Arms of Nemesis (27 page)

What has death to frighten man,

If souls can die as bodies can?

When mortal frame shall be disbanded,

This lump of flesh from life unhanded,

From grief and pain we shall be free—

We shall not
feel,
for we shall not
be.

But suppose that after meeting Fate

The soul still feels in its divided state.

What's that to us? For we are only
we

While body and soul in one frame agree.

And if our atoms should revolve by chance

And our cast-off matter rejoin the dance,

What gain to us would all this bring?

This new-made man would be a new-made thing.

We, dead and gone, would play no part

In all the pleasures, nor feel the smart

Which to that new man shall accrue

Whom of our matter Time moulds anew.

Take heart then, listen and hear.

What is there left in death to fear?

After the pause of life has come between,

All's just the same had we never been.

The reciter was abruptly interrupted by one of the buffoons, who shook a finger in his face. 'What a lot of nonsense. My body, my soul, my body, my soul,' the buffoon parroted, rocking his head back and forth. 'What a lot of Epicurean nonsense! I had an Epicurean philosopher in my house once, but I kicked him out. Give me a dull-as-dishwater Stoic like that clown Dionysius any day!'

There were some warm chuckles of recognition among the crowd. I gathered this must be the Arch Mime, employed by the Designator to present a fond parody of the deceased.

'And don't think for an instant that I'll pay you even half a copper for such pathetic poetry, either,' he went on, still wagging his finger, 'nor for any of this so-called entertainment. I expect true value for my money, do you understand? True value! Money doesn't fall from the sky, you know, at least not into my hands! Into the hands of my cousin Crassus, maybe, but not mine!'

He abruptly pursed his lips and turned on his heel, clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace.

I overheard the man next to me whisper: 'He's got Licinius down to perfection!'

'Uncanny!' the man's wife agreed.

'But don't think that just because I
won't
pay you it's because I
can't
pay you,' piped the Arch Mime. 'I could! I would! Only I owe debts to seven shops in Puteoli and six in Neapolis and five in Surrentum and four in Pompeii and three in Misenum and two in Herculaneum' — the Arch Mime gasped and took a deep breath - 'plus a long-standing debt to a little grandmother who sells apples by the side of the road right here in Baiae! Once I have them all paid off, come back and try another poem, you Epicurean fool, and perhaps I'll sing another tune.'

'Another tune—' hooted the man beside me.

'Sing another tune!' said his wife, nodding and laughing appreciatively. Apparently the Arch Mime had delivered one of Lucius Licinius's pet phrases.

'Oh, I know,' he went on, crossing his arms petulantly, 'you all think I'm made of money because I live like a king, but it just isn't so. At least not yet.' He bobbed his eyebrows up and down. 'But just you wait, because I do have a plan. Oh, yes, a plan, a plan. A plan for making more money than you Baian big boys could swallow with a serving spoon. A plan, a plan. Make way for the man with a plan!' he bleated, breaking character and running to catch up with the other buffoons.

'A plan,' the man next to me murmured.

'Just as Lucius was always saying,' smiled his wife. 'Always going to get rich - tomorrow!' She sighed. 'Only this happened instead. The will of the gods—'

'—and the ways of Fortune,' the man concluded.

I remembered Sergius Orata's hints of shady dealings. A disquieting suspicion began to form in my head, then unravelled and vanished with the arrival of the waxen masks.

Lucius's branch of the Licinii family had not been without its distinguished ancestors. Their lifelike images in wax, normally displayed within his foyer, were now paraded before his funeral bier, worn by persons especially hired for the task by the Designator and dressed in the authentic costumes of the offices they had held in service to the state. Such a presentation is part of the funeral procession of every Roman noble. The masked actors walk solemnly, slowly, turning their heads from side to side so that all may see their expressionless faces, looking like the dead come to life. Thus, even in death do the noble distinguish themselves from the ignoble, the 'known' from the 'unknown', proudly flaunting their lineage to those of us in the crowd who have no ancestors, only parents and forgotten forebears.

