“And you, my dear Severus, have a merchant’s black heart.”
“Do you wish to see the others?”
“You said they were inferior. Offer them to Prochorus. I’ll put my seal on the contract for this one, and the funds will be transferred to you as soon as I return to Rome.”
“Agreed.”
Malcenas went to the closed door and rapped on it. A man in a simple tunic entered quickly. Malcenas nodded to Atretes. He knew the journey to the ludus, the training school for gladiators, would not be a short one. “See to him, Quintus. He’s opened his wounds. I don’t want him bleeding to death before we reach the ludus in Capua.”
Chapter 3
Decimus Vindacius Valerian poured more wine, then thumped the silver pitcher down on a marble table. He looked across the marble table at his son, who was lounging on the couch, an indolent look on his handsome face. The young man was trying his patience. They’d been talking for over an hour and Decimus had gotten nowhere with him.
Marcus sipped the Italian Falernian and nodded. “Excellent wine, Father.” The compliment was met with a stony glance. As always, his father was trying to direct him down the course he’d chosen for his son. Marcus smiled to himself. Did his father really expect capitulation? He was part of his sire, after all. When would the elder Valerian realize that his son had his own ideas to carry out, his own way to follow?
His father was a restless man, given to fits of irascibility when he didn’t get his way. Doggedly, he continued, his demeanor seemingly calm, which Marcus was well aware was only a veneer concealing the temper boiling beneath.
“Vespasian, for all his brains and tactical ability as a general, is still a plebeian, Marcus. And as a plebeian, he hates the aristocracy that has almost destroyed our Empire. A member of the senate claimed his genealogist had traced the emperor’s line back to Jupiter. Vespasian laughed in his face.”
Marcus shrugged and rose from the couch. “So I’ve heard, Father. He removed four senators whose bloodlines go back to Romulus and Remus.”
“If you believe in such nonsense.”
“It’s in my best interest to believe. This Flavian admits openly to being the son of a Spanish tax collector, and that may be his ultimate downfall. He is a commoner who has taken the reins of an Empire founded on royal bloodlines.”
“Just because you’re the biggest dog doesn’t mean you’re the smartest or the best. Vespasian may not have the bloodlines, but he is a born leader.”
“I share your admiration of Vespasian, Father. Galba was a senile fool and Otho, greedy and stupid. As for Vitellius, I suspect the only reason he wanted to be emperor was to have the wealth to fill his belly with goose livers and hummingbird tongues. I’ve never seen a man eat with such passion.” His dry smile flattened. “Vespasian is the only man strong enough to hold the Empire together.”
“Exactly, and he will need strong young senators to help him.”
Marcus could feel his smile stiffening. So that was it. He had wondered why his father had given in so easily when Marcus had refused his suggestion of a suitable marriage. Now it made sense. Father had a bigger topic to approach: Politics. A blood sport if ever there was one, to Marcus’ way of thinking.
The gods hadn’t been kind to his father the last few years. Fire and rebellion had cost him several warehouses and millions of sesterces in goods destroyed. He’d blamed Nero, despite the emperor’s efforts to blame the conflagration on the Christian sect. Those close to Nero had been aware of his dream to redesign and rebuild Rome, renaming it Neropolis. Instead, the madman had succeeded in the city’s destruction.
Rome staggered in rebellion over Nero’s mismanagement.
Emperor Galba had proven a fool. When he ordered all those who had received gifts and pensions from Nero to return nine-tenths to the treasury, he had assured his death. Within weeks, the Praetorian Guard had handed his head to Otho and proclaimed the bankrupt merchant the new emperor of Rome.
Rome stumbled.
Otho served no better. As Vitellius’ legions invaded Italy and swept away the northern garrisons of the Praetorian Guard, Otho committed suicide. Yet, once in power, Vitellius worsened the situation by relinquishing his responsibilities to the corruptions of his freedman, Asiaticus. Vitellius, foul pig that he was, retired to the life of a fat, slothful, epicurean gourmand.
