I laughed, and surprised myself by saying, “I shouldn’t wonder. But you have taught me how two mouths may hold each other speechless.”
“Then let us be silent, but not still.” We walked to the pantry door holding the lamps and each other.
With the key in the door, I turned to Livia and said, “Are you certain?”
“My sweet man,” she said, caressing my cheek, “this is the time for you to be silent.”
Once inside, we kissed again. The press of our bodies soon made plain the state of my arousal. I pulled away. “Livia, I…”
“Shhh.” She put her fingers to my lips. “You are safe with me,” she said.
“I am unschooled,” I said, my face reddening.
“Then, for once, I shall be your teacher.”
Chapter XIV
56 - 55 BCE Winter, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
Now that the first of the year had passed, an interrex had been “found” friendly to my master’s cause; the names of Crassus and Pompeius had finally been put up for consul. In the morning, Betto and I met the line of shivering clients waiting to greet their patron in the daily salutatio. We told them dominus was sleeping late, took their lists of requests and promised to pass along their good wishes. Betto then gave each client a purse of 2,000 sesterces with instructions to spread the word among the people that stability and the end of violence could only come with the election of these two venerated conscript fathers, Crassus and Pompeius. They trudged back down the hill, blue-lipped but content. My own people would be following close behind with campaign encouragement in the guise of jingling leather purses.
That evening, the weather was cooperating only in that it was not snowing: it was bitterly cold and getting colder, it being near the twelfth hour of the day. Fortunately, the company need not rely solely on their own conviviality to keep warm: the furnaces were stoked and hot air was blowing beneath their slippered feet, heating not only the floors but the walls themselves. There were so many people filling every public room of the Crassus home that the triclinia, of which there were three, accommodating 27 diners, had been abandoned in favor of an endless buffet and an army of servants offering drinks and treats. The front entrance looked like a bootmaker’s workshop, piled high with all manner of footwear.
Dominus and domina, the elegant heart of Publius’ homecoming celebration, were followed wherever they strolled; just now they stood in the main atrium, pressed upon by dozens of well-wishers, eavesdroppers and a few junior senators who I am certain had received no invitation. One who was conspicuously absent: Gnaeus Pompeius had declined, claiming his young wife, Julia, Caesar’s daughter and Pompeius’ fourth wife, was unwell. She was often ill; the excuse was not entirely implausible.
In time, Pompeius would marry yet again, as one tragedy heaped itself upon the one beneath it. The gay and carefree nymph he would later claim as his fifth bride was in attendance this night. But that day was yet to come. Tonight, her eyes and heart were fixed with unshakeable attention upon another. Children—their untroubled, idyllic vision of the future is almost always shattered. Sooner or later they learn what all youth must—that life is the cruel fate that awaits them while they make plans for a tomorrow that will never be.
•••
I looked for Livia in vain. She had told me she would not attend; when I balked, she gave me two highly rational proofs. “First, you will be in your element, fussing over every detail.”
“I do not fuss,” I sniffed.
“Second,” she said after an exaggerated inspection of the ceiling, “I love the way you look at me, and so will everyone else should they see us together. We have not yet presented our affiliation to domina and dominus, and you are incapable of keeping that boy-who-has-found-a-little-fox look from your face.”
“It is a most wondrous and beguiling vulpecula,” I said, my face relaxing unconsciously into the very expression to which Livia alluded.
“This is Publius’ day. Let him have it.” There was no logical response to that, but Livia did invite me to bring her a plate of pastries when the last guest had departed.
•••
“Father, guess where Caesar intends to march his armies next? Go on, guess!” Publius popped a globulus into his mouth, a fried ball of cheese curd and semolina rolled in honey and toasted sesame. He licked his fingers, held his hand aloft and a dining room slave stepped forward to wipe each finger clean with a damp cloth.
“Forgive me, son, but I am too old to play guessing games.”
“You won’t believe it. Parthia, of all the wind-swept, graceless places on earth. But that isn’t even—”
“What!” Crassus almost choked on a hard-boiled egg dipped in honeyed garum.
