The Death of Marcellus Read online

  He grinned at me. “I’m going to suggest that you be her tutor.”

  This caught me by surprise.

  He laughed. “I can see you have some doubts.”

  “Well, I’m just not sure. Geometry’s not for everyone.”

  “You mean not for a young woman?”

  “No, I meant anyone. Is it harder for women? I have no idea. But in general, few people have the ability to imagine and work with the geometric shapes in their head—and that’s key to learning geometry.”

  “Maybe it’s not so important how much she learns.” Marcus tipped his head knowingly.

  “Just as long as I have the chance to meet her and report back to you.”

  Marcus laughed freely, then sobered. “I want to know something about her before I’m living with her. Do you mind if I make this request?”

  “Not if it’s what you want.”

  Marcus nodded. “I’d appreciate it, Timon.” His eyes diverted again to the man he had noticed earlier, who was now walking along the edge of the pool in our direction. He was shorter than Marcus, but he had a wide, compact trunk with long muscular arms. Hair covered his body everywhere but the top of his head.

  He came up behind us and looked down at Marcus with a cruel little grin. “What allows us the privilege of bathing with the son of a god?”

  Marcus flushed. Beneath the water his hands balled into fists. “I come here often, Bibulus, but I believe it’s time for me to leave.”

  “Then I’ve arrived just in time. I have some advice I’d like you to pass along to your father.”

  He sat down on the side of the pool next to Marcus, his feet in the water and his legs spread.

  Marcus pushed away from the side, gliding out into the water, before turning around and standing. “He neither needs nor wants your advice. Don’t waste your words.”

  I stood also and took a step away from the side of the pool.

  Bibulus slid off the edge of the pool into the water, facing Marcus, staring him down. “Tell him to stay at the farm this spring. Tell him he’ll never have another command. And that I will do everything I can to make that so.”

  Marcus held his words, but his body went taut.

  “Tell him he’s too old and too full of himself,” snorted Bibulus, daring Marcus to answer him. “Tell him his time has passed.” He grinned. “Tell him to do all of Rome a favor. Tell him to fall on his sword.”

  Marcus dove through the water at the man. He grabbed him around the waist and drove him to the bottom of the pool. With others splashing in the pool, it passed as horseplay.

  Marcus leaned into the man, leveraging his legs against the pool’s edge, holding him beneath the water, betting he could hold his breath longer than Bibulus could. The huge man thrashed like a tuna, and even as strong as he appeared, couldn’t break from Marcus’ hold.

  I couldn’t believe Marcus was simply going to drown the man right there in the bathhouse. I began to get anxious. I turned around in the pool, looking to see if anyone had noticed. Two men came jogging along the apron. One was Cato. They jumped into the pool just as Marcus lifted a spitting, spewing Bibulus out of the water by his ears.

  “What great fun, Bibulus!” he bellowed with the two men staring at the gasping man. “But now it’s time to leave. You’ll have to find someone else to tussle with in the water. Perhaps Cato here!” He pushed Bibulus away so that he fell onto Cato. “Come Timon, we have other games to play.”

  He took two steps and practically sprang out of the water onto the pool’s apron. I climbed out and followed him to where we had hung our clothing.

  Bibulus screamed at him. “Tell your father he’ll never have another consulship! Never!”

  Marcus and I walked back to the house to get our horses. He didn’t say a word until we were just about there.

  “I might have killed that man today, Timon. It would have been a terrible mistake. He’s one of the tribunes of the plebs. If anything could undermine my father’s aspirations, it would be something like that. I’m sorry you had to be there.”

  I didn’t know what to say to him. I had no closer friend. I loved him like a brother. But he had something else inside of him. And it erupted as passion. His reputation in combat was for just that. Passion and ferocity. It set him apart. “It’s difficult,” I said. “Your father’s at the center of Roman politics. People have strong feelings about him—positive and negative. Why shouldn’t you? Bibulus deserved it. A dunking was just what he needed.”

  Marcus couldn’t help grinning. “I thought so.”

