49. Catasto Tax

"Have you and your husband decided which to buy?" asked a maid, her voice young and sweet. 

"No," said the other. "It's all happened so fast, and we know nothing about property." 

Potteries clinked as one of them must be stacking away the plates. Water splashed from the rear of the bed in a shallow container, a bucket or perhaps a basin. Wet cloth rustled, traversing what might be the windowsill, in chorus with the brisk clattering of wooden shutters. While they went on with their chitchat, their feet susurrated, as though thrashing out a secret of their own. 

"But I think we'll look into properties by the Scipios," the second maid continued. "They have been the most eager to sell since the announcement of the Catasto Tax, and their prices are the lowest. Gods almighty, how much land do the Scipios bloody own!"

"I know, right?" the younger one concurred. "Praise Lorenzino for winning the bet!"

"Psst, not so loud!" her comrade scolded. "You don't want anyone to overhear it!"

Giggling in reply, she chirped on, "But seriously, how else would we live to see the day to own land! Our land! Can you imagine that?" 

"Well, we don't own it, own it," the second maid scorned with a hiss of sigh. "It'll still be under the name of our filthy husbands. They own it. We clean it. Bloody wankers!" The wet cloth squelched, hitting on a hard surface, followed by a burst of giggles. "Speaking of winning the bet," she resumed, her dress swishing as she must have moved. "How's this guy holding up?"

"I think he's starving himself on purpose, probably just wants to die." The sweet voice paused, lips smacking. "What a shame, really. But even with one eye, he's still my type."

"Poof! Queue up!" The other cackled like a hen. "He's everyone's type."

"Bet your husband would love to hear you say that!"

"That swine can sodomise himself!"

 They laughed. 

A man harrumphed at the door. 

The laughing stopped, feet trotting toward him. 

"M'lord," they said in unison, their voices soft and submissive. 

"How is he?" Lorenzo's voice. 

"I've tried to feed him, m'lord," carped the young one, sounding coquettish. "But he threw up every time!" 

"How many times have you tried?"

"Four? five?"

"Leave us."

The door shut. A chair screeched across the floor and stopped beside the bed. It creaked lightly. Lorenzo probably has sat down. 

"I know you're awake," he said. 

Lying face down with his good eye pressed into the pillow, Xeator didn't move. 

"It's fine if you don't want to talk," Lorenzo huffed a long sigh, "I will," he continued. "After you won the game, I gave the speech you'd asked for. I promised the people to give back all the denarii I won on the day and a property tax reform, that the tax rate should be commensurate with the land a family owns. I made them an apology that while the Legidus had never spent their gold, all the taxes collected over the years should have been spent on them other than going into feeding the ambition of the man on the coins. And as I raised the coin minted with Julius' profile …" He took a quizzical minute of pause, chuckling before going forth. "A mob of mendicants started a riot in the name of the Gaius."

Anthony, that idiot! Xeator choked back a sob. That stubborn idiot!

"They plundered the street with impunity and would have broken into the arena had we not blocked all entrances in advance," Lorenzo resumed. "In a pandemonium as the spectators came upon what was going on, I saw Marcus redden, straining his fat face so hard it might have burst. He ordered a servant to find a coin that was spread from bother towers and bring it to him. When he realized it was minted with Julius' profile, guess what?" 

Lorenzo wheezed another long sigh. "Laelia Euphrates, of all people, was the first who jumped to her feet and ordered the arrest of Augustus Gaius for mutiny. All the Gaius' personal properties have been seized to pay for the loss during the riot. In the ensuing week, Julius announced autonomy in the north. The Scipios are liquidating properties like ants on a fire pit. And last but definitely not the least, are you ready for this, lad?" 

The chair under him let out another squeak, his feet tapping the floor. "When we caught the mob leader, the one who started the riot, the man first claimed to be a Gaius. Then, having learned the fate of Augustus as they lodged as neighbors in the dungeon, you know what he said?" 

Xeator squeezed the duvet, teeth digging at his bottom lip. 

"The riot was planned and abetted by Moon Xeator. Now, how many men in Renania have a whimsical name as such? But as the question nags me, I reminded myself that you're the Underdog. Every Renanian has probably heard of your name by now. Could it merely have been some lowly tactic to shift the blame on me as your patron? Fortunately, Marcus didn't buy a word he said and ordered him to be executed, but I stopped it." 

Xeator gulped. The pounding of his heart rose to bouts of thunder, slashing through the unfathomable swamp of darkness in which he went on sinking. 

"I told Marcus that you might want to know how anyone could be so stupid that among all the Renanian men, he must frame the hero of the day." 

The chair creaked again, scuffing the stone floor with its four legs. Toga rustled. "So, get well, and you can interrogate the man yourself," Lorenzo crowed. "By the way, Marcus has lent me the Creed Ultimatum to command both the Midland and Southern legions. I'm riding north to take down Julius, and I want you with me. But I can't take a half-life to war." 

The sound of feet drew away from the bed as Lorenzo headed out. "Think of it this way," he halted by the door. "The blade could have stabbed in your head or throat, and you would have been done for. An eye for a life. Be grateful, lad, the Gods have watched out for you." 

The door squeaked and shut, and the patter of caligae dwindled into the hallway. The room quieted. Xeator turned his head and slowly opened his right eye. The simple stucco wall of Lorenzo's guest chamber closed in like gray waves. Outside the window, clouds were low and thick, revealing not even a piece of the sky. With his right arm bandaged in a sling, he rose on an elbow but fell on his face. He groaned, reaching for the window; veins swelled along the bones. 

Lorenzo, you fool! He thought. You actually believed that Marcus handed you the Creed Ultimatum because you had his trust? Of all the men more capable than you in any regard, he ask you to fight Julius in his territory only because that's how to make you spend all the gold you've won that won't benefit you! You think you're the only one who knows how to make a profit out of charity? You…

A manic laugh shook him. 

But I was the bigger fool! I was this close and lost it!

He snarled, balling his hands. His legs folded up to his chest, his face damp from slobbers and tears. Replaying in his head the last look on Felix's face, he banged a fist at the pillow. 

Be grateful. The words echoed between his ears, mocking. For what? A life as a cripple? Isn't death thought to be kinder? He choked on his laugh. But he can't die now. He glared, cursing at himself. Too much he had lost to stop now. 

Gnashing as he crawled, he reached for the plates on the table next to the rear of the bed. The bread, having dried in the autumn air, chafed his throat. He clawed into the lard; fat crumbled off his fingers. He gagged, spat, swallowed, and repeated to finish the blighted food. That which was said to keep him alive hurt him at each bite. He gasped, leaning his cheek upon the grease-sodden hand. Before him, the pewter plate glistened, reflecting the distorted image of his face. A glob loomed behind his parted teeth. Gauze strapping over his head covered the empty socket he had not dared to touch. 

He shuddered and howled, hurling the plate at a wall with all his might. It caromed off the wall, rolled along the floor, wobbled, and fell flat.