The spring of our contubernium was a time I shall always think upon as a gift beyond all measure; I had never been as happy or content. Yes, I was aware that had I not been enslaved Livia and I would never have met, never fallen in love, never created a child together. The irony of my circumstance would prod me from time to time, but I was quick to let it go. What did it matter? Had I any choice in the matter, would I sacrifice my freedom to spend even five such bliss-filled days with this woman. I would. I swear that I would.
There were no clouds to mar this bright bliss, save for the growing shadow caused by my lord’s preparations to make his vengeful war. Many were the times that Crassus would be forced to rap his knuckles on the table to rouse me from a daydream, but he was rarely cross and most always playful. I think he saw in us something of the way he and Tertulla used to be before Luca. He could confide in no one, for even Piso was more ally than friend, and the political risks, to say nothing of the personal shame, were too great. I yearned to offer him a place to unburden himself, to be the ear he could find nowhere else. But each of us had our roles. And we would play them until the end.
Chapter XVI
55 BCE Spring, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives
Two events occurred in early Aprilis which I feel compelled to relate. Each goes some way toward comprehending, if not excusing, the unfortunate events that follow. Were this chronicle to be remembered…Forgive me. I leap-a performance restricted to pen and ink for this ancient of 86 years-I leap ahead to the present day, to our island refuge to pause for just a moment. Here I sit, scrawling for no one’s amusement but my own, hilly knuckles clutching a fresh reed pen, soon to join his countless, splintered brothers in the trash. The previous conceit has caused me to laugh out loud, but that happy noise has quickly resolved itself into a fit of coughing that has turned my grizzled face crimson. My mind wanders; it is this heat. As I was saying, if I were to be remembered, it would be as a master of understatement: ‘unfortunate events’ indeed. You see? It only takes the lapse of three and a half decades and a decaying mind to make plains of the memories that once were mountains.
Pan’s hoof. I seem to have worn myself out. Perhaps a short nap, then I shall begin again.
•••
There is a bowl of figs by my hand. I do not know how it got there.
•••
Since my arrival in Rome, I have had many opportunities to wonder if compassion’s opposite is cruelty, or to reflect whether or not indifference would serve as a better black to its white. Do you recall how Curio had vanished from my mind while Livia and I dallied in Baiae? Why must there always be a price to pay for every indulgence, and why must it so often be withdrawn from the bankrupt accounts of the innocent?
We returned late to the city. The house was quiet. Livia fell to our couch without unpacking and was instantly asleep. Her mind and body were at rest, one untroubled, the other exhausted. My mind and body, as so often was the case, were at odds, and sleep would not come. I walked through the darkened house, scratching lists onto a wax tablet. Finding myself in the servants’ wing, I saw a light. I knocked lightly on the wall beside the portiere and a voice said ‘enter.’ I pulled the curtain aside to see Hanno on his knees fellating Lucius Curio.
“Hanno,” I said, the word half-choked on the revulsion that filled my head and pushed itself hot and wet out my eyes. “Come here.”
“Oh, really,” Curio tsked. “Must you?”
“Master!” Hanno flew to me. I caressed his hair, adjusted his head band and told him to return to Eirene’s quarters. I would see him first thing in the morning. Taking two long strides to stand directly before my assistant, I slapped him hard. His head snapped sideways.
“How dare you?!” Curio cried, incensed.
With the back of my hand, I slapped his other cheek. He recovered, keeping his hands at his sides, but his cheeks flamed from far more than the sting of my hand. “I see,” he said. “I did not realize your claim was exclusive.”
I hit him again, struggling to keep from making a fist.
“You cannot blame me, now that you have somewhere else to spill your seed…”
The backhand was harder this time. Much harder. Curio almost lost his balance. When he righted himself, he held the back of his own hand against the corner of his bleeding lip. He said, his voice low, “You will pay for this, slave.”
A guard appeared in the doorway, surrounded by other sleepers roused by the noise.
“Leave us. Pull the drapes,” I commanded.
They withdrew, but I knew they would be listening intently just down the hallway. I reached behind me, and as I pulled the blade from the hidden sheathe in my tunic, I whispered, “The fault is mine, Lucius Curio.”
“Are you mad?” he said indignantly. “You cannot carry a weapon!”
“Familia will never be to you what it means to us.”
I put my left hand on his chest and pushed him back upon his sleeping couch, then fell upon him, my thighs straddling his chest. His head was bent up against the wall. I put the blade against his neck and my mouth close by his ear.
“Touch the boy again,” I whispered, “and you will watch the last of your life’s blood wash these tiles.”
“You have no idea what is happening here, do you? Get off me. Do you think your years of service have earned you a dram of anything more than you had the day you came to this house? You are a fool, no better than that deformity I use to pleasure myself. Now leave me. I have a busy day tomorrow.”
In the morning, we were both summoned. Crassus would hear no complaint from either of us. He advised Curio that while it may have been different with Piso, though he doubted it, under his roof, it was the practice to engage in sex solely with consenting partners. Children under twelve and individuals unaware they were engaging in sexual activity were not to be approached. He enjoined me from disturbing the sleep of the familia. And that was all.
•••
The average Roman, I have found, has a strong stomach and a hard heart. By day he is robbed and bullied, hounded by hunger; he takes advantage lest he be taken advantage of. By night he cowers, shut in his tiny rooms at sunset, a prisoner deafened by the wagon wheels of commerce until the dawn makes the treacherous streets safe again. He wilts in summer’s heat and shivers in winter’s rain. He watches unending yet unequal streams of misguided country cousins and newly-minted slaves trickle into the city each day, one lot to seek their fortune, the other to see its end. He lives in overcrowded apartment buildings, beset by poverty, crime and disease. But this is his Rome, the greatest achievement in the history of mankind! How is it that his senses can deceive him so?
Rome is a hollow place, and the people are cruel. I have seen it all firsthand, from their conquering armies to their stolen culture, from their marvelous engineering to their addiction to superstition and fear. But I had never yet seen anything like this. Why do I post this footnote to my tale? For it is nothing more than that. One Roman may be kind, a dozen forgiving, perhaps, but put them together by the thousands and they become the slavering Beast, their better selves subsumed by the riotous appetite of the mob. In all my time in Rome, never before had I seen compassion from the masses, and I believe that because we would soon be on our way to war, where mercy is unwise and kindness has no place, it is incumbent upon me to admit that once before I left this city, never to return, I was witness to its existence, however fleeting.