Tertulla gave him water to sip and whispered urgently, “Husband?!”
“I know!” Publius said. “If it hadn’t been Marcus who told me, I would never have—”
“Wait. Marcus, your brother?”
“Who else, Father?” Publius said, impatience snapping into his voice like the whipping of a wet branch. The boy at play in the dirt had grown into a soldier unaccustomed to interruptions, even by his own father, the holder of patria potestas. “He stopped me just before I rode for Rome.”
“What did he say?” Tertulla asked.
Publius could only laugh. “Mother, Father, I am trying to tell you.”
“Perhaps we should wait and speak of this later,” Crassus said. “This is your homecoming, not a campaign.”
“Do you,” Publius said slowly, his voice spiked with exasperation, “or do you not want to hear the bizarre words of Caesar?”
“Yes,” said domina. “No,” said dominus in the same instant. Though the law favors the paterfamilias, sometimes a look may overrule the highest court. “Go ahead, then,” Crassus said. “But try not to shout.”
“My brother, Marcus,” Publius said, explaining for lady Cornelia’s benefit, “hardly ever leaves the general’s side when he’s in camp.”
“Possibly he believes it better to have a Crassus beside you than behind you,” said my lady.
“That was unkind, sweetheart. Caesar is our friend,” dominus said.
“What do you mean, lady Tertulla?” lady Cornelia asked.
“She jests,” Crassus said flatly. “Publius, continue.” Dominus looked at his son as if to say, later.
Publius and everyone else within earshot wondered at my lady’s remark, and when Crassus' son spoke again, it was as if each word were a stone poorly balanced in a crocodile-infested stream. “Marcus is the general’s quaestor and paymaster: it is fitting they should converse frequently. Here is the heart of it: Caesar told Marcus he had consulted the Sibylline Oracles and had discovered an entry stating that ‘the kingdom to the east will never be conquered save by a man who wears a crown.’”
“Extraordinary,” Crassus managed to say.
“So,” lady Tertulla spat, her face pinched with self-control, “he fancies himself a king now, does he?”
“There is more. Caesar then turned to Marcus and said, ‘your father will try, but he will fail.’”
“Outrageous,” lady Tertulla muttered.
There were murmurings all around, and Crassus tried to drown them out with a laugh, saying, “Either you misheard, Publius, or else Julius referred to another enterprise, perhaps political, like my campaign to offer assistance to our provincial tax collectors.” Too late. The dormice had scampered from the kitchen.
“How dare he make such a villainous prophecy?” Cornelia Metella said, after an extended sip of wine. Her goblet was refilled almost without her notice. She had staked out her place beside the young commander and was not about to yield it to any rival. Publius seemed well-pleased by her attention, a fact which later would be happily noted by his father and mother, who also cleaved to their son like flowers following the course of the sun.
Publius said, “My lady Cor
nelia, forgive me for exposing possibly the only two things you, with your superior education and intellect do not know: first, you cannot know what you are talking about, because you do not know what I am talking about. And second, you cannot know what I am talking about, because I myself am baffled.”
“Ignorance is an underrated virtue, my lord. I could give a fig for your reasons,” she said, choosing a cheese-stuffed fig from a passing tray. “If something has been said against the house of Crassus, a home where my entire family has found hospitality and friendship in equal measure, then I am that man’s enemy. Even if it be your commanding officer, the noble Caesar.”
“Imagine how you’ll feel,” Publius said, “when you’ve known us more than a week. Lady, may I take your wine?”
“If you’re thirsty, find your own,” lady Cornelia said, twisting away from his proffered hand. “I know my limits.”
Tertulla suddenly spoke up with such bitterness, a dozen heads whirled to attend her. “Noble Caesar is but a man. Men make mistakes. Caesar has made yet another: he underestimates my husband.”
Publius appeared ready to speak, but discretion held his tongue. I know what he must have been thinking: ‘so it’s true, then?’
