Runcible Spoon

The atrium is well-appointed, tasteful. The space of a prosperous man with a flourishing public life. A grander space than Camillius Laco’s awkward old public rooms. No worn mosaics with cracks in them that date back to the days before even Marius and Sulla, no forest of potted ferns looking something from an estate sale at a nymph’s grotto. The house reflects the man, the man the house. Or so his father has always maintained. Sound advice, if not perfect. Such is the nature of all good advice: open to interpretation, open to revision. Meno retreats into his shadow. In another slave it might be a sign of defference. The boy has grown up in a lenient household, cares little for deference, cares everything for playing his part, for his attention to his charge. ‘Keep and eye on Florianus’, that is likely his charge today, and so he carries it out, fixing those huge dark eyes upon the Senator. He knows those eyes, auger-sharp and suspicious. Dangerous things, the eyes of Meno. Dangerous and useful. His own eyes, colorless and cold, rake over the Senator, taking the measure of the man. It is not the first time he has seen the man. It is the first time he has seen him in his element, in the confines of his house. Here he is not the same man who reclined amid other senatorial guests at one of Camillus Laco’s famous dinners. No, here he was, standing tall, no wine cup to hand, no flute girls whootling in the background; a model of respectable probity. How far did that appearance penetrate? It may lay lightly upon him, a summer cloak to be doffed with an easy shrug. It may penetrate down to his bones. Fool. It would have been prudent to seek out the old secretary down on the Emporium. What wisdom is there in trusting nearly sight unseen? It may have been the wise action, but he has never laid claims to great wisdom. And to appear unshaven, sleep deprived, and asking too many sharp questions, well, that might have been a folly all its own. Yes. That is it. That is why he had not gone to see the man. That and no other reason. A blatant lie. A comforting lie. Had he been seen down on the Emporium, world would have spread. Before nightfall he would have been obliged to dine at his father’s house, to tell once again the story of his time in Greece. The false story. The story that omitted killing a man on dark night. It is not a story to tell over the Parthian chicken or the broad beans in mustard sauce. It is a story better suited to low wine shops and the private offices of men who are well seasoned in conspiracy. It is his own secret, shared by only a handful. A private conspiracy to treasure, to relish. A private scandal to hide from the man standing before him. “Lartius Florianus, as your service Senator.” He gives a simple nod, then reaches into the satchel at his side. In his hand a letter appears, sealed in the vermillion wax Laco always uses. It might as well be his official orders, compiled by some Palatine secretary. The formal letter of introduction, the explanation of his skills, the necessary background. He has read it all. Read it after Laco sealed it. It is the work of but a moment to heat a knife over a lamp flame and carefully part the seal. Laco had always pretended not to know that no correspondence that passed through his secretary’s hand was private. “My letter of introduction, my qualifications. Camillus Laco speaks well of your, Senator, and I trust I will prove useful in your service.” A discrete tug at his tunic, and Meno slips another sealed letter into his hand. A letter he does not recognize. Laco’s seal is plain enough. The slightly stunned owl is unmistakable. “Ah, thank you Meno,” he says, trying to maintain composure. “And this as well. A personal note.” What is the second letter? What information has Laco seen fit to communicate to the Senator without his knowledge? Unknown. Unknowable. The Senator seems placid enough to receive these things, disinterested. Just so. “Finding the house was easy enough, I thank you. My guide here,” he places a proprietary hand on Meno’s narrow shoulder, “knows the city well, can navigate it on even the most moonless of nights. A pleasant enough walk.” He regards the man again, taking stock of his features, his expression. Do you know, he wonders, what is in that second letter? “I am more than happy, Senator, to begin with all convenient speed. Your last secretary, I understand, left your service some time ago.” He gives a small, sad, smile. “I have taken over from others before, so I have some understanding of the enormity of the task. If, Senator, you have specific instructions for me, I am more than ready to start there.”

