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

by Levkoff, Andrew

  “Lady Tertulla, what would possess you to do such a thing?” There was clear disbelief in Publius’ voice. A sneer of contempt curled across Lucius Curio’s lips.

  “The minute I let the original out of my hands,” lady Tertulla answered, “I regretted my negativity, and my attempt to dissuade the proconsul from some of his…strategic goals. I had no idea when the courier might arrive, but remembered, thank Minerva, the discarded draft. I recovered it and intended to show it to the proconsul at the earliest opportunity, whether or not the original had been delivered. I would have done, but your haste in accusing an innocent man has robbed me of my private confession.”

  The two outside aisles of the Great Hall had been filled all the way to the entrance when the afternoon session had begun. Now, the same number of people pressed themselves into half the space, ears and necks craning. In the entire center aisle there remained only myself and my two guardians.

  While Crassus was doling out admonishments, I was thinking. “This all strikes me as highly inconclusive,” he said. “Legate Crassus, you and your informant have acted with imprudence and haste. I charge you to be sure of your facts before you waste the court’s time.” Crassus motioned for the forgery to be handed over to him. “Lady Tertulla, you and I shall have a further conversation regarding the contents of this letter.”

  What I was thinking was this:

  Rome stole your life from you—for 32 years you have lived a life without choice.

  I have a wife.

  In this moment, you are free. You chose this path. Now walk it.

  I have a son.

  Tertulla wants to save my life, but not my freedom.

  I love and I am loved; I have friends, and a life that may justly be called my own.

  If you let yourself be rescued, every day you will awaken not only a slave, but a coward.

  “Dominus!” I called, wincing at the pain in my jaw. “I can prove that the letter is a forgery and that I am its author.”

  Crassus looked down at me with anger and disbelief. “Do you accuse the lady Tertulla of lying?”

  “She is trying to protect me, and for that I thank her and beg you to forgive her.”

  “I am not saying I will accept your proof, but I ask you this: why would you do such a thing, when it could mean your life?”

  “Because, dominus, the life you speak of does not belong to me. It is yours. Watch now, as I take it back. I declare, Marcus Crassus, that you are wrong, that what you plan here is wrong, that every greatness you have taken a lifetime to achieve will turn to dust if you cannot remember the humane statesman you once were. Be that man again. Leave Hierapolis in peace. Leave Jerusalem in peace. Leave Parthia in peace.”

  “Treason,” Publius said. The crowd stirred.

  The old majordomo banged his staff for silence. “Nothing has changed, Alexander,” Crassus said quietly. “Your life still belongs to me.”

  “You are wrong, dominus. Look about you. There are too many witnesses. You must follow the law. This time, you must finish it. Now here is my proof. You hold the letter in your hand. Ask your lady to recite any part of it.”

  Domina’s eyes begged me to stop. She turned to her husband and said, “That is an unfair question. The letter was written months ago.” Even dominus could hear her voice tighten with the tension of a lie.

  “Forgive me, domina,” I said, “but in truth, the letter was written yesterday.” I began to quote. “‘Rome has need of you—’”

  “Stop!” Crassus shouted. “I forbid it!”

  “Let him speak!” someone called from the crowd. The cry was echoed and repeated till it swelled throughout the Great Hall. Crassus looked at his legates but all were thin-lipped and stone-faced. My own face, at least one side of it, felt as if it were being filled with concrete. The striking of the majordomo’s staff reverberated in my head.

  “You are mad,” Crassus said to me as if we were the only two in the hall.

  “They say, dominus,” I said when I knew that he could hear me, “that over as many years as I have served you, it is not unusual for the slave to exhibit the personality of the master.”

  “Impudence!” Publius snorted. He raised his hand.

  “Do not touch him!” Crassus roared, and his son’s men backed away. “Go on then, madman, move your piece on the board. But the game is mine.”

