by Assaph Mehr
“I still have not discovered the rat who suggested the double voting,” said Valerius. “The mentulae at the senate are happy to discuss the trial, but none can tell me where the idea was from.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Aquilius pater. “That yours was the stronger argument was clear. Between the histrionic claims of Cicero on the death of our mos maiorum and the bribes offered by Numicius, they still found it hard to give a vote of innocence to a man known for his loathsome character and deplorable business tactics.”
“And it’s all thanks to your son,” said Cornelia. “What a great oration! It will be remembered for generations.”
“Thanks should go to my parents, for giving me the best tutors,” Aquilius responded modestly.
“Nonsense,” was Clodius’ contribution. “You’ve surpassed your teachers. The entire Forum is abuzz with gossip of your marvellous performance. You will have keen eyes on you, expecting great deeds from you in years to come. I certainly will remember you, should I land in legal hot water.”
“That shouldn’t take long then,” jibed Claudia Pulchra, his sister.
The banter and self-congratulations continued till the servants cleared the first course away. I had a feeling Cornelia was trying to build up to something, getting ready to make an announcement. Instead of waiting for it to come, I excused myself to the latrines.
I knew the house well by now, what with the time I spent there as its owner trying to purify it. I did my business, washed hands, came out — and nearly ran into Aemilia, leaning on the wall just outside.
“I can still stop her, you know,” Aemilia said.
“Don’t do this…”
“She can’t force me. If I insist, she’ll let me have my way.”
“And what way is that? Don’t be daft, Aemilia. She has your best interests at heart.”
“Best interests? Ha! My best interests would be to be happy!”
“What you think you want will not bring you happiness,” I retorted. “It would be better for all concerned if you followed the prescribed path.”
“You are an idiot, Felix! We could be happy! You know your feelings — how could you deny them?”
“Because I am not an overly-excited child!”
She slapped me.
Almost without thinking, I slapped her back.
We stood breathing hard for a moment. Then I turned on my heel and walked away.
I reclined back at my couch, drained the wine in my goblet, and called for more. I hated myself for doing it, but I had rather lose Aemilia like this, of my own volition, than lose her in the same way I lost Helena. I could not protect my love when I was young, and if the events of this case had shown anything, it was that nothing much had changed.
The cooks brought out dishes of peacock meat in silphium sauce. Immeasurably expensive, it delighted everyone, yet tasted like ashes to me. A few moments later, Aemilia came back as well. Her hair was in its place, her makeup immaculate. There were no signs of what went on between us, no sign of the past few weeks and their horrors. But I knew that no matter her arguments, no matter her makeup — she still had a thin red scar, left by my own dagger as I pried off the malevolent spirit that was choking her. With Numicius all but promising revenge, slapping her away was for her own good.
“Now we’re all here and done with horrors, we should turn towards bright futures,” Cornelia raised her voice and her glass. “I have some happy news. It is time to formally announce the betrothal of Quintus Aquilius filius and Aemilia. The wedding will take place in a few nundinae, once we have had the chance to find the most favourable day and to sacrifice to the gods. Let us drink to the young couple’s health!”
We all raised our cups and toasted the marriage. A sour feeling that had no place to be there still lingered in my heart. I looked over my cup at Aemilia, meeting her eyes. Unfathomable as women are, I knew the feeling was mutual — an opportunity lost.
Epilogue
I always repay my debts.
It was some days before everything returned to normalcy. I made daily sacrifices to my patron goddess Fortuna, swearing to forever trust in her to lead me on the right path. I also sacrificed lavishly to Minerva, atoning for my impetuousness and lack for foresight and beseeching her for wisdom in the future. My family’s lares, my home’s di penates, the manes of my ancestors, and many more of their ilk got their due as well. I even participated in some of the public ceremonies and sacrifices with a religious zeal I don’t ordinarily show.
But there was another, more mundane, debt I had to repay. I made my way down to The Pickled Eel, to share a drink with my buddy Crassitius. When the obligatory small talk was finished — first the insults, then the memories of army life — I enquired after Borax.
He survived.
Slaves don’t get first-rate treatment, not even expensive, well-trained slaves. But the burn damage to his hand and whatever Petreius had done were enough to prevent gangrene.
“I don’t know what I’ll do with him, though,” Crassitius said. “He’s no good as a bodyguard anymore and since he did not lose his arm in the arena, the ladies just view him as a freak. It’s expensive to keep feeding him when I can’t hire him out.”
“Heh. Pretty useless to you then?”
“Unless I come up with some use for him. Can’t even free him, he’d still be my liability as a freedman. And I do have the good name of Crassitius to think of, so I can’t just let him starve. I’ll face a mutiny from the other gladiators at my stable. All ready to die in the ring one second, and then worried for their pensions the next.” He belched loudly.
“I know! What about selling him as a door slave? Only need one hand to operate the latch…”
“That’s an idea! You were always the smart one, Felix. Too smart, usually. Remember that time the centurion caught you cheating him at dice and you ended up on a month of latrine duty?”
