The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Al - By Andrew Levkoff Page 0,98

wish to retire, I will see myself ...”

“No, dominus. It is not for myself. But I must speak with ...”

“Have you no control over your people?” Brutus asked. He turned to me and hissed through clenched teeth, “Shut your fucking, contemptuous mouth.”

“All right, son, that’s enough. Just a few more minutes, Alexander. Go on, Marcus Junius, but I must ask you to be quick about it. We must all retire.”

“Many thanks,” he said, searing me with a glance. “Apologies – a moment to compose myself.” Brutus adjusted his toga, ran a hand through his short, wavy hair and took several calming breaths. He called for more wine and took his time bringing the cup to his lips. Every action superfluous. He was stalling for time, but dominus could not see it. “Here’s the thing of it,” he said finally. “It is true that I have returned from Cyprus with a respectable sum. First I would ask for your confidence in this matter. As a supporter of the merchant class, you know it is an impossible law that prevents honest men from making a living while they seek a life in politics.” Crassus nodded. “You are also aware that even a talent of silver grows weak if it is idle and not exercised from one year to the next. I can think of no Roman who may better advise me how to invest this capital.”

“I am happy to do so. Forgive the brevity of my answer, Brutus, but know that a simple response makes it no less prudent. Diversify, that is the advice I give you. Place some of your investments in latifundia, for the large farms will always prosper as long as the world has mouths to feed. But do not neglect the city: insulae have always made money for me. Look for quality: the best real estate will always appreciate in value. Do not restrict your properties to Italy. The mints are ever-active; buy productive mines wherever you may find them throughout our provinces. Finally, and I can think of no better advice for a man of business: treat your tenants and your workers well, create loyalty with generosity; do not stint on those who daily bear the responsibility to make your money grow. You will see the largest returns from that investment.”

“I am in your debt. I was right to seek your counsel.”

Marcus Brutus held Crassus in conversation for several more minutes. Crassus would have retired, but every time he tried to rise, Cato’s nephew found another way to detain him. Over such trivialities may lives be made or unmade. Crassus rose finally and steadied himself on the arm of the lectus. “Forgive me, sir. If I stay one more minute, it will be the end of my marriage. I’ve enjoyed the company and the conversation, but now, I’m for bed!”

“Wait! One more amphora. How many chances does one get to celebrate the reaffirmation of such an alliance? One sworn to uphold the republic and the sanctity of the senate. And what two men better qualified to hold Pompeius in check than Caesar and Crassus. Your wife will not begrudge you, surely?”

“You do not know Tertulla, sir, for if you did, you would perceive she does not begrudge me anything. Nor I her. And as much as I have enjoyed these indulgences, I want to save at least some of the night to share Caesar’s proposals with her. I’m sure you understand. Come!” he said, pointing to Caesar’s slave waiting at the entrance to the dining room. “Light my way. Alexander, I am too tired to talk more. Go to your rest. We will speak in the morning. Salve, Marcus Brutus. I would wish you good night, but I do not think there is much night left.”

Chapter XXIX

56 BCE - Spring, Luca

Year of the consulship of

Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

In the aftermath of the war with Parthia, Tertulla, long past a grief she once believed inconsolable, wanted to honor in some small way those who had perished to avenge her, though most did not know her name, much less the real reason they fought and died. To let the truth uphold her virtue, and to shame the memory of the man who had dishonored her, her husband and Rome itself, she told this sad tale to me. For thirty-five years I have kept its secret, for no good could have come from its revelation. Innocents would have perished, both friends and family, and the story