The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Alexander

by Andrew Levkoff

  “Now, Marcus Licinius, don’t blame the child for the sins of his relatives. Brutus is a good lad, and will some day be a great defender of the republic.”

  “I am certain of it,” Crassus said without conviction. “Cato,” he persisted. “He is your uncle, is he not? I haven’t confused you with another have I?”

  Brutus sat up and said rather too loudly, “Sir, yes, I am proud to call Marcus Porcius Cato ‘uncle.’”

  Crassus looked up with incredulity. “Your friendship with his mother must be strong indeed, Caesar, to find favor with this family. Cato cost you a tribute, tying up the senate with his prattling until dusk till the vote could not be taken. Just as Pompeius clipped that same rose right off the vine from under my nose.”

  “Yes, Marcus, every Roman schoolboy remembers your heroism during the slave uprising. You were unjustly denied,” Caesar sighed. “As for Brutus, what can I say? I like the boy.”

  “Please do not mention that name,” said Brutus with clenched teeth, “or we shall see the wine in my belly poured a second time.”

  “What name is that?” Crassus asked with feigned innocence.

  “There, you see,” Caesar said. “You have found common ground in your dislike of Pompeius.” Brutus grimaced. “Talk about that. What?”

  “Very good, Julius,” Crassus said, smiling. “A fine joke.” Caesar furrowed his brow, not understanding.

  “Common,” Brutus said, “as in provincial, not of patrician heritage. Pompeius elbowed his way into the nobility.”

  “Since it was not intentional,” Caesar said, “I shan’t take credit for it. I’ll say goodnight then. You two trample that well-trod earth to your heart’s content, but remember, deeds define us, not words. Till morning. On that other matter, we will talk more, Crassus, as you say.”

  “Good night, Gaius. Your hospitality, as always ... oh! You will remember to deliver my letter to Publius?”

  “Your son is one of my finest legates, a courageous, spirited officer. He does your family proud.”

  I could see that Crassus was torn. He watched Caesar depart, wishing he could leave as well, but did not want to appear rude. He’d stay a few minutes to be polite; that was his way. I was exhausted myself, and longed for my sleeping pallet.

  Chapter XXVIII

  56 BCE - Spring, Luca

  Year of the consulship of

  Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

  The two stared at each other in awkward silence after Caesar had left. I offered to bring in more sweetmeats, but Crassus waved me off. My master appeared to know neither what to make of the nephew of his senatorial rival nor whether he could muster the energy to give it much thought. After a while he said, “It is hard to lose a father.”

  “You know?”

  “That Pompeius had him executed for supporting Marius, yes. My own father shared a similar fate for his neutrality.”

  Brutus appeared not to have heard Crassus; or more likely there was no room in his heart for commiseration. He would wave his bloody standard and let none fly higher. He spoke slowly, almost accusingly, as if all the world were culpable. “Father had surrendered honorably. Pompeius had him beheaded.” The word turned between them, a scorpion looking for a way out.

  “’The adolescent butcher,’” Crassus said finally, almost to himself.

  “What?”

  “Pompeius. He earned that nickname many times over in those days.”

  “You also fought for Sulla, did you not, sir?” The scorpion struck, swelling the last word with venom.

  Crassus smiled thinly, though his face reddened. “I feel no burning compulsion to submit my justifications to you.” He looked as if he would add “boy” but stopped himself. “However, had you been paying attention just now, you might have heard one. For the sake of civility, know this: I received the benefit of Sulla’s proscriptions, but took no part in them.” My master sighed, the flare of anger passing, leaving him deflated. “Young man, this is an unseemly hour for dispute. Your father was a statesman, and deserved better. I seek no quarrel with you.”

  “Nor I with you!”

  “Then if you will forgive the advice of an old man ... ?” Brutus nodded. “It is we who move through time ...” Crassus said, pointing unsteadily in the direction of his empty cup. He began reaching for it before the servant finished pouring. “... not the reverse. When we walk beyond any one of life’s instants, it becomes nothing more than a receding milestone. We can look back, but we cannot retrace our steps. The past remains stationary, while we are doomed to move ever onwards. To do otherwise is against nature.”

