“Apologies, proconsul,” the little man said, “but that would be unwise, unless you were to buy equal amounts of both colors.”
“Even if one or two of the good citizens of Antioch are color-blind, none of us are likely to leave the hippodrome alive,” said Gabinius. “Best leave the flags, and the betting, for the true fans.”
“Green is favored by the local Aramean population,” Mercurius explained. “Blue by the more conservative Greeks and Romans. Should they ever grow too far out of balance, we shall have to introduce more colors.”
“Let me give you some practical advice about your administration,” Gabinius said as we continued our stroll. Crassus, ever the politician, made certain to smile and notice everyone he passed. Now and again he would even stop to chat with a mother and child or a shopkeeper. Most of the signage everywhere we looked was trilinguaclass="underline" Aramean, Greek and Latin, yet dominus quickly found that the language with which he was most successful was Greek.
“Truly, Aulus,” he said, reverting to Latin, “anything you might teach me about governing a province would be a lesson in negatives-what not to do. There is only one subject upon which you may instruct me, and it does not lay within the confines of Syria.”
“I can and will tell you much about my experience in Parthia,” said the departing governor. “Don’t underestimate them, my friend, and don’t ever let them catch you out in the open. But first, there are things you should know about what is available to you here in your new home.”
“How can you treat your own troubles with such indifference? Do you not know that you are being tried for treason in absentia? Cicero practically foams at the mouth in expectation of your return.”
“I am always being tried for something, aren’t I? That’s what bribes are for, Marcus. You practically invented the practice, did you not?” My master bridled at the inference, or perhaps at its being spoken aloud. “Between my money and your friends, I have every hope of acquittal from every vicious charge, whatever they may be.”
“What do you mean, ‘my friends?’”
“Pompeius has promised to speak up for me, even to bend Tully’s arm if need be. And Caesar, well, Caesar.” Gabinius laughed aloud, then suggested we turn about and return to our seats.
“What about Julius?” Crassus said as evenly as he could. We began retracing our steps.
“I’ve accepted a posting with him,” Marcus Antonius said. “I’ll travel with Aulus as far as Rome, then on to Gaul.”
“Don’t forget your lion skin,” Crassus said.
“I know!” Marcus Antonius said. “No more balmy Judean winters for me.”
“What was this about Caesar?” Crassus pressed.
“You know how he loves to wriggle beneath the peplos of any noble’s wife who’ll let him?”
“What?!” Crassus shouted.
“General,” Petronius whispered, putting a hand on his arm.
“Calm down, man,” said Gabinius. “All Rome knows about his insatiable Cyclops.”
“Haul yourself out of the gutter, sir.”
“Please, Rome is the gutter. Or can’t you see it from the Palatine? Come now, Marcus. This is a marvelous story. I knew putting Ptolemy back on the throne without the senate’s blessing would put me in the deep end of the pool, but what can you do when Pompeius asks and Egypt loads so much silver in my ship it lists? Gabinius must answer.
“As it happens, your friend Caesar proved my savior. You’ve never met my wife, Lollia. Strange that she and your wife have never socialized.” Not so strange. “She’s as stunning as the statue of Diana in her Aventine temple, and just as cold. She’s even more beautiful than I am.”
Gabinius stopped and balanced gracefully on one leg, bringing his raised heel to rest across his other knee. Mercurius hurried over, lifted his master’s painted toe and removed a pebble caught between sandal and foot. Crassus asked, “Does this have a point?”
We carried on. “Of course. Lollia and I share a mutual hatred of each other, so I was delighted to return from the senate early one afternoon to find her splayed across the dining room lectus with Julius between her thighs.”
“Outrageous. What did you do?”
“Just that-appear outraged. I sent Lollia to the baths. Then, after some fine tragedian acting and wringing of hands, promised to avoid a scandal if, in return, Caesar would swear that should my case ever be tried, he would write on my behalf. Which he has. Illicit sex, Marcus, drives at least half the decisions of the modern world, wouldn’t you agree?”
“What a bankrupt and reprehensible philosophy.”
“Yet Pompeius now awaits to appear in court on Caesar’s behalf with a letter stating that not only should I not be on trial, the senate should confer upon me a supplicatio, thanking me for bringing Egypt back into the fold, and for all my victories in Judea. I may have a statue in the forum before this is done. All thanks to Caesar and that magnificent shrew. A victory all around, don’t you think?”
“If you hate your wife so much, why not just leave her?”
“Why leave her, when I can leave her in misery?”
“I think I’ve heard quite enough.” We had arrived at the steps which would take us back up to the governor’s box. “Octavius, walk with me back to the Regia. I’m feeling tired.”
“Dominus, I’ll come with you.” Crassus' eyes were already somewhere else, more than likely Luca.
“No, Alexander, you stay and watch the races. I’ll be fine.”
“Marcus,” Gabinius said, “We need to discuss Parthian tactics and weaponry.”
“Tell it to my legates. I’m done with you. Alexander, wait. Take this.” Crassus unbuckled his long purple cloak and fastened it about my shoulders. He laid the wreath on my head and stuffed the handkerchief in my hand and my slave plaque down my tunic. With little enthusiasm he said, “Something little Felix can tell his grandchildren about someday.”
“You’re joking,” Gabinius said.
“I never joke in front of people I despise.”
“Despise me all you like, but hear me out if you seek to finish what I began across the Euphrates.” Gabinius saw with rising panic that this public arcade beneath the vaulted columns of his stadium was likely to be his final audience with Crassus. He took hold of the new governor’s arm. Crassus recoiled. “Listen to me!” As dominus was stepping away, I leaned in, straining to hear whatever it was this man who’d actually faced the enemy we planned to engage was trying to tell us. But the crowds were thickening, their holiday babble amplifying off the bottoms of the concrete seats rising above our heads, and I could not comprehend every word. Two phrases were all that came through clearly: “Armenia’s mountains” and “using the rivers.”
Crassus may have understood more, for he answered, “Why would I take advice from Pompeius’ torch bearer, a man who dances naked and lets loose a viper like Julius Caesar beneath the bed sheets of his own wife? Why should I listen to anything a man like that has to say about anything?”
“Because he’s right, you stubborn fool.” But Gabinius was already shouting at the back of his replacement.
Aulus Gabinius left the following morning for Rome. His advice regarding the Parthians was never heeded or even heard. The senate tried him on three counts of treason. He was acquitted on two, but convicted for extortion, with special reference to the ten thousand talents of silver he had accepted from a province that was outside his governorship. His property was confiscated and, like Cicero before him, he was sentenced to the worst fate a Roman citizen could suffer and still live: exile. Five years later, however, Julius Caesar called him back to fight in the civil wars, but Gabinius would raise no hand against his old patron, Pompeius. He died of illness two years after returning from exile.