MOVING DAY!

Please find future posts from The Calloused Keyboard at www.andrewlevkoff.com/blog. I'll being moving older posts to the new site as time permits.

Hold It In Your Hands

As you can see from the link on the right, Bow is now available in paperback. So if you don't have a Kindle or a Nook or an iPad or any e-reader, or if, like me, you just like the warm, inviting smell that greets you when you rifle the pages of a brand new book right under your nose, click the link. And thanks!

I have a question for you:  besides Alexander, who is your favorite character, and why? Who do you like the least? OK, that's 2 questions, but you're reading this so time is not critical, right?

Chapter VI

82 - 81 BCE   -   Winter, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

Two days later, the morning rose surly and bitter, wrapping itself in a thick cloud blanket against the cold. Crassus had left early for the senate. From there he would ride to surprise his wife on the Via Laurentina as she returned to Rome from Lavinium with her two children, one of which Crassus had never set eyes upon. As the morning progressed, I quickly discovered that when the cat is off in search of other game, the mice in this house had better keep their mouths shut and their whiskers well hidden if they didn’t want them plucked out one by one.

I was owned by Crassus, but my quotidian fate rested with the Spaniard, Pío. He was the kind of man whose features are difficult to describe:  the moment you set eyes on any one of them you are struck with the need to look quickly away. I do not make a practice of such thoughtless prejudice:  just because he looked like an unwashed, overfed barbarian did not necessarily mean he wasn’t the sweetest of men. So to be clear as an Alpine lake, let me set your mind at rest:  Pío was not the sweetest of men. Crassus had found him during the months he had been forced to flee the city. Publius, Crassus’ father, had been governor of Hispania Ulterior, and his fair and prosperous rule had gained him many friends. Vibius Piciacus was among them. When the disheveled son of his murdered comrade sought refuge, Piciacus did what he could to keep young Marcus safe from the spies of Cinna and Marius. There was a large cave by the sea on Piciacus’ estate, and there Crassus and his few retainers hid for the better part of a year. Piciacus, fearing reprisals should his generosity be discovered, would not visit his guest himself, but sent his manservant Pío there each day with food and anything else Crassus might require, including the company of two young women paid well for their silence and their service. When news of Cinna’s death reached Hispania, Crassus came out of hiding. As a reward for his constant and discrete care of his charges, Pío was given his freedom. He chose to return with Crassus to Rome; Piciacus must have been glad to see the last of him.

My first encounter with Pío occurred in the dining room. Appropriate, considering his capacity for consumption. He had stripped the meat off a roast leg of goat and was absentmindedly gnawing the bone to splinters. With his free hand he held a serviette beneath the machinery of his mouth to catch the falling detritus. From this visage of dainty gluttony my eyes fled to his feet, but the sight of those broad, hirsute plains sloping to the grimy boulders of his toes gave them no shelter. I know he wore a belt; I could see the leather escaping his sides to find sanctuary across the broad expanse of his back, but head-on there was no sign of it:  the sagging lozenge of flesh had overwhelmed and smothered the sweat-stained band. Crassus had not employed the man as his atriensis - an archaic term for the manager of his household which Crassus still favored - for his good looks. Was it the Spaniard’s talent or my owner’s sense of obligation that had moved him? If talent, it was well-hidden.

The house was preparing a feast for the masters’ return that would double as the start of the seven days commemorating the Saturnalia, the most raucous of Roman holidays. I limped into the room on my own with Sabina by my side, who watched my progress closely. She had furnished me with a staff, but warned that I should use it as little as possible if I wanted to strengthen my wounded leg. I did indeed want that, but more immediately wanted not to lose my balance and fall crashing to the ground. I clasped the crutch like a lover.

Livia came in, carrying a small tripod table which she carefully set down near one of the couches. She waved at us, then ran back to the kitchen, skidding to avoid a servant heading the other way. A little bird chittered after Pío picking up verbal crumbs. Pío spit directions that were barely Latin at the bustling servants who were mostly Greek, and this little man translated. I didn’t recognize him at first for he was washed, shaved and healed of all his sores and bruises. But then another serving girl got in his way and he elbowed her aside to regain his position near his master. The familiar rudeness also jostled free a memory:  a bedraggled chain whose links could barely be called men, trudging without will toward whatever unplanned future the auction block held in store. Here was my bilingual companion-in-misery, saved from a choiceless fate (almost at my expense) and thrust into one of his own making a lifetime ago. I hobbled to him with one arm outstretched, but to my surprise he backed away and Pío’s giant hand came down between us.

“This is Alexandros,” Sabina said. “He is the second translator for the house. You know Nestor?”

“So that is your name,” I said, peering over Pío’s flattened palm. Nestor gave me a look that would freeze the Kephisos in summer.

“Keep him away from me,” Nestor said with a mixture of pleading and revulsion. “He’s insane, Pío.”

I started to protest, but upon reflection could not argue; with what Little Nestor knew of me, even I was forced to credit his opinion. He was, after all, witness to my botched attempt at suicide before the great Sulla. Pío’s voice matched his countenance:  its assault on the ears made one want to retreat a step; two would be better. Stalwart, I held my ground as he said, “You love your father?”