Next came Lucius Licinius himself, reposed upon his ivory couch and framed by freshly cut blossoms and boughs, redolent with powerful perfumes that could not quite conceal the scent of putrefaction. Crassus was foremost among the bearers, his face set in a stern, impassive stare.

The family followed. Not many Licinii of Lucius's branch had survived the civil wars, and most of them were of an older generation. Gelina led the group, attended by Metrobius. I have often seen women in funeral processions on the streets of Rome who stagger in a paroxysm of grief, tearing their cheeks in defiance of the laws of the Twelve Tables, but Gelina did not weep. She moved in a stupor, staring at her feet.

Conspicuously absent from the procession were the slaves of the dead man's household.

After the family passed, the onlookers who lined the road closed in behind them and joined the retinue. At length we came to an open spot beside the road, where a break in the trees afforded a glimpse of the bay. Nearby stood a stone sepulchre as tall as a man. It was newly built; the slabs were smooth and unweathered, and the earth surrounding it was worn by footsteps and dusted with chiselled stone. There was only one decoration, a simple bas-relief of a horse's head, the ancient symbol of death and departure.

In the centre of the clearing, a funeral pyre had been erected of dried wood piled in the form of a square altar. Normally the ivory couch bearing the corpse might have been tilted against it, as such couches are tilted against the Rostra in the Forum at Rome, so that the spectators may look upon the dead man while the oration is delivered, but Lucius's corpse was placed directly upon the pyre, out of sight, no doubt in deference to the disfiguring wound on his head.

Slaves came forward with folding chairs for the family. As the crowd setded, Marcus Crassus stepped in front of the pyre. A hush fell over the gathering. Overhead a sea gull screamed. A slight breeze stirred the treetops. Crassus began his speech; in his voice there was no hint of the indecision and uncertainty he had shown to me the night before. His was a trained orator's voice, skilled at all the techniques of volume, tonality, and rhythm. He began in a quiet, deferential tone that gradually grew more forceful.

'Gelina, devoted wife of my beloved cousin Lucius Licinius; family members, who have come from places far and near; shades of his ancestors, represented here by their cherished images; friends and members of his household, acquaintances and people of Baiae and all the nearby towns of Campania and the Cup: we have come to entomb Lucius Licinius.

'What a simple thing that seems: a man has died, and so we consume his body with flames and entomb his ashes. It is a common event. Even the fact that he died by violence does not distinguish it; nowadays, such violence has become commonplace. Certainly, in our family, there has been so much grief and loss imposed by violence that we have become brittle and numb to the vagaries of Fortune.

'And yet the presence of so many of you here today is proof that the death of Lucius Licinius was no small thing, just as his life was no small thing. He had many dealings with many men, and who among you can say that he was ever less than honest? He was a Roman, and an embodiment of Roman virtues. He was a fine husband. That the gods had not blessed his marriage with offspring - that he leaves behind no son to carry on his name and blood, to revere him as he revered his ancestors — that is one of the accomplishments left unfulfilled by the untimely and bitter tragedy of his death.

'With no son to look after his grieving widow or to avenge his senseless murder, those duties have fallen to another, to a man tied to Lucius by bonds of blood and long years of mutual respect. Those duties fall to me.

'Word has already spread among you concerning the manner in which Lucius met his death. Have no doubt that he faced it bravely. He was not a man to flinch in the face of any adversary. Perhaps his only fault was that he placed his trust in those who did not deserve it - but what man can foresee the moment when a trusty blade long used will suddenly break, or a loyal dog will turn vicious without warning?

'The fate of Lucius Licinius is far from unique. Indeed, in some ways he is the paradigm of the good citizen, and of the state itself, for does not Rome suddenly find herself imperilled by a whole nation of trusted mastiffs gone mad with a lust for blood and thievery? Lucius was another victim of that pestilence which threatens to overturn the order of nature, to wipe out tradition and honour, to pervert the normal intercourse of affairs between men.

