Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (2 page)

“Don’t even think about it,” growls a voice that smells of old cheese and vinegar close against my ear.

“Think about what?” I say as innocent as you please.

We take the Clivus Suburanus for a time, a ramshackle boulevard lined with tall insulae decked in washing that lean toward each other like shabby drunken revelers. We manage to avoid any nightsoil being thrown from above and then cut through the Carinae, a far more salubrious neighborhood that Quinta fantasizes about us moving to one day – a domus high on the hill where we will be waited on by quality slaves. Quinta does love to dream.

Today the streets here are reasonably empty, due in no small part to the festivities taking place at the Circus Maxiumus – a spectacular of chariot racing and gladiatorial bouts paid for by outgoing consul Pompey the Great. Personally, I’m not interested in such an event. Aside from the fact that I’m too busy for that kind of frivolity, the lines are long and full of violent boors who jostle and punch their way to the front, the seats with the best views going to whomever is the most determined to take them.

The Forum Romanum lies straight ahead, the Atrium Vestae clearly visible. Is this where we’re going? To the Forum itself?

But then I’m herded to the west, detouring toward the decrepit Temple of the Lares, and then the unattainable splendor of the Palatium comes into view. The Palatium, home to Rome’s best patrician families or, more astutely, the ones whose wealth hasn’t been squandered by errant sons, splashed onto poor business ventures or lavished on misadventures.

“You put it together yet, worm?” asks the talker, now behind me, with a gentle push in the back.

I haven’t, but I am prepared to guess. If these two former legionaries are lictors, as I think they might be, that narrows the field of options. Lictors are employed to guard the health and well-being of someone in public office. And if that person lives on the Palatine, the office he holds will be high.

“At a guess I’d say you’re Marcus Aemilius Scaurus’s men. That’s where we’re going, isn’t it? You’re taking me to see the praetor. Everyone knows he’s in the city.”

“What use would the praetor have for the likes of you?”

Good question.

“Enjoy the walk, historian. Your curiosity will have rest soon enough.”

At least I’m now confident this morning stroll isn’t going to end badly for me, since it surely would have by now if that had been the intention. So I take the advice. The weather is pleasant for this time of year – it’s unseasonably warm, and perspiration begins to dampen my bloodstained toga.

We start to climb, taking pathways and steps beside some of Rome’s most exquisite domūs, the front doors of which are mostly guarded by thuggish men with large unfriendly dogs.

Climbing still higher, the air becomes pungent with the smell of rarefied wealth. We exit the shadows eventually, taking a via between two vast domūs. The road ahead, however, is congested with an official party of lictors – twelve toughs carrying their fasces over their shoulders, bundles of wooden rods that are the symbols of their authority. And in the center is a man with the round and oddly boyish face of none other than Pompey the Great. He looks straight ahead, his small piggy eyes never deviating, his head high and proud as a lion, albeit a frowning one.

I watch the procession pass and feel awed despite my cynicism. “Keep it moving,” I hear the talker snarl.

“What would someone like Marcus Licinius Crassus want with me?” I ask.

There’s the slightest pause in his reply. “What tipped you off?”

“There are only three domūs left on the hill and the domus of Crassus is one of them. It is not unreasonable to assume that Pompey, Consul of Rome, is in the vicinity having visited Crassus, his co-consul, though it is well known the two men despise each other.”

“You might be too smart for your own good, worm. Better hope the meeting with the Great Man hasn’t put Crassus in a mood. As you say, those two old cunni go together like shit and honeyed figs.”

Clever or not, my stomach is curling and twisting like an acrobat. Crassus, enjoying his second consulship, the man who finally ended Spartacus’s reign of terror in the Third Servile War, is well known for his willingness to step on the heads of others if doing so will lift him to some desired goal, especially if that goal will increase his wealth. He is believed to be not just the richest man in the world but one of the richest men in all history. And am I wrong or does wealth tend to magnify the excesses of a man’s personality? Indeed, Crassus’s immense fortune is largely founded on the misfortune of others, buying fire-affected land and property at vastly reduced prices, which he then sells at inflated prices when the market returns. He has a crew of freemen and slaves over 500 strong that turns up all too quickly – suspiciously quickly many say – to put these fires out. But only, of course, if the inhabitants agree to Crassus’s terms. There have been plenty of rich men, but apparently the consul’s wealth towers over all. He is certainly said to have the meanest spirit, if that cements the claim. That a man such as this is even dimly aware of my lowly existence I cannot but otherwise find deeply troubling.

