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

by Levkoff, Andrew

  “We’ff that in common,” Palaemon said, but his voice was uncertain.

  Livia extracted a long, thin, bronze tool from its pouch; it had a fine hook at one end. “I’ve got several of these; some have blunt ends for probing. Not this one; this I use for retracting tissue.” She twirled it in front of his cratered face. “Do you know what else it will do?” Palaemon shook his head, making the cheek protectors on his helmet flap on their hinges. “Once, in Alexandria, an African prince had an inflammation in his groin. As it happened, one of his testicles had gotten infected. I picked up his swollen sac and spread the skin tight.” She made the motion with her thumb and forefinger just in front of his nose. “With a scalpel, I made an incision, only an inch or so.” Palaemon, fascinated, tried not to look horrified. “Then I took this hook,” she said, reenacting the gesture, “reached inside and felt for the cord that held the diseased ball to the rest of him. One little tug and out it plopped, right into my hand, neat as you please. A snip with a scissors and he was half the man he used to be.”

  “You don’t scare me,” Palaemon said.

  “Really?” she said, leaning in and holding him with the green of her eyes. “That’s surprising, because, you see, I liked him.”

  “There’s a centurion up ahead. Octavius will send both you and Velus Herclides packing as soon as he hears there are criminals in the ranks. Centurion!” I shouted.

  “Ffeelus said you’d say that. When you did, he told me to tell you and all your friends this: congratulations on your little son. Felickth, is it?” We froze. “You’re a long way from Rome. And Ffeelus left many frenss behind. So lesss us be frenss, too, and effryone gess what they want. We get our share of the treasure, your boy stays healthy, effreybody’s haffy.”

  “What is it?” The officer was short, squat and ugly, the opposite of his plumed helmet and five phalerae strapped across his chest. He must have spent hours polishing those medals which he wore with casual pride as they glowed in the afternoon sun. I imagined he was equally proud of the scars on his arms and legs. In three, maybe four heartbeats I weighed the probability that Velus was bluffing (Palaemon was nothing more than his mouthpiece), and even if he wasn’t, no one could ever get close enough to Felix to harm him. I could not even confirm that Herclides was here. “Well?” the centurion pressed.

  I was about to have him lay hold of Palaemon when Livia said, “I’ve got something for that arm. Looks like it hurts.” We were walking again. The left gate was only a few hundred feet away.

  “This?” he scoffed. “I did that to myself this morning. Tripped on a guy rope. Don’t deserve any salve. And if my men saw it on me, they’d laugh and then I be forced to beat ‘em with my vine stick.” He waved the gnarled and glossy emblem of his rank in her face. “You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you, miss?”

  “Look—” I started.

  “Of course not,” Livia said. “I hear the general has something special planned for tonight.”

  “That he does. Got some musicians to entertain us. Brought ‘em in from Cyrrhus. Dancing girls, too. Though I guess there’s no pleasure in that for you.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised where I take my pleasure,” my wife said, staring pointedly at Palaemon. He felt her eyes on him, I am sure, but kept his gaze rooted to the dirt at his feet.

  Chapter XXV

  55 – 54 BCE - Winter, On the March

  Year of the consulship of

  Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

  The higher up the chain of authority it traveled, the less the news of Palaemon’s and Herclides’ presence in the army was of interest. Malchus was furious, demonstrating his ire with personal threats and vows of bloody retribution should anything unfortunate befall any person anywhere, not only my family, as a result of contact with those two criminals. Once he’d caught his breath, Malchus then complained to his centurion, who spit, cursed and railed bitterly to Vel Corto, primus pilus, that his two sons had been turned away when they might have had a place in the ranks but for this breach in army regulations. Corto, the highest ranking centurion in the army, annoyed that he had been interrupted during a winning round of latrunculi with legate Petronius, had the soldiers brought before him. Both men were in the 9th cohort of Legion VII, not a particularly senior posting. But the lead identity tags in the pouches around their necks were in order. Malchus said he would bear witness against their treachery, so Petronius said there was nothing Vel Corto could do but refer the matter to Gaius Octavius, legate of Legion I. Velus Herclides, his beard regrown so full it almost hid the sly grin he’d been saving for this moment, handed Octavius the letters of recommendation signed by P. Crassus himself, and that was the end of that.

  •••

  “Read me that last one again.”

  We were encamped near Pella. No, that’s not true. Our camp was close by the few shoddy structures crouched disrespectfully among the cracked and fallen columns that were once known as that great meeting place of nations, but this ruin did not deserve to claim the name of Pella. Here there had been art, intellect, grace and science, for this had been the capital city of Philippos of Macedon, father of the great Alexandros. But neither man nor Nature had smiled upon this once-great megalopolis. More than a hundred years ago, Pella had suffered the same fate as a thousand other city-states: everything of value had been spirited away by the Romans, and what they left was not worth keeping. The soul of the city had been torn away, and the tatters that remained were enough to mourn, but not to give hope. Any stout-hearted citizens who endured to begin rebuilding were thoroughly discouraged not long thereafter, when an earthquake that would have knocked the teeth from a Titan razed what little the Romans had left standing.

  Now, Pella is a monument to the Ephemeral. Alexandros conquered the known world, and this is what has become of his palace in a mere three hundred years. How will it look in a thousand? Crassus wanted to march his army all the way to India and the Outer Sea. When I think about these things, even now they still make me chuckle.

  I reached into the courier’s tube and withdrew the innermost among several dozens of letters. We were in the general’s tent; Crassus lay on his side, ready for bed in his night tunic, his head propped on pillows at the foot of his lectus. We had waited to begin reading Tertulla’s packet of letters until after the young man sent by Livia had left. The apprentice healer had massaged dominus’ feet with a salve meant to alleviate his soreness and the pain from his bunions. The jar of brown paste my wife had concocted now sat open on the general’s night table by his glossy toes, creating an eye-watering zone guaranteed free from arthropod or human incursion. I sat in his big chair with two oil lamps between us. Crassus claimed his eyes grew tired toward the end of the day, but he could have waited till morning to read her letters. Did his father read to him as a child? I would have asked, but I was within slapping distance.

  “This was written not long after we departed Brundisium.

  Dearest husband, I pray this letter finds you well and without care. You are barely gone, and I find that either I have shrunk, or this house has tripled in size. How larger-than-life is the man I have married! I never knew till now how Marcus Crassus could fill a room. And such a joyless void is left behind when he departs.

  I must take lessons from our daughter-in-law. Cornelia is a delight. She is full of optimism and gaiety and has made it her solemn duty to infect me with her cheer while we wait for the return of our victorious husbands and son. I fear her task is Herculean. My melancholy may be forgiven; not since you left to put down the rebel Spartacus have my bed and I spent so many nights alone. We are vexed.

  Curio is a master of order, and the estate has never run more smoothly, but at least Alexander was not an insufferable bore. Yesterday, I innocently asked Lucius if there were any women in his life and with a face as straight as an arrow he replied, “You are the only woman in my life, mistress.” When I laughed aloud, he took offense and retired. I haven't seen him sinc
e.

  One of the peacocks has died, and I mourn alone. Cornelia wanted to eat it! And Curio lobbied to pluck its quills for writing pens. I told them such customs might be practiced in other houses, but here there is only one way beauty and the passing of all things wondrous are honored—on the pyre.

  Tell Livia that Eirene and I fight over Felix daily; he is the happiest, fattest baby I have ever seen. No wonder, with three girls offering their breasts every time he yawns. Send her my love and remind Alexander of his promise to me to keep you safe.

  He had better, since it is now he who pours your wine, who has discourse with you on all matters great and small, and when his work is done, it is he who may walk but a few steps to hold his Livia. He has you both while mountains and seas separate me from you. It is unfair beyond bearing, and if I did not love you so, I should hate the both of you fiercely. You must ignore this jealous old hen, and kiss me in your thoughts.

  Eternally, Tertulla

  “She is the most magnificent forty-six year-old hen ever hatched, is she not?” Crassus asked, taking the letter and inhaling its perfume once again before I replaced it in its tin with the others.

  “In this tent, she is first among all women. In another, she is second only by the width of a hummingbird’s tongue.”

  “Love has made you a diplomat,” Crassus said. “Multiply that craft by three hundred, the issues by a thousand and behold, you are ready to take your place in the senate.”

  No, I will not say ‘I am happy where I am.’ “Shall we answer this one before retiring?”

  “Tomorrow. Rest well, Alexander. Rest well.”

  As I had so often before, I disobeyed my master, for my rest was uneasy. Domina’s letter had stirred a mind ever-intent on self-destruction, and ideas that should have remained quiescent began pecking at the interior of their shells.

  •••

  The way across Illyricum, Macedonia and Thrace is made almost bearable by a lovely bit of road some thoughtful Roman had built right across the entire northern peninsula. This twenty-foot wide paved and drained marvel made it clear why Roman planning is so vital to its empire: imagine an army tramping through the countryside day after day, negotiating rivers and mountain passes without them. These feats of engineering increase speed and reduce fatigue, taking soldiers, settlers and commerce swiftly to their goals—usually a conquered province. Romans’ chiseled sense of purpose is as wondrous as it is terrifying.

  The road is the Via Egnatia. It stretches 700 miles, from dreary Dyrrhachium all the way to where two seas press the land to the thinnest of strips, where the petals of so many peripatetic cultures had converged to form the rose of what, for six hundred years, we Greeks called Byzantion. You Romans know it as Byzantium. But we were not itinerant travelers, nor could we tarry. I whimpered as we marched past banners briskly snapping atop the city walls and crossed over into Asia Minor. That leg of our journey took over two months. And it was the easiest by far.

  When I say “we marched,” or “our journey,” understand that these unassuming pronouns bear the weight of a multitude so vast that when I speak of it your imagination will stretch and tear to comprehend and contain it. Not since Alexandros swept through Persia and beyond had such a “we” been amassed by any conqueror. Oh, generals had and would command larger armies, but they were sanctioned, salaried and provisioned by the state. The army of Crassus was the army of Crassus. Tens of millions of his own sesterces, heaped upon the promise of untold plunder drew dismissed and disbanded veterans like bears to honey. They didn’t seem to mind at all that at the midway point of their journey they would be required to fight a war. Some of these men had been given land or taken retirement; others labored as laymen; a few, like Palaemon and Herclides, who could not or would not return to peaceful society, chose to live outside it as criminals. But none would ever, as the Hebrews falsely prophesied, “beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” These fighting men turned farmers, tradesmen, husbands and fathers, leapt to sharpen their sheathed swords and polish their tarnished belts. By the thousands they sloughed off the trappings of lives lived as play actors and ran to answer the siren call of adventure, camaraderie and glory.

  This was the juggernaut that Crassus led to Syria. I must warn you that to describe the spectacle of a Roman army on the march to one who has not seen it for himself is an undertaking as futile as depicting the breadth and majesty of the star-pierced heavens to a blind man. In truth, unless one grows wings and takes to the skies it cannot be done: from the ground one has but a dust-veiled inkling of the ferocious whole.

  Why will you veer, Alexandros, from the narrative of your tale to take time and parchment to set down the size and nature of the army of Crassus? Why must you send your readers back to school, perhaps against their will? Why risk them wandering off to some other distraction, when there is so much more to tell?

  The answer is simple: to comprehend the scale of the tragedy, one must understand the magnitude of the undertaking. However, if you have no interest in the bowl, but crave only the pudding, then by all means, skip ahead, skip ahead.

  •••

  The column was preceded by scouts—archers, slingers and one ala, a wing of cavalry, about a thousand men all told. Then, still ahead of the main body came a vanguard of one legion and another ala of cavalry. Our army was already diminished by the tragedy of our crossing from Brundisium. Casualties of a war that had not yet begun.

  Behind the vanguard came surveyors and engineers, marching alongside mules laden with their tools and instruments. Each night they built the fortified town that was the army’s camp. A day’s march averaged about eighteen miles, depending on the terrain and the roads, if any. The camp would be laid out and protected by the time the remaining legions began arriving some five or six hours after the start of the day’s march. If it could not be found within the camp’s boundaries, pasture would have to be found and secured for 25,000 horses and mules. Every night.

  Crassus and his officers came after the survey teams, surrounded by an elite cohort of bodyguards, 450 legionaries, mounted to keep pace with the general. I had seen to the purchase of a most magnificent tent for the general: it took five mules to bear the poles, leather and trappings. His personal gear was borne by twenty-five pack animals. It was my task to oversee his forty personal servants who followed at the back of the column with cooks, doctors, including the limping chief medicus, Darius Musclena, and a thousand other non-combatants. After the legates and other officers there then followed the mass of the army: five legions flanked by cavalry. The baggage train, seven miles long of its own accord, was protected by the seventh legion and 1,000 auxiliary cavalry. The remainder of a total of 2,500 horsemen patrolled up and down the flanks of the column.

  From the first scout to leave at dawn to the last mounted archer to arrive at the finished camp, the army of Crassus snaked through the landscape for over fourteen miles! And that was marching six abreast. When the way was narrow, the length of this ophidian behemoth grew longer still.

  •••

  Now both Nature and man strove to impair our progress. The mountain ridges of Bithynia had either to be scaled or circumvented, and its rivers and streams, as many as three in a day, had to be forded. Once, the earth shook so violently beneath our feet, the steep hills dislodged a rocky attack upon our flanks. Many men were unbalanced and thrown to the ground, upsetting the military precision of our progress into jumbled, cursing chaos. Sometimes broad, sometimes narrow, often in need of repair, the Via Egnatia’s poorer country cousin pinched our ranks and caught at our feet. I am told that it is a Roman general’s duty to apply his engineers and legionaries to the health and recovery of these cobbled arteries to ease the passage of those who would follow. Not Crassus. He pressed forward, leaving this frivolous task to armies of the future, for whipped by the terrors that afflicted him by night, he was not to be impeded by day.

  That is until some fifty miles northwest of the Galatian cap
ital of Ancyra his way was blocked at a wide crossroads by Deiotarus. He rode at the head of a hundred chariots disturbingly reminiscent of the Celtic variety that had drained the pink from my cheeks when Publius had returned to Rome. The memory was fresh enough to produce the same effect, and I instinctively turned to search for Livia in the haze of men behind me. At least no severed heads dangled from the charioteers’ belts or harnesses.

  Deiotarus, like Culhwch, was an ally, but unlike Brenus’ father, this cunning ruler with ruddy complexion and braids of white was no prince, but a king. It was the source of his crown that rankled my master. Deiotarus, a tetrarch of Galatia, had assisted Pompeius a decade earlier in his fight against the obstreperous Mithridates, king of Pontus. As a reward, Pompeius had given him sovereignty over the other Galatian tetrarchs and lobbied the senate on his behalf to bestow upon him the honorific of King of Lesser Armenia. Reluctantly, at the urging of Cassius and Octavius, who recognized that a hundred thousand sore feet could do with a day of rest, dominus tarried at the king’s invitation to admire the construction of the king’s new fortress at Blucium.

  Supper in the impressive but unfinished dining hall was as lavish and varied as the conversation was not. At least the roof over our heads offered protection from the elements. Though a huge fire hissed and popped in the grate, we were none of us warmed by the chill spread by my master’s sullenness. Standing behind him at my customary wall-bracing post, my stomach churned with embarrassment at his ill manners. He made no effort to engage his host in conversation, answering his inquiries with little thought and fewer words. My lord had hardly touched his food, but his wine cup was well-caressed.

  “So,” the king said, swallowing a mouthful of roast lamb and wiping his fingers on a square of cloth, “on your way to pay a social call on King Orodes, are you?” They sat next to each other at the high table.