As soon as the last barbarian herald cleared the narrow neck of the street, chariots spilled out and around the marchers, their horses eager to find their legs. The occupants of these careening vehicles appeared to be shouting at the top of their lungs, but we could hear nothing above the braying of the brass and the rumble of the iron wheels. The drivers crouched low in front, their vision in danger of being obscured by the flying tails of the two stout horses that seemed to be barely under their control. Around these horses’ necks were strung a decoration of large bells, but again, they made no sound that we could hear. Behind the men with the reins stood warriors taller than any Roman with oval shields and raised javelins, their bronze helmets fearsome with spikes, fat horns, even full-sized statuettes of ravens in flight. As they flew ever closer, we could see that the woven sides of their chariots were adorned with the grisly evidence of their prowess: the shriveled heads of their enemies, tied in place by their own knotted hair. These trophies bounced and knocked about with each turn of the wheels. The racing steeds wore no necklaces of silent bells—they too were draped with grisly gourds now empty of the essence that in life had made them men.
The chariots split into two streams—one made to cut off the escape of Herclides’ gang, the other curved with wild precision toward where we stood. Behind these barbarians marched what appeared to be a century of regular, Roman legionaries, but by this point, armed soldiers inside the pomerium made little impression. They, too, headed our way.
Herclides’ men, never having been able to reach the main throng of rioters, had been rounded up and herded back to the base of the Palatine, including a defeated but stoic retiarius.
Livia was by my side and we were holding hands. I do not recall who had reached for whom or when. Our helplessness before this fractious army was complete, and that knowledge wedged itself tightly between myself and the pleasure in which I otherwise would have rejoiced. I backed her up the hill as far as we could, watching the heathen general rein in at the base of the road upon which, only moments before, we had expected to die. Turning to Herclides and his men, he warned in perfect Latin that any man whose hand still held a weapon by the time he finished speaking could later reclaim their severed property by withdrawing the nail that would in short order be driving said appendage into the temple door. There was an immediate clatter of arms.
The rider looked up at us; we looked down at him. His stallion snorted and shook its sleek black head. Startled into action, I let go Livia’s hand in order to step in front of her, grasping the trident once again with both hands. Alexandros, the brave, skinny shield!
To Malchus, the apparition said, "Sheathe your sword, Drusus,” his voice muffled by the silver face mask. I knew then, to my shame, that my terror had transformed metal into living flesh. Fear is an excellent mathematician—dividing allies with mistrust, multiplying misgivings into dread. “You are relieved, legionary,” the splendid terror continued, “though I see we have arrived too late to make this a perfect rescue.” The stranger’s horned head turned toward the bodies on either side of his mount. His horse had not shied—it was either well-trained or well-accustomed to the sight and smell of human blood. Malchus cocked his head and lowered his weapon. “As for you!” the masked rider said, turning that hideous visage up to me (to me!?), “Is it really your intent to skewer your favorite student with that thing?”
My poor befuddled brain, while recognizing that danger had just o’erflew us like the dappled shadows from a murder of crows, was as yet bereft of the power of speech. I stood there, able only to cock my head like a dog that has just heard a strange noise. Which, you may be sure, we had.
“Master?” the rider asked. “Are you unwell?”
A gentle punch in the back from Livia jarred my ears and tongue at last.
“Publius? Publius!”
Pulling the Celtic helmet from his head, Marcus Crassus' youngest son laughed. “Apologies, master, I could not help myself! You looked about as frightened as my brother and I were the day you burned your sandals onto your feet saving Father.” He slid off his horse and stepped smartly to stand before me. Relief turned to joy as I held out my hand to the little lord I had entertained and tutored for over a dozen years.
“I didn’t save him—” I started.
“Oh, no,” Publius said, slapping my arm aside, “we’ll have none of that.” He threw his arms around me, pressed his head into my shoulder, squeezed the breath from my lungs, then hoisted me into the air as if I were a sack of lentils. A very light sack of lentils. “Gods, but it’s good to be home!”
“Your homecoming must have been timed by the gods,” I said, struggling to regain my composure after he set me back down. “Tragedy was imminent.”
“I know. I saw. These two weren’t citizens, I trust?” He referred to the dead gladiator and the man I had dispatched. Gladiators rarely were, though none of us could say, and Herclides was silent. “Father wrote to tell me how badly we were needed. Apologies, though, for this one,” he said, pointing to Valens.
Malchus said, “He was your father’s man. Valens. Minucius Valens. He fell to buy us a little time…from these,” he added, pointing.
“Then he died a soldier’s death, a hero’s death, and earned a soldier’s sendoff. We’ll cremate him with all honors, if his own people will permit it.”
“Sir,” Malchus started, “his family will be honor…”
“Livia!” Publius declared, his attention too magnanimous to linger in any one place, “I’d recognize that hair from a thousand paces.”
“Dominus.”
“Tell me true, now, did I see that hand of yours in my tutor’s?” Four cheeks reddened, but there was no time for reply. Publius suddenly and rather startlingly sank to one knee before Cornelia Metella. “Aphrodite come to earth!” he said, holding out his arms. The lady Cornelia smiled in spite of herself. “I beg you, tell me by what name you wish to be called while you grace us with your immortal presence. I shall replace every one of our house gods the moment I have crossed our threshold with dozens, hundreds of your likeness.” Publius rose without waiting for an answer, unclasped his red cloak and gallantly swirled it over the women’s heads and wrapped it about both their shoulders.
“Do that,” lady Cornelia said, tilting her head ever so slightly, “and you will bring the wrath of all the gods that protect the house of Crassus down upon us. I don’t think I’d care for that. It might interfere with your plans to court me.”
“And bold as well,” Publius said, snapping his fingers without taking his eyes off lady Cornelia. The closest legionary removed his cloak and ran to his commanding officer. Instead of draping it over any one or two of the rest of us shivering lot, he clasped it about his own shoulders.
“Dominus,” I said, “may I borrow one of your men to announce your arrival?” Publius called forth a rider; I instructed him to speak only to Crassus, letting him know that his youngest son would be home within the half-hour. Speak only to him, I told the man, and be sure lady Tertulla hears nothing of it. He saluted, then turned to ride up the Clivus Victoriae at the double.
A heavily accented voice asked, “General, these?” We turned to see a blue-faced man with beard and pigtails of the most extraordinary yellow tilt his head toward the penned-in prisoners. His battered helmet matched his hair: a gold-painted overturned cup crowned by two large, golden balls suspended by a cross-shaped spike. One could not help but interpret their design anatomically. After he spoke, he clicked his tongue and eased his reins to the left. His dappled horse side-stepped into Herclides, congregating the captives into an even closer assembly.
“I’m not a general, you know,” Publius said conspiratorially. “But don’t tell them.”
Malchus scanned the plaza, which continued to fill with hundreds of men now focused on one man. “I don’t think rank has much to do with it, sir.”
“I’ll tell you, Malchus, there’s only one thing that separates a Celtic warrior from a Roman legionary. Discipline. W
ithout Roman discipline, my head would be hanging from that pommel right there. Isn’t that the meat of it, Culhwch? Discipline?”
“True enough, by Macha. But now we, too, have discipline. Lucky for you we like your food better. And your gold.”
Publius laughed. “Culhwch is my Praefectus Alae, commander of my cavalry. Alexander, you’d better make certain that something extraordinary is prepared for our guests’ dinner.”
“I shall see to it personally, dominus.”
“Ahem!” lady Cornelia interjected. And was ignored.
“My son, Brenus,” said Culhwch with no small hint of apology, meaning the youth on the small grey who had ridden up beside the unlikely praefectus. Brenus was no more than twenty, his sparse beard making a stouthearted but doomed effort to cover his freckled cheeks. He had red hair, darker than Livia’s and almost as long. He wore no body paint, which in his case made him all the more frightening. His nose, a hilly palette of outlandish colors, was swollen and crusted with dried blood, bent unnaturally to one side. He was intent on ignoring the pain he must be enduring, yet his eyes watered. I glanced at Livia.
“His beard is thin; I blame his mother,” Culhwch said mysteriously.
Brenus spoke, his nasal voice deeper than I would have guessed. “My heartwall, Taog.” The individual of whom the young Celt spoke was just behind him—a warrior so tall his horse appeared to be six-legged. The sight of him was the living seven-foot definition of his unfamiliar title, and none of us needed to ask for an explanation. He did not speak, but his pale eyes, shadowed by the brow and nose guard of his helmet, were alert and vigilant.
“Nobody asked you for introductions, boy,” Culhwch said. “Waste of a warrior,” he muttered, eyeing Taog. “If a man needs looking after, he’s not a man, is he?”
“Take that up with Mother, if you ever pass her way again,” said Brenus.
“And you were not spoken to, either!” Culhwch said.
Well, this was rapidly getting out of hand. It was time for diplomacy. I opened my palm to catch the agitated father’s eye. “Your Latin is impeccable, sir.”
Culhwch turned to me and grinned, showing a mouth full, mostly, of yellow teeth. I did not like that look, not one bit, suddenly feeling as if the Celtic leader’s frustration had found a less contentious target. “Someone must have stretched you between two trees when you were a babe, eh?” Height isn’t everything, I thought. I may be taller than average, but height is a relative manly virtue: Brenus’ heartwall could wrap one of his hands around my neck and his fingers would touch. But attend, the Celt speaks again. “Impeccable, you say? Do you mock me with your big words? I’ve noticed that Romans who talk big are small in battle. Are you truly weak, or do your words have mystical weight? Are you a wizard?”
“He’s no wizard,” Herclides said, speaking up for the first time since he and his gang were overwhelmed. “He’s just a slave.” Culhwch’s left leg shot out and his boot caught Herclides in the chest, knocking him into several other men in the makeshift corral of Celtic riders.
“A spell spoken by a slave works just the same as one said by a free man,” Culhwch said. “If they know the art, and the words, and speak them impeccably.”
Lady Cornelia stepped forward, pulling Livia with her beneath the borrowed cloak. “Do you think you men could continue this riveting conversation after we’ve had a chance to change into some dry clothes?” I looked up; it did appear as if it might rain again.
Culhwch did less than ignore the young mistress; he went on speaking to me as if she was not even present. “I’ll teach you some of our tongue while we’re here. You’ll probably choke to death on the first sentence.”
“If the stench of your journey does not kill me first.” I know. How impolitic of me. How spontaneous. How convenient that Crassus' warrior son stood so close. Livia gave a short laugh, underscoring the magnitude of my impertinence; the sound was mirthful and mischievous. Diplomacy aside, I could not let the Celt’s callousness and disrespect stand. It rankled. Even in Rome, especially in Rome, a few of the rules of civilization must be upheld, or if not, what is left to uphold civilization?
In any case, you cannot let these barbarians get the verbal upper hand. It encourages unmerited arrogance.
Culhwch was far from insulted. He let out a great belch of a laugh and made to slap his son on the back, checked himself and instead kicked one of Herclides’ men. “He’s a sharp-tongue,” he cried, making the balls on his helmet swing as he nodded. He took to the game like a hunting dog to the fallen prey. “Men like you are revered story tellers in my tribe,” he said, continuing to nod, “as long as they are entertaining.” He leaned forward on his horse and his eyes grew wide. “If we become bored by their wit, we cut them up and feed the pieces to the dogs. That always gets a laugh from the little ones.” Well. I’ll concede the first round, then.
“That’s enough,” Publius commanded. “You heard lady Cornelia.” Culhwch looked disappointed.
“Do we kill these ones?” he asked.
