by Ryan Lew
“No, Caesar was not there. It was our patrol that was responsible for the first death.” Fabricius wasn’t happy with the direction her questions were taking. He was sorry he had mentioned it to her in the first place. There was only one question left to ask, and it was the one question he wanted more than anything not to answer. He tried to will her not to ask it, but he knew it was coming anyway.
“At who’s hand did the slave die?”
Fabricius looked down and was silent for the longest time, then suddenly stood. “I must prepare for dinner,” he said, his posture more a soldier than a brother. “Please remember what we spoke of regarding Lucilius.”
He opened the door to leave. Justina sat in silence. When he was halfway out the door, he stopped. “Well played today besting Herminius I hear,” he said without looking back in the room. “Clearly, he has no place on the battlefield. Fortunately, he is a natural born talker. He may yet make a great senator.”
Justina was silent.
“What are we to do with you, sister? You seem to refuse to fit into any established role.”
“Why must one fit into a role, brother? What good has that done anyone?”
Fabricius looked down and shook his head. “That dress suits you,” he said and slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Justina sat quite a while in silence, then she stood and fixed her robes in preparation for dinner. “One day, my name will be known to Caesar himself,” she whispered. “The last thing any man who challenges me will feel is the sting of my sword.”
Chapter 8
MARCH 6, 55 BC
The slave hadn’t seen him following. He had been instructed to wait in the entryway, but he was Caesar, and he waited for no one, especially when asked to do so by a slave. He could hear Crassus as he approached the dining room, still undetected.
“Try the sauce, Tertulla,” Crassus said to his wife. “Its sweetness is derived from the honey of Egyptian bees. It arrived this very morning.”
Before his wife could answer, the slave entered the room. “Dominus, Caesar bids an audience…” The words had no sooner left the slave’s mouth when Caesar strode into the room from behind him. As he passed the terrified man, he smiled.
Crassus waved the slave on. “Hail the bull who rushes in with matters far too urgent to observe decorum,” Crassus said without standing. “Apologies for not having set a plate for you at our table, Caesar, but I do not recall inviting you to dinner. I was expecting you a bit later.”
“You invited me, and I have come,” Caesar said, studying the room. Marcus Licinius Crassus was a wealthy man, a very wealthy man. In fact, he was likely the wealthiest man in all of Rome. Like all good Romans, Crassus flaunted his wealth. It was apparent in every part of his life, but no more so than in his magnificent home. Stepping into Crassus’ domus was like stepping into an emperor’s palace. The spacious house surrounded a grand atrium, filled with all manner of plants, flowers, and olive trees. Entrance to the home was gained by passing through a large peristylum, complete with a fountain, in the center of which stood a life-size marble statue of Venus, the Goddess of love, sex, beauty, fertility, and victory, her blond locks flowing in the wind.
A marble bust of Crassus himself, clearly from his younger days, greeted guests. Just above the bust was a relief featuring the Greek hero Meleager attacking a boar with a spear while Artemis, the Goddess of hunting and wild animals, looked on. As was common at the time, Meleager was depicted nude. The walls of Crassus’ house were decorated with colored plaster and the floors adorned with intricate bright-colored mosaics depicting birds, animals, gods, and, of course, people. Crassus even had himself portrayed in battle. A stunning victory over the slave king Spartacus. Dozens of sculptures, mainly of nude women, or men manhandling nude women, filled the great hallway.
“Besides,” Caesar continued, “I have matters I wish to discuss with you before your house fills with eager ears and rampant tongues too quick to spill lies. I’m sure your family has had their fill of food.”
“You wish to discuss Pompey then,” Crassus said.
Caesar was not pleased that Crassus had said the name aloud. “Yes, Crassus,” he said with a glare, “I wish to discuss Pompey.”
He could tell by Crassus’ face that it was best to stop all talk of Pompey until his family left the dining area. He waited as Crassus motioned for all to leave, then took a seat at the opposite end of the table. The room smelled of peacock and ostrich. All manner of apples, oranges, pineapples, and mangos filled bowls placed strategically around the table. Smaller bowls held dates and nuts. Goblets were filled with wine.
