“What’s happening?” Livia asked.
“Anarchy,” I replied.
Chapter VIII
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
From behind us, a voice called, “Mistress!”
“Buccio! What has happened?!” lady Cornelia cried. I have noted how often questions escape our mouths when the answers are known to us even before we begin to speak. It is my contention that we do this in order to let our minds catch up with our brains. Or perhaps it is the other way round. In any event, we stopped to give the old slave time to catch up to us. He held one hand to his head and a bundle of his lady’s things under his other arm.
“Your pardon, lady,” the little man said. “I did my best.” Lady Cornelia grabbed her clothes from him.
“There’s no time to change, lady-” I started.
“Shut up,” she said, pressing a fine, yellow tunic to her man’s bleeding head. I deserved that, I did.
In a voice full of apology, Buccio said, “They beat me when I tried to conceal your jewels.”
We had not yet skirted the pool when a familiar voice boomed out, “Hold!” Familiar, as in recognizable, but not in any way sociable. It was the man I had heard calling the name of Clodius. We turned with sinking hearts to see a knot of unsavory fellows armed with clubs striding across the palaestra. Their leader, a man with bushy eyebrows and a full beard was the least appetizing of all. Behind these ruffians, several more had herded a dozen or so of the balnea’s patrons together into a frightened huddle.
“What is the meaning of this, sir? How dare you detain representatives of senator Crassus?” I heard myself say. Someone must have pushed me to stand in front of the women, for there I suddenly stood. Behind them, there was only a foot or two of dirt to the edge of the pit that was the empty swimming pool.
“That’s a fair question,” the heavyset fellow said, thoughtfully tapping the end of his thick club into the palm of his hand, as if to consider it. “And it deserves a fair answer, but let me ask you one first. Who the fuck put you in charge?” he said, jabbing the club into my stomach. My knees discovered the ground of their own accord, but my breath was undiscoverable. Livia dropped and put her arms around me to help steady me.
Through my wheezing, I heard another man lisp, “Crassus? He’s frenss with that ophtimate bastard Gnaeus Phompheius! Clodius said…”
I tried to speak again, but a wave of nausea overtook me. The leader interrupted his accomplice, giving me time to collect myself. “Calm yourself, Palaemon. Does this look like the curia to you? We’re not here for politics; we’re here for fun.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends,” I managed to whisper.
“Hey, I know that man,” a voice called from the back.
“Yes, yes, I know him, too. He’s Crassus' man, Alexander.” He reached down to pat my head, the swine. “But these two,” he said, swinging his club between Livia and lady Cornelia, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Get it,” he said, turning to his men. “It’s a pun.” Silence. “Haven’t you people seen Syrus? You must-he’s very funny.”
“You’re no Syrus,” I said, reaching out as fast as I could to grab the man’s right heel with both hands and pulling with all my strength. My intent was to unbalance him, send him sprawling to the ground where he belonged, wrest the club from his grasp and start valiantly swinging while the others made their escape. In retrospect, it was probably to the benefit of all our party that the foot did not budge.
“Listen, my brave mantis,” he said, pulling me to my feet by my ear. As he looked up at me, he jabbed the club in my chest, lightly this time. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. Clodius is being nice to your master because he knows how it rankles Pompeius. Any man who stands with Crassus is a friend to Clodius. Today, leastwise.”
“An excellent man, a man of reason,” I lied.
“‘Velus,’ he told me, ‘go out, hire a dozen or so men of flexible character and administer a thud or two to any conservatives you may find.’ Even gave me a list, which would be grand, except I can’t read for shit. I mean I know how to read, but the gods have plagued me with the blurry eye. So I’m looking, instead, for them that’s got that look; you know the one I mean, the look like they own the world and you don’t.”
“An astute criterion, for which you can see we do not qualify,” I said, meeting his eyes, whose pupils looked as if they had been replaced by moonstones. I had seen this ailment before, but never up close. The effect was disturbing, as if the ruffian were looking through me, not at me. “And we are all four members of the Crassus household,” I added, careful not to look directly at Lady Cornelia.
“But Crassus does own the world,” the one called Palaemon said slowly, and with effort. His mouth was pulled down on one side by a scar, mangling his words as if he had a mouth full of knucklebones. The rest of his cratered face had been ruined by the pox.
“But he doesn’t have the look,” said Velus.
“No, of course he doesn’t,” I said, beginning to feel almost chummy with this ne’er-do-well. “He’s a man of the people.”
“Well, you see, here’s the thing of it,” he said, tilting his head and rubbing the club against the underside of his hirsute chin. “Clodius said ‘any man who stands with Crassus.’ He didn’t say spit about women.”
“What? You wouldn’t dare club a woman,” I cried, spreading my arms protectively. Or at least instinctively.
“No, ‘course not. Not with this club,” he said, waving the piece of wood. “It’s a pun. Get it?” This time, the amateur comedian got his laugh. “Now stand aside, cousin. Don’t you worry, we’ll have your lady friends back to you…” he looked up at the clouds overhead as if that would assist him in his calculations, “… oh, shouldn’t be more than half an hour. You lot,” he called to his men in the back, “Make sure you’ve fleeced them proper, then let ‘em all go. Keep the women you fancy.”
The man called Velus stepped forward and reached for lady Cornelia, who screamed. Two others shoved me aside and went for Livia. “No!” I cried. “No, please.” Livia knew better than I to struggle or protest: she went limp, having learned since she was barely more than a child that resignation would see her through her coming ordeal with the least brutality. She cast her eyes downward, her lips pressed tightly together. For one brief moment, she glanced up at me as if to say, ‘it doesn’t matter.’ But oh gods, how it did. Strong hands held my arms, but my imagination flew free to slay every last one of these caitiffs.
From out of the shadows on the other side of the pool, the tribune Cato appeared, now dressed, the front of his tunic stretched tight across his belly, his family bunched behind him. In one greasy hand he held the roasted leg of some animal, in the other the box with my master’s bribe. With his high-pitched voice he called out, “You men, unhand those women. I shall have your names, sirs.”
“Gaius Cato,” Velus said. “I recognize you.”
“As well you should. Return these good people to their belongings and set them free. I’ll have no unlawfulness in my presence.”
“Ah’ll tend to this,” said Palaemon, starting to make his way around the pool.
“The person of a tribune of the plebs is sacrosanct,” Gaius Cato said haughtily, with no hint that he and his arrogance might be in danger. “Have you prayed at the temple of Ceres? No? Lay a hand on me and you may visit all your possessions there before they are sold at auction. But you shan’t be troubled by your loss for long, for presently your head will be forfeit to Jupiter.”
“You first,” said Palaemon, jauntily swinging a rusting scrap of curved iron.