From the back, a deep voice called, “By Lugos, I know that man.”
Someone else said, “Move aside,” and to my amazement, they did, although when I saw who it was who had spoken, amazement faded, replaced by astonishment.
“Taog. Brenus! Praise the gods!” The giant Taog cleared the way until he and Brenus were part of the circle that surrounded me. “Wait a minute. What are you two doing here?”
“I’ll ask the questions!” the decurion said to Brenus.
Culhwch’s son hesitated, then said, “My father requested it. I’m not your master’s son. Crassus could not ride with Publius; Culhwch would not ride with me.” He spoke as if each word were a spider in his mouth.
“You’re out of line, Brenus,” said the captain, “Speak to me when I address you. You vouch for this slave?”
“I do. He is…attensis to Marcus Crassus.”
“Atriensis,” the captain corrected. He held the Celt’s eyes, looking for truth, then motioned with his free hand and the lances rose till their tips no longer pointed at my vitals. “If you were mine,” he said to me, “I’d beat some of the arrogance out of you.”
“You would not be the first to wish it, sir, and I expect you’ll not be the last to discover that, on occasion, it has been done.”
“Good to hear. Training and discipline, man. Training and discipline.”
“It is our life’s lot. Both yours and mine.”
He scanned my face for insubordination, but mildness was all I let him see. “What were you doing out here, atriensis? We might easily have skewered you,” he said wistfully.
“I was looking for you,” I said breezily. “My lord is anxious for the army to be joined.”
“Off the main road? Without an escort? General Crassus must be less happy with you than you think.”
“That is always a possibility,” I said. “What news of the fleet, captain? How was your voyage?”
The decurion wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his helmet. When he was finished, he was a different man. “It was a Herculaneum holiday. What do you think?” He turned his horse and rode off.
The scouts escorted me back to camp. No one would talk to me about the crossing. They were bringing some good news, though: if tomorrow Crassus would halt his column after fourteen miles instead of eighteen, Octavius would march twenty-two; by evening we could be whole again. On the way back, I tried to engage the Celts, but Taog was silent and Brenus’ answers were curt and guarded. I asked if they had seen Livia, but they said they knew of no one by that name. Of course! She had not attended the celebration for Publius; they would not even know what she looked like. Then why did the two of them fairly ripple with discomfiture?
Chapter XXIII
55 – 54 BCE - Winter, On the March
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives
The following afternoon, on the open Macedonian plain, Crassus declared a day of rest to honor the army’s reunion. Sacrifices were made in the new, larger camp forum; lamb, beef cattle and wine were purchased by Cassius from a cowering village nearby, and the centurions were hard-pressed to maintain any kind of order till curfew the following sundown.
The tumult of over thirty-five thousand soldiers settling in for an evening of revelry stole through the walls of the general’s tent as quietly as a triumph. But I was not yet done writing the day’s letter to Tertulla. Somewhere out there, I prayed, Livia waited for me. My lord had just said, “how I miss the sound of your laugh, the touch of your soft cheek, columba…,” but instead of writing “dove” I had begun to spell “Livia.” Horrified, I crumpled up the parchment and begged dominus’ forgiveness. Crassus stopped his pacing and walked over to the table. He snatched up the ruined lump, picked its edges open and read. Then he put both hands on the writing table, leaned toward me and said, “Go. And don’t let me see your face till morning.” I leapt from my seat spewing thanks, but before I could escape, he added, “Don’t throw that out. We’ll finish it tomorrow. You’re not the only one who misses his wife.” There were so many layers of irony in that statement I almost choked. Before my mouth could betray me, I fled into the light.
I ran down the Via Praetoria, the center street of the camp, until some unsympathetic optio put a hand on my chest and insisted I walk. Skirting the quaestorium at the opposite end of the camp from dominus’ tent, I overheard Cassius chastising a subaltern for a daily inventory coming up short one wheel of cheese. Well done, Cassius; a man after my own heart. I left the fort through the Porta Decumana, the western, rear gate. Wading through the six centuries assigned to guard duty, I must have been asked at least that many times if I was sure I knew the daily password without which I would be denied re-entry. At last, I made my way into the muddy puzzle of tottering sheds and unskinned tents selling everything from jewelry to cookware, shoddy armor to burned bread. Aisles of food kiosks were fully manned by sweating men and women frying, baking and yelling, the smoke of their battles to win the war of commerce rising grey against the pink sky. Shouting merchants clamored in tongues only their wares could translate, all trying with laughable success to emulate the order and precision of the Roman camp to which they clung. I had entered the city of camp followers.
Thank Apollo for my love’s idiosyncrasies, and for my ardent love of almost all of them. (It must be noted, Elysium be praised, Livia chose to crane her neck to look past far more of my own peculiarities.) I approached a large, well-staked goatskin tent. Just outside, two black-skinned women, wrapped head to toe in a discord of colors so bright they blinked the eye, sat cross-legged on reed mats mending other more mundane pieces of clothing, a tunic and a subligaculum. From within, I heard the sound of humming. Even had I not recognized that non-melody of happy preoccupation, the two legionaries stationed at either end of the tent stakes assured me I was in the right place. Saying another little prayer to Crassus for finding her and arranging for her safety, I doubled back, found a wine merchant and haggled very briefly for a corked skin of mulsum, boiled wine and honey, for only three times its cost in the city. Then I returned and stood outside her tent flaps and called, “Healer! I have a hangnail that requires attention.”
The humming stopped immediately. The legionary on the left winked broadly, then his face returned to stone.
“Sorry, soldier, I’m off duty,” she called. “Try the clinic—it’s on the Via Principalis halfway between the Praetorium and the left gate.” The sound of the laughter in her voice was honey poured on sweet pine nut custard—almost too much to bear.
“Ow,” I cried. “It really hurts. I can’t walk.”
“You’re such a baby,” Livia said, throwing the tent flap aside as she ducked and stood upright. “Nebta, Khety, this is my heroic Alexandros.”
The two women looked up from their sewing and giggled.
“Oh,” I said stupidly, because I was looking at Livia, and saw that she had changed. There was a newness about her, a veneer of transcendence that lay about her like a shield. Her red hair was pinned up, and like me, she wore a plain, mid-thigh tunic, belt and sandals. A red cloak was thrown casually over her right arm. Otherwise, we were dressed the same, save for my throwing knives and badge of office (I remembered it this time), the red trim on the tunic Crassus had given her declaring her a healer, and a smudge on her left cheek. We stood three feet apart, toes curling to fling ourselves into each other’s arms, savoring the agony of postponement. A smiling legionary I did not know passed behind me and patted me on the shoulder.
“Nebta and Khety are your friends,” I said, more statement than question.
“And now they are your friends.” There was a story there, which I immediately accepted.
“They are indeed.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, master,” the woman on the left said. Her voice was thick and sweet with an accent that rose and fell like song. “I am Nebta.” Nebta wore a small gold hoop through her left nostril.
&
nbsp; “Nebta.” I nodded. “Call me Alexandros. I am no one’s master.”
I do not know why, but this set the African women giggling again. They spoke to each other in a new language, one I had never heard before, full of sounds as exotic as their dress. Their voices were huskier than their laughter.
“Where did you learn to speak Greek?” I asked.
The one called Khety answered, the large gold hoops in her ears bouncing off her graceful neck as she spoke. “The whole world learned to speak Greek after the other Alexandros came.”
“They’re from Oxyrhynchou Polis,” Livia said. “South of Memphis. I met them…just outside Dyrrachium. They were looking for work.”
Something caught my eye. I went to lift the cloak from Livia’s arm but she pulled away from me. “What are you hiding?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Then show me this nothing.” Livia reluctantly draped the long cloak over her other arm, revealing bright bruises on her legs and what appeared to be a long, deep red rope burn on her forearm. I shuddered. “How did this happen? Are you all right?” This last question is one of the most useless one can ask once an emergency has past, yet it is also one of the most ubiquitous. One simply cannot help oneself from asking it.
“I’m fine. I’ll tell you later. When we’re alone.” She made it sound like an amorous thing, which it clearly was not. Nebta and Khety found it funny enough, but I was beginning to suspect a fine mesh in the netting of things they did not find humorous.
“Well, it has been extremely nice to meet both of you, Nebta and Khety, but I have not seen my lady in a very long a time and I am hoping she will join me for a stroll. There is a copse…”
“I am very fond of copses,” Livia said, shifting the cloak back again to cover her injuries.
Soft hands flew to mouths, repressing mirth. I am generally opposed to romantic displays in front of an audience, mine or anyone else’s, but these two simple innocents, so pure of heart, made me want to drop to my knees and embrace them. This I resisted, but they did pry a smile from the old stork. They were irrepressibly, infectiously happy.
“Gentlemen,” I said to the legionaries. “What are your orders?”
“To guard the medicus,” said the non-winking soldier.
“Do either of you have any problem taking amended orders from me?”
“We know who you are,” said the winker.
“Good. You will also protect all the occupants of this tent, whether inside or out, to the best of your ability. You will follow the medicus’ orders as if they were my own. You will also remain with Nebta and Khety while the medicus is under my protection. You will pass these instructions on to your relief. Understood? Thank you.”
“You are a kind man, Alexandros of Elateia,” said Khety, handing the mended tunic up to the legionary on my right. He touched his hand to his helmet and handed her a coin. She reached behind her into the tent and pulled out two beautiful woven cloaks of black, yellow and green. “Take these. It will be cold on the plain.”
Nebta handed the patched piece of underwear up to the winker. “With respect, sir,” he said, snatching the subligaculum from her and stuffing it away while gesturing at my knives (which, since we were outside the pomerium, I wore belted and visible), “are you really expecting those teeth cleaners to get you out of trouble better than this here.” He patted his gladius. The underwear peeking out from his belt stole more than a little of his masculine swagger.
“No, legionary, I am expecting these teeth cleaners to have the good manners, when the time comes, to look the other way.” Finally, a grunt of laughter from the silent soldier. “Now then, doctor,” I continued, “shall we walk? It’s not too far. Still, we might raise a thirst.” I hoisted the wine skin like a trophy, then felt relief pour through me as Livia slipped her hand in mine. Could there be a man more proud in all of Macedonia?
“Why the extra cloak?” I asked as we turned to go. “Your friend was kind enough to loan us these. You don’t need to conceal anything now.”
“It rained yesterday,” Livia answered. “The ground may be damp.” Nebta and Khety’s African/Greek chorus of titters continued till we were beyond hearing.
•••
The army’s camp was surrounded by farmland; it was not easy to find seclusion. When we arrived at a wooded depression split by a small stream, we were not surprised to discover we would not have the place to ourselves. I wanted to leave, but Livia spread her cloak beside a legionary-free cypress and pulled me down beside her. Truth to tell, no one seemed interested in us at all. And when Livia kissed me, my disinterest in anything not Livia became flawless.
There is lovemaking that is gentle, leisurely, laced with amorous whispers and the romance of long, slow kisses. But there is another kind, serving another purpose. Ours, on the day I discovered that Livia had survived the Adriatic crossing, when we held each other in a foreign land on our way to a foreign war, was to rail against our plight with our bodies, and for a few precious moments to reclaim our destiny with our passion. Our need for each other was ardent, urgent and swift.
I am ancient now far beyond my fair share of years. I need only look at the blue rivers pushing ever higher against the weather-beaten surface of my crooked hands to see the proof. But this skinny old stork is not me. Alexandros is not this old man; he is hiding inside this wreck of a body. Can you understand this? Let me explain. There comes a time, somewhere between adulthood and the deathbed, when we become the people we are intended to be. Given time, we continue to learn, we continue to grow, but we are shaped, and that shape is fixed, for good or for bad. When does this happen? Only the gods know, for no man lives so completely in the present to be able to recognize the moment it occurs. But from that instant ever onwards, if he is lucky, while his bones grow brittle, his heart will remain supple; as his eyes grow dim, the world will still lay clearly before him. For me, I am fairly certain that the day I lay with Livia beneath the spear of a Macedonian cypress was the day that I stopped aging.
