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

by Levkoff, Andrew

  I cannot write more about that circuit or the look in my wife’s eyes when it was done. I simply do not have the words. Now mark me. I am not one for sentimentality. Do not expect it of me often.

  •••

  Two of the participants that ended in that touching moment, however, did not make it across the finish line. And one of the spectators had to be dragged first to the center of the field, then carried off it. No one died, but perhaps there were one or two that wished they had.

  It may be a lesson for other fields of endeavor that those who lag behind find themselves not only in the exponential difficulty of gaining the lead, but also in the most danger. Certainly the physics of a race track lends itself to such a theory. As any equestrian well knows, running to the inside of the track means there is less track to run. Therefore, horses, riders and chariots all tend to congregate close to the spina. How is one, then, to break free of the mob? The inside track is jealously guarded; but to outdistance the leaders by hurling yourself around the outside circumference means having to run both faster and farther then everyone else, making the task that much more difficult.

  Two contestants, one of each color, found themselves in just such a predicament. Mid-way through the fourth lap, they were forced to the outside as they came out of the turn on the far side of the track. From our seats we did not have a good view of what happened, which is the only good thing I can say about the incident. Remember, we were sitting at the finish line halfway down the length of the hippodrome. We were therefore looking across the near track, the spina and the supine obelisk resting on its back, in addition to the width of the far track. Above all this the car of a chariot came briefly sailing in a most distressing arc. It was upside down, its pole broken, its driver nowhere in sight. The sound of the crash followed instantaneously, accompanied by gouts of screams and billows of dust.

  Careening round the turn to our left raced the remaining six teams, Varro among them. Though we told Hanno that his new friend was safe, he would not leave his chair; for the remainder of the race he sat with his face buried in his gloved hands.

  The wreckage—human, equine, wooden and iron was barely removed in time. Two of the six horses survived; the rest were put down. The charioteers lived, but would never race again. It was almost enough to make one believe in the gods: neither driver had been killed and each raced for different stables. Had either of those conditions not been met, a riot might easily have ensued. Even the horses were slaughtered equally between the greens and the blues.

  As for the overzealous devotee of the greens who, whether to impress his girlfriend or win a bet, had thrown a nail-encrusted curse tablet onto the track, to his great and everlasting misfortune, he had neither good aim nor good luck. He been seen and seized. Because of this malefactor, the final race of the day, the most grueling and the most demanding, the contest Antiochenes had been thinking of as they packed their baskets of fruit, bread, cheese and wine in the dark that morning, would have to be postponed a while longer while the track and justice were restored.

  I had not noticed them before, but beneath the bronze legs of the giant outward-facing horses that reared at each end of the spina were two seven-foot iron posts set five feet apart. The southern set of these were still awash in full sunlight, and to them the officers of the hippodrome had the hapless man chained, one arm to each post. He faced inward, toward the verdigris flanks of the great horse. There was just enough room at the tapered tip of the spina for the bare-chested lorarius to stretch and get his footing for the work ahead. Not once so far in the day’s events had the crowd ever grown as quiet as during those seconds as when the slave prepared to give the criminal twenty of his best. It was critical to their enjoyment of this moment that they strain to hear the whisper of the whip as it descended, the crack as it bit into flesh, the scream of the prisoner as muscle and nerves that were never meant to be disturbed were violently aggrieved.

  The distance from us was not so great that Hanno could not both see and hear. He sat now between Livia and myself. At the instant of the first strike, his eyes widened and he put his hand up to my cheek, turning it toward him. “Master, master can you make him stop, can you?” I shook my head. “Then you must look away,” he implored, “look at Livia look at me here I am look at me. It’s all right it will be over soon look at me till it’s over, master.” I needed no more encouragement. Livia, Hanno and I sat with heads bowed until it was over.

  But what of the thousands on the opposite side of the hippodrome? Never fear. They were not to be denied. The perpetrator was unchained and assisted to the floor of the track. Feet trailing wavy patterns behind him in the dirt, arms draped over the shoulders of two guards, he was dragged the length of the spina to the unused iron posts waiting for him at the other end of the stadium. On that side, only the grand head of the horse remained in golden sunlight. There, the second half of the punishment was administered.

  The man, whose name is irrelevant, had been a citizen. Had he been a slave, he would have been executed. Since before this day he was not a slave, he became one. The auction was postponed until the two injured charioteers were well enough to bid. They were both veterans of the Antioch hippodrome, and therefore were both exceedingly wealthy. I am told that on the day of his sale, the auctioneer noted record attendance, but only two bidders when his lot number was called. It is said that a private, shared accommodation was reached.

  The last race was the most grueling. Eight contenders at the reins of quadrigae, chariots drawn by teams of four horses, raced ten laps around the track. From the very beginning, it was a two-man contest between Varro and Galeno. Long before it happened, Varro realized they were going to lap their opponents. He intentionally “lost” the fight with Galeno for the inside, pretending something had gotten into his eye, letting the blue charioteer veer left. With only a little more than one circuit left in the race, Varro’s blacks and Galeno’s snow white teams came upon a wall of impenetrable dust and thunder.