“Please, go on,” Crassus said.
“I pray we are of the same mind. That we share the same intentions, and that I may openly speak with confidence.”
Crassus took a sip of wine without offering Caesar a glass, paused, and then answered. “It goes without saying that I share your thoughts on a great many things, Caesar. You may speak freely with me, but it is best you do so only when we are in private. You must be mindful when Pompey is around. His army is a viable match for your own. The two of you may be divorced in aspirations, but you are married in the eyes of the senate and the people of Rome. That is what gives the Triumvirate our power.” Crassus took another drink. “It would be wise to hold back your disdain for the man, certainly the more visible part.”
“What have I to fear from the senate? Those gargantuan lumps are too busy having orgies and living their sumptuous lifestyles.” Caesar lifted an apple from the table, smelled it, and then placed it back in the bowl. “A lifestyle which I graciously provide them and will continue doing so until I rightfully lead Rome, as Emperor.” He reached for a different piece of fruit. “As far as the people are concerned, they bow to me. They worship Caesar.”
Crassus stood and walked to the other end of the table, taking a seat next to Caesar. “I caution you,” he said and leaned into Caesar, his tone much softer. “Share your thoughts openly, but only with me and none other. The walls, even these walls, will echo your intentions, and if those intentions should make their way into Pompey’s ears, it would make things,” Crassus paused, “let’s just say complicated. Like it or not, Caesar, the senate is our ally. Whether that allegiance is gained by respect or fear, it matters little. You must treat them as allies, play the role. Pompey has significant influence in the senate. The end will justify the means.”
“Here we are, Crassus, almost two decades from your defeat of the great Spartacus and yet you still credit another. Pompey has continued to rise because of false tales. You, yourself have injected your support into those tales.” He leaned forward until he was face-to-face with the man. “At what point do we show Rome who he truly is?”
Crassus looked down, then stood and went back to the other end of the table. “Pompey was not completely void of due credit for our victory over the rebel king. Spartacus raised an army 70,000 strong. He was a formidable opponent even for a leader like myself. Pompey’s assistance, although brief, did end the uprising.”
Caesar returned the fruit to its bowl. “You needn’t worry, Crassus. I am no child. I know what is expected of me and will play my role with the senate. I will also coddle your puppet, Pompey, for now. But when the time comes to dispose of good Pompey, I will do so with as much regard as the straw that wipes my ass.”
For the second time that evening, the house slave announcing a visitor interrupted Crassus. “Pompey to see you, Dominus.” Only this time, the visitor didn’t immediately follow the announcement.
“Show him in,” Crassus said and stood. He tried to look noble, but Caesar could see the sweat beginning to form on his brow.
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, known simply as Pompey, was younger than Crassus, but older than Caesar, and while he commanded a large, well-respected army, he looked more like a self-indulging senator these days than a seasoned warrior. His short but curly hair was combed forward in the Roman style and he wore a muted tunic, covered by a leath
er breast plate dyed yellow, emblazoned with his crest, and draped with a bright red robe. When he entered the room, he looked first at Crassus, then eyed Caesar sitting in the chair.
“Good evening, Crassus,” Pompey said, passing Caesar to offer his hand. “It would appear I am late.”
“Nonsense, good Pompey,” Crassus said taking his hand. “Your timing, as usual, is perfect. Caesar himself arrived only moments ago.”
Pompey smiled broadly, but his face betrayed his thoughts. “Good Caesar,” he said, offering his hand. “Or should that be Hail, Caesar? I do hope your timing coincided with dessert?”
Caesar accepted Pompey’s hand without bothering to stand. “Hail, Caesar?” he asked. “Well spoken, Pompey, but a simple curtsy will suffice. And I missed dessert, though I’m certain one of the slaves here can bring you something if emaciation has you wretched.” He dropped his gaze to Pompey’s expanding midriff.
