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

by Levkoff, Andrew

  Crassus closed the trunk lid and turned to his wife. The words escaped his lips before thought, drawn out by some malicious sprite. “By rights Caesar ought to pay for at least half of all this.”

  Lady Tertulla stood and turned her back to dominus, blinking away tears. He begged her forgiveness, but the damage was done, the scab picked at yet again.

  She said, “We will never put it behind us, will we?” It was barely a question. Crassus went to her and stopped, his hands frozen just above her shoulders, the distance separating them measured by fractions and continents. He glanced at me and I could see he was afraid to touch her lest she pull away. There are senators who call him one of Rome’s greatest orators, but now he stood mute. At last he lowered one hand to her bare shoulder, not daring to embrace her. After a moment, she reached up and covered his hand with her own.

  My lord laid his head on her shoulder and they stood like that among the lotus trees, listening to rustle of the leaves. Finally, he told her that he would rather fall on his own sword than intentionally cause her harm. “But a green harpy lives inside me and will out no matter how I reason with it.”

  My lady said, “Then do not reason with it, mighty Crassus. Bury your sword in its craw and be done with it. You have no cause for jealousy.”

  Gently, dominus turned her around and wiped the tears from her eyes. “In my mind I know this to be true. It is my heart that yet writhes with the memory. I would tear it from my body, but then how would I love you?”

  My lady smiled weakly. “There are enough senators to call you ‘heartless.’ I shall never add my voice to theirs.”

  “I apologize for speaking to you as I did. Your gift is magnificent, as are you.”

  “It is my fervent prayer,” she replied, “that you will have the entire trunk thrown into the Tiber. If you still love me, stay and put aside this war. We were rash, and we are wrong to seek revenge at such a cost.” Tertulla took his hands in hers and stared at him with such intensity that by this look alone she might have deflected him from his intended path. “You need not go further away, husband, to bring us closer together. You do not have to go. The people would have you stay. I would have you stay.”

  He took both her hands in his. “I cannot turn back, nor would I. Caesar has taken enough from me. No more. When I return, I will retrieve the bulla aurea of my childhood and wear it in the triumphal procession. This I swear to you and to any god who will listen. I did not act that night in Luca, to my everlasting disgrace. I must act now.”

  “Then,” said my lady, “I will pray for you daily. Twice daily.” She reached up to dominus, and drawing him down to her, pressed her body full against his own and they kissed as I had not seen them do in many months.

  “I have loved none but you, I love you still, and I shall love you always.”

  She said this to him then, and he shook with emotion when he heard it. “I summon Venus and Mars to join in both love and in war. Come, Venus Victrix, come quickly now. Forsake Vulcan and with You, Father of Warfare, take pity on us, turn evil aside from us, and preserve my husband's and my sons’ life. Gird them with the strength of Hercules and the cunning of Mercury. Vanquish any and all who oppose them. Let not the scales of victory hover above the blocks, but fall decidedly in favor of, and with the full weight and power of Crassus.”

  •••

  Many months later, as he kneeled in the bloodied dust of a strange and desolate land, Crassus would marvel at the clarity of his recall of their last moment together—the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her tunic, the smell of almond and bergamot in her hair, the soft pressure of her arms about his neck. He wore the memory of her embrace like armor, and though he knew it would not save his life, it would be all that was left to him to ease his passage into whatever lay beyond.

  Chapter XIX

  55 BCE - Fall, Rome

  Year of the consulship of

  Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

  “We could be home within a year,” I whispered. Felix was asleep in his crib. From his own cot, Hanno kept shushing our every sentence with a noise louder than our speech. I lit another lamp to aid in my packing.

  Hanno said, “Bright.”

  “I am sorry, son. It will only be for a little while. Try to sleep.”

  “If I try, it never works.” I smiled at his exhibition of logic and he smiled back, knowing he had pleased me.

  “I can’t leave him, Andros,” Livia said, moving from our bed to stand over the crib. Under one arm she held a bundle of my folded tunics; with her free hand she tucked Felix’s blanket up under his dimpled chin and bent to kiss his forehead. “I can’t do it.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “That is what angers me the most.” I took the tunics from her and laid them neatly in the open trunk that lay in the center of our bedroom, a cubiculum so well-appointed and lavish it would put many senators’ own lodgings to shame.

