by Ryan Lew
“There is no need to apologize, Lucilius,” Livius said quickly. “You are always welcome in this house.” He placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Especially on a day like today. We cannot have a legionnaire wandering the streets of Rome.”
Lucilius nodded.
Livius had asked Cato to show Lucilius to the peristylum, an interior courtyard lined with columns. “The fresh air will do him good,” he said. Though not as grand as some, the peristylum of house Livius was well equipped with all manner of plants, flowers, shrubs, and trees. It was Livius’ wife Alba whose hand was evident here. Flowers hung from pots swinging from a veranda between each column, their colorful buds overflowing. Trees, many of which were fruit bearing, sprouted from large clay pots at the front of every column. Chairs and tables were scattered about to encourage relaxing in a leisurely setting. This was where guests were received.
Herminius entered the courtyard. Cato had a high regard for the middle son of house Livius. He carried himself well and was kind to slaves. He was a thinking man with an eye on the senate, and he certainly dressed the part, wearing a bright orange tunic, covered by a patterned robe, a color Cato was sure was intentional. Herminius was the middle son in more than just name. He was shorter than his older brother and taller than his youngest. He had his mother’s soft features and his father’s dark eyes. It was a pleasing combination. If Herminius had a fault, it was his youth. Barely into his twenties, he had much to learn about the ways of men.
Herminius’ eyes fell immediately on Lucilius. “Profound condolences for your loss, Lucilius,” he said, taking hold of his forearm. “Rome will forever celebrate the lives of your parents with tribute and defend their honor. No Roman should ever be forced to suffer such a tragedy, and no son should have to endure the loss of a parent, let alone both parents.”
Lucilius smiled. “Gratitude, Herminius. Your words bring me comfort.”
Atilius was the next to enter. While he resembled his father in appearance, Atilius favored his mother in character. He was not kind to slaves. In fact, he was not kind at all. At seventeen, Livius’ youngest son was eager to take the leap into manhood, to follow his friends into the army. He had been held back a year by his parents. It was a prudent decision on their part. Atilius was not ready to take sword in hand, not ready to listen to orders, or contain himself when the need arose.
As Atilius strode into the courtyard, Cato was reminded of something his father had once told him. Those who run off to sea change their climate but not their mind. Atilius had something to prove, but what that was, Cato did not know. He wasn’t sure Atilius knew either. But he was sure the young man’s troubles would follow him wherever he went.
Atilius rushed over to his friend. “We had heard tale of an uprising, but had no idea the tragedy had fallen upon you and your house,” he said, taking Lucilius’ arm. “Were I in the legion with you, we would hunt down these murderers and ensure their place on the cross.” Lucilius gave Atilius a slow nod.
“It is my understanding their capture has already been secured,” Livius said, looking to Cato for confirmation. Cato nodded.
“Fabricius has already proven his worth,” Lucilius confirmed and was about to continue when Fabricius himself entered the courtyard, still in uniform. At twenty-five, Livius’ oldest son was as tall as he, with a similar build. His face was angular, his eyes deep and sharp. Though they were the color of his mother’s, they had his father’s intensity. Of all his children, Fabricius mostly resembled Livius. So much so, that Cato imagined Fabricius to be Livius’ younger twin.
“Fabricius!” Lucilius called out. He released Atilius’ arm and almost ran across the peristylum. “The centurion who avenged my parents’ murder with a baptism of blood!” Instead of taking Fabricius’ arm, Lucilius took him in a full hug. Caught off guard, Fabricius first raised his hands in the air, then eventually patted Lucilius on the back.
“My thoughts are with you,” Fabricius said, pulling back a bit awkwardly. He was visibly uncomfortable with both the attention and the revelation. By the look on Livius’ face, the announcement was news to him. It certainly was to Cato. Had Fabricius intended to speak to his father about the incident before word could get out, that opportunity had clearly passed.
