The Raven and the Rose (6 page)

What, exactly, was Casca up to?

* * *

Verrix looked around the spare room he had been assigned and then sat cross legged on the floor. The cell was the size of an incense box but at least it was a single. He had passed the main slave quarters with Nestor and that room was set up like a huge dormitory, long rows of beds with just a thin curtain separating them. He assumed he had been given this spot so that he could be on call for the mistress at all times without disturbing anyone else. It had the disadvantage of being right next to the kitchen; he could hear the skivvies in there now banging pots while cooking the evening meal. But after seven years on a construction gang he was impervious to noise and didn’t care where he slept.

Verrix was surprised, in fact, to find himself still alive. He had prepared for death so often since the failure of the Gallic rebellion when he was eighteen that to slip away from Cerberus one more time made him all the more determined to survive. And now the prospect of freedom dangled before him tantalizingly, like the fox’s grapes hanging just out of reach. But to grasp the prize he had to keep that little minx alive for three years, and during that time he just might kill her himself.

Larthia was a type he particularly disliked. Most Roman women were kept behind closed doors and under the thumb of their husbands, but the wealthy widow was the conspicuous exception. In his years of observing Roman culture he had seen such matrons out on the town many times, leading an entourage of slaves and ordering all of them about curtly. It made him recall with a pang the women of his tribe, working alongside the men even when heavy with child, valiant to the last when the Romans and their minions swept across the river and razed everything. All of them were gone now, most dead, the survivors scattered like himself.
 

No, he didn’t care much for Larthia Casca Sejana, but he would keep her breathing in order to get the emancipation papers that were his only escape from a future of slavery. He had known the situation when Casca bought him. The only surprise was the physical appearance of the lady in question. He still confused Latin suffixes and had thought she was Casca’s daughter at first, and so expected a fortyish matron with grown children, not a slender slip of a girl years younger than himself. She must have been married off when she was hardly out of childhood to a monied old coot; he had learned that was the custom with the Roman aristocracy. Now she had her husband’s fortune, his massive house, his troops of slaves, but she had her grandfather too, standing on her neck and making sure she didn’t stir off the mark. So she spent her time throwing money away on trifles and growing more irritable and dissipated by the day.

Verrix stood abruptly at a knock on his door. It swung open immediately.

“Come with me,” Nestor said, jerking his gray head in the direction of the kitchen. “I want you to help me stoke the stove. You have a strong young back and mine was bent long ago.”

Verrix followed the stooped and shuffling man, who had grown old in the service of the Casca family and come with Larthia to her husband’s house when she was married.

 
Verrix understood that his new life was about to begin.

* * *

Marcus entered the luxurious atrium of the Gracchus estate on the Palatine hill and handed his helmet and cloak to a bowing servant.

The impressively large house was of concrete faced with stone, rectangular in shape, with two floors. Its entry hall roof was open to the appearing stars through a skylight and the room was lined at the left with cupboards containing masks of the Gracchus ancestors cast in wax. Ranged all around the walls were costly vases and Oriental tapestries, and underfoot was a floor mosaic of intricate pattern, many tiny tiles inlaid with mortar depicting a pastoral scene of gamboling
nymphs and shepherds. Marcus followed the servant through the hall into the tablinum, a slightly raised open parlor flanked on either side by the
alae
, alcoves which contained shrines to the
lares
, the household gods.
 

Senator Gracchus and his son awaited Marcus in the tablinum, where they reclined on brocade couches, golden cups in hand. Marcus looked around at the engraved twin candelabra sitting on a side table inlaid with lapis and decorated with green enamel intaglio. The intricately frescoed walls, the hanging tapestry depicting Minerva springing full grown from the brow of Zeus and the waist high Greek urn painted with a scene of the mythical Minotaur filled out the room’s decor. He smiled at his friend Septimus as he joined the two other men.

“Greetings, Septimus. I must say I am dismayed to find you in such miserable surroundings.”

Septimus laughed. “Quite a change from those rainy camps in Gaul where we shivered under canvas, eh?” he said.

Marcus nodded, accepting a cup from another servant who appeared instantly from a side door. “Where is the rest of the company?” he asked.

“Already in the dining room with my wife,” the Senator answered. “Septimus thought it would be more pleasant to have a short time alone here before joining the crowd. He says you’re something of a celebrity and often get pawed by admirers.”

“Septimus exaggerates,” Marcus replied shortly, taking a sip from his cup.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gracchus said. “My wife conducts a sophisticated salon and she’s invited half of Rome here tonight to view the conquering hero. You might be considerably more popular than you had anticipated.”

Marcus shot Septimus a desperate look which communicated volumes.

“Now, father, don’t scare him off, you’ll give Marcus the impression he’s going to be the centerpiece at dinner,” Septimus said hastily.

“Am I ?” Marcus asked pointedly.

“Of course not, please pay no attention to my father. You’re here as my guest to enjoy yourself and nothing more,” Septimus said jovially.
 

“How do you like the wine, boy?” Senator Gracchus asked Marcus.

“Very good,” Marcus replied.

“How would you know, Corvus, you never drink,” Septimus said, grinning.

“You could drink less, it wouldn’t hurt you,” the Senator observed sharply to his son.

“Oh, I could never aspire to the perfection enjoyed by my friend here,” Septimus responded, taking a long swallow of his wine. “He is a true Greek in spirit, faithful to his family name. ‘Everything in moderation.’”

“Except warfare,” Senator Gracchus said.

“And love,” Septimus added sagely. “Isn’t that what young Horace says?”

“Oh, that stripling Horace, another friend of Brutus. I am tired of that gang and their mouthpiece, Cicero,” the Senator said.

