A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (19 page)

Publius laughed. “Culhwch is
my
Praefectus Alae
, commander of my cavalry. Alexander, you’d better make certain that something extraordinary is prepared for our guests’ dinner.”

“I shall see to it personally,
dominus
.”

“Ahem!” lady Cornelia interjected. And was ignored.

“My son, Brenus,” said Culhwch with no small hint of apology, meaning the youth on the small grey who had ridden up beside the unlikely
praefectus
. Brenus was no more than twenty, his sparse beard making a stouthearted but doomed effort to cover his freckled cheeks. He had red hair, darker than Livia’s and almost as long. He wore no body paint, which in his case made him all the more frightening. His nose, a hilly palette of outlandish colors, was swollen and crusted with dried blood, bent unnaturally to one side. He was intent on ignoring the pain he must be enduring, yet his eyes watered. I glanced at Livia.

“His beard is thin; I blame his mother,” Culhwch said mysteriously.

Brenus spoke, his nasal voice deeper than I would have guessed. “My heartwall, Taog.” The individual of whom the young Celt spoke was just behind him—a warrior so tall his horse appeared to be six-legged. The sight of him was the living seven-foot definition of his unfamiliar title, and none of us needed to ask for an explanation. He did not speak, but his pale eyes, shadowed by the brow and nose guard of his helmet, were alert and vigilant.

“Nobody asked you for introductions, boy,” Culhwch said. “Waste of a warrior,” he muttered, eyeing Taog. “If a man needs looking after, he’s not a man, is he?”

“Take that up with Mother, if you ever pass her way again,” said Brenus.

“And you were not spoken to,
either!” Culhwch said.

Well, this was rapidly getting out of hand. It was time for diplomacy. I opened my palm to catch the agitated father’s eye. “Your Latin is impeccable, sir.”

Culhwch turned to me and grinned, showing a mouth full, mostly, of yellow teeth. I did not like that look, not one bit, suddenly feeling as if the Celtic leader’s frustration had found a less contentious target. “Someone must have stretched
you
between two trees when you were a babe, eh?”
Height isn’t everything,
I thought
. I may be taller than average, but height is a relative manly virtue:  Brenus’ heartwall could wrap one of his hands around my neck and his fingers would touch. But attend, the Celt speaks again.
“Impeccable, you say? Do you mock me with your big words? I’ve noticed that Romans who talk big are small in battle. Are you truly weak, or do your words have mystical weight? Are you a wizard?”

“He’s no wizard,” Herclides said, speaking up for the first time since he and his gang were overwhelmed. “He’s just a slave.” Culhwch’s left leg shot out and his boot caught Herclides in the chest, knocking him into several other men in the makeshift corral of Celtic riders.

“A spell spoken by a slave works just the same as one said by a free man,” Culhwch said. “If they know the art, and the words, and speak them
impeccably
.”

Lady Cornelia stepped forward, pulling Livia with her beneath the borrowed cloak. “Do you think you men could continue this riveting conversation after we’ve had a chance to change into some dry clothes?” I looked up; it did appear as if it might rain again.

Culhwch did less than ignore the young mistress; he went on speaking to me as if she was not even present. “I’ll teach you some of our tongue while we’re here. You’ll probably choke to death on the first sentence.”

“If the stench of your journey does not kill me first.” I know. How impolitic of me. How spontaneous. How convenient that Crassus' warrior son stood so close. Livia gave a short laugh, underscoring the magnitude of my impertinence; the sound was mirthful and mischievous. Diplomacy aside, I could not let the Celt’s callousness and disrespect stand. It rankled. Even in Rome,
especially
in Rome, a few of the rules of civilization must be upheld, or if not, what is left to uphold civilization?

In any case, you cannot let these barbarians get the verbal upper hand. It encourages unmerited arrogance.

Culhwch was far from insulted. He let out a great belch of a laugh and made to slap his son on the back, checked himself and instead kicked one of Herclides’ men. “He’s a sharp-tongue,” he cried, making the balls on his helmet swing as he nodded. He took to the game like a hunting dog to the fallen prey. “Men like you are revered story tellers in my tribe,” he said, continuing to nod, “as long as they are entertaining.” He leaned forward on his horse and his eyes grew wide. “If we become bored by their wit, we cut them up and feed the pieces to the dogs. That always gets a laugh from the little ones.”
Well. I’ll concede the first round, then
.

“That’s enough,” Publius commanded. “You heard lady Cornelia.” Culhwch looked disappointed.

“Do we kill these ones?” he asked.

“Who among you are citizens?” Publius asked, reining his mount to face the captives. Only Herclides and Palaemon raised their hands. “Put those two under separate guard, and I’ll sell the rest.” A centurion, without being told, took sixteen men and herded the future slaves toward the forum markets. Strange that not a single protest was throated among them. Why waste your breath debating the inevitable?

“These two deserve execution,” Malchus said, pointing his
gladius
toward Herclides and Palaemon.

“What, and lose two votes in the coming election? In case there was any doubt,” the general said to the men who had caused us no end of grief, “you’ll be supporting my father and Pompeius when the time comes. And between now and then, you’ll be campaigning for our noble senators. Clear?”

“Yes, general,” Herclides said, his head bowed so you could not see his eyes. Palaemon nodded.

“Good. Tribune!” Another officer, the trailing main of the blond horsehair on his helmet as combed and cared for as his beard, rode up beside Publius. “See that these two find a place in camp where we can keep an eye on them.”

“We’ll squeeze them in, sir, nice and tight.”

“What about him?” said Livia, pointing to the
retiarius
. “He tried to kill Drusus.”