As power washed back and forth like a tide, upheaval spread throughout the Empire. The Judean revolt continued. Another started in Gaul. German tribes united under the command of the Roman-trained Civilis and attacked frontier outposts.
Rome was on her knees.
It took Vespasian to bring her to her feet again. As word carried through the provinces the disintegration of government, the generals’ legions proclaimed Vespasian their emperor, and they upheld their proclamation by sending General Antonius and a great army into Italy to dethrone Vitellius. Defeating an army at Cremona, Antonius marched into Rome, killing Vitellius’ troops without quarter. Vitellius himself was found hiding in the palace and was dragged half-naked through the streets. The citizenry pelted him with dung and tortured him without mercy. Even with his death, the masses and soldiers were not satisfied. They mutilated Vitellius’ body, dragging it by hook through the city streets and finally discarding what remained in the muddy Tiber.
“You say nothing,” Decimus said, frowning.
His father’s words drew Marcus out of his reverie. He had seen too many die in the past few years to desire a career in politics. Young men, whose only mistake was to support the wrong man, were dead. Granted, Vespasian was an honorable and able man, a man accustomed to battle. However, to Marcus’ thinking, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t fall prey to a concubine’s poison or an assassin’s dagger.
“Many of my friends had political ambitions, Father. Hymenaeus and Aquila, for example. And what became of them? They were ordered to commit suicide when Nero suspected them of treason, based on no evidence other than the word of a jealous senator. And Pudens was murdered because his father was a personal friend of Otho. Appicus was cut down when Antonius entered Rome. Beyond that, considering the lives of most of our emperors, and their ends, I don’t find politics a particularly healthy or honorable pursuit.”
Decimus sat down, forcing himself to a calmness he was far from feeling. He knew the look on Marcus’ face. If only his son’s powerful will could be appropriately channeled to something other than selfish pleasures.
“Marcus, reconsider. With Vespasian in power, this is an opportune time for political ambitions. It is a good time to find a worthy path for your life,” he said. “Times have been turbulent, but they will now come under the reign of a man of intelligence and justice.” He saw the wry look on his son’s face and came to the point. “One million sesterces will buy you a place in the equestrian order and a seat in the senate.”
Marcus stifled his anger and put on an expression of sardonic humor. “So that I can become part of a class you have always mocked and disdained?”
“So that you can become part of the new order of Rome!”
“I am a part of it, Father.”
“But on the edge of power.” Decimus leaned forward and closed a fist. “You could be holding a good deal of it.”
Marcus gave a derisive laugh. “Antigonus has almost impoverished himself in his efforts to court the mob. You avoid the games, Father, but as you well know, financing them is a political necessity. Whatever the cost, the multitude must be appeased. By the gods, would you see your life’s work poured out on the sand in an arena you refuse to visit? Or shall we pour thousands of sesterces into feasts for those fat aristocrats you hate so much?”
Decimus curbed his temper, hearing his own oft-spoken words repeated back to him. It was a method of debate Marcus commonly used—and one which Decimus detested. “A time of great upheaval can be a time of great opportunity.”
“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly, Father. However, the winds of politics are too swift to change, and I’ve no desi
re to be blown away by them.” He smiled tightly and raised his goblet. “My ambitions lie in another direction.”
“To eat, drink, and enjoy life before you die,” Decimus said darkly.
Marcus breathed deeply before giving in to his rising anger. “And to make you richer than you already are.” His mouth tipped cynically. “If you want to leave a mark on the Empire, Father, do it in cedar and stone. Nero destroyed us with fire; Galba, Otho, and Vitellius with rebellions. Let the house of Valerian have part in raising Rome again.”
Decimus’ eyes darkened. “I would rather you sought the honor of becoming a senator than have to see you pursue money like any common merchant.”
“I would not call you common, my lord.”
Decimus slammed his goblet down, sloshing wine onto the marble table. “You are impudent. We are discussing your future.”