“Columba,” Crassus said, lightly squeezing his wife’s hand, “one of our children has come home to us. Let us make our guests feel as welcome as our son.”
“What’s this is I hear of crafty Crassus failing?” asked a new voice. “The gods, if one could find them at home, would stumble and fall from Olympus, should this be so.”
“Tully!” Publius cried, shaken from his puzzlement. “How I have missed Rome’s greatest voice! With apologies, Father,” he added quickly. The young man embraced his old friend and mentor while Crassus looked on with ill-concealed frustration. The famous orator was old enough to be Publius’ father, yet almost a decade younger than dominus. He was balding and more than adequately filled his toga; you might also care to know that when seen in profile, his nose was as prominent as his ego. Like Publius’ father, I viewed his friendship with dominus’ son and my student with the same mild distaste. I know the man’s reputation, and grant his capabilities, but I simply cannot be drawn to a person who carries himself with both the arrogant and aggrieved bearing of one who believes he has no equal, yet cannot comprehend why others have not leapt to the same self-evident conclusion.
“Cicero!” Crassus exclaimed, putting his arm about his critic’s shoulders. “Welcome! How we have missed you.”
The statesman looked almost as bewildered as those other guests who were also aware of the stormy history between the two senators. Which was everyone. “I would rather have stayed here in Rome than be missed by those who remained at home.”
“Oh, that nonsense is long past,” Crassus said.
The orator had referred to his forced exile by Clodius Pulcher. Their enmity was legendary. Cicero had appealed to dominus, Caesar and Pompeius for help, but they had turned their backs on him, it is rumored as payment-in-kind for the time he spurned their offer to participate in their coalition at Luca.
“I see reconstruction of your house is continuing apace,” Crassus said, glancing at me to summon more food servers. I, in turn, gave the nod to Lucius Curio. I would not miss a single syllable of this! Curio turned with a huff from his own place in waiting, and even among the crowded assembly, I could hear the sound of knuckles cracking as he departed.
“No thanks to Clodius,” Cicero answered. “We will never be rid of the stench left by his arson, or the acrid reminder of what Roman politics has allowed itself to become.”
“Now, now,” Crassus said, “let’s leave politics at the door this night. This is a happy occasion.”
“Of course, you are right, dear friend. Politics and happiness can no longer co-exist in the city, let alone in the same house. I am done with politics, and shall concentrate on the rediscovery of happiness. I shall withdraw from active pursuits to concentrate on my writing. But you, Marcus, your political star rises to heights even Icarus never knew. Of course we all know what happened to him.” (Oh, the man never rests!) “No, after Luca, I have willingly surrendered to the will of the people, or at the very least to the will of Crassus, Pompeius and Caesar. Thank the gods that you three know what is best for the rest of us. Will you drink with me to the Republic, Marcus?”
“With all my heart.” Crassus raised his goblet. “To the Republic!” he cried, and the toast was repeated as it surged throughout the house.
When the noise had died down, Cicero resumed. “Is it not a blessing that the interregnum has passed? Black, you may be unaware, is my least favorite color.” He paused for a long moment, but Crassus refused to fall into his trap. “What, you took no notice of those senators who refused to attend the games, who shunned the Latin festival on the Alban mount, and who declined to feast in the Capitol on Jove’s sacred day? You must have seen them, donning black togas as if in mourning? How stifling, to suffer so throughout the summer, the poor dears.”
“I did notice one thing,” my lord said offhandedly. “Your toga remained as bright and pure as the snows on Vesuvius.” Well spoken, dominus. Yet I fear there is much truth in Cicero’s accusation. The world is out of balance.
“I stood in sympathy with them, Marcus Licinius, yes, in sympathy. I was as unhappy as any with your manipulation of the elections, but I have a skin condition, you see…”
“Where are your wife and daughter?” Crassus asked, casting about not only for Terentia and Tullia, but for a change of subject.
