Other Alexander, The (20 page)

My lady greeted Caesar politely, but when she heard where my lord had gone, asked why I was not with him. I answered that he had commanded me to stay behind to see to the young high priest’s needs. This seemed to satisfy her, and reclining on the
lectus
adjacent to Caesar’s, she ordered refreshments while we awaited his return. I hovered close by while fresh oysters, chilled mullet from our ponds, slices of honey melon, and Armenian apricots stewed in white wine were served.

“How is Pompeia this morning?” Tertulla asked, spearing an apricot half with the pointed end of her spoon.

“As witty as ever I have heard her,” Caesar replied.

“She’ll be joining us shortly?”

Caesar dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “She’ll have to stop snoring first.” I glared at the two dining room attendants who were both grinning recklessly.

“You are unkind, Gaius,” Tertulla said.

“I am an honest man.”

“An unlikely and unprofitable trait in a politician.”

Caesar sipped his water, then retorted, “It is you who are unkind, Lady Tertulla, for your words condemn your own husband as the most colossal liar in Rome.”

Tertulla let a small smile escape her. “Eat your breakfast, Caesar. Your wit must need frequent nourishment.”

“My stomach may growl, yet my eyes banquet to excess.”

“Then I suggest you close them, and I will have a servant guide a spoon to your open mouth.” Tertulla’s smile had vanished.

“These delicacies before us will not sate the hunger that gnaws at me.”

“I would remind you, sir, that you are a guest in my husband’s home.”

“You are right, of course. Let us speak of your husband. And your marriage. It must be tiresome to be saddled with the same old horse for so long without the variety of a new ride now and then.”

“Think yourself a stallion, Gaius Julius? You are an ass. If your rudeness did not appall, I would find your braying amusing.”

“What would it take to amuse you, Tertulla? I long to entertain you.” Caesar reached for her hand, but she slapped him away.

“Incorrigible! Do you honestly think your advances are of the slightest interest? See to your own wife.”

“I have. Why do you think I am sitting here with you?”

“Your reputation, Caesar, is like your manhood:  it precedes you, crashing blindly about until it is ruined. Does it mean nothing to you that you are speaking to the wife of your benefactor? Does betrayal come so easily to you?”

“It is no betrayal to compliment your beauty and my friend’s good fortune. And now mine, for Aphrodite smiles on me.” Caesar raised his eyes to the heavens.

“And why is that?” The hem of my lady’s
stola
having slid slightly askew, she readjusted the garment and covered her legs below the knees. 

“You imply that were I speaking to you without the constraints of marital propriety, you might succumb to my advances.”

“Deluded
and
incorrigible,” Tertulla said, irritated. “You make no advances. You make noise. Must I stop up my ears every time we meet? Are you not afraid I will go straight to my husband with your obnoxious behavior?”

“I fully expect you will. But you see, dear lady, Marcus loves and trusts us both with the naiveté of a Vestal. He knows you would never betray him, and that I would never seriously attempt to seduce you and cuckold him. An opportunity for the perfect crime, don’t you think?”

“I know you, Gaius. You are like a child who clamors for a toy, and when he gets it, plays with it for a day, then discards it. I feel sorry for your wife, who sleeps but a few feet from where we sit.”

“I assure you, fair Tertulla, that were my wife enjoying breakfast here with us right this very moment, she would still appear to slumber.” Caesar tapped the side of his head with his knife. “A comely enough creature, but light as a feather.”

“Sulla’s granddaughter deserves better than to be matched with the likes of you. But,” she added brightly, “there is always the chance some enemy of Rome will make her a widow. Where are you off to next? Someplace dangerous, I hope?”

“I warn you, Tertulla, I am nothing if not persistent.”

“In that case, Gaius, you are nothing. Prey on some other patrician’s wife. Perhaps you’ll even find one who doesn’t love her husband.” Tertulla pointed to a glistening mullet and her myrtle-wreathed
analecta
selected a fillet and sliced it into bite-sized pieces for her. “I know! Consul Decimus Silanus is in town for the season. He is newly married - I hear his wife Servilia is a rare beauty. I shall throw a party and invite them so you can attempt to slither and hiss your way into her arms. And leave me in peace.”

“First an ass, now a snake. Women are so fickle,” Caesar mused unfazed. “If I must choose, I prefer the serpent. They glide into dark places with strong, determined muscles.”

Tertulla laughed out loud. “Don’t tell me that inept flummery actually works on your conquests?”

“Since you admit their status, you must acknowledge my persuasiveness. Come, Tertulla, you may as well relent. You know your stubbornness only fuels my determination.” As he spoke, he reached across and slid his hand up her calf.

My lady had finally had enough. She smiled and leaned forward as if to embrace him. Then she slapped him so hard it turned his head so that for a horrifying second his eyes met mine. He turned angrily away, his hand flinching. For a moment I thought he was going to strike her. Tertulla broke the stunned silence by leaning still closer and spoke softly into his reddening ear. “Down, senator, or I shall convince my husband that his investments will yield higher returns elsewhere.”

“Are you flirting with my wife again?” Crassus appeared behind me, splattered with mud, smelling of sulfur, his hair disheveled and the hem of his tunic dripping onto the marble floor. “You’ll have better luck conquering Parthia.”

Chapter XXV

62 BCE   -   Summer, Baiae

Year of the consulship of

Decimus Junius Silanus and Lucius Licinius Murena

My lord and lady excused themselves so that Crassus could clean himself up and change his clothes. They left me in the
triclinium
, standing awkwardly before Caesar. He wanted no more food, so I had the
analectae
clear. When we were alone, I asked if he would like me to fetch his wife. He replied that if I did, he would have me flogged. For a long while he reclined unmoving, saying nothing, holding me with a malevolent gaze, for nothing more, I assume, than the satisfaction of seeing me finally wilt and avert my eyes. When I did, I saw Livia approaching.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, her voice subdued, her head bowed. Caesar ignored her and sipped his water. Protocol and common sense demanded that she ignore me and address the
pontifex maximus
. But in the past eight years, I must admit to you that I had grown more and more delusional. Time had hewn away the sharpest edges of Livia’s distaste for the very sight of me, and while I never let it show, inwardly I took this for a sign, letting my imagination grow apace with my affection. When she spoke, I imagined no one present but the two of us; in my head I even altered her tone to one of reverence and adoration.

What a sap.

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 to the rolls of men and women 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. At first, Livia would not offer up any form of encouragement, no. But then, 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 disinterest. 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 warm 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.