Gordianus The Finder Omnibus (Books 1-4)

by Steven Saylor

  ‘The Spartacans were bearing down on Picentia from the south, heading for the Cup. Crassus sent me to observe and report back on their movements. It’s true, he ordered me not to engage them, not even to skirmish with them, but a lieutenant in the field has to use his judgment. A group of Spartacans became separated from their fellows in a narrow valley; no reasonable military man would have failed to attack them. In the midst of the battle, word spread that Spartacus had set an ambush for us and that his whole army was closing in. It was a false rumour, but panic spread through the ranks. My men bolted and fled. Many were killed. Many were captured and tortured to death. Many threw down their weapons and ran.

  ‘Crassus was furious. He berated me in front of his other lieutenants. He decided to make an example of my men.’

  ‘So I heard,’ I sighed, but Mummius was determined to tell the story anyway.

  ‘They call it “decimation” – the removal of one in ten. It’s an old Roman tradition, though no one I know can remember it ever happening before in his lifetime. Crassus is a keen one for reviving grand old traditions, as you know. He ordered me to identify the first five hundred who had fled – not an easy task among twelve thousand soldiers. Those five hundred he divided into fifty units often men each. The men drew lots. One man in ten drew the black bean. That’s fifty men in all who were chosen to die.

  ‘The units were formed into circles. Each victim was stripped naked, his hands bound behind his back and his mouth gagged. The other nine in each unit were given clubs. At Crassus’s signal a drumbeat commenced. It was done without honour, without glory, with no dignity at all. There are those who say that Crassus did the right thing—’

  ‘There certainly are,’ I said, remembering the grunts and grave nods of approval when the story had been told in the marketplaces of Rome.

  ‘But you’d be hard-pressed to find a soldier who believes that. Discipline had to be maintained, certainly, but it’s no way for a Roman warrior to die, clubbed to death by his fellows!’ He bit his lips and shook his head. ‘But I’m not telling you this story simply to brood over my own bitterness. I thought you deserved to know what became of Faustus Fabius.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did you ever hear of his fate?’

  ‘I know that he never came back from the war. I kept my ears open in the Forum for news about him. I heard he died in combat against the Spartacans.’

  Mummius shook his head. ‘No. Crassus somehow arranged to have Fabius inserted among the men chosen for the decimation. Naked, bound and gagged, there was nothing to identify his rank or station. When the clubbing began, I forced myself to watch, along with Crassus and the other lieutenants. They were my men, after all; I couldn’t turn my back on them. Among the victims there was one who managed to spit out his gag; he kept screaming that a mistake had been made. No one else paid any attention, but I ran over to take a closer look.

  ‘A moment later and I would never have recognized him, not after the clubs struck his face. But I saw him clearly enough. It was Faustus Fabius. The look in his eyes! He recognized me; he called my name. Then they knocked him to the ground. They crushed his skull and beat him to a bloody pulp, until you could hardly tell he was a man at all. What a horrible way to die!’

  ‘No more horrible than the deaths of Lucius Licinius or Dionysius; certainly no more horrible than the fate that Crassus had in mind for the slaves.’

  ‘Even so, for a Roman patrician and officer to die such a shameful death! I stared at Crassus in horror. He wouldn’t look back at me, but I saw a smile on his lips.’

  ‘Yes, I know that smile. Here, drink more wine, Marcus Mummius. Your voice grows hoarse.’

  He swallowed the wine like water and wiped his lips. ‘The war didn’t last long. Six months, and it was over. We trapped them like rats at the southern tip of Italy and destroyed them. Crassus had the six thousand survivors nailed to crosses along the Via Appia.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  Mummius smiled faintly. ‘Fortune nodded to Marcus Crassus, but she smirked as well. A small band of the Spartacans escaped and made their way north, just in time to meet Pompey’s army returning at last from Spain. Pompey crushed them like ants beneath his heel and then sent a letter to the Senate, claiming that while Crassus had done a worthy job, it was he, Pompey, who had finally put an end to the slave revolt!’ He laughed, and some of the colour returned to his cheeks.

  ‘Why, Mummius, you sound as if you’d changed camps and become a partisan of Pompey.’

