. My mind was in an uproar. Gabi tried to have me killed? No! Not my Gabi! It was this woman. This grotesque parody of my Gabi.

  She was talking, calmly now. “But, that’s all behind us now, isn’t it, carissime? We’re over that. I’m a free woman. My husband’s dead. I have plenty of money. Even Milo’s out of my life. I’m sure Pompeius will buy you out of the army. He owes me so many favors.”

  The hand was back on my leg, the blood-red fingernails, stroking.

  “So what are you saying, Gabinia?” I interrupted. “That I should leave the army? Go to Rome with you?”

  “Well . . . not right away,” she answered. “I need you to do something first . . . not for me . . . for Pompeius. He will be so grateful. He’s a generous man, Gai. He has always taken good care of me. Especially when Milo . . . well . . . never mind that. You are Caesar’s ad manum. Caesar trusts you. You sit in on his war councils. You hear his plans. You even edit his journals.”

  It began to dawn on me where she might be going with this. She wanted me to spy on Caesar for Pompeius! And, in return, she was offering herself!

  “It’s not for Pompeius,” she was saying. “It’s for the good of the res publica. Even Cicero and Daddy agree that Caesar—”

  “No!” I said flatly.

  “What?” she said abruptly as if I were a minor actor, who had stepped on her lines.

  “No,” I repeated. “I won’t betray my commander, my patronus.”

  “Oh Gai,” she cooed. “Stop being such a . . . a . . . a child about this. This isn’t some boys’ adventure . . . some Greek romance novel. You don’t have to play the miles fidelis . . . the faithful soldier. This isn’t some bad drama. This is real. This is me asking. Your Gabi—”

  “I won’t do it!” I insisted. “Pompeius is a self-serving, treacherous bastard, just like that worthless brother of yours . . . just like—”

  “Just like who, Gai?” The actor’s mask had fallen away. She was cold. Her eyes were dead. “Like me? A ruthless, little cunna like me, Gai? Is that what you were about to say? You’re a fool! Stulte! Idiot! I offer you everything . . . luxury . . . riches . . . Pompeius’ favor . . . me! And you say no? No one says no to me! Not Piso! Not Milo! And certainly not some smelly, little paganus comatus, shaggy bumpkin from Gaul!”

  As Gabinia raged, the damp, earthy aroma I had sensed earlier built. It overcame the li
lac and roses; it was becoming overwhelming. A putor. A stink! Then, I remembered where I had encountered it before. In Mediolanum. The house of the blue door. Rufia’s place. It was the smell of sex, lupinarium sex, sex traded for money.

  Gabinia was not finished with me. “Did you see that man in the doorway before you came in here? The one in the next cella? . . . Do you have any idea who he is? Of course not. He’s the brother of the man you had strung up in Aquileia. His brother, Gai! He’d like nothing more than to stick his sica in your gut and watch you for hours, slowly dying. He’s quite good at it, Gai. He’s had a lot of practice up on the Aventine working for Milo. He works for me now, Gai. I told him he couldn’t kill you. Not yet. I still had some use for you. But now, I don’t. You’re useless to me, Gai. A dead man.”

  Suddenly, she called out, “Rosci! Veni! Ad me . . . stat’! Get in here now!”

  In less than a heartbeat, the door to her chamber burst open. Roscius must have been waiting outside for her summons. Another thug stood behind him.

  I stood to face them.

  “Roscius, he’s yours,” she said flatly from behind my back.

  “Here, Matrona?” the sicarius asked.

  “Yes,” Gabinia answered. “I want to see it done right this time.”

  Roscius shrugged and removed a nasty looking crescent-bladed dagger from beneath his tunic sleeve.

  I felt for my pugio. It was still hanging on my chair back in the peristylium!

  There was a sudden flurry of movement in the doorway. I heard a sound like two melons being smashed together. Roscius’ eyes went strangely blank. The sica dropped from his fingers. Both he and his henchman crumbled to the ground.

  Athauhnu stepped across the threshold. He had an empty wine cup in his right hand.

  “Sorry to burst in on you, m’amice,” he said blandly. “Ah . . . this must be the lovely Lady Gabinia I’ve heard so much about.”

  He made a mock bow in Gabinia’s direction.

  “I was looking for one of the servants . . . Ran out of wine, you see!” He held up his empty wine cup. “I saw the commotion through the doorway. Then, I saw that nasty little Roman dinner knife.”