Much more was said, and of that heartbreaking tale I shall speak again. But the nearness of General Sulla was causing me to become increasingly agitated, like a fly unable to reach a pile of offal. There was nothing holding me save my word, my own voluntary grip on the centurion’s rope and the promise of a summary and certain demise. Even so, I imagined myself stepping out into the light, armed with arrow and bow to wreak glorious justice upon Sulla, claiming as my prize a death that would make an end of my travails.
My impotent and weaponless daydreaming was cut short by the sound of a prisoner being brought before Crassus and Sulla as they waited on the balcony. To tell it briefly, the man was executed and beheaded on the spot. The head escaped its executioners, rolled out off the veranda and onto the gravel path below. I followed the sound of a moist thud and there, almost at my feet I met the open and discomfiting gaze of the victim. His facial muscles still twitched in a parody of communication, either from the fluid still draining from his neck or from the jarring effect of his flight and abrupt landing. I leapt back, stumbling over my sleeping companion who, having been trampled awake began a diatribe of reproach interrupted by the sight of the severed head. The gardeners froze, their hoes and rakes motionless, but then like the well-trained servants they were, they continued as if this barbarity were a frequent occurrence.
The chains of fear that had kept me from myself suddenly fell away. I could act, not at the whim of my captors but of my own volition. Sulla had emancipated me, for who among the hundreds of thousands shackled by this brutish man’s armies had ever stood so close to the taproot of all that misery? I was free! Free, but with only one act to choose, only one decision that was mine alone to make. I would die, and deprive these Romans of any further use of me. I laughed to think that I had once believed my lot could ever improve; to wish for a return to a life of dignity was a vain and empty hope. I would deceive myself no longer and take back my life, if only for a moment. A meaningless gesture was my only weapon, but I intended to wield it with skill and accuracy. I have heard that the moments before death can bring unrivaled clarity and lightheartedness. It is true.
Running out into the sunlight, I grabbed a hank of black, oily hair and hoisted the staring head high: Alexandros, son of Theodotos, a demented Perseus. “General, I see you’ve lost your head!” I shouted in Latin. “Shall I toss it up to you? Catch it, then, and bloody your hands. May the stain never fade.”
The conqueror of Rome leaned over the marble railing and glared at me. He turned away and said something I could not catch. Any moment now. The rumble of many feet came rushing down the stairwell.
Soldiers poured out the doorway but Sulla shouted for them to hold. The military tribune’s horse shied and was led away, almost trampling my bilingual friend. He scrambled to his feet only to be pressed against the column by the points of several threatening gladii. Seeing me bloodstained and wild-eyed, holding aloft the severed head, despite the ring of soldiers hemming him in my fellow Greek began mumbling incoherently and making signs against evil.
“It feels good, you know,” I said, breaking the moment of silence when the world grew still and even the breeze held its breath.
“Please,” Sulla mocked, “Do describe this brief elation before I end it.”
“Why, having the great General Sulla do my bidding.”
“Ordering me about, are you?” He laughed along with his subordinates. “And what is it you expect me to do?”
“You have already done it.” I would say no more, for fear he would rescind the order for spite and spoil my plan. A moment later the audience for this little entertainment parted and an archer appeared, swinging his bow up and over the balustrade.
“Don’t bother throwing it up. My men will fetch it once you’re dead.” He nodded to the archer. I dropped the corpse’s head and spread my arms, chest out, face turned to the infinite sky.
“General! A moment.” It was the voice of the tribune who had led us to this place. “Forgive me,” he said, “but that is one of the two translators you had me fetch for…”
“Damn! Marcus, this was to be another gift. Carbo’s slaves are mostly Greek, they speak no Latin. When we took the house my men met with some resistance and we were forced to thin them out — the house translators were among the dead. I’ll shoot this one and get you another. There has to be a more compliant candidate left alive in the city.”
“A shame,” Crassus said. “His Latin is perfect.”
“Archer!” I called. “Do you love your vocation?” And in Greek, “I hope so, for ‘pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work.’”
“Aristotle!” cried Crassus. Then, almost apologetically to Sulla, “I am an admirer.” I got the first look of my master as he appeared at the railing. A soldier in his prime: hair close-cropped, brows knit over a slightly bent nose; thin lips, strong chin and eyes care-worn yet masterful. Like most of the men peering down at me, he looked worn out, yet comforted by the mantle of victory. He leaned over the rail and called to me in Greek, “Apologize, and you yet may live.”
“If you are a true student of philosophy, good sir, you will not interfere,” I said. “You will know that ‘the very best thing is not to have been born, to be nothing. The second best thing is to die soon.’”
“As much as I admire the Greek thinkers,” Crassus said, “Aristotle missed the mark this time. Live awhile and prove me wrong.”
“Sulla!” I implored desperately. “Will you let all these witnesses make you a laughingstock?”
“You have spirit,” Sulla called. “But there’s no meat on your bones. What good is a weakling, insolent slave? I can’t let this go, Marcus. Archer…” I closed my eyes. The bow overhead voiced a single, creaking complaint as the string was pulled back.
“I like his impertinence,” Crassus pressed. “And with all humility, may I remind the general why it was you had him found? If you still intend him as a gift, perhaps the lorum will tame his arrogance. Will this suffice?”
Sulla considered. “See how he perplexes me? I had quite forgotten. Well… he is yours now; the decision belongs to you as well. But damn it, Marcus, I cannot allow any man to speak to me thusly with impunity. And this… I mean look at him. Archer, shoot him in the leg. And somebody bring me my head!”
Chapter IV
82 BCE — Fall, Rome Year of the consulship of Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo
A word of advice: if you can possibly avoid it, do not get shot. The arrow pierced my right thigh and exited out the back of my leg with force enough to spin me off-balance. My wounded leg flew backward, tripping up my other leg as I twisted from the impact. I was screaming before my fall broke the feathered shaft as I hit the ground face down. Unable to stop my momentum, I rolled over until the protruding iron arrowhead stabbed the back of my other thigh. I’m told the complaints streaming from my mouth were insufferable; Sulla ordered a legionary to rush up and knock me on the head with the butt of his sword.