A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven

by Levkoff, Andrew

  “Father Jupiter?” Publius said, his eyebrows reaching for the black curls of his hairline.

  “It’s nothing,” Crassus said, reddening. “The boy is tainted.”

  “I can’t get him to stop calling me master, either,” I added. To Publius, the explanation was insufficient. “I have told Hannibal over and over again that dominus is master, not I. With his muddled logic, he reasons that if I am, well, who I am, then dominus must be a god.”

  “And neither of you did anything to discourage this?”

  “A little,” Crassus said, avoiding his son’s eyes. “Let the lad have his delusions. I don’t mind, really.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t,” Publius said, then burst out laughing.

  “Once Hannibal gets an idea in his head…” I said, my voice trailing off to wherever feeble excuses go to die.

  “Oh this is rich,” Publius said. “Why didn’t you bring the thing out at the party? Have you taught him to sing or do a little lopsided dance?”

  “Shall we get back to the matter at hand?” Crassus said.

  Publius composed himself, barely. “Yes, of course. Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “Do you remember Cassius Longinus?”

  “He attended your party, ready to use his dagger for more than spearing fruit, as I recall.”

  “That’s the man.” Publius pressed his lips together as if trying to prevent something from escaping. “Wait a moment!” he blurted. “If you are Jove, and Mother is Juno, then I must be Mars Invictus!”

  “Yes, that’s quite droll, Publius. Just let us know when you’ve finished reciting the panoply.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hand. “Yes, Cassius.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “He’s a good man. With your permission, I will approach him and ask him to join us. He is ambitious; he told me he feels held back, as well he might under Caesar’s command.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He came down with me from Gaul. I met him years ago at Cicero’s. I know, I know—Tully is not your favorite exemplar of Roman resolve, but he has always been kind to me.” Crassus gave his son a stern but less than withering look. “To the point,” Publius continued, “Cassius had just returned from Rhodes and was invited to one of Cicero’s study sessions comparing the Academy Skeptics to the Stoics. You talk about your drunken confederacy of dissolute whoremongers, well…” Dominus and I stared blankly at Publius; after a moment he shook his head and continued, as much disappointed with his audience as we were with his japes. “That’s where we met. Cassius enlisted with the 7th and I’ve known him ever since. He’s trustworthy, a good soldier and strategist. If he accepts the commission, I’ll have him levy the troops, get them mustered in the south, and I’ll join you as soon as I am able.”

  •••

  Thus it was decided. But before he returned to Caesar, dominus helped pave the way for his son to climb the ancient, revered, but ofttimes ignored political ladder whose ascent was assured by his victories in Gaul. He was too young to become quaestor, the first official post in the cursus honorum (the position had a minimum age requirement of 30), but his father had him stand for two other respectable posts to start him on his way. He was elected almost unanimously to both.

  Only one golden link remained to be forged: though young for his military prowess, Publius was beyond the age when wealthy Romans traditionally found an advantageous pairing for their male children. His sojourn in Gaul had postponed any thoughts of women beyond fleeting, forgettable couplings with camp followers and local whores. Returned to Rome, the boy who never once stared with trembling lower lip into the abyss of want continued his uncanny good fortune as a man. Publius was one of those rare individuals upon whom the gods never frowned, despite his arrogance and presumption. It was not that he expected through the privilege of his birth that good things must always come his way, for that would require contemplation of desire denied. Publius Crassus lived from one perfect moment to the next, heedless of the wonder of his charmed life. Once he crossed the pomerium, Eros was armed and ready for him the moment he leapt from his horse.

  Priests were engaged to inspect with meticulous scrutiny the steaming entrails of an unwilling pig, whereupon they made their pronouncement. The entire month of Maius was rejected as unacceptable, that being the time reserved for making offerings to the dead. Which was a happy coincidence, because most senators fled to their country estates for the six-week recess beginning in mid-Aprilis. Not Crassus. Not this year. The priests chose a bright, auspicious day in early Junius, just before Publius was scheduled to depart Rome for the north. His marriage to a most willing Cornelia Metella would be the event of the season. And of course, she was the perfect match.

  •••

  The day after Hanno and Taog had interrupted our meeting with Publius, the boy and I were sorting the mail into piles: legal, political, supplications and personal. As it did every day, legal had the largest mound, followed by political argument, then requests for everything from money to land. There was one interesting application from one Gaius Octavius, a legate who had fought with Lucullus against Mithridates, king of Pontus. He was the first of several experienced military officers anxious to join this most public of Crassus' secrets, the expedition to Parthia.

  I left my office and with Hanno in tow walked to the next one down the hall, the large but spare tablinum of my master, who was at the curia in session with the senate. Before I could lay the letter on dominus’ table, we were intercepted by Brenus, who was smiling like a father. Hanno ran to him and said, “Is it done? Is it?”

  “It is indeed, young master.”

  “I am not master. Master is master.” Hanno laughed, coaxing smiles from us as easily as one would pluck a daisy.

  “Here,” Brenus said, handing the boy an oilcloth chunky with its contents. “Try them on.” The Celt’s broken nose had shrunk to something recognizable as such, and the colors were fading beneath his freckles. Hanno fumbled with the string and finally extracted two strange-looking gloves. Brenus helped him get them on his hands with difficulty, Hanno was so jumpy with anticipation.

  “Surprise! Surprise, master!” he said, waving what appeared to be a set of brown leather, two-fingered gloves. The pinky fingers were absent, but the thumb looked normal enough. It was the middle finger arrangement that drew the eye, as if the three fingers adjacent to thumb had been fused into one broad digit. Hanno put both hands so close to my face I had to back up to focus on them. He was flexing the middle “fingers,” which bent in an almost natural motion. “See? See, master, see? Hannibal has all his hands now.” He turned and flung himself into Brenus’ arms and hugged him in that fierce way he had.

  “It’s all right lad,” Culhwch’s son said, patting Hanno on the head. “You go an practice with ‘em and don’t worry, I’ve made an extra pair just in case.”

  Watching the boy dance away, waving his new prosthetic, I said, “That’s a fine piece of work, Brenus. How did you do it?”

  “He slips his third finger into a ring; when he pulls down on it, it carries with it articulating blocks of wood inside the leather attached here, and here. He will not have the same grip as real fingers, of course, but with practice, it should help him grasp objects with more ease.”

  “You’ve just made a friend for life.”

  “The boy is holy,” Brenus said. “Lugos commands we watch over him.”

  “Surely not you personally?”

  “He makes the sign.”

  “Yes, I have seen it. If Hanno could choose between the sign and six more fingers, you would find nothing in him to revere.”

  Brenus spoke as if I were a child. “Use your eyes, Alexander. The choice has already been made. The boy belongs to Lugos.”

  “What you see is coincidence, not religion. Look around you, Brenus. Hanno is quite well-looked after right where he is.”

  “You are not Druid.”

  “No, we are not. If the sign is so important to you,
why then did you give him those gloves to cover it up?”

  “A man may wear shoes and still know he has feet.”

  I sighed. “Understand, everyone recognizes that you and Taog have been very kind to Hanno. You have befriended him and made him very happy. He is fond of both of you. He talks of little else. But be reasonable, Brenus, you cannot seriously be suggesting he’d be better off with you?”

  “We would protect him.”

  “No. Where you are going, there will be war. Not even your gods are powerful enough to guarantee his safety. On the battlefield, only one god decides who lives and who dies. His name is Chaos, and he is heartless and inconstant. But here, in Rome, another god holds sway: he is Crassus, and in his house, he alone can keep Hanno safe.”

  •••

  One morning the following week, Tertulla came to me almost frantic. She could not find Hanno. Leaving her with promises that calmed her like sleet on snow, I gathered help and searched the house. When he was not found, I asked Betto if the Celts were drilling. “They’re up on the Campus, shattering decent Romans’ nerves with the din from their chariots. I’ve been telling myself that the roaring in my ears is from the bath water that lodged itself there yesterday, but it just might be the sound of their wheels crashing around in my head. They’re wasting their time, if you ask me. Are you asking me? I’ll tell you anyway. Has anyone told them where we’re going? I can’t wait to see what happens when those chariots drive through a foot of sand.”

  “A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”

  “I don’t think it would have, no.”

  “So, you’re coming with us to Syria, and beyond?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Well, I shall enjoy your company.”

  “What a relief, Alexander. I wouldn’t be tagging along if I knew you weren’t coming. We’ll plan a picnic every day. I expect I’ll have nothing to do anyway but lay about and take the Mesopotamian sun.”

  “Good. You could use some color. By the way, lord Publius informed me the Celts will be horsed, not in chariots, so there is one less thing for you to worry about.” I turned toward the front entrance.

  “I’ll find something to replace it, don’t you worry. If you’re going up there, bring some wax for your ears. Though I doubt cruel Ulysses himself could keep that unholy racket from driving his ship up onto the rocks.” I decided to ignore the flaw in Betto’s metaphor: Odysseus would be unlikely to encounter a Celtic chariot on the waves, and if he did, it would only be for a moment.

  I found my quarry sitting on the edge of the track of the Circus Flaminius, snug, happy and lost in Taog’s enormous lap. At last I could look down on the giant Celt. Barely. Hanno was playing a game he had invented himself. He would rummage through my garbage—repository of the best pieces of discarded parchment—find a draft or an invoice and mash it up into a ball. Then he’d toss the missile between one hand and the other and pull the blocks in his glove at just the right moment to create a makeshift pocket in which to snag the projectile. He was becoming quite good at it.

  Betto was right about the noise. Imagine that this entire conversation was shouted.

  “Master! We’re resting.” Hanno threw a crumpled old requisition high over his head and plucked it deftly from the air before it hit the ground. Taog and I applauded. As did Hanno.

  “So I see. Are you having fun?”

  “Oh my, yes! Brenus took me for a ride in a chariot! I was scared but then I wasn’t, but then we had to stop because Brenus’ father’s face got red. Do you know what Taog told me? He said his people get buried in the ground when they die and all their stuff goes into the hole with them so they can use it in the afternoon.”

  “Afterlife,” Taog said, tussling the boy’s head. If anyone was carrying on a conversation in the halls of Olympus, Taog’s voice was how I imagined they would sound. Minus the accent, of course.

  “And if they’re good, they get to come back and live again.”

  “That’s right,” said Taog. He began tightening the laces on Hanno’s gloves.

  “That is a fascinating concept,” I said as enthusiastically as I could.

  “That’s what I want to do. Can I, master? I want to die and come back as someone else.”

  “Who would like to come back as, little warrior,” the big Celt asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. Anyone else is fine.”

  “I think you should stay with us for awhile longer,” I said. “You’re far too much fun to have around.”

  “I know. How much longer can I stay?”

  “As long as you like. I know for a fact that Lady Tertulla has been looking for you. Why don’t we walk down together? I think she may have a treat for you.”

  “Bye, Taog,” Hanno said, climbing out of the Celt’s lap. “There’s Brenus! Look at him go! Taog is too big to drive the chariot. I can’t make the sign with my gloves on. But we can pretend.” He pressed his hands together and bowed his head. “Watch over others,” he began.

  “As Lugos watches over you,” Taog finished. He also bowed and linked his fingers. I don’t know what came over me, but I too made the sign, spoke the opening words and bowed my head toward Taog. He finished the prayer, but before his expression of wonder could fully form, I had already turned with Hanno in hand to walk back down the hill.

  •••

  On the last morning of Februarius, Hanno ran to tell me between gasps that the clinic had been closed for the day. As soon as Crassus finished with me, I walked quickly down the path to the front of the estate. There, the thick walls that kept the familia separate and ignorant of the travails of the human swarm below also housed our school and clinic. The sun was just about to break over the hills.

  “I knew you would be here the moment you heard,” Livia said. She lay on the lectus in her small room, pale and lovely. “Take that look from your face and come sit by me.” I did as I was told. There was a sour smell in the room and a cloth-covered pail by her bedside. Livia took a sprig of mint from a vase by her nightstand and held my hand while she chewed it thoroughly. Then she lifted the cloth and spit the remainder into the pail.

  “I’m not ill. Here, feel. Gently.” She guided my hands to her breasts and I felt their swollen weight. “Now,” she said, pulling me to her, “come kiss the mother of your child.”

  Is it manly to cry at such joy? Why should grief be the only beneficiary of our tears? After all we had endured, there were salted drops enough that fell for sadness. I bathed my vulpecula’s cheeks with my happiness and did my best to balance the scales. We laughed between caresses and whispered breathless words of affection to mouth, eyelash and ear, but soon there was only one way remaining to express the distillation of a thousand lyric poems. I pulled away from her and asked with insistent eyes. She nodded once and raised her tunic. We were soon lost in a place we hoped never to be found. The sounds we made we did not hear. We were so close, yet still apart, maddened by the atoms that kept us separate. At last, even ecstasy flew apart and we disappeared entirely, blown into a space without thought or boundary or time. At the end, when I found myself in myself again, Livia was there to meet me, breathless and smiling. We lay quietly, holding each other, listening as the sounds of the world slowly became real again. Having gone to that emptiness together, it felt almost sad to return.

  •••

  Slaves are forbidden to marry. They may form a contubernium if the master permits, they may cohabitate, have children, live the simulacrum of a life. When I came to him in his office with the request and the news of Livia’s pregnancy, Crassus rose from his chair and came around his desk. I thought he was going to shake my hand, but he held me by the shoulders, told me I deserved every happiness, then embraced me like a brother. I blinked with surprise and suppressed pride. When he finally released me, his lips were pressed together in a tight smile and his eyes were shining. He rummaged through the clutter that surrounded his work space, but finally beaten, told me to take 25,000 sesterces for myself f
rom the treasury. It wasn’t as if I did not know where the money was stored. I complained of his generosity, to which he responded it was worth every as to see an end to the pining he had had to endure for years.

  With his wealth and the number of slaves already in his employ, another mouth to feed meant nothing to Crassus. His happiness for both Livia and myself was unsullied by greed. Not so with almost every other Roman slave owner, by which I mean practically every Roman citizen or freeborn. Even soldiers taking up the non-military life see that their “wives” have at least one, two if they can afford it. The more slaves, the more status. Coupling and procreation by their property is not only permitted but encouraged, for who would not be pleased to get something for nothing. Every child of a slave is born into that same condition, with no rights or property save those given them by the generosity of their masters. Anyone fortunate enough to own a mating pair of slaves is further gratified by the fact that, considering the foreign captives trudging to Rome each year by the thousands, they will be increasing their household with one whose native tongue will be Latin.

  Malchus and Betto had conspired to have crafted a gift they were wise enough to present to me when Livia was absent. It was a set of six throwing knives and a supple leather belt to sheathe them. To Livia, they gave a pair of gold earrings with drops of carnelian swinging from gold strands. She thanked them from her heart, but chided that this was not a gift for both of us. While Malchus was saying that I had only to see her wearing them to know they were as much a gift for me as for Livia, at the same time Betto said that this was as much as they could afford. It is surprising that, considering the number of times Malchus has slapped his friend on the back of the head, Betto has not developed a bald spot.

  With her husband’s permission, Tertulla gave us the most stunning gift: a week at their summer villa in Baiae, with no responsibilities or duties other than those small and gracious labors of affection we chose to give to each other every waking moment of each day. Of the nights, suffice to say that Livia was a patient teacher, and I an willing and adventurous student. In our absence, Eirene had eagerly volunteered to watch over Hanno and he, in turn, was not unhappy to share her little cubiculum with her until our return. Her fondness for him was genuine, to which the boy readily responded.