A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (22 page)

“Cicero!” Crassus exclaimed, putting his arm about his critic’s shoulders. “Welcome! How we have missed you.”

The statesman looked almost as bewildered as those other guests who were also aware of the stormy history between the two senators. Which was everyone. “I would rather have stayed here in Rome than be missed by those who remained at home.”

“Oh, that nonsense is long past,
” Crassus said.

The orator
had referred to his forced exile by Clodius Pulcher. Their enmity was legendary. Cicero had appealed to
dominus
, Caesar and Pompeius for help, but they had turned their backs on him, it is rumored as payment-in-kind for the time he spurned their offer to participate in their coalition at Luca.

“I see reconstruction of your house is continuing apace,” Crassus said, glancing at me to summon
more food servers. I, in turn, gave the nod to Lucius Curio. I would not miss a single syllable of this! Curio turned with a huff from his own place in waiting, and even among the crowded assembly, I could hear the sound of knuckles cracking as he departed.

“No thanks to Clodius
,” Cicero answered. “We will never be rid of the stench left by his arson, or the acrid reminder of what Roman politics has allowed itself to become.”

“Now, now,” Crassus said, “let’s leave politics at the door this night. This is a happy occasion.”

“Of course, you are right, dear friend. Politics and happiness can no longer co-exist in the city, let alone in the same house. I am done with politics, and shall concentrate on the rediscovery of happiness. I shall withdraw from active pursuits to concentrate on my writing. But you, Marcus, your political star rises to heights even Icarus never knew. Of course we all know what happened to him.
” (Oh, the man never rests!)
“No, after Luca, I have willingly surrendered to the will of the people, or at the very least to the will of Crassus, Pompeius and Caesar. Thank the gods that you three know what is best for the rest of us. Will you drink with me to the Republic, Marcus?”  

“With all my heart.” Crassus raised his goblet. “To the
Republic!” he cried, and the toast was repeated as it surged throughout the house.

When the noise had died down, Cicero resumed. “Is it not a blessing that the interregnum has passed? Black, you may be unaware, is my least favorite color.” He paused for
a long moment, but Crassus refused to fall into his trap. “What, you took no notice of those senators who refused to attend the games, who shunned the Latin festival on the Alban mount, and who declined to feast in the Capitol on Jove’s sacred day? You must have seen them, donning black togas as if in mourning? How stifling, to suffer so throughout the summer, the poor dears.”

“I
did
notice one thing,” my lord said offhandedly. “
Your
toga
remained as bright and pure as the snows on Vesuvius.”
Well spoken, dominus. Yet I fear there is much truth in Cicero’s accusation. The world is out of balance.

“I stood in sympathy with them, Marcus
Licinius, yes, in sympathy. I was as unhappy as any with your manipulation of the elections, but I have a skin condition, you see…”

“Where are your wife and daughter?” Crassus asked, casting about not only for Terentia and Tullia, but for a change of subject.

“They have little taste for parties these days. Their home is in ruins, after all. I only stopped by to congratulate you, Marcus, on your election. Consul for a second term. Well done.”

“I am honored by your confidence, Marcus Tullius, but you know as well as I that the vote will not be taken until next week.”

Cicero laughed, a short, nasal snuffle. “Oh, I take your meaning now, Marcus,” he said, as if comprehension had just dawned. “You would have me harken back to a time when the outcome of a contest was not known until
after
the voting. How nostalgic.”

“
Honored Father and illustrious friend,” Publius interrupted, “do you know the sign of an unsuccessful party? I thought not. Permit me to tell you. It is when the conversation begins to bore the ladies.”

“As so often happens,” Cicero said, waving off a platter of roasted chicken legs
practically thrust beneath his nose by a server pushed at arms length by Curio, “it is the children who must lead the old ones out of the woods. Enliven us, and recount Caesar’s prediction of your father’s failure. I am intrigued.”

Publius glanced at his father.
“I fear I have misspoken. It was nothing.”

“It was
some
thing, else you would not have voiced the sentiment with such scorn.”

“
Why, little Roman,” said a new voice, “do you insult this warrior by pressing for an answer different from the one he has just given you?”

“Mercif
ul—” Cicero started off with his hallmark scorn, but censored himself mid-huff as he turned into the barreled expanse of Culhwch’s chest. The Celt had cleaned himself up for the party:  his breeches were almost stain-free and he wore a shirt. This did nothing to improve his scent. I was having him followed wherever he went by two slaves swinging thuribles practically on fire with as much incense as could be stuffed into them. Every now and then Culhwch would swat at the boys halfheartedly, but they were nimble and appeared unhurt.

“There are only two reasons to piss on a man’s name
before his family and friends—either you are a witless swine, or you wish to challenge him in battle.” The Celt looked down on the senator, braids swinging. “We know it’s not the second one, don’t we, bacon-that-speaks,” Culhwch said, smiling.

“How extraordinary,” said Cicero.

“Culhwch,” Publius said, “remember where you are. This isn’t Corterate.”

“
Praise Macha. Do you know,” the Celt continued, pointing a ruddy, lined finger at Publius, “in one battle alone, this same man slew 30,000 of the 50,000 who faced him. Hope that he is as merciful with you.”

I must give Marcus Tullius credit. He craned his neck, stood toga to tunic with the huge fighting man and said in a low, heartless register, “I would have killed them all.”

That took Culhwch by surprise. “Would you now?” He turned to his general. “Would he?”

Publius said, “You never can tell. We Romans are unpredictable.”

“My head on a pike! Maybe you’re not such a pig’s ass after all. That’s the same advice I gave the young general. He didn’t take it, Macha’s balls. What was it you said, general?”

“What I always say:  leave the vanquished living remi
nders of their defeat.” Publius looked very pleased with himself. “After we’ve gone, who better to speak for us of the futility of opposing our domination than those who have witnessed it firsthand?”

“Well spoken, my son,
” said Crassus.

After Publius had introduced
Culhwch all around, and the ladies had finished either scrambling from the room or touching the Celt so they could recount their bravery to their friends on the morrow, Cicero waited the minimum number of polite beats before asking how it was that a man like him would leave home and hearth to follow a conquering foreigner. The big Celt looked to Publius, whose only response was an amused look that said, ‘you’re on your own.’ My young master took this opportunity to invite lady Cornelia to inspect the remarkable Armenian tapestries hanging in the hallway leading to the baths. They were remarkable indeed, for they did not exist. Although, there were some unused
cubicula
in that very place.

“Why does anyone do anything?” Culhwch began philosophically. “For gold or a woman. For me it was both.” Culhwch grabbed a handful off a platter of sliced roast boar
carried by Lucius himself. I’d have to remember to commend him on his initiative. The enunciation of Culhwch’s next words fought for ascