This rebellious vision was almost confirmed when she said, “Haste, Julius, or my husband will discover how boring you are.” Her last word was turned into a grunt as Caesar responded with a vicious thrust that practically lifted her off her feet. The tears filled her eyes once more, for speaking to him had snapped her back into the present. She twisted her head away from him and prayed for the end of this nightmare.
That is the moment when she saw her husband staring at her in dumbfounded disbelief from behind the portiere. She knew it was him even though he was no more than a silhouette. His head jerked and she thought he was going to vomit. She felt her own gorge rise. Something glinted below his face – a dagger! He’s looking down at it. She willed him to look back at her, and he did! She warned him off with a shake of her head and the hope that he might somehow see the expression of desperation on her face. He must withdraw, he must! Caesar will kill him. The
pugio
he had held against her throat was somewhere nearby, but she could not see it. At his age and in his condition, Marcus would be no match for Caesar, even if he struck first. Could they overpower him together?
She would never know, for as she pleaded with her eyes for him to depart, his face slowly passed from view like a pale, lifeless moon disappearing behind clouds. His expression broke her heart.
A spasm shook Caesar, and while one part of Tertulla’s torture was now over, she knew another was just beginning. She found that she did have something for which to be thankful. She gave her silent gratitude to Juno for sparing her husband the final moment of her degradation. But as her mind returned to settle on her violation, her body joined her spirit and revolted: she leaned over the side of the chest where the lamp had fallen and emptied her stomach. Afterwards, wiping her nose and sucking lung-fuls of air through her mouth, she stooped to pick up the bedcovers, using them to clean herself as best she could. She kept a wary eye on Caesar.
“I suppose your youth gives you some advantage,” Caesar said with disdain. “But for that, you are not much use to men, are you? Remember this, Tertulla, if you fail to do your part with your husband, I will put it about that the wife of Crassus is not as chaste as her reputation. And you know I will be believed. So perform better with your husband than you have with me, and you can grow old and gray spending every
denarius
he owns. The alternative will be far more costly, I assure you. Now clean this place up. He’ll be back soon.” And with that, Caesar left the room.
Chapter XXX
56 BCE - Spring, Luca
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
“This is not the way. We’re in the wrong wing! Give me that!” Crassus seized the torch from the slave. “See my
atriensis
in the morning and instruct him to flog you. Ask for Alexander. Now be gone!” Pahnehesy, the slave who was part of the conspiracy to delay Crassus and who had now misled him to the wrong end of Caesar’s villa, padded off to his quarters. He’d done the best he could. He hoped the few extra coins he’d been promised would be worth the stripes he’d just earned.
Crassus pointed the sputtering torch down a dark hallway and saw that it was too short to be his own. Ah, here’s the
culina
, he thought. No, couldn’t touch another bite. No one about. Even the slaves are abed. He was still quite drunk.
Syria.
He wondered what the food was like. Proconsul is no small achievement, and he supposed Caesar was right, he could make a sizable contribution to his already astounding fortune as a result of the governorship. I’m so tired, he thought. I could sleep for a week. Well, we’ll see what Tertulla thinks of all this. Maybe she’d like a vacation abroad. He headed back through the villa, passing columns that threw sweeping shadows like grasping arms. As he made his way through the garden atrium, rain splashed into the
impluvium
and blew spray in gusts over the slick tile floor. Crassus slid on a wet spot and fell to his knees. The torch skidded, hit a clay planter head-on and went out with a hiss and a small explosion of sparks.
Cursing, he got to his feet and groped along the walls until finally, he found the right wing. As he turned into it, he heard a woman’s voice, low and urgent. It didn’t sound like his wife. More words, then a grunt as if someone had been struck. He drew his
pugio
from its scabbard. As he made his way down the hall, past two empty
cubiculae
, the sounds became clearer and he realized whoever this person was, he or she was not being attacked. He squinted at a wall painting, recognized the image of Orpheus and Eurydice, the viper curled around her ankle, and confirmed that he was indeed in his
cubiculum’s
hallway. The knowledge, instead of spurring him to greater speed, turned his feet to stone. He thought they must surely scrape on the stone floor as he dragged himself forward. He did not want to see what he now feared awaited him.