  “Before I do this thing,” I said in a quiet voice, shaking free of the guards, “since I may not be given the chance afterwards, allow me to say that, in spite of certain difficulties between us, a few disagreements here and there, it has been an honor, Marcus Licinius Crassus, to serve you.” Then, as loud as my bruised face and terrified heart would allow, I said, pointing to the parchment in his hand, “Follow along, if you like. ‘Rome has need of you, the signs are strong for your return. The Tiber has overflowed its banks, drowning crops and causing much wreckage in the city. The people blame the manner of your departure and the curse of Ateius. I, too, have dreamed of a great river, not of water, but of sand.’ Shall I go on?”

  “There,” Publius said, “he proves his own guilt.”

  Petronius, his eyebrows furrowed, said, “This is no proof, Alexander.” I’ve always been fond of Petronius. “Lucius Curio says he found a draft of the letter in your room. It is possible for you to have read the letter and committed it to memory.”

  “You are a good man, Petronius,” I said, “and I wish you and every legionary in the army of Crassus a safe and speedy return home. What folly it would be for me, however, to find the note, and instead of returning it immediately to its owner, which you know I would do, to read it, commit it to memory, crumple it up once more and drop it onto the floor of my room. Additionally, I think you will find that the crumpled draft is incomplete. The excerpt I recited can only be found on the final letter.”

  There was some additional bickering, several more well-meant attempts to undo what was perceived as my self-sacrifice, but in the end there could be no doubt, and with a crowd that smelled and demanded blood, Crassus was forced to give it to them.

  He rose and walked to the edge of the dais. “Alexander, slave of house Crassus,” he said, in a tone that disturbed me almost as much as the words themselves. He spoke as if this were merely another intellectual game played between us, where as usual, I was outmatched. “I find you guilty of forgery, manifest theft of the identity of a Roman citizen, with intent to subvert another citizen. According to the Law of the Twelve Tables, the penalty is death.

  “So that all present may know that Rome is a fair and equitable administrator, even within its own house, I pronounce sentence upon you. Tomorrow, two hours before the setting of the sun, you will be taken to the hill outside the northern gates of the city. There you will be crucified.”

  Publius rose to address the crowd, who having received the portion of Roman justice for which they hungered, now found themselves a little queasy at the thought of having to swallow it. “Below your feet let a sign be posted: ‘Roman Law Prevails in Antioch.’ Let no man remove the body upon pain of taking its place. All must know that fairness has returned to Syria.”

  My legs, having decided they preferred the Great Hall to any place I might now be taken, had ceased to function. My old arrow wounds chose this time to twinge and trip me up. I was trying to cooperate, trying to be the model condemned prisoner, but Publius’ guards were forced to practically hoist me off the ground with each step. We had therefore traveled only as far as Curio’s place on the bench when he stood up. “Before we conclude these proceedings, may I make a brief statement?” The way Lucius said it, with his upturned chin and pursed lips, he made it sound more like a demand than a request.

  Crassus told him to be brief. “I have noted,” my replacement began in high nasal form, “the reticence of these good officers to find negative intention harbored in the bosom of the accused. I would like to set their minds at ease by submitting a further piece of evidence proving the prisoner’s attempt to subvert my lady Tertulla
many months before the general’s arrival in Antioch.”

  Publius said incredulously, “How many times would you like to see the man executed?”

  “I act solely to assuage the peace of mind of those who may have any lingering doubts.” Curio handed Publius a piece of parchment, who in turn handed it to his father.

  Crassus held the letter at his side, making no attempt to read it. “Did you write this letter…curse my memory…Curio!”

  “Yes, dominus, Lucius Curio. I am your atriensis.” The strength in my legs was returning, and I was becoming vaguely aware of my surroundings, enough so that my bruised face registered a half smile.

  “Yes, I know full well what you are. Answer me.”

  “No, I am not it’s author. It was written by the condemned.”

  “And to whom was the letter written?”

  “Why, your lady, general. It makes most foul accusations, it undermines your authority. If you would just read it.”

  “I have no intention of reading my wife’s private correspondence. Octavius, return this property to lady Tertulla.” The legate took it, face down, crossed down the steps and handed it to domina who put it quickly out of sight. Had I been more aware of my surroundings, I would have taken note of how unshaken my lady was by the revelation that my letter to her had gone missing. Crassus continued. “How and when did you come by this note?”

