Backstab

Circa 10 BCE, Pompeii, Italia

Lucius took rest in the shade of his villa, distancing himself from summer’s stagnant heat, its dense, oppressive air lurking just outside his windows. He lived in one of Pompeii’s most elaborate villas, boasting twenty-four rooms built around a peristyle, open to the sky and framed by fluted Doric columns. The peristyle was of such massive size it housed a sycamore tree at its center, its mottled, exfoliating bark being the only ungroomed feature in the courtyard. Spread out over the grounds were fountains, most with carved heads of wild beasts spitting water, and bronze statues of cupids, satyrs and the gods with copper lips and silver teeth that shimmered in the sun. Lucius was a wealthy man, once a powerful politician in Rome.

The villa’s outer walls featured arched windows, the north-facing ones framing Mt. Vesuvius whose incline was thickly covered with red grapes, like moss on rock. The inner walls had painted architecture, mostly windows with idyllic views for added depth, while others were painted to look like marble. One room, however, featured genuine black marble walls – in this room, Lucius would meet with Rome’s lawmakers who sought his opinion on current affairs.

Lucius and his son entered the black marble room. They trod through a shallow splash pool set before the doorway, their feet making sloshing noises as their leather slippers became soaked. They walked beside their reflections, which sprung forth from the shiny, black marble walls that doubled as mirrors. And they meandered along the curved walls, past several simply carved niches in which Lucius would stand when discussing matters of politics. They approached the fountain at the room’s center, which his son admired for the many springs that arched out from its top before cascading into a large basin inhabited by miniature dolphins cast in bronze.

“Father, why is this room so strange?” Lucius’ son asked. “There is no other room like it in this villa.”

Lucius stared down at his son and smiled sweetly. “You have heard the tale of Julius Caesar, my boy,” he said, combing his son’s long, wild hair with his fingers.

“He was attacked by sixty fellow Senators who hid daggers beneath their cloaks. They say he was cut twenty-three times, stabbed in the back by his compatriots.”

“Forgive me, father, if I seem dense. But what does the assassination of Julius Caesar have to do with this room?” his son asked.

“My dear son, I shall speak plainly. The death of Caesar made it clear to every lawmaker in Rome – no one can be trusted. This is why this room is as it is. The splash pool at the doorway is so I can hear when anyone enters. The mirrored walls are so I can see all around me. This fountain and the rustle of its running water ensures no one can overhear my private conversations, and the niches in the walls are so I can stand somewhere with my own back protected. You can never know, my son, who might stab you in the back.”