There, pathetically, was the limit of my boldness. Much had changed in the past eight years, and much had remained the same.
Here is a list of what had changed:
1. Through my masters’ generosity, I had become one of the richest slaves in Rome, and I suppose, therefore, one of the richest slaves in the world.
2. Livia had fallen in love.
And here is what had remained the same:
1. Livia did not love me.
2. I was still a slave.
Six years ago, a young sculptor belonging to dominus had become enamored of Livia. She was twenty-four. I do not know if she returned his love, but as Apollo is my witness, I never saw her look at him the way she looked at me when we stole minutes and kisses under the statue of the god.
While slaves were not permitted to marry, with the permission of their owner, they might form a contubernium, a union of limited rights. Do not be confused, for while the word is the same, this is not the military term meaning an eight-man unit of tent-mates.
Crassus, on a tour of his holdings in Picenum was expected to return by the end of the month. As you know, I hold little stock in the efficacy of prayer, but in the days and weeks prior to his arrival, I spent every free moment in every temple I passed with knees bent and palms raised. I bribed augurs, donated to charity, even, to my shame, let slip to domina several unsavory remarks about the boy’s artistry. All to no avail: Crassus gave his blessing. Vows were exchanged in the atrium and it was done. Why should dominus deny them? Had they but time to make a family of their own, their children would have been added the rolls of people owned by Marcus Crassus, joining a multitude that now numbered into the thousands. The rewards were many and the risk almost non-existent. It was the perfect investment.
But less than a year after their joining the lad had died suddenly after sampling oysters he had purchased at the market for a party marking my lady’s thirty-third birthday. The circumstances were suspicious enough that Crassus immediately set to work on his own private oyster beds at Baiae, placing them under twenty-four hour guard. Livia’s devastation was acute and complete. Though I burned to comfort her, it was not my place; any condolences on my part would have been misunderstood, their sincerity suspect. Thank Athena my lady Tertulla would not rest until Livia’s grieving and healing had run their course, except for those scars of loss which fade but never disappear. I left a collection of Sappho’s poems on Livia’s pillow, but the note of sympathy I wrote sounded shallow and trite: I tore it up. I don’t know if she ever read the poems.
My feelings for Tertulla’s seamstress had all but drowned beneath the crashing wave of Sabina’s treachery. But in that deluge a tiny seed survived, ironically nurtured by the torture of seeing Livia work, fall in love, grieve, grow. I was twenty-three when I first set eyes upon her; a dancing child of twelve. Now she was a woman of twenty-nine: a long time to be tossed about together on the crests and troughs of the strange sea of our existence.
One cannot love unless one is loved in return. Of this I am certain, for I have lived it. There is no such thing as unrequited love; the phrase ought to be stricken from the lexicon. Love is a thing shared, an intertwining of essential separateness into something not quite alone. There is nothing like it under the heavens. Like bread, it will not be made with flour or water alone; the recipe requires both. Guarding each other’s vulnerability provides the yeast that makes it rise, and salt from the tears that caring brings lends the finishing touch.
Because of this, it would be contradictory to assert that I was slowly falling back in love with Livia, but I will say this: whenever our paths crossed, I made ready to inhale the scent of her, a smell like cut grass or the sun on saltwater. I will say that her smile would melt ice, her laugh entice songbirds from the air and the green jewels of her eyes throw armies into confusion. Her body, now long and lithe, was an arrow taut and tense, awaiting release. When Livia filled my head, there was room for little else. In her presence, study, philosophy and debate were confounded. What was thought or contemplation compared to the pounding in my chest?
There was a word I had banished from my vocabulary these many years: hope. Unbidden, and almost unnoticed, it had crept back into my dreams and from there into my waking hours. From whom did I receive permission to slowly unbuckle my heart’s armor? From she who had given me a glimpse, no matter how brief, of what elation may be possible in this life, feelings so strong they made any thought of a life beyond death superfluous. Livia did not offer up any form of encouragement, no. This emotion, this non-love which I could not stopper nor contain, was released by a thaw in her own conduct. Little by little, year after year, Livia’s demeanor relaxed from disdain to neutrality, from contempt to disinterested. It took fourteen years; who knew what the next decade might bring? I was content, for now I had hope.
