“Do watch out for the dogs—any suspicious movement or the command of the dominus and you’ll be gnawed to pieces quick as Pan. Here we are.” The slave halted. “Give me just a moment to address the master. If he is busy, he certainly will not appreciate the interruption.” I wiped my damp palms on my toga and bounced anxiously on my toes as the old slave opened a folding wooden door and disappeared.
It seemed an eternity before Crito returned. “He’s ready to see you, lad!” He leaned in and whispered, “He’s a bit ornery when you first meet him, but that’s just due to his weariness. His charms don’t shine through right at the offset, but you’ll come to admire him, I’m sure. I’ll be at the door if you need me!”
Here it was, the beginning of my destiny—and the last hope for my mother and my people. Needless to say, I was anxious—still would be, I think.
When I entered, Gnaeus Caepio continued scribbling on an old piece of parchment. He sat slumped in an ivory chair much like the consular chair I knew he had been voted into thirty-one years earlier. He was old—older than I’d expected, even though I knew he was well weathered in politics, his accomplishments dating back to before my father had even donned his toga virilus. Still, though, I figured a man of his reputation and vitality would be imposing. But Caepio was wrinkled and drastically overweight, his hair desperately attempting to cover the crown of his head. It wasn’t until he looked up that I noticed it: ice-blue eyes beneath two bushy white eyebrows, revealing a fixed desire, almost a hunger.
“What is it?” he sighed.
“I-I am a c-client of yours, Quintus Sertorius.” In that moment, my childhood stutter returned uncontrollably.
“I receive my clients in the morning, as is custom. You can return to me tomorrow,” he said, turning back to his writing.
“He is Proculus’s son, Gnaeus,” said a voice behind me. The sound was soft, it nearly startled me to death. I turned to see the wife of Gnaeus Caepio, who then and always stood with an elegance and grace that remains unmatched by any Roman matron I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. Her hair was dark and streaked with gray, her nose beaked, and her cheeks prominent. Though her face wasn’t particularly attractive, she made up for this with an excessive amount of makeup and bright-red lip coloring. Her frame was thin. “Greetings, Sertorius. I am Caecilia Metella, wife of Gnaeus.” She smiled and held out her small hand gingerly. I was unused to such formalities in Nursia and was confused for a moment before hastening to kiss it.
“Good d-day, ma’am.”
“Gnaeus, you remember Proculus, don’t you?”
“Yes … yes I do.” He leaned back in his chair and squinted, starting to put the pieces together. “What can we do for you, Quintus?”
“Call him Sertorius, Gnaeus. He is the leader of his family now, after all—not a boy.” She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me. I must go. It has been a pleasure, Sertorius.” She left the room, the scent of her perfume wafting behind her.
“Very well, what can I do for you, Sertorius?” He rubbed his weary eyes.
“I’m here to learn the ways of the Forum, sir, and to offer whatever support I may to your cause.”
“Ah yes …” He stood and lowered his eyes, balancing two fingers on his desk. “Was it not your brother Titus who showed up at my door less than two years ago with the same proposition?” Suddenly he looked up, his blue eyes piercing mine.
“It was, sir.” Really, I could say no more than that.
“For that insult alone, I should refuse you. But your father was a good and loyal client for many years, and for that, I will have you.” My mouth opened, but I could find nothing to say. “Your brother developed a great many misconceptions about Rome and her politics. I hope you will not do the same?”
“No, sir. I have no conceptions at all about Roman politics. I hope to learn them from you and your family,” I said.
“Good.” He returned to his seat. “You’ve already proven to be superior to your brother, then, specifically in your demeanor. He had a way of … not understanding his place.” I balked inwardly at the thought of being my brave and noble brother’s superior in any way, but offered no retort. After all, my silence may have been the quality that impressed him. “I want to ask you now, young man, what do you know of me? Of my family?”
“I know that you rule Rome. You are in a close network with the Metelli, the Scaevolae, and the Aurelii Cottae, as well as other leading consular families in Rome. I know that you and your brother were consuls consecutively thirty-one years ago.” With more agility than I presumed he had, he leaped from his chair and approached me.