Lucilius seemed intent on keeping a grip on the centurion. He took hold of his forearm and continued, “Word spread quickly of their capture and your swift disposal of one of the scoundrels. My debt to you, Fabricius, knows no bounds.” He placed his other hand on Fabricius’ shoulder. “Come, disclose to us the speed and circumstances with which you dispatched my parents’ murderers.” He motioned to Cato. “These slaves are shown our hospitality and they return favor with barbarous butchery. For too long, they have enjoyed sustenance and shelter without.”
“We can only imagine the loss you’ve suffered, Lucilius,” Livius said, interrupting. “But we must temper our actions with wisdom and measure our response with intent.” He moved toward the pair. “Fabricius, I’m well assured, acted as commanded, nobly, and with honor.” He extended his hand to his son. Cato knew what he was doing. By offering Fabricius his hand, he gave his son the opportunity to be freed from Lucilius’ grasp. Fabricius seized upon the opportunity and moved away, glancing at Cato over his shoulder, as he walked. Though noticed, Cato did not let the recognition show. He simply stood there, stoically, eyes forward.
It had been nearly seventeen years since Cato offered his services to house Livius. Seventeen years that he could have lived as a free man or died alongside one of the most honorable men he had ever known. But he had an obligation, and he had done well in its realization. He had found another such man, Regulus Duilius Livius. A butcher by trade, Livius had once swung a gladius in the Roman army. Since the time he left the service, Livius had managed both his finances and his position in society with prudence. In the time he had served him, Cato had grown to respect Livius.
Slaves in house Livius were treated well, respected even, as much as slaves can be respected in Rome. At least by Livius. Reprimands were, for the most part, genial and a hand was seldom, if ever, taken. Their quarters were well appointed—better than most Cato had seen, or experienced—and food was never withheld.
Livius turned and put his arm around Lucilius’ shoulder. He walked the young soldier across the courtyard. “You, Lucilius, have been brothers-in-heart with Atilius since you were both young boys. Your presence is always welcome in this house.”
Lucilius had been in house Livius many times. Their domus’ were in the same borgo, and the two boys had become the best of friends. Though Lucilius was a year older, they had spent many hours together sparring, talking, and doing the things young boys do. Now, Atilius was eager to follow him into the Roman army.
“My father speaks all of our thoughts, Lucilius,” Atilius said. “You are a brother to us all.”
“It is settled then,” Alba said, suddenly entering the courtyard. “Until you find your house in order, you will share our roof as your own. It will do us great honor if you would accept.”
Cato raised an eyebrow.
“It is you who honor me and my family,” said Lucilius. “I humbly accept and offer all my services to you and your household.”
“Your presence is service enough, dear Lucilius,” Alba replied, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You will stay with Atilius. His room is the most accommodating. Atilius, have you any objection?”
“No objection here,” Atilius said with a wide grin.
Alba’s eyes went to the blood and Lucilius’ followed. “Perhaps you could start with a washing and change of clothes.” He was noticeably embarrassed. “I’m sure the night’s events have left you drained and disheveled. I will have a bath drawn and fresh clothes brought.”
“Gratitude,” said Lucilius, bowing his head.
“Let’s get you settled in, my brother.” Atilius slapped Lucilius on the back. As the pair left the courtyard, each sent Cato a glare.
Fabricius stepped closer t
o his father. “Is this the wisest move?” he asked softly, leaning in. “Lucilius has demonstrated an impetuous nature in the past. I can only imagine his state of mind at this moment. I fear Atilius idolizes him more than is healthy. His influence may not prove a positive one.”
Though he had intended to be discreet, Alba had heard every word. Cato knew he wasn’t the only one in the house who caught more than he let on. “This was not your father’s decision,” she said interrupting. “It was mine. But I’m sure your father and I share the same thoughts on the matter.”
The change in Livius’ face was almost undetectable—a slight tightening of the lips, a drop at the corners of the mouth. But a good slave knew his masters. Knew when something was amiss, knew when a change in mood had taken place. The only other person who would have noticed it was possibly Alba, but it did not register with her. That, or she did not care. In fact, it seemed more and more lately that Alba did not concern herself with the cares, or needs, of her husband. There were many things of late the two hadn’t agreed upon.