We both laughed, drank, belched.
“You know what,” I said into the middle of a big yawn, “perhaps I could even buy him off you myself. Can’t afford a proper door slave, but he’d be able to help Dascha with her duties too. He could carry more groceries in his one hand than she can in both.”
We haggled.
Army buddies or not, damaged goods or not, drunk and good humoured or not — Crassitius haggled. It was in his nature.
I ended up paying more than I planned to, but I still had some tidy profits from Valerius. I knew they wouldn’t remain for long once I had Borax to feed, but it was a price I was willing to pay.
Crassitius sent a boy, and a few minutes later the ex-gladiator ambled into the tavern and made his way to us. His right arm was covered with leather straps at the stump and he was still pale. But the biggest change was in his demeanour. For someone that large, he seemed to occupy very little space.
“Good news, Borax! I found you a good house and a post as a door slave. Meet your new dominus,” Crassitius nodded at me.
Borax remained silent and walked diffidently behind me as we made our way up and over the crest of the Meridionali to my home.
“Thank you, domine,” he spoke suddenly when we crossed a moonlit square. “I shall be the best door slave you ever had. Even with one hand I can make sure no one will come in who you don’t want in.”
“Oh, about that. You will still be my bodyguard.”
He stopped and stared at me for a moment.
“But I can’t! Your life would be in danger! Without my right hand I am useless.”
“Well,” I drawled, “We’ll have to see about that.”
***
It took some time to get everything organised. I needed to research certain aspects, which in turn required calling favours to gain access to private collections.
While these arrangements were being made, I also called on an old acquaintance from the days I was accompanying my f
ather in the arts and antiques business. Quintus Mamilius had advised him on a few deals where the authenticity of statues needed to be confirmed. At least that was what my pater told me — I always suspected he might have assisted in the occasional forgery as well. I guess it takes a forger to recognise another’s hand.
Which brings me back to hands. We went to Mamilius’ workshop out on the Campus Civicus. Between rough iron hooks and the incantations of those powerful enough to regrow limbs, lie other solutions. When I described what I wanted, he called me mad. I said I’d pay. He was sceptical but acquiesced for my father’s memory — and coin.
I told Borax to put forth his hands. He looked at me in surprise and then obeyed silently. Mamilius took Borax’s hand and peered at it, turning the hand and stump gently and muttering under his breath as he examined him.
He called one of his assistants, and together they devised a quick sketch of what they needed. It didn’t take them long to assemble a box cut to size and fill it with plaster which they used to take a cast of Borax’s left hand. While the cast was drying, Mamilius sketched a holder of leather straps, buckles, and brass studs.
“We have to make sure the ends match, though,” Mamilius said. When they came to attach the contraption holding the plaster box to Borax’s stump, he flinched at its touch. He said nothing, until Mamilius asked him how it felt.
“I am grateful for my dominus’ gift to me,” was the answer.
“But…” prompted Mamilius.
“I will wear it with pride.”
“Does it cause you pain?”
“Nothing I haven’t felt before,” Borax answered.
“Is it here?” Mamilius pressed his fingertip to the red scar around the burnt stump. Borax blanched and drew a sharp breath, but did not answer.
“We’ll make adjustments once we have the final cast,” Mamilius said. He turned to me and said, “Come back in a few days. I’ll have it ready, and we can fit it then.”
We went back to doing the research I needed to complete my scheme. Borax followed me around, not questioning my seemingly unexplainable behaviour. He tried his best to appear menacing while keeping the stump of his right wrist tucked inside his tunic. He wore a permanent scowl and managed to bluster and give the impression he was ready to draw a knife from under there. Standing next to him, though, I could feel him as tense as the ropes of a crane lifting a marble statue. This was in contrast to how I remembered him, always standing in the relaxed posture of a professional fighter.
I got him to talk, and somehow the conversation drifted to his career in the arena. For the first time in days, his eyes brightened and his spirits lifted. We talked about an impressive win he scored and how he was hoping to get into the big leagues one day.
“They said it couldn’t be done, but I’ve gone and done it! My lanista almost refused to let me, but I begged him. A cestus versus a retiarius! Surely no one ever condoned such a fight. Think of it! Him with his weighted net and his trident, and I had only my spiky iron gloves. They thought I could never get close enough to him, that it’d take him a mere minute to turn me into a squid-onna-stick.” He stabbed a meatball with a fork and waved it around for emphasis, sending droplets of cumin sauce flying around. “But under my lanista I practised with some of the best retiarii there ever were. Their greatest strength is their mobility and having the longest weapons of all gladiators. That’s how they manage against all those heavy types — run, circle, and stab. But I was lighter, and quicker! I am large, yes, which is why my lanista just gave me the gloves. One punch from me, and I could split a myrmillo’s shield. But, you don’t get to win as a cestus without being quick. They used to call me The Cleaner, because I used to leave the sands unblooded, my defeated opponents broken on the inside but not bleeding.”