A little before dawn and the slave boy Meno knocking at the door. A discreet sound. A cautious sound. Just like the boy. The sound is rhythmic, like the drumming of a musician some little way off. Rhythmic. Insistent. The sound rings out in the still air, clanging in his ears like a host of bronze bells. Under his breath he utters a curse. A mild one, and even that he regrets. It is too early for curses. It is not Meno’s fault. The boy had been given his instructions, and now the boy carries them out. What matters the hour? What matters the state of his head? Two nights without sleep. What little rest he’s had is a credit to cretic wine and exhausting himself swimming in the Piscena Publica. Too much river traffic and filth to swim in the Tiber. The knocking ceases for a moment and silence resumes. In the pale light leaking in from the window he can trace the progress of motes of dust, like drunken dancers at a festival. He lays unmoving upon the narrow bed, eyes wide open, breathing in, breathing out, breathing in again. It does little for the pain in his head. It does enough to bring him to something like himself. Not the highest states at the best of times. These are not the best of times. From beyond the door a quiet cough. Meno is assiduous in his tasks. It speaks well for him. It would speak better for him if the boy vanished and left him alone in his discomfort. No. That is not fair. The discomfort remains regardless of the presence of others. “Come,” he says, voice sluggish with weariness and the effects of the crectic. The latter should at least have stolen away his pain. His pain remains. On silent hinges the door opens, beyond, in the corridor, Meno occurs. Slight, owl-eyed, and clothed in a tunic too large for his lanky frame, the slave-boy wears a mask of cultivated disaproval upon his face. Disapproval at being required to awake at this hour, of being required to awaken others himself. Where this a play, the boy would offer some pert remark, some comment calculated to make an audience laugh. Instead he steps on silent feet into the room and shakes his head. “Your breakfast is in the peristyle, Master F. Probably gathering flies.” “Did you leave it out all night then?” He rises a little, cradling his head in long-fingered hands. “I put it out only a little before I started knocking on the door. Can’t knock with hands full of dishes , now can I? But flies love honey Master F. Best to hurry before they take it all away with them.” A groan and he rises, bare feet hitting the cold tile floor. There had been a rug once. He is sure of it. Perhaps it is for the best that it has vanished. The chill of the tiles shocks him into something more like alertness. “My thanks. Can’t let the flies have all the fun, now can we?” “Don’t know if having my feet stuck to a sticky fruit is all that much fun.” “You should try it first. You never know.” He looks down, cracks a small smile. “Though with feet like yours, I’d think treading on wine grapes might suit you better.” All adolescents have feet they must grow into. Meno’s are sizeable enough that he might make a small fortune being passed around during the crushing season. Meno wrinkles his nose at the prospect. Reasonable enough. Like himself, Meno is a city boy. A city boy leaving his city behind. In two days more the household will remove itself from Rome. A comfortable retirement at Baiae: sea air, warm breezes, and boating in the Bay of Neapolis. A fine life for a Senator growing long in the tooth. At least that is the appearance the Old Man is trying to cultivate. Camillius Laco, the Old Man himself, can play the part of the cheerful retiree. The Old Man is still bitter, still suspicious. Any Senator worth their salt has enemies, and Laco is as salty as they come. There are enemies, sure enough, even if not all their names are known. The Old Man has ruffled too many feathers, has made one too many flowery speeches, has stuck his beak into the private affairs of other men. Corrupt men, useless men. Useless at anything other than securing their own position. Dangerous men. Perhaps it is all to the good that the Old Man is getting out of the city. Perhaps it is best if he really try put public life behind him. He laughs at this, shaking his head. Meno looks over, still disapproving. The peristyle garden is still dim and cool. A little light through the blossoms of the wisteria overhead tinting the green gloom a shade of