“I told you we should have waited,” Betto muttered.
“What’s that?” the tribune called in a nasal whine, bits of nut tart falling from his mouth to land in the hair of the oblivious woman laboring between his splayed thighs. “If you have business, don’t just stand there, approach!”
“I’d rather not,” Betto whispered.
Forcing myself to release my grip on the fountain, I walked to the border between the calidarium and the laconicum. Truly I could not have moved any closer without grave risk of becoming an inadvertent participant in the tribune’s afternoon indulgence. “Sir, forgive the intrusion. I come representing my master, Marcus Crassus.” Sweat was beginning to bead on my forehead and twin drops tickled as they ran a slow race down my flanks.
“I’ve been expecting you. Give it here.” Sausage fingers waggled, summoning me forward. I reached into my tunic, removed the box and leaned between the two women to pass it into the tribune’s outstretched hand. For the moment, everyone stopped their ministrations to watch the tribune struggle to unwrap the entwined clasp.
“Ach! My fingers are too fat and greasy. Crispina, petal, would you mind?”
“Of course not, husband.” Long years of experience in maintaining decorum prevented me from abrupt reaction when the woman to my left detached herself and stood, her naked hip brushing against my tunic. Waves of body odor and perfume—cedar oil and vanilla—rose with her; almost overwhelming as they roiled in the room’s heated air. I stood my ground and managed to keep eye contact with her husband as she applied deft fingers to the unwinding of the thin ribbon that wrapped back and forth across the two brass pins that held the hinged box sealed. When done, the lady Crispina returned the opened box to her spouse and waited with the rest of us while the tribune removed the scroll.
Having read its contents, he looked up at me expectantly. “Anything else?”
“Any message, sir, for my master?”
“Why, give him my heartfelt thanks, naturally, and inform him that, as always, I am his faithful servant.” The tribune craned his head. “That small man just behind you, he’s rather attractive, in a diminutive sort of way, isn’t he? You there,” he said, wiggling his outstretched fingers, “would you care for some lunch?”
Betto appeared to fold in upon himself, then, realizing he was still visible, stammered something that sounded like a decline. Unsure that he was communicating, he looked to me with pleading eyes for assistance. “What my companion means to say, my lord, is that he’d be delighted”—Flavius whimpered—“but he is on assignment just now.”
The tribune shrugged. “Right then, everybody switch places!”
Our business concluded, I turned to go, the thought of watching the repositioning of the next phase of the tribune’s entertainment distressingly non-imperative, and more disturbing than coming upon them already engaged. At the archway between the two rooms, Betto was already turning away; his fretful mumbling almost inaudible. I grabbed his elbow and walked him briskly back through the calidarium, across the hallway and into the palaestra. There we found Malchus and Valens standing at the edge of the empty pool. Malchus reported that he had found an exit to an alley behind the toilets, but I told him we wouldn’t need it. “You three go on ahead. I will either catch up to you or meet you back home.”
Malchus squinted at me suspiciously. “Dominus would have our hides if anything happened to you.”
“I have business down the street which does not concern you.” It was evident my old friend was not to be convinced. “Drusus, I beg of you.”
“Let us check the street, at the least,” he said. I walked with them to the entrance, after which my companions fanned out, returning shortly to report nothing untoward. I waved them on and they walked back the way we had come. I turned left, but after a few paces retraced my steps and reentered the balnea.
Chapter VII
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
“Salve,” said the balneator, as I reentered the baths. “One sestercius.” He held out his upturned palm.
“I haven’t left,” I said affably. “I was just bidding a few friends farewell.”
“There’s a well-worn tale.”
“No, I am in earnest. I paid for myself and three others. Ah! I see. Forgive me; I am slow to recognize humor. You are in jest.” I smiled down at him. He smiled up at me, but did not withdraw his hand. Now I was confused. “Myself, plus three others in tunics and red cloaks? It comes to you, yes?”
“You just described half the men who patronize this fine establishment.”
“Oh, come now,” I said with frustration. “You must recollect.”
“Exactly. I must re-collect one sestercius.” The guard looked on impassively.
This is the kind of discussion from which I know I should flee but to which I am inexorably drawn, a moth to a candle. An inconsequential debate, not worth the time it takes to engage in it, but I am a fish mesmerized by the wriggling worm of another’s non-comprehension. Or a fisherman, determined to prevail over the thick-witted trout with a rod and line of impeccable, inescapable logic.
“Sir, surely you recognize me from our previous conversation.”
“I’ve got a terrible head for faces. One sestercius.” I was tempted to tell him the reverse was also true, but knew at once that stooping to vulgarisms would not have been helpful to my cause. Instead, I said, “Allow me to refresh your memory. I gave you two denarii for the whereabouts of tribune Cato not a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Sorry, we don’t give out the names of our clients.”
“I’m not asking for it now,” I said, my voice rising a modicum higher than I would have preferred. Exhaling, I calmed myself and planned my next move in this Game of Witless. “Here’s a proposition for you: I’ll guess where the tribune is; if I’m right, you let me in for free. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay you two sesterces.”