He paused to take a swig of his beer before continuing. “So Casidex — that was the retiarius — started with the usual. He swung his net, and I ducked, and he swung again. He never could catch me, and I never was where he could poke his trident. All I did was laugh and duck!” And with these words Borax moved his bulk from one side of the table, imitating a fighter ducking a punch. He bumped into a passing barmaid, who nearly lost her balance and the tray of jugs she was carrying. The girl turned to him with a curse on her lips, appraised his bulk, smiled meekly, and moved on.
“Casidex was getting pissed, I can tell you that! He started cursing that we’re not there to do some wedding dance, but I just laughed in his face.” He grinned showing his teeth. I could see that long-ago fight reflected in the gleam of his eyes.
“He was getting mad and careless. And then I did what I’d been practising for weeks! He tried throwing the net at me not like a retiarius should, but like a fisherman. Not using the weights to whip around, but two hands, to spread it. But to do this, he couldn’t keep his trident pointed at me. So, I ducked again — but this time forward and under, rather than to the side. I grabbed his trident in my left hand and came up with a legendary uppercut with my right…” He mimicked the movements and his words trailed at the sight of the stump where his hand should have been. He grew quiet after that. We just drained our drinks and kept on drinking without talking for the rest of the night.
***
It was around that time I learnt Numicius had managed to buy an insula in a respectable location in the Subvales, demolished it, and commissioned a shrine to Bona Dea in memory of his mother. Seemed as though he hadn’t lied in that respect.
This fact did not deter Valerius. It took him some time to craft the perfect speech, though he could not tarry much. He hounded the rhones, the aediles, the praetors, driving his fight against Numicius in the guise of piety. He caused the galii, the eunuch priests of the Great Mother, to be banded as a minor college under the Collegium Sacrorum, bringing them officially into the fold of state religion. He almost managed to forestall Numicius’ temple, citing obscure religious precedents, but Numicius managed to get the rex sacrorum, the chief priest, to support him. The gossips took to calling them the Pious Brothers — a nickname which stung and enraged them both.
Mercifully, Cornelia’s house and household were spared from further embarrassment or unnatural occurrences. Valerius managed to clear her name, make her appear as a saintly matron — more than she probably ever was — and Numicius had little to gain and much to risk by dragging her further through the mud. All this I learnt from the gossips too, as I kept my distance from both her and Aemilia.
Back to the matter at hand, if you will excuse the pun. Once I’d read all I could find by knowledgeable sources, once I’d gathered all I needed and drafted all the ceremonies it would require, I wanted to validate my design with the only other person who I knew was mad enough to consider it seriously.
Probably because he was mad by all standards anyway.
Araxus.
I found him at one of his usual haunts. I was in luck — he was in a relatively lucid state.
I explained what I wanted to do and gave him the schematics. He took the scroll from my hand and examined it, each of his eyes reading a different part of the text, a phenomenon I found slightly nauseating.
“Did it work?” he asked me.
“I haven’t tried it yet. That’s what I came to ask you about.”
“It wasn’t a question,” was Araxus’ response. He stared at me. Even just reading the description of the incantation made his green eye grow darker. His brow furrowed in intense concentration and his lips moved more than was required to shape the words, “It… will… work.”
“Are you sure?”
His lips moved soundlessly again, till he mumbled, “Your future affirmative.”
His temporal grasp was slipping. I hated him. The memory of his failure all those years ago still enraged me. But he wasn’t himself, not then and not now. And some of my hatred of him, it was uncomfortable to admit, was reflected from my own failure in the same matter, my own pa
in. A decade is a long time for such a burden. He was trying to atone, paying a dear price for the help he rendered me in performing the lustration of Cornelia’s house. And I was there to make amends.
“Do you need a place to stay?” I asked. “Come live with me.”
He stared at me for a while, but the only reply I got was a single tear that rolled down from his green right eye.
After a long silence, I turned and walked away.
He followed me home.
***
One last thing remained for my plan.
I had all I required. I knew all the words of the incantations. Araxus even helped, in his lucid moments when his speech was — with effort — understandable.
I took Borax with me to the stews of the Subvales, the lower parts of the Meridionali furthest from the bay. I was carrying a rather heavy box, and Borax was growling at anyone coming within three paces of me. In a street stinking with open sewage, I stepped into a shop of sundries, its shelves haphazardly populated by dented pots and stale spices. I walked past the snoozing octogenarian proprietor to a cubicle at the back. The man inside was reclining in a chair, a half-eaten apple in one hand, the fingers of the other picking at his nose.
“Felix! You droopy mentula! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You finally get your wish, Brewyn. I’m here to commission a tattoo from you.”
“So, the ladies have been complaining, eh?” he leered at me. “Just hitch up your tunic and I’ll prick you where the sun don’t shine.”
“It’s not for me, you dirty minded verpa. It’s for him,” I jerked my thumb at Borax.
Brewyn appraised him up and down. “Why, Felix, I never knew you swung that way.”
“Fellator asini, Brewyn, just shut up and listen.” I explained to him what I wanted him to do.
