A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (15 page)

The light of the day had almost gone, and Crassus stood before me, an aggregate of hardened shadows. He did not strike me down or call for guards to haul me away. He looked upon my face, but his eyes were focused on a point far distant and unreachable. In his gaze, I could see what he saw:  humiliation, shame, and an anger that burned and
sparkled on shimmering coals of memory; they would never be consumed. “I cannot forget,” he said. “I cannot forgive, and I
will
be avenged. You find
my
determination as unyielding and rigid as my sword? Know that it would crack and shatter before my lady’s. We are of one heart and one mind.”

“Then kill him.”

“Alexander, you surprise me.”

“In an hour Boaz could furnish me with the names of a hundred assassins.”

“The slave master could give you a thousand, but none would serve my purpose. I will not grant Caesar the most noble of deaths, a soldier’s death. I pray to Mars each day to keep him safe and unharmed until my return from Parthia. What is death by the blade but a moment’s agony. What justice lies at the point of a
gladius
? Would you have him poisoned? That is a woman’s way, and though it cause him to contort and foam till his bones splinter and his lungs ignite, it is yet an end too condensed, too generous for the man who raped my wife. Caesar has writ an indelible mark upon our marriage. He has besmirched our home with a permanent stain.”

“
Dominus
…”

“No, Alexander. I will not be satisfied till I have penned an equal scrawl across the remainder of his
soulless existence.

“I will not be satisfied until I have stolen
from him and destroyed the destiny he seeks—to return Rome to the days of kings; to be the first to ascend to his newly gilded throne to begin his dynasty.

“Until the day I walk the streets of our city and hear men both great and small respond with apathy and indifference to the name of Gaius Julius Caesar, I
will not
be satisfied
.”

A stone bench lay just off the pa
th where we stood; Crassus bent and reached for it. He sat, exhausted. The clouds above us, leached of color, now marched resolutely onwards, their greyed and ghostly bulks floating on the glow from a million lamps. “If you could only go to war alone,” I said.

“What? I am too tired for riddles, Alexander.”

“When
I
speak,
dominus
, the house of Crassus listens. When
you
speak, all Rome pays heed. Where Crassus goes, tens of thousands must follow. How many must journey to the edge of our world to mete out Caesar’s castigation?” I knelt before him. “You are the better man,
dominus
. Will you travel thirteen hundred miles for honor’s sake when your wife waits for you not fifty feet from this very spot? Is there an altar large enough to hold the years and the lives that must be sacrificed to balance your scales of retribution?”

Crassus spoke not in anger, but with a voice tired beyond his years. “Did you know, Alexander, that when you first came to me, there yet lingered serious debate over whether or not slaves had souls? If my judgment had fallen on the ignorant side of that silly notion as we converse here in this serene garden, it would make the task much less irksome to fetch my
pugio
and end your animal life. I am an enlightened man, Alexander, and I delight in the small barbs and vexations you hurl at me. Your soul notwithstanding, my old friend, you have gone too far. Tell me, do you hold your life so cheaply, even now that your Livia is returned?”

Livia and I were shackled to him with the same invisible chains, yet I bridled to hear him speak of her. “She is not
my
Livia, and no,
dominus
, I hold nothing. You have graciously assumed the burden of holding my life in your hands for me since the day we met, thirty years ago.”

Crassus took one of my hands in both of his; they were warm and soft, the manicured nails buffed and unbroken. He smiled as a proud father smiles at his son; as a man so secure in his vision of the future that he will see no other. “You should be grateful, Alexander. Evidently I hold it more dearly than you yourself. You must not speak of this again. Do you understand?”

I understood that in that fading light, we had wrestled on the fulcrum between two futures:  one bright, one bloody. I understood that I had failed him. I had failed us all. “
I
am not your enemy,
dominus
.”

“No,” he sighed. “You are not.” He pushed himself up off the bench. “It is dark. Let us go in.”

Chapter X

5
6 BCE   Fall, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

“Where’s my sword?” I asked.

Malchus and Betto both laughed. Hanno stood by as my second, ready to offer a towel or a footstool which he had strapped to his back. “Here you go,” Betto said, handing me a six-foot wooden pole with a leather-bound crosspiece that made the contrivance look distressingly like a miniature of a crucifixion cross. Then, without thinking, he tossed a shovel to Hanno, who had the good sense to step out of the way.

“Why are you trying to hurt me? Why is he trying to hurt me?” Under my tutelage, Hanno’s Latin was improving slowly. (Lady Tertulla had implored me to assist, rightfully arguing that correct speech is the first step on the road toward civilized comportment.) The boy had already honed to a fine edge the cadence of indignation, though I cannot say from whom he had learned the art. 

“Hannibal, I was not trying to—
”

“You threw the shovel,” Hanno persisted. “I
saw
you throw the shovel.”

“Yes, I
did
throw it, but I—”

“Betto knows I catch bad. He knows.”

“Betto would never hurt you. He is your friend, Hannibal.”

“Friends don’t throw things.”

Betto muttered, “Sometimes they
feel
like throwing things.” He walked with disinclination to retrieve the shovel. As he passed Hanno he said, “Sorry.” Hanno looked at him as if he were a dog he wanted to pet but was afraid it might bite.

“What are you doing?” I asked. Betto had begun to dig through the dew-topped grass into the moist earth beneath.

“You’ll see.” We were standing just inside the track of the Circus Flaminius up on the Campus Martius. The sunrise was just brushing the tops of the hills to the north. At this hour there were few who shared the arena with us:  a half-dozen chariot trainers, their riders and mounts blowing hot clouds as if they burned from within; ten pairs of men practicing with wooden swords and wicker shields in the grassy center of the field, their bare chests slick with sweat despite the dawn’s chill. The shops beyond the colonnade that encircled the stadium were still shuttered. Across the street, the sharp applause of hammers and chisels could already be heard coming from the construction site of Pompeius’ colossal theater. The temple dedicated to Venus Victrix, rising opposite the stage behind the great semi-circle of seating was so tall that, above and beyond the roof circling the Flaminius, I could see the gilt statues of Pompeius and the goddess burning in the morning sun.

I regarded the wooden contraption with disdain. “I thought you were going to show me how to defend myself. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Walk,” Malchus said.

“Walk? Walk where? I thought we’d be doing what they’re doing,” I said, pointing to the sparring men. “I know how to walk; I want to learn how to defend myself.”

“You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Alexander.” said Malchus. “You only think you know how to walk. But you’re the boss.” And off he sprinted toward the soldiers. “Come on, then,” he waved.

I did not care for the
smile on Betto’s face as he paused from his excavating to watch. “Stay with Betto,” I told Hanno.

“
Ave
, brothers!” Malchus called as we approached. A few grunts of reply were tossed at us, but that was all their concentration would allow. To me, Malchus said, “We agree that while we train, I am
your
superior and you promise you won’t hold anything that happens during these exercises against me or Betto? Right?”

“You’re not going to
cause me bodily harm, are you?”

Malchus grinned.

“I am insulted,” I said warily, “that you felt the need to ask. And also a little distressed. You have my word.”

“Mind if we have a look at a
scutum
?” Malchus called to the nearest combatants.

One of the soldiers gave the sign to hold and his partner ceased his assault. “Mine is third from the right,” he said, breathing hard. “Just put it back the way you found it.”

Malchus saluted. “Go on,” he said to me. “Take it out of its sack and drape it over the post. Don’t throw it on the ground.” I went to the line of enshrouded rectangle shapes leaning up
against a long railing and unlaced the ties on the soldier’s shield. I wondered why the men practicing nearby were using practice shields instead of these. I supposed the real thing was too valuable to damage.

