A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (24 page)

“Play outside, then. Where’s Brenus?”

“In the workshop,” Taog said, making a final turn around the
impluvium
before ducking carefully through the atrium doorway.

“Father Jupiter?” Publius said, his eyebrows reaching for the black curls of his hairline.

“It’s nothing,” Crassus said, reddening. “The boy is tainted.”

“I can’t get him to stop calling me master, either,” I added. To Publius, the explanation was
insufficient. “I have told Hannibal over and over again that
dominus
is master, not I. With his muddled logic, he reasons that if I am, well, who I am, then
dominus
must be a god.”

“And neither of you did anything to discourage this?”

“A little,” Crassus said, avoiding his son’s eyes. “Let the lad have his delusions. I don’t mind, really.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” Publius said, then burst out laughing.

“Once Hannibal gets an idea in his head…” I said, my voice trailing off to wherever feeble excuses go to die.

“Oh this is rich,” Publius said. “
Why didn’t you bring the thing out at the party? Have you taught him to sing or do a little lopsided dance?”

“Shall we get back to the matter at hand?” Crassus said.

Publius composed himself, barely. “Yes, of course. Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “Do you remember Cassius Longinus?”

“He attended your party, ready to use his dagger for more than spearing fruit, as I recall.”

“That’s the man.” Publius pressed his lips together as if trying to prevent something from escaping. “Wait a moment!” he blurted. “If you are Jove, and Mother is Juno, then I must be Mars Invictus!”

“Yes, that’s quite droll, Publius. Just let us know when you’ve finished reciting the panoply.”

“All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hand. “Yes, Cassius.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. “He’s a good man. With your permission, I will approach him and ask him to join us. He is ambitious; he told me he feels held back, as well he might under Caesar’s command.”

“How do you know him?”

“He came down with me from Gaul. I met him years ago at Cicero’s. I know, I know—Tully is not your favorite exemplar of Roman resolve, but he has always been kind to me.” Crassus gave his son a stern but less than withering look. “To the point,” Publius continued, “Cassius had just returned from Rhodes and was invited to one of Cicero’s study sessions comparing the Academy Skeptics to the Stoics. You talk about your drunken confederacy of dissolute whoremongers, well…”
Dominus
and I stared blankly at Publius; after a moment he shook his head and continued, as much disappointed with his audience as we were with his japes. “That’s where we met. Cassius enlisted with the 7
th
and I’ve known him ever since. He’s trustworthy, a good soldier and strategist. If he accepts the commission, I’ll have him levy the troops, get them mustered in the south, and I’ll join you as soon as I am able.”

•••

Thus it was decided. But before he returned to Caesar,
dominus
helped pave the way for his son to climb the ancient, revered, but ofttimes ignored political ladder whose ascent was assured by his victories in Gaul. He was too young to become
quaestor
, the first official post in the
cursus honorum
(the position had a minimum age requirement of 30), but his father had him stand for two other respectable posts to start him on his way. He was elected almost unanimously to both.

Only one golden link remained to be forged:  though young for his military prowess, Publius was beyond the age when wealthy Romans traditionally found an advantageous pairing for their male children. His sojourn in Gaul had postponed any thoughts of
women beyond fleeting, forgettable couplings with camp followers and local whores. Returned to Rome, the boy who never once stared with trembling lower lip into the abyss of want continued his uncanny good fortune as a man. Publius was one of those rare individuals upon whom the gods never frowned, despite his arrogance and presumption. It was not that he expected through the privilege of his birth that good things must always come his way, for that would require contemplation of desire denied. Publius Crassus lived from one perfect moment to the next, heedless of the wonder of his charmed life. Once he crossed the
pomerium
, Eros was armed and ready for him the moment he leapt from his horse.

Priests were engaged to inspect with meticulous scrutiny the steaming entrails of an unwilling pig, whereupon they made their pronouncement. The entire month of Maius was rejected as unacceptable, that being the time reserved for making offerings to the dead. Which was a happy coincidence, because most senators fled to their country estates for the six-week recess beginning in mid-Aprilis. Not Crassus. Not this year. The priests chose a bright, auspicious day in early Junius, just before Publius was scheduled to depart Rome for the north.
His marriage to a most willing Cornelia Metella would be the event of the season. And of course, she was the perfect match.

•••

The day after Hanno and Taog had interrupted our meeting with Publius, the boy and I were sorting the mail into piles:  legal, political, supplications and personal. As it did every day, legal had the largest mound, followed by political argument, then requests for everything from money to land. There was one interesting application from one Gaius Octavius, a legate who had fought with Lucullus against Mithridates, king of Pontus. He was the first of several experienced military officers anxious to join this most public of Crassus' secrets, the expedition to Parthia.

I left my office and with Hanno in tow walked to the next one down the hall, the large but spare
tablinum
of my master, who was at the
curia
in session with the senate. Before I could lay the letter on
dominus’
table, we were intercepted by Brenus, who was smiling like a father. Hanno ran to him and said, “Is it done? Is it?”

“It is indeed, young master.”

“I am not master. Master is master.” Hanno laughed, coaxing smiles from us as easily as one would pluck a daisy.

“Here,” Brenus said, handing the boy an oilcloth chunky with its contents. “Try them on.”
The Celt’s broken nose had shrunk to something recognizable as such, and the colors were fading beneath his freckles. Hanno fumbled with the string and finally extracted two strange-looking gloves. Brenus helped him get them on his hands with difficulty, Hanno was so jumpy with anticipation.