Now that was unexpected. “I beg your pardon?”

“You love your father,” Pío insisted. “I love my father. When he with my mother fifteen years, master Piciacus allow him bring carpenter to build fine cabinet to hold my mother’s clothes which he bought. Twelve years I had. Every day this man come to work on cabinet. My father work in fields. My mother spread her legs for this man. My father killed him. Slow. Then they killed my father. More quick. The carpenter’s name was Andros. I do not like this name. I do not like your name. Here you will be ... Alexander. Like the famous one. I think maybe you will not be so famous? This name I like - Alexander. Sabina, show him to kitchen and let him see that cook’s meanings are pure. No mistakes like last week. You, Nestor, you will speak for everything but kitchen? Good.”

With a word from that Hispanic grotesquerie another chip from my old life fell to the tiled floor. I am certain he had no idea how cruelly this arrow had hit the mark. At home in Greece, no human property was allowed to keep his or her own name – new ones were always assigned by their owner. It was purposefully dehumanizing, and completely sustainable, in my opinion. I never dreamed it would be happening to me, and not for any practical reason, but on a whim, because Pío didn’t like the sound of it! How absolutely rich! The sting of it burned as deeply as the wound in my leg. Well, that is an exaggeration, to be honest. But it did hurt; you need only imagine it happening to you. Sabina barely took notice, accepting the tyrant’s ruling without comment. “He is well enough to take quarters,” she said. “Where do you want him?”

“Who has empty bed? You, Nestor,” he said, pointing a fat finger, “you have empty bed. Translators share room.”

“No!” Nestor protested.

“I’ve an empty bed,” offered a servant wearing the tunic of the wine steward.

“No,” said Pío. I sensed he was the kind of man who believed thoughtful reconsideration to be a sign of weakness. “Translators together.”

Fuming impotently over the theft of my name, I wanted to lunge at Pío. I, however, am the kind of man who believes thoughtful reconsideration to be a sign of manliness and strength. In any case, before Sabina could lead me out of the triclinium, others had performed what pride and fear were about to suppress. Oh, I was scathingly articulate and brutally eloquent when complaining about someone to someone else, even if that meant talking to myself. Given the opportunity to actually vent directly to the object of my anger, I was as ferocious as a puppy, as outraged as an oyster.

A young, be-freckled woman with honey hair, tied in fraying braids intertwined with daisies marched into the dining room, her bare and muddied feet marking her determined passage. No one had dared remind her to don a pair of indoor sandals, six of which, in varying sizes, lined every entrance to the house. Her face, as flushed from the sun as her tunic and knees were begrimed by yard work, was set and grim. She walked straight up to Pío and knocked the napkin out of his hand, bits of goat and bone, so fastidiously gathered, now littering the floor. With her other hand she slapped him as hard as she could, and before he could make a grab for her was out the way she had come.

Medusa would have applauded the frozen and stony silence caused by this performance, and a second was just beginning. Keening rose from the direction of the baths, a flooding river of sound that crested with the arrival of another woman, her face streaked with tears. Pío spun to face her, comical with rage and discomfiture. She was upon him, spearing his eyes with a look that needed no translation. Looking up at him, she paused for the barest of moments, then spoke her terse jeremiad with hoarse and indignant fury:  “How could you?”

Rhetoric at its finest, for it demands, nor permits reply. Pío, of course, did not know the rules.

She turned to leave, but he caught her by the wrist. “I owe you nothing,” he said, spoiling the purity of her lament. She yanked free of him. “Not even the explanation,” he called after her. The woman’s sobs grew, then receded till they became not-so-faint reverberations echoing from the chamber of the baths.

“Pío controls the slave larder,” Sabina said in response to my raised eyebrows. We spoke Greek as we walked to the kitchen through the atrium. The chill air swirling down from the open compluvium made us quicken our pace. “There’s enough for everyone, unless he wants something from you. Then you find less on your plate.”

“You must go to the master,” I cried. Take note how quick I was to say ‘you’ and not ‘we.’ Sabina cocked her head, taking her own turn to raise an eyebrow. “Oh,” I said, chastised. “A foolish question. Pío is favored for an old debt. He cannot be touched. And even if the paterfamilias should have him punished, he would find ample opportunity to take his vengeance.” Sabina nodded. “But how then,” I asked, “could that first woman slap him with impunity?”

“Tessa? Oh, it’s just part of her little act. She likes to be the center of attention, and she’s a little carefree with her charms, if you take my meaning.” She paused. “And, besides, I think he likes it.”

We entered the crowded kitchen filled with the pungent smell of garum and baking acorn bread. Sabina introduced me to the Roman cook and his three Greek assistants. She turned to go but I stopped her in the doorway. “What about you? Are you safe?”

“Pío is a bully,” she said, dismissively. As if that answered the question.

