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!”