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

by Levkoff, Andrew

  “We do not own that stream, sir, though we have built our homes about it, and our lives depend upon it. So if you asked them, the villagers of Sinjar would gladly swear allegiance to that water.”

  “You are impertinent,” Cassius Longinus said, “or woefully ignorant.”

  Melyaket answered, “If you permit me, sir, ignorance suits me far better.”

  “That I doubt,” said Longinus.

  Legate Ignatius of Legion V spoke up, having been handed one of the general staff’s maps by a centurion. “The Parthians claim everything east of the Euphrates. The Jebel Sinjar is an insignificant range of mountains at its northwest border; nothing else in any direction for miles save empty desert. Nevertheless, King Orodes would most definitely insist it belongs to him.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Melyaket said. “I’m a Parthian.”

  “General, this is too much,” Cassius said, pleading, “a Parthian in our midst?”

  “Calm yourself, Cassius. I don’t think this young man can be much of a threat to seven legions.”

  “He could easily be a spy.”

  Vargunteius, a commander I took to be of more temperate demeanor said, “Look about us, Cassius. I wager one in twenty are Parthians. Who among this throng does not know why we are here?”

  “Worthy king,” Crassus asked Abgarus, “when was the last time Roman legions were seen massed in Syria?”

  Ariamnes twisted the shiny ornaments of hair above his lips in thought. “Let me see…”

  “Petronius, have we had any word of a defense being mounted against us?”

  The commander looked to Crassus. “Whether ten or ten thousand,” said dominus, “does the sea serpent flinch from the number of minnows that appear out of the murk? The beast swims where it will. Speak freely, Petronius.”

  The legate of Legion II said, “None. Many of the towns across the Euphrates have been populated by the seed of Alexander. These Macedonian and Greek settlements will most likely welcome us as liberators.”

  “Alexander, you’ve been very quiet. Let’s hear what you have to say.” Most of the legates leaned in to listen, though one or two were smiling. Cassius turned away.

  “Through Armenia, Osrhoene is a sworn ally of Rome. Its king is therefore held by that bond. I cannot speak for the Parthian.”

  “There, you see,” Crassus said. “If Alexander says it, it is so.”

  “Alexander said nothing of the Parthian,” Cassius said.

  “If I may ask,” King Abgarus inquired, “what post does Alexander hold in your staff?”

  “He is my closest personal advisor, and has held the position for over thirty years. No strategic decision regarding my affairs is made without his counsel. Why do you ask?”

  The king said, “Is he not a slave?”

  “How is that relevant? Is that not a horse you are riding? Whether the animal belongs to you or is borrowed from another, are you still not upon its back? Does it still not function exactly as a horse?”

  How comforting, master, to find that though the years have greyed your hair and stolen from your once stately height, your penchant for hurling spears of unstudied disregard continues still, undulled and unabated.

  “General,” Cassius persisted, “the matter of the Parthian.”

  Crassus laughed. “Longinus, I heartily approve of your caution. But reason it out. Let us assume the man is a spy. Let us say the next ear in which he whispers is that of Orodes himself. The only thing this spy could tell his master is, ‘I have seen the Romans. Save yourselves.’”

  Dominus turned in his saddle to look over Abgarus so he could face Melyaket eye to eye. “Melyaket puhr Karach, you have nothing to fear from Rome. When Parthia has become our easternmost province, life in your little village of, what was it? Shingar?”

  “Sinjar.”

  “Life in Sinjar will change not one jot. We are here to negotiate a peace. The skirmishes that have scarred our frontiers need not continue. If your king will but swear allegiance to Rome, Parthia will continue as it always has. So, if you are a spy, be certain when you depart to relay that message to your master.” His tone and smile were avuncular.

  “I would do so, my lord, were I ever to see him, but I doubt he would believe me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Two reasons. If a man walks into a room where another is sitting and demands his chair, how can he trust that life will continue as it always has if he must give up his seat? At best, the chair the man owned will no longer be his and at worst, the man will be left standing.”

  Cassius almost whined with ardency, “General, let me take him into custody, I beg of you.”