  ‘I’m no man’s partisan now. I’m a war hero, didn’t you know? At least that’s what my family and friends told me when I came back to Rome. They’re the ones who made me stand for Praetor Urbanus. I’d rather be in a tent under the stars, eating out of a wooden pot.’

  ‘I’m sure you would.’

  ‘Anyway, Pompey and Crassus have made peace with each other, for the moment. After all, there are two Consuls every year, so each of them gets to be Consul. Of course, Pompey received a full triumph for defeating Sertorius in Spain, and the Senate would only allow Crassus an ovation for defeating Spartacus; there can be only so much glory for beating a slave. So while Pompey entered the city with trumpets and a chariot, Crassus followed behind on horseback to the sound of flutes. But he did manage to talk the Senate into letting him wear a laurel crown, not just a myrtle wreath.’

  ‘And the great feast he hosted this month?’

  ‘In honour of Hercules. Why not, since Pompey dedicated a temple and held games in honour of Hercules at the same time! They go back and forth, stealing one another’s thunder. Still, Pompey can’t claim to have sacrificed a tenth of his wealth to Hercules and the people of Rome, as Crassus did. It takes a very rich man to be a successful politician these days!’

  I looked at him sceptically. ‘Somehow, Marcus Mummius, I don’t think that you came to visit me after all this time just to gossip about politics, or even to tell me the fate of Faustus Fabius.’

  He looked back at me with equal shrewdness. ‘You’re right, Gordianus. I can’t fool you for long. Though I will say that you’re one of the few men in Rome with whom it would be worth sharing gossip – I feel I can speak to you honestly. No, I came with other news, and to offer you a gift.’

  ‘A gift?’

  At that moment one of the slave girls caught my eye. ‘More visitors,’ she announced.

  Mummius was smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘Yes?’ I said.

  ‘Two slaves, master. They say they belong to your guest.’

  ‘Then show them in!’

  A moment later two figures appeared in the peristyle. It was Apollonius who caught my eye first. He was as striking as ever. From behind him a smaller figure came racing headlong into the garden and was upon me before I could steady myself in my chair. Meto wrapped his arms around my neck and sent me tumbling backwards. Eco laughed out loud.

  Mummius rose and extended his hand. Apollonius stepped forward, walking with a slight limp. Together they pulled me to my feet.

  Meto stood grinning at me and shuffling from foot to foot, suddenly shy. He had grown considerably since I had seen him, but was still a boy.

  ‘Marcus Mummius, I don’t understand. Crassus told me—’

  ‘Yes, that he would disperse the slaves to the ends of the earth, beyond recall. But Marcus Crassus isn’t the cleverest Roman, you know, just the richest. My agent found Apollonius in Alexandria. His new owner was a cruel man, and not disposed to part with him. I travelled there last summer, after the war was over and before the election campaign began in the autumn. To loosen the man’s grasp I had to resort to Roman persuasion: a little silver, a little steel – such as a sword pulled halfway from its scabbard – and just the right tone of voice to set a fat Egyptian quivering.

  ‘Apollonius was weak from mistreatment and fell sick on the journey to Rome. He was ill all through the autumn and winter, but he’s recovered now.’ Mummius scratched his bare chin, and a glimmer lit his eye. ‘
He says I look better without my beard.’

  ‘And you do!’ said Apollonius, smiling affectionately.

  ‘I suppose I’ll eventually get used to it.’

  ‘Does Crassus know?’ I said.

  ‘About my beard? Ha! No, you mean about Apollonius. Maybe, maybe not. I don’t see Crassus very often nowadays, except when duty demands it. He isn’t likely to encounter my household slaves in the normal course of events, and if he does, I shall say to him, “Why else did Romans fight and die against Spartacus, Marcus Crassus, except to protect the right of a citizen to own slaves as he chooses?” I don’t fear Crassus. I think he’s much too busy matching strokes with Pompey to fret over an old spite against me.’

  He reached out to tousle Meto’s hair. ‘It took me longer to track down this one, though he was only down in Sicily. Quite a few of the other house slaves ended up there, sold as a lot. The stupid farmer who bought him ignored his training and put him to work in the fields. Isn’t that right, Meto?’