pale purple. By the little fountain that never quite worked right, that sputtered and gurgled like a dyspeptic dinner guest, Meno had placed the bowl of apricots. The Old Man has taken the place of any flies. Camillius Laco, broad-faced and cheerful, is picking away at the Syrian apricots, the mellified delights. This morning he seems cheerful enough. Perhaps he is glad to at last be rid of his uncomfortable secretary. The half-smile on the Old Man’s face seems to indicate otherwise. “These apricots are excellent. Who put you on to these things? That lady friend of yours. What’s her name?” “Cybele,” he says, ignoring the lack of a proper greeting. “From the wine shop.” Cybele who seemed to have a knack for finding delicacies. “The Elephant.” The Old Man nods, then gestures for him to sit. And so he sits and like his patron, picks at the mellified fruits. “You are sure that I cannot tempt you to come with us after all?” The question is only a pleasantry. The Old Man will go and he will stay. “No, I suppose not. Nothing for you in Baiae after all.” The Old Man cocks his head, a wicked smile upon his face. “Besides.” “Besides, you need a man in Rome.” It is nothing official, nothing sinister. The Old Man merely wants news of the city, news of the names of his enemies. Laco takes another apricot and for a moment looks at it in the growing morning light. “You need to be a man in Rome, Florianus. The city will do you good. Find your footing again, and leave Greece behind.” Greece, where he has been the Old Man’s secretary. Greece where Laco had acquired his enemies. Greece where he had killed a thief in the Old Man’s study. Leave Greece behind? Even now it flashes behind his eyes; bright, hot, and beautiful. A dangerous beauty. Then, the face of the dead man on the study floor. Then, the bloody stylus in his hand. How can he leave it behind? His hand strays to the satchel he always wears, and his fingers close around a long brass stylus. His best stylus. His deadliest stylus. “My thanks on securing this new position. How many strings did you have to pull? How much debt am I really in?” The Old Man laughs. “Far fewer strings than you’d like to think, Florianus. You always want to seem more devious, more essential, that you really are.” That is true enough. But then a man must have his ambitions. “But perhaps one or two. Varus needs a secretary. You need to be in Rome. And I had better begone. All very natural enough. Nothing is going to come back to bite you.” At least that is the intent. He takes up another apricot, considers it, then takes a bite. A burst of flavor, like eating a candied sun. He can only eat so many at a time. A pleasure then, that he has a little time. A hour passes, the sun now shining bright and clear in the peristyle, and the fruit bowl lies empty. He cannot linger for much longer, it will not do to be late. Not today. “I must go Old Man,” says, rising. “I have another Senator to torment with my scribblings.” And so the Old Man rises too. An embrace, avuncular, comfortable. “Off with you Florianus.” The Old Man taps Meno on the shoulder. “Meno can carry your bag and show you the way.” Meno nods, almost eager. Perhaps he needs a day in Rome as well. “Though I do expect,” The Old Man says with a sly wink of an eye, “the occasional scribble from you. You are, after all, my man in Rome.” * * * Three hours before noon and the sun climbing higher. “Just here Master F,” says Meno, pointing to a well-made and solid door. “I’ll knock then, shall I.” He looks at the door, and Meno, and the door again. “Carry on Meno.” The boy knocks for the second time today, a less decorous knock than earlier. It is not the polite knock of a well-known servant. No, this was the dignified drumming of a herald. First sound, and then inevitably silence follows on. His hand strays again to his satchel. Long fingers wrap around the long thin stylus. His best stylus. His most deadly one. He turns it over and over between his fingers, rolling it to and fro like a coin in a conjurer's trick. It makes its passes, over, under, over, under, and over again, each one marking the passage of time. One pass, then another, and another still. At last there is sound. The door porter scowls out at him. “Lartius Florianus,” he says, trying to seem as though surly porters were a common part of his life. “The secretary. I am to meet with Quinctilius Varus. I was led to understand that I was expected.”