Pompey offered Caesar a forced smile but did not release his hand. Instead, he tightened his grip. He had powerful forearms, and while his middle may have expanded with age, the steel in his arms, forged by sword in hand, had not lessened over the years. The grip caught Caesar off guard, and he adjusted his position. Pompey noticed and seemed pleased. But Caesar was no soft politician. His grip had been tested in battle as well, and he had never once had his gladius knocked free from his hand. Both men worked to squeeze the other into submission, eyes locked, each reluctant to be the first to let go.
Crassus spoke to break the tension. “Shall we all take a seat and discuss the business at hand?” he asked, moving back to his original seat. “Pompey, please, take a seat here by me.”
Pompey’s eyes were slits and his smile tight. It looked as if he was about to take a step toward Caesar when he suddenly chuckled slightly and released his grip. He walked slowly and deliberately to Crassus, then took a seat. But he wasn’t done.
“What is the name of that woman of yours?” Pompey asked Caesar. “The one who attends to all your boyish needs?” Crassus shot Pompey a disapproving look, but it had no effect. “Servilia, isn’t it? As I recall, I killed her husband in battle many years ago but never had intentions on someone so threadbare to take his place.”
Caesar grinned. If Pompey wanted to play games, he was happy to oblige. “You would be surprised at Servilia’s talents. The finest and most experienced whores in all of Rome have never satisfied a man as much as she.” He paused. “That is, for those who prefer a woman’s touch, of course.” He sat back in the chair and lifted one leg onto the other, purposely showing Pompey the bottom of his shoe. The offence was noted. “Of course, her best talent is keeping me from bedding slaves, as is the custom, I understand, with others.” He put his foot back down and leaned forward. “Oh wait, did I not hear that you, Pompey, favor the company of slaves? The same slaves who murder good Roman citizens.”
“Slaves serve a need without entanglement,” Pompey replied. “They have neither voice nor agenda. The same cannot be said for Roman whores.”
“The gods be dammed!” Crassus yelled out. “You two are like a couple of cackling fish mongers debating the price of the day’s catch. Be still, both of you! If you recall, we have business. The reason for our attendance here this day.”
His words cut through the thickness that filled the room, drawing the attention of both Pompey and Caesar. “Take heed and keep your minds to the task at hand,” he continued, “There are many whose land and people we’ve conquered that would take revenge should we forget ourselves and become comfortable. Caesar, your quick handling of the slaves who killed two nights past sends a good message, one I hope will echo throughout Rome. Displaying those who disobey their masters in the market place tomorrow will go far. And Pompey, I pray the senate will be made aware of how quickly and effectively the situation was handled.”
The two military men nodded their heads in agreement. Crassus continued, “Do you recall some fifteen years ago when we met at this same location? The three of us bonding together so no force in the Empire could oppose us. Strong as a fist to rule as we choose.”
Caesar remembered the meeting well. The rebel uprising had just ended, and it was agreed that Pompey and Crassus would be held up as heroes of the battle, though Crassus to a much lesser scale. For his part, Caesar had been leading conquests, expanding the Roman Empire. The three men agreed that day to work together, forming the Triumvirate, for the mutual benefit of Rome, or at least, that’s what they told each other. In reality, Caesar saw it as a stepping-stone to the empire he was destined to rule. There was only one man who stood in his way.
“This walk down memory lane is nice, Crassus,” Caesar said. “But what are you getting at? If you have a point to make, then make it.”
“With both of your various concerns in Rome,” Crassus replied, “I propose to take position of Legatus once again, as we expand our interests abroad, and lead an army to those means.”
Caesar laughed hard. Pompey joined him. Crassus frowned.
“You? The richest cock in Rome, want to lead the charge?” Caesar said. “I would think a man of your station, and years, would rather enjoy the fruits of your past glories and not muddy yourself in the trenches. What have you to gain by such an action?”
Crassus’ eyes drew flat, and his posture stiffened.
