Other Alexander, The (21 page)

CHAPTER XXVI

62 BCE   -   Summer, Baiae

Year of the consulship of

Decimus Junius Silanus and Lucius Licinius Murena

“Livia told us what happened,” Crassus said. “Shameful. Had I been there, I would have put a stop to it. He had no right.”

“Pardon,
dominus
, but it is I who am bereft of rights.”

“
Please
, Alexander, not now. Can’t you see how I am vexed?”

The two of us were walking side by side through the villa toward the place of my punishment. I was naked, covered only by a long, gray cloak. Crassus had put on an old tunic – I doubted there would be any picnicking this day. In his right hand he held a
lorum
. From the handle dangled two strips of leather thirty inches long, knotted at the ends. He held it slightly away from his side like a thing alive.

“I have no choice in this.”

“Do what you must,
dominus
.”

“An example must be made.”

“I am honored to provide one.”

“This is hard enough for me, Alexander. Must you?”

“I am curious about one thing.” Crassus half-lidded his eyes, dreading whatever might come next. “If what Caesar did to Livia was wrong, how then could it be wrong to stop him?”

“It was wrong for
you
to stop him. You should have fetched me.”

“What manner of man could stand by and do nothing?”

“Any fool would know better than to assault a citizen, considering the consequences.”

“I did consider them, but only afterwards. In the moment, there was only reflex. It was over before I could think about how or whether to act. Had you been there, you would have had done no less. In fact, one may interpret my behavior as acting on your behalf.”

“You are not going to talk your way out of this. For even if you are correct, old friend,” Crassus said, conscious of the leather-bound handle of the whip in his sweaty palm, “you will find my ‘gratitude’ stingy.”

“I beg you,
dominus
, do not confuse friendship with dominion.” Sarcasm and fear wept from my voice like the fluids that would soon seep from under the stripy lacerations on my back.

“Damn you, man, for putting us through this. Damn that girl, too.” I looked at him, not understanding. “She’s a sorceress. Don’t think I am blind to your feelings for her. Had it been anyone else, we’d be on our way to Misenum by now.”

“I am sorry to inconvenience you. And I have acted with nothing but propriety every day since you sent her mother away.”

“Sabina would still be with us if you’d just left well enough alone. You and that insufferable redhead would have had a half dozen little, horned Greek daemons running in and out of the
impluvium
by now.”

“And Tessa would still be dead, gone to Dis without a cloak of justice to warm her passage.” I sighed. “Ignorance is a wonderful thing; look at the word – it is not so much a lack of knowledge as it is disregard for the facts before our eyes. I wish I possessed more of it.”

“We must all live with the consequences of our choices, voluntary or not. Myself included.” He eyed the whip. “I should have listened to Tertulla years ago and sent the girl away.”

“Do that now, and what you do next will undo all.”

“Damn it, Alexander! Word play and riddles at a time like this.” I was hurting him, and I did not wish to do so, truly. For a time, we walked in stinging silence, letting words blow away like leaves covering a forest floor, their soft blanket now removed, revealing a grim, bare floor gnarled with roots and worms and things scuttling from the light. The kitchen loomed close. “Forgive me,” Crassus said finally, staring straight ahead. “The medical staff is standing by to tend to your wounds.”

Odd how he referred to injuries not yet inflicted by his own hand. Just stop. Could we not just stop? In the dark hall, the smell of baking bread and pungent
garum
rushed out to greet us. Crassus halted and turned to me. “Alexander, before we go in, what you did ... I’m glad you were there. You have my thanks.”

There was nothing I could say. Certainly not ‘you’re welcome.’ I hoped for both our sakes he would find his humanity, but knew he would not. He could not. We walked in silence through the
culina
. As we passed the brick burners, wash basins, chopping boards, cauldrons and charcoal ovens arrayed everywhere in chaotic order, the staff turned to bow to the master and watch our passing. I could feel their eyes upon me. My bare feet padded silently on the tiled floor. I longed for sandals. I hated the thought of anyone seeing my ugly, ungainly feet. Why, you ask, did he not take me to some private corner of the villa, away from the wide eyes of those I had commanded yesterday and would again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after? The great general had calculated our route, my garb, even our destination with precision. Humiliation was the spice that made this dish memorable.

“Atticus,” I said suddenly, “see to your staff. The pigeons are overcooking! Come, come, attend to your duties, people. Adriana, if you interrupt the beating of those eggs, that omelet will fall short of fluffy. The house of Crassus does not accept insipid omelets!” My voice found a new and rusty register. I was about to say more, pointing a shaking finger at the round, scored loaves of black bread cooling on racks. My cloak slipped from my shoulders and the staff turned away from my nakedness, their heads bowed. Crassus readjusted the
palla
about me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Courage,” he whispered. I fell silent. My lord stared straight ahead as we passed among his people. His face was ashen, grim and stricken with dreadful anticipation. Only the whip told us apart.

Activity approached a more normal bustle after we had passed into the large storeroom where dry goods, earthenware
amphorae
, terracotta pots and brass pans were neatly inventoried. A large wooden work table stood at the back of the dimly lit room and it was toward this that we headed.

There was a commotion outside in the room we had just left. Livia rushed in. I gripped the cloak tighter about my nakedness. She ran up to us, bowed to my lord, then turned to me, twin streaks reflecting dully under her shining eyes. Laying her hands lightly over mine she said, “You are a stupid man.” She put a hand on my cheek, rose up on her toes and kissed me quickly on the mouth, then fled the way she had come.

I had not the wits about me to know whether or not her action was spurred by pity or affection, but in that moment I did not care. I turned to Crassus and said, “I am ready.”

•••

In point of fact, I was not. At least the memory of her touch would be an oak around which I could wrap my psyche and cling while both dignity and hide were being stripped away. Would Crassus be equally girded? Like any high-born Roman, he was raised on civility and oratory, but bred to violence. He had led armies and slaughtered thousands. He was an educated tactician and an underappreciated commander. But in his own home, upon a trusted and I hoped beloved servant, to perpetrate such brutality with personal and immediate intimacy – this was new to him. I hoped the prospect of it was turning his stomach as much as it was mine. Then I remembered the day he had branded Nestor. I shuddered involuntarily.

There was neither door nor drapes at the entrance to the storage room, but Crassus posted two men in the doorway, their backs to us. I thought to myself, the sound will carry. He bade me bend over the thick wood of the table. I called out for Atticus and another cook to come hold my arms outstretched. They begged to be excused, but I begged in return for their help – I feared I would be unable to hold myself steady for the duration of my chastisement. I shrugged the
palla
from my shoulders and handed it to Atticus. He folded it neatly and laid it aside.

Naked, I spread my hands toward the far side of the table, but as I stared down at the stained and worn grain of its surface, my bile rose and I retched pitifully on the very spot where I was to lay my head. I apologized in sputtering half-sentences as someone wiped it away. This is going to happen now, I thought, laying my cheek against the wood warmed by the acid contents of my gut.

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 found a wall against which to become invisible; it 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 added 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 Catilina, 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?”