“You are not going to talk your way out of this. For even if you are correct, old friend,” Crassus said, conscious of the leather-bound handle of the whip in his sweaty palm, “you will find my ‘gratitude’ stingy.”
“I beg you, dominus, do not confuse friendship with dominion.” Sarcasm and fear wept from my voice like the fluids that would soon seep from under the stripy lacerations on my back.
“Damn you, man, for putting us through this. Damn that girl, too.” I looked at him, not understanding. “She’s a sorceress. Don’t think I am blind to your feelings for her. Had it been anyone else, we’d be on our way to Misenum by now.”
“I am sorry to inconvenience you. And I have acted with nothing but propriety every day since you sent her mother away.”
“Sabina would still be with us if you’d just left well enough alone. You and that insufferable redhead would have had a half dozen little, horned Greek daemons running in and out of the impluvium by now.”
“And Tessa would still be dead, gone to Dis without a cloak of justice to warm her passage.” I sighed. “Ignorance is a wonderful thing; look at the word — it is not so much a lack of knowledge as it is disregard for the facts before our eyes. I wish I possessed more of it.”
“We must all live with the consequences of our choices, voluntary or not. Myself included.” He eyed the whip. “I should have listened to Tertulla years ago and sent the girl away.”
“Do that now, and what you do next will undo all.”
“Damn it, Alexander! Word play and riddles at a time like this.” I was hurting him, and I did not wish to do so, truly. For a time, we walked in stinging silence, letting words blow away like leaves covering a forest floor, their soft blanket now removed, revealing a grim, bare floor gnarled with roots and worms and things scuttling from the light. The kitchen loomed close. “Forgive me,” Crassus said finally, staring straight ahead. “The medical staff is standing by to tend to your wounds.”
Odd how he referred to injuries not yet inflicted by his own hand. Just stop. Could we not just stop? In the dark hall, the smell of baking bread and pungent garum rushed out to greet us. Crassus halted and turned to me. “Alexander, before we go in, what you did… I’m glad you were there. You have my thanks.”
There was nothing I could say. Certainly not ‘you’re welcome.’ I hoped for both our sakes he would find his humanity, but knew he would not. He could not. We walked in silence through the culina. As we passed the brick burners, wash basins, chopping boards, cauldrons and charcoal ovens arrayed everywhere in chaotic order, the staff turned to bow to the master and watch our passing. I could feel their eyes upon me. My bare feet padded silently on the tiled floor. I longed for sandals. I hated the thought of anyone seeing my ugly, ungainly feet. Why, you ask, did he not take me to some private corner of the villa, away from the wide eyes of those I had commanded yesterday and would again tomorrow, or perhaps the day after? The great general had calculated our route, my garb, even our destination with precision. Humiliation was the spice that made this dish memorable.
“Atticus,” I said suddenly, “see to your staff. The pigeons are overcooking! Come, come, attend to your duties, people. Adriana, if you interrupt the beating of those eggs, that omelet will fall short of fluffy. The house of Crassus does not accept insipid omelets!” My voice found a new and rusty register. I was about to say more, pointing a shaking finger at the round, scored loaves of black bread cooling on racks. My cloak slipped from my shoulders and the staff turned away from my nakedness, their heads bowed. Crassus readjusted the palla about me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Courage,” he whispered. I fell silent. My lord stared straight ahead as we passed among his people. His face was ashen, grim and stricken with dreadful anticipation. Only the whip told us apart.
Activity approached a more normal bustle after we had passed into the large storeroom where dry goods, earthenware amphorae, terracotta pots and brass pans were neatly inventoried. A large wooden work table stood at the back of the dimly lit room and it was toward this that we headed.
There was a commotion outside in the room we had just left. Livia rushed in. I gripped the cloak tighter about my nakedness. She ran up to us, bowed to my lord, then turned to me, twin streaks reflecting dully under her shining eyes. Laying her hands lightly over mine she said, “You are a stupid man.” She put a hand on my cheek, rose up on her toes and kissed me quickly on the mouth, then fled the way she had come.
I had not the wits about me to know whether or not her action was spurred by pity or affection, but in that moment I did not care. I turned to Crassus and said, “I am ready.”
In point of fact, I was not. At least the memory of her touch would be an oak around which I could wrap my psyche and cling while both dignity and hide were being stripped away. Would Crassus be equally girded? Like any high-born Roman, he was raised on civility and oratory, but bred to violence. He had led armies and slaughtered thousands. He was an educated tactician and an underappreciated commander. But in his own home, upon a trusted and I hoped beloved servant, to perpetrate such brutality with personal and immediate intimacy — this was new to him. I hoped the prospect of it was turning his stomach as much as it was mine. Then I remembered the day he had branded Nestor. I shuddered involuntarily.
There was neither door nor drapes at the entrance to the storage room, but Crassus posted two men in the doorway, their backs to us. I thought to myself, the sound will carry. He bade me bend over the thick wood of the table. I called for Atticus and another cook to hold my arms outstretched. They begged to be excused, but I begged in return for their help — I feared I would be unable to hold myself steady for the duration of my chastisement. I shrugged the palla from my shoulders and handed it to Atticus. He folded it neatly and laid it aside.
Naked, I spread my hands toward the far side of the table, but as I stared down at the stained and worn grain of its surface, my bile rose and I retched pitifully on the very spot where I was to lay my head. I apologized in sputtering half-sentences as someone wiped it away. This is going to happen now, I thought, laying my cheek against the wood warmed by the acid contents of my gut.
The short length of the leather strips forced Crassus to stand close enough for me to hear his breath. I closed my eyes and began to pray. I am not a brave man, nor am I built for the rigors of the field. I had no idea what to expect, but surmised that like other distasteful events, such as a visit to a non-Grecian dentist, the expectation would be worse than the reality. It was a vain hope.
No one who has not endured the lash can be prepared for its agony. Soaked in brine, then dried to a crackling stiffness, a lorum is elegantly engineered to strip away stubborn defiance and expose not just flesh, but the cringing animal within, the howling thing no man wants the world to see. It is a miner’s tool, designed for digging through layers of pain, searching for that rich vein of humiliation.
The beastly sound that the first strike blew from my mouth was wild and unknown to me. A shriek strangled by shame into a whimper, caused by a stinging, biting blow that made the muscles beneath my skin ripple in involuntarily waves. The first of twenty.
Crassus grunted with the effort of each stroke. Though the blows fell with equal force, each taught me a new way to experience pain. I lost count in the confusion of my own cries. My master did his best to keep the strips of hide from intersecting previous blows, but I am tall and thin and my back too narrow. It was not long before the leather thongs crossed older welts and bit deeper. As the blood started to flow, the salt began its work.
The gods took pity on me. I passed out before it was over; of a sudden I realized my body was no longer jerking in uncontrolled spasms. I had stopped screaming, at least with my vocal chords. There was sobbing, and I am fairly sure I was not the only one making that pitiful sound. I embraced the table like a lover, hoping they would never make me move from the spot. Someone passed behind me and the gentle movement of air sent swords of agony slicing through the rents in my back. I fainted again, but jerked awake to the touch of a poultice being laid upon me. Hands held me firm, but I was not going anywhere. I could not imagine how I would ever rise, let alone walk from that place. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my lord Crassus.