“You cannot. There was a copy. Curio has taken it from my quarters, here in the Regia. As soon as he brings it to dominus, I am undone.”
Domina stood. “I will see to this!”
The ring of marching footsteps approached, and two legionaries appeared at the entrance to the balcony. One of them looked vaguely familiar, but his name escapes me. You would think I would remember it, since he spoke the words that ended my thirty-three years of bondage. “Forgive me, mistress. Alexander, slave of Marcus Crassus, you are under arrest. Come with us.”
As I stood to accompany the guards, lady Tertulla said, “Do not lose faith. I will speak with dominus.”
“Domina, tell Livia what has happened. I beg of you, keep her and Hanno safe. And if you love us, free our son.”
The soldiers each grabbed an arm and marched me off.
Domina then said something I wish she had kept to herself. “I have him here. Felix is in Antioch.”
Chapter XXXV
54 BCE — Fall, Antioch
Year of the consulship of
Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher
Curio was no fool. Had he taken the balled up forgery to dominus, he’d have run the risk that the matter might be handled discretely and quietly by the familia. No one likes a scandal. Well, no one likes a scandal without lurid details and horrifying public consequences, and that was just the kind of exhibition Lucius Curio had in mind. It must be said that once having decided to discredit me and insure his place in the house of Crassus, Curio set about it with a zeal and dedication I would otherwise have found enviable in a domestic. He had not only brought the letter to Publius Crassus instead of dominus, but had suggested to him the venue for its public airing which would have the most salient political impact.
The Great Hall of the Regia was built to impress. It was a rectangular space the size of a small forum, supported by a double row of gilt columns painted lapis blue that divided its length into thirds. The floor and walls were of a green marble one could easily mistake for semi-precious malachite. All along the top of every wall, seven feet above each flickering wall sconce and eighteen feet above the cowed visitor’s shoes, deep rectangular cuts two feet high and four feet long let in light and air. Between the sconces hung giant murals of larger-than-life immortals performing heroic deeds to add to one’s feeling of intimidation. To walk awestruck from the entrance to the dais required an athletic one hundred paces, all the while under the scrutiny of men who, from their elevated perspective, you might rightly assume were your betters.
The dais itself was thirty feet wide, three steps above the common fray. There was no throne; Romans had long ago stopped believing in kings, though they never seemed to stop talking about them. As in the senate, however, there was a curule chair, in which Marcus Licinius Crassus sat, soggy yet resplendent in his toga praetexta. On either side of him sat his officers and behind them the city magistrates, a group of twenty well-dressed and serious men. For added theatrics or solemnity, take your pick, Crassus had arranged for the seven legionary gold and silver eagles to be temporarily removed from their altars at the garrison to be planted on a raised platform behind the dignitaries, displayed amongst seventy purple standards, their numbers threaded in gold, picked from among the army’s highest ranking centuries.
Just below the dais, on either side of the center aisle, pillowed benches were reserved for family members and other privileged friends and guests. This is where I would have sat had I not been bracketed by two soldiers awaiting my turn for justice. In my place, absentmindedly at work on his fingers, sitting painfully upright was Lucius, as anxious, apparently, about this moment as I. My lady Tertulla sat on the bench opposite, staring at her son up on the dais. Either he refused to look at her, or it did not occur to him to look her way. The mother was steadfast; it was the man turned soldier who had changed.
The morning hours had been reserved for a reception of visiting dignitaries, sheikhs, tax collectors, and other local luminaries. The boredom of forced smiles, a heavy toga and a too short break for the midday meal had been enough to sour Crassus' mood and shrivel his temper. Now, more than half of those same distinguished gentlemen were lined up once again for the afternoon session, during which time the proconsul would begrudgingly hear complaints and settle disputes.
The room was full. Beside the century of legionaries placed like lethal ornaments every few paces, the outside aisles formed by the two rows of columns were filled with Antiochenes wanting to catch another glimpse of their new governor, the man who had caused such a stir at the hippodrome. (How surprised would they be to know they were looking in the wrong place.) The center aisle was reserved for supplicants seeking consideration, visiting dignitaries, and others awaiting the impartial justice of the court.
The late afternoon sun was slicing through the western windows as the grand personage of Alchaudonius, king of the Rhambaean nomads was announced by the resident majordomo, a white-bearded ancient whose staff was of far greater utility keeping this relic of the Regia vertical than it was for announcing newcomers. Alchaudonius, in flowery peroration, claimed that during the time Gabinius had abandoned his province to dally in Egypt, he had been attacked by a litany of thieves, robbers and pirates. He begged, no, he demanded justice and restitution! His highness was at least the tenth to do so. My mindfulness of his troubles, or the paucity of the judgment he received was less than enthusiastic, for I was next in line.
“What cruel sport is this?!” Crassus leapt from his seat when the good king’s entourage parted and there I stood before my lord and master, feeling alone and foolish. Dominus would have tripped on his toga had not Octavius and Petronius risen to catch him. The hall, which had maintained a steady buzz of noise had gone utterly still, for Curio’s entertainment had now begun.
Publius rose from his place to the left of Octavius. “Proconsul Crassus, I bring charges of treason against this slave.”
“Impossible.” Crassus sat back down. I could see he was trying to work out if he was being made the butt of an enormously inappropriate joke.
“May I present my evidence?” Publius asked.
“If you are serious, this is not a matter to be heard at this time.” One look at Publius’ hard expression and dominus’ voice became unsure. “I will hear your evidence in my quarters.” A murmur of doubt swept the crowd.
“Eminence, for ten years the good people of Antioch have been waiting for the justice of Rome. They have been waiting for Crassus.” A cheer went up. “Let the governor show he is a just man. Let him prove to the people that he believes in the rule of law, that it applies in his own home, even as it applies in the streets of Antioch!” Publius’ tongue was as skillful as his lance. “Show all of Syria, here in this hall of justice, that Rome is just, that Gabinius is truly gone, and that under Crassus, a new regime has begun!”
When he could be heard again, Crassus held out his hand. “Show me the evidence.” Dominus looked down at me as if to ask what ridiculous insanity was afoot. I could not meet his eye.
Publius stepped across the dais and handed his father the letter that I had only hours before slipped into the correspondence box. Crassus took a moment to read it. He looked up and shrugged, shaking the humid air out of a fold in his toga before readjusting it. “A letter from my wife. I have never seen it before.”
“It is newly arrived,” Publius said.