Chapter V

82 - 81 BCE   -   Winter, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

There was a girl, maybe ten or eleven. Perhaps twelve; I’ve never been good with children. They puzzle me. She stood by wherever it was I lay and stared at me with an intensity that, had I the strength, would have made me look away. Green eyes the color of a hummingbird’s back. I tried to smile at her, but I don’t think my face cooperated. She began to whistle, backing away into the middle of the room and dancing to the rhythm she set. Her long hair, as red and gold as a Piraeus sunrise, spun about her face as she twirled. It made me dizzy to watch her, but I was transfixed. The back of my head throbbed like a second heart. Before I lost consciousness again, a thought lurched past, irrelevant and nonsensical:  her tresses are silken and she has no freckles. Unusual for a redhead.

***

My legs were brittle fire. If I moved, they would crack and break apart like charred paper. Someone replaced the cloth on my forehead with one dampened by cool water and aromatic oils. Ecstasy. The blanket soaked with my sweat was pulled away and someone gasped. “Livia, get out,” a woman commanded. Footsteps retreated and next I felt the pressure of gently probing fingers. I groaned. My heart had abandoned my chest altogether. Now it fell to my thigh, thumping against its swollen tightness. If I moved, it would burst free from the inside.

A man’s voice:  “Will he live?”

The woman answered, “If the fever breaks. I must drain the wounds.” She began her work in earnest. There came a most disagreeable scream, after which I spun out of consciousness.

***

Two weeks later, I was summoned. Sabina, the Greek healer responsible for my recovery, guided me from the servants’ wing through the house. But for her, I would have perished in the delirium of infection that spread from my thigh until it ran up against the unyielding ministrations of my savior. As clarity returned, I found myself in the middle of a perplexing dilemma. A captive quickly learns that the odds of survival are greatly improved by not drawing attention to oneself. Yet here I was, propped up on pillows (rough-woven homespun stuffed with seed hulls, but pillows nonetheless), spoon-fed hot broth by either the healer or her daughter, and given a gift withheld for so long I could scarcely count the days since I had last received it:  comfort. Never in all my life had I craved someone’s attention as much as I did this spare, hard woman. Her face, once beautiful, had been weathered down to handsome. She was tall but never seemed to stand to her full height, as if her trials were a constant weight against which she strove. She was not quite old enough to be my mother, but each moment spent in her company brought painfully sweet reminders of family, and home.

A non-ambulatory servant will test the patience of the most understanding Roman, so I drank Sabina’s potions, hobbled about as long and as often as I could endure it, and did everything I could to assist in my own convalescence. On these brief walks down dark hallways, my arm gripping her narrow shoulder, her strength supplying most of what kept us vertical, my best conversational skills were not enough to draw Sabina out. In two weeks I learned little more than that she was from Attica and had been married. Her husband had been killed almost a year ago, I know not how. Like me she had only recently come into the service of Crassus. She evaded all my queries; I did not even know if she was bought or free. Yet there was some part of her story she could not conceal. An unknown hardship lived just beneath the surface of her smile, etching lines of care about her eyes. Sometimes I would catch her standing silently, staring off in some sad reverie from which I was loath to startle her. It saddened me to see this, and to know there was no way I could help.

But oh how she brightened when Livia alighted in the room, which the child did whenever her own chores were done. Then, the gremlins that tormented Sabina dropped their detestable tools and fled the moment she set eyes on her daughter. Livia was ready with a quick and fervent hug, but flitted off again, questioning this, examining that. The girl could not keep still; when she wasn’t talking she was whistling, and the whistling inevitably led to dancing.

Her mother tried to channel some of that energy by handing her a dust cloth, then a broom, then a mop. Sabina claimed the servants assigned to housekeeping were sufficient for cleaning barns and sties, but little else. Sabina was neat the way a Roman pine was coniferous. I have found her on her hands and knees scrubbing the grout between the flagstones with an old tooth rag and a bucket of diluted vinegar. And then again three days later.

Livia did not grumble when asked to help; her vitality needed an outlet and almost any activity would do. She sang and scrubbed, creating dance steps that used the mop as a partner. More than once Sabina had to remind her they were no longer in Salamis. Romans, she admonished, find dancing vulgar. So Sabina, too, had learned the benefits of remaining invisible. A lesson yet to be absorbed by the dazzling and willful Livia.

“Then Romans,” she replied, fixing me with an impish leer, “are the thing you see when you lift a horse’s tail.”

I stifled a guffaw as Sabina exclaimed, “Livia! You must never speak like that.” She glanced toward the hallway, a reflexive movement common in non-Roman conversations:  were we being overheard, there would be consequences. Roman consequences. “Where ever did you learn such a thing?”

“At home, of course.” And she was gone, twirling off at speed. Sabina called her back unsuccessfully. The sadness came rushing back into her expression, a thief of joy intent on stealing a mother’s smile. “Home?” I tried. “But this is her home.” Sabina ignored me as she refilled my water cup from a terra cotta pitcher. “Keep drinking,” she said, her healer’s demeanor restored. She ruffled my hair with genuine affection. I ached to know more, but dared not pick further at a scab that was not my own.

