The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,95
the sins of his relatives. Brutus is a good lad, and will some day be a great defender of the republic.”
“I am certain of it,” Crassus said without conviction. “Cato,” he persisted. “He is your uncle, is he not? I haven’t confused you with another have I?”
Brutus sat up and said rather too loudly, “Sir, yes, I am proud to call Marcus Porcius Cato ‘uncle.’”
Crassus looked up with incredulity. “Your friendship with his mother must be strong indeed, Caesar, to find favor with this family. Cato cost you a tribute, tying up the senate with his prattling until dusk till the vote could not be taken. Just as Pompeius clipped that same rose right off the vine from under my nose.”
“Yes, Marcus, every Roman schoolboy remembers your heroism during the slave uprising. You were unjustly denied,” Caesar sighed. “As for Brutus, what can I say? I like the boy.”
“Please do not mention that name,” said Brutus with clenched teeth, “or we shall see the wine in my belly poured a second time.”
“What name is that?” Crassus asked with feigned innocence.
“There, you see,” Caesar said. “You have found common ground in your dislike of Pompeius.” Brutus grimaced. “Talk about that. What?”
“Very good, Julius,” Crassus said, smiling. “A fine joke.” Caesar furrowed his brow, not understanding.
“Common,” Brutus said, “as in provincial, not of patrician heritage. Pompeius elbowed his way into the nobility.”
“Since it was not intentional,” Caesar said, “I shan’t take credit for it. I’ll say goodnight then. You two trample that well-trod earth to your heart’s content, but remember, deeds define us, not words. Till morning. On that other matter, we will talk more, Crassus, as you say.”
“Good night, Gaius. Your hospitality, as always ... oh! You will remember to deliver my letter to Publius?”
“Your son is one of my finest legates, a courageous, spirited officer. He does your family proud.”
I could see that Crassus was torn. He watched Caesar depart, wishing he could leave as well, but did not want to appear rude. He’d stay a few minutes to be polite; that was his way. I was exhausted myself, and longed for my sleeping pallet.
Chapter XXVIII
56 BCE - Spring, Luca
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
The two stared at each other in awkward silence after Caesar had left. I offered to bring in more sweetmeats, but Crassus waved me off. My master appeared to know neither what to make of the nephew of his senatorial rival nor whether he could muster the energy to give it much thought. After a while he said, “It is hard to lose a father.”
“You know?”
“That Pompeius had him executed for supporting Marius, yes. My own father shared a similar fate for his neutrality.”
Brutus appeared not to have heard Crassus; or more likely there was no room in his heart for commiseration. He would wave his bloody standard and let none fly higher. He spoke slowly, almost accusingly, as if all the world were culpable. “Father had surrendered honorably. Pompeius had him beheaded.” The word turned between them, a scorpion looking for a way out.
“’The adolescent butcher,’” Crassus said finally, almost to himself.
“What?”
“Pompeius. He earned that nickname many times over in those days.”
“You also fought for Sulla, did you not, sir?” The scorpion struck, swelling the last word with venom.
Crassus smiled thinly, though his face reddened. “I feel no burning compulsion to submit my justifications to you.” He looked as if he would add “boy” but stopped himself. “However, had you been paying attention just now, you might have heard one. For the sake of civility, know this: I received the benefit of Sulla’s proscriptions, but took no part in them.” My master sighed, the flare of anger passing, leaving him deflated. “Young man, this is an unseemly hour for dispute. Your father was a statesman, and deserved better. I seek no quarrel with you.”
“Nor I with you!”
“Then if you will forgive the advice of an old man ... ?” Brutus nodded. “It is we who move through time ...” Crassus said, pointing unsteadily in the direction of his empty cup. He began reaching for it before the servant finished pouring. “... not the reverse. When we walk beyond any one of life’s instants, it becomes nothing more than a receding milestone. We can look back, but we cannot retrace our steps. The past remains stationary, while we are doomed to move ever onwards. To do otherwise is against nature.”