“Surprise! Surprise, master!” he said, waving what appeared to be a set of brown leather, two-fingered gloves. The pinky fingers were absent, but the thumb looked normal enough. It was the middle finger arrangement that drew the eye, as if the three fingers adjacent to thumb had been fused into one broad digit. Hanno put both hands so close to my face I had to back up to focus on them. He was flexing the middle “fingers,” which bent in an almost natural motion. “See? See, master, see? Hannibal has all his hands now.” He turned and flung himself into Brenus’ arms and hugged him in that fierce way he had.

“It’s all right lad,” Culhwch’s son said, patting Hanno on the head. “You go an practice with ‘em and don’t worry, I’ve made an extra pair just in case.”

Watching the boy dance away, waving his new prosthetic, I said, “That’s a fine piece of work, Brenus. How did you do it?”

“He slips his third finger into a ring; when he pulls down on it, it carries with it articulating blocks of wood inside the leather attached here, and here. He will not have the same grip as real fingers, of course, but with practice, it should help him grasp objects with more ease.”

“You’ve just made a friend for life.”

“The boy is holy,” Brenus said. “Lugos commands we watch over him.”

“Surely not you personally?”

“He makes the sign.”

“Yes, I have seen it. If Hanno could choose between the sign and six more fingers, you would find nothing in him to revere.”

Brenus spoke as if I were a child. “Use your eyes, Alexander. The choice has already been made. The boy belongs to Lugos.”

“What you see is coincidence, not religion. Look around you, Brenus. Hanno is quite well-looked after right where he is.”

“You are not Druid.”

“No, we are not. If the sign is so important to you, why then did you give him those gloves to cover it up?”

“A man may wear shoes and still know he has feet.”

I sighed. “Understand, everyone recognizes that you and Taog have been very kind to Hanno. You have befriended him and made him very happy. He is fond of both of you. He talks of little else. But be reasonable, Brenus, you cannot seriously be suggesting he’d be better off with you?”

“We would protect him.”

“No. Where you are going, there
will be war. Not even your gods are powerful enough to guarantee his safety. On the battlefield, only one god decides who lives and who dies. His name is Chaos, and he is heartless and inconstant. But here, in Rome, another god holds sway:  he is Crassus, and in his house, he alone can keep Hanno safe.”

•••

One morning the following week, Tertulla came to me almost frantic. She could not find Hanno. Leaving her with promises that calmed her like sleet on snow, I gathered help and searched the house. When he was not found, I asked Betto if the Celts were drilling. “They’re up on the Campus, shattering decent Romans’ nerves with the din from their chariots. I’ve been telling myself that the roaring in my ears is from the bath water that lodged itself there yesterday, but it just might be the sound of their wheels crashing around in my head. They’re wasting their time, if you ask me. Are you asking me? I’ll tell you anyway. Has anyone told them where we’re going? I can’t wait to see what happens when those chariots drive through a foot of sand.”

“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”

“I don’t think it would have, no.”

“So, you’re coming with us
to Syria, and beyond?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, I shall enjoy your company.”

“What a relief, Alexander. I w
ouldn’t be tagging along if I knew you weren’t coming. We’ll plan a picnic every day. I expect I’ll have nothing to do anyway but lay about and take the Mesopotamian sun.”

“Good. You could use some color. By the way, lord Publius informed me the Celts will be horsed, not in chariots, so there is one less thing for you to worry about.” I turned toward the front entrance.

“I’ll find something to replace it, don’t
you
worry. If you’re going up there, bring some wax for your ears. Though I doubt cruel Ulysses himself could keep that unholy racket from driving his ship up onto the rocks.” I decided to ignore the flaw in Betto’s metaphor:  Odysseus would be unlikely to encounter a Celtic chariot on the waves, and if he did, it would only be for a moment.

I found my quarry sitting on the edge of the track of the Circus Flaminius, snug, happy and lost in Taog’s
enormous lap. At last I could look down on the giant Celt. Barely. Hanno was playing a game he had invented himself. He would rummage through my garbage—repository of the best pieces of discarded parchment—find a draft or an invoice and mash it up into a ball. Then he’d toss the missile between one hand and the other and pull the blocks in his glove at just the right moment to create a makeshift pocket in which to snag the projectile. He was becoming quite good at it.

Betto was right about the noise. Imagine that this entire conversation was shouted.

“Master! We’re resting.” Hanno threw a crumpled old requisition high over his head and plucked it deftly from the air before it hit the ground. Taog and I applauded. As did Hanno.

“So I see. Are you having fun?”

“Oh my, yes! Brenus took me for a ride in a chariot! I was scared but then I wasn’t, but then we had to stop because Brenus’ father’s face got red. Do you know what Taog told me? He said his people get buried in the ground when they die and all their stuff goes into the hole with them so they can use it in the afternoon.”

“Afterlife,” Taog said, tussling the boy’s head. If anyone was carrying on a conversation in the halls of Olympus, Taog’s voice was how I imagined they would sound. Minus the accent, of course.

“And if they’re good, they get to come back and live again.”

“That’s right,” said Taog. He began tightening the laces on Hanno’s gloves.

“That is a fascinating concept,” I said as enthusiastically as I could.

“That’s what I want to do. Can I, master? I want to die and come back as someone else.”

“Who would like to come back as, little warrior,” the big Celt asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Anyone else is fine.”

“I think you should stay with us for awhile longer,” I said. “You’re far too much fun to have around.”

“I know. How much longer can I stay?”

“As long as you like. I know for a fact that Lady Tertulla has been looking for you. Why don’t we walk down together? I think she may have a treat for you.”