“I meant no disrespect, mother.”
“Rest your mind, son,” Livius said. “I am well aware of the effect Lucilius has on your brother. Your mother’s decision is wise. She understands it is much safer to keep him here, under watchful eye, than to have him running about inciting others with his prejudices. Give him time to settle. It is the right move.” Livius glanced at Cato, who returned the look before facing again forward. It was an exchange noticed by Alba, and it garnered both men a disapproving glare.
The tension was broken when another slave entered the room announcing a guest.
“Well, Livius, it would appear you have lifted young Lucilius’ spirits,” Brutus said as he entered the courtyard. The comment was met with puzzlement. “I passed the two young men in the hallway,” Brutus added to clarify. Livius smiled.
Alba did not.
Marcus Junius Brutus, the Younger, considered himself a family friend of house Livius, especially to Livius himself. Just into his thirties, Brutus worked sparingly under Caesar, more appropriately, he was Caesar’s lackey. It was a position he put up with, for now, hoping it would lead to an appointment in the senate. Still, the position allowed him some refinements, such as the robes he was wearing, ones that easily denoted his station in society, not quite a noble, but possessing a fair amount of wealth—something also supported by his girth.
“Given the gravity of events, it will do him good to stay a few days in this house,” Brutus told Livius. “May the gods guide him on his journey to, shall we say, acceptance.” As Brutus made his way toward Livius, he stopped in front of Herminius and flashed him a quick, almost unnoticeable smile, then continued to Fabricius. “And gallant centurion who nobly expedited the criminals to the cross. Their suffering in this world will ill prepare them for what awaits in the underworld.” Fabricius nodded. Brutus turned again to Livius. “I was informed Lucilius was here and came to pay my respects.”
“Would you please excuse Brutus and I to some conversation?” Livius said to the house. Alba made no attempt to hide her displeasure, but she conceded, leaving with her two sons. After everyone was gone, Livius directed Brutus to a nearby table and offered him a seat.
Cato approached with an ewer of wine and two glasses.
“So, you are quite abreast of the past day’s events,” Livius said smiling. “Wanted to pay your respects? I was not aware you knew Lucilius or his family.”
“I am privy to many things here in Rome. You should not be surprised by that.” Brutus grinned. “Besides, it gave me reason to see an old friend. It has been too long.”
“Have your travels served you well?” Livius asked as Cato poured.
“Enlightening, alarming, refreshing!” Brutus said in a loud voice and raised high his glass of wine in feigned celebration. “The songs of Caesar and the Triumvirate echo in the valleys and resonate in the heart of Rome. Caesar is revered as the only son of Rome, conqueror and statesmen.” He took a drink, then continued more caustically, “How safe the people feel with him at the helm of the senate. And with him in partnership with Pompey, the man who made my mother a widow so many moons ago.”
“And how is your mother?” Livius inquired.
Brutus peered from the glass against his lips and smiled, “When our business here is completed, I am to meet her at Caesar’s domus.”
“Servilia is with Caesar now?” Livius asked. There was perplexity in his voice. It was clear he did not know Servilia had taken up with Rome’s soon-to-be emperor.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Brutus said and took another drink. “This day, and every day that suits him.” The words fell from his tongue like bitter fruit.
“You seem troubled, dear friend. Is there something wrong with your mother?”
“With my mother? No. But I must admit, their relationship brings me no comfort.” He leaned in toward Livius. “Caesar seems intent on rubbing my nose in their affair as one would a dog in his own feces. Despite my continued requests, he refuses to allow me the dignity of collecting my mother outside his place. Instead, he demands I pick her up,” he stopped and scrunched his face as if he had just eaten a piece of distasteful fruit or spoiled meat, “in his bedchamber. He has me collect her in his very bedchamber.” Brutus again paused. He searched the inside of his glass for comfort. “He gives me assignments to aid his future but will not grant me a higher position. He treats us just above dogs, but we have no other choice. If I want one day to be a senator of Rome, he is my best path.”