“You mention my brother and I. Two dusty old men. One of which is barely sane. Yet you do not mention my son. What do you know of him?” He locked eyes with me.
“I know that we share the name Quintus.” I fumbled through my memories but could find little else.
“By the gods, you’re right! And you had better remember that name, too. My son is going to be consul soon, and he will take Rome back to the days we only dream of now. Let me give you your first piece of advice, boy; stop worrying about old dates and old men. Those things mean nothing now. Focus on the future. That is what you must prepare for.”
“Yes, sir, I can do that.”
“Tonight, however, you will show respect to those dusty old men and play the sycophant to the best of your ability. My wife and I are hosting a dinner party for the families you mentioned, which means you will have the rare opportunity to dine with the most elite men in Rome. You will not be eating our food, though, of course.” I had presumed as much, but his reminding me made me uncomfortable. “My slaves will see to it that you are properly bathed… . You look like a farmer and you smell like horse shit. I will not be embarrassed by any client of mine when the Father of the Senate is here, do you understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
“Good.” He waddled back to his ivory chair and returned to whatever he was working on. “You’re dismissed.” I bowed and lowered my head, my heart still beating in my throat.
TO SAY THE LEAST, the bath I was given then was unlike any other I had taken previously. When the water in our home was frozen, the only bathing available was in the stream in the north corner of the city. Those youthful cleanings were the coldest and fastest I’ve ever endured. Caepio’s baths, however, were so hot that I felt Vulcan himself must live beneath the home.
Silent slaves lathered me in oil and lavender, taking away my toga (I assumed the provincial stink of it was just too much for Caepio’s honored guests) and presented me with a heavily scented one. They styled my hair, ensuring that every strand was perfectly delineated. I was uncomfortable and felt like an imposter. It was not long before I realized that this practice is very much the status quo in Roman high society.
As the slaves escorted me back through the long, torch-lit corridors to the tablinum, a shrill laugh greeted me. Caecilia was welcoming the first of the honored guests, and it was he who spotted me, causing Caecilia also to notice me. She’d painted her face more heavily even than before, and her plain black-and-white hair was now covered in a fire-red wig piled magnificently high.
“Oh, Sertorius, how wonderful! Cincinnatus in the flesh! Please, come—allow me to introduce you. This is the former consul, Lucius Aurelius Cotta, our in-law. Cotta, this is Quintus Sertorius, a provincial client of ours who has come to us to learn the ways of the Forum! What a marvelous meeting this is, to see a robust Italian greeting a magistrate of Rome! It’s symbolic.” She tapped the tips of her fingers together delicately.
“Greetings, sir. It is an honor. The first time I came to Rome for the elections, I voted for you,” I said honestly, as he halfheartedly accepted my proffered hand.
“R-really? I feel quite honored. Well, I th-thank you for your help, young man,” he stammered as the slaves perfumed and dried his feet. Cotta’s legs seemed awkwardly thin, though his arms were flabby and his face was round like his nose. He did appear noble and seemed
to belong in the toga he wore, but altogether he looked fragile and waning. His limbs shook slightly and his eyes blinked often. Cotta was different than I’d imagined him, but I admired his meek demeanor and his stutter, which reminded me of my own.
Caecilia led the two of us back to the center of the atrium where lanterns burned brightly on candelabra, shining on the water in the impluvium and sending shadows of flower petals across the walls. All the while, Caecilia continued talking pleasantly. But it was only moments before new guests arrived in the entryway amidst a cortege of slaves. When she saw who’d arrived, Caecilia dashed back to the entryway, her arms thrown wide.
“My baby boy! My baby boy!” she exclaimed as she embraced the grown man entering the room.
“Hello, Mama,” he said as he squeezed her like a child would. I stifled a grimace. What an awkward display. I would have been ashamed if my mother ever made such a public spectacle of me—even though we’d always been very close. But rather than displaying embarrassment, Caecilia’s son clearly basked in her attentions.
