A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (38 page)

I could not tarry, for the sun had already descended to the stony brow of the mountaintop.
I bowed my head to let this place of reason and science infuse me with its neglected peace and hope that somewhere along the road ahead the same would lie in store for me and those I loved. Apollo came when I called, and we made our way back up toward the Via Egnatia. The path was narrow and the trees grew thick; I did not see them till they were upon me. Scouts, Roman, their lances lowered, surrounded me almost before I could give the password chosen when the army split. If it was a full
turma
there would be thirty-two of them, led by a
decurion
. By the look of them, these men were as high-strung as their mounts.

I reached for my disk of immunity; Pan’s hoof! Now, when I needed it, I had rushed off without it. That was a mistake I fervently wished to be given the opportunity to make again.

“Sand!” I cried.

Their captain looked surprised and responded, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice, “‘And Blood.’ All right, you’re one of us. But whose slave are you? He must be rich to give you a name plaque of silver. Hand it here.” The lances remained pointed at an unfriendly angle.

“It is not silver. It is
urukku
steel.” I saw no harm in acquiescing, considerably more by refusing.

“There is nothing written here. It’s blank. Is this a joke?”

“I’m afraid it is. My owner has me wear it as a symbol of his trust in me.” The captain stared uncomprehendingly. “That I will not run away,” I added.

“Look at the swirls of color. I once saw a sword of Margianian steel, but Margiania is east of the Mare Caspium. Almost as far as Bactria. How did you come by this?”

“Our trading partners’ reach extends
far to the East. That is all I am permitted to say.” I held out my hand and the
decurion
returned the small, chained breast plate. I hung it about my neck.

“I don’t think I like your attitude, slave.”

“Few do. Alas, captain, it is my only possession:  an abundance of attitude.”

“For the last time, who owns you?” My tunic sank under the pressure from the tip of his spear. But I decided I was more afraid that Apollo would step forward than I was of this soldier. Something in his eyes told me he wasn’t in a killing mood. And that made me impertinent.

“My master,
decurion
, is your master.” A few of the riders laughed. The look in the captain’s eyes went cold. Had I misjudged him? My father always told me my mouth would be the death of me. Although I doubted the man would actually go that far. However,
any
length, I thought, glancing down at his spear, would be too far.

From the back, a deep voice called, “By
Lugos, I know that man.”

Someone else said, “Move aside,” and to my amazement, they did, although when I saw who it was who had spoken, amazement faded
, replaced by astonishment.

“Taog. Brenus!
Praise the gods!” The giant Taog cleared the way until he and Brenus were part of the circle that surrounded me. “Wait a minute. What are you two doing here?”

“
I’ll ask the questions!” the
decurion
said to Brenus.

Culhwch’s son hesitated, then said, “My father requested it.
I’m not your master’s son. Crassus could not ride with Publius; Culhwch
would
not ride with me.” He spoke as if each word were a spider in his mouth.

“
You’re out of line, Brenus,” said the captain, “Speak to me when I address you. You vouch for this slave?”

“I do. He is…
attensis
to Marcus Crassus.”

“
Atriensis
,” the captain corrected. He held the Celt’s eyes, looking for truth, then motioned with his free hand and the lances rose till their tips no longer pointed at my vitals. “If you were mine,” he said to me, “I’d beat some of the arrogance out of you.”

“You would not be the first to wish it, sir, and I expect
you’ll not be the last to discover that, on occasion, it has been done.”

“
Good to hear. Training and discipline, man. Training and discipline.”

“It is our life’s lot. Both yours and mine.”

He scanned my face for insubordination, but mildness was all I let him see. “What were you doing out here,
atriensis
? We might easily have skewered you,” he said wistfully.

“I was looking for you,” I said breezily. “My lord is anxious for the army to be joined.”

“Off the main road? Without an escort? General Crassus must be less happy with you than you think.”

“That is always a possibility,” I said.
“What news of the fleet, captain? How was your voyage?”

The
decurion
wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his helmet. When he was finished, he was a different man. “It was a Herculaneum holiday. What do you think?” He turned his horse and rode off.

The scouts escorted me back to camp. No one would talk to me about the crossing. They were bringing some good news, though:  if tomorrow Crassus would halt his column after
fourteen miles instead of eighteen, Octavius would march twenty-two; by evening we could be whole again. On the way back, I tried to engage the Celts, but Taog was silent and Brenus’ answers were curt and guarded. I asked if they had seen Livia, but they said they knew of no one by that name. Of course! She had not attended the celebration for Publius; they would not even know what she looked like. Then why did the two of them fairly ripple with discomfiture?

Chapter
XXIII

55 – 54  BCE   -   Winter, On the March

Year of the consulship of

Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

The following afternoon, on the open Macedonian plain, Crassus declared a day of rest to honor the army’s reunion. Sacrifices were made in the new, larger camp forum; lamb, beef cattle and wine were purchased by Cassius from a cowering village nearby, and the centurions were hard-pressed to maintain any kind of order till curfew the following sundown.