  Curio said, “I found it on her reading table approximately two weeks before we departed for Syria.”

  “Did you ask your lady’s permission to remove this letter from her things?” Curio’s brow frumpled, but for once he said nothing. “Then you stole it, is that what you are saying?”

  “No! I…my intent was to reveal this supposed hero of the household for the traitor he is.”

  “Did you discuss the matter with lady Tertulla? I cannot hear you. No? Why was that?”

  “Well, it was…, I did not want to—”

  “Let me help you,” Crassus said. “Not only are you a thief, you wish to impugn the character of one of Rome’s most respected matrons in a deceitful plot against her paterfamilias.”

  Long before Crassus finished speaking, Curio had begun to cry. His broad nose leaked, he sniffled loudly and his, “That was never my intent,” was barely intelligible.

  “Did you not think a lady of your mistress’ character would bring the matter to me at the earliest opportunity? You are a thief, sir, and untrustworthy. Normally, I would have you flogged and put you back into service, but frankly, I cannot endure the sight of you. You will join the man you are so happy to condemn in custody.”

  Crassus flicked a finger and nodded at the guards, who took hold of the former atriensis. He was standing within reach of me. There were so many things I could have said to him, but I decided to let dominus speak for me. “Lucius Curio, freedman of house Crassus, I find you guilty of manifest theft from a Roman citizen. According to the Law of the Twelve Tables, the penalty is scourging and enslavement. I pronounce this sentence upon you.”

  “For pity’s sake!” Curio cried.

  “Tomorrow morning, you shall be taken to the fort courtyard to receive your thirty lashes. Normally, your duty would then be to the house from which you had stolen, but lady Tertulla has told me she cannot abide that habit of yours, the thing you do with your knuckles. There are many fine houses in Antioch; I’m sure several will come to bid on you at the local market, which is where you will be sold at the next auction.”

  Till that moment, I had never seen a man faint without some physical provocation. I wondered if it was typical for the eyes to roll up in the head as Curio’s had done just prior to collapsing.

  “Octavius,” dominus continued, “as to Alexander. I want no nails, no scourging, no bloodletting of any kind. No beatings. He is to be bound with ropes. His legs are not to be broken. And a foot rest is to be provided.”

  The legate of Legion I gathered his courage, made more audacious by his youthful appearance and said, “General, the men are fond of Alexander. These measures you require will prolong his agony. It will take hours, perhaps days for him to die. I cannot deny the severity of his crimes, but ask only that you consider his past service. Let me to help him on his way with a quick thrust of a spear. I know I speak for many when I beg you to show leniency. Allow me to give the man a faster, less painful death.”

  “Take my arm,” Crassus replied. They grasped each other’s forearms and shook once. The commander saw the paternal smile on his general’s face and took hope. “Gaius Octavius,” Crassus said, lowering his voice, “do not question my orders in public. I have my reasons. Now do as I have asked.”

  The legate bowed his head and said, “Yes, general.”

  Down on the floor of the Great Hall, Lucius Curio had recovered and was now on his knees blubbering up at Publius Crassus. “Dominus, I beg of you. I acted for the good of the house. Will you not intercede on my behalf?”

  The youngest son of Marcus Crassus was standing in a shaft of the day’s late golden sunlight. It illuminated his gilt, muscled breastplate and made his arms and face glow with reflected light. The hero of Aquitania looked down at the red-faced, sniffling, puffy-eyed servant and said, “No, Curio, I don’t believe I shall.”

  Chapter XXXVI

  54 BCE - Fall, Antioch

  Year of the consulship of

  Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher

  “That’s it. We’re not waiting any longer,” the optio said, the stiff arc of horsehair on his helmet brushing the air as he shook his head. “Bind his hands.”

  “Due respect, sir,” Malchus said, “in these foreign parts, how can we be sure if it’s two hours till sunset? Maybe there’s three left. Who can say?”