***

By the time we reached the entrance to the tablinum, sweat dotted my forehead; Sabina steadied me, her arm an oak branch under my own. The study was small, crowded with the work assigned to one of Sulla’s new favorites. The day was surprisingly warm;  curtains had been pulled so that the room was open to the adjacent peristyle. Iron rings discouraged a spray of scrolls from going outside to play with the occasional breeze. There was room for but one chair, and its occupant was unlikely to give it up to the bandaged young heron wobbling before him. Sunlight fell from the columned garden onto Crassus’ outstretched, sandaled foot, the leather lacings only a few shades darker than his tanned calf. His bare arms draped languidly over cedar armrests, hands hanging down in repose. The man I must now call lord wore a tunic hemmed with silver thread; the only other adornment was a band of iron on his left ring finger. His form begged to be sculpted; his face belonged on coins. Marcus Licinius Crassus, one of Rome’s new masters, had just turned thirty-four. As my eyes rose to meet his, I saw that he was studying me as intently as I had been taking account of him.

“You live,” he said.

“Apparently.”

“I am pleased.”

I did not respond.

“I’ve decided I am not going to have you whipped.”

“I am pleased,” I said with emphasis.

There followed a second of silence in which I tried to hold his gaze, but faltered. “Take him back, Sabina,” Crassus said with a flick of his wrist. “Give him another day’s rest, then have him report to Pío.” We turned to go, but he stopped us. “You studied philosophy, did you not?” I nodded. “Next week,” he said, returning to his work, “you’ll spend an hour each day tutoring my son. Why should we hire out when we have our very own expert on the Greek thinkers.”

“But how did ....”

Crassus did not look up. He took another scroll from the pile, but his lips curled into an involuntary smile. “We keep excellent records on captives’ backgrounds. Unlike some, I read them.”

“Isn’t Marcus a little young?” Sabina asked.

“When the other boys start at seven, he’ll be that much further ahead. Just an hour a day; enough to whet his appetite.”

“Yes, dominus,” Sabina said. She elbowed me.

“Yes, dominus,” I repeated dully, marveling at his knowledge of me, and that he had bothered to discover it.

Crassus spoke again. “Now we shall ascertain if your educational gifts equal your prowess as an archery butt.”

My face reddened. Was that a dismissal? Crassus read his parchment while we stood there, stuck in a hot, uncomfortable limbo. I shifted painfully on my leg. Finally, he said, “Oh, one more thing.” He looked up, his expression impenetrable. “Pío is a Laletani - Hispanic. His Latin is passable but rudimentary. He does not understand sarcasm. He boasts twice my weight and half my sense of humor. Need I say more?” he asked with eyebrow raised. I stared at him in mild surprise. Was he trying to look out for me, or was he merely protecting his investment? Dare I ask? Too late. The interview was over. Crassus had returned to his work and the moment to wave the banner of my own ironical sense of humor had passed. Timing is all.

In any case, my stamina was flagging.

That was the extent of my first conversation with Marcus Crassus. I would not have another for three months.

Taking the Plunge ...

... into brick & mortar. (Hope nothing fractures.) "Bow" is in the final proofing process for distribution as a trade paperback.

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone

Chapter IV

82 BCE   -   Fall, Rome

Year of the consulship of 

Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

A word of advice:  if you can possibly avoid it, do not get shot. The arrow pierced my right thigh and exited out the back of my leg with force enough to spin me off-balance. My wounded leg flew backward, tripping up my other leg as I twisted from the impact. I was screaming before my fall broke the feathered shaft as I hit the ground face down. Unable to stop my momentum, I rolled over until the protruding iron arrowhead stabbed the back of my other thigh. I’m told the complaints streaming from my mouth were insufferable; Sulla ordered a legionary to rush up and knock me on the head with the butt of his sword.

***

Now that I have told you how my new master ruined my first and only attempt at escape from bondage, I return to the events that happened only moments before. They concern the condemned man whose blood Crassus refused to allow to be washed from the balcony’s stones for as long as he lived in that place. So let us go back to the moment he was dragged before Sulla and Crassus.

***

There was a commotion at the front of the house:  the slap and murmur of leather armor, the clamor of studded caligae, the stumble of an out-of-step gait shoved from behind. “Your next gift approaches,” Sulla said to Crassus. As this procession marched out onto the balcony, the sound of a sword being drawn was accompanied by these words from the general:  “Lucius Junius Brutus Damasippus, I accuse you of the murder of Quintus Mucius Scaevola, pontifex maximus. In the blinking brightness of day. In front of scores of witnesses. In of all places the most sacred Temple of the Vestals. A crime so bold and heinous it is a reeling affront to everything for which Rome stands. Do you deny it?”

There came a coarse cough of laughter, then a new voice spoke with venom made potent by the hopelessness of his plight. “I deny nothing. I cut the priest’s throat with my own puglio and watched his blood run down the steps of the temple.”

“And do you deny that Gaius Marius Minor, the last holdout of those who have raised arms against me, he who is now held under siege at Praeneste, holds your leash?” 

“This is too pretty a place for an execution, Lucius Cornelius, and far too private for your purpose. What are you playing at? I appreciate the view, but if you expect repentance, I shit on your ignorance. Do what you brought me here to do.” 

“The dead make no demands:  I give no credence to the words of a ghost. For history’s sake, I will make an accurate accounting. Marius gave you a list.”