“Not so full of yourself now, are you,” smirks the talker as my stomach continues to contort.

The giant in front strides up to four praetorian legionaries in full battle uniform – black cloak, attic (rather than Roman) helmet plumed with crests of red feathers, polished black cuirasses, javelins and swords at the ready. There’s the nod of a head, a lift of a chin, and the four stand aside revealing immense bronze double doors, their panels telling the story of the Twelve Labors of Hercules. Am I mistaken or does Hercules in these reliefs bear an uncanny resemblance to one Marcus Licinius Crassus?

The doors open out, pushed wide from within by two muscled slaves on each. We walk in and all I can think about is my need to visit the commode. The domus is vast and of multiple stories – at least three – but here the Palatine drops away steeply, so perhaps there are many more unseen floors clinging to the cliffs.

The area behind the doors is half the size of a standard public piazza. Several fountains featuring marble statues of sea creatures, sea gods or naked women cool the area, placed among manicured gardens and ponds stocked with fish and turtles. Around half a dozen men are practicing swordplay with wooden rudes in the more open area of the expanse. All the men here are wearing the togas of lictors. Crassus is allowed twelve by law, to clear the way ahead when he walks in public. In private, I suspect he has a veritable cohort of these bodyguards, since money certainly isn’t an issue. More armed legionaries stand around stiffly. The consul enjoys the reassurance of security, obviously.

A tall, rangy Greek with a mop of curly black hair and a nose the size and shape of my elbow steps out of the shadows of a loggia. A wax tablet is in his hand. “Appias Cominius Maro! Here at last. What kept you, historian?”

I’m not sure how to answer without some measure of indignity, so I look around, hunting for the source of the smell of roasting meat and baking honey cakes in the air. My praetorian escort drifts away, going to converse with their fellow lictors.

“Would you like to borrow a clean toga before you meet the consul, perhaps wash? The dominus is busy at the moment. There’s time,” the Greek says.

I look down at the front of my toga. The poisonous arc of blood spatter is now dried black. My hair is matted with it, and I remember rubbing it all over my face. “I was attending a sacrifice,” I explain, lest he thinks the blood is mine.

The Greek repeats the offer of a clean toga and a bath and I nod.

“Please follow me,” he says.

We walk through the entrance into the main house and I see what immeasurable wealth buys. There are Greek sculptures by the masters – a Zeus by Praxiteles of Athens, a gorgeous Aphrodite by Polykleitos of Argos – and other famous works, their features and paint so lifelike that I’m surprised they stand so still. Underfoot, the flooring alternates between the finest pure white marble slabs and mosaics of historical or mythical themes – the suckling of Romulus and Remus by the she-wolf; Scipio Africanus dispatching Hannibal’s elephants at the Battle of Zama; Ulysses blinding the Cyclops. On the walls are frescos of unquestionable quality depicting the birth of Achilles, the Judgement of Paris, Perseus slaying the Medusa. And there are other treasures scattered around as if unimportant: gold and ivory chairs from Egypt, exquisite rugs from the Orient, intricate mechanical contraptions whose origin and purpose elude me. And, of course, there’s a constant procession of the most beautiful human beings, male and female, that I’ve ever laid eyes on. All slaves, their eyes properly downcast as they go about their chores.

“My name is Epikrates,” the Greek says as I follow him, his Latin heavily accented and distinctly Athenian. “I am one of the secretaries here. I attended your school once. You were giving lectures on Ptolemy III. You were saying that he crossed not just the Euphrates but the Tigris, carrying all before him.”

Yes, that was the subject of the lectures.

“You really think he was the equal of the Macedonian?”

He means Alexander. “To achieve what he achieved, Ptolemy had to have been special,” I say, trying to be agreeable. But what has this to do with anything? And why is he giving me my lecture back at me? I was there too!