Doing as Malchus bid, I carefully removed the oiled goatskin and lifted the semi-cylindrical rectangle by its sides. Gods, it must have weighed twenty pounds! The edges were protected by a thin frame of iron nailed into the outer leather covering, painted bright red with golden wings and lightning bolts leaping from the central, oblong, iron boss. Painted in the upper right corner in brightest white was the Roman numeral ‘VI.’ The inside was lined with canvas, except where a circular hole at the center was bisected by a horizontal iron grip directly behind the boss. At the top hung two iron rings which I surmised erroneously were to enable the sturdy artifact to be hung as a decoration of honor once the need for it had passed.

“Hold it proper,” Malchus said, coming up. “Here, like this.” He took my left hand and had me grip the handle palm down. “Now hold it up in front of you so just your head is exposed.” I did. “Good. Now stay like that for a count of fifty.” I made it to eighteen. Before I dropped it to the wet grass, Malchus caught it, then returned it to its covering and its place against the railing.

“You want to know why those men are using wicker shields instead of these? It’s not just because they don’t want to damage the pretty paint. The wi
cker surrounds an iron center—they weigh half again as much as the one you just held.” I heaved a great sigh of defeat. “You want to tackle the likes of Herclides? You want to fight like a soldier? Then you’ve got to be fit like a soldier.”

As we walked back to Betto and Hanno, my brow creased. “Maybe we ought to go home and release the men I hired to take your places while we’re gone.”

“This ought to do for starters,” Betto said, shoveling the last of the dirt into a large canvas bag that Hanno was holding open for him. Malchus held the pole upright for his friend, who reached up and attached the bag to the crosspiece. “I’d say it’s close to 25 pounds. Maybe 30.”

“What do you mean, ‘for starters?’”

“A legionary carries twice that on the march, not counting weapons and armor.”

“And don’t forget the shield,” Betto smiled. “It hangs from the crosspiece on those rings.”

“Now, Alexander,” Malchus said, “shoulder that pack and we’ll start you off easy:  five times around the track. Off you go. Well, Flavius,” he said, throwing his cloak on the dewy ground and sitting cross-legged upon it, “I hope you packed enough breakfast for everyone.”

“Two portions for you, one for me. As always. Hannibal, have a seat. What did you bring to eat for yourself?”

“I’m not hungry. Can I have that apple?”

“Only if you’re going to eat it,” Betto said, about to toss the piece of fruit to the boy. He checked himself in time. Malchus chuckled and spit an olive pit into the hole.

The Circus Flaminius was 800 feet long and 300 feet wide. Over the next several weeks I would memorize each brick, shop and pennant along its wide dirt oval. Every day, three hours before dawn, I trudged up the Capitoline and marched with my pole and its fertile baggage, a lost, lonely ghost in the black upon black shadows of the great stadium. My right leg, pierced by one of Sulla’s archers the day I met my master, grew quickly strong and its hindrance was imperceptible.

Recruits in full gear were required to complete 18 miles in five hours, then 22 miles in the same time. My responsibilities at home foreshortened my regimen, but within a month, I had become Heracles in his prime, or Milo of Croton, Olympic champion. I purchased a small
, polished bronze mirror and secreted it beneath my bed, admiring my progress at the end of each day.

That was before Malchus and Betto took me off the blessedly level track and into the cursed hills.
On the first incline, the stamina and strength of which I had become so proud fled like terrified children. The blisters and sores which had hardened to callus on the track were chafed and shredded anew. Muscles in my thighs and calves, corded and toned, found infant cousins I had never met, but who now cried out each night to make my acquaintance. There was no question of surrender. Come morning, the memory of Livia in Palaemon’s grasp or the wild moons of Velus Herclides’ eyes pitched me from my bed into the sweat-stained embrace of my cross. To spur me up the steeper hills, I dreamed it was not weighted wood I carried but Livia, heroically spiriting her away from mortal danger, some imagined, some all too real. I was so exhausted by bedtime I forgot to look in the mirror.