“We have it here my lord,” a soldier said. There was quiet as Sulla scanned it.

“And did you ...?”

“To the last senator,” spoke Damasippus. “You’ll find them at the bottom of the Tiber. Togas make excellent shrouds. By the way, you’ll find the high priest Scaevola down there as well. You see, we did try to clean up after ourselves,” the villain added.

“You were loyal, Brutus; you served faithfully, first the father, then the son. This I do not hold against you, for it is this quality I seek above all others in my own allies. You may have truly believed, as did Marius, that the people require more representation than what they already have from the senators whom they have elected. Or maybe you simply gambled that your sword would be wielded on the side of the victor. Either way, you have chosen unwisely. Yet even this I might be inclined to overlook, but for the cruel and vicious streak in you. I take no pleasure in restoring sanity to Rome. I do what must be done. But you, you are ... overzealous. I cannot abide intemperance in any form.”

“Then chide your tongue,” Damasippus snapped. “This endless prattle offends my person more than any blade.” There was a blunt whump and the prisoner became silent. My neck ached. I rolled my head to relieve the strain of looking up, as if that would improve my hearing. 

Sulla spoke again. “Marcus, come close. Do you know this man?” 

“There is something familiar about his face.”  A pause. “YOU!”

“Hold, Marcus.” A short scuffle. “He will be yours in good time. Before I could breach the walls of the city, this traitor had already discharged his bloody commission from Marius the son, but five years earlier, the faithful cur performed the same bloody tricks for Marius the father. I wish these good souls assembled here to know the full measure of his perfidy. Remember, Marcus Licinius; purge yourself of the memory.”

There was silence for a long while, then Crassus spoke hoarsely, but I could not make out the words. Sulla’s stentorian growl, though, fell hard on my ears. “This is the man, Marcus! More than this house, more than any treasure I have yet to bestow upon you, I warrant you will value him as my greatest gift to you. Most of him, that is. I shall retain his head for another purpose.”

Crassus found his voice, each word of the retelling slowly stoking his anger as the memory took shape and form till it was once again a live and twisting thing in his gut. “You were bearded then.” The sound of measured steps fading then returning:  Crassus circling Damasippus. “Bless the gods for their kindness – they took my mother the day I was born; she would be neither witness nor victim of that day’s work. My eldest brother, Publius - he too was fortunate. He died honorably, killed in the last war against our rebellious Italian allies. 

“But on the day of which you would have me speak, general, the day my family’s honor and life was gutted like a gasping trout, I was the lucky one.” The word came miserable and shriveled from Crassus’ throat. “My brother Lucius had just returned ... .” A breeze blew through the needles of the stone pines lining the garden border and carried his next words away on the chill wind. I pleaded with their great, rounded crowns, swaying like giant mushrooms on spindly stalks, begging them to be still. To my amazement, they heard my prayer and ceased their lofty chatter.

“They never found me,” Crassus was saying. “But through the cracks of the garden shed I saw what happened. Pallus, the gardener and two of his Egyptians had gone there with me to fetch fertilizer and tools. If not for them ....” 

“How ironic that my father once supported Marius. He was always a man of the people. But his taste for politics soured once the killing began. He became devoutly apolitical and withdrew from public life altogether. Which is why he looked mildly surprised when a squad of soldiers marched up to his home, led by this man. I never learned his name, but his deeds made the memory of his face indelible. Damasippus, you say. I have it now. You never gave it when my father demanded it of you. Why should it matter to me now? But it does, you see, because there is a perverse balance in the knowing. In my heart, the names of my kin are forever linked to their kind and gentle ways. Until now I had no name to connect the profane acts of that day. Marius may have given the order. But never has such a heinous command ever been executed with such joyous devotion. By you. Damasippus. 

“You gave my father a choice. You must have known of him:  consul, censor, governor of Hispania Ulterior, a patrician proclaimed imperatore by his troops and granted a triumph for his victory over the Lusitani, yet you gave him a choice. Fall on your sword, you said, and spare the life of your son. My father was no fool. He knew the sun above his head would be the last to shine upon him. He did not beg or ask why or hesitate for one second. He said, Spare the lives of the rest of my household, my children and their children. Lucius cried out and struggled against the two that held him. ‘Be brave, my son,’ my father said as the rest of the soldiers pushed roughly past him to search the house. ‘Take anything you like ....’” Crassus’ breath caught, it became clear he was crying. ‘Take it all, Father said, ‘but spare all who live under my roof. ‘Swear this. Swear on the honed tips of Diana’s unerring arrows and upon the blessed curls that grace your mother’s head. And you swore. You swore.

“My father called for Plocamus, our steward, to assist him, and he shuffled bravely out from amongst the servants. But he was old and frail. You pushed him aside and ....” Crassus faltered. “You told him he could not lift a sword, let alone brace it.”

“I know damn well what I ...”

“SILENCE!” Sulla bellowed. “Go on, Marcus.”

“I cannot. Rage and sorrow both have stopped my mouth. Oh gods! Will you not let me avenge them now?!”