Marcus lowered his wine goblet and took up the challenge. “No, you are attempting to dictate plans you made without consulting me. If you want a Valerian in the senate, take the seat yourself. I’m sorry to disappoint you again, Father, but I have my own plans for my life.”
“Would you mind telling me what those plans encompass?”
“To enjoy what little time I have on the earth. Paying my own way, of course, as you very well know I can.”
“And will you marry Arria?”
Marcus felt his blood heating at the dry mention of Arria. His father disapproved of her free-spirited attitude. Annoyed, Marcus glanced away, then saw his mother and sister coming from the gardens. He rose, relieved to have an end to this discussion. He didn’t want to say anything he’d later regret.
His mother looked up at him in question when he came out to greet her. “All is well, Marcus?” she asked as he bent to kiss her cheek.
“Isn’t it always, Mama?”
“You and Father have been talking a long time,” Julia said from behind their mother, subtly prying.
“Just business,” he said and pinched her cheek lightly in affection. At fourteen, she was becoming quite a beauty.
Phoebe entered the triclinium, a spacious dining room with elegant furnishings and decorations, ahead of her son. Normally this room gave her a sense of pleasure as she entered it. On this day, however, she barely noticed her surroundings; her eyes were fixed on her husband. Decimus looked strained, the gray hair curling on his damp forehead. She sat on the couch beside him and placed her hand on his. “It didn’t go well?” she said softly.
Curving his fingers over hers, he squeezed lightly. He saw the concern in her eyes and tried to ease it. They’d been married for thirty years and, though their passion had long since eased, their love had deepened. “Marcus disdains the honorable pursuit of politics.”
“Honorable?” Julia laughed gaily in surprise. “You utter honorable in the same sentence with politics, Father? You loathe politicians. You’ve never had a single good thing to say about them, and now you suggest Marcus become one? You cannot possibly be serious!”
Marcus grinned broadly at his young sister’s candid outburst. Leave it to her to say the first thing that came into her mind before considering their patriarch’s good humor, or rather, lack of it. “It would seem, despite Father’s frequent remarks on the dubious legitimacy of most senators, he has held secret aspirations all along to see a Valerian in the Forum.”
“Oh, but wouldn’t it be wonderful!” Julia said, dark brown eyes alight. “Marcus, I can just see you standing before the senate.” She stood and struck a dramatic pose. Thrusting her lovely chin in the air, she gathered her palus, an elegantly embroidered mantle or overdress, and strolled back and forth before her brother and parents, her hand against her chest, an expression of such grave regality on her face that even Decimus smiled.
“Sit down, imp,” Marcus said, tugging her onto the couch.
Julia, irrepressible when she was in a gay spirits, took his hand. “You’ll make a most beautiful senator, Marcus.”
“Beautiful? That is a description better placed upon fair Scorpus,” he said, referring to a wealthy merchant who had come from Ephesus to do business with their father. Julia had been quite impressed with his dark eyes and swarthy skin.
“Is it true he has a catamite?”
“Julia!” Phoebe said, shocked to hear her young daughter speak of such things.
Julia grimaced. “I apologize, Mama.”
“Where do you hear such things?”
“Father was telling Marcus he didn’t trust a man with a catamite, and Marcus said—”
“How long were you standing outside the bibliotheca?” Marcus broke in quickly, silencing her before she could chatter on. He was irritated, both because she had eavesdropped on his conversation with his father in the library and because she had embarrassed their mother, who was clearly shocked by such free talking. Julia knew more of the world at fourteen than their mother did at forty-four. Perhaps because their mother didn’t want to know.
“I was just passing by.” Too late, Julia saw the displeasure on her mother’s face. Quickly she changed the subject. “Will you be a senator, Marcus?”
“No.” He met his father’s look. “If you want to have a hand in politics, assist poor Antigonus.”
“Antigonus?” Decimus said. “The pup who hawks statuary to the aristocracy?”
“Works of art, Father, not statuary.”
Decimus gave a derisive snort.