  Varro was on the outside, the only way to pass, but he faced another difficulty I had not thought to mention earlier. The pilot horse, the one used to steer the others, is always positioned to the left, since races are run in a circle from the right hand to the left. Varro held the reins for this animal separately in his left hand. The leads for the others, the power horses, were wrapped about his waist. It was a delicate matter to nudge these other three to go against their natural instincts when the slightest misstep at such speed meant instant disaster. But that is what he did, knowing that some chance of breaking through was better than no chance at all.

  Leaning over the top of his car, The One Who Sings asked his four blacks to lift them all beyond the dust and noise and take them into the clear air waiting for them before the finish line. He did not see until his team had done what he had asked of them that Galeno, too, had accomplished the impossible. Nearest to the spina had been a blue driver, a green, and then another blue. Galeno, as Varro had known he would be, was bogged down behind them. Sensing what was about to happen, another green dropped back and boxed Galeno in. One could almost hear his curses. The blue charioteer in lane three broke this deadlock by pulling ahead into the second lane as they made the turn into the final run to the finish line. What this clever driver did then was slow his team, forcing both greens back and creating a gap for Galeno to slip through.

  Varro was ahead, but he was on the outside. Galeno came up fast. Marcus Antonius had ripped the cushion off a chair and was punching it to the rhythm of his profanity. Petronius, I was somewhat shocked to see, had joined Livia, Hanno and myself and was jumping up and down and cheering for Varro.

  •••

  “I won’t allow that in my chariot,” Galeno said.

  I shrugged. “Your blue fans will be disappointed. I imagine they would like to see you take your victory lap with your governor.”

  “And I don’t think they’ll like it if you refuse, seeing as how you’ve already done it twice with Varro.” The bearded wret
ch smiled at me. So, the sweaty charioteer had beaten the lofty politician. I longed to tell him he could feel proud having bested an impostor, and a slave at that.

  Livia stood behind Hanno, both arms around him, not in restraint but pure affection. “I don’t want to go I don’t. I went twice already with Varro.”

  “You don’t have to, love.”

  “One time with Varro would be better than five, no ten times with Not Varro.”

  As before, I congratulated the second place finisher. As I shook his hand, it was as if Varro could read my mind. Before I could say a word he said, “My lord, free or not, I will still race for the greens.”

  I wished him good health and good fortune, then turned away to step up into the winner’s chariot. Slipping the ribbon over Galeno’s head, I gave him his purse. I even took his hand and held it aloft. I had to let the charioteer have his way or it would seem I was favoring the greens. However, I did take an inordinate amount of satisfaction from the less than deafening roar as we made our circuit around the stadium.

  Chapter XXXI

  54 BCE - Spring, Antioch

  Year of the consulship of

  Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher

  “Is it my imagination, or are you spending every idle hour devising new and unique ways to torment me?” Crassus adjusted the laurel wreath upon its pedestal bust and flicked a bit of stadium dirt from one of its leaves. Dominus had had the governor’s suite emptied of any piece of furniture he considered extraneous, and now the cavernous rooms echoed.

  “I was under the impression I had you to thank for my triumph, dominus.”

  “You went too far, Alexander. And you go too far now.”

  “Forgive me, dominus. I was rash.”

  “Have I not been kind? Have I not been generous? Does Livia not now share your bed in the Regia rather than a cot in one of the hovels at the fort town?”

  “Yes, dominus.”

  “If the crowd had suspected, or had not been so well-pleased…”

  “You are a hero of Antioch. Yet, I apologize for creating the precedent.”

  “I suppose I shall have to keep you close at hand at least until those two charioteers retire. Who knows when you might need to portray Marcus Crassus again.”

  “I shouldn’t worry. The odds are high they will both die an early and horrific death.” May Varro outlive us all. “How was your meeting with Melyaket?”

  “Pleasing. Truthfully, your stunt in the hippodrome was well-timed. It was the talk of the city, and I used it to our advantage in my meeting with him. I confessed to him that it pained me to see you take such liberties. You were one of my most trusted servants, and it made me feel old and tired to see you take advantage of our friendship. I also told him something of the truth: that you were fighting me every step of the way on this war. I told him how much Parthia stood to gain from a partnership with Rome, and how I feared you were speaking out against it. He asked how it could be that a slave could have such freedom. I told him of the Latin schools you had started, the medical clinics, the trade schools; that there were only a handful of men in Rome who had ever held such responsibility. That nobles, senators with influence and power, would seek your advice, and while I loved you, I was beginning to fear you.”

  “You lied.”

  “Somewhat, yes.”

  “And he believed this?”

  “After your chariot rides round the hippodrome, it’s just possible. Who knows? He is so forthcoming, I begin to doubt our suspicions.”

  “Yet you asked him to observe me?”

  “He said he could think of at least three people who would be most displeased to learn of the arrangement: King Orodes, Cassius Longinus, and you. Before he could decline outright, I offered him silver, more than he could carry. He refused the money.”

  “I am not surprised.”

  “Is that so? And why is that?”

  “I cannot tell you. Something about his agreeing to take money for betraying his people seems…out of character.”