The
cubiculum
had no door, and the heavy drapes that separated it from the hallway were partially drawn. Crassus peered past the curtains. The room was dark, and he could hear more than he could see. The rhythmic grunts of the man in the room were occasionally echoed by a woman’s groan, whether in pain or pleasure he could not tell. There was also the intermittently rhythmic thump of a chest of drawers as it was knocked up against the wall.
Forms began to be discernible out of the murk. Two bodies faced the wall, leaning over the waist high wooden chest. A man whose head was turned away from the doorway had his tunic pulled up above his waist and stuffed into his belt. His pale, exposed buttocks moved in a short arc, up and down, like comic moons unsure whether to rise or set. Crassus could make out the prominent bald spot on the back of Caesar’s head as he hunched over a woman’s right shoulder. Had he come to the wrong room? Crassus tried to equate the hunched and sweating man before him with the proud, armored general mounted not on this woman (who was she?) but on a snow-white steed leading the charge against the Nervii. He couldn’t do it.
This has to be our room, but where has Tertulla gone? His mind fought with his eyes, trying to blind them, but they would not be fooled. His fear spread like a stain. If I slip away now, he thought, there will be no betrayal because there will be no proof. I won’t know for sure who these fornicators are. Tertulla can tell me in the morning that she grew tired of waiting, went to search for me and got lost as I did. She found other quarters in which to take her rest. And I would believe her, or any other story she might wish to tell me, because I cannot bear to face any other truth. If I take a step forward, my world will end; and yet, if I turn away, will not doubt eat at my insides till nothing is left?
The fate of worlds may hang on the slightest hesitation, and Crassus had waited too long. Had he been able to turn away, the lives of twice ten thousand men might have been spared. But before he could retreat, shutting his eyes and ears to the truth of what he was witnessing, the woman spoke, and his last shred of hope vanished with the unmistakable sound of his wife’s voice.
“Haste, Julius, or my husband will discover how boring you are.” Her last word was turned into a grunt as Caesar responded with a vicious thrust that practically lifted Tertulla off her feet. Crassus gagged. He thought, she jests with him and makes sport of me even as she spreads her legs for him. Bile and wine rose in his throat and it was all he could do to swallow it back down again. He stared with grim fascination as Caesar’s hands gripped Tertulla’s breasts for support and more. The front of the long tunic she wore as a nightdress swung at her ankles with each lascivious stroke. The back of it was mashed up above her thighs, held up by Caesar’s pumping hips. The left shoulder of her tunic was torn. Could there have been a struggle? Or was this just more evidence of their ardor? Her own arms were fully extended, hands gripping the edge of the chest to keep her head from bumping into the wall with each of Caesar’s thrusts. Crassus followed the slender line of her bare arms up to her shaking shoulders, her twisted neck, the ringlets of her hair which half obscured her face. He was so absorbed with cataloging her treacherous features it was a moment before he realized she was looking right at him.
In this instant of recognition, in the one moment when all the gods called out for decisiveness, for retribution, for action of
some
kind,
any
kind, Crassus moved not a muscle. His wife’s gaze pinned him like an insect, and although the light was still very dim, he knew with absolute certainty that she saw him standing there. It was hard to tell, but he thought he saw a look of terror pass over her face at the sight of him. This was immediately replaced by an expression of unbearable sorrow.
Crassus wanted to die. The meeting of their eyes was far more terrible than the sight of her rutting. Before this moment, had he accepted the title, he could have claimed the moral high ground of accuser. Now, with each passing second, he became the accused, complicit in their sin, his voyeurism almost paramount to their infidelity. The longer he stood there, the more his shame grew. For every action of theirs for which there was no re-action from him, he lost a piece of himself. Each moment he lingered, shards of the man Crassus fell away and were lost. If she would but close her eyes or turn away, he would be free to move, to act. But she held him with her gaze, and every thrust from her lover was a blow to his shattered heart. Tertulla’s look riveted him to the spot just as surely as the nails that pierced Spartacus’ rebels had fixed them to their crosses.