The old man looked offended. “Gambling is illegal,” he said, crossing his arms. I waited, staring him down. Finally, he said, “Go ahead then.”
“The laconicum,” I said triumphantly.
“Sorry, he’s in the calidarium. That will be two sesterces.”
“You said he was in the calidarium, but he wasn’t. He was in the laconicum.”
His almost bald brows raised ever so slightly. “I said I thought he was in the calidarium.”
“Aha! So you do remember me. My point is proved. Please let me pass.”
“Where is it written that you may leave the balnea Numa and return whenever you please without payment?” said the balneator. The guard yawned.
“Does the day drag so slowly for you, sir, that this is your only form of diversion?”
“I am easily entertained, sir. I might have been able to accommodate you earlier,” he said, interlacing his fingers while planting his elbows on his table, “but now, you understand, we are at capacity.”
“Not a soul has entered since we began this conversation!”
“True, but neither has anyone departed.”
“Take pity on a poor slave,” I said, reduced to begging. “I serve Marcus…well, a most vicious master, who takes no greater pleasure at the end of the day than to scrutinize every as of the accounts for which I am responsible.” Exasperation and mendacity—the contest was lost, if not to a better man, than at least to one with more persistence.
“You seem like a nice fellow; I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you: pay the two sesterces, which by your own rules you owe me fair and true. Then come back at a time of your choosing and I’ll let you pass, no charge whatsoever! What could be fairer than that?”
I reached into my purse and let two coins slide to the table from my open hand. “What could be fairer indeed. I salute you, sir, and would stay to discuss the finer points of your victory, but I am in rather a hurry. I’ll return for a written pass before I leave.”
“No need,” t
he old man called as I passed through the dressing rooms. “I never forget a patron.”
Once inside, I headed straight for the massage rooms. Livia’s safety is paramount, I told myself. That argument rang false, though with noble tones. Lady Cornelia had only one slave to guard them both. That reasoning was as ludicrous as it was unwise: what could I add to their party that would ameliorate their protection. Sympathy? I should have kept Malchus with me; he was both large and discreet.
I was not clear on what it was that I intended, only that I needed to see her once more before leaving this place. In the next few moments, instinct would serve me better than brains, not once, but twice. I was lucky: Livia was in the first enclosure. One could hardly call them rooms; they were roughly ten-foot square spaces formed by draperies which could be drawn open or left closed. The curtain between Livia’s and lady Cornelia’s rooms had been pulled back and tied tight against the far wall so that they might converse without obstruction. The medicus and the patrician’s daughter lay face down on raised, padded tables, naked except for towels covering their modesty. An exhilarated cacophony emanating from the enclosure just beyond gave ample and continuous evidence that massage was only one of many offerings on the balnea’s menu. Thank Aphrodite, the curtains, at least, were closed.
From where I stood, I was at least temporarily invisible: the men faced their clients, and both women had their heads turned in the direction of the athletic couple beyond. “Livia, darling,” lady Cornelia said, “for five sesterces more your masseur can make you moan like that. Shall I call for Buccio to fetch my purse?”
The muscled, bare-chested masseur with moonless midnight skin was pouring scented olive oil onto his hands. His shiny, curled hair lay so fine and tight upon his scalp it scarcely looked real. He could easily have been a warrior or a prince in his own land. He was young and smooth and exotic, and I didn’t much care for him at all. He must have had only a rudimentary understanding of Latin, for he showed no reaction to lady Cornelia’s suggestion. Unlike myself, whose breath found a high perch and refused to budge.
“You are kind, Cornelia, and unlike any highborn I have met. Oh, but that is heaven,” she said, interrupting herself as the African applied his skills to her feet. “But given the choice, and there were times when in my youth when I had none, I prefer more intimate surroundings. If you’ll allow me, it would be a privilege to say ‘no.’” Livia’s tone had slid from conversational to that voice with which all slaves are familiar, the flat, disassociated tone needed to withstand some memory better forgotten, but impossible to repress.
Exhale.
Lady Cornelia turned to her older friend, “No one is going to force you to do anything against your will here. I promise.” Young as she was, she was not naïve. She had heard the change in tone, and understood that, hard as she might try, she would never bridge the span that yawned between them with a massage or a game of trigon.
Livia pushed herself up on her elbows and said a most sincere, “Thank you.” They both recognized that even those two words, softly spoken, had the power to push them apart, each into their separate worlds.
Lady Cornelia thought for a moment, then said, “Shall I have father buy you, and set you free, then?”
“Don’t joke about such things.”
“I’m serious. More oil,” she instructed her own masseur. “My heels are like leather.”
Livia lay back down on her stomach, her right cheek on her hands. “Free.” The sound blew through her mouth with less weight than it deserved. “My mother fought for my freedom all her life.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead, if the gods are kind. She was sent to the mines. I haven’t seen her or had word from her in twenty years.” Livia laughed, a short, mirthless sound. “Do you know what she told me: she said you could never be happy, you could never fully experience love unless you were free. Freedom was the only thing that mattered.”
“Then let me help you honor her memory by granting her most fervent wish.”