Marcus replenished his goblet and handed it to him. “Antigonus told me this afternoon he was ready to open his veins over the cost of the games he sponsored last week. You could have a senator of your own for the bargain price of a few hundred thousand sesterces. He already has the ear of the emperor through Vespasian’s son Domitian. He and Antigonus train together as gladiators at the ludus. It’s only a matter of time until Antigonus is sitting in the senate, unless he kills himself first, of course.”
“I doubt Antigonus would do serious harm to himself,” Decimus said dryly. “Except by accident.”
“Antigonus admires Seneca, and you know Seneca preached suicide. If Antigonus dies, we will have lost a great advantage,” he said, his voice tinged with cynical amusement.
Phoebe was dismayed. “I thought Antigonus was your friend, Marcus.”
“He is, Mama,” he said gently. “A despondent one, at the moment.” He looked at his father. “Political ambition often leads to poverty.”
Decimus’ mouth tightened. What his son said was true. He knew of more than one senator committing suicide when their fortunes had dissolved under the responsibilities of office. “Courting the mob,” as Marcus put it. It was an apt statement. And the mob was like an expensive and unfaithful mistress. He relented. “Find out what his needs are and we will discuss them.”
Marcus was surprised at his father’s capitulation. He had expected a long and arduous debate before getting a denarius out of him. He named a price that brought his father’s brows up. “I told Antigonus this afternoon at the baths that my father is a wise and generous benefactor.”
“Is that so?” Decimus said, torn between pride and anger at his son’s audacity.
Grinning, Marcus lifted his goblet in salute. “You’ll find Antigonus a most grateful fellow. We discussed building contracts at some length before I came home this evening. He was very agreeable.”
Decimus saw that his son had already begun carrying out his own plans. “And what will you build, Marcus? Temples to the goddess Fortune?”
“Nothing so grand as that, Father. Houses for your new and noble aristocracy, I think. And tenements for plebeians, if you so desire.”
Dismayed at the tension between father and son, Phoebe nodded to a Parthian slave standing in the doorway. “You may serve us now.” The Parthian signaled, and two young Greek slaves entered silently and sat unobtrusively in the corner. One blew softly into a panpipe, while the other softly stroked a lyre. An Egyptian slave girl carried in a silver platter on which were slices of roasted pork from pigs fattened in oak forests.
“I promised Antigonus I would tell him of your decision this evening,” Marcus said, selecting a piece of meat.
“You were that sure I would agree,” Decimus said dryly.
“You taught me never to allow an opportunity to pass. It might never come again.”
“Some things that I taught you I wish I hadn’t,” Decimus said.
With the first course finished, another was set before them. Julia picked through the fruit and selected a small cluster of Syrian grapes. Marcus bit into a Persian peach. The Parthian stood tall and motionless in the doorway. When goblets were empty, the Egyptian girl replenished them.
“Marble is easily obtained from Luna and Paros,” Decimus said, considering Marcus’ idea. “But cedar is growing scarce in Lebanon, driving the price up. We’d do better to import timber from Greece.”
“Why not Gaul?” Marcus asked.
“There is still too much unrest in that region. If you’re going to have contracts to fulfill, you’ll need materials on hand, not en route.”
The Parthian signaled the Egyptian girl to bring in the small bowls of warm scented water. As she leaned over to set a bowl before Marcus, she raised her eyes to his, a clear message in them. Smiling slightly, Marcus dipped his hands into his bowl, rinsing his fingers of meat and fruit juices. He took the towel the girl offered him and let his gaze drift over her as she stood waiting for his command.
“That will be all, Bithia,” Phoebe said gently, dismissing the girl. The young Egyptian was not the first slave in the Valerian household to fall in love with her son, Phoebe knew. Marcus was handsome and well built, exuding virility. His morals were not what Phoebe wished them to be; they were, in fact, generally in opposition to all she had taught him at her knee. If a beautiful young woman was willing, Marcus was only too ready to oblige. Well, there were already far too many willing young Roman women in Marcus’ social circle for him to take unsuitable advantage of an enamored Egyptian slave in their own home.