A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (28 page)

“Do they
not look ridiculous?” Pompeius asked. “They are as brainless as they are massive. I know, for I hunted them in Africa back when Sulla was dictator.”

“They look vulnerable,” Tertulla said, “but I see no sign of stupidity, nor any indication of aggression. They just stand there.”

I could not restrain myself. I leaned forward to our host and said, “Aristotle has studied these creatures. He has called them ‘the animal which surpasses all others in wit and mind.’”

“And fierceness,” Pompeius said. “And fierceness.”

As if having heard us, one of the animals let out a low grumble and swung his trunk to curl it about his neighbor’s. Another down the line raised his snout and trumpeted, answered by an exclamation of astonishment that rose as one voice throughout the amphitheater. Many patricians seated in the front rows stood and clambered up the aisles to the laughter of those already seated high up. We held our ground. Pompeius rose to calm the people’s fear. “To represent our brave legionaries in today’s exhibition, behold the hunters of Gaetulia!”

Behind him, from each side of the stage, eight tall, olive-skinned men costumed in Roman military tunics, sandals and helmets entered the fabricated arena and lined up, their backs to the audience. Their shields were not Roman, but small and round, painted with designs of white and brown. If anyone looked ridiculous, it was they. There was one, nearest Pompeius on the other side of the bars whose bronze helmet bore the black and white plume of an ostrich feather.
He, like all the others, balanced a long, smooth lance in his right hand, much different than the Roman shield-piercing
pilum
. The legionary spears were tipped with soft iron, meant to be thrown once to disrupt an enemy’s line, bending upon impact lest they be hurled back at our own troops. These African weapons, with their flat, leaf-shaped spearheads were designed for deep penetration.

The gates through which the Gaetulians entered clanged shut, startling the animals. They brayed and bumped into each other, clearly becoming more agitated at the sight of what they recognized as their assailants. Their trainer had retreated to the far right corner where Pompeius had stood before the statue of Venus. The little man leaned with his back against the bars, eyes closed, hands pressed together. I doubted his prayers would be heard.

Several of the animals took a step or two forward on the stage. Others made strange and unsettling sounds. “The people must see we are their masters,” Pompeius said, pointing. “Kill them; start with that big one near the end.” He turned to Crassus, pointing straight down through the iron fence. “I’ve had a store of weapons laid in against the wall. Fear not, the hunters will never run out of javelins.”

The soldier with the ostrich plume said something to his men and stepped forward. He hefted his spear, calling out to his victim, motioning with his free hand. Stepping forward with his left foot, he threw the javelin with such speed and grace the spear cut the air as if it had been loosed from a bow. The point entered just below the animal’s left eye, deftly skirting the armament of muscle and bone to rend the soft center of its
life, killing it instantly. Its legs, lifeless pillars, buckled; the corpse crashed to the stage, snapping the spear with a stomach-twisting crack as the creature hit the ground. On both sides of the fallen giant, the animals screamed and side-stepped away in terror. The elephant furthest to the right smashed into the fence with force enough to break several of the iron crosspieces, shoving the marble Venus into the column behind it. The head of the goddess broke and fell, then the body toppled in a crash that sent the animals in a wild-eyed search for safety. The crushed trainer lay in a crumpled, lifeless heap, spared the sight of the carnage to come. Perhaps his prayer had been answered after all.

The audience’s cheers were ecstatic.

Rather than charge and retaliate, the elephants appeared desperate to escape. Javelins were now being flung at them by all the hunters. Believing the place where they had entered the arena was the way to their salvation, they bunched about at the rear of the stage, crying out as they pressed against the bars, being wounded all the time in their flanks and legs. Their grunts and cries, pitiful wailing notes were pressed indelibly into every ear. Tertulla turned away. Our eyes met and I could see the water welling brightly in hers. The crowd grew silent, their jubilation extinguished.

Suddenly the elephants turned and rushed away from the rear of the stage, stampeding toward their executioners, stumbling over the bodies of those already dead or dying. At first we could not discern the reason why they reversed direction, but then we saw that men with torches had appeared at the rear of the theater, jabbing with their flames, denying the stars of this last day of celebration their
freedom.

“Madness!” Crassus shouted, grabbing his wife. “Stay here, Alexander. Be my witness.” They were already up and moving. Truth to tell, had I wanted to flee, my legs would have betrayed me.

The Gaetulians circled round to the right. The elephants, only ten remaining now, ran wildly toward the curving fence, straight at us. Iron had never looked so flimsy. Pompeius crouched horrified, his hands clutching the wreath on his head. His guards and
lictors
huddled about him.

The animals’ flanks were exposed, and the hunters loosed a barrage of javelins that thumped and tore into their thick hides. Instinctively fleeing from the source of these new wounds, the victims collided with their brothers, the entire herd smashing headlong into the barrier just beyond us. The fence folded outward over the first rows of seats like a jaw dropping. I saw two men knocked flat and bloody by the iron bars; there may have been more. These were not senators, who had already fled to higher ground, but fools looking for a better view.

Voices rose behind us, a new noise of protest. People were on their feet, demanding that Pompeius stop the killing. When their cries went unanswered, their shouts turned to curses. A cup of wine careened off my shoulder, splashing Magnus’s back with scarlet.

One beast separated from his fellows and turned toward the hunters. Blood stained his hide black. His ears flared in defiance; he trumpeted with rage and stumbled forward, cutting off his attackers’ retreat. He was driven to his knees, but reaching out with his trunk, snatched a shield from a screaming African and flung it into the stands. It arced high overhead, as if the animal had been trained to perform a trick. His head sank to the ground and the hunter drove his spear into the neck at the base of the elephant’s skull. 25,000 groaned as one.