  “Then I suppose,” said Crassus, sitting on his bed and letting a servant remove his shoes, “you will think it out of character when I tell you he accepted the assignment.”

  “No, I do not, though I cannot for the life of me tell you why.”

  “Then I shall tell you,” he said, a hint of exultation in his voice. “I think he’d like to prove me wrong about my assessment of you. From what I could gather, he finds the idea of a creation like you fascinating.”

  Ah. I had overlooked the obvious. I waited for him to explain.

  “Your talents versus your condition, obviously.”

  I was in no mood for this game tonight. “Did you learn anything of your adversary?”

  “Our adversary. No. Truth to tell, I forgot to ask. But that will come. The man is a puzzlement. He is brash and confident, like my youngest. But unlike Publius, he doesn’t strike me as reckless. There’s a sureness about him, a confidence, almost a glow.” Dominus made a sound in the back of his throat and kicked a shoe over the shoulder of his ornator. “I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s late; I truly am tired. Let’s write a short note to Tertulla, then retire.”

  •••

  A week later, Crassus sent me out into the city to meet with several camel merchants to discuss availability and terms for the purchase of two thousand of these improbable beasts. Have you ever allowed your nostrils to be stung by the bouquet of one these creatures? Allow me to advise you. Should you require transport over desert sands, and are left with the choice between your own two feet and a camel, walk. Die of thirst if you must, but walk.

  This, of course, was dominus being clever. If Melyaket had indeed taken up the engagement to observe my activities, and should he truly be the eyes and ears of Orodes, passing on this information should set the Parthian king’s head spinning. If he did not burst out laughing. A far more plausible suggestion would have been to have me bargain for horses, but I was overruled. I prayed that Cassius would not get wind of my morning’s work, for if it were legitimate, as quaestor, a purchase of this size would have been his responsibility. The height from which he looked down upon me was great enough as it was.

  When I returned, I discovered that Crassus had also just arrived from his morning at the garrison. He told me he was tired and wished to lie down. I should rouse him in two hours. Hanno was with Betto and Malchus or Brenus and Taog and having the time of his life; Livia would not see me during the day—it interfered with her credibility. Never mind, I knew just how to use this time to my advantage. I went straight to the old city on the lower slopes of Mount Silpios and there, beyond a colonnaded street, found a public park and a shaded bench. From my satchel I removed some correspondence, several wax tablets and a stilus, then began to practice. I was almost as meticulous as she, so with time and repetition I was confident I could master her style. After half an hour or so, the city life around me faded until nothing remained but the craft of forming each letter.

  “What beautiful handwriting,” a voice said softly in my left ear.

  “Pan’s hoof!” I yelped as I leapt from my seat and spun around. Two of the tablets fell to the ground, ruined.

  Behind the bench stood a desert nomad, his headdress, robes, boots, everything was dyed in shades of black or deepest grey. His scarf, protection against the sandstorms which plagued the deep desert was drawn unnecessarily across his lower face. He spoke to me in lightly accented Latin. “May I join you?”

  I picked up the tablets and sat back down, angry at having my senses childishly jolted. “How do you know I am not being watched by Cassius?” All right, they weren’t ruined. A little scraping, a little fresh wax and they’d be fine. But still.

  “Because I am the one who has been watching.” Melyaket moved to the front of the bench. When he sat, his robes rose on an errant breeze like dark wings, then settled about him.

  “The quaestor would have us both arrested if he saw us talking together.”

&nb
sp; “Do you remember the white robes I was wearing the day we met? Cassius’ men are chasing those, but they are worn by Hami, not me.”

  “Who is Hami?”

  “My best friend. I hope that some day the two of you will meet.” He let the face cloth drop. “I’ve had an interesting request. Your general has asked me to spy on you.”

  I blinked, trying to think which features my face should be displaying—surprise, anger, disbelief. What I manufactured was something like a concerned grimace. “Did you accept?”

  “Naturally! How could I resist?”

  “Why would he do this?” I asked, giving an atrocious performance of someone trying to sound hurt. “Furthermore, why would you come straight to me with the information?!” That was said with genuine and quite believable frustration.

  “He claims he does not trust you. But of course we both know that can’t possibly be true.”

  “How do you know it isn’t true?” Was I arguing in favor of my disloyalty?

  “You are a terrible actor, Alexandros, but not when it comes to your master; then, you have in every instance acted in his best interest.”

  “You know nothing of me, or of Marcus Crassus.”

  “You asked me why I came to you. The faster we end this game the sooner we may begin to help each other. Your master is trying to flush me out. He used your genuine misgivings about the invasion to entice me to watch you on his behalf. That and quite a lot of money. If I am I spy, through you he will feed me information to confound his enemy. By the way, I hope the camels were not your idea.”

  I could feel his eyes seeking mine. My fingers played with the leather bindings of my satchel. I jutted my lower lip and pressed down upon it from above, making any shape that would not be construed as a smile. Melyaket persisted. “Can you picture it? A legionary. On a camel.” I did picture it, and then I looked at him, and we both burst out laughing.

  It took a moment for us to collect ourselves. “I told him it should have been horses,” I said, which was a mistake, because it sent us back to that place where laughter lives in spite of reason.