“Draw your sword,” said Sulla, “for its thirst shall be slaked. I have heard the tale, my friend, and would be your voice, for the story eats at me and must out. This traitorous whoreson took his own sword and knelt before your father, bracing the butt against his boot as is the custom. Publius Licinius addressed the house, but his gaze was fixed on Lucius, his eldest remaining son. ‘Mourn not,’ he said, ‘for I happily sell all my remaining days to make this purchase. When Marcus returns, express my sorrow at not being able to say goodbye.’ He looked down at his murderer and added, ‘Be not forsworn,’ and then he fell upon the blade.”

“I could not go to him!” Crassus cried with a voice aged with five years of guilt and anger. “Three men held me fast, their strength doubled to save their own lives as well as mine. Pallus whispered ‘forgive me’ in my ear as he clasped a hand over my mouth.”

“A foul business,” Sulla said. “And here is the worst of it. Before the sword could inflict a lethal blow, Damasippus thrust a hand up to your father’s shoulder, arresting his descent. He nodded to the men holding your brother and smiled as they slit his throat. Seeking your father’s eyes once more, he grinned as he said, “Marius bids me say thusly:  you and your family shall become as dust, your coins melted, your works dismantled, and your household utterly destroyed.” He cast his stiffened arm aside, your father fell, and Damasippus laughed as the light went from his eyes. You and your three brave servants were the only ones to escape.”

The sound of weeping came from above, and more cries than the sobs of Crassus swept down to me on the wind. There soon followed silence. I strained to listen, my breath a caged captive in my chest. 

Sulla said, “Marcus will kill you now, Lucius Junius. You will receive no rights of burial. Your body will be cast into the Tiber. Your possessions and property will be proscribed and your family and all that called you friend will be hunted down and put to the sword. When you are slain, I will take your severed head and send a message with it, more convincing than any inked on parchment. I shall catapult it over the walls of Praeneste so that the son of Marius will know his battle for Rome is over. For him, like you, all is lost.”

There came a thud as the condemned must have been forced to his knees. Sulla said in a solemn voice, “He is yours, Marcus.” 

I had seen these executions before and cringed at the thought of what was going on above me. Crassus must have stood behind his victim, placed his sword point at the base of the neck and with both hands thrust straight down. I heard nothing, but the deed must have been done.

Because then they took the head.

Chapter III

Chapter III

82 BCE   -   Fall, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

Several men and women were busy pruning and trimming the flowered garden that sloped gently down the hill that overlooked the way we had come. I almost smiled when I realized the view to the northwest looked directly down upon the Comitium. The tribune would have insisted that I avert my eyes. I took great pleasure in allowing my eyes to linger over every building and temple.

Men were talking on the balcony above us.

“… the one at the very top of the Palatine?” a deep voice, well-pleased with itself was saying.

“The one on fire?” asked another. This one sounded much younger than the first speaker, his voice constricted by nerves. I did not know it as I eavesdropped, but I was soon to become a poorly wrapped gift, and Marcus Licinius Crassus the arrogant recipient.

“The very same. That is the ruins of the house of old Marius. I shall build my estate upon its ashes.”

“Sir, may I ask why you have called me to the Carinae? As lovely as the view is from this hill, I must see to my Spaniards.”

“Good men all. My best medics are already on their way to your camp to tend to the wounded. Relax, Marcus. I’ve a special surprise for you which should be here any minute. Take a cup of wine. It’s from your vineyards after all.”

“Sir?”

“This home has been abandoned by the previous owner, along with all his property and wealth. Not coincidentally, he abandoned the field of battle as well, his tail well-tucked. A coward such as Carbo deserves no finery such as this. I doubt he’ll be making any claims from Africa. Today, I give all his possessions to the hero of the Colline Gate.”

“Words cannot express my gratitude, general. But my father, may he rest peacefully in Juno’s arms, would never approve of such a display of immoderate wealth. Our family home was a third as large.” The man’s barely contained joy was proof that he was not his father.

“And your father,” the first man countered, “could have afforded an estate ten times as grand, so let us consider this a fair compromise. Come Marcus, we must begin to rebuild the wealth Marius stole. We take back only that which rightfully belongs to you. My mind is set on this – though of plebian ancestry, the Licinii Crassi have sacrificed more for the sake of Rome than most nobles:  a father and the two eldest of three sons? It is enough. You must make your mark for their sake.”

“My lord ...”

“No. You have your own family to consider. How fare your wife and son?” Evidently there would be no further argument.

“Sons! When I left Tertulla in Lavinium last year to join your campaign, she was with child. Her letters have yet to find me; I pray Mercury lends mine swifter wings. Girl or boy, I know not which, the next Crassus should be a year old by now. Young Marcus will turn three next month.” Even from my lowly vantage point I could hear the pride in his voice.

“This is magnificent news. You honored the memory of your brother when you took Tertulla in.”

“She was just a child. Only thirteen and married to Lucius less than a year the day he was cut down. I do honor his memory, but I would have seen it served in any other way than this. Thanks to the gods that Tertulla was visiting her parents, or her name would have lengthened the list of the dead. It is a marvel, but these past five years I have come to cherish her as if I had been the first to woo her. Yet that is of no account. What I did is unremarkable; any decent Roman would have done the same.”

