Saturnalia(3)

There was also a clatter of arms. This was not the result of war, but of training. Outside the walls of the city were a score or so of gladiator schools, for Campania was always the heartland of the sport. Romans were fond of gladiators, but in Campania they were something of a cult. As we rode past one of these, I think it was the school of Ampliatus, an idea came to me.

“Remind me when we get to Rome to enroll you in the Statilian school.”

“You aren’t going to sell me?” Hermes asked, alarmed.

“Of course not, idiot, although the idea has its attractions. But if you’re going to be of any use to me, you’d better learn to defend yourself. You’re old enough to train now.” Hermes was about eighteen at the time, a handsome youth and accomplished in all sorts of criminal rascality. It was perfectly legal to train slaves to fight and as yet there were no laws forbidding a slave to bear arms, as long as he was outside the City and accompanying his master.

“The gladiator school, eh?” I could see that he liked the thought. He had no idea how rough the training would be. Like most young boys, he thought the gladiator’s life was exciting and glamorous, unaware that a few splendid moments in the arena, dressed in plumes and gilded armor, was the result of years of bone-crunching work beneath the beady eyes of brutal overseers who enforced discipline with whips and hot irons. Of course I had no intention of having him trained for the arena, but he had to learn enough to stay alive in the sort of street fighting and midnight ambush that had become norms of Roman political life.

The Latina proved to be the wiser choice for the final stretch from Capua to Rome. Along the way we stayed at inns or at the villas of friends and relatives. Nine days of travel, with frequent changes of mounts, brought us, sore and bedraggled, within sight of the walls of Rome.





2


MY FATHER LOOKED UP FROM the scrolls on the table before him. “What took you so long?” he demanded. It was his usual greeting.

“The weather, the sea, the time of year, a few balky horses, the usual. I rejoice to see you well, Father.” In fact he was carrying his age well. The scar that nearly bisected his face and nose looked deeper than ever, and he had more lines and less hair, but he seemed as vigorous and energetic as always. With the censorship he had achieved the pinnacle of Roman life, but that had not lulled him into retirement. He campaigned on behalf of other family members as aggressively as ever.

“Nonsense. Like all sons, you’re panting after your inheritance. Sit down.”

I sat. We were in the courtyard of Father’s town house. The walls kept out the wind, and the late morning sun made it almost warm. “Why am I needed here? I’m far too late for Celer’s funeral.”

He brushed off the question. “Creticus wrote to me about that foolish business in Alexandria. You might have gotten yourself killed over matters of no importance to Rome.”

“It turned out to be of utmost importance to Rome!” I protested.

“But that isn’t why you got involved!” he said, slapping a palm down upon the table, making pens and ink pot jump. “It was your obnoxious love for snooping and, I don’t doubt, your weakness for the company of loose women.”

“Not women,” I murmured, “muses.”

“Eh? Stop vaporing. There is important business afoot, and for once you’ll be able to snoop to your heart’s content with the family’s blessing.”

This sounded promising. “What about Clodius?”

He shifted uneasily, not a common thing for him to do. “We’ve patched things up somewhat with Caesar, so as long as he’s in the city the little swine will probably leave you alone. But Caesar leaves Rome at the end of the year and so will you. Have you had word of Caesar’s proconsular command?”

“In Egypt we had word that he and Bibulus were getting the upkeep of the Italian goat paths and dung heaps, but in Rhodes word came that Vatinius had secured Cisalpine Gaul and Illyricum for Caesar.”

“That is true. Now the Senate has given him Transalpine Gaul as well, with his proconsulship to run for five years.”

My jaw dropped. “No one has ever had such a territory or such a period of office!” I said. “Everyone knows Gaul is about to erupt like a volcano. And they gave it all to Caesar?”

“My thoughts exactly. Most of the Senate hopes he’ll disgrace himself or get killed. At any rate, he’ll be out of Rome for five years.”

“That is foolish,” I said. “Caesar has more brains than the rest of the Senate combined. In five years he’ll build up a clientela bigger than Marius had and he’ll be powerful enough to march against Rome.”