  “Why are you still here?” Crassus stood in our doorway, the portiere drawn aside. His hands were not empty.

  Livia and I turned and spoke simultaneously, “Dominus!”

  Hanno sat up in his cot. “Father Jupiter! Hug?” At least the boy had learned to ask.

  “Not now, Hanno. Father Jupiter is displeased.”

  “That’s all right,” Hanno said, completely oblivious of our master’s tone. “I’ll wait right here.”

  “I thought,” I said, “to spend one more day with my family before departing for Brundisium.”

  “I told you I needed you there by the end of the week. You were supposed to have left today. It was not a suggestion, Alexandros.” Crassus only called me by my birth name when he was truly angry.

  “Dominus…,” Livia started.

  “The answer is ‘no,’ medicus. I did not send you to Egypt to learn to be a wet nurse. You and your skills will follow the army.” Livia looked at the floor. Thankfully, her unbound hair hid her expression.

  “If I leave the day after tomorrow, all will be in readiness for your arrival.”

  “You will leave at first light. I will not have you depart the day the cover is removed from the mundus. It will be seen as an ill omen; bad enough we’ll be leaving the city before the Plebeian Games have ended.”

  “Yes, dominus.”

  “I am sorry to put you through this,” he said, a shade less put out. He peered into the crib like a proud grandfather. I noticed that he was barefoot, and wondered how the coming months would treat his ailing feet. “Your domina will tend to your son as if he were her own, you have my word and hers. He couldn’t be in better care.”

  More and more, it seemed my lord was letting words fall from his mouth without permitting them to first pass through his brain. I could feel Livia vibrating by my side.

  Crassus opened his hand to reveal a golden amulet on a gold link chain. He held the chain and let the bulla swing free. “Your mistress will keep it for him to wear, when he is older.”

  “That is very generous of you, dominus. But a slave cannot—”

  “He can, if I will it so.” He dropped the heavy ornament into my hand. I felt the heft of it, then handed it back to him.

  “May we all return safely to see it adorn his neck. Livia, these are for you.” He held out two tunics trimmed with wide red stripes, the sign of a senior medicus. For a heartbeat, I thought she would refuse them, but sanity got the better of her and she mumbled gratitude.

  To me he said, “I was going to have your mate surprise you with this honor when she met up with you in Brundisium, but I see I shall have to rob her of that pleasure.” He handed me a 4-inch gold disk hung from a broad purple sash. The thick medal was reminiscent of the phalerae, awards centurions displayed proudly on their chests for deeds of valor. This one was inscribed with writing that encircled the entire circumference: “Alexandros, beloved of Crassus. Harm him, harm me. Disobey him, disobey me.” Within the circle, facing each other were two engraved likenesses, his, and my own. Between
them was an image of one of the lotus trees from the peristyle at the estate in Rome. On the back, these words were etched:

  A face once effective

  May one day be erased

  For one need having perished

  May find it's been replaced

  “What does this mean?” I risked asking.

  “Should you ever require the knowledge, Alexander, your intelligence will guide you. Now finish here,” he said curtly. “You have an early start.”

  On his way out of our room, Crassus detoured to allow Hanno to throw his arms around his true master. The boy never looked so happy as when he had just been given the gift of human touch. After we had given him our own hugs of good night, Hanno settled down and was in blissful sleep within moments.

  “I hate him,” Livia whispered after Crassus' steps had receded down the hallway.

  “I know that you don’t. Dominus does what he must.”

  “You didn’t even argue with him.”

  Livia wanted a fight, and I was close, posing no threat. “Argue? With him? Come, let us pour a cup of honeyed wine before bed. The packing is almost done.”

  “Finish it then.”

  “Livia, would you take Felix with us to Syria and beyond?”

  “I would have the right to choose to take him wherever you and I decide.”

  “As would I. But such talk is nonsense. Besides, what finer care could there be than that of our lady?”

  “The care of his mother.” She stood rigid, her hands at her sides.

  “How I wish I could comfort you.” I placed my hand close to hers, without touching.

  She was crying softly. “What a fool was that happy, whistling child.” Her fingers slid into mine. “Life is not what she imagined it would be. I was treated less cruelly in the house of Boaz, the slave merchant.”

  “Never say that,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Never think it.” We curled into each other’s arms, and Livia let me hold her until her sobs subsided.

  “I hate for you to see me cry,” she said, pushing me far enough away from her to hold me by my elbows.

  “Why? You will always be beautiful to me, no matter how red and puffy your face.”

  “It’s not that, dolt.”

  “To say nothing of the glistening of your runny nose.”

  “Enough.” She kissed me hard on the mouth. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t want you to think I am weak.”

  I laughed, kissing her eyes and nose, then, between each sentence, with increasing fervor, her mouth. “Concrete is weak. Marble is weak. Even Margianian steel is weak, compared to you. Now come, domina,” I said, tugging lightly at her hand. “Who knows when we will be able to share a bed again?”

  A short while later, Crassus reappeared, poking his head through the otherwise closed portiere. Barefoot to ease his bunions, we did not hear his approach, though had he stomped through the hallway in his caligae the surprise would likely have been no less. “I neglected to tell you, Alexander,” he said, stifling a yawn. “In your absence, Lucius Curio will perform your duties as atriensis.

  Chapter XX

  55 BCE - Fall, Brundisium

  Year of the consulship of

  Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

  On the fields to the east of Brundisium, before the troops prepared to board the ships, Crassus assembled the army. There he offered up many cleansed and garlanded sacrifices: seven lambs, seven bulls and seven pigs. Seven sets of three throats to be slit to ensure the safety of each legion. A city augur, proud of girth and unashamed of excess, possessed of such capacious jowls they’d have made a roomy pair of mittens, this practical priest had allowed his mouth to be stuffed with bribes too prodigious for a lesser man to swallow. A positive result having thus been secured, the relief of the gathered thousands was no less genuine when, after the sacred birds had been released, the blessed father interpreted their flight as an auspice that our enterprise was looked upon favorably by the gods.

  Crassus had had crafted seven of the most exquisite and opulent standards, taller and richer than any soldier had ever seen, crested with eagles of hammered silver and gold. The priest had blessed and anointed each with sacred oil. They were mounted in a row at the back of a raised reviewing stand, seven sanctified emblems that were the soul and strength of each legion. Beneath them, rustling gently in the slight breeze were many mounted, tasseled, purple vexilla, banners numbered with gold thread and images of wild animals, woven from the finest Tarentum lamb’s wool. Before these flags and standards stood the senior officers of the army, their helms and breastplates shining as brightly as the standards above their plumed heads.

  It is said the Hebrews would march to war carrying a small cabinet containing stones marked by the hand of their god. With this gilded ark leading them into battle, their armies would be blessed and protected; their god would not let them suffer defeat. Now Judea and its boxed god, their people rebellious and troublesome, squirm under the heel of Rome. Every army finds some pretty mystery on which to pin their hopes of victory: success proves faith justified, but defeat will not strip it away, for faith is impervious to calamity and disaster. Yet here they were: seven blessed standards, and every soldier who saw them, even the skeptics, believed with all or some part of his heart that with them marching before us, we could not fail.

  I dimly remember possessing this glazed look of wonder as a child. When I grew to manhood, I discovered that one of three things was true: either the gods had abandoned me, I was beneath their notice, or they did not exist. Soon the elegant proof of a boot in the back had me rethinking the lessons of childhood. The logic of starvation, when the most appetizing offering on the menu was a maggoty hunk of something that used to be bread, this evidence argued relentlessly for the reevaluation of the idea that someone above was keeping a lookout for me. The irrefutable theorem illustrated by men unafraid to meet your eyes as they beat you—these daily insults were better proof of the way of things than anything I had been taught as a child. They filed away at the chains of my reliance on the gods till they broke, and with almost no effort at all I was able to turn my back on them. Finding myself spiritually on my own was a revelation. I was alone, and better for it.

  Unless everything has been taken from you and your soul scraped clean of the last stains of foolish dependence on help from above, you cannot imagine how freeing it is to depend on nothing but your wits and the occasional bit of good luck. No, I put no stock in those seven eagles staring down upon us with cold metal eyes. I took far more comfort from Malchus’ sword arm, multiplied and compounded by thirty-eight thousand men with hard eyes and rigid discipline.

  •••

  I had arrived in the port city weeks ahead of the army, to meet with the priest, inspect the ships, inventory the cargo and smooth the way for our departure. I took quarters in the finest inn Brundisium had to offer, The Whistling Pilum. The name made me think of Livia, who was on the Via Appia at that moment, in all likelihood annoying one of the other healers with her tuneless tunes. I wished she was here to annoy me. When the engineers began arriving, they went right to work building a city of their own on the fields outside Brundisium’s walls. Hundreds of citizens poured from the port to watch, but were rebuffed when they offered to help. They were told they’d only be in the way, which was true, but feeling slighted, many returned to their tasks behind the walls.

  •••

  At a trumpeted signal from two dozen cornicines standing on a separate platform, men secreted among the 420 centuries raised thirteen foot tall standards stacked with bronze disks, silver wreaths and purple tassels that ended in a honed and oiled spear point, itself over eight inches long. (As I have said, the warlike Hebrews marched into battle with but a single divine emblem of their invincibility; Roman history was rife with evidence that where one sacred symbol was good, hundreds were better.)

  As each decorated pole was offered humbly to every century’s standard bearer, the shout that
went up from the troops created such a noise that within the city walls those that were not already watching the spectacle were joined by everyone else, bringing commerce, shipping and the entire city of Brundisium to a standstill.

  As he mounted the wooden steps to the main dais, Crassus handed his plumed helmet to me and smiled. I marveled at the weight of it, but he seemed to wear his armor lightly. His eyes were alight as they had not been since before Luca, the grievous events at that meeting having both darkened and narrowed his vision. He stepped crisply up to the raised wooden platform, his armor glowing dully under the overcast sky. The roar of the army escalated to madness as soon as his grey head could be seen climbing the steps. He took his time, greeting and complimenting his lieutenants, warmly grasping their forearms, each in his turn: Cassius Longinus, his quaestor, brave Octavius, loyal Petronius, ursine Vargunteius, Antoninus, Ignatius, and the one remaining officer whose memory I dishonor by my shameful inability to remember his name.

  Giddy with the enormity of this spectacle, I imagined what it would feel like to don the general’s helmet, to wear, just for a moment, the trappings of a god. Until that moment, I suppose I had never truly understood the power of the man to whose fate my own had been lashed. (Though ever since the night of our return from Baiae, the assistant who had become my replacement had succeeded in unnerving me on just that subject—decades of service and not even a private chat to break gently the calamitous news.)

  As the general spoke, his slow, careful words, having been memorized by the banner-bearers, were repeated loudly from where they stood so that all in the great multitude could hear. The timing was imperfect, creating eerie waves of words, cresting and falling in dissipating ripples.

  “Have you ever seen a legionary weep?” Crassus shouted. “I don’t mean the man who has lost at knucklebones ten times running; that poor wretch has cause to cry.” The general waited for the light breeze of laughter to pass. “I speak of a soldier, battle-dressed, armed with gladius and pilum, brilliant in polished helm and painted scutum. No, not this man, trained, strong, deadly: this is not a man who weeps. Yet today, your general stands before you, water welling in his eyes. Shall I tell you why? Because in my forty years of service to our people, I have seen and fought with many armies, but none such as this. The cohorts that blanket this field are the finest group of veterans that Rome has ever assembled! We are a Roman army—there is none finer in all the world! So, should my tears fall,” he shouted above the roar, “should my tears fall it is because I stand here, now, with you and for you, at the proudest moment of my life! And because you men of valor have chosen to stand here with me...,” Crassus continued to speak, but his final words went unheard, buried in an avalanche of cheers.