  “And what of justice?”

  “A noble metal, but affordable by few. The young, lacking seasoning, believe it may be more cheaply bought. How old are you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

  “Almost thirty,” Brutus said defensively. “Perhaps the young believe justice must be bought at any price.”

  “Well, the thing is, even if you pay the price and make the purchase, you never know till it is beyond undoing whether what you bought is what you expected. The scales are rarely balanced.” Crassus drank. I curse myself as I write these words, but in that moment I feared to be shamed by a rebuke. I could not bring myself to interrupt their conversation.

  “Let me tell you a thing or two about justice!” Crassus was unstoppable now. “They say you’ve returned from Cyprus a rich man. You’ve become a practiced and clever moneylender, have you not?” Brutus sipped sparingly at his wine, saying nothing. “Do you owe your fortune to fastidious Cato for employing you there? He would blanch if he learned his nephew, the incorruptible Brutus was a base usurer. 48% interest to those poor people of Salamis. Tut, tut, Brutus. Do not shame yourself further by denial: I have spent a lifetime cultivating loyal clients more numerous than all your sesterces. Oh don’t worry, I don’t give a fig for your illegal gains. Let me tell you whose feet you should be bathing in gratitude: not your uncle’s, nor those of Matinius or Scaptius who fronted for you (I know all that passes in the senate). No, it is to Pompeius, your avowed enemy, that you owe gratitude! Don’t look so incredulous; two years before you put your little scheme to work, it was he who subdued the island and brought it under the aegis of Rome. If not for Pompeius, your uncle would have had nothing to govern and you would have no decent citizens of Salamis to fleece. Where is your justice now? Shall I help you compose a letter of thanks to Magnus? Better still, let us determine his commission. Stone and earth are good for funerals, but nothing buries a feud so durably as silver and gold.”

  I gathered my loins and said softly, “Sir, the hour?”

  “All right, Alexander. You are a cruel taskmaster. I’m coming.”

  Brutus buried his face in his hands. “Oh my,” Crassus said, “I’ve gone too far.”

  The young man sniffled. “No. You have gone to the mark. My father’s honor and service were enough to earn him his tribunate. I must let it stand.” He raised his head and smiled meekly; his eyes were neither red nor wet. “Do not hold my actions in contempt, I beg you. Today one must have a full purse to climb the cursus honorum.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine, lad. Stay close to your uncle. He may be misguided, but his honor is unimpeachable. He has some followers in the senate and will find you a place.”

  “My uncle does not approve of my being here.” Brutus tore a chunk of bread from a loaf and dipped the end in a bowl of honey.

  “I should think not, considering the company you are keeping. Why are you here?”

  “I respect Cato’s Stoic beliefs, I do, but I am no ascetic. My uncle would have me in sackcloth, exercising five times a day and eating birdseed. You should taste the wine at his table: it is unfit even for his slaves. To answer your question directly, I am here at Caesar’s bidding. He need but ask and I will see it through.”

  “He does not share your politics. He, like myself, stands for a new Rome, a people’s Rome.”

  “My friendship is immovable, but I may
yet nudge his devotion away from the populares. Rome has had its fill of kings. The senate must remain inviolate to protect us against a return to dictatorship.”

  “Truly, your uncle is a greater influence upon you than Caesar. I am more of a pragmatist. There are more citizens than senators. Ironically, of the three of us, Pompeius may be more easily moved. That is, if you don’t conspire to kill him again.”

  “The conspiracy was never proved and the charge dismissed! Three years ago.”

  Crassus smiled and emptied his cup. “True, yet your name held a place of prominence in the debate.”

  “You bait me, sir, but I shall not rise. For if you know this much, you also know that it was Caesar who had my name stricken from the list of conspirators. Another reason for my loyalty.”

  “Caesar is nothing if not persuasive. You will never find a more loyal supporter. One does wonder, though. If I make a list for the market, does that list not imply my intent to go shopping? Well, the hour grows beyond late.” Crassus swung his feet to the floor, which awakened something in Brutus. He also rose to a sitting position.