Aulus Lartius Florianus 26| 9th of October 51CE | Plebeian| Confidential Secretary| Unknown| Original |Enzo Clienti Personality Hear all. Trust few. Forget nothing. That had always been the motto of his father. Florianus, being clever, has little difficulty in following such sound advice. In new company he can be quite reserved, watching, listening, and trying to understand the complexities of social dynamics. He is not naturally at ease with strangers, but can put on a civil front and through reasoning, and above all listening, he can make a creditable show of decorum. In his private life he maintains a small circle of friends whom he trusts, and a larger circle of acquaintances about whom he has inevitable reservations. He tries, nevertheless, to maintain cordial relations, for one can never be sure when knowing just the right person can result in favor and advantage. One remarkable aspect of his character is his prodigious memory, for he is both naturally gifted in that way, and has practiced various methods to improve his recall of people, places, words, and events. Even so, he takes copious notes and maintains a voluminous journal in many volumes in which he commits his thoughts, details of the day, and speculations upon the future. In his religious practice he is observant of the lares and penates as well as the various genii, offering libations and ritual cakes in proper fashion. Auguries and other divinations he likewise values. Foreknowledge is always useful. Of the greater gods he is skeptical and though he will make what offerings he must, privately he doubts they exist at all. A two-year sojourn in Greece and too much time in wine shops arguing with drunken acolytes of the great Plato did nothing to help this view. There is a strong manipulative streak in Florianus, which he considers to be one of his cardinal virtues for it has served him well in securing decent employment and in carrying out business that might be considered distasteful to some. Indeed, Florianus prefers to be known as a useful man, rather than an honorable one. Appearance There is little enough that stands out about Florianus. His hair is of a dark brown color and his eyes are similar. In the summer his complexion trends toward olive, but in the winter grows paler. Standing a little more than average height at 5’9” and of long-limbed and lithe frame, Florianus nevertheless seems to take up a far smaller space than one might expect. Somehow, he managed to fold in upon himself, and fade into the background. It is a useful skill for a man who makes his living as an assistant and secretary, for he can scribble his notes without attracting too much attention. In mode of dress he is unremarkable, wearing the best-made yet unobtrusive clothing he can afford. He is not, as a rule, a man much given to flashy apparel. What jewelry he wears is limited to a signet ring with a triskelion of flowers. That ring he values for it was a comical gift from his sister Menia, meant to poke fun at his cognomen. Family Father: Aulus Lartius Horatius - An devious merchant Mother: Julia Numeria - A woman who knows her way around an accounts ledger Siblings: Aulus Lartius Valens - His younger brother, a hopeless romantic Menia Lartia - His younger sister, a cheerful menace Spouse: None Children: None Extended family: Full chorus of meddling aunts, embarrassing uncles, multitudinous cousins, and various more obscure relations of dubious provenance Other: Gnaeus Camillius Laco - A somewhat affable old senator to whom Florianus was secretary while Camillus was in Greece on official business Ariogaisos - A Gaul he met in Athens and from whom he learned seventeen words in an old Gaulish language, all of them vulgar Tiberius Velianas Milo - His friend, a surgeon of first rate skills living a third rate life Cybele - A Syrian freedwoman and proprietor of a comfortable wine shop History The first thing Florianus can recall is sitting on the floor of the house on Lesser Myrtle Street cheerfully pretending to write upon an old wax tablet. He must have been no more than three, and marks he made would have disgraced an anxious chicken. Still, he was proud of himself and showed his mother his work with a broad smile. She had always been slightly indulgent of him, especially when he showed interest in practical skills and over the course of perhaps a year taught him to write in something very near a legible hand. A knowledge of accounting and of the mathematics of weaving followed, for Julia Numeria kept the books of the family business and occasionally wove complex textiles as a form of relaxation. She never needed to weave for practical reasons, for the Lartii were well enough off to afford to have others make their clothes. So, from his mother he learned writing and mathematics. As for his father, well, his lessons were less academic. That did not mean they were not difficult. A merchant and negotiator, Horatius often had his elder son tag along to the less demanding business ventures, both to teach him the ways of commercial life and to make use of the boy’s prodigious memory for ability to recall the tone of conversations. He filled wax tablets with facts and figures, listened to the follies and foibles of rich clients and to the wheedling excuses of clients who put on a pretense of being in penury. So it was that he learned to lie, to dissemble, and to speak in carefully crafted half-truths. The lessons of his youth he learned well, and from the age of twelve until he was nearing twenty, he served primarily as his father’s personal secretary and as a messenger to various