Only five of the original eighteen animals were left alive, all with mortal wounds. They gathered at the front of the orchestra, facing a stunned and horrified crowd, seeming to plead directly with them with raised trunks and cries of the most pitiful nature. The audience jeered the hunters and hurled curses down upon Pompeius. Many stormed from the theater, their tears mingling with vows never to return again. As the remaining elephants’ strength gave out, they sank to their knees, their breathing rattled and labored, yet powerful enough to blow dust up to sparkle in the afternoon sun. The hunters approached, spears held high. Incomprehensible shouts of “cowards” and “barbarians” pelted the foreigners from above; the garbage flung down upon them was in a language more easily understood. The chief Gaetulian shook his spear at the Romans, returned their epithets in his throaty tongue and ran to stab the nearest elephant for spite. As he raised his javelin, the animal rose up on his front legs, using the last of his strength in a final attempt to get away. The hunter with the ostrich plume moved in close enough to touch the beast and grabbed his spear with both hands for a killing thrust to the heart. But he was too late. The elephant moaned, one of the saddest sounds I have ever heard, and died. The hunter jerked back to avoid the rolling corpse, but one bare foot was caught by the dead animal as it rolled on its side. Off balance, the headman squealed and jabbered as he fell backwards, kicking with his free leg at the grey wall descending upon him. I could not hear the bones of his legs break, but I could see his eyes bulge like eggs as the lower part of him was squeezed up into the upper half. His countrymen rushed to his aid, pulling his arms to free him from an embrace from which there would be no release. He screeched at them until the wave of his jellied insides pushed its way out his mouth. Then he was silent. It was the first time I had heard the crowd cheer since that same man had killed the first elephant.

While this was happening, Pompeius left the theater
, crouching under the shields of his guard, without comment or apology. Eighteen elephants were slaughtered that day, along with any hope that Pompeius' millions had bought the renewed love of the people he had so wished to purchase.

•••

A gladiator crying for succor, running from his opponent would be jeered and reviled; but let that same behavior be exhibited by a herd of lumbering, implausible creatures and the empathy of the crowd is aroused. There is no logic to it, except perhaps this:  the elephants could easily have overpowered the hunters and crushed them. That they appeared to spare them, offering their own lives instead, was seen as noble.

Was it this that touched the heart of the ordinary citizen?
Was it not the Gaetulians who represented the best of the heroic Roman spirit, but the elephants lying slaughtered on the bloody stage of Pompeius’ amphitheater? Would any Roman voice such an admission out loud? I doubt it.

Chapter X
VII

55 BCE   Summer, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

One may develop a taste for jellied eel, and though I personally have never found it appealing, I admit the possibility that, however unlikely, my taste may someday change. I cannot say the same for a steaming plate piled high with confrontation. This dish, I can assure you, I shall never relish. To Livia, it is practically the staff of life.

“Why in the name of Isis
,” Livia said, “would
dominus
take you to Syria over a trained and experienced healer?”

It was the end of the day. We were in my wife’s clinic across from the old schoolroom where I used to teach Latin and Greek. Though Livia was not legally my spouse, we used the words ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ whenever we could, in thought and in speech, though not too loudly. Livia was in her six month. I had never seen her look more beautiful. But her demeanor had swung measurably toward what honesty demands I catalog as ‘cantankerous.’ Figurative eggshells lay shatt
ered across the floor wherever we tread.

“
Dominus
has a hundred healers. He is a family man. He would not tear a mother from her newborn child.”

“M
aybe he’ll insist we both make the journey.”

“Nonsense. Even w
ere you not with child, there is one compelling reason for him to take me and leave you behind.”

“I cannot imagine what that might be. No offense, Andros, but I have seen you try to lift a legionary’s shield.”

“Droll, but off point. I am
dominus
’ closest advisor. My effectiveness would be paralyzed were I constantly distracted by worry over your safety.”

Livia’s eyes narrowed. “I hate how you overturn an argument by saying something sweet. But you see,” she sa
id, heading for the larder, “that argument works both ways. Which is why he’ll leave you behind and make me his personal
medicus
.”

The last patient of the day had left, another satisfied referral from
domina
. The elderly lady with the uncooperative bowels had departed with a paste of macerated melilot and dates. In the sealed jar’s place, she had left a sizeable gratuity. While this
peculium
did not legally belong to Livia, Crassus had promised her the same arrangement he had bestowed upon her mother:  any money left over from the expenses of running the clinic was hers to keep, to do with as she pleased. Sabina, r
egrettably, had forfeited all—her money, her freedom and her family when she had been proved guilty of murder. By me. An image of her in the choking dark of Laurion’s silver mines would always hang between Livia and me, a noxious cloud. She had forgiven me, but I would never be at peace. Had I made the right choice? Someone much wiser than I would need to be my judge. Until then, I would rely on Livia’s absolution. In those days, the only solace I could give myself was to wish her mother the release of an early death.

Livia was cleaning her instruments in a large bowl of water. “What are you doing?” I asked. “What is that you have there?” My curiosity was too fervent to be genuine, but Livia decided to play along.

“Brenus gave it to me.” She held up a foamy, grey ball.

“Brenus?” Hanno asked
expectantly. He was at the door, sweeping dirt into the street. His gloves were a tremendous help. He almost never dropped the broom. “Where’s Brenus?”

“He’s gone, dumpling,” Livia answered.

“He left with Publius last month. Do you remember?”

“Taog, too?”

“I’m afraid so, Hanno.”

“They’ll be back,” I said. “Don’t you worry; you’ll see them again.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”