“I believed her, when I was a child. But now, I don’t know. Even if it were possible, Cornelia, to gain this prize, what would I sacrifice? You’ve seen what life is like outside the walls of your estate. Freedmen are judged almost as harshly as we are. The stigma never fades. I’m thirty-seven and no virgin. What kind of man would have me? How would I live? Without the protection and patronage of dominus, what citizen would pay to be treated by a female doctor?”
“But you’d be free. You are beautiful. You could do what you choose.”
“Forgive me, Cornelia, I do not make light of your most generous offer, but I think my time for a free life has past. Even my mother might offer different advice today. If I had money, or even family…. But I will think about it, seriously, I promise.” Livia laughed; now the sound was bright but dismissive. “Why are we even talking about this? Dominus would never let me go. He’s invested too much in my training. You might as well ask him to sell Alexander to your father. No, I am welcome in the house of Crassus, and my place is there.”
“You want to remain a slave?”
“I have a home there, my work is respected, and there is…there are people there who care about me.”
“Hm. The house of Crassus is renowned for training and keeping only the highest quality staff. If you say the life there is better than on the outside, I must believe you. Something has changed, though. My parents remarked on it – both Crassus and lady Tertulla seem different, somehow, since their return from Luca. Do you know anything about it?”
“I am only back from Memphis these few months; I really couldn’t say.”
“Well,” lady Cornelia said, dismissing even the hint of an unpleasant subject, “I pray they are well. When my friends and I talk of the marriages our fathers will arrange for us, theirs is the one we all hope to emulate. Whatever the matter, we’ll find a shrine and say a prayer for them on the way home.”
“You are sweet to do so.”
“Not so sweet that I wouldn’t steal your man there away from you,” lady Cornelia said.
“This fellow?” Livia said, gesturing back toward the African. “Take him. I have no preference.”
“Thank you, Livvy. I like the thought of his big hands upon me.”
“You’re not going to let him…,” Livia said, alarmed.
The young lady laughed. “Of course not! My father would kill me. No, I mean he would seriously consider it. All he talks about is making a prudent political match for me. I tease him, but I mean to make him proud of me, in every way, including the stain I leave on my wedding sheets.”
Lady Cornelia said something to her masseur, who spoke a single word to Livia’s, and the two made to switch places. This was my moment. Livia was turned away from me. The aureus in my palm was warm and basted with sweat, but held at the ready. I moved into view at the foot of Livia’s table just as lady Cornelia rolled over onto her back. She saw me straight away; all was lost! I smiled at her helplessly, beseechingly. To my astonished relief, she smiled back conspiratorially. I held the coin up to the man about to squeeze past me and motioned him to make good his departure in quiet haste. He grasped the hot gold piece, his entire face smiling, and went off to contemplate how he would spend this newfound windfall. There was no time to pour more oil. The African looked only mildly surprised when I took his dripping, gleaming hands in my own and rubbed them vigorously. I winked at him and made a gesture for his continued silence. He winked back at me, but the motion was mimicry without understanding. He started to say something, which I quelled, taking his hands and guiding them to lady Cornelia’s feet. Her expression said she found this pantomime at least as entertaining as her interrupted massage. I did not care; my improvisation was going well so far, providing my heart did not explode in my chest.
Before me waited the unsuspecting Livia. She lay with her ankles just off the table, toes pointed toward the floor, curtains of her unclasped hair thankfully blocking her vision.
“Oh! I think
you’ve made a bad bargain, Cornelia.” Livia sighed as I attended to each individual toe of her left foot, pressing and separating, oiling the valleys between each, intent on making each touch a caress.
“And I think we are now perfectly matched,” she replied.
I had no idea what I was doing; fortunately my hands were guided by a higher authority: desire. Technique’s teacher was nothing more than imagining the ecstasies I would feel if our places were reversed. I gave what I wanted to receive. I was reluctant to leave any part of her, but I could not work on her feet forever. Moving up the length of each calf, I drew my fingers firmly back down her lean muscles till I reached her ankle. When Livia released a sigh of pleasure, my chest tightened; breathing became a voluntary thing.
I watched my African counterpart; when he stopped to replenish the oil on his hands, I did likewise. When he moved up onto the exposed, slightly spread tops of lady Cornelia’s thighs, I moved higher as well. Rubbing my hands to warm them, I positioned my thumbs on the back of Livia’s right thigh, as close as I dared to the towel which, were it to rise by the slightest fraction, would reveal all it was tasked to conceal. Pressing gently, I moved in alternating, short strokes down to the back of her knee, then up again, cradling and stroking the front of her leg with eight other beguiled fingers as I went.
Moments passed and somehow I found myself tending to the oiled and toned contours of Livia’s back. I had fallen into a reverie of tactility, no longer certain if Livia’s flesh or my own hands were the recipients of such mindless, focused attention. Every stroke and manipulation moved with but one intent: to elicit a sigh of contentment or a moan of pleasure. And there were many. A stifled cry from the adjoining table broke my mediation. Lady Cornelia’s masseur had found his way to her breast, and despite her earlier protestations, her nipple rose with eager curiosity to the rhythmic rolling of his thumb and forefinger.
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 8