The tumult of over thirty-five thousand soldiers settling in for an evening of revelry stole through the walls of the general’s tent as quietly as a triumph. But I was not yet done writing the day’s letter to Tertulla. Somewhere out there, I prayed, Livia waited for me. My lord had just said, “how I miss the sound of your laugh, the touch of your soft cheek,
columba
…,” but instead of writing “dove” I had begun to spell “Livia.” Horrified, I crumpled up the parchment and begged
dominus’
forgiveness. Crassus stopped his pacing and walked over to the table. He snatched up the ruined lump, picked its edges open and read. Then he put both hands on the writing table, leaned toward me and said, “Go. And don’t let me see your face till morning.” I leapt from my seat spewing thanks, but before I could escape, he added, “Don’t throw that out. We’ll finish it tomorrow. You’re not the only one who misses his wife.” There were so many layers of irony in that statement I almost choked. Before my mouth could betray me, I fled into the light.

I ran down the Via Praetoria, the center street of the camp, until some unsympathetic
optio
put a hand on my chest and insisted I walk. Skirting the
quaestorium
at the opposite end of the camp from dominus’ tent, I overheard Cassius chastising a subaltern for a daily inventory coming up short one wheel of cheese. Well done, Cassius; a man after my own heart. I left the fort through the
Porta Decumana
, the western, rear gate. Wading through the six
centuries
assigned to guard duty, I must have been asked at least that many times if I was sure I knew the daily password without which I would be denied re-entry. At last, I made my way into the muddy puzzle of tottering sheds and unskinned tents selling everything from jewelry to cookware, shoddy armor to burned bread. Aisles of food kiosks were fully manned by sweating men and women frying, baking and yelling, the smoke of their battles to win the war of commerce rising grey against the pink sky. Shouting merchants clamored in tongues only their wares could translate, all trying with laughable success to emulate the order and precision of the Roman camp to which they clung. I had entered the city of camp followers.

Thank Apollo for my love’s idiosyncrasies, and for my ardent love of almost all of them. (It must be noted, Elysium be praised, Livia
chose to crane her neck to look past far more of my own peculiarities.) I approached a large, well-staked goatskin tent. Just outside, two black-skinned women, wrapped head to toe in a discord of colors so bright they blinked the eye, sat cross-legged on reed mats mending other more mundane pieces of clothing, a tunic and a
subligaculum
. From within, I heard the sound of humming. Even had I not recognized that non-melody of happy preoccupation, the two legionaries stationed at either end of the tent stakes assured me I was in the right place. Saying another little prayer to Crassus for finding her and arranging for her safety, I doubled back, found a wine merchant and haggled very briefly for a corked skin of
mulsum
, boiled wine and honey, for only three times its cost in the city. Then I returned and stood outside her tent flaps and called, “Healer! I have a hangnail that requires attention.”

The
humming stopped immediately. The legionary on the left winked broadly, then his face returned to stone.

“Sorry, soldier, I’m off duty,
” she called. “Try the clinic—it’s on the Via Principalis halfway between the Praetorium and the left gate.” The sound of the laughter in her voice was honey poured on sweet pine nut custard—almost too much to bear.

“Ow,” I cried. “It really hurts. I
can’t walk.”

“You’re such a baby,” Livia said, throwing the tent flap aside as she ducked and stood upright. “Nebta, Khety, this is my heroic Alexandros.”

The two women looked up from their sewing and giggled.

“Oh,” I said stupidly, because I was looking at Livia, and saw that she had changed. There was a newness about her, a veneer of transcendence that lay about her like a shield. Her red hair was pinned up, and like me, she wore a plain, mid-thigh tunic, belt and sandals. A red cloak was thrown casually over her right arm. Otherwise, we were dressed the same,
save for my throwing knives and badge of office (I remembered it this time), the red trim on the tunic Crassus had given her declaring her a healer, and a smudge on her left cheek. We stood three feet apart, toes curling to fling ourselves into each other’s arms, savoring the agony of postponement. A smiling legionary I did not know passed behind me and patted me on the shoulder.

“Nebta and Khety are your friends,” I said, more statement than question.

“And now they are your friends.” There was a story there, which I immediately accepted.

“They are indeed.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, master,” the woman on the left said. Her voice was thick and sweet with an accent that rose and fell like song. “I am Nebta.” Nebta wore a small gold hoop through her left nostril.

“Nebta.” I nodded. “Call me Alexandros. I am no one’s master.”

I do not know why, but this set the African women giggling again. They spoke to each other in a new language, one I had never heard before, full of sounds as exotic as their dress. Their voices were huskier than their laughter.

“Where did you learn to speak Greek?” I asked.

The one called Khety answered, the large gold hoops in her ears bouncing off her graceful neck as she spoke. “The whole world learned to speak Greek after the other Alexandros came.”

“They’re from Oxyrhynchou Polis,” Livia said.
“South of Memphis. I met them…just outside Dyrrachium. They were looking for work.”

Something caught my eye. I went to lift the cloak from Livia’s arm but she
pulled away from me. “What are you hiding?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I am relieved to hear it. Then show me this nothing.” Livia reluctantly draped the long cloak over her other arm, revealing bright bruises on her legs and what appeared to be a long, deep red rope burn on her forearm. I shuddered. “How did this happen? Are you all right?” This last question is one of the most useless one can ask once an emergency has past, yet it is also one of the most ubiquitous. One simply cannot help oneself from asking it.

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you later. When we’re a
lone.” She made it sound like an amorous thing, which it clearly was not. Nebta and Khety found it funny enough, but I was beginning to suspect a fine mesh in the netting of things they did
not
find humorous.

“Well, it has been extremely nice to meet both of you, Nebta and Khety, but I have not seen my lady in a very long a time and I am hoping she
will join me for a stroll. There is a copse…”

“I am very fond of copses,” Livia said
, shifting the cloak back again to cover her injuries.