Cold sweat pooled around the hilt of his dagger till he felt it would slip from his fingers. With immense effort, he broke eye contact with his wife and stared down at the blade. He considered which way to point it. He had three choices and each seemed equally reasonable. Just when he finally decided that it was Caesar’s throat that desperately needing slitting, Tertulla made a small, frantic gesture. She shook her head in a clear imprecation for him to do nothing. Her eyes widened and only because of thirty years’ intimacy with that face, could he see she wanted him to slip away, to depart – to continue to do what he had done since he had come upon them -
nothing
.
It was a blow worse than any that had come before. Anger, like the bile that had tried to erupt before, rose within him. How could she expect him to do nothing? How could she
ask
him to do nothing? Her gesture had finally provided the impetus to reveal his presence, but the gesture itself pleaded for silence. His mind cracked like an egg. In his chest, there was a thick knot of rope where his heart had but a moment ago beat only for her. Yet he knew he would obey her. Even in betrayal, it was a reflex of love he could not abandon. And the core of him, already broken in two, found it could shatter into even smaller pieces. He took one step back and let the curtain come between his eyes and hers, between a joyous past and an empty future.
Chapter XXXI
56 BCE - Spring, Luca
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
Crassus wandered the drafty hallways, refusing to return to his bedroom, and instead found me. He sent me to find an empty
cubiculum
. It was difficult to leave him alone, even for a moment, such was his distress. Once I had him resettled, I foolishly asked him what had happened. My master was curt and rude, telling me to tend to my own business and leave him to his misery. I knew it must be something horrible, for even on his worst days, like the one when I received a flogging at his hands, he never spoke to me thus. I feigned departure, leaving the portiere half-open, then, barefoot, tip-toed back to watch over him. Curling up on the floor outside the door to his new quarters, I tried to remain alert in case he should require my assistance.
He sat on the small room’s bed staring at the floor till dawn, rising only once to vomit. I could hear him mumbling to himself, running the gamut of emotions from the soft keening of shame and humiliation to the clipped whispering of cold anger.
For awhile there was silence, but then in a voice so composed it frightened me, he said my name. I thought I must be dreaming. “Alexander,” he repeated, “I know you’re out there. I would speak with you.”
I obeyed, and he waved me to the only chair in the small, unadorned room. Without preamble or preparation, Crassus proceeded to confide in me. I winced at the surgically precise and cold recounting of each sordid detail. When he was done, I felt his eyes on me, but I could not raise mine off the floor.
“Have you nothing to say?”
“If I knew the words that could annul your own,
dominus
, I would say them.”
“I am
dominus
of nothing.” His voice had gone hoarse, pushing back tears. “What home am I master of? There is a house, but it is empty. There is a bed, but I can never sleep in it again.”
“You are certain you saw
domina
?”
“There is no doubt,” he said bitterly.
“Then what you saw ...” I hesitated to say the word, “this was rape,
dominus
.”
“No. Not rape. She spoke sweetly to him, I could swear it. I was drunk, I know. But no, I think not rape. ” He stared at nothing, replaying the scene, stabbing himself with the memory, over and over in his mind’s eye, as if that might mercifully blind him to it. When we are sane, we may realize this torture would have the opposite effect, painting the scene with indelible strokes. But no man, faced with such immediate, terrible loss could put down that blade of recollection.
“I almost left without her, but then I realized it was not I who needed to skulk away in darkness like a thief. Oh, Alexander, I am bereft. The fine metal of my life has rusted, its foundation crumbling. My love is gone, my marriage a travesty. Tell me, my friend, in what vault shall I deposit the devotion, the passion so freely lavished on my Tertulla each and every day for the last twenty years? There is no place to pour this torrent of affection; without the proper cask, this sweet wine will spill into the gutter, a wash of ruined vinegar.”
“This is a horror beyond measure.” I shook my head. “Lady Tertulla hates Caesar. This I know; I would put the
lorum
in your hand myself if it be untrue.”
“It is your hand where it belongs, Alexander. I did
nothing
! I am dishonored, a coward. Yesterday, I had worn honor like a crown; today I am wrapped in a mantle of disgrace.”
“My lady would never betray you,
dominus
. She loves you as Baucis loved Philemon; she is as faithful to you as Penelope to Odysseus. Everyone in the
familia
knows this. The house of Crassus is a generous, loving house; it could not be otherwise if there was discord between you. I myself have heard dinner guests on many occasions marvel that the two of you act as if newly wed.”
