“I think we had better stop,” she gasped, pushing his hand away.
“Oh, just a while longer, Cornelia. I am transported.” Livia stretched her arms and legs, an arrow of limbs and torso. “Alexander, you have Apollo’s own touch.”
There’s a coincidence: the masseur they originally hired for lady Cornelia has the same name as my own. Wait a moment!
Livia reached beneath her, grabbed a second towel from a railing under her table and deftly rolled onto her back as she covered herself. “Did you think,” she continued, “even after all these years that I could forget the touch of your hands?” With one arm across her chest, she raked her unbound hair away from her face and smiled up at me.
I did not know what else to do, and it was out of the question that I continue to stand there, stunned and silent. So I kissed her. Livia yielded, twisting on her side, curling up into my embrace. Her hand held the back of my neck, her knees bent, prodding me closer. Once she had been mine, and I had broken her heart. I was not deserving of this moment, but I would not give it up. Wetness pushed against the eyelashes of my closed eyes. The musk of the perfumed oil swirled lazily around us, moving as slowly as our mouths. But like all infinite moments, this one, too, proved itself false.
There came the sound of a scuffle at the entrance to the balnea, then shouting. I heard someone bellow something that sounded like ‘the enemies of Clodius!’ I broke from our embrace. “Lady Cornelia, call your man.” The look in my eyes won any argument she might have raised. She shouted for him, but there was no response, at least none that we could hear about the growing tumult. Patrons were running for the entrance, but the way must have been blocked. I watched as lady Cornelia’s masseur bolted for the back of the building. “There must be a back exit. Wrap those towels about you as best as you can. Quickly.”
I unhooked my cloak and threw it about Livia’s shoulders, forgetting my duty to serve the highborn lady Cornelia. We followed the path of the African, who had crossed the palaestra just in front of the empty frigidarium, disappearing into the hallway leading to the calidarium.
“What’s happening?” Livia asked.
“Anarchy,” I replied.
Chapter VIII
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
From behind us, a voice called, “Mistress!”
“Buccio! What has happened?!” lady Cornelia cried. I have noted how often questions escape our mouths when the answers are known to us even before we begin to speak. It is my contention that we do this in order to let our minds catch up with our brains. Or perhaps it is the other way round. In any event, we stopped to give the old slave time to catch up to us. He held one hand to his head and a bundle of his lady’s things under his other arm.
“Your pardon, lady,” the little man said. “I did my best.” Lady Cornelia grabbed her clothes from him.
“There’s no time to change, lady—” I started.
“Shut up,” she said, pressing a fine, yellow tunic to her man’s bleeding head. I deserved that, I did.
In a voice full of apology, Buccio said, “They beat me when I tried to conceal your jewels.”
We had not yet skirted the pool when a familiar voice boomed out, “Hold!” Familiar, as in recognizable, but not in any way sociable. It was the man I had heard calling the name of Clodius. We turned with sinking hearts to see a knot of unsavory fellows armed with clubs striding across the palaestra. Their leader, a man with bushy eyebrows and a full beard was the least appetizing of all. Behind these ruffians, several more had herded a dozen or so of the balnea’s patrons together into a frightened huddle.
“What is the meaning of this, sir? How dare you detain representatives of senator Crassus?” I heard myself say. Someone must have pushed me to stand in front of the women, for there I suddenly stood. Behind them, there was only a foot or two of dirt to the edge of the pit that was the empty swimming pool.
“That’s a fair question,” the heavyset fellow said, thoughtfully tapping the end of his thick club into the palm of his hand, as if to consider it. “And it deserves a fair answer, but let me ask you one first. Who the fuck put you in charge?” he said, jabbing the club into my stomach. My knees discovered the ground of their own accord, but my breath was undiscoverable. Livia dropped and put her arms around me to help steady me.