•••
Afterwards, we lay on our backs, breathless. A light breeze blew; we pulled Khety’s colorful handiwork about us and let time and the world right themselves once again. After a while, when we had drifted back into our own bodies and our own separate thoughts, I said, “Tell me how you came by those marks.”
“I feel wonderful, don’t you?”
“Fine. Tell me, then, about your new friends.”
“There’s not much to tell,” Livia said, kissing the tips of my fingers. “They’re whores, I love them, and they saved me from getting raped. Oh yes! Let me tell you about Musclena.”
“They’re prostitutes?!”
“What did you think they were?”
“Seamstresses. Tailors, menders.”
“Well, they do that, too, of course. They’re quite resourceful.”
“I can see that. I’m sorry, did you say ‘rape?’”
“It was nothing. No one touched me. I’m perfectly fine.” I stared at her. “I swear by our favorite statue of Apollo in the garden of our master.”
“Certainly, then, by all means, do tell me about Musclena.”
“You remember, of course,” Livia said, sitting up to throw her tunic over her head, “he’s my superior, chief medicus for the army.” She reached behind her with both hands to withdraw her hair from the inside of her tunic and bind it as she spoke. “He’s a fine surgeon, by all accounts, but the type that knows what he knows and anything outside of that is ignorance. So of course we got off on the wrong foot. Which is quite funny, when you think about it.”
“Was I expected to understand that reference, or wait a bit?”
“Wait, my sweet pelargós. I caught up with the healers two days after we left Dyrrachium. Dario Musclena is willful and stubborn. How do I know this? He was walking beside one of the medical supply carts when he should have been riding in it. He had a pronounced limp. I hopped up into the cart, grabbed one of the walking
sticks and jumped down to offer it to him. He refused it! I tossed it back up where it was no use to anyone and walked beside him, which I think pained him as much as his foot.
“Did you know, Andros, that you cannot sneer with just your lips; you’ve got to use your nose, too. If you want to practice, I’ll introduce you to Musclena. You know his type: he looks down at you no matter how tall you are. No question, though, the man’s good looking, if your taste runs to superior intellect in Olympian form—grey curls, blue eyes, thin lips, elegant nose.”
“How fortunate for me your taste in intellect lies elsewhere.”
“How fortunate for me,” Livia said, “it lies right here beside me.”
“Let me have it then, brag away, how did you heal the healer?”
“I haven’t, but I shall. You know how I love to make a nuisance of myself to arrogant men, so looking at his swollen, bandaged foot, I asked him if he’d ever traveled in Africa. He said he didn’t see how that was any of my concern. ‘I’m a healer,’ I said. ‘You’re not my healer,’ he told me. ‘One,’ I said to myself. I asked him, lifting the red trim on the sleeve of my tunic if it would be an appropriate time to introduce myself. He said he already knew who I was, and as far as he was concerned, the slave plaque around my neck carried more weight with him than the clothes I was wearing. I could take it as a standing order to stay out of his and every other legitimate healer’s way. I admit, that surprised me.
“I’ll speak to dominus.”
“You’ll do no such thing. That will make matters even worse.”
“You and I are here, miles away from our son; what could be worse than that?”
“Stop it, Andros. We are here, and there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ll get through it, somehow.”
“Of course we will. Go on.”
“That’s it, really. I said to myself, ‘Livia, you made a decent effort.’ Before I walked off ahead of him, whistling as loud as I could, I said to him, ‘By the way, there’s a reason they call it dragon worm.’ I laughed when he called after me, ‘Nonsense.’ And that was two.”
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 27