“They were not here tonight. Their words would sour on their tongues had they seen what I have seen.”
“
Dominus
, look at me. You did not bring me into your confidence to hear feckless words of commiseration. You have always trusted me. I beg you to do so now. Caesar and Brutus plotted against you. Brutus delayed your return intentionally, with malice and terrible purpose. Your wife is faithful; she was raped by Caesar.”
“You tried to interrupt our conversation. This I remember.”
“And Brutus would not allow it. I did not know what he was plotting, but there were signs, looks between him and Caesar and the servants. You are the victim of a cruel conspiracy.”
“How will I face her in just a few hours time?” Crassus felt for the dagger on the bed. “I had the chance, yet I did not strike.”
“
Dominus
, you could not have bested Caesar. He is fifteen years younger, fifteen years stronger, fresh from the battlefield. He would have killed you, and after you,
domina
, to leave no witnesses.”
“Your logic is impeccable, Alexander. But it is irrelevant. I stood by and watched; that is my eternal shame. Better to die protecting my honor than to stand idly by. I should be dead now, if not by Caesar’s hand, then by my own.”
“Certainly,” I said angrily, “die like a Roman and your troubles will be over. What of the children? Do they deserve a life without their father? You must talk with
domina
, and you must act.”
Crassus turned away from me and curled on his side in the dark. “Act? There is nothing I can do to set this right; nothing she can say.”
“You
know
Lady Tertulla. Talk to her. She is wise and brave, and your truest friend.”
“So I thought. And so, too, I thought of Caesar. What of him? Am I that despised? Is my measure of men so poor? I am nothing to him. I am a bank, a villa, a line of credit.” Crassus choked on his words, as anguish overwhelmed him again. “I have nothing I call mine that he cannot use or take away. I am a latrine for his defecation, a sty for his discarded scraps. There is no amity between us, no honor, no trust. In their place crouch perfidy, enmity and sham. Nowhere is safe, for he invades and ravages all I hold dear as easily as he storms through Gaul.”
There followed a silence filled with the clamor of grief and betrayal. I fought an urge to cross a line that could never be breached: to reach out to this man, place my arms around him and bestow the consolation of human touch. He needed this more than anything, but would not, could not receive it from me. Of a sudden, out of that wordless cacophony, Crassus sat up, reached across the space between us and grabbed both my hands in his own. “He is my enemy and he has declared his war. I will pray to the gods, Alexander, make sacrifice and rekindle my faith in them: they must show me how I may confront him and prevail. If it was not my fate to die tonight, then there can be but one agenda to justify life: I will have vengeance.” He released me and rose to pace about the small room in silence. I was just about to break it with a plea for reason when he stopped and spoke in a clear voice, as if he were alone in the room.
“I cannot hope to win this campaign on the battlefield. My finest soldiers are not men, but money and influence. Yet though they are great, I doubt even they are sufficient. It would be a mistake to overestimate their power. They cannot match his legions, or his cunning as a general.
“What if my counterstrike were more personal, say the blade of a knife, or poison? This could more easily be arranged. I can think of a hundred senators who would beg for the chance to stick him, and cry tears of elation at his funeral. But no, death is a gift; I will not bestow it upon him. A man can be killed only once, and once, for Caesar, is not nearly enough. I want to see him die a thousand times. The blow must be struck in some other way.
“What does he wish for most, and how can I take it from him? What one assault will bring him low even as it raises me up? He craves power as much as they say I love gold. It is true, he has no regard for the Republic. He would see it die and himself crowned as the new Alexander. Dictator is not enough for Caesar. He will not stop till he is King and the Republic dead at his feet. This is my task, then. I will see him fall, and when his world is as defiled as mine, I will let him know who it was who had ruined him. I will use him a while longer, as he has abused me.”
Then, in an instant, Crassus jerked abruptly and stood unsteadily, reaching behind him for the bed. For a moment I thought he was suffering an attack of the falling sickness from which Caesar himself reputedly suffered. I leapt to him and helped him sit. His mouth was open, a look of wonder upon him, his face all at once alight. He took my hands once more and pulled me down to kneel on the floor before him. “Alexander,” he whispered, his grip almost painful, “I have it! Caesar himself has put the means of his undoing into my hands.”