“He conquered those lands for Egypt and all for the love of his sister. Imagine. What was her name?”

“Berenice.”

“That’s right,” Epikrates replies. “You said history tells us that lands are often conquered on a pretext.”

Yes, I did say that. And everything else he is telling me.

The Greek scampers down three sets of stairs. As I follow him, I catch the view out to the west, toward the Aventine. The sudden roar of a mighty crowd rolls through the air, accompanied by a rumble in the floor that feels like an earth tremor.

Epikrates glances over his shoulder at me, notices mild anxiety and says, “It’s nothing – just the Circus.” He steps through an alcove. “This way, Appias Cominius.”

I walk beneath an arch supported by two magnificently carved Corinthian columns, the leaves and grapes so artfully painted they seem real enough to pluck. There’s a wave of heat and then the familiar smell of warm saltwater as I follow the secretary into a spacious colonnaded bathhouse. I stop to take it in, aware that I’m gaping but unable to do anything about it for I’ve not seen a public space with more grandeur. Covering the walls are intricate mosaics of great detail, telling the story of a mighty sea battle – squadrons of trireme warships lined up with bow-mounted catapults, hurling balls of pitch at each other, their smoking trails filling the stormy skies. Boarding parties hack at one another and men fall into seas boiling with hungry serpents. Overhead, gazing down from heavens, the gods are serenely entertained by the ferocity of the melee. And beneath the surface of the water, Neptune with his net and trident rides in a chariot pulled by golden sea horses.

Placed around this bath are beautifully painted sculptures of gods or characters from myths, and not a single one a Roman copy. At the head of the bath stands the Greek master Lysippos’s famous sculpture of Hercules, leaning on his mighty club, draped with the pelt of the Nemean Lion, the apples of Hesperides in his hand.

Two beautiful women who I took to be works of art suddenly move and I realize they are slaves. One is fair with green eyes and straight yellow hair and the other has loose raven locks matched with black eyes that remind me of obsidian.

Epikrates interrupts my astonishment. “Your needs will be seen to. I’m told the dark one, Erika, is especially adept.”

Adept at what?

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

“What if I don’t have an hour to spare?” I ask, the day running through my fingers like spilled wine.

“Nonsense. As accomplished as you are, Appias Cominius, an hour with my dominus is surely worth ten of your years.”

I had no answer for that piece of arrogance.

Epikrates turned and walked away with purpose.

Before I know it the two slaves are unravelling my toga, which is handed to another slave, an old woman, who waddles with the sway of worn hips as she retreats behind a false wall.

“Please, dominus,” says the blond attendant, gesturing toward steps leading into the bath. “The water is warm.”

Here and there tendrils of steam rise from the otherwise still surface.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks. “Falernian wine with or without honey? Spa water from Etruria? Whatever you like.”

“Just some plain, ordinary water from a Roman cistern would be fine,” I say with dignitas. I step down into the bath, the water the same temperature as my body. Wading toward the center, I dive beneath the surface before coming up and rubbing my face clean, removing the taint of the earlier sacrifice. My splashing echoes around the richly ornamented cavern. There is a ledge to sit on, so I make my way there and get comfortable, leaning back to take in the riot of storytelling around me.

It’s then I hear the sound of water being disturbed close by. It’s Erika and she is completely naked, making her way into the bath. Her figure is like a Praxiteles sculpture, smooth and free of blemish or hair. She sinks into the water and wades toward me slowly and, whether I want to or not, I immediately stiffen, rising into her hand as it arrives and slides down my stomach.

“Would it please you, dominus?” she asks, looking down at her hand and what it holds.

I want to say no because of Quinta, but also yes because I’m a man and saying no to a naked woman who could make Venus jealous seems an unnatural act, perhaps even an insult to the goddess herself. Quinta and I have friends who have slaves to assist their lovemaking. It’s something we decided we didn’t need or want, such is the way we feel about each other. But recalling this takes time, and before I can get a response framed, Erika accepts my hesitation as agreement and deftly straddles me like a bareback rider leaping up on a horse, and before I know it the pink lips of her smooth vagina are sliding up and down my gladius, one hand hooked around the back of my neck.