Through my wheezing, I heard another man lisp, “Crassus? He’s frenss with that ophtimate bastard Gnaeus Phompheius! Clodius said…”
I tried to speak again, but a wave of nausea overtook me. The leader interrupted his accomplice, giving me time to collect myself. “Calm yourself, Palaemon. Does this look like the curia to you? We’re not here for politics; we’re here for fun.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends,” I managed to whisper.
“Hey, I know that man,” a voice called from the back.
“Yes, yes, I know him, too. He’s Crassus' man, Alexander.” He reached down to pat my head, the swine. “But these two,” he said, swinging his club between Livia and lady Cornelia, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Get it,” he said, turning to his men. “It’s a pun.” Silence. “Haven’t you people seen Syrus? You must—he’s very funny.”
“You’re no Syrus,” I said, reaching out as fast as I could to grab the man’s right heel with both hands and pulling with all my strength. My intent was to unbalance him, send him sprawling to the ground where he belonged, wrest the club from his grasp and start valiantly swinging while the others made their escape. In retrospect, it was probably to the benefit of all our party that the foot did not budge.
“Listen, my brave mantis,” he said, pulling me to my feet by my ear. As he looked up at me, he jabbed the club in my chest, lightly this time. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. Clodius is being nice to your master because he knows how it rankles Pompeius. Any man who stands with Crassus is a friend to Clodius. Today, leastwise.”
“An excellent man, a man of reason,” I lied.
“‘Velus,’ he told me, ‘go out, hire a dozen or so men of flexible character and administer a thud or two to any conservatives you may find.’ Even gave me a list, which would be grand, except I can’t read for shit. I mean I know how to read, but the gods have plagued me with the blurry eye. So I’m looking, instead, for them that’s got that look; you know the one I mean, the look like they own the world and you don’t.”
“An astute criterion, for which you can see we do not qualify,” I said, meeting his eyes, whose pupils looked as if they had been replaced by moonstones. I had seen this ailment before, but never up close. The effect was disturbing, as if the ruffian were looking through me, not at me. “And we are all four members of the Crassus household,” I added, careful not to look directly at Lady Cornelia.
“But Crassus does own the world,” the one called Palaemon said slowly, and with effort. His mouth was pulled down on one side by a scar, mangling his words as if he had a mouth full of knucklebones. The rest of his cratered face had been ruined by the pox.
“But he doesn’t have the look,” said Velus.
“No, of course he doesn’t,” I said, beginning to feel almost chummy with this ne’er-do-well. “He’s a man of the people.”
“Well, you see, here’s the thing of it,” he said, tilting his head and rubbing the club against the underside of his hirsute chin. “Clodius said ‘any man who stands with Crassus.’ He didn’t say spit about women.”
“What? You wouldn’t dare club a woman,” I cried, spreading my arms protectively. Or at least instinctively.
“No, ‘course not. Not with this club,” he said, waving the piece of wood. “It’s a pun. Get it?” This time, the amateur comedian got his laugh. “Now stand aside, cousin. Don’t you worry, we’ll have your lady friends back to you…” he looked up at the clouds overhead as if that would assist him in his calculations, “… oh, shouldn’t be more than half an hour. You lot,” he calle
d to his men in the back, “Make sure you’ve fleeced them proper, then let ‘em all go. Keep the women you fancy.”
The man called Velus stepped forward and reached for lady Cornelia, who screamed. Two others shoved me aside and went for Livia. “No!” I cried. “No, please.” Livia knew better than I to struggle or protest: she went limp, having learned since she was barely more than a child that resignation would see her through her coming ordeal with the least brutality. She cast her eyes downward, her lips pressed tightly together. For one brief moment, she glanced up at me as if to say, ‘it doesn’t matter.’ But oh gods, how it did. Strong hands held my arms, but my imagination flew free to slay every last one of these caitiffs.
From out of the shadows on the other side of the pool, the tribune Cato appeared, now dressed, the front of his tunic stretched tight across his belly, his family bunched behind him. In one greasy hand he held the roasted leg of some animal, in the other the box with my master’s bribe. With his high-pitched voice he called out, “You men, unhand those women. I shall have your names, sirs.”