“What is it, lord?”
“Caesar loves to speak of our league as a three-legged stool which will not stand unless he, Pompeius and I are all of equal strength. He must think me as dimwitted as a Numidian. Gaius wants no stool; he seeks a throne. Let him have his fantasy.
“There is another triangle, Alexander; he who possesses all three of its sides may rule Rome. Money, political power and military might. No one man can hold sway over the aristocracy, the plebs and the government without all three. I have spent my entire life amassing two of the three, with no thought until tonight of what I might do with the third. In spite of my success with Sulla and against Spartacus, Rome has never recognized my military service. Do you know why, Alexander? Do you?”
“No, lord, no.” Crassus was practically aflame with excitement.
“Because my victories could never be seen as more than domestic squabbles compared to a successful campaign on foreign soil. This is the missing third of the triangle, Alexander, and Caesar has unwittingly shown me the way to acquire it.
“In the meeting earlier this morning – can it be such a short time ago – we had drawn lots to see who would be the proconsul of Hispania and who would govern Syria. Look, Alexander. Dawn approaches, and with its light I realize the gods have blessed me with great good fortune – because the eastern province fell to me. Let Pompeius have the west, its wealth pales by comparison. Bordering Syria lies the pearl of my revenge; all I need do is stoop to pick it up. And when I return with it in my pocket, the people will declare it to be a jewel worthy of eclipsing any other pretender to power, even Caesar.”
“
Dominus
, you cannot be thinking of ...”
“Parthia! She has long been a thorn in Rome’s side.”
“But we are at peace with the Arsacids.”
“No more. Her size and wealth is an insult and an irritation, Alexander. Why has a country so close, so vast remained outside Rome’s embrace? Now, I say let it fall under the sword of Crassus, before Caesar takes it for himself. The timing is perfect. Their monarchy is in such disarray, they know not in which direction to turn the assassin’s blade. They are uncivilized barbarians, disorganized, decentralized, and will surely wither and blow away before the discipline and training of but one Roman legion. Who knows if they even have an army to speak of? One thing is a certainty: their capitals and their temples are over-brimming with riches, gold beyond measure, wealth beyond counting. Alexander, I will bring it all home for the glory of Rome and Caesar’s undoing.”
I took a deep breath. “My lord, forgive me, but consider how much you risk. Is vengeance worth so many lives? Is it worth your own life?”
“It is worth all I have, and all I am.” Crassus’ tone had hardened, and I knew I had reached the limit of my insolence. “I will take the consulate,” he said stonily, “and go to Syria, not with a governor’s stilus, but with an army. And when I return a conqueror the city will open its doors to me. I will feast the citizens for a month, host the most extravagant games ever witnessed, and lay treasure in heaps upon every household. Then I will go to the
curia
and turn Caesar’s coalition to dust.”
“But even if you succeed,
dominus
, how can you be sure a conquered Parthia will be enough to dislodge Caesar?”
“In three months I can raise seven legions. Who could stand against such a force? We will squeeze the eastern provinces and sack the treasuries of Seleucia and Ctesiphon, and if enough gold cannot be sifted from those sands, we will march on to India, perhaps even to the Eastern Sea beyond. It will be the greatest conquest Rome has ever witnessed. I will make Caesar look like a schoolboy playing at soldier.”
“Such an expedition will require many years. Your business interests will suffer without your guidance.”
“My wealth will serve but one purpose now: to finance this war and strip Caesar of everything he values. The people will forget him like day-old news. And after my triumph, with the senate enriched and in my pocket, he will be overthrown, cast out, finished. Deprive him of his one true love - as he has done to me, that is my task. Strip him of power, influence, glory – yes, there is meat in that revenge.”
“I fear for you, my lord. I beg you to think on this.”
“My purpose is fixed, Alexander, as the earth is in the heavens. Fear not. With what agony can death threaten me which Caesar has not already made real? Someone once asked him, if he had the power to choose it, what kind of death he would prefer. He hesitated not a moment before replying “an unexpected one.” Crassus looked out through the doorway into the darkness of the villa. “There are many kinds of death, Gaius Julius, and the one I have in store for you will most certainly grant your wish.”