  “I can say,” said the optio. “And I’m saying it now. Malchus, don’t make this any harder than it already is. Just do your job.”

  “Sir.” Malchus left the road and walked back up to where I lay. He shook his head and bent to his task.

  Betto was already crying. “Furina’s feces, Alexander.”

  “I’m glad it’s you, Flavius,” I told him. “I’d rather it be you than a stranger. I am sorry for the distress this is causing you.”

  “No. It has to be us. We’ll see you off right.”

  “Don’t stretch his arm out too far,” Malchus called from the other side. He smeared his nose across his forearm. “Bind it wide, but not too tight. ”

  “Stop telling me how to do this,” Betto yelled across my prone, almost naked body. “Cerberus’ four balls,” he muttered, “you’d think I’d never done this before.”

  “Cerberus only has two balls,” Malchus said.

  “So you keep telling me.” Betto paused to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. “Why don’t you go down there, bring ‘em back and prove it to me?”

  “Because,” I interrupted, “even if Malchus could somehow demonstrate that the testicles were taken from the beast, it would still only prove the dog has two.”

  “Oh,” Betto sniffed, “we’ve done this one before, have we?”

  “Once or twice,” I said. “You’d accuse him of deliberately leaving the other two behind.”

  I was on the cross, on the ground, my head aligned up the gentle slope of the hill, my feet pointing down toward the base of the fifteen-foot post that rested at the edge of the road into Antioch. Betto was tying my right wrist to the beam already notched and tied to the vertical post. If I let my bare legs fall on either side of the rough-hewn wood, I could feel grass and earth on my calves and the heels of my feet. Above me, the arbutus swayed, a shifting canopy of shade. The trees’ smooth orange bark was peeling back like parchment, exposing next year’s pale green arms. Behind my head, further up the hill, the Etruscan from my friends’ contubernium was digging the four-foot hole for the post. Their remaining tent-mates were on the road, joined by another dozen soldiers holding back the crowd. Cavalrymen were stationed at either end to make sure no one flanked the human barrier.

>   “Can you push off from the foot rest easy enough?” Malchus asked. “On your toes, your legs should be able to take most of the weight off your arms.”

  “That arrow wound in his right thigh’s going to make itself known.”

  “Shut up, Flavius,” Malchus said.

  “It hardly ever gives me any trouble,” I said helpfully.

  “It will, lad. Sooner or later.”

  Malchus glared at his friend, an exchange I had looked upon with fondness countless times over the course of our friendship.

  “Oh. Sorry,” Betto said. “Let’s not tie his legs; he’ll just get rope burn when he pushes himself up to get a breath.”

  “Must you, Flavius? I am barely managing my terror as it is.”

  “Merda! Curse me for an ignorant ass!”

  “Done,” I said, trying and failing to make him smile.

  Malchus said, “No curse required.”

  “Where is Livia?” I asked. “She is coming, isn’t she?”

  “She’ll be here,” Malchus said, casting a worried look at Betto. “Don’t worry. We won’t hoist you up till she has a chance to, you know, say goodbye.” He glanced behind him down the hill. I craned my neck and saw the officer pacing on the empty road between his men and the Antiochenes who had gathered to witness the execution.

  “Could I have some water, please?”

  Betto tilted my head up and put his flask to my lips. When he did, I could see the city, a bit of the river, even the Regia. I wondered what Crassus was doing at this moment. Was he standing on a balcony, looking this way? Or now that I was free of him, had he already put me out of his mind? As Betto was about to let my head back down, I saw a flash of red hair in the crowd. “Wait! I think I see her!”

  “Sir!” Malchus shouted to the optio. “There she is! The medicus.”

  The officer walked briskly up to his men. “Make a path for that woman! Let her through!”

  Betto found a large, smooth stone and placed it gently under my head. Then he and the rest of the legionaries moved off down the hill. Betto and Malchus touched Livia’s shoulders lightly as they passed. She was wearing her belted healer’s tunic, stained from work. I wondered if she had been the one to treat Curio’s wounds. Cradled in her arms was a small child. In two days, Felix would be a year old.