“Gaius Cato,” Velus said. “I recognize you.”
“As well you should. Return these good people to their belongings and set them free. I’ll have no unlawfulness in my presence.”
“Ah’ll tend to this,” said Palaemon, starting to make his way around the pool.
“The person of a tribune of the plebs is sacrosanct,” Gaius Cato said haughtily, with no hint that he and his arrogance might be in danger. “Have you prayed at the temple of Ceres? No? Lay a hand on me and you may visit all your possessions there before they are sold at auction. But you shan’t be troubled by your loss for long, for presently your head will be forfeit to Jupiter.”
“You first,” said Palaemon, jauntily swinging a rusting scrap of curved iron.
“Wait,” Velus said in a tired voice. He thought for a moment. “The problem for a tribune in a situation like this,” he said, “the problem with your sacrosanctity, if I may call it that, is that you don’t have any lictors for protection. I mean, why would you need any, if just bumping up against you in a crowd could get you thrown off the Tarpeian Rock? But the only crowd that matters here is us.
“You’ve seen us,” he said, working it out, “so that’s no good for us, and not very good for you. I could kill you, but much as I like these fellows, I don’t trust ‘em worth spit, and I can’t very well kill them all to keep them quiet, so here’s what I’m thinking. You take you and yours and go about your business, and we’ll go about ours, without the killing you part. Everybody’s happy. Oh, and we’ll take that fancy box before you go. Go get it, Palaemon.”
“This box is on my person, therefore part of my person.”
“But we’re not taking it from you, tribune. You’re giving it to us as a, hmm, parting gift, if I may call it that, to thank us for letting you go. Isn’t that right?”
Palaemon reached Gaius Cato and held out a scarlet and crooked hand. “Outrageous,” the tribune sputtered, reluctantly surrendering the box. “There’s nothing in here of any value to you,” he said in a voice that declared quite clearly that there was indeed something of value within, if not in the thing itself, than in the knowledge of its existence. Not that bribery wasn’t as common as cleaning your teeth with crushed oyster shells, bones and olive oil, it was just that it was one of the few transactions Romans preferred to conduct in the shadows.
Palaemon trotted back to Velus and gave him the box. Then he sauntered over to the two men holding Livia. “Ah’m the only one doing any work here. Ah’ll take the redhead.” Velus nodded, and his reprobate accomplice took hold of Livia’s wrist. The crooked smile that contorted his lips made me want to wretch. I strained in vain against the hands that held me.
“I shall commit your faces to memory,” said Gaius Cato.
“Fine by me,” Velus said to the tribune. “I’m going to treat myself to a shave after today’s labors. Best of luck remembering this face.”
“Thass not right,” Palaemon said, “Ah haff no beard.”
“Then grow one,” Malchus said.
Malchus!
“Or develop a limp,” added Betto.
A hobnailed military boot came thrusting out from behind Velus and crashed into the back of Palaemon’s leg. He fell screaming, releasing his hold on both Livia and his iron rod. It landed at her bare feet; she bent to scoop it up. Even scoundrels possess the reflex to help a downed comrade; in the instant when their grip loosened I wrenched free of the two that held me and rushed to Livia’s side.
“No one move!” Velus called out in alarm. Something very sharp was prodding painfully into his lower back. Lady Cornelia pulled away from him and ran to join Buccio and the two of us. Livia held the iron rod against Palaemon’s neck, not particularly careful of the pressure she applied.
From behind him, Malchus said in an amiable tone, “Velus Herclides, how long has it been?”
“Malchus? Drusus Malchus?”
“If you are speaking of the same Drusus Malchus who yanked your inattentive innards away from more than one mortal thrust, then yes, that’s me. What brings a fine legionary like you to this gutter work?”
“I thought I left two men to guard the front entrance.”
“You did.”
Velus shrugged and sighed. “Pompeius Magnus disbanded our unit three years ago. You know me: I’m shit at anything but soldiering. Anywise, the pay’s decent.”