  “At least let me applaud you for ‘winning’ the consulship a second time. I am surprised, though, that you chose Syria for your proconsulship.”

  “If fortune favors me and the people demand it, yes, I would serve again. As for Syria, who can say what a year will bring. Truth be told, if it should come to pass, I wasn’t actually planning on going.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Why bother? One of my legates will do just as nicely. The money will come in all the same, and these bones are not quite as fond of travel as they used to be. Did you know Pompeius isn’t going to Hispania? He also plans on remaining in Rome. I fear more for the fate of Rome. He is an inept governor and a worse politician. Pompeius will make a mess of it if I don’t stay close by.” Crassus began gathering his robes about him.

  “Notwithstanding any other disagreements we may have between us, at least we may agree regarding Pompeius.”

  “What’s the time, do you suppose?”

  “Isn’t it bad luck to look for a water clock in the midst of a celebration?”

  “The celebration is long over. I’m tired. My wife will be worried.”

  “A wife. Yes, I must arrange for one as soon as I return to Rome. There is nothing that gives one’s career a boost so much as a politically advantageous union. That, or a successful military campaign. But I don’t need to tell this to the champion of the Servile War, do I?”

  “Do you mock me, boy?” That time my master did use the word. I was well pleased.

  “Never! Caesar was wrong to dismiss the injustice done to you with his denigrating tone. Few will admit it, but Spartacus was a worthy adversary.”

  “Spartacus was a rabid dog that needed putting down. What could you know of the uprising? You were no more than a child at the time.”

  “Forgive me. I meant more than mere respect. I intended admiration. Every Roman who values the safety and sanctity of the republic is indebted to you. And I was twelve, by the way.”

  “Then you will know that it was Pompeius who received the honor for that victory.”

  “The man comes running with a mop after you have scoured the house clean from top to bottom, and they give him a triumph for it. You were passed over, sir, plain and simple. Politics defeated you, not Pompeius. The senate had no choice. Their public position had to be that this was nothing more than a minor irritation from a mob of unruly slaves. To do otherwise would create panic among our citizens and hope among those who serve us. They gave you imperium to defeat Spartacus; how then could they confer upon you the Republic’s highest honor if the rebellion was the minor scuffle they advertized?”

  “They gave it to Pompeius,” Crassus said bitterly.

  “It was a war and every Roman knows who won it. No more difficult or demanding campaign was ever fought on or off Italian soil.”

  “It pleases me to hear you say so. It pleases me very much indeed.” I watched Brutus smile into his drinking bowl. There was no friendship in that grin. Marcus Brutus was plucking the strings of flattery, and my master was all too quick to leap to the dance.

  “Dominus, forgive me, but I must ... “

  “No you must not!” Brutus shouted. “Can’t you see we’re talking here, man?”

  Crassus sat up with a grunt. “It’s all right, Marcus Brutus, the hour is late, for young and old alike. Let us put an amicable end to it, shall we?”

  Brutus cracked the kinks from his neck by rolling his head around. I watched him glance at one of Caesar’s slaves standing in the shadows in a corner by the entrance to the triclinium. This man glanced outside the dining room to a floor lamp in the hallway whose wicks remained lit. The servant subtly but clearly shook his head. “Forgive me, general,” Brutus said. I had purposed to ask you earlier, but your good fellowship has made hours grow wings. If I may, I need your advice on a delicate matter. If you wouldn’t mind ...”

  “Dominus,” I said, risking a beating, “I really must speak with you.”

  “Damn it!” Brutus yelled. “What insolence is this?”

  “Alexander, if you wish to retire, I will see myself ...”

  “No, dominus. It is not for myself. But I must speak with ...”

  “Have you no control over your people?” Brutus asked. He turned to me and hissed through clenched teeth, “Shut your fucking, contemptuous mouth.”

  “All right, son, that’s enough. Just a few more minutes, Alexander. Go on, Marcus Junius, but I must ask you to be quick about it. We must all retire.”

