A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (11 page)

“That’s just it, lady Cornelia. Today, the streets are
not
safe. I am on an urgent errand for my master, accompanied by several men-at-arms. I will see you both safely home.”

“Nonsense. My man waits in the changing room. Livia’s never had a massage, and I mean to treat her. After which, I shall keep her company while she does some shopping.”

“Go, Alexander. I’ve discovered an herbalist only a few streets away who carries waneb root. I promise, I will let you know the moment I am home safe and sound.”

I hated leaving her, but what could I do? If I had found her alone, I could have ordered her to come with us. But now, in the presence of the patrician’s daughter, I was powerless. I bid them farewell and walked toward the rear of the
balnea
, skirting the empty pool. I found my own escorts standing in the hallway just outside the
calidarium
. Betto saw me approach and said, “There you are. Say, was that—”

“No. It was not. Why aren’t you in the
calidarium
?”

“Two reasons,” Valens said as he and Malchus joined us. “One, it’s hot, and two, he’s not in there.”

Malchus asked, “Weren’t
you just talking to—”

“No, he wasn’
t,” Betto said imperiously.

Malchus shrugged. “The tribune is through the
calidarium
in the sweat room. But we didn’t go in.”

“
It’s a small room. You can’t miss him.”

I ignored Valens
attempt at a joke which I did not comprehend and said, “All right. I’ll be out in a minute. Flavius, you come with me.”

“Can’t we wait till he’s finished,” Betto whined.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but no, there’s no time. Drusus, can you see if there’s a back way out of here? And Valens, you wait for us right here. By right here, I mean nowhere near the massage rooms. Is that clear?”

“Can he talk to us like that?” Valens asked.

The Mighty Malchus said, “He can if I say he can. Do what he says. If there’s trouble, then I’m senior legionary in command. Is
that
clear?”

Betto said, “Better you than me.”

We separated, and Betto and I crossed the
calidarium
. It was both hot and humid in this domed room, about twenty-five feet in diameter, its circular walls painted deep blue below the midpoint, rusty red above. To the left, steam rose from a sunken soaking tub in which two women lounged and perspired, eyes closed, backs against the edge, arms stretched along the rim in watery crucifixion. A cold water fountain bubbled in the center of the room to refresh those who required respite from the fires warming both floor and walls. From the heat radiating up through my thin sandals, my feet knew we must be very near the furnace room. To the right, a semi-circle of wooden benches hugged the wall, offering the only non-heated surface. Taking refuge there were two older men deep in conversation and one young woman, curled up like a cat, naked and asleep at the far end. I averted my eyes from another young man who was disentangling himself from his bearded lover, only to be assaulted by the sight that lay directly ahead.

The view beyond the archway into the torch-lit, semi-circular apse that was the smaller
laconicum
, or sweat room, rooted my sandals to the floor and caused me to lay hold of the edge of the fountain with counterfeit insouciance. The tribune Gaius Cato sat, or rather sprawled in the dim, flickering light, his hairless, gelatinous form enveloping half the only bench in the room. He was the center of a living frieze, a lounging symmetry of debauchery. A young woman and a younger boy tended to the man’s sloping breasts (the
balneator
had not exaggerated), one on either side of his shining corpulence. Rivulets of perspiration, brave explorers, circumnavigated the hemisphere of his gut. A third woman, kneeling with her back to us, her head bobbing between his thighs, held his midsection at bay with a straining forearm. Food was heaped everywhere, but nowhere more than in the tribune’s own hands. They swung slowly, methodically between tables behind the bench to deposit their loads beyond the pink fish lips and into the waiting abyss beyond. Driblets and crumbs of excess fell from his mouth and down his body, a sleet of food and wine.

“I told you we should have waited,” Betto muttered.

“What’s that?” the tribune called in a nasal whine, bits of nut tart falling from his mouth to land in the hair of the oblivious woman laboring between his splayed thighs. “If you have business, don’t just stand there, approach!”

“I’d rather not,” Betto whispered.

Forcing myself to release my grip on the fountain, I walked to the border between the
calidarium
and the
laconicum
. Truly I could not have moved any closer without grave risk of becoming an inadvertent participant in the tribune’s afternoon indulgence. “Sir, forgive the intrusion. I come representing my master, Marcus Crassus.” Sweat was beginning to bead on my forehead and twin drops tickled as they ran a slow race down my flanks.

“I’ve been expecting you. Give it here.” Sausage fingers waggled, summoning me forward. I reached into my tunic, removed the box and leaned between the two women to pass it into the tribune’s outstretched hand. For the moment, everyone stopped their ministrations to watch the tribune struggle to unwrap the entwined clasp.

“Ach! My fingers are too fat and greasy. Crispina, petal, would you mind?”

“Of course not, husband.” Long years of experience in maintaining decorum prevented me from abrupt reaction when the woman to my left detached herself and stood, her naked hip brushing against my tunic. Waves of body odor and perfume
—cedar oil and vanilla—rose with her; almost overwhelming as they roiled in the room’s heated air. I stood my ground and managed to keep eye contact with her husband as she applied deft fingers to the unwinding of the thin ribbon that wrapped back and forth across the two brass pins that held the hinged box sealed. When done, the lady Crispina returned the opened box to her spouse and waited with the rest of us while the tribune removed the scroll.