'That pestilence has a name. I will not whisper it, for I do not fear it:
Spartacus
.
That pestilence entered even into the household of Lucius Licinius; it dissolved the bonds of obligation and loyalty; it twisted the hands of slaves against their master. What happened in his house cannot be forgotten or forgiven. The shade of Lucius Licinius is restless; it hovers near us even now, strengthened by the shades of his ancestors, who all together clamour that we, the living, must set this wickedness aright.'

I looked about me, at the faces of the funeral guests. They watched Crassus with mingled admiration and sorrow, open to whatever pronouncement he was preparing. I felt a pang of dread.

'There are those who might say that Lucius Licinius was beyond all doubt a good man, but not a great one, that he did not rise in his lifetime to high office, did not accomplish wondrous things. That is the tragic truth, I fear; he was slain before his prime, and his life was smaller than it should have been. But his death was not a small death. If there can be a great death, then the death of Lucius was that — something terrible, awful, profoundly wrong, an offence to god and man alike. Such a death demands more than sorrow and pity, more than words of praise or vows of vengeance. It demands that we all take action, if not as the vessels of vengeance, then as its witnesses.'

Crassus lifted his arm. On either side of him the Designator and one of his men set about igniting their torches, which burst into flame.

'Long ago our ancestors founded the tradition of holding gladiatorial contests in honour of the dead. Normally this glorious tradition is reserved for the death of the great and powerful, but I think that the gods will not begrudge our paying honour to the shade of Lucius Licinius with a day of games. These will begin tomorrow upon the plain beside Lake Lucrinus. There are those who whimper that we should suspend the use of gladiators, saying that Spartacus was a gladiator and that no slave should bear arms so long as Spartacus runs loose. But I say it is better to honour the traditions of our ancestors than to fear a slave. I say also that the occasions of these games will give us not only the opportunity to pay our last respects to the shade of Lucius Licinius, but to begin the task of avenging his death.'

Crassus stepped aside. He took one of the torches and touched it to the pyre, while opposite him the Designator did the same. The dry wood ignited and crackled, shooting up tongues of flame and fingers of grey smoke.

In time the pyre would be consumed. The embers would be soaked with wine, and the bones and ashes of Lucius Licinius would be gathered up by Crassus and Gelina, who would sprinkle them with perfumes and place them in an alabaster urn. A priest would purify the crowd, moving among them and sprinkling them with water from an olive branch. The remains of Lucius would be sealed into his sepulchre, and together the crowd would murmur, 'Farewell, farewell, farewell . . .'

But I left before these things were done. I was not purified; I did not say farewell. Instead I slipped quietly away and returned to the house, taking Eco with me. So little time remained before the slaughter would begin.

XVII

'Where will we find the boy Meto?' I wondered aloud. The atrium, which that morning had been thronged with funeral guests and their attendant slaves, was deserted. Our footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space. The incense and the flowers were gone, but their odour, like that of the decaying corpse of Lucius Licinius, lingered behind.

I followed my nose to the kitchens. Long before I found them I heard the din of activity. There was much preparation still to be done for the funeral feast.

We stepped through a great wooden door and found ourselves swallowed up by noise and heat. Their tunics spotted with stains and soot, the kitchen slaves scurried about. Hoarse voices cried back and forth, heavy knives chopped against blocks of wood, kettles boiled and hissed. Eco covered his ears to protest the din, then pointed at a figure across the room.

Little Meto, standing on a stool, was reaching into a deep clay pot atop a table. He looked around to see that no one was watching, then pulled out a handful of something and stuck it into his mouth. I walked across the room, dodging to avoid the hurrying slaves, and grabbed the neck of his tunic.

He gave a squawk and looked over his shoulder at me. His mouth, covered with a paste of honey, millet, and crushed nuts, opened in a cry of distress, then turned abruptly into a grin when he saw my face — and as abruptly twisted into a howl of pain when a wooden spoon came down on his head with a crack.

'Out of the kitchen! Out! Out!' screamed an old slave whose superior dress and manner marked him as the chief cook. He seemed ready to strike me as well, then saw the iron ring I wore. 'Forgive me, Citizen, but between Meto pilfering sweets, and the slaves of all these guests sneaking in to steal food, we can hardly do our work. Could you please find an errand for the little pest?'