“Who among you are citizens?” Publius asked, reining his mount to face the captives. Only Herclides and Palaemon raised their hands. “Put those two under separate guard, and I’ll sell the rest.” A centurion, without being told, took sixteen men and herded the future slaves toward the forum markets. Strange that not a single protest was throated among them. Why waste your breath debating the inevitable?
“These two deserve execution,” Malchus said, pointing his gladius toward Herclides and Palaemon.
“What, and lose two votes in the coming election? In case there was any doubt,” the general said to the men who had caused us no end of grief, “you’ll be supporting my father and Pompeius when the time comes. And between now and then, you’ll be campaigning for our noble senators. Clear?”
“Yes, general,” Herclides said, his head bowed so you could not see his eyes. Palaemon nodded.
“Good. Tribune!” Another officer, the trailing main of the blond horsehair on his helmet as combed and cared for as his beard, rode up beside Publius. “See that these two find a place in camp where we can keep an eye on them.”
“We’ll squeeze them in, sir, nice and tight.”
“What about him?” said Livia, pointing to the retiarius. “He tried to kill Drusus.”
“I wondered what you were doing holding a trident,” Publius said to me. “Hand it over. It makes you look silly. You—out here.” The gladiator moved from the middle of the captives to stand before Crassus' youngest son. “Are you a citizen?” Publius asked, inspecting the six-foot trident as if he had never seen one up close before. The bigger man, his left arm-shield his only protection was hanging at his side. He shook his head; his jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the young commander. As Publius said, “Too bad,” he thrust the weapon into the gladiator’s bare chest, yanked it out and dropped the trident on the ground. Legionaries on either side of the fighter had caught the man before he fell and were dragging him off while he expired. The son of Crassus, it seemed, was a child no longer.
“I killed that man,” Livia whispered.
“You saved him,” I countered, “from having to think about the time and place of his execution.” A weak argument, but what else could I say?
“Post men about the city as we’ve discussed,” Publius was saying. “We are here to keep the peace until elections are held. I intend this campaign to be a success like any other. Culhwch, don’t have your men wash off the woad. The word’s already about that I’ve crossed the pomerium with armed soldiers. Let’s make sure all factions know we are both armed and frightening.”
“Petrocorii need no woad to frighten tiny Romans. It is a wonder to my men that such a little people have built such temples. We have decided you have somehow enslaved a race of giants. Or wizards.” He looked pointedly at me. “The blue stain stays as my general commands. Who wants to wash it off? By Lugos, water is not for washing; it’s for making ale. Hah!”
“It’s a drink worthy of the gods,�
� Publius conceded.
“You Romans wash too much to be true men. Washing is for women, to clean our breeches and our vests. And even they barely let their toes touch the stream! Hah!”
Chapter XII
56 - 55 BCE Winter, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
As our little troupe, minus the valiant Minucius Valens, made our way up the hill toward home, I watched Publius leading his horse, walking beside lady Cornelia, flirting without shame. What had happened to the irrepressible six year-old scamp playing in the dirt, digging for worms? The line of the boy’s future had been drawn along a Roman road paved with golden stones. Here was the man, but it was the child I remembered, squirming like one of his captive night crawlers while I tried my best to tutor him in his studies. All he wanted to hear were tales of gods and the heroic deeds of men. Now, here he was, uniformed, magnificent, lethal, his helmet tucked under his weather-bronzed arm, the embodiment of his childhood fantasies, leading his black stallion to walk beside the lady Cornelia. Publius was newly twenty-six, but this was a different man entirely from the one I had last seen leaving for Gaul almost four years ago.
Physically he was much the same: blue eyes, short, black hair, rectangular, ill-shaved, stony face. Still cocksure, still confident he could get into a brawl and come out smiling, though bleeding and bruised. But now, every last vestige of ‘boy’ had evaporated. This was not only a warrior, but a commander of men, men he had beaten in battle and yet, with his own personal magic had been able to forge into auxiliaries as loyal to him as any wolf to its pack leader. Perhaps a greater achievement—he had the admiration and respect of Roman officers twice his age.
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 13