Steven Saylor - Arms of Nemesis

'Yes, there's Faustus Fabius, but I can't imagine Crassus showing weakness to a patrician, especially a patrician who happens to be his subordinate.'

Eco circled his arms in a hoop before him and puffed his cheeks. I shook my head. 'Sergius Orata? No, Crassus would be even less likely to show weakness to a business associate. A philosopher would be a natural choice, but if Crassus has one, he's left him behind in Rome, and he despises Dionysius. Yet Crassus desperately needs someone, anyone, to listen to him — here and now, because the gods are too far away. He faces a great crisis; he is full of doubt. Doubt hounds him from hour to hour, moment to moment, and not just about his decision to take on Spartacus. I think he secretly doubts even his decision to massacre Gelina's slaves. He's a man used to absolute control and clear-cut decisions, counting up tangible profits and losses. The past haunts him — bloody chaos and the death of those he loved most. Now he's about to step into a dark and uncertain future — a terrible gamble, but one worth taking, because if he succeeds he may at last become so powerful that no power on earth can ever harm him again.'

I shrugged. 'So why not tell everything to Gordianus the Finder, from whom no one can keep a secret anyway? As for confidentiality, I'm famous for it — almost as well known for keeping my mouth shut as you are.'

Eco splashed me with a handful of water.

'Stop that! Besides, there's something about me that compels others to empty their hearts.' I said it jokingly, but it was true; there are those to whom others quite naturally confide their deepest secrets, and I have always been one of them. I looked at myself in the mirror. If the power to pull the truth from others resided somewhere in my face, I couldn't see it. It was a common face, I thought, with a nose that looked as if it had been broken, though it had not, common brown eyes and common black curls streaked with more and more strands of silver every year. With the passing of time it had come to remind me of my father's face, as best as I could recall it. My mother I barely remembered, but if my father told the truth when he insisted she had been beautiful, then I had not inherited her looks.

It was also a face that badly needed a shave, if I was to put in a decent appearance at the funeral of Lucius Licinius.

'Come, Eco. Surely out of ninety-nine slaves Gelina has one who's a decent barber. You shall have a shave as well.' I said it just to please him, but when I glanced at his smiling face in the morning sunlight, I saw that there actually was a faint shadow across his jaw.

'Yesterday you were a boy,' I whispered, under my breath.

Ironic as it sounds, there is nothing quite so alive as a Roman household on the day of a funeral. The villa was full of guests, who thronged the atrium and the hallways and spilled over into the baths. While Eco and I reclined on couches, submitting our jaws to be shaved, naked strangers loitered about the pools, refreshing themselves after hard morning rides from points as distant as Capua and the tar side of Vesuvius. Others had arrived by boat, ferried across the bay from Surrentum, Stabiae, and Pompeii. After my ablutions I stood on die terrace of the baths and looked down on the boathouse, where the short pier was too small for all the arrivals; skiffs and barges were lashed to one another, so that the later arrivals had to walk to the pier over a small floating city of boats.

Metrobius, draped in a voluminous towel, joined me on the balcony. 'Lucius Licinius must have been a popular man,' I said.

He snorted. 'Don't imagine they've all come just to see poor Lucius go up in smoke. No, all these wealthy merchants and landowners and vacationing nobility are here for quite a different reason. They want to impress you-know-who.' He glanced over his shoulder toward the heated pool, where the slave Apollonius was helping an old man emerge from the water. 'I had to push and shove all through the house to get here. The atrium is already so crowded I could hardly cross it. I haven't seen so much black in one place since Sulla died over in Puteoli. Though I noticed,' he said, wrinkling his nose, 'that most of the visitors were giving the corpse a wide berth.' He laughed softly. 'And they're already whispering jokes; usually that doesn't start until after the ceremony, when the eating begins.'

'Jokes?'

'You know — stepping up to the bier, peering into the corpse's mouth, then sighing, "The coin is still there! Imagine that, with Crassus in the house!" And don't you dare repeat that to Crassus,' he quickly added. 'Or at least don't tell him that you heard it from me.' He stepped away with a dry smile. Apparently he had forgotten that he had told me the same joke the day before.

I peered over the balcony again, wondering how I would ever manage to discover what had been dumped off the pier with so many vessels moored there. Many of the rowers were still in their boats, or loitered about the boathouse, waiting for their masters to return.

Eventually I found Eco, who had disappeared into one of the cubicles for a cool bath to follow his hot one. We dressed in the sombre black garments that had been laid out for us that morning. The slave Apollonius assisted us with the various tucks and folds. His bearing was grave, as suited the occasion, but his eyes were a clear and dazzling blue, unclouded by the fear that haunted the eyes of the other slaves. Was it possible that Mummius had somehow kept him from knowing what the next day might bring? More likely, I thought, Mummius had secredy assured him that he himself would be spared. Did he know that Mummius had failed to sway Crassus?

As he dressed me, I took the opportunity to study him more closely. That he was beautiful was obvious at a glance, and yet the closer and longer I looked the more beautiful he seemed. His perfection was almost unreal, like the famous Discus Thrower of Myron come to life; as he moved, the shifting planes of light across his face highlighted a succession of cameos, each more striking than the last. Where many youths of his age have a stumbling gait, he moved like an athlete or a dancer, without any trace of artifice. His hands were nimble, infusing every movement with an innate and unassuming grace. When he stood close to me, I felt the heat of his hands and smelled the warm sweetness of his breath.

There are rare moments when one senses not the surface of other men and women, but the very life force which animates their being, and by extension all life. I have glimpsed it in moments of passion with Bethesda, and on a few other occasions, in the presence of men or women in great extremity, in the throes of orgasm or close to death or otherwise reduced by crisis to their very essence. It is a frightening and an awesome thing to see beyond the veils of the flesh into the soul. Somehow the force of life in Apollonius was so great that it rent through those veils, or else suffused them with the perfect physical embodiment of itself. It was hard to look at him and imagine that something so alive, so perfect could ever grow old and die, much less be snuffed out in an instant merely for the aggrandizement of a politician's career.

I suddenly felt a great pity for Marcus Mummius. On the journey from Rome, aboard the Fury, I had callously remarked that he had no poetry in his soul. I had spoken rashly and in ignorance. Mummius had touched the face of Eros and been stricken; no wonder he was so desperate to save the boy from a senseless death at the hands of Crassus.

Little by little the guests emptied the house and lined the road that led away from the villa. Those who had been closest to Gelina or Lucius congregated in the courtyard to become part of the procession. The Designator, a small wizened man whom Crassus had hired and brought over from Puteoli, set about arranging the participants in their places. Eco and I, having no place in the procession, walked on ahead to find a sunny spot on the crowded tree-lined road.