  ‘He made me play scarecrow in the orchards. I had to stand out in the hot sun all day to scare them off, and he wrapped my hands up in rags so that I couldn’t eat the fruit off the trees.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ I said, swallowing to clear a sudden lump in my throat. ‘What about Alexandros, the Thracian?’

  Mummius’s face darkened. ‘Crassus sent him to work in one of his silver mines in Spain. Slaves usually don’t live long in the mines, even strong, young slaves. I sent an agent to try to buy him, anonymously, but the foreman wouldn’t budge. Word must have got back to Crassus; Alexandros was transferred from the mines to a galley – the Fury, in fact. Even so, I still hoped to save him. Then, only a few days ago – on the very day that Meto arrived in Rome – I learned that the Fury had been raided and burned by pirates off the coast of Sardinia. A few sailors escaped to tell the story.’

  ‘And Alexandros?’

  ‘The Fury was sunk with the slaves still chained to their posts.’

  I sighed and gritted my teeth. I threw back my head to empty my cup and stared at the sunflowers that nodded in the breeze. ‘A death more terrible than that of Faustus Fabius, I should think! He might have saved himself if he had stayed hidden in that cave, if he hadn’t come forward to identify Fabius. But then Apollonius and Meto would not be alive today. What a remarkable people these Thracians are! Does Olympias know?’

  He shook his head. ‘I had hoped to surprise her with good news. Now I think I shall never tell her.’

  ‘Perhaps we should. Otherwise she may hope and hope, to no end. Iaia is wise enough to find a way to tell her.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  For a long moment there was silence in the garden, except the rustling of a cat among the asters. Mummius smiled.

  ‘You see, I waited to call on you until I had a surprise for you. Meto is my gift to you. You told Crassus that you wanted to buy the boy, didn’t you? It’s the least I can do, to thank you for saving Apollonius and the others.’

  ‘But I wished to buy him only to save him from Crassus …’

  ‘Then take him now, please, if only to spite Crassus! You know that the boy is clever and honest; he’ll be a credit to your household.’

  I looked at Meto, who smiled at me hopefully. I thought of him with his hands wrapped in rags, hungry and hot, chasing after crows in a dusty orchard.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I accept your gift, Marcus Mummius. Thank you.’

  Mummius grinned broadly. Then an odd look passed over his face, and he rose hurriedly to his feet. I turned and saw that Bethesda had entered the peristyle from the direction of the kitchen.

  I took her hand in mine. Mummius made a funny, bashful face and shifted about nervously, as men often do in the presence of a very pregnant woman.

  ‘My wife,’ I said. ‘Gordiana Bethesda.’

  Mummius nodded dumbly. Behind him, Apollonius smiled. Little Meto looked up at Bethesda’s looming belly with parted lips, clearly in awe of his new mistress.

  ‘I can’t stay long in the garden,’ Bethesda said. ‘It’s much too hot. I was on my way to lie down for a while, but I thought I heard voices here in the peristyle. So you are Marcus Mummius. Gordianus has spoken of you often. Welcome to our home.’

  Mummius only swallowed and nodded. Bethesda smiled and withdrew. ‘Oh, Eco,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘come along and help me for a moment.’

  Eco nodded to our guests and followed after her.

  Mummius cocked an eyebrow. ‘But I thought …’

  ‘Yes, Bethesda was my slave. And for years I was very careful to avoid producing another slave by her. I wanted no children of my own blood, certainly not slave children.’

  ‘But your son …’

  ‘Eco came into my life unannounced. I thank the gods every day that I had the wisdom to adopt him. But I saw no reason to bring a new life into such a world.’ I shrugged. ‘After Baiae something stirred in me. Bethesda is now a freedwoman, and my wife.’

  Mummius grinned. ‘And now I see what you were busy doing nine months ago, last December, instead of going out to watch Crassus’s ovation!’

  I laughed and leaned toward him. ‘Do you know, Mummius, I believe it did occur on that very night!’

  Eco suddenly appeared at the far end of the peristyle. The two slave girls flanked him. All three wore expressions of shock, dismay, confusion, and joy.

  Eco opened his mouth. For a long moment he seemed to be mute again. Then the words tumbled out. ‘Bethesda says she’s ready – she says it’s beginning!’