  “Many thanks,” he said, searing me with a glance. “Apologies – a moment to compose myself.” Brutus adjusted his toga, ran a hand through his short, wavy hair and took several calming breaths. He called for more wine and took his time bringing the cup to his lips. Every action superfluous. He was stalling for time, but dominus could not see it. “Here’s the thing of it,” he said finally. “It is true that I have returned from Cyprus with a respectable sum. First I would ask for your confidence in this matter. As a supporter of the merchant class, you know it is an impossible law that prevents honest men from making a living while they seek a life in politics.” Crassus nodded. “You are also aware that even a talent of silver grows weak if it is idle and not exercised from one year to the next. I can think of no Roman who may better advise me how to invest this capital.”

  “I am happy to do so. Forgive the brevity of my answer, Brutus, but know that a simple response makes it no less prudent. Diversify, that is the advice I give you. Place some of your investments in latifundia, for the large farms will always prosper as long as the world has mouths to feed. But do not neglect the city: insulae have always made money for me. Look for quality: the best real estate will always appreciate in value. Do not restrict your properties to Italy. The mints are ever-active; buy productive mines wherever you may find them throughout our provinces. Finally, and I can think of no better advice for a man of business: treat your tenants and your workers well, create loyalty with generosity; do not stint on those who daily bear the responsibility to make your money grow. You will see the largest returns from that investment.”

  “I am in your debt. I was right to seek your counsel.”

  Marcus Brutus held Crassus in conversation for several more minutes. Crassus would have retired, but every time he tried to rise, Cato’s nephew found another way to detain him. Over such trivialities may lives be made or unmade. Crassus rose finally and steadied himself on the arm of the lectus. “Forgive me, sir. If I stay one more minute, it will be the end of my marriage. I’ve enjoyed the company and the conversation, but now, I’m for bed!”

  “Wait! One more amphora. How many chances does one get to celebrate the reaffirmation of such an alliance? One sworn to uphold the republic and the sanctity of the senate. And what two men better qualified to hold Pompeius in check than Caesar and Crassus. Your wife will not begrudge you, surely?”

  “You do not kno
w Tertulla, sir, for if you did, you would perceive she does not begrudge me anything. Nor I her. And as much as I have enjoyed these indulgences, I want to save at least some of the night to share Caesar’s proposals with her. I’m sure you understand. Come!” he said, pointing to Caesar’s slave waiting at the entrance to the dining room. “Light my way. Alexander, I am too tired to talk more. Go to your rest. We will speak in the morning. Salve, Marcus Brutus. I would wish you good night, but I do not think there is much night left.”

  Chapter XXIX

  56 BCE - Spring, Luca

  Year of the consulship of

  Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

  In the aftermath of the war with Parthia, Tertulla, long past a grief she once believed inconsolable, wanted to honor in some small way those who had perished to avenge her, though most did not know her name, much less the real reason they fought and died. To let the truth uphold her virtue, and to shame the memory of the man who had dishonored her, her husband and Rome itself, she told this sad tale to me. For thirty-five years I have kept its secret, for no good could have come from its revelation. Innocents would have perished, both friends and family, and the story would have been obliterated like one of Sulla’s proscriptions. Now that I am old and safe in this island refuge, and most of those I cared for have gone ahead of me to their rest, it is time for me to set it down. There will be little good to come from the telling even now, save for its release from my bosom, and the faintest hope that some day both Gaius Julius Caesar and Marcus Licinius Crassus will be seen in a light more clear than that which shines upon them now.

  ***

  “Marcus. Sorry, I tried to wait up for you.” Tertulla stretched and rolled over to face the doorway. “The rain – it’s like a drug. And so much wine ...”

  It was very dark. The wick in the bronze lamp on the chest across from the bed guttered, its oil almost spent. The single window that opened onto the peristyle was shuttered against the downpour and drapes were pulled in front of them. She could not make out the face of the man in the doorway, but she knew immediately that it was not Marcus. Whoever it was had pulled the portiere partially aside and was now standing just inside the room. He casually unclasped his cloak and threw it in the corner.