Стивен Сейлор - The Throne of Caesar

Brutus appeared to stiffen every time I mentioned the Ides. Was the idea of my becoming a senator so appalling that it actually made him flinch? Spurinna had buoyed my confidence. Brutus was demolishing it. But both recommended the same tailor.

“In some families,” said Brutus, “it’s a tradition for a son to wear one of his father’s senatorial togas. But since in this case that isn’t … possible … then I’d say go to Mamercus, in the Street of the Ironmongers. His work is impeccable. Even if you need the order in a hurry, which … obviously … you do. ”

“In time for the Ides, yes,” I said. “I should probably go there at once.”

“Yes, you probably should.”

Even as I nodded and turned to leave, a figure wearing the red-bordered toga of a praetor appeared in the doorway. I recognized him only because Meto had pointed him out to me at public gatherings. Gaius Cassius was Brutus’s brother-in-law, married to his sister. He was a tall, lean man of forty, beginning to bald a bit, as Caesar had done at that age. Like Brutus, his name was on the list Caesar had given me, but the Dictator must have had some degree of trust in the man’s abilities, since he had made Cassius a praetor and appointed him to be governor of Syria in the coming year, a job that would require considerable skills as both diplomat and military man. “The current mess in Syria,” as Caesar had called it, would have to be put straight if the Dictator were to march confidently into Parthia, with Syria at his back.

Cassius’s manner was very refined, even haughty. When he deigned to look at me, I saw a great deal of his clean-shaven chin. He proceeded to ignore me and spoke to Brutus. “Brother-in-law, I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer. I must meet some friends over on the Esquiline. We can continue our discussion later tonight. I’ll bring the men I mentioned.”

“Yes. Very well. All right, then,” said Brutus, who clearly had no intention of introducing me. So much for my prestige as a budding new senator!

To further distract my host, another figure appeared in the opposite doorway, which led to the private areas of the house. He was a red-bearded man of middle age with the rumpled look of a philosopher or private tutor, which in fact he was. It was Porcia who acknowledged him with a nod, giving him permission to speak.

“Apologies, Mistress, but you asked me to let you know as soon as the boy finished his morning lessons.”

“Yes, Artemidorus. I’ve promised him a midday excursion to the Capitoline Hill.” She turned to Cassius. “I’m going to introduce him to the statue of Marcus Brutus. Can you believe he’s never seen it?” Then to the little boy, who had appeared alongside his tutor: “Not our Marcus Brutus, your stepfather, but the Marcus Brutus who lived long, long ago. And what did he do?”

“He dethroned the king!” the boy cried enthusiastically, stabbing the air with his fists.

Porcia turned to Cassius. “It’s time he got to know some of the older members of the family into which he’s been adopted.” She spoke as if the statue were a living person, not the image of a man dead for hundreds of years. “I think there’s a family resemblance between that Marcus Brutus and our own. The statue depicts an older man, of course, and with a beard, but otherwise my husband could have been the model.”

“Yes, I’ve always thought they looked alike,” said Cassius. “Handsome but determined. So my little nephew is to have an adventure!” He bent his knees and clapped his hands, and the child went running to him.

The boy sped past me, hesitated at the sight of hulking Davus, who gave him a friendly smile, then ran into the arms of Cassius, who lifted him high in the air.

“Careful, please!” cried the tutor. “If you swing him about as you did last time, he’ll have another nosebleed.” Looking at Artemidorus’s distinctive red beard, and recalling his name, I realized the Greek was not just any teacher but a rather famous rhetorician from the city of Cnidus. His even more famous father, Theopompus, had taught Caesar. To instruct his own adopted son, Brutus had sought out the best of the best.

Just as Artemidorus had feared, flecks of crimson appeared at the boy’s nostrils as his uncle swung him around. A few drops of blood flew through the air and spattered Brutus. Brutus looked down at the tiny spots of blood and turned as white as his tunic.

“Oh, Gaius, you’re too reckless. Look what you’ve done!” snapped Porcia, clutching Brutus’s tunic, apparently more distressed by the stain on her husband than by her son’s bleeding.

Looking chagrined, Cassius set the boy down. Servilia bent and held out her arms in grandmotherly fashion, but it was not to her but to Artemidorus the boy ran. The tutor lifted the hem of his long tunic and pressed it to the boy’s bloody nose .

The moment was exquisitely awkward for everyone, including me. I raised my hand to catch my host’s attention. Brutus looked at me blankly.

“With your permission…” I said, venturing a step backward and taking Davus by the elbow.

“Yes, yes … of course,” muttered Brutus. No one else in the room was paying the least attention to me. I might have been invisible, or a slave.

Stepping out of the house, slipping a bit on the smoothly worn stone steps, I sucked in a deep breath.

“Such people!” said Davus, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?”

“Such an old family, so respectable, and all that,” he said. “But when you gave them your news, not one of them congratulated you.”

“Quite the opposite,” I said, looking up at the sky. “Midday, or close enough. What do you say to a bite to eat?” And perhaps a spot of wine, to brace my nerves, I thought.

“Yes, please.” Davus was seldom without an appetite. “Home?”

“I think not.”

“Where, then?”

“Follow me, big fellow.”

XV

As we neared the Salacious Tavern, Davus grunted to show that he was not surprised at our destination. He had escorted me there and come to escort me home any number of times, and occasionally had whiled away an hour or so sharing a bit of wine with me. (“Learning bad habits from his father-in-law,” as Diana put it.) The food at the tavern was only passable, but there was always something on offer. At midday it might not yet be too stale or too spoiled to eat.

The tavern was nearly deserted. Having the pick of locations, I chose a corner with a clear view of the entrance, as my father had long ago taught me to do. From the corner, you can see anyone coming toward you. The position can help defend a man from assassins, to be sure, but is also helpful in less contentious situations, as for example allowing one to compose one’s expression accordingly and gain a slight advantage by seeing who has just entered the room before he sees you. So it was, only a few moments after we sat, that I saw Cinna step inside, looking a bit blinded by the change from light to dark. A few blinks later he saw me and flashed a genuine smile of surprise. In the meantime, I had put on a frown of mock-disapproval and shook my head gravely as he approached .

“Tribune Cinna, back at the tavern again so soon? You’ve hardly had time to sober up from yesterday.”

“I could say the same to you, Finder. Senator, I mean.”

I silenced him with a forefinger to my lips. Some say this gesture springs from the resemblance of an upraised finger to a phallus, as both may be intended to ward off the Evil Eye. “You mustn’t call me that yet. I’m still a mere citizen, thus free to indulge my vices as I wish, owing no explanation to the censor in charge of public morals or to the good citizens of Rome.”

“And when you do become a senator, I shall hold you to a higher standard, as you do me!” Cinna laughed. “Besides, I came here to eat, not drink.”