“Not decent enough,” Malchus said.
“There are other benefits,” the villain countered, smiling at the women. Can you imagine the acidic stew of furor and impotence in my breast? My mind, a treacherous thing, forced me to paint in lurid detail what it was he was seeing when his eyes roved over Livia. I wanted to rip his lungs out with my teeth. I looked at Malchus, looming behind Herclides, sword drawn, completely at ease in the role of savior. My friend, my hero. The phrase “what would I do without him” was for me a real and frightening question. With good reason, slave, the fruit of love hangs so high; Unless both slave and warrior thou be, then come not nigh. I determined that at the earliest possible moment, I would have a word with the towering Malchus, so confident in his skill at arms, and become once again, as I had been so long ago in Athens, a student.
“Not today, there aren’t,” Malchus answered Velus, his voice as sure as the tip of his gladius was sharp.
“Not at the moment, no,” Herclides answered. “But the funny thing about moments, Drusus, is that there are always more of them.”
“Until you’re dead.”
“Until you’re dead,” he agreed. They made it sound like they were drinking to each other’s health. “You realize, this still leaves you outnumbered, what, eight to two?”
“More like six to three,” Minucius Valens called from where he stood facing the two men in the middle of the palaestra, his sword and dagger drawn. “I wouldn’t count these two.”
“Velus, there are no odds here,” Malchus said reasonably. “There’s you, there’s me and there’s Camilla.”
“Camilla, is that your tongue tickling my back? Hello, sweetheart! Drusus, you’re such a romantic. Who else do you know who does that? Who names their sword?” Herclides started to turn around, but Malchus put a hand on his shoulder and a little more pressure on his gladius.
“If you tell your people to fight, Velus, Camilla will leave you ever curious—you will never know how the battle ends. Quickly now—everything that isn’t clothing and isn’t attached to you, on the ground.”
“Now that’s unkind. Leave a man a little dignity, Drusus. I’ve yielded. You’ve seen the streets; at least let us withdraw with our weapons.”
Malchus twisted Camilla, at the same time adding a feather’s weight more insistence from his sword arm.
Herclides cursed. “Throw down your weapons,” he called. “We are done here.” Palaemon’s face was so contorted it was not clear, from his supine and restricted pose, if he was filled with anger, regret or relief. Except for the
chill the scarred man sent rippling across my skin from the look he gave Livia as he scrambled away from her, I had never felt so unencumbered.
The ordeal over, Livia put a trembling hand on my shoulder for support. With an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice she said, “I think I’ll leave the herbalist for another day.”
“A wise plan.”
•••
“Why did you come back?” I asked.
“To settle a bet,” Betto said mildly. “I knew that was the healer you were talking to.” I cocked my head and curled my mouth up on one side, a mannerism which, over the years, the familia of the house of Crassus had come to learn as shorthand for ‘you’re not telling me everything; out with it.’ After a moment, he said, “Fine. After we left, we passed this bunch”—he motioned toward the brigands—“and saw them going in. They didn’t look as if they were going to the baths for a dip and a scrape.”
“Into the pool with them,” Minucius Valens said. “We’ll hold them here and send the slaves to the comitium for help.”
“No,” Malchus said. “Herclides, take your wounded and leave this place.”
Betto said, “What? What kind of a rescue do you call that?”
“This here is a twenty-year man,” Malchus said, never taking his sword from the spot where it might easily find the strapping ex-soldier’s right kidney. “He’s come on hard times, but no real harm has been done here. We’ve seen to that. So what if we rescue a few more than we intended? Eh, tribune Cato? That agreeable with you?”
“No, it isn’t. Not really. The man has interfered with the tiny part of my day where I attempt to recover some sense of otium.” He blew a blubbery breath through those shining lips. “Well, I suppose a good supper will restore my equanimity.” With the roasted leg he still clutched, he waved his permission at us and skirted the empty frigidarium with the rest of his party.
As he passed, I said, “Tribune Cato, aren’t you forgetting something?”
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 9