Today, as always, I glanced furtively in her direction. Her long, auburn hair fell in two rivers down the gentle slope of her breasts which were covered by a simple, beige peplos. She had thrown a deep blue shawl about her, and I cursed her gently for hiding the alabaster of her shoulders. She spoke again. “Good morning, atriensis.” Polite and respectful. I cursed this Caesar, for had he not been present, she might have used my name. Then, to him she said, “My lady Tertulla requests but a little patience from my lord. My masters will rejoin you presently.”
Caesar looked up from his couch and for the first time took note of Livia’s presence. His eyes roamed over her as if she were a leg of sweet, roast pork and he were a man condemned to a diet of rancid goat. “Patience, charming girl?” he said, rubbing his cheek where Tertulla had slapped him. He took hold of her hand. “Patience withers before such beauty.” To me he said, “Didn’t your master tell you to see to my every desire?” He pulled Livia down onto his lap. “Leave us.” For an instant, she looked up at me in terror, then lapsed into the posture of submission every slave learns to assume with shameful expertise.
“That’s better,” he said, completely ignoring her distress, cupping her left breast, testing the weight of it. He raked his fingers lightly over her nipple, seeking the involuntary response that he could falsely interpret as desire. Her face was averted, but I could see her tremble, lips crushed together, eyes shut tight.
“I thought I told you ...”
It was a difficult angle; fortunately Livia saw it coming and ducked. I punched Caesar in the face, connecting with the left side of his cheek and jaw. It wasn’t a vicious blow, but what it lacked in force it redeemed in astonishment. Shared by everyone in the room. The vile man fell backward into the pillows; with my left hand I pulled Livia up and off of him. For just that instant he was too stunned to grab her.
“Go!” I urged, pushing her out of the room. She ran sobbing in the direction of the master suite. I turned back to Caesar, and stood with my hands trembling at my sides. At least half a dozen other servants had stopped what they were doing to stare at us. I tried to resign myself to my fate and summon what little dignity I could. My knees shook uncontrollably.
Caesar rose slowly. He stood directly in front of me, looking up into my eyes, searching for any remaining glint of contumacy. There was no light there, I can tell you. He brought his right hand to his chin and I flinched. He smiled, rubbing the smooth, pale skin thoughtfully. Then he twisted his upper body to the left as if something else had caught his attention. I realized what was coming as he raised his right hand past his left ear, his elbow under his chest. Only the hopelessness of my plight kept me from ducking. What would have been the point? With a force and viciousness that made both of us stumble, he whipped the back of his hand across my right cheek. The stone in his iron ring tore blood from my face and tears from my eyes.
“Hold!” Crassus came running across the atrium, wrapped in nothing but a towel, followed closely by Tertulla and Livia.
Caesar, having regained his balance, turned to my lord and as calmly as if he were buying fruit at the market said, “Marcus, how much for this slave?”
/> Crassus ignored him. “Alexander, is it true? Did you lay a hand upon him?” I nodded, and the face of my master sagged as if made of wax.
“Go ahead, name your price, Marcus. Ten thousand? Twenty? A hundred thousand? What, not interested?” Caesar feigned disappointment. “In that case, I suppose we’ll have to settle for a decent scourging.”
“Gaius, please,” Tertulla said. “Alexander’s behavior was inexcusable, unconscionable. But let us agree on some less violent compensation, I beg you. Name your price.”
“I understand you are fond of him, but no. He must be whipped, at the very least. I insist. Marcus, you of all people know where such impudence can lead. Let this pass and the next thing you know you’ll be traipsing all over the countryside chasing another slave rebellion.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crassus said.
“Marcus ... there are witnesses. If he were mine, I’d take the hand that touched me and make him wear it as a necklace.”
“This is not right, husband,” Tertulla pleaded. Livia gripped her mistress’ hand. Her knuckles were white.
