“Syria? How wonderful, sir. I understand that Antioch is the jewel of the East. I’ve just returned from Cyprus with my uncle. Not nearly as exciting, I can tell you. Not much philosophy in administration.”
“Are there any jewels left in Cyprus?”
Caesar said, “Marcus Licinius, I do believe you’re drunk. Marcus Brutus, keep an eye on my old friend here. Don’t let him go wandering off.” He laughed and clapped my master on the shoulder. Brutus was not smiling.
Crassus lowered himself back onto his couch, resigned. “I have heard of the young and accomplished Brutus. Tell me, lad, how fares your uncle?”
“Now, Marcus Licinius, don’t blame the child for the sins of his relatives. Brutus is a good lad, and will some day be a great defender of the republic.”
“I am certain of it,” Crassus said without conviction. “Cato,” he persisted. “He is your uncle, is he not? I haven’t confused you with another have I?”
Brutus sat up and said rather too loudly, “Sir, yes, I am proud to call Marcus Porcius Cato ‘uncle.’”
Crassus looked up with incredulity. “Your friendship with his mother must be strong indeed, Caesar, to find favor with this family. Cato cost you a tribute, tying up the senate with his prattling until dusk till the vote could not be taken. Just as Pompeius clipped that same rose right off the vine from under my nose.”
“Yes, Marcus, every Roman schoolboy remembers your heroism during the slave uprising. You were unjustly denied,” Caesar sighed. “As for Brutus, what can I say? I like the boy.”
“Please do not mention that name,” said Brutus with clenched teeth, “or we shall see the wine in my belly poured a second time.”
“What name is that?” Crassus asked with feigned innocence.
“There, you see,” Caesar said. “You have found common ground in your dislike of Pompeius.” Brutus grimaced. “Talk about that. What?”
“Very good, Julius,” Crassus said, smiling. “A fine joke.” Caesar furrowed his brow, not understanding.
“Common,” Brutus said, “as in provincial, not of patrician heritage. Pompeius elbowed his way into the nobility.”
“Since it was not intentional,” Caesar said, “I shan’t take credit for it. I’ll say goodnight then. You two trample that well-trod earth to your heart’s content, but remember, deeds define us, not words. Till morning. On that other matter, we will talk more, Crassus, as you say.”
“Good night, Gaius. Your hospitality, as always… oh! You will remember to deliver my letter to Publius?”
“Your son is one of my finest legates, a courageous, spirited officer. He does your family proud.”
I could see that Crassus was torn. He watched Caesar depart, wishing he could leave as well, but did not want to appear rude. He’d stay a few minutes to be polite; that was his way. I was exhausted myself, and longed for my sleeping pallet.
Chapter XXVIII
56 BCE — Spring, Luca Year of the consulship of Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
The two stared at each other in awkward silence after Caesar had left. I offered to bring in more sweetmeats, but Crassus waved me off. My master appeared to know neither what to make of the nephew of his senatorial rival nor whether he could muster the energy to give it much thought. After a while he said, “It is hard to lose a father.”
“You know?”
“That Pompeius had him executed for supporting Marius, yes. My own father shared a similar fate for his neutrality.”
Brutus appeared not to have heard Crassus; or more likely there was no room in his heart for commiseration. He would wave his bloody standard and let none fly higher. He spoke slowly, almost accusingly, as if all the world were culpable. “Father had surrendered honorably. Pompeius had him beheaded.” The word turned between them, a scorpion looking for a way out.
“’The adolescent butcher,’” Crassus said finally, almost to himself.
“What?”
“Pompeius. He earned that nickname many times over in those days.”
“You also fought for Sulla, did you not, sir?” The scorpion struck, swelling the last word with venom.
Crassus smiled thinly, though his face reddened. “I feel no burning compulsion to submit my justifications to you.” He looked as if he would add “boy” but stopped himself. “However, had you been paying attention just now, you might have heard one. For the sake of civility, know this: I received the benefit of Sulla’s proscriptions, but took no part in them.” My master sighed, the flare of anger passing, leaving him deflated. “Young man, this is an unseemly hour for dispute. Your father was a statesman, and deserved better. I seek no quarrel with you.”
“Nor I with you!”
“Then if you will forgive the advice of an old man…?” Brutus nodded. “It is we who move through time…” Crassus said, pointing unsteadily in the direction of his empty cup. He began reaching for it before the servant finished pouring. “… not the reverse. When we walk beyond any one of life’s instants, it becomes nothing more than a receding milestone. We can look back, but we cannot retrace our steps. The past remains stationary, while we are doomed to move ever onwards. To do otherwise is against nature.”
“And what of justice?”
“A noble metal, but affordable by few. The young, lacking seasoning, believe it may be more cheaply bought. How old are you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”
“Almost thirty,” Brutus said defensively. “Perhaps the young believe justice must be bought at any price.”
“Well, the thing is, even if you pay the price and make the purchase, you never know till it is beyond undoing whether what you bought is what you expected. The scales are rarely balanced.” Crassus drank. I curse myself as I write these words, but in that moment I feared to be shamed by a rebuke. I could not bring myself to interrupt their conversation.
“Let me tell you a thing or two about justice!” Crassus was unstoppable now. “They say you’ve returned from Cyprus a rich man. You’ve become a practiced and clever moneylender, have you not?” Brutus sipped sparingly at his wine, saying nothing. “Do you owe your fortune to fastidious Cato for employing you there? He would blanch if he learned his nephew, the incorruptible Brutus was a base usurer. 48 % interest to those poor people of Salamis. Tut, tut, Brutus. Do not shame yourself further by deniaclass="underline" I have spent a lifetime cultivating loyal clients more numerous than all your sesterces. Oh don’t worry, I don’t give a fig for your illegal gains. Let me tell you whose feet you should be bathing in gratitude: not your uncle’s, nor those of Matinius or Scaptius who fronted for you (I know all that passes in the senate). No, it is to Pompeius, your avowed enemy, that you owe gratitude! Don’t look so incredulous; two years before you put your little scheme to work, it was he who subdued the island and brought it under the aegis of Rome. If not for Pompeius, your uncle would have had nothing to govern and you would have no decent citizens of Salamis to fleece. Where is your justice now? Shall I help you compose a letter of thanks to Magnus? Better still, let us determine his commission. Stone and earth are good for funerals, but nothing buries a feud so durably as silver and gold.”
I gathered my loins and said softly, “Sir, the hour?”
“All right, Alexander. You are a cruel taskmaster. I’m coming.”
Brutus buried his face in his hands. “Oh my,” Crassus said, “I’ve gone too far.”
The young man sniffled. “No. You have gone to the mark. My father’s honor and service were enough to earn him his tribunate. I must let it stand.” He raised his head and smiled meekly; his eyes were neither red nor wet. “Do not hold my actions in contempt, I beg you. Today one must have a full purse to climb the cursus honorum.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, lad. Stay close to your uncle. He may be misguided, but his honor is unimpeachable. He has some followers in the senate and will find you a place.”
“My uncle does not approve of my being here.” Brutus tore a chunk of bread from a loaf and dipped the end in a bowl of honey.