“How was your ride, Quintus? Do tell!” she said, completely ignoring her daughter-in-law, whose name I later learned was Junia. Entering behind her husband, Junia stood in plain clothes and with slumped shoulders. Still, it was clear even to a provincial like me that she was extraordinarily beautiful. Yet for some reason, she didn’t seem to fit in.
“It was marvelous, Mama. It’s only about a two-day journey, but Puteoli sure is stunning this time of year, don’t you think, Junia?” He turned to his wife.
“Certainly, husband,” her voice was soft, expressionless.
“Well, I am glad the villa is still in decent shape. Your father takes less and less interest in it. He never wants to take his eyes away from his precious documents. The man is consumed with politics. But enough of that—enough of that. Gnaeus!”
After a long pause, Caepio waddled into the room. “Oh, son, what a pleasure. How was your little holiday, eh? I hope you enjoyed it. While you were playing in the ocean, I was molding you into a powerful man.” Even to my untrained ears, displeasure mingled with the humor in his voice.
“I did enjoy it, Father. Thank you for allowing me the use of the villa, and thank you for your aid.” He glanced uneasily at his mother, and I spotted his fingers tightening on Junia’s hands.
“Gnaeus, did you see our other guest?” Caecilia said, evidently supposing her husband must not have spotted Aurelius Cotta, or perhaps he wouldn’t have spoken so openly.
“Dear Cotta, what a pleasure it is to see you here tonight! What a pleasure,” Caepio said, shaking Cotta’s hand and nodding fervently.
“Oh, you t-too, dear Caepio. Thank you for such a kind invitation. I usually don’t come out this late in the evening, but how could I ref-refuse such a kind offer? Where is my sister?” Cotta asked, looking about the atrium.
“She and my brother haven’t arrived yet. And you know how sick he has grown … in his mind. It’s likely she may come alone,” Caepio said.
“Caecilia,” Cotta began. “I know the guests aren’t all here yet, but I am v-very much in need of rest. I would like to recline for but a moment, if you would allow me to be so rude.”
“The triclinium is right this way. We’ll all go—come along!” she replied, and I followed the procession to the dining room until I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was that of Gnaeus’s son, Quintus Caepio.
“Ave, Sertorius.”
“Salve, Patron. You are Gnaeus’s son?” I asked. I had never met him before and was stunned he already knew my name.
“Yes, I am. I apologize that I was not present at your arrival; I was off on a little adventure with my wife and my son, Marcus. But clients of ours are always welcome in our home, and we will help you in any way we can—so long as you will help us.” He stood rather awkwardly for a man of increasing power.
“Are you planning to run for office, sir?”
“As a matter of fact I am, although the public doesn’t know this yet. I’ll be running for consul, and with the support of my family, I have no doubt my campaign will be successful. Even still, I desire your support.”
“Of course, sir. I’ve always dreamed of seeking public office myself,” I replied, doing all I could to maintain eye contact. He stood awfully close when he spoke—a habit that, I remember now, made myself and others slightly uncomfortable.
“A good dream for a Roman. And with our help, there is no doubt you can achieve it. Well … don’t expect to be consul or anything… . I mean to say, don’t get your hopes too high … the consulship is reserved for the elite, after all …” He droned on, while I tried to keep my expression blank. Eventually, he looked away uncomfortably and with an, “Excuse me,” he moved on without further ado.
In the dining area, we were ushered to our couches by designated slaves as other guests began to join us. First came Marcus Scaurus preceded by a lictor, who shouted, “Make way! Princeps senatus, Marcus Aemilianus Scaurus has arrived! The Father of the Senate, Scaurus, has arrived!” Scaurus entered, his arm linked with that of his wife, Dalmatica. Well into his fifties, Scaurus was an impressive man. Though of average height, he was in great physical shape; his skin was tanned and his teeth white as doves, and though his black hair was sprinkled with gray, he had lost none of his youthful vitality. His face, too, was totally and utterly masculine.
