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

by Levkoff, Andrew

  While we were gone, I never gave Lucius Curio a single thought. Not even once.

  Upon our return, Livia moved her things into my quarters. Most of her trinkets were Egyptian. I was especially fond of her beaded collars and anklets. By ‘fond,’ I mean they stirred something base and primal within me, and I am at a loss to explain it. One of the myriad lessons Livia taught me was that some things lend themselves better to experience than understanding. Knowing my taste in this, she would sometimes greet me in bed wearing nothing but a necklace of nephrite lozenges, strung tight about her neck, and a gold anklet above her painted toes. This was the playful Livia, not the workaday version. Her preference was to wear no adornment, but the Egyptians were renowned in the arts of arousal, and during her years there, Livia had learned them all, and learned them well. It was not my place to ask how, or with whom. Or to think about it over much.

  I could not wait till Livia and I could share a cup of wine, hold hands and speak of how the day had gone. It became ritual for me to watch her unbind her hair and comb its lengths made gold-red by the lamplight. I sat mesmerized on our bed. She would call me a romantic fool, and I would ask her, who of us, then, was the greater fool, the besotted lover, or the woman who loves him? Waking in the luxuriant stretch of her arms was a miracle that to my amazement, repeated itself each morning. Romans may not have called our pairing a marriage, but it was that in every way but name. We knew that Crassus would never dream of it, but he could, if he was of a mind, sell either one of us at any time. Even though the threat was virtually non-existent, its lesson was clear: life is tenuous, joy is fleeting. Who knew this better than we? Some nights when we made love, we found that we could weave ‘forever’ from one timeless moment to the next. It was enough. It had to be.

  The spring of our contubernium was a time I shall always think upon as a gift beyond all measure; I had never been as happy or content. Yes, I was aware that had I not been enslaved Livia and I would never have met, never fallen in love, never created a child together. The irony of my circumstance would prod me from time to time, but I was quick to let it go. What did it matter? Had I any choice in the matter, would I sacrifice my freedom to spend even five such bliss-filled days with this woman. I would. I swear that I would.

  There were no clouds to mar this bright bliss, save for the growing shadow caused by my lord’s preparations to make his vengeful war. Many were the times that Crassus would be forced to rap his knuckles on the table to rouse me from a daydream, but he was rarely cross and most always playful. I think he saw in us something of the way he and Tertulla used to be before Luca. He could confide in no one, for even Piso was more ally than friend, and the political risks, to say nothing of the personal shame, were too great. I yearned to offer him a place to unburden himself, to be the ear he could find nowhere else. But each of us had our roles. And we would play them until the end.

  Chapter XVI

  55 BCE Spring, Rome

  Year of the consulship of

  Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

  Two events occurred in early Aprilis which I feel compelled to relate. Each goes some way toward comprehending, if not excusing, the unfortunate events that follow. Were this chronicle to be remembered…Forgive me. I leap—a performance restricted to pen and ink for this ancient of 86 years—I leap ahead to the present day, to our island refuge to pause for just a moment. Here I sit, scrawling for no one’s amusement but my own, hilly knuckles clutching a fresh reed pen, soon to join his countless, splintered brothers in the trash. The previous conceit has caused me to laugh out loud, but that happy noise has quickly resolved itself into a fit of coughing that has turned my grizzled face crimson. My mind wanders; it is this heat. As I was saying, if I were to be remembered, it would be as a master of understatement: ‘unfortunate events’ indeed. You see? It only takes the lapse of three and a half decades and a decaying mind to make plains of the memories that once were mountains.

  Pan’s hoof. I seem to have worn myself out. Perhaps a short nap, then I shall begin again.

  •••

  There is a bowl of figs by my hand. I do not know how it got there.

  •••

  Since my arrival in Rome, I have had many opportunities to wonder if compassion’s opposite is cruelty, or to reflect whether or not indifference would serve as a better black to its white. Do you recall how Curio had vanished from my mind while Livia and I dallied in Baiae? Why must there always be a price to pay for every indulgence, and why must it so often be withdrawn from the bankrupt accounts of the innocent?

  We returned late to the city. The house was quiet. Livia fell to our couch without unpacking and was instantly asleep. Her mind and body were at rest, one untroubled, the other exhausted. My mind and body, as so often was the case, were at odds, and sleep would not come. I walked through the darkened house, scratching lists onto a wax tablet. Finding myself in the servants’ wing, I saw a light. I knocked lightly on the wall beside the portiere and a voice said ‘enter.’ I pulled the curtain aside to see Hanno on his knees fellating Lucius Curio.

  “Hanno,” I said, the word half-choked on the revulsion that filled my head and pushed itself hot and wet out my eyes. “Come here.”

  “Oh, really,” Curio tsked. “Must you?”

  “Master!” Hanno flew to me. I caressed his hair, adjusted his head band and told him to return to Eirene’s quarters. I would see him first thing in the morning. Taking two long strides to stand directly before my assistant, I slapped him hard. His head snapped sideways.

  “How dare you?!” Curio cried, incensed.

  With the back of my hand, I slapped his other cheek. He recovered, keeping his hands at his sides, but his cheeks flamed from far more than the sting of my hand. “I see,” he said. “I did not realize your claim was exclusive.”

  I hit him again, struggling to keep from making a fist.

  “You cannot blame me, now that you have somewhere else to spill your seed…”

  The backhand was harder this time. Much harder. Curio almost lost his balance. When he righted himself, he held the back of his own hand against the corner of his bleeding lip. He said, his voice low, “You will pay for this, slave.”

  A guard appeared in the doorway, surrounded by other sleepers roused by the noise.

  “Leave us. Pull the drapes,” I commanded.

  They withdrew, but I knew they would be listening intently just down the hallway. I reached behind me, and as I pulled the blade from the hidden sheathe in my tunic, I whispered, “The fault is mine, Lucius Curio.”

  “Are you mad?” he said indignantly. “You cannot carry a weapon!”

  “Familia will never be to you what it means to us.”

  I put my left hand on his chest and pushed him back upon his sleeping couch, then fell upon him, my thighs straddling his chest. His head was bent up against the wall. I put the blade against his neck and my mouth close by his ear.

  “Touch the boy again,” I whispered, “and you will watch the last of your life’s blood wash these tiles.”

  “You have no idea what is happening here, do you? Get off me. Do you think your years of service have earned you a dram of anything more than you had the day you came to this house? You are a fool, no better than that deformity I use to pleasure myself. Now leave me. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  In the morning, we were both summoned. Crassus would hear no complaint from either of us. He advised Curio that while it may have been different with Piso, though he doubted it, under his roof, it was the practice to engage in sex solely with consenting partners. Children under twelve and individuals unaware they were engaging in sexual activity were not to be approached. He enjoined me from disturbing the sleep of the familia. And that was all.

  •••

  The average Roman, I have found, has a strong stomach and a hard heart. By day he is robbed and bullied, hounded by hunger; he takes advantage lest he be taken advantage of. By night he cowers, shut in his t
iny rooms at sunset, a prisoner deafened by the wagon wheels of commerce until the dawn makes the treacherous streets safe again. He wilts in summer’s heat and shivers in winter’s rain. He watches unending yet unequal streams of misguided country cousins and newly-minted slaves trickle into the city each day, one lot to seek their fortune, the other to see its end. He lives in overcrowded apartment buildings, beset by poverty, crime and disease. But this is his Rome, the greatest achievement in the history of mankind! How is it that his senses can deceive him so?

  Rome is a hollow place, and the people are cruel. I have seen it all firsthand, from their conquering armies to their stolen culture, from their marvelous engineering to their addiction to superstition and fear. But I had never yet seen anything like this. Why do I post this footnote to my tale? For it is nothing more than that. One Roman may be kind, a dozen forgiving, perhaps, but put them together by the thousands and they become the slavering Beast, their better selves subsumed by the riotous appetite of the mob. In all my time in Rome, never before had I seen compassion from the masses, and I believe that because we would soon be on our way to war, where mercy is unwise and kindness has no place, it is incumbent upon me to admit that once before I left this city, never to return, I was witness to its existence, however fleeting.

  It was the festival of the Veneralia, honoring Venus Verticordia, the changer of hearts. Apparently, by purifying themselves in the men’s baths while wearing nothing but a myrtle wreath while drinking a concoction of crushed poppy flowers, milk and honey, a woman’s prayers would be heard by Virile Fortune. Satisfied by their offerings and ministrations, this forgiving god would then agree to conceal any physical blemish or abnormality from sight. I think it more likely that the potion itself obliterated any perceived unsightliness, or at least the minding of it. You may imagine that on this annual day of devotion, congregations of naked, drugged, bathing females were followed about by throngs of young men and boys eager to make new friends.

  Not so this year, not on this day. For this was the five-day dedication of the Theater of Pompeius. The general, having finally returned to the city to accept his consulship, was resplendent in the gold wreath and embroidered toga that this gift to the people entitled him to wear. To celebrate, he had conceived of entertainments that designed to put his name on the lips of every Roman for months to come, for eternity if Pompeius’ prayers were answered. You, who find these scrolls, will know if Magnus got his wish.

  The first four days of games were conducted in the Circus Maximus, a more appropriate setting than the theater for the hunting and slaughter of five hundred Gaetulian lions, all male, some as long as ten feet from nose to tail and weighing five hundred pounds. At least Livia was allowed to remain at the clinic, claiming her stomach was in a delicate enough condition without such entertainment, even though she expected to see no customers. Low barriers of shrubbery meandered throughout the track, simulating the wilds of the north African plain. Having been starved in their cages, the black-maned cats were released in the Circus, angry and bewildered, at the rate of about twenty an hour. There they were speared, beleaguered by darts and shot through with arrows until the day’s light faded with the roaring of the crowd. For variety, when it appeared the people might grow bored, four hundred and ten panthers, seen by many spectators for the first time in their lives, were put on display, then butchered.

  How it was that tens of thousands of everyday citizens—tradesmen, husbands and wives, families out for a picnic, munching on snacks and sipping drinks—how was it that these Romans could watch the staged executions, hour after hour, their eyes never tiring of the bloodletting? I could not find a way to comprehend this. That is, until dominus explained it to me. Here, he told me, a spectacle is made of the art of the symbolic. Each ferocious beast represents the wild and untamed world threatening the peace and prosperity thriving within our borders. The hunter, armored and armed, is Rome. At the end of the day, as the bloody corpses of our “enemies” were dragged from the field, every citizen, regardless of station, could feel vicariously the exhilaration of victory, could walk hand-in-hand with his children back home to a meager supper, proud that Rome had once again metaphorically triumphed over an uncivilized world.

  Remarkable.

  We came to the fifth and final day of the festivities. The highlight of the inauguration was to be presented within the theater itself. Faintly nauseous, my heart thumping in my stomach from having had to endure these allegorical massacres, I followed dominus and domina up to the Campus Martius. I prayed silently to no god in particular that the smaller venue might actually afford the kind of theater an enlightened Greek was accustomed to attend. Thirty years in Rome, and I had yet to learn my lesson.

  Until now, there had been no permanent theater in the great city; such a thing would be considered vulgar. The people loved a good show, but censors and senators, arthritic in both limb and righteousness, found them unhealthy and indecent for the general welfare. They were outlawed within the city walls. This from an aristocracy who bred gladiators to shed their bright blood and fed criminals to wild beasts for the amusement of the cheering crowd.

  Romans, and actors in particular, being nothing if not resourceful, were not to be denied. Thespians and the backers seeking to supply what was already in great demand resorted to building temporary stages for their performances of Greek favorites, mime and ribald comedies rich with sexual innuendo. These wooden structures were only meant to last a matter of weeks before being dismantled, if they did not collapse before then. Soon they would spread again like weeds in some other part of the city.

  Pompeius had constructed something else entirely. Its massive square blocks of tuff and travertine, supported by giant concrete vaults, its gardens, temples and amphitheater, these had never been seen before, nor is their equal ever likely to rise above any city’s outline.

  Some say it was to impress Julia, Caesar’s daughter, whose marriage of the past four years had helped bind one general to the other. But she, being of refined sensibilities, would rarely attend. Others, like my lord, contend it was to regain his popularity, frittered away in the years since his military victories, replaced by nothing more spectacular than marrying a girl less than half his age. Whatever the reason, Pompeius’ pride was bruised by the inattention. As a Roman, he should have known that the people’s memory is as short as the hairs on his shaven chin. Pompeius was like a man who, before he leaves on a long journey, lights the lamps in all his rooms and is surprised to return to a darkened house. Romans, like oil lamps, need constant attention and frequent replenishment.

  We already know where it stands, adjacent to the Circus Flaminius up on the Campus Martius where I exercised and learned the art of the dagger. Building the first permanent theatrical edifice of stone outside the pomerium, Pompeius circumvented the censors’ squinting probity. I will be brief, but you must see this monument to one man’s insecurity in your mind’s eye to better visualize the acts of inhumane cruelty which I shall shortly relate.

  The word ‘theater’ barely does the vast complex justice. First, imagine a rectangle 650 feet by 450 feet. Attached to the western wall of the theater itself, this was the Portico of Pompeius, a colonnaded garden lined with plane trees, statues and fountains. Visitors could stroll among its shaded lanes during intermissions, make offerings in any of several adjoining temples, purchase food in shops or seek shelter in the columned arcade should it rain. In the center of the Portico’s western wall, opposite the great theater, Pompeius built a curia where the senate might gravitate to debate, another incentive for moral lenience. The conscript fathers succumbed to the beauty and comfort of the meeting house on many occasions, but only one proved memorable. Within its marbled walls, just shy of eleven years from the celebration of the theater’s opening, Julius Caesar would be assassinated at the foot of a larger-than-life statue of Pompeius himself. Neither Crassus nor I were present for the turmoil that followed, for we had escaped the Rome of his dominion and my confinement, eac
h in our separate ways.

  Let us continue east into the theater itself. Walking through the rows of red and gold columns that formed the back of the proscenium, we will find ourselves on the 300-foot wide stage. To reach its edge, nearest the audience, we must travel another 60 feet. There we could look up at the great semi-circle of the amphitheater, where Pompeius once again side-stepped censure. Above the highest tiers of seating rose a lavish temple to Venus Victrix, Pompeius’ personal deity. This was not a theater, he insisted, but a monument to the goddess. The semi-circle of rows rising to the heavens were not seats; they were steps leading to her home. No one complained in a voice loud enough to overcome the sound of construction, or the cheering of the people once it had opened.

  At its highest point, the golden statues on the tiled roof of the temple looked down upon the performances from a height of 150 feet. But our attention must tumble to the floor of this architectural masterpiece, to the smaller arc of the orchestra just below the raised stage and directly in front of our seats. Pompeius had spent a fortune on the theater’s design and construction. His favor with the people could only soar by such a gift to the public. It should have been so, but Pompeius would find that even the bloodthirsty citizens of Rome have their limits.

  (Editor’s note: illustrations of the theater may be seen in the glossary.)

  There was no charge for admission, but seating was limited. Every plebeian was required to present a clay ticket stamped on one side with a likeness of the great general so kind in execution he was barely recognizable, on the reverse with an image of his pretty, young wife. (When speaking of Pompeius’ spouse, these two adjectives almost always preceded the noun.) Two weeks before the opening, within a manic 24 hours, the ticket windows were shut and locked, their stock of clay tablets depleted. 25,000 elated citizens would be privy to the final inaugural performances of the greatest theater ever built. Those unfortunates who were denied entrance crowded the street outside the curving walls for the chance of hearing, if not seeing, the spectacle.