Having read its contents, he looked up at me expectantly.
“Anything else?”

“Any message, sir, for my master?”

“Why, give him my heartfelt thanks, naturally, and inform him that, as always, I am his faithful servant.” The tribune craned his head. “That small man just behind you, he’s rather attractive, in a diminutive sort of way, isn’t he? You there,” he said, wiggling his outstretched fingers, “would you care for some lunch?”

Betto appeared to fold in upon himself, then, realizing he was still visible, stammered something that sounded like a decline. Unsure that he was communicating, he looked to me with pleading eyes for assistance. “What my companion means to say, my lo
rd, is that he’d be delighted”—Flavius whimpered—“but he is on assignment just now.”

The tribune shrugged. “Right then, everybody switch places!”

Our business concluded, I turned to go, the thought of watching the repositioning of the next phase of the tribune’s entertainment distressingly non-imperative, and more disturbing than coming upon them already engaged. At the archway between the two rooms, Betto was already turning away; his fretful mumbling almost inaudible. I grabbed his elbow and walked him briskly back through the
calidarium
, across the hallway and into the
palaestra
. There we found Malchus and Valens standing at the edge of the empty pool. Malchus reported that he had found an exit to an alley behind the toilets, but I told him we wouldn’t need it. “You three go on ahead. I will either catch up to you or meet you back home.”

Malchus squinted at me suspiciously. “
Dominus
would have our hides if anything happened to you.”

“I have business down the street which does not concern you.” It was evident my old friend was not to be convinced. “Drusus, I beg of you.”

“Let us check the street, at the least,” he said. I walked with them to the entrance, after which my companions fanned out, returning shortly to report nothing untoward. I waved them on and they walked back the way we had come. I turned left, but after a few paces retraced my steps and reentered the
balnea
.

Chapter
VII

56 BCE   Fall, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

“
Salve
,” said the
balneator
, as I reentered the baths. “One
sestercius
.” He held out his upturned palm.

“I haven’t left,” I said affably. “I was just bidding a few friends farewell.”

“There’s a well-worn tale.”

“No, I am in earnest. I paid for myself and three others. Ah! I see. Forgive me; I am slow to recognize humor. You are in jest.” I smiled down at him. He smiled up at me, but did not withdraw his hand. Now I was confused. “Myself, plus three others in tunics and red cloaks? It comes to you, yes?”

“You just described half the men who patronize this fine establishment.”

“Oh, come now,” I said with
frustration. “You must recollect.”

“Exactly. I must re-collect one
sestercius
.” The guard looked on impassively.

This is the kind of discussion from which I know I should flee but to which I am inexorably drawn, a moth to a candle. An inconsequential debate, not worth the time it takes to engage in it, but I am a fish mesmerized by the wriggling worm of another’s non-comprehension. Or a fisherman, determined to prevail over the thick-witted trout with a rod and line of impeccable, inescapable logic.

“Sir, surely you recognize me from our previous conversation.”

“I’ve got a terrible head for faces. One
sestercius
.” I was tempted to tell him the reverse was also true, but knew at once that stooping to vulgarisms would not have been helpful to my cause. Instead, I said, “Allow me to refresh your memory. I gave you two
denarii
for the whereabouts of tribune Cato not a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Sorry, we don’t give out the names of our clients.”

“I’m not asking for it
now
,” I said, my voice rising a modicum higher than I would have preferred. Exhaling, I calmed myself and planned my next move in this Game of Wit
less
. “Here’s a proposition for you:  I’ll guess where the tribune is; if I’m right, you let me in for free. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay you two
sesterces
.”

The old man looked offended. “Gambling is illegal,” he said, crossing his arms. I waited, staring him down. Finally, he said, “Go ahead then.”

“The
laconicum
,” I said triumphantly.

“Sorry, he’s in the
calidarium
. That will be
two sesterces
.”

“You
said
he was in the
calidarium
, but he wasn’t. He was in the
laconicum
.”

His almost bald brows raised ever so slightly. “I said I
thought
he was in the
calidarium
.”

“Aha! So you
do
remember me. My point is proved. Please let me pass.”

“Where is it written that you may leave the
balnea
Numa and return whenever you please without payment?” said the
balneator
. The guard yawned.

“Does the day drag so slowly for you, sir, that this is your only form of diversion?”

“I am easily entertained, sir. I might have been able to accommodate you earlier,” he said, interlacing his fingers while planting his elbows on his table, “but now, you understand, we are at capacity.”

“Not a soul has entered since we began this conversation!”

“True, but neither has anyone departed.”

“Take pity on a poor slave,” I said, reduce
d to begging. “I serve Marcus…well, a most vicious master, who takes no greater pleasure at the end of the day than to scrutinize every
as
of the accounts for which I am responsible.” Exasperation and mendacity—the contest was lost, if not to a better man, than at least to one with more persistence.

“You seem like a nice fellow; I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you:  pay the two
sesterces
, which by your own rules you owe me fair and true. Then come back at a time of your choosing and I’ll let you pass, no charge whatsoever! What could be fairer than that?”

I reached into my purse and let two coins slide to the table from my open hand. “What could be fairer indeed. I salute you, sir, and would stay to discuss the finer points of your victory, but I am in rather a hurry. I’ll return for a written pass before I leave.”

“No need,” the old man called as I passed through the dressing rooms. “I never forget a patron.”