  When we entered the stable, Edeco was there brushing Euroclydon. Marcus said what I was thinking. “Mother must be here courting her patrician friends.”

  We went into the house. Portia and two of the women I had seen her with before were in the atrium. The woman who had worn the black gown was not among them. A brazier burned to keep the room warm. Portia met us in the peristyle.

  “Hello, Mother,” said Marcus, giving her a brief embrace. “Timon and I are going back to the farm. We can stay longer if you’re going back also.”

  Portia smiled at her son. “That’s not necessary. I won’t be leaving until tomorrow.”

  “Then we won’t stay. Is there any food in the pantry?” Marcus reversed direction to the back of the house.

  “There’s a fresh loaf of rye bread and some apples. Ask Laelia where they are.” Marcus was already gone. Portia faced me.

  “How are you, Timon?” Her eyes gazed into mine with a curious interest. “Have you been looking for your mother?”

  “I have, but with no luck.”

  She looked over her shoulder to the women in the atrium, then said softly, “Come here alone the night of the Festival of Saturn. I hope to have something for you by then.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Say nothing about this to anyone.” Her eyes darted to the pantry, suggesting not even to Marcus, then she turned and went off to rejoin her friends.

  I headed to the pantry. Laelia stood at the counter cutting up a chicken for the evening meal. She was a large woman, not heavy, but big boned and as tall as Marcus. Her hair was fair, a light brown, and she wore it in a braid wound up on top of her head. Despite her name, she didn’t appear Latin. Her face was wide and flat, with small blue eyes peering out from beneath a thick brow.

  “There’s a fresh loaf of bread in the cupboard,” she said to Marcus as I entered. It was the first time I had heard her speak. She had an accent I couldn’t place.

  Marcus retrieved the bread from the cabinet. He ripped off a piece and handed it to me. “Here, this is for the ride home.” He tore off another large piece for himself and put what remained back in the cupboard.

  I noticed that Laelia watched Marcus closely, not like he was intruding in her kitchen, but with warmth, and I would have guessed some affection.

  As Marcus and I rode back to the farm, I asked him about Laelia. “Where is Laelia from, Marcus?”

  Marcus turned to me as we cantered along. “She’s an Insubre. My father found her the year before I was born. She was outside a village his men had just burned to the ground. He brought her home to be raised as a slave. Meda served as her nanny.”

  “She cares about you.”

  Marcus nodded. “We played together as children.”

  We rode on. I didn’t think Marcus had anything more to say.

  “She’s the only woman I’ve ever been with,” he said suddenly. “When I was much younger.”

  This surprised me. Marcus never spoke of sex. We rode on for quite some time without any further conversation.

  He broke the silence. “I never told anyone about Laelia before.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  “It was several months after the incident with Capitolinus,” said Marcus, as though he needed to get it off his chest now that he had admitted it to someone. “I had retreated into myself. It was a bad time for me.” He caught my eyes to impress what he was saying.

  “Laelia found me one day
at the house alone and in tears. I was embarrassed that she’d found me like that. She had once been like a friend to me, but as we’d gotten older that had changed. She was our slave. In a fit of anger, I forced her to the floor, needing to prove my manhood after what had happened.” Marcus looked away, then back to me. “She somehow understood. She gave herself to me freely and with pleasure.” He shook his head. “We did it twice more the next day. We never spoke of it again. She’s not such an attractive or intelligent woman, but she seemed to understand what no one else did back then, and I cannot forget her for it.” He paused in thought. “When I am head of this family, I will free her and her children.”

  “Children?”

  “Apparently I’m not the only one. She’s been with child several times. Two survived and live with her in the slaves’ quarters.”

  “I’ve never seen them.”

  “A boy ten and a girl four. The boy does some chores, but they don’t go in the house and generally stay out of sight when anyone is there besides Ithius and their mother.”

  “And so they are slaves?”

  Marcus shrugged as though it was nothing. “That’s the way it is. Born to a slave, you become a slave.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Marcus and I arrived at the farm late in the afternoon. As we cantered down the road that led to the villa, I saw Meda in an adjacent field. The grim little woman was down on her knees, intent on something in the high grass. “What’s Meda doing out there?” I asked Marcus, pointing to her.