  Mummius turned pale. Apollonius smiled serenely. Meto whirled and clapped his hands. I rolled my eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Another crisis arrives,’ I whispered, feeling suddenly fearful, and then impossibly elated. ‘Another story begins.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although he attained fabulous wealth and shared in the First Triumvirate with Caesar and Pompey, Marcus Licinius Crassus is universally regarded as one of history’s biggest losers. His crucial mistake was getting killed in his ill-conceived campaign against the Parthians in 53 BC, at the height of his power and prestige. Decapitation has a way of making even the richest man in the world irrelevant.

  There are two biographies of Crassus in English. Allen Mason Ward’s invaluable Marcus Crassus and the Late Roman Republic (University of Missouri Press, 1977) is meticulously researched and argued; F.E. Adcock’s Marcus Crassus, Millionaire (W. Heffer & Sons, Ltd., Cambridge, 1966) is essentially a long, elegant essay. Ward is sometimes forgiving to a fault, as when he writes of Crassus’s decimation of his own soldiers: ‘Times were desperate, and desperate measures were needed … it would not be fair to criticize Crassus’s behavior as unnaturally vicious.’ Adcock, on the other hand, may be too glib when he writes of the young Crassus: ‘He did not wear his heart upon his sleeve, and it might be doubted whether he had a heart to wear.’

  Our chief sources for the Spartacan revolt are Appian’s History and Plutarch’s Life of Crassus. Original source material on other slave uprisings, and on Roman slavery in general, can be found in Thomas Wiedemann’s Greek and Roman Slavery (Routledge, London, 1988).

  The most comprehensive guide to Roman painting, potions, and poisons is Pliny’s Natural History, which also supplies our scant knowledge of Iaia and Olympias. Those interested in the mythic properties of the Sibyl of Cumae may consult Virgil’s Aeneid. References to food are scattered through many sources (the Pythagorean comment on beans in chapter 7, for example, comes from Cicero’s On Divination), but the richest larder of information is Apicius; adventurous cooks and armchair gourmets may consult The Roman Cookery of Apicius (Hartley & Marks, Inc., 1984), translated by John Edwards with recipes adapted for the modern kitchen.

  Every now and then a researcher discovers a previously unknown volume that fits his needs with uncanny precision. So it was when I discovered Romans on the Bay of Naples: A Social and Cultural History of the Villas and Their Owners from 150 B.C. to A.D. 400 (Harvard University P
ress, 1970), by John H. D’Arms. It was a book I longed to read even before I knew it existed.

  For small details and matters of nomenclature, I consulted on an almost daily basis a massive, musty, 1300-page edition of William Smith’s unsurpassed Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities (James Walton, London; second edition, 1869), and to a lesser extent Everyday Life of the Greeks and Romans by Guhl and Koner, another nineteenth-century reference work (Crescent Books, reprinted 1989).

  My adaptation of Lucretius’s ‘Why Fear Death?’ (following Dryden’s translation) for the funeral in chapter 16 is arguably anachronistic, given that Lucretius’s On the Nature of the Universe was not published until around 55 BC. However, I like to imagine (and it is possible) that in 72 BC Lucretius, still in his twenties, might already have been working on early drafts of his great poem, bits of which might have circulated among the philosophers, poets, and performers who lived on the Cup.

  I want to say thank you to some people whose personal interest in my work and professional support of my career have been unflagging: to my editor Michael Denneny and his assistant, Keith Kahla; to Terri Odom and the Odom clan; to John W. Rowberry and John Preston; to my sister Gwyn, Keeper of the Disks; and of course to Rick Solomon.

  A library figures prominently in this novel – the library of Lucius Licinius is the scene of the murder. In the here and now, it is libraries which are being killed – cut back, shut down, dismantled and dispersed, book by book and dollar by dollar. Yet without them, I could hardly have done my research. I especially appreciate the San Francisco Public Library, severely shaken but not shut down by the earthquake of 1989; the Interlibrary Loan system, which allows access to volumes from collections all over the country; the Perry-Castañeda Library on the campus of the University of Texas at Austin, where I’ve spent whole days among the stacks in a kind of information ecstasy, uncovering material for both Arms of Nemesis and its sequel, Catalina’s Riddle; and the Jennie Trent Dew Memorial Library in Goldthwaite, Texas, where in a sense all my historical research began some thirty years ago.