“Come, let’s not let this spoil our day,” Caesar said brightly. “Fetch your lorarius. I’ll rouse Pompeia while you change and we can be off on that picnic within the hour.”
“I’ll do it,” Crassus snapped.
“You’ll do what?” Caesar asked.
“I keep no lorarius here. If not for your boorish, brutish behavior I would have no need of one.”
Caesar shrugged. “As you wish. Let me know when you are ready so I may bear witness to the flogging.”
“You will witness nothing!” I had never seen my master so angry.
“Marcus, by rights you should have him crucified. I think it only fair that ...”
“You are a guest in my house,” Crassus said, tight-lipped. “You will do as I ask or I will have your carriage summoned.” Caesar looked at my lord with a variation of the expression he wore the moment before he struck me. Unlike me, Crassus did not look away. “The choice is yours,” he said.
The silence stretched like stale honey. You could see Caesar’s pride wrestling with the consequences of his response, both political and financial. He must have decided this battle required a tactical withdrawal, for he bowed slightly and went off to find his wife.
CHAPTER XXVI
62 BCE - Summer, Baiae
Year of the consulship of
Decimus Junius Silanus and Lucius Licinius Murena
“Livia told us what happened,” Crassus said. “Shameful. Had I been there, I would have put a stop to it. He had no right.”
“Pardon, dominus, but it is I who am bereft of rights.”
“Please, Alexander, not now. Can’t you see how I am vexed?”
The two of us were walking side by side through the villa toward the place of my punishment. I was naked, covered only by a long, gray cloak. Crassus had put on an old tunic – I doubted there would be any picnicking this day. In his right hand he held a lorum. From the handle dangled two strips of leather thirty inches long, knotted at the ends. He held it slightly away from his side like a thing alive.
“I have no choice in this.”
“Do what you must, dominus.”
“An example must be made.”
“I am honored to provide one.”
“This is hard enough for me, Alexander. Must you?”
“I am curious about one thing.” Crassus half-lidded his eyes, dreading whatever might come next. “If what Caesar did to Livia was wrong, how then could it be wrong to stop him?”
“It was wrong for you to stop him. You should have fetched me.”
“What manner of man could stand by and do nothing?”
“Any fool would know better than to assault a citizen, considering the consequences.”
“I did consider them, but only afterwards. In the moment, there was only reflex. It was over before I could think about how or whether to act. Had you been there, you would have had done no less. In fact, one may interpret my behavior as acting on your behalf.”
“You are not going to talk your way out of this. For even if you are correct, old friend,” Crassus said, conscious of the leather-bound handle of the whip in his sweaty palm, “you will find my ‘gratitude’ stingy.”
“I beg you, dominus, do not confuse friendship with dominion.” Sarcasm and fear wept from my voice like the fluids that would soon seep from under the stripy lacerations on my back.
“Damn you, man, for putting us through this. Damn that girl, too.” I looked at him, not understanding. “She’s a sorceress. Don’t think I am blind to your feelings for her. Had it been anyone else, we’d be on our way to Misenum by now.”
“I am sorry to inconvenience you. And I have acted with nothing but propriety every day since you sent her mother away.”
“Sabina would still be with us if you’d just left well enough alone. You and that insufferable redhead would have had a half dozen little, horned Greek daemons running in and out of the impluvium by now.”
“And Tessa would still be dead, gone to Dis without a cloak of justice to warm her passage.” I sighed. “Ignorance is a wonderful thing; look at the word – it is not so much a lack of knowledge as it is disregard for the facts before our eyes. I wish I possessed more of it.”
“We must all live with the consequences of our choices, voluntary or not. Myself included.” He eyed the whip. “I should have listened to Tertulla years ago and sent the girl away.”
“Do that now, and what you do next will undo all.”