Scaurus smiled suavely. He offered everyone in the room an equal amount of time and attention. To my surprise, he even addressed me, and rather than asking for my name, he seemed to assume that we’d met before and shook my hand without any introduction. When Gnaeus mentioned that I was his client and had come to learn the ways of the Forum, Scaurus turned to me and said, “Well, I salute you for doing your duty as a Roman citizen.” Over time, I came to learn that Scaurus—perhaps more so than any of the others—rarely spoke without such words as “duty,” “glory,” and “Republic” pouring from his lips.
MORE CALLS ROSE from the entrance. “Pontifex Maximus Lucius Caecilius Metellus Dalmaticus and his brother, former consul Quintus Caecilius Metellus Numidicus!” Though the two men walked in together, they carried themselves with very different postures. The former was heavyset and far older, and he slouched. He had a jolly red face with a protruding chin, dull eyes, and a balding head that he made no attempt to hide. He didn’t appear to be much of a patrician, but rather looked as rough as any pleb in the street. His smile was wide and he had laughter in his eyes, like he was preparing to tell a good joke. Numidicus, however, was very differently composed. Although not as naturally attractive as Scaurus, he had a presence one couldn’t help gravitating toward. Upon entering, he did not smile but raised his hand with a small flourish like a triumphant general—as, of course, he was, having returned earlier that year from war in Numidia, where he received his agnomen.
“Greetings,” Numidicus said in a serious tone, while Dalmaticus laughed heartily as he embraced his sister Caecilia and his daughter Dalmatica, both of whom rose from their couches to greet him.
“Who’s ready for some food, eh?” Dalmaticus’s voice boomed. The brothers were ushered to their places as Caecilia praised them both. Numidicus remained indifferent to the compliments, but Dalmaticus seemed almost irritated. “All right, all right!” he cried. “We can talk more when I have some wine in my gullet and meat in my belly!”
Finally, a great many slaves entered the room carrying trays full of delicacies I had never seen before: oysters, flamingo, dormouse, I later learned. I, of course, was given lesser foods than these. My bounty was the figs leftover from the first course.
IT QUICKLY BECAME apparent to me that patricians dine together not for the food, but for the gossip and conversation. They picked from their delicacies abstemiously—save Dalmaticus, who gorged himself rather crudely and blurted only infrequent comments. While the women were present, the conversation remained civil—primarily city gossip and witty banter. After several hours, however, the women were ushered away to their litters and taken h
ome, while the men stayed behind. And then the purpose of the dinner became clear.
Gnaeus got to his feet. He said, “My good men, I thank you all for joining me at my abode. It has been a pleasant evening, but now it is time to discuss weightier matters. I know you understand why you are here.”
“By the gods, he’s got that right. This meeting has been a long time coming,” Numidicus said, almost to himself.
“At this time last year, we were sluggish in planning for the elections—and look at what has been the result,” said Gnaeus.
“We need look no further than our current consuls. Gaius Marius, who parades himself through Africa like a King—” Scaurus began scornfully.
Numidicus cut him off. “You need not mention his name.”
“Fair enough. The Man with Two Names, then. His colleague, Cassius, is a damned fool and has long since dug himself a massive hole of debt. An indebted man is a desperate man, and a desperate man is a dangerous man,” Scaurus went on. Dalmaticus exclaimed angrily how much he disliked Cassius’s father, who had gone out of his way to oppose them years earlier.
“You’re all correct, gentleman. And that is why this year must be different. Gods, Rome is now in the hands of madmen, with not a drop of good blood between them,” Quintus Caepio added.
“Don’t forget that the Father of the Senate is still a man of nobility,” Scaurus reminded them, holding his chin high.
“We can never forget, nor can we forget that the high priesthood is still in my noble brother’s hands and will be for the remainder of his life. But the people look to their consuls, and we can no longer afford to allow that noble seat to be defiled by ruffians. Are we all in agreement on this?” Gnaeus asked, looking around. Everyone nodded.
The Man With Two Names Page 3