  “With apologies, great general,” Melyaket said, glancing at Cassius with a twitch of an eyebrow that said I am no threat to you and you are no match for me, “some version of that very thought is in the mind of every person who has seen the dust raised by this column, a cloud surely visible from here to Aleppo. It is no trick to imagine what everyone across the Euphrates, even the king, is thinking.”

  “Even so, we prefer peace. Let us hear the second reason.”

  “The second lies within the first. The king is fond of his gold.”

  “You seem to know much about the mind of King Orodes.”

  “He is a king. Is this not true of all kings?”

  Everyone laughed, with the exception of Cassius, who was already planning to post two guards on this Melyaket wherever he went; four when he was near the person of the general.

  •••

  We had come into a very large, tree-lined plaza with six roads radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. At its “hub” rose a massive fountain: a charioteer road half-immersed marble waves, water spraying from the nostrils of his four flying mounts. The city sprawled before us, spreading out from the banks of the river, crawling westward as far as it could up the steep flank of the mountain to our left. The road we traveled continued south through the plaza; off in the distance rose gently sloping hills and the misty outlines of a high-walled garrison. The circle that defined the plaza was not quite complete, sliced through by parks and gardens that honored the banks of the Orontes. Just ahead and to the right, a gently arcing bridge crossed the river to an island so large I did not recognize it as such. We turned to ride to its apex, then Crassus bid us halt. We turned and looked back, watching as Marcus Antonius and Octavius passed at the head of endless ranks of men eager to shed their gear in the fort beyond the palace.

  “Your highness, I would be honored,” said the general to the king, “if you would accompany me to the palace.” He turned to Cassius. “Go follow Octavius. Let him know I’ll be laying on a feast for them after these games. And pass the word, once they’ve been billeted, three days leave. After that, drilling as usual. Alexander—with me.” As always, the cream of the evocati, fifty of Crassus' most trusted legionaries accompanied us over the wide bridge. I looked behind me and caught a glimpse of Malchus and Betto. I did not wave, that would be unseemly, but big Malchus gave me a wide grin. Betto looked too uncomfortable on his mount to smile at anything or anyone.

  •••

  Yes, reader, I could have told you earlier that this Melyaket puhr Karach was the very same irritatingly attentive old ruffian to whom I had introduced you many scrolls ago. Are not my gnarled joints tired and stiff enough? Have you no responsibility whatsoever? You might have rummaged through these ramblings to see for yourself. One might also ask, how many Melyakets does one meet in a lifetime?

  The truth is, I was not paying much attention to either Crassus or anyone else. The marvel of Antioch was unfurled before me; my eyes and mind were filled with little else. Here there were great works of art, a theater, temples to Athena and Ares that not even the Romans dared disturb. Somewhere hidden among these graceful, paved streets there was even a library which had stood for almost two hundred years. Antiochus III had enticed the epic Greek poet, Euphorion of Chalcis to be its first librarian. I ached to find it, and hoped that Crassus might giv
e Livia and me leave to spend a few hours amid its wonders.

  A nagging consternation was finally resolved as we crossed the pillared bridge. Something was missing. As we approached the tall, open gates on the far side, I realized what had been troubling me. There was no smell! No. Better. Antioch was fragrant! Here the scent of flowers and baking bread were not smothered to a barely recognizable ache by the stench of sewage clogging the Tiber or by orphaned clumps of filth and excrement simmering to eye-watering perfection in the summer sun. This was not Rome. Antioch was healthy, or appeared to at least make the effort to care for all its people in a way that at home was restricted to the noble and the wealthy.

  We completed our crossing of the bridge and passed beneath a high, stone archway decorated with lapis blue tile and exquisite mosaics. We had entered the Regia, the palace of the kings of the Seleucid dynasty, now surrendered, first to Armenia, then to the rule of Rome. For the past ten years the Regia had served as the residence of the Republic’s governors; now it belonged to my master.

  Chapter XXIX

  54 BCE - Spring, Antioch

  Year of the consulship of

  Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher

  “General, the proconsul is waiting for you in the gallery. Which is this way.” The little man who had met us at the blue and gold double doors of the governor’s private residence within the palace appeared to be a shorter, squatter version of me, if you added makeup, jewelry, pursed lips and painted toenails. By which I mean to say I believe our escort was to Aulus Gabinius what I was to Marcus Crassus. Dominus, followed by his retinue of a dozen legionaries and as many personal attendants and baggage haulers, had turned right down a wide, columned hall lined with tall, glazed urns filled with potted plants whose vines draped themselves almost to the ground. On the marbled floor, the soldiers’ caligae sounded like an invasion. A water boy stood wide-eyed with his back to the wall as we passed.

  “What’s down this way?” Crassus asked as the out-of-breath servant shuffled to catch up. We were approaching a dead end and another set of deep blue double doors, these carved with receding squares inlaid with silver.

  “Those are the governor’s private quarters.”

  “Are they indeed? Then we’ve come to the right place, haven’t we?”

  “But proconsul Gabinius awaits my lord in the gallery…my lord.”

  “What is your name, man?”

  “Mercurius, my lord.”

  Crassus said good-naturedly, “the proconsul, Mercurius, stands before you. Is that clear?” Gabinius’ man whimpered. “Mercurius,” Crassus mused. “I had an ornator by that name, oh…it must be twenty years ago at least. Nice fellow, but slow as sludge. What ever happened to him, Alexander?”

  “You had me sell him, dominus.”

  “Did I?” It would be pointless to add that Mercurius’ new master was less forgiving than dominus and his medicus less talented than ours. The wounds from the lash had festered and the poor man had died from his lack of alacrity.

  “Tell your master,” Crassus was saying, “that I will rest awhile in my quarters before meeting him in the gallery, say in two hours time. For a man as busy as he, I am certain the time will fly on Pegasus’ wings. Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed. Is that clear, Mercurius?”

  The man looked like he was being ground between two blocks of the Great Pyramid of Giza. He mumbled his assent and shuffled off to perform his unenviable duty. Crassus turned one of the hanging brass rings and unlatched the door. It swung open and he peered inside. “This is for one person?” we heard him say, his voice muffled by thick wood. He pushed the door wide and motioned the attendants inside behind two soldiers. As our people went in, several young men, women and boys came skittering out. “Centurion,” he said to Vel Corto, “post your guard here. Admit no one.”

  Three stone steps led down to a wide floor of the same sand-colored tiles. Long narrow rugs woven in patterns of gold, red and blue crisscrossed throughout the room, matching the half-columns that rose to the painted twelve-foot ceilings. The tables, walls and floor were littered with all manner of decoration. Nothing simple, not a clean line in sight, only keepsakes to which the word ornate could cling with comfort. We stood on a platform, fifteen feet on a side. Straight ahead, steps led down to the open bed chamber; to the right one descended to the baths, separated from the main room by painted screens. Close by, a tall tripod topped by a burning dish of incense sent curls of cedar smoke toward the ceiling. Crassus wrinkled his nose and I motioned for an assistant to take the bronze platter away and douse it.

  I inspected this Syrian bed. It was raised off the ground, not much higher than a sleeping lectus, but much wider, with a thick layer of matting. It was held aloft by a golden frame, the sleeper guarded on each side by twin winged Assyrian bulls. A pale blue curtain no thicker than a cobweb dropped from the ceiling to surround the entire piece. I was not sure of its purpose, for I did not think it would give a mosquito more than a moment’s pause. The bath was a sunken oval whose far wall contained a diamond-latticed window so wide it required the support of three gilt columns. The view of the river and the city beyond was stunning.

  “This room is obscene. I shall need a potion or at the very least a mask in order to sleep here.”

  “I will have it ‘simplified’ after the ex-proconsul departs.” Sending the attendants below to begin unpacking and preparing a bath, I asked dominus to sit for a moment on a couch near the double doors.

  “I lied,” I said quietly. Crassus began unlacing his boots. A servant ran up the steps but dominus waved him off.

  “I thought as much.” I waited. Dominus continued. “You never gave me a direct answer to my question as to whether or not you agreed with Cassius’ concerns. That is unlike you, at least when we are not alone.”

  “As I recall, you never asked a direct question.”

  “I attend, eager as ever.”

  “I don’t trust either one of them, the Osrhoene king or the young Parthian.”

  “We are agreed.” I raised an eyebrow. “My father once told me, ‘if you arrive for a meeting with a man you do not trust, and the man you do not trust does not arrive, do not trust the man who first arrives at the meeting.”

  “He told you no such thing.”

  “Not precisely, no, but they were words to that effect. Go ahead, explain yourself.”

  “What of Marcus Antonius? He was among the ‘first to arrive.’”

  “Pff. He is a Roman through and through. I can smell it on him.”

  “Agreed. The first reason I don’t trust either one of the others is something you said earlier today. Something about the bonds of friendship loosening with distance. Armenia and Parthia have been at odds for ages, and Osrhoene sits between them and wonders, I am a dwarf caught between giants, and my ‘friend’ is far away. If I were Abgarus, I would not be motivated by friendship, but fear. Be cautious, my lord.”

  “Agreed. And of the bowman?”

  I pursed my lips. “With him it is strange. He is, there is something about him…”

  “He is too likeable.”

  “Yes! He is like a fragrant bowl of steaming soup you are compelled to taste knowing your tongue will burn. And his presence at our arrival was completely inappropriate. But there is more to distrust regarding the Aramean king. When you asked him when a Roman army was last seen in Syria, he hesitated.”

  “Maybe he was traveling when Gabinius began his own invasion of Parthia.”

  “It was less than three years ago! What reason could he have to hesitate?” If Pompeius hadn’t called his dog off to (illegally) put Cleopatra’s father back on Egypt’s throne—with a bone of thanks from Ptolemy, a fortune of 10,000 talents of silver—Gabinius might have conquered Parthia and Livia and I would be safe at home with our son. I had as much reason to be as disaffected with Magnus my master.

  “Abgarus might have a hundred legitimate reasons. I see nothing there. However, here is how I shall play t
he Parthian. I shall take him into my confidence while at the same time removing you from it.”

  “Dominus!”

  “Patience. I shall keep the lad close. As I befriend him, I shall confide in him that I have reason to mistrust you.” My facial muscles felt as if they had begun to dance. “I will ask him, while he is able, to keep watch on you and report back to me. He should decline the offer outright, for he has no business with us.”

  “If he accepts,” I said, my pitch and inflection straining for normal, “we have indication, if not evidence.”

  “And if he makes frequent excuse to go and return, there can be but one reason.”

  “He reports to his Parthian overlords.”

  “Then, if we so choose,” said Crassus as he stood and smiled, it appeared in equal measure from his deceit as much as from the joy of wiggling his once again bare toes, “we may feed him a soup of our own choosing.”

  •••

  The man’s hair was in ringlets that fell to the back of his neck and halfway down his forehead. Each one was crimped with a narrow gold band. A fringed purple headband was tied tight at the top of his head. His face was rouged, but exertion had caused the paint to run. His matching robe was barely tied, beneath which his lean body was naked. Mercurius sat behind a rosewood table tucked diagonally up against the far corner of the room. He wrote furiously, his pen dipping in and out of the well, his eyes flicking from one piece of parchment to the next. Several players stood idly against the wall, fingering their instruments. Marcus Antonius sat on the edge of the long table. Draped over the back of his uniform, its paws tied beneath his neck, was a lion’s skin. The head, I am pleased to say, was not in evidence, but I am certain Antonius knew its whereabouts.

  With a dozen bewildered legionaries behind us, we had entered the grand gallery of the Regia, unwilling players upon a bizarre and foreign stage. Crassus was dressed in all his polished military finery save for his helmet, which was tucked under his arm. The hall was magnificent. Columns painted green and black were spaced every twenty feet and rose almost that high to the beamed ceiling. Birdsong vanquished the echoes of our footsteps on the polished tiles as we drew to a halt. The entire length of the gallery was open—through the columns we could see a covered portico and from there a quadrangle planted with rows of trees whose white, starry flowers perfumed the air. Green, misshapen globes, some having turned bright yellow, hung so large and plentiful they made of their branches two-color rainbows. Later I learned the thick-skinned, tart fruit was called citron, what the Hebrews call an etrog, and the Persians know as a limun.