“Damn it, Alexander! Word play and riddles at a time like this.” I was hurting him, and I did not wish to do so, truly. For a time, we walked in stinging silence, letting words blow away like leaves covering a forest floor, their soft blanket now removed, revealing a grim, bare floor gnarled with roots and worms and things scuttling from the light. The kitchen loomed close. “Forgive me,” Crassus said finally, staring straight ahead. “The medical staff is standing by to tend to your wounds.”
Odd how he referred to injuries not yet inflicted by his own hand. Just stop. Could we not just stop? In the dark hall, the smell of baking bread and pungent garum rushed out to greet us. Crassus halted and turned to me. “Alexander, before we go in, what you did ... I’m glad you were there. You have my thanks.”
There was nothing I could say. Certainly not ‘you’re welcome.’ I hoped for both our sakes he would find his humanity, but knew he would not. He could not. We walked in silence through the culina. As we passed the brick burners, wash basins, chopping boards, cauldrons and charcoal ovens arrayed everywhere in chaotic order, the staff turned to bow to the master and watch our passing. I could feel their eyes upon me. My bare feet padded silently on the tiled floor. I longed for sandals. I hated the thought of anyone seeing my ugly, ungainly feet. Why, you ask, did he not take me to some private corner of the villa, away from the wide eyes of those I had commanded yesterday and would again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after? The great general had calculated our route, my garb, even our destination with precision. Humiliation was the spice that made this dish memorable.
“Atticus,” I said suddenly, “see to your staff. The pigeons are overcooking! Come, come, attend to your duties, people. Adriana, if you interrupt the beating of those eggs, that omelet will fall short of fluffy. The house of Crassus does not accept insipid omelets!” My voice found a new and rusty register. I was about to say more, pointing a shaking finger at the round, scored loaves of black bread cooling on racks. My cloak slipped from my shoulders and the staff turned away from my nakedness, their heads bowed. Crassus readjusted the palla about me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Courage,” he whispered. I fell silent. My lord stared straight ahead as we passed among his people. His face was ashen, grim and stricken with dreadful anticipation. Only the whip told us apart.
Activity approached a more normal bustle after we had passed into the large storeroom where dry goods, earthenware amphorae, terracotta pots and brass pans were
neatly inventoried. A large wooden work table stood at the back of the dimly lit room and it was toward this that we headed.
There was a commotion outside in the room we had just left. Livia rushed in. I gripped the cloak tighter about my nakedness. She ran up to us, bowed to my lord, then turned to me, twin streaks reflecting dully under her shining eyes. Laying her hands lightly over mine she said, “You are a stupid man.” She put a hand on my cheek, rose up on her toes and kissed me quickly on the mouth, then fled the way she had come.
I had not the wits about me to know whether or not her action was spurred by pity or affection, but in that moment I did not care. I turned to Crassus and said, “I am ready.”
***
In point of fact, I was not. At least the memory of her touch would be an oak around which I could wrap my psyche and cling while both dignity and hide were being stripped away. Would Crassus be equally girded? Like any high-born Roman, he was raised on civility and oratory, but bred to violence. He had led armies and slaughtered thousands. He was an educated tactician and an underappreciated commander. But in his own home, upon a trusted and I hoped beloved servant, to perpetrate such brutality with personal and immediate intimacy – this was new to him. I hoped the prospect of it was turning his stomach as much as it was mine. Then I remembered the day he had branded Nestor. I shuddered involuntarily.
There was neither door nor drapes at the entrance to the storage room, but Crassus posted two men in the doorway, their backs to us. I thought to myself, the sound will carry. He bade me bend over the thick wood of the table. I called for Atticus and another cook to hold my arms outstretched. They begged to be excused, but I begged in return for their help – I feared I would be unable to hold myself steady for the duration of my chastisement. I shrugged the palla from my shoulders and handed it to Atticus. He folded it neatly and laid it aside.
Naked, I spread my hands toward the far side of the table, but as I stared down at the stained and worn grain of its surface, my bile rose and I retched pitifully on the very spot where I was to lay my head. I apologized in sputtering half-sentences as someone wiped it away. This is going to happen now, I thought, laying my cheek against the wood warmed by the acid contents of my gut.
The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Alexander Page 21