  Marcus took a quick look and turned to me with a grin. “Hunting quail.”

  “On her knees?”

  “She’s very good with traps. I’m guessing she’s watching one of her traps right now.” Marcus called out, “Meda, caught our dinner yet?”

  Marcus’ shout flushed three birds out of the grass directly in front her. Meda stood and shook her fist at Marcus. “Not with your help, Marcus. Get away from here or it will be you I’m cooking!”

  Marcus laughed, gave Euroclydon a kick with his heel, and galloped ahead. I caught him at the stable. “Where’s Meda from? She’s clearly not from Italy.”

  Marcus chuckled, pleased at himself for getting a rise out of the woman. “She’s Thracian, born in Byzantium, and sold by her parents when she was eleven years old. My grandfather bought her more than fifty years ago when my father was a child. She once told me that her grandfather was a cavalry officer for Alexander of Macedon.”

  “Truly?”

  “That’s what she said. She showed me an old ram’s horn that she keeps in the slaves’ quarters. It was hollowed out to drink from. She told me Alexander had used it.”

  “She impresses me as a tough old bird.”

  “She is, but my mother loves her in spite of her thorns. She says she’s very wise. Her name in Thracian means she knows. And I think she does.”

  That night Marcus and I ate alone with his father. Two oil lamps lit the triclinium. We lay on three sides of the table on separate dining couches. Meda served six roasted quail with a pot of blood pudding and a multi-grain bread. She gave Marcus a hard look when he snatched a hen from the platter as soon as she put it down. Marcus winked at her as she left the room, then ripped a leg and a thigh from the bird.

  Not long into the meal Marcus told his father about the incident at the bathhouse. He emphasized that Cato had come to help Bibulus, then mentioned the earlier encounter with Cato at the forum.

  Marcellus’ response was subdued irritation. “Restraint on your part would be wise.”

  “But you haven’t heard what they’re saying, Father. I can’t listen to their lies. And their arrogance! I might have killed that man today. And it would have felt right.”

  Marcellus shook his head. “We’ve already had too much of that.”

  “Father, it’s all Fabius. Cato’s his pawn. Bibulus is surely part of it as well. They accuse you of wanting to be king.”

  Marcellus stared down at the table.

  Marcus went on. “You said you have an agreement with Fabius. Are you certain he’ll uphold his end of the deal? If Bibulus has anything to say, and who knows if he does, you’ll never get a consulship.”

  Marcellus lifted his eyes. They drifted to me, then back to Marcus. “My opinion of Fabius has changed, Marcus. I think your feelings about the man are heavily colored by the frustration his defensive tactics caused in me during the early years of the war. Does he still frustrate me, yes. Do I bristle at his words no matter what he says, yes. But some of the things he did as dictator, that I didn’t understand then, appear different to me now. And Bibulus is not one of his allies. According to Publius, another political faction is brooding in the wings—Licinius, Bibulus, the Scipionic clan. They like neither Fabius nor me. That seems to be our one point in common.”

  “I still don’t like it, Father. They refused you a triumph. It was insulting. I have no stomach for Fabius or his minions.”

  Marcellus took a bird from the platter and put it on his plate. He reached out to the middle of the table to dip his cup in the bowl of mulsum. “Let’s hold judgment on Fabius until after the elections. He’s more subtle than you might imagine.” He took a swallow of wine. “Think about what he did after the disaster at Lake Trasimene. The entire city was overcome with fear. People hid in their houses. The Senate was afraid to convene. Rome became a city of chickens with their heads cut off. I was so enraged all I wanted to do was take off after Hannibal. It would have been a terrible mistake.

  “After word filtered back of Flaminius’ death, and the wounded returned to Rome with grisly details of the slaughter, Fabius’ first actions were designed to calm the people. He told them the defeat was not due to Roman weakness, but because Flaminius neglected to perform the necessary rituals prior to rushing off headlong after Hannibal.”

  “You are the last one to believe such things.”

  “But the people believe in them. Fabius uses the religious ceremonies as tools to move opinion or placate the masses. If you recall, he went straight to the Temple of Jupiter and consulted the Sibylline Books. He claimed they advised building temples to the goddess Venus and to the god Mens to make up for Flaminius’ insult. He organized public prayers and city-wide games vowed to Jupiter, Venus, and Mens. He distracted the populace from their fears with sports and religious festivals.

  “When the streets filled with mourning mothers and wives, sweeping the streets with their hair and crying for their lost sons or husbands, he ordered them to mourn in their homes, and for no more than thirty days. He pulled Rome together in the only way a leader could have—with traditional ceremonies and strict ritual.”

  “And you think it was all a charade to calm the people, really?” asked Marcus. “He’s been an augur for more than fifty years. No one is more devout than Fabius.”

  Marcellus tore his quail in half with his hands, then pulled free a large piece of meat with his teeth. “Back then I thought he was sincere,” he said as he chewed, “but out of his mind. Now I’m not quite so sure. Even his order to refuse battle with Hannibal, which all Rome detested, looks different in retrospect.” He swallowed his mouthful and took another drink from his cup. “Fabius was attacked from all sides and called a coward. But he didn’t shrink from the criticism. He remained in the public eye, openly walking the streets with a courage few men can claim. No, I may not be fond of him or his means, but his ends have proven out. He’s been a good leader for Rome whether I like him or not.”

  “But why didn’t Hannibal destroy Fabius’ farm when he ransacked all the others east of Rome? I find it hard to believe that Fabius’ defensive stand wasn’t just what Hannibal wanted.”

  “And so Hannibal would have you believe. He plays the game of war at multiple levels. Do you recall what led up to that? It was after Minucius’ terrible loss at Geronium, after Fabius pleaded with him not to go into battle.”

  Marcus tipped his head like he needed to be reminded.

  “Hannibal offered to return his Roman prisoners for
a fee. Our Senate, led by overly patriotic Manlius, refused to pay, calling the prisoners cowards for being captured alive. Fabius is a man of a higher principles. He used his own money to pay for those prisoners’ release. That was when Hannibal burned all the farms in the region but Fabius’—as though it was a favor returned.” Marcellus shook his head. “He was deliberately turning up the pressure on the one man in all of Rome capable of outthinking him.

  “Fabius can claim no victories in combat, but he has constantly caused problems for Hannibal that were not on the battlefield. It wouldn’t have been my way, but it appears we’re seeing returns from that strategy now. I’m beginning to believe that men with different means can agree to work together if it’s for a common goal—in that, I do trust Fabius.”

  Marcus shook his head. “I still have my doubts, Father. The measure of the man will come when the centuries assemble on Mars Field in the spring. But as far as I can tell, everything he and his clients have done since our return seems aimed at undercutting you. My opinion will change only when you’re elected consul.”

  “It’s a promise he has made to me, son. Come spring, you and I both will see if he keeps it.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Marcus and I spent the next morning behind an ox turning the ground in one of the harvested wheat fields behind the villa. Near midday we took a break and sat in the dirt with a couple of apples and a jug of apple vinegar and water.

  “Last night at the dinner table,” I said, “your father mentioned something I didn’t understand. He said that Fabius had consulted the Sibylline Books. What are they?”

  Marcus smiled and nodded. “The story of the Sibylline Books is one of the great stories of early Rome.” He took a drink of the water. “Many years ago, before any thought of the city of Rome, the god Apollo came upon a woman he wanted to seduce. If she gave herself willingly, he told her, he would grant her any wish she liked. She replied by picking up a handful of sand and saying she would like to live as many years as there were grains of sand in her hand. The woman surrendered to Apollo, and he granted her wish. Unfortunately the woman didn’t ask for eternal youth to go with her age. As the tens of years passed, she remained alive but she grew old and haggard. What she’d wished for became a curse. Because of her ugliness she retired to the woods to live in a cave.” Marcus grinned and handed me the jug.