“Decent Romans,” the older man mused. “Roman decency is a rare commodity nowadays. For proof, one need but take a stroll through almost any neighborhood of the city.” I grimaced with disgust; the man was oblivious to the fact that at least half the carnage in the streets could be laid upon the edge of Roman swords. The senior officer continued. “Wait a few weeks before summoning Tertulla back to the city. A woman’s eyes ought not to lose their sparkle from the sight of what men must do to keep them safe. Although it’s never too early for the son of a Roman to begin his education.” I prayed to Reason that no son of Rome would ever call me father. As it turned out, Reason would attend. The boy I grew to think of as the son I never had would hail from quite another quarter, a fugitive who would find his home with me.

There was a short silence after which Marcus Crassus appeared to acquiesce tacitly to his benefactor’s generosity by changing the subject. “So, Carbo escaped, then?” he said.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve sent young Gnaeus Pompeius after him with his three legions. Do you know him?”

“We’ve never met. I hear his ability to command far outstrips his years. Wasn’t it he and Metellus who engaged Carbo in the north? It makes me feel unworthy being the recipient of such bounty.” My ears strained to catch each word of this lofty conversation.

“Look there. That villa will be his upon his return. You’ll be neighbors! Be at ease, Marcus, it has at least one peristyle more than yours. Will that give Pompeius his due? Fine. It is settled then. Let’s eat something while we wait. I’m famished.” In a different tone, one I had heard often from countless men since my abduction, he barked, “Bring it outside.”

Several more people approached, there was the scraping of furniture and the gentle clank and clatter of trays being carefully laid down. The man next to me took no notice; he sat cross-legged, his head tilted back against the column. Jaw slack. Eyes closed. My foot was at the ready should he start to snore.

After a few moments of quiet, the man who I assumed was older than Crassus laughed out loud. “You should have seen their faces,” he said. “As white as their togas, I swear by Jupiter.” He was talking with his mouth full. The implication made me salivate. “The Curia was no fit place to address what was left of the senate. I would not speak to them standing on the still fresh blood of my friends. So this morning we shepherded them all up the Capitoline to the Temple of Bellona. An unhappy coincidence, since close by my legates had assembled the remaining, captured Samnites on the Campus Martius. There they would pay in full for their insurrection.” The man bit into some kind of fruit. I could hear the juice fly. “Only open field with enough room to herd ‘em all,” he said, his mouth once again overfull. I swallowed back unbidden saliva, almost losing track of the conversation.

“How many were taken prisoner?”

“Oh, maybe five, six thousand.” Crassus made a sound of acknowledgment. “The cries of the ones in the rear who could see their fate approaching worked our venerable legislators into a frenzy. And my intention was to calm them and reassure them. It really was quite funny. They thought they themselves would be next to fall under the sword. I had to leave the rostrum to compose myself while my men shepherded the terrified conscript fathers back to their places. When I stopped laughing and regained my dignity I returned and told them I had come to save them, not slay them. I could see it in their eyes:  everything I said fell on ears plugged with wax manufactured from the screams of the dying Samnites.

“Marius and his gang were their true enemies. If he had had his way the assemblies and the plebs would have stripped the senate of all real power. Jupiter! His thugs killed off more than half the original three hundred. We need to do something about that, Marcus.” He paused a moment. “We need to protect the old ways. I shall tear down the Curia and build a new, larger one, this time with enough room to hold twice as many togas.”

“But the law only allows three hundred senators.”

The older man’s tone grew dark. “The law shall be rewritten.” Then he brightened. “And we must see that the seats are filled with our friends, with men who are loyal to Rome, eh, and to me? You shall have a seat,” he said, suddenly inspired.

“General, I am honored, but I have yet to embark upon the cursus honorum.”

I could envision the wave of a dismissive hand. “It is a done thing. What a pity it would have been had my dreams died at the very gates of the city. Your role was not insignificant, Marcus. We will speak no more of it.”

I smiled outright. The tribune who had marched us here had been so proud of his Curia; now it would be razed. But a breath later my smile fled, my lips pressed to flatness by widened eyes. I tried to rationalize my stupidity:  I was exhausted, starving, a blood-spattered wreck. Still, logic should have prevailed and shaken me before now. Above my head stood Lucius Cornelia Sulla, conqueror of Asia Minor, plunderer of Athens and thief of the life of Alexandros, son of Theodotos. My heart used my stomach for a drum and I gripped the column for support. Here was the man at whose feet could be laid every injury, insult and degradation I had endured these past four years. In that time, all that I once might have been had been ground away until what was left was more stone than man:  cold, weathered, inert. Knowledge wrenched me back to myself; I was suddenly, sharply awake.

Much more was said, and of that heartbreaking tale I shall speak again. But the nearness of General Sulla was causing me to become increasingly agitated, like a fly unable to reach a pile of offal. There was nothing holding me save my word, my own voluntary grip on the centurion’s rope and the promise of a summary and certain demise. Even so, I imagined myself stepping out into the light, armed with arrow and bow to wreak glorious justice upon Sulla, claiming as my prize a death that would make an end of my travails.

