“Come here, boy,” I said. Apprehensively, he came to my table, and I saw that he had a fresh, two-inch cut high on his left thigh, neatly stitched.
“That’s Asklepiodes’ needlework, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. He said it’s nothing, just a skin cut. Didn’t even nick the muscle. In fact—”
I brought my palm crashing down on the table, nearly upsetting my wine, which Hermes rescued. “I have ordered you never to train with sharp weapons! I’ll not have my property risked needlessly!”
“But all of the top men of the school—”
“You are none such! Practice with sharp weapons is strictly for veterans, the victors of many combats. They are men who earn fortunes by their skill and have no prospect of a future. As long as you belong to me, you are to stick to wooden swords. Sharp swords are for when we’re in a war zone.”
“It won’t happen again, I promise,” he said contritely. The evil little wretch was planning to disobey me at the first opportunity. He always did.
“It was Leonidas, wasn’t it?”
He looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“That backhand slice with the tip of the sica is his trademark. You were leading with your left leg and holding your shield too high. He always watches for that. If it had been a serious fight, he could have taken your leg off. The man’s won thirty-two fights that I know of. You have no business sparring with him. Stick to the regular trainers and students of your own level. Do you understand me?”
He hung his head with total insincerity. “Yes, sir.”
“Then be off with you, and thank all the gods that you don’t have to attend my morning calls.” He was out the front door without bothering to put on his tunic. I returned to my breakfast, not totally displeased. If a champion like Leonidas thought Hermes was worth sparring with, he must be coming along nicely. Leonidas could behead flies buzzing around his helmet. The nick on the thigh had been a well-meant warning.
My clients met me in my atrium, and we went off to my father’s house. As always it was mobbed with his clients. Since I was standing for office, I usually just paid my respects at the door, but this time his steward said that the old man wanted to speak with me. Knowing that this boded ill, I went in.
My father, the elder Decius, was one of the head men of gens Caecilia. He had held every public office including the Censorship and had commanded armies in the field, and his voice was one of the most respected in the curia. It was his continued longevity that kept me a legal minor. He could have manumitted me with a simple ceremony, but the old villain wasn’t about to relinquish his hold. I found him alone in his study.
“Good morning, Father! How—”
He whirled around, his face red except for the great, horizontal scar that almost bisected his face and gave him his nickname: Cut-Nose.
“Did you really refuse Crassus’s offer to cover your debts yesterday?”
“Well, yes.”
“Twice, I understand?”
“How word does get around! Yes, I did. The second time to his face. You can’t count the first time. That was to Clodius, and I’d never give him a positive answer.”
“Idiot! You know how hard your family has worked to smooth relations with him, and with Caesar and Pompey!” These took the form of marriage ties: a son of Crassus married a Caecilia, I married Caesar’s niece, and so forth. The fact that Julia and I actually wanted to marry had no bearing on the political matchmaking.
“I know you and the others have alienated Pompey.”
He waved his big-knuckled hand. “No matter. He can manage the grain supply as long as he likes. He’s done a wonderful job. We just have to keep him from command of the legions. Caesar has turned into a wild man, and he must be dealt with eventually, if he lives. But Crassus is vastly wealthy, and he could come back from Parthia a triumphator! ”
“Everyone seems to think that he’ll die before he gets home.”
“How did I ever beget such a moron! No wonder you lose so much money at the races if that’s how you place your bets!”
“Lose money? Me?” I cried, stung. “Just last month in Mu-tina I won—”
“Silence!” He leaned across his desk, supporting his weight on his knuckles, thrusting his head forward as he glared at me. “I know your memory is short, but I remember when Caius Marius returned from his last war. He was even older than Crassus and madder than Ajax! He seized power in the City and proceeded to kill more Romans than Hannibal! If Crassus comes back with a triumph and the wealth of King Orodes added to what he already has and a heart full of bile toward everyone he even imagines has offended him, a lot of us are going to die!”