“It grieves me to hear this, Brutus,” said Livius.
Brutus looked up and smiled a thank you. He paused briefly then said, “My dear friend, how I wish you had found love with my mother and saved her from this abomination. Tell me Livius, why was it not so?” It was a question he shouldn’t have asked. It was unfair, and he knew it, but he loathed the situation his mother was in and couldn’t help but wonder what life might have been like had he been the son of Livius instead of a man he never got to know.
Livius took a deep breath and paused a moment, letting the weight of the past settle, before he answered. “Your dear mother and I have a complicated past.” Like Brutus had done, he searched his own glass for the right words. “But we are two different people,” he said looking up. “I long for the simple things in life, while your mother reaches for the heavens.”
“Is that a bad thing, Livius?”
“Of course not, Brutus. But it does complicate a relationship, and it brings difficulties.” Livius looked off in the distance clearly reliving a memory. But whether that memory was pleasant or hurtful, it was not possible to tell. After a moment, he continued, “You are fortunate to have a mother of such fortitude and spirit, Brutus. She beds the most powerful man in Rome. She certainly could have done worse. I am but a humble butcher, far from the enticement of power and exuberance to which your mother is drawn.”
“You sell yourself far from station, my friend. My mother serves Caesar only in the bedroom and not the heart. He keeps her solvent with scraps and charity. I would have much rather had a simple butcher as a father.”
“You are kind, Brutus,” Livius said with a gentle smile. “I cherish the moments your mother and I shared and recall most with warm memories. I’ve been fortunate to watch you grow from a young child to the man you are today. Rome will be better served when you are in the senate.” Livius paused and looked again to his glass. After a moment, he continued, “Plus, Servilia had much larger aspirations than I could ever, or would ever, achieve. Both of our lives have taken different paths. I am more than content with mine.”
“To contentment, then,” Brutus said and lifted his glass. Livius raised his own, and the two men shared a drink.
Brutus took a quick glance around the room, and seeing Cato standing in the corner, realized the slave had stayed the entire time. Cato was an imposing sight, tall and dark of skin, with a body forged in battle. Cato didn’t dress like a slave, something Brutus was sure Livius arranged to
blur the lines. While most slaves were clothed in a nondescript tunic, Cato was allowed a more conspicuous wardrobe. In fact, he could have easily been confused with a soldier, instead of a slave. He wore a seasoned-leather vest that left his well-scarred arms and shoulders exposed. Leather pants covered his legs.
“Tell me Livius, do you not fear a similar fate as our dear friends last eve with an unshackled brute but a dagger thrust away?”
Livius looked over at Cato, then back at Brutus. “Cato keeps the house in order, and that includes the slaves. For the better part of two decades, he has shared a roof with my family and me. Perhaps knowing of my skill with a knife and cleaver,” he said with a grin, “or having a centurion under our roof alters any thoughts of treachery.”
Livius stood, holding the wine under his nose and taking in the aroma. “But I’d like to think it is how I treat my slaves that makes the difference. I am stern but fair, and that currency fares well in keeping a certain understanding. Lucilius’ house was not of this manner. His parents were more heavy-handed, more cruel. Abuse has a way of festering until one day, it bursts. If you give slaves no other choice but to attack, they will do so. Men have nothing to lose when dying is a better option than living. Tragedies such as the one last night will continue as long as Caesar focuses less on Rome and more on his desire to rule the world.” Livius took a drink and then continued, “Maybe, one day, Caesar will become the great leader he thinks himself to be.”
Brutus stood and extended his arm. Livius put down his glass and took the offered arm with a smile. “I have always considered you a sage disciple of truth. Your graciousness is, as always, coveted and honored. I am glad to know that Caesar has not fooled every Roman. Now I must take leave before darkness covers my path. Give my best to all in your household.”