“They have little taste for parties these days. Their home is in ruins, after all. I only stopped by to congratulate you, Marcus, on your election. Consul for a second term. Well done.”
“I am honored by your confidence, Marcus Tullius, but you know as well as I that the vote will not be taken until next week.”
Cicero laughed, a short, nasal snuffle. “Oh, I take your meaning now, Marcus,” he said, as if comprehension had just dawned. “You would have me harken back to a time when the outcome of a contest was not known until after the voting. How nostalgic.”
“Honored Father and illustrious friend,” Publius interrupted, “do you know the sign of an unsuccessful party? I thought not. Permit me to tell you. It is when the conversation begins to bore the ladies.”
“As so often happens,” Cicero said, waving off a platter of roasted chicken legs practically thrust beneath his nose by a server pushed at arms length by Curio, “it is the children who must lead the old ones out of the woods. Enliven us, and recount Caesar’s prediction of your father’s failure. I am intrigued.”
Publius glanced at his father. “I fear I have misspoken. It was nothing.”
“It was some thing, else you would not have voiced the sentiment with such scorn.”
“Why, little Roman,” said a new voice, “do you insult this warrior by pressing for an answer different from the one he has just given you?”
“Merciful—” Cicero started off with his hallmark scorn, but censored himself mid-huff as he turned into the barreled expanse of Culhwch’s chest. The Celt had cleaned himself up for the party: his breeches were almost stain-free and he wore a shirt. This did nothing to improve his scent. I was having him followed wherever he went by two slaves swinging thuribles practically on fire with as much incense as could be stuffed into them. Every now and then Culhwch would swat at the boys halfheartedly, but they were nimble and appeared unhurt.
“There are only two reasons to piss on a man’s name before his family and friends—either you are a witless swine, or you wish to challenge him in battle.” The Celt looked down on the senator, braids swinging. “We know it’s not the second one, don’t we, bacon-that-speaks,” Culhwch said, smiling.
“How extraordinary,” said Cicero.
“Culhwch,” Publius said, “remember where you are. This isn’t Corterate.”
“Praise Macha. Do you know,” the Celt continued, pointing a ruddy, lined finger at Publius, “in one battle alone,
this same man slew 30,000 of the 50,000 who faced him. Hope that he is as merciful with you.”
I must give Marcus Tullius credit. He craned his neck, stood toga to tunic with the huge fighting man and said in a low, heartless register, “I would have killed them all.”
That took Culhwch by surprise. “Would you now?” He turned to his general. “Would he?”
Publius said, “You never can tell. We Romans are unpredictable.”
“My head on a pike! Maybe you’re not such a pig’s ass after all. That’s the same advice I gave the young general. He didn’t take it, Macha’s balls. What was it you said, general?”
“What I always say: leave the vanquished living reminders of their defeat.” Publius looked very pleased with himself. “After we’ve gone, who better to speak for us of the futility of opposing our domination than those who have witnessed it firsthand?”
“Well spoken, my son,” said Crassus.
After Publius had introduced Culhwch all around, and the ladies had finished either scrambling from the room or touching the Celt so they could recount their bravery to their friends on the morrow, Cicero waited the minimum number of polite beats before asking how it was that a man like him would leave home and hearth to follow a conquering foreigner. The big Celt looked to Publius, whose only response was an amused look that said, ‘you’re on your own.’ My young master took this opportunity to invite lady Cornelia to inspect the remarkable Armenian tapestries hanging in the hallway leading to the baths. They were remarkable indeed, for they did not exist. Although, there were some unused cubicula in that very place.
“Why does anyone do anything?” Culhwch began philosophically. “For gold or a woman. For me it was both.” Culhwch grabbed a handful off a platter of sliced roast boar carried by Lucius himself. I’d have to remember to commend him on his initiative. The enunciation of Culhwch’s next words fought for ascendancy over his chewing. “I prefer gold—it is always beautiful to behold; when you possess it, you will always cherish it—when it is gone, you will never rejoice.”
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 15
