Andrew Levkoff - The other Alexander

82 BCE — Fall, Rome Year of the consulship of Gaius Marius the Younger and Gnaeus Papirius Carbo

Several men and women were busy pruning and trimming the flowered garden that sloped gently down the hill that overlooked the way we had come. I almost smiled when I realized the view to the northwest looked directly down upon the Comitium. The tribune would have insisted that I avert my eyes. I took great pleasure in allowing my eyes to linger over every building and temple.

Men were talking on the balcony above us.

“… the one at the very top of the Palatine?” a deep voice, well-pleased with itself was saying.

“The one on fire?” asked another. This one sounded much younger than the first speaker, his voice constricted by nerves. I did not know it as I eavesdropped, but I was soon to become a poorly wrapped gift, and Marcus Licinius Crassus the arrogant recipient.

“The very same. That is the ruins of the house of old Marius. I shall build my estate upon its ashes.”

“Sir, may I ask why you have called me to the Carinae? As lovely as the view is from this hill, I must see to my Spaniards.”

“Good men all. My best medics are already on their way to your camp to tend to the wounded. Relax, Marcus. I’ve a special surprise for you which should be here any minute. Take a cup of wine. It’s from your vineyards after all.”

“Sir?”

“This home has been abandoned by the previous owner, along with all his property and wealth. Not coincidentally, he abandoned the field of battle as well, his tail well-tucked. A coward such as Carbo deserves no finery such as this. I doubt he’ll be making any claims from Africa. Today, I give all his possessions to the hero of the Colline Gate.”

“Words cannot express my gratitude, general. But my father, may he rest peacefully in Juno’s arms, would never approve of such a display of immoderate wealth. Our family home was a third as large.” The man’s barely contained joy was proof that he was not his father.

“And your father,” the first man countered, “could have afforded an estate ten times as grand, so let us consider this a fair compromise. Come Marcus, we must begin to rebuild the wealth Marius stole. We take back only that which rightfully belongs to you. My mind is set on this — though of plebian ancestry, the Licinii Crassi have sacrificed more for the sake of Rome than most nobles: a father and the two eldest of three sons? It is enough. You must make your mark for their sake.”

“My lord…”

“No. You have your own family to consider. How fare your wife and son?” Evidently there would be no further argument.

“Sons! When I left Tertulla in Lavinium last year to join your campaign, she was with child. Her letters have yet to find me; I pray Mercury lends mine swifter wings. Girl or boy, I know not which, the next Crassus should be a year old by now. Young Marcus will turn three next month.” Even from my lowly vantage point I could hear the pride in his voice.

“This is magnificent news. You honored the memory of your brother when you took Tertulla in.”

“She was just a child. Only thirteen and married to Lucius less than a year the day he was cut down. I do honor his memory, but I would have seen it served in any other way than this. Thanks to the gods that Tertulla was visiting her parents, or her name would have lengthened the list of the dead. It is a marvel, but these past five years I have come to cherish her as if I had been the first to woo her. Yet that is of no account. What I did is unremarkable; any decent Roman would have done the same.”

“Decent Romans,” the older man mused. “Roman decency is a rare commodity nowadays. For proof, one need but take a stroll through almost any neighborhood of the city.” I grimaced with disgust; the man was oblivious to the fact that at least half the carnage in the streets could be laid upon the edge of Roman swords. The senior officer continued. “Wait a few weeks before summoning Tertulla back to the city. A woman’s eyes ought not to lose their sparkle from the sight of what men must do to keep them safe. Although it’s never too early for the son of a Roman to begin his education.” I prayed to Reason that no son of Rome would ever call me father. As it turned out, Reason would attend. The boy I grew to think of as the son I never had would hail from quite another quarter, a fugitive who would find his home with me.

There was a short silence after which Marcus Crassus appeared to acquiesce tacitly to his benefactor’s generosity by changing the subject. “So, Carbo escaped, then?” he said.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve sent young Gnaeus Pompeius after him with his three legions. Do you know him?”

“We’ve never met. I hear his ability to command far outstrips his years. Wasn’t it he and Metellus who engaged Carbo in the north? It makes me feel unworthy being the recipient of such bounty.” My ears strained to catch each word of this lofty conversation.

“Look there. That villa will be his upon his return. You’ll be neighbors! Be at ease, Marcus, it has at least one peristyle more than yours. Will that give Pompeius his due? Fine. It is settled then. Let’s eat something while we wait. I’m famished.” In a different tone, one I had heard often from countless men since my abduction, he barked, “Bring it outside.”

Several more people approached, there was the scraping of furniture and the gentle clank and clatter of trays being carefully laid down. The man next to me took no notice; he sat cross-legged, his head tilted back against the column. Jaw slack. Eyes closed. My foot was at the ready should he start to snore.

After a few moments of quiet, the man who I assumed was older than Crassus laughed out loud. “You should have seen their faces,” he said. “As white as their togas, I swear by Jupiter.” He was talking with his mouth full. The implication made me salivate. “The Curia was no fit place to address what was left of the senate. I would not speak to them standing on the still fresh blood of my friends. So this morning we shepherded them all up the Capitoline to the Temple of Bellona. An unhappy coincidence, since close by my legates had assembled the remaining, captured Samnites on the Campus Martius. There they would pay in full for their insurrection.” The man bit into some kind of fruit. I could hear the juice fly. “Only open field with enough room to herd ‘em all,” he said, his mouth once again overfull. I swallowed back unbidden saliva, almost losing track of the conversation.

“How many were taken prisoner?”

“Oh, maybe five, six thousand.” Crassus made a sound of acknowledgment. “The cries of the ones in the rear who could see their fate approaching worked our venerable legislators into a frenzy. And my intention was to calm them and reassure them. It really was quite funny. They thought they themselves would be next to fall under the sword. I had to leave the rostrum to compose myself while my men shepherded the terrified conscript fathers back to their places. When I stopped laughing and regained my dignity I returned and told them I had come to save them, not slay them. I could see it in their eyes: everything I said fell on ears plugged with wax manufactured from the screams of the dying Samnites.

“Marius and his gang were their true enemies. If he had had his way the assemblies and the plebs would have stripped the senate of all real power. Jupiter! His thugs killed off more than half the original three hundred. We need to do something about that, Marcus.” He paused a moment. “We need to protect the old ways. I shall tear down the Curia and build a new, larger one, this time with enough room to hold twice as many togas.”

“But the law only allows three hundred senators.”