The short length of the leather strips forced Crassus to stand close enough for me to hear his breath. I closed my eyes and began to pray. I am not a brave man, nor am I built for the rigors of the field. I had no idea what to expect, but surmised that like other distasteful events, such as a visit to a non-Grecian dentist, the expectation would be worse than the reality. It was a vain hope.
No one who has not endured the lash can be prepared for its agony. Soaked in brine, then dried to a crackling stiffness, a lorum is elegantly engineered to strip away stubborn defiance and expose not just flesh, but the cringing animal within, the howling thing no man wants the world to see. It is a miner’s tool, designed for digging through layers of pain, searching for that rich vein of humiliation.
The beastly sound that the first strike blew from my mouth was wild and unknown to me. A shriek strangled by shame into a whimper, caused by a stinging, biting blow that made the muscles beneath my skin ripple in involuntarily waves. The first of twenty.
Crassus grunted with the effort of each stroke. Though the blows fell with equal force, each taught me a new way to experience pain. I lost count in the confusion of my own cries. My master did his best to keep the strips of hide from intersecting previous blows, but I am tall and thin and my back too narrow. It was not long before the leather thongs crossed older welts and bit deeper. As the blood started to flow, the salt began its work.
The gods took pity on me. I passed out before it was over; of a sudden I realized my body was no longer jerking in uncontrolled spasms. I had stopped screaming, at least with my vocal chords. There was sobbing, and I am fairly sure I was not the only one making that pitiful sound. I embraced the table like a lover, hoping they would never make me move from the spot. Someone passed behind me and the gentle movement of air sent swords of agony slicing through the rents in my back. I fainted again, but jerked awake to the touch of a poultice being laid upon me. Hands held me firm, but I was not going anywhere. I could not imagine how I would ever rise, let alone walk from that place. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my lord Crassus.
He leaned against a cupboard, his chest heaving, eyes fixed on the flagstone floor, face and tunic speckled with scarlet. A girl approached, I forget her name, carrying a bucket of cool water and a large sponge. She curtsied and made to daub his sweaty brow, but he slapped her roughly away. She squeaked in surprise and fear. “See to him, fool!” Confused and terrified to have brought his displeasure down upon herself, she turned from Crassus toward the table where I lay, but he touched her arm and in a gentle voice repeated, “See to him.”
While Baltus, the doctor who had been with us for several years, prepared the next strip of balm and grease soaked cloth, I watched Crassus turn and leave the bloody scene of his own making. He did not look at me or speak to me. Walking away, he let slip the lorum, supple with gore. It lay on the ground like a scarlet viper. The hand that had wielded it gripped nothing but air, muscles fatigued, fingers locked as if they still held the instrument. At his passing, the culina once again came slowly alive, as if thawed by the magic in a child’s tale.
Almost more than the beating, I dreaded the next time I would be forced to look him in the eye. There was a pain here the doctor could not soothe and a wound that would forever be beyond healing. Later, I would mourn for what we each had lost, for it would never be the same between us.
Chapter XXVII
56 BCE - Spring, Luca
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
“I’d say that was a good day’s work.” Gaius Julius Caesar, reclining in the dining room on the couch of lowest stature picked a bit of meat from his teeth with the sharp end of his spoon. A cold Aprilis wind whipped rain against the roof tiles of his villa in Luca, just within the southern border of his province of Cisalpine Gaul. No one knew that the estate, even though this was our first visit to it, was actually owned by my master. Rome was run on favors, and no one practiced the art better than these two statesmen.
The scars on my back had mended six years ago; white welts on a pale background. The man whose cruel arrogance and thoughtless lechery had instigated their manifestation had just now summoned a meeting of the real rulers of Rome, a conspiracy clandestine to none. Almost two hundred senators, accompanied by more than three times that many lictors, slaves and spouses had met to renew their vows, a marriage of power tenuously held together by the three leaders of the alliance: Caesar, Pompeius and Crassus. This was the end of the sixth day of the conference, but by now most had returned to the city. Crassus, Pompeius and their wives yet remained. When we had first arrived, Caesar laid eyes on me and smiled, after which, to him, I ceased to exist. He, however, had never left my thoughts, and my dread of this meeting had increased with every mile of our approach.