“I have to stand with Caesar on this and question motives, Crassus,” Pompey said. “Your sage counsel and wealth have brought Rome the world. War is an ugly thing, as you well know. Surely your battle with the slave king Spartacus hastened that realization. You have achieved by hand, or by proxy, a great many victories. It has come time for you to sit back and enjoy the spoils.”
Crassus had celebrated his sixth decade of life and yet, did not have the body of a man befitting his age. While wealth often brought with it portly stomachs carried on weak limbs, Crassus had not let wealth diminish his physical stature. Still, this was unexpected. Crassus wasn’t just posturing, this was something he truly desired. Glory in campaign. Caesar understood the desire and need to fulfill the thirst that can only be quenched in battle. He also knew when and when not to press an advantage.
“Counting coins brings little solace to a heart intent on the fight,” Caesar said. Though he addressed Crassus, the comment was meant for Pompey. “The glory of battle is exhilarating. It keeps one youthful. I understand your need, Crassus, as just yesterday morning I myself tasted blood. But, Pompey is right on this.”
“I hear what you both are saying and shall take your words under advisement,” said Crassus. He was obviously disappointed and did little to hide it. But business had to be done. “For now, shall we simply enter into an agreement.” He stood. “Your pledge to keep close the senate and the people while maintaining a keen eye on the prosperous future of Rome? Agree and I will continue to pour my wealth and influence upon you both.”
Pompey stood and took Crassus’ hand in agreement. When Caesar stood, Pompey flamboyantly curtseyed, then walked past him without offering his hand. “I shall take my leave, Crassus, so that Caesar may enjoy his dessert.” He turned to Caesar. “Watch for the seeds, good Caesar, we wouldn’t want you to choke.”
After Pompey left the room, Crassus walked to the other end of the table. “You must watch more closely what you say to that man,” he warned. “The two of you are insufferable, and I fear the consequences your words will bring.”
Caesar watched Pompey depart, then suddenly turned to Crassus. “Your wealth may have aided in my rise, Crassus, but the people of Rome love Caesar, with or without your money. It would do you well to keep that thought close as you enjoy the prosperity brought from being associated with the Emperor. I will continue to focus on Rome as you wish, but only because that is my focus, not because you think you have right to command it.” He paused, then returned his gaze to the exit. After a moment he continued, “I loathe that man, but I will endure his insolence until the time when there is no longer any benefit to our association.”
Chapter 9
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br /> Antonia was late, and she knew it. They would all be preparing the evening meal by now and Cato would be wondering where she was. If the gods were on her side, she would be able to slip in unnoticed. She could jump right in to her duties, and Cato would not be the wiser. Unfortunately, the gods cared little about slaves, and instead of sneaking in undetected, she met Cato, arms folded, waiting for her arrival.
“You continue to extend privilege beyond your station, Antonia,” he said looking down at the young slave. “Have we not already spoken of this?”
“I was called by Justina,” Antonia replied, placing an emphasis on her master’s name. “Perhaps you should keep close thoughts of your own station and take less regard for mine, old man.” Cato may have been the head of the slaves, but he was an old man with old ideas, and Antonia was not about to stand there and listen to them. She tried to walk by him, but Cato put his arm out to stop her.
“Your care is but for your own regard, Antonia. Your fraternizing is much too provocative, especially after the last few days’ events. You bring attention not only to yourself, but to the entire household.”
“It is only these walls and your constant scolding that keep me shackled to the reality of my station.” She sent Cato a glare that only a teenager could muster. “Outside these quarters, Justina and I have nurtured a sisterhood. That is something your kind could never understand.”
“It is solely for your own good that I tether you to reality, Antonia,” Cato said, unfolding his arms. “Justina is not your sister, she is your master, your Domina. I too have a rapport with one in this house, someone who confides in me. But I am continually aware that he is my master and it is his will that determines my life. Being old may have taken my hair, but it has also afforded me a perspective of many years. I have seen how quickly a relationship can change from one of camaraderie to one of a dog lying at her master’s feet.”