My impotent and weaponless daydreaming was cut short by the sound of a prisoner being brought before Crassus and Sulla as they waited on the balcony. To tell it briefly, the man was executed and beheaded on the spot. The head escaped its executioners, rolled out off the veranda and onto the gravel path below. I followed the sound of a moist thud and there, almost at my feet I met the open and discomfiting gaze of the victim. His facial muscles still twitched in a parody of communication, either from the fluid still draining from his neck or from the jarring effect of his flight and abrupt landing. I leapt back, stumbling over my sleeping companion who, having been trampled awake began a diatribe of reproach interrupted by the sight of the severed head. The gardeners froze, their hoes and rakes motionless, but then like the well-trained servants they were, they continued as if this barbarity were a frequent occurrence.

The chains of fear that had kept me from myself suddenly fell away. I could act, not at the whim of my captors but of my own volition. Sulla had emancipated me, for who among the hundreds of thousands shackled by this brutish man’s armies had ever stood so close to the taproot of all that misery? I was free! Free, but with only one act to choose, only one decision that was mine alone to make. I would die, and deprive these Romans of any further use of me. I laughed to think that I had once believed my lot could ever improve; to wish for a return to a life of dignity was a vain and empty hope. I would deceive myself no longer and take back my life, if only for a moment. A meaningless gesture was my only weapon, but I intended to wield it with skill and accuracy. I have heard that the moments before death can bring unrivaled clarity and lightheartedness. It is true.

Running out into the sunlight, I grabbed a hank of black, oily hair and hoisted the staring head high:  Alexandros, son of Theodotos, a demented Perseus. “General, I see you’ve lost your head!” I shouted in Latin. “Shall I toss it up to you? Catch it, then, and bloody your hands. May the stain never fade.”

The conqueror of Rome leaned over the marble railing and glared at me. He turned away and said something I could not catch. Any moment now. The rumble of many feet came rushing down the stairwell.

Soldiers poured out the doorway but Sulla shouted for them to hold. The military tribune’s horse shied and was led away, almost trampling my bilingual friend. He scrambled to his feet only to be pressed against the column by the points of several threatening gladii. Seeing me bloodstained and wild-eyed, holding aloft the severed head, despite the ring of soldiers hemming him in my fellow Greek began mumbling incoherently and making signs against evil.

“It feels good, you know,” I said, breaking the moment of silence when the world grew still and even the breeze held its breath.

“Please,” Sulla mocked, “Do describe this brief elation before I end it.”

“Why, having the great General Sulla do my bidding.”

“Ordering me about, are you?” He laughed along with his subordinates. “And what is it you expect me to do?”

“You have already done it.” I would say no more, for fear he would rescind the order for spite and spoil my plan. A moment later the audience for this little entertainment parted and an archer appeared, swinging his bow up and over the balustrade.

“Don’t bother throwing it up. My men will fetch it once you’re dead.” He nodded to the archer. I dropped the corpse’s head and spread my arms, chest out, face turned to the infinite sky.

“General! A moment.” It was the voice of the tribune who had led us to this place. “Forgive me,” he said, “but that is one of the two translators you had me fetch for ...”

“Damn! Marcus, this was to be another gift. Carbo’s slaves are mostly Greek, they speak no Latin. When we took the house my men met with some resistance and we were forced to thin them out – the house translators were among the dead. I’ll shoot this one and get you another. There has to be a more compliant candidate left alive in the city.”

“A shame,” Crassus said. “His Latin is perfect.”

“Archer!” I called. “Do you love your vocation?” And in Greek, “I hope so, for ‘pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’”

“Aristotle!” cried Crassus. Then, almost apologetically to Sulla, “I am an admirer.” I got the first look of my master as he appeared at the railing. A soldier in his prime:  hair close-cropped, brows knit over a slightly bent nose; thin lips, strong chin and eyes care-worn yet masterful. Like most of the men peering down at me, he looked worn out, yet comforted by the mantle of victory. He leaned over the rail and called to me in Greek, “Apologize, and you yet may live.”

“If you are a true student of philosophy, good sir, you will not interfere,” I said. “You will know that ‘the very best thing is not to have been born, to be nothing. The second best thing is to die soon.’”

“As much as I admire the Greek thinkers,” Crassus said, “Aristotle missed the mark this time. Live awhile and prove me wrong.”

“Sulla!” I implored desperately. “Will you let all these witnesses make you a laughingstock?”

“You have spirit,” Sulla called. “But there’s no meat on your bones. What good is a weakling, insolent slave? I can’t let this go, Marcus. Archer ....” I closed my eyes. The bow overhead voiced a single, creaking complaint as the string was pulled back.

“I like his impertinence,” Crassus pressed. “And with all humility, may I remind the general why it was you had him found? If you still intend him as a gift, perhaps the lorum will tame his arrogance. Will this suffice?”

Sulla considered. “See how he perplexes me? I had quite forgotten. Well ... he is yours now; the decision belongs to you as well. But damn it, Marcus, I cannot allow any man to speak to me thusly with impunity. And this ... I mean look at him. Archer, shoot him in the leg. And somebody bring me my head!”