“I assure you, fair Tertulla, that were my wife enjoying breakfast here with us right this very moment, she would still appear to slumber.” Caesar tapped the side of his head with his knife. “A comely enough creature, but light as a feather.”
“Sulla’s granddaughter deserves better than to be matched with the likes of you. But,” she added brightly, “there is always the chance some enemy of Rome will make her a widow. Where are you off to next? Someplace dangerous, I hope?”
“I warn you, Tertulla, I am nothing if not persistent.”
“In that case, Gaius, you are nothing. Pray on some other patrician’s wife. Perhaps you’ll even find one who doesn’t love her husband.” Tertulla pointed to a glistening mullet and her myrtle-wreathed analecta selected a fillet and sliced it into bite-sized pieces for her. “I know! Consul Decimus Silanus is in town for the season. He is newly married — I hear his wife Servilia is a rare beauty. I shall throw a party and invite them so you can attempt to slither and hiss your way into her arms. And leave me in peace.”
“First an ass, now a snake. Women are so fickle,” Caesar mused unfazed. “If I must choose, I prefer the serpent. They glide into dark places with strong, determined muscles.”
Tertulla laughed out loud. “Don’t tell me that inept flummery actually works on your conquests?”
“Since you admit their status, you must acknowledge my persuasiveness. Come, Tertulla, you may as well relent. You know your stubbornness only fuels my determination.” As he spoke, he reached across and slid his hand up her calf.
My lady had finally had enough. She smiled and leaned forward as if to embrace him. Then she slapped him so hard it turned his head so that for a horrifying second his eyes met mine. He turned angrily away, his hand flinching. For a moment I thought he was going to strike her. Tertulla broke the stunned silence by leaning still closer and spoke softly into his reddening ear. “Down, senator, or I shall convince my husband that his investments will yield higher returns elsewhere.”
“Are you flirting with my wife again?” Crassus appeared behind me, splattered with mud, smelling of sulfur, his hair disheveled and the hem of his tunic dripping onto the marble floor. “You’ll have better luck conquering Parthia.”
Chapter XXV
62 BCE — Summer, Baiae Year of the consulship of Decimus Junius Silanus and Lucius Licinius Murena
My lord and lady excused themselves so that Crassus could clean himself up and change his clothes. They left me in the triclinium, standing awkwardly before Caesar. He wanted no more food, so I had the analectae clear. When we were alone, I asked if he would like me to fetch his wife. He replied that if I did, he would have me flogged. For a long while he reclined unmoving, saying nothing, holding me with a malevolent gaze, for nothing more, I assume, than the satisfaction of seeing me finally wilt and avert my eyes. When I did, I saw Livia approaching.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, her voice subdued, her head bowed. Caesar ignored her and sipped his water. Protocol and common sense demanded that she ignore me and address the pontifex maximus. But in the past eight years, I must admit to you that I had grown more and more delusional. Time had hewn away the sharpest edges of Livia’s distaste for the very sight of me, and while I never let it show, inwardly I took this for a sign, letting my imagination grow apace with my affection. When she spoke, I imagined no one present but the two of us; in my head I even altered her tone to one of reverence and adoration.
What a sop.
There, pathetically, was the limit of my boldness. Much had changed in the past eight years, and much had remained the same.
Here is a list of what had changed:
1. Through my masters’ generosity, I had become one of the richest slaves in Rome, and I suppose, therefore, one of the richest slaves in the world.
2. Livia had fallen in love.
And here is what had remained the same:
1. Livia did not love me.
2. I was still a slave.
Six years ago, a young sculptor belonging to dominus had become enamored of Livia. She was twenty-four. I do not know if she returned his love, but as Apollo is my witness, I never saw her look at him the way she looked at me when we stole minutes and kisses under the statue of the god.
While slaves were not permitted to marry, with the permission of their owner, they might form a contubernium, a union of limited rights. Do not be confused, for while the word is the same, this is not the military term meaning an eight-man unit of tent-mates.
Crassus, on a tour of his holdings in Picenum was expected to return by the end of the month. As you know, I hold little stock in the efficacy of prayer, but in the days and weeks prior to his arrival, I spent every free moment in every temple I passed with knees bent and palms raised. I bribed augurs, donated to charity, even, to my shame, let slip to domina several unsavory remarks about the boy’s artistry. All to no avaiclass="underline" Crassus gave his blessing. Vows were exchanged in the atrium and it was done. Why should dominus deny them? Had they but time to make a family of their own, their children would have been added the rolls of people owned by Marcus Crassus, joining a multitude that now numbered into the thousands. The rewards were many and the risk almost non-existent. It was the perfect investment.
But less than a year after their joining the lad had died suddenly after sampling oysters he had purchased at the market for a party marking my lady’s thirty-third birthday. The circumstances were suspicious enough that Crassus immediately set to work on his own private oyster beds at Baiae, placing them under twenty-four hour guard. Livia’s devastation was acute and complete. Though I burned to comfort her, it was not my place; any condolences on my part would have been misunderstood, their sincerity suspect. Thank Athena my lady Tertulla would not rest until Livia’s grieving and healing had run their course, except for those scars of loss which fade but never disappear. I left a collection of Sappho’s poems on Livia’s pillow, but the note of sympathy I wrote sounded shallow and trite: I tore it up. I don’t know if she ever read the poems.
My feelings for Tertulla’s seamstress had all but drowned beneath the crashing wave of Sabina’s treachery. But in that deluge a tiny seed survived, ironically nurtured by the torture of seeing Livia work, fall in love, grieve, grow. I was twenty-three when I first set eyes upon her; a dancing child of twelve. Now she was a woman of twenty-nine: a long time to be tossed about together on the crests and troughs of the strange sea of our existence.
One cannot love unless one is loved in return. Of this I am certain, for I have lived it. There is no such thing as unrequited love; the phrase ought to be stricken from the lexicon. Love is a thing shared, an intertwining of essential separateness into something not quite alone. There is nothing like it under the heavens. Like bread, it will not be made with flour or water alone; the recipe requires both. Guarding each other’s vulnerability provides the yeast that makes it rise, and salt from the tears that caring brings lends the finishing touch.
Because of this, it would be contradictory to assert that I was slowly falling back in love with Livia, but I will say this: whenever our paths crossed, I made ready to inhale the scent of her, a smell like cut grass or the sun on saltwater. I will say that her smile would melt ice, her laugh entice songbirds from the air and the green jewels of her eyes throw armies into confusion. Her body, now long and lithe, was an arrow taut and tense, awaiting release. When Livia filled my head, there was room for little else. In her presence, study, philosophy and debate were confounded. What was thought or contemplation compared to the pounding in my chest?