“But you will stay on good terms with them, as well as with Caesar’s group,” Septimus said, smiling wickedly. “My father remains neutral in all political controversies, Marcus. That is how he hangs on to his money.”

“A wise course,” Marcus said.

“But you are Caesar’s partisan, I understand,” Gracchus said to Marcus.

“He was and is my general, Senator Gracchus. I owe him a soldier’s loyalty.”

“He’s much more than a general now,” Gracchus said. “In our country politicians have always done military duty. I remember when Cicero was consul of Cilicia before the late Sejanus took over that territory. But Caesar aspires to more, he already calls himself ‘Imperator’.”

“Any victorious general may claim that title,” Marcus said testily.

 
“True, but it is also an indication of his ambitions. When he shared power with Crassus and Pompey he was more amenable to compromise. Now that he is alone I’m afraid the time will come soon when we all have to choose sides, and that will be a very bad day for Rome.”

The Senator’s wife entered the room and said, “Here you are, Marcus, everyone has been looking for you. And how handsome you are in your uniform!”

“Good evening, Lady Gracchus,” Marcus said.

“I told him not to wear his toga because I wanted the women to see his legs,” Septimus said impishly.

“Septimus, you are not amusing,” his mother said sternly, motioning for the men to rise. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, wearing a sleeveless tunic of coral silk with a deep, rounded neck which left her slim arms bare. The diploidion draped over one shoulder and fastened with a pearl studded brooch was of a lighter peach color, complementing her fair complexion. Her hair was elaborately dressed, pulled back from her face into a heavy braid around the crown of her head and then falling in a sweep of curls onto her neck. She extended her hand to Marcus graciously as he approached her.

“For you,” he said, handing her the amphora of Pompeiian garum.

“Oh, how nice! Thank you, Marcus, you are always so thoughtful. I’ve taken charge of the seating arrangements myself, my steward always disappoints me with his plans,” she said, tucking his arm through hers. “I’ve tried to put you with amusing people, but of course one never knows. I hope the dinner won’t be too interminable, but we’ll have a chance to chat together afterwards. You can tell me what my son has been up to, it’s the only way I have of finding out his doings. He never talks to me.”

She led the way to the more sumptuous of the mansion’s two dining rooms; the one at the front of the house, off the atrium, was for entertaining large groups, and the smaller one at the back near the kitchen was for family dining. As Marcus entered the formal dining room, called the
triclinium
, or ‘room with three couches’, he saw that everyone else was already reclining on the silk trimmed settees, awaiting the first course. The usual dining room seated nine, with three diners on each couch using a central table, but as this was designed for large parties there were at least fifteen couches in the hall and close to fifty guests. The hall itself was marble floored, with Doric columns supporting the roof at regular intervals. The walls were hung with embroidered tapestries and lit by flaring torches. Slaves in the blue livery of the house of Gracchus bustled about filling cups, as the guests were already indulging and at such gatherings the wine was frequently of more interest than the food.

Marcus was placed with Septimus and another of his friends, Caelius, while one Cytheris, an actress, and Terentia, the older sister of Septimus, were seated at either end of the couch. Only the men reclined during dinner; the women remained seated. As the first course, cold boar with pickled vegetables, was handed round, it became clear to Marcus that Septimus and his mother had engaged in some not too subtle matchmaking. Septimus spent the whole time talking to his sister and his friend, forcing Marcus to make polite conversation with Cytheris on his left. Several times Marcus saw Septimus glancing over to see how things were going.
 

To outward appearances, they were going well enough. Cytheris was a henna rinsed, sloe eyed beauty who had made a name for herself performing the old comedies of Plautus. Smiling congenially, Marcus listened to accounts of the woman’s recent stage triumphs while he passed up a stew of oysters and turbot and shrimp, served with a vinegar and white pepper relish. The main dish, a peacock roasted in its feathers, was followed by wild fowl stuffed with corn and garnished with goose liver, shoulder of hare, and broiled blackbirds with wood pigeons. The parade of food, carried to the tables on platters by a stream of servants, seemed endless, and Marcus finally rose, made his excuses to his companion, and strolled around to the extensive gardens at the back of the house.

This pleasant retreat was walled off from neighbors by a dense cane hedge and overhung by large portico. The park was filled with marble statues, splashing fountains and topiary trees, its rows of flowers and evergreen shrubs bordered by paved walking paths. It was a restful place and Marcus lingered there, thinking, until he heard a step behind him and turned to see Septimus.

“What are you doing hiding out here?” his friend demanded.

“Dessert is being served, honey glazed pastry filled with crushed mulberries. My mother’s cook is very proud of it.”

“I’m not hiding. I just wanted to get away from that din in there and breathe the night air. The women are so smothered in perfume, and the torch wax so impregnated with incense, that I could hardly breathe.”

Septimus leaned against a polished column supporting the portico and sighed. “Well, you’ve left Cytheris high and dry. I don’t think that’s ever happened to her before tonight, she seems quite bemused. I can’t believe you abandoned her. Don’t you think she’s pretty?”

“Everyone thinks she’s pretty. Everyone’s slept with her, too. She’s a notorious tart, Septimus, haven’t you heard?”

“Of course I’ve heard, that’s why I had Mother place you next to her. When did you become such a prig, Marcus? I thought she would show you a good time!”

“I don’t want a good time.”

“Then you NEED one. You’ve been so morose lately I just wanted to give you an opportunity to relax. I remember sporting with you in any number of brothels, I didn’t know you had turned celibate. At least Cytheris is on the stage, not the street.”

“There seems to be little difference in her case. Granius Metellus says he got the Spanish pox from her.”

“Oh, that’s just a story Granius tells. I think he says things like that to disguise his real preference, and it isn’t for full grown women.”

Marcus shrugged dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I was not rude to her, Septimus, I just needed to be alone.”