“I wondered what you were doing holding a trident,” Publius said to me. “Hand it over. It makes you look silly. You—out here.” The gladiator moved from the middle of the captives to stand before Crassus' youngest son. “Are you a citizen?” Publius asked, inspecting the six-foot trident as if he had never seen one up close before. The bigger man, his left arm-shield his only protection was hanging at his side. He shook his head; his jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the young commander. As Publius said, “Too
bad
,” he thrust the weapon into the gladiator’s bare chest, yanked it out and dropped the trident on the ground. Legionaries on either side of the fighter had caught the man before he fell and were dragging him off while he expired. The son of Crassus, it seemed, was a child no longer.

“I killed that man,” Livia whispered.

“You saved him,” I countered, “from having to think about the time and place of his execution.” A weak argument, but what else could I say?

“Post men about the city as we’ve discussed,” Publius was saying. “We are here to keep the peace until elections are held. I intend this campaign to be a success like any other. Culhwch, don’t have your men wash off the woad. The word’s already about that I’ve crossed the
pomerium
with armed soldiers. Let’s make sure all factions know we are both armed
and
frightening.”

“Petrocorii need no woad to frighten tiny Romans. It is a wonder to my men that such a little people have built such temples. We have decided you have somehow enslaved a race of giants. Or wizards.” He looked pointedly at me. “The blue stain stays as my general commands. Who wants to wash it off? By Lugos, water is not for washing; it’s for making ale. Hah!”

“It’s a
drink worthy of the gods,” Publius conceded.

“You Romans wash too much to be true men. Washing is for women, to c
lean our breeches and our vests. And even they barely let their toes touch the stream! Hah!”

Chapter
XII

5
6 - 55 BCE   Winter, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

As our little troupe, minus the valiant Minucius Valens, made our way up the hill toward home, I watched Publius leading his horse, walking beside lady Cornelia, flirting without shame.
What had happened to the irrepressible six year-old scamp playing in the dirt, digging for worms? The line of the boy’s future had been drawn along a Roman road paved with golden stones. Here was the man, but it was the child I remembered, squirming like one of his captive night crawlers while I tried my best to tutor him in his studies. All he wanted to hear were tales of gods and the heroic deeds of men. Now, here he was, uniformed, magnificent, lethal, his helmet tucked under his weather-bronzed arm, the embodiment of his childhood fantasies, leading his black stallion to walk beside the lady Cornelia. Publius was newly twenty-six, but this was a different man entirely from the one I had last seen leaving for Gaul almost four years ago.

Physically he was much the same:  blue eyes, short, black hair, rectangular, ill-shaved, stony face. Still cocksure, still confident he could get into a brawl and come out smiling, though bleeding and bruised. But now, every last vestige of ‘boy’ had evaporated. This was not only a warrior, but a commander of men, men he had beaten in battle and yet, with his own
personal magic had been able to forge into auxiliaries as loyal to him as any wolf to its pack leader. Perhaps a greater achievement—he had the admiration and respect of Roman officers twice his age.

In addition to the twelve
cohorts
now making camp on the Campus Martius, which Caesar had relinquished to insure my master sat for the second time in the curule chair of consul, Publius had arrived in Rome with one thousand Celtic horse; one thousand, can you imagine? A calculation I tried unsuccessfully to avoid making in my head was the total number of trophies, bereft of body, now dangling from their saddle horns.

•••

Tertulla was blindfolded and laughing, a hand to her mouth. Crassus stood behind her, his arms about her waist as they stood waiting before the tall cedar and iron double doors. From the interior of the atrium, I thought I saw Hanno peek briefly out from the shadows, but then whoever it was, was gone. We stopped at the circular fountain of Neptune, pounded by the crash of foaming marble surf, his painted green torso kept glistening by an invisible pipe hidden in the top of his head. The watery regurgitations from the mouths of twenty marble fish surrounding the god splashed into the basin below, masking the sounds of our approach. Publius held out the reins of his horse without taking his eyes off his parents, assuming with confidence that some lesser person would immediately obey the implicit command to take them. I did.

Livia stepped up beside me, abandoning Publius’ cloak to the sole possession of lady Cornelia.
As much as I loved the animals, I had a frantic urge to rid myself of my sweating, equine charge. I caught the eye of a stable boy and passed the reins to him. He led the beast away to be dried off, brushed, blanketed and fed. Here we stood, alive. When I was first forced into slavery, I had wished for death, but that was a far distant memory now. I had never been so glad to find myself taking one breath and then the next. I felt newborn and rash. I reached for Livia’s hand once more, and she did not resist the gentle intrusion.

Members of the
familia
were emerging as quietly as they could from both sides of the house, some with tears in their eyes. Lucius stepped from the front entrance, beguiled by this scene of reunion. I caught his eye and our heads nodded; we smiled at each other in appreciation and understanding.

The look in my lord’s eyes was childlike with excitement. He practically vibrated with giddy pride as he held Tertulla, as if he could barely keep himself from ruining the surprise of Publius’ return by shouting out or even dancing. It was as close as I had ever seen him come to losing his dignity altogether. Publius tip-toed closer, but his boots on the white gravel were intent on betraying him with each step.

“I’m not a fool, you know,” my lady announced when he was within a dozen feet of the couple.

“Whatever do you mean,
columba
?”

“I mean,” she said, ripping off the blindfold, “I want to see my son!” Tertulla broke free from her husband and ran into Publius’ arms. He swept her up into the air and spun her round to shouts of joy and welcome so earnest you would think we were all cousins, nephews and nieces.
The moment he set her down,
domina
grabbed Publius’ face in both hands and kissed his cheeks over and over. “You are safe! You are home!” she repeated until her energy was spent. Then, taking his hand in hers, she raised it on high and turned in a slow circle, the roses in her cheeks watered by happy tears. This was the remembered Tertulla of the twinkling eye and wise, carefree smile. It was the first time she had returned to herself, without effort or guile, since Luca.