The only other men lingering in the triclinium at this late hour occupied places reserved for honored guests. One of them was drunk and dozing, his head tilted back on the arm of his lectus, his mouth hanging open as if he were waiting for more wine to be poured directly down his throat. The other, by Caesar’s reckoning, was not drunk enough. I stood behind my master against a wall which gave Crassus sufficient eye contact with me, but otherwise kept me well out of the way.
“Oh come, Marcus, surely you’re content with the arrangements? Try those boar-pasties before they get cold.” Caesar, at forty-four, had the knack of simultaneously appearing fastidious and soldierly. His dark brown eyes were quick to both assess and judge, and they could estimate with equal ease the tactics required for the battlefield or the senate floor. From his narrow face and patrician features to his taut, trim frame, everything about him said “advance!” His hairline was the only physical trait in retreat, but not a one of the hairs remaining was out of place. His garb for the evening was a coarse linen tunic with a fringed sleeve and a royal red military abolla. He wrapped the cloak about him against the chill.
“I would have been more content to have forged them privately in Ravenna. You asked that we meet there, alone. Tertulla and I make the arduous trip, wait three days, but you show up in the form of a letter saying that we must now trundle off instead to Luca. I am not a child’s ball to be bounced hither and yon. Why, Gaius, was it necessary to turn our private deliberations into a spectacle? Half the senate has come up from Rome. Yesterday, I would have wagered a million sesterces that the Circus Maximus lay between the Capitoline and the Aventine. But today I find that no, Caesar has had it transplanted to Luca.”
“A slight exaggeration,” Caesar said, not smiling.
“I could have suffered the rest, but who should be the first to meet us at the gate, full of smarmy smiles and feigned friendship?”
“Pompeius is genuinely fond of you.”
“Hmph. As a Vestal is fond of her virginity – what privileges she enjoys if she keeps it intact, but oh what rapture she would know if she were free of it!“
“Wine has made you a poet, Marcus.”
“Why, Gaius,” Crassus said, ignoring the compliment and accepting more wine from a servant, “why was it necessary to drag Tertulla and me across the entire breadth of Italy when we’d already made the trip from Rome to Ravenna?”
“Please extend my apologies to your wife. The additional miles cannot have been pleasant for her, even in a carriage as finely appointed as your own.”
“Tertulla goes where duty dictates, and gladly. As do I, Gaius.”
“How is she, Marcus? What with the business at hand, I have had little time for friends. I swear you are the only noble Roman I know who married for love, not political advantage.”
Crassus relaxed visibly. “If men knew the source of true happiness, Gaius, they would covet my wife, not my wealth. Thirty years, mark you, thirty years. I pray that you and Calpurnia may share such a union. I am blessed by many gods and Goddesses, but none greater than she.”
“Piso is one of your closest friends. I am fortunate that my marriage to his daughter has ad
ded both adhesive to our commitments and joy to my home. But Tertulla, Marcus! Polykleitos with his chisel could not have sculpted such an Aphrodite.”
My lord closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. “When my brother’s slaughter made her a widow at fourteen, I took her in; honor demanded it. Within a year, I was entranced. Another and ... well, I can still smell the roses in the garden where she agreed to marry me. But even more than her beauty or her youth, it is her wisdom I treasure. I cannot count the times I have left home for some business dealing or another with her sage advice in my ears. You know it was she who convinced me to forsake Cataline, to spurn his conspiracy and advise you to do the same. She said, and I think this is exact, ‘You and Caesar will go no further than the point of a sword if you follow that brigand.’ You would be surprised how many times the mind of Tertulla has spoken through the mouth of Crassus.”
A momentary expression of surprise flitted across Caesar’s features. I doubt my lord would have confessed this tidbit had he been sober. From where I stood, I saw Caesar’s look change from surprise to gratification, then disappear.
Crassus yawned. “Gaius, these old bones are weary. But I will know before I retire why you unilaterally altered our agreed plans.”
“You must forgive me, Marcus, but I believe that circumstances did indeed require us to ... open the discussions. Grain shortages continue, there is violence in the streets and the senate seems powerless to suppress it. I need your help, old friend.” Caesar raised his bowl to Crassus, then sipped his water.
“Oh, I have no doubt you felt it was necessary. But it strikes me that all this traipsing about, this wrangling and politicking is for no one’s benefit so much as it is for the boon of Caesar.”
Caesar seemed genuinely nonplussed. “I am hurt to hear you think so. You, Pompeius and I have sworn to take no action without the approval of the other two, and I have lived by this accord. We have just affirmed it this morning.”
“And here I thought our original appointment in Ravenna, by excluding Magnus, would be the beginning of a new, smaller-by-one, coalition. I see that I was mistaken.” A shutter blew open across the room and rain spattered across the stone tiles. The oil lamps hanging from nearby floor stands sputtered and almost went out.
As I rushed with others to set things aright, Caesar said, “I knew we should have dined in the south triclinium.” He wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. “I had seriously considered a duumvirate, yes. But thanks to the feud between Milo and Clodius and their bloody street gangs, I concluded that more than four hands are required to contain the problems now facing the city.”
“That’s odd,” Crassus said, drinking the remainder of his wine. “I was under the impression you felt it could be accomplished with but two.”
Caesar smiled thinly. “We both need Pompeius in Rome. Unless you’ve had a recent change of heart and are more interested in counting grain than gold.”
“No, let’s leave that dull responsibility to his bureaucratic expertise.”
“Well, then ....”
“Well, then, of all the men who would cast aspersions on my purported avarice, I’d have thought you would be one of the last. As I recall, you have done quite well from the use of my gold - eight hundred thirty talents’ worth, if memory serves?”
I saw the brief twinge in Caesar’s expression, probably cursing himself inwardly for making such a careless remark. But my master was too far in his cups to notice. “Your generosity is legend, Marcus. I could not have achieved half as much without your patronage. You must be certain how keenly I know this. But is it not true that we have all made gains together we could not have achieved alone?”
“I don’t know, Gaius, is it? Certainly your own fortunes and those of Pompeius have soared in the past four years. Admittedly, I was well situated before our accord, but while you and Magnus have risen to the heights, I seem to be wandering around the same plateau as when we began.”
I could practically read Caesar’s mind by the light of his facial expressions. What more does the old Croesus want, he must be thinking. He was never adept at concealing his feelings, though he would be the first to deny it. “A plateau that rivals Olympus, Marcus. Only opportunity has given Pompeius and me more military achievements. That aside, who in Rome is your rival? There is no finer orator, statesman or politician. Your influence in the courts is matchless. And that is why I need to count on your continued support. Rhetoric and persuasion are no less critical to our success than the legions at my command. We are each generals in our own way.”
“True enough, I suppose. But this commander, Caesar, is ready for retirement. Here lies the crux of it. You and Pompeius are men who ‘want.’ I, on the other hand, am a man who ‘wants not,’ and is getting to that age where he cares little whether or not he acquires more. Therefore, any agreement between such as we must by definition take from me and give to the two of you. I’m beginning to wonder what my support means to you, and what, in the long term, it will garner for me which I do not already possess. You see before you a man satisfied.”
Caesar was clearly becoming exasperated. “Marcus, you well know that the political stool upon which you, Pompeius and I sit cannot stand firm unless all three legs are of equal length and strength. You yourself heard Lucius Domitius say that if he wins the consulate, he’ll make good on his threat to take away my armies. For all our sakes, we cannot allow that to happen. That is why you and Pompeius must win next year’s election, whatever it takes.”
“Oh, I understand full well why you wish it so. And all things being equal, as your friend, your desires are also my wishes. But is there parity, Gaius? Where is the profit? Why should I subject myself to another year of bickering with Magnus over every petty decision. It wasn’t pleasant the first time; it will be no less irritating now.”
“If we do not act now to secure the futures we deserve, we risk losing them.” Caesar sat up, now truly concerned. It was clear he had misjudged my master.
“No, Caesar,” Crassus said. “With respect, my future is secure. It is not I who ran off to Gaul before getting the senate’s approval. It is not I who has pissed into the cups of more optimates than I can count. And it is not I, Gaius, who will stand trial for impeachment when your imperium expires. You may fool the likes of Pompeius into believing our actions are for the good of Rome, but kindly afford me a little more respect. Do not confuse me with the players on the stage of your mime. Like you, I sit behind the curtain as author, producer and director. I understand what is happening here. To continue down this path is to imperil all that I have acquired. Such a singular risk must be minimized ... if I am to help place you on your throne.”
Caesar considered my master carefully before speaking. “I did not realize you were unsatisfied, Marcus. Tell me, what result of our deliberations is not to your liking and I will see that it is corrected to your satisfaction.”
“You miss my point, Gaius. Perhaps it would be better, now that you have invited half of Rome to join you in your scheming, if I were left out of it. That way, should your machinations fail, I might at least preserve something in what would surely to be a messy aftermath.”
“Marcus, you know that is impossible. Without you as consul next year, nothing will come to fruition. Pompeius will flounder without you. There must be something else you desire, something that will make your participation more … more palatable. Another province, perhaps?”
“Another? I cannot fathom what to do with the first.”
“I thought you wanted a proconsulate?”
“I would appreciate its novelty, certainly, but what on earth am I going to do with Syria? You’re not suggesting I crawl off to Antioch to retire, as is the fashion these days for well-to-do businessmen?”
“I rather thought you would wring it like a sponge.”
“There’s a coincidence. That is precisely how I feel at this moment – like a wrung sponge. Perhaps it is the hour. Late in the day ... and late in life.” Crassus sighed and put
his empty wine bowl down too close to the edge of the table. It fell to the floor. I snapped my fingers and an analecta came running to replace it. The noise elicited a snort from the man on the third lectus. “We depart tomorrow morning,” Crassus said, struggling to rise. “I will consider all that you have said and will send word to you within the month. Will that satisfy you?”
Caesar leaned forward and shook the dozing man. “Marcus Junius, bestir yourself. We still have guests to entertain.” Caesar motioned to the wine pourer to fill Crassus’ bowl yet again.
“Enough,” Crassus protested, “this is not a commisatio.”
“Did I hear someone say drinking bout? Excellent!” The young man sat up, rubbing the crick in his neck. He looked at Caesar, who nodded. Something passed between them that pricked me to pay closer attention.
Caesar rose. “Marcus Licinius Crassus, Marcus Junius Brutus. Brutus’ mother, Servilia Caepionis is a good friend. And Brutus studied philosophy in Athens so I’m sure you’ll have much to discuss. Brutus, Crassus is going to be consul next year, remember? After that he’s off to Syria.”
“Syria? How wonderful, sir. I understand that Antioch is the jewel of the East. I’ve just returned from Cyprus with my uncle. Not nearly as exciting, I can tell you. Not much philosophy in administration.”
“Are there any jewels left in Cyprus?”
Caesar said, “Marcus Licinius, I do believe you’re drunk. Marcus Brutus, keep an eye on my old friend here. Don’t let him go wandering off.” He laughed and clapped my master on the shoulder. Brutus was not smiling.
Crassus lowered himself back onto his couch, resigned. “I have heard of the young and accomplished Brutus. Tell me, lad, how fares your uncle?”
The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Alexander Page 22