business contacts in Rome. As such, he learned the layout of the city well, and so has committed that too to the storehouse of his memory. Back allies and shortcuts became his preferred mode of travel, for he could move faster through such places. Besides, there was a green grocer on one of his preferred routes that stocked excellent artichokes. He is dearly fond of an artichoke. One of those business contacts was a relatively obscure Senator, one Gnaeus Camillus Laco. Laco had served in various minor magistracies and had a private reputation as decent, if somewhat eccentric man. He collected books in a variety of languages, and several times made a stab at writing what he maintained would be the definitive treatise on politics as a practical rather than abstract, philosophy. An infinity of drafts and a papyrus bill that would shock Alexandria were all he could show for it ever after twenty years of work. The senator had been a long-time patron of the Lartii, and Florianus’ father had often handled commercial transactions as well other business, including the importation of papyrus from Egyptian merchants with unpronounceable names. It was a cordial relationship, and the senator took a liking to Florianus, for he found the young man to be most useful, competent, and above all discreet. For one thing, Florianus was able to sort through the senator's chaotic mess of drafts and his voluminous correspondence and begin to make some sense of things. By slow degrees, Florianus was drawn into Laco's business, where he worked as something between a secretary and a librarian. It was a decent position, and attachment to a senator, however minor, certainly did much to burnish the name of the Lartii. In the year 74 CE, Laco was sent to the province of Achaea in Greece by the senate, there to handle official business involving the inevitable rumors of corruption that attend provincial governors. It was natural enough that he take his secretary along with him, and so it was that Florianus spent two miserable years in Greece. He could not complain about the accommodations in a pleasant house in Athens, nor the opportunity to improve his understanding of the Greek language. But Athens is not Rome, and the streets were alien to him, the people both too alien and too familiar to provide for his comfort. In a small wine shop off the agora, he once remarked to a waiter so ancient he might have known Socrates' grandfather, that Syria or even Parthia would have been more comfortable. There, at least, he would know he was far outside the realm of the comfortable and the familiar. To keep the misery at bay, Florianus buried himself in his work. Most of it was perfectly mundane; the usual senatorial correspondences, letters from this or that client hoping for a sesterces or twenty, invitations to ghastly dinner parties. But within this stream of banalities were the diplomatic communiques, and bits and pieces of the evidence of the governor's supposed corruption. Well, all governors are corrupt, but some have no sense of proportion. So Florianus worked long into the nights, reading over letters, ledgers, and compiling notes. It was at once tedious and fascinating, but above all it required great focus. That is why he never heard the thief enter the office one summer night in the year 76. The man tried to be silent, but in the dim light of the oil lamps the office was a mazework of tables and cabinets. It was only a matter of time before the thief made a mistake, before he made a noise. A table was knocked over, scrolls and writing materials scattered, and then came the cursing. Latin cursing, as Florianus would later recall. Cautiously, he made his way toward the sound, thinking perhaps one of the slaves had come in late to check in on him and stumbled. The burly arm that wrapped around his throat put an end to that speculation. Confused, frightened, and panicking, Florianus tried to free himself from the assailant, tried to cry out for help. It was no use. So he struck out with his elbows and with is feet. At last he managed to cause the thief to stumble again and they both fell to the floor. After that, his recollections are confused, disordered. He can recall the struggle continuing, can recall lashing out with whatever was to hand. How he managed to stab the thief with a bronze stylus in the neck he cannot quite say. Then again, killing a man can rattle even the most reliable of memories. Laco used what sway he could muster to keep the matter of the thief and the killing quiet, but the old senator could not help but think this was a sign that, perhaps, it would be best to leave Greece with all convenient speed. It was not an easy passage home, for though the senator kept saying that he should feel no guilt for the killing, Florianus could not get it out of his head, could not stop rolling the stylus between his fingers. Even now he keeps it close, though whether for protection or as a grim reminder he cannot say. Back in Rome, Laco decided that he should prehaps retire from public life, work on his long-suffering treatise, and grow grapes down in Baiae. Florianus was not follow. No, Florianus would stay in Rome, try to leave the matter of the thief and the stylus well enough alone and look for another patron who might find his skills useful. As a parting gift, Laco arranged a letter of introduction that Florianus might present to a senatorial colleague, one Tertius Quinctilius Varus. What the future portends, Florianus cannot say. Still, Florianus is back in Rome, and that is a start. Runcible Spoon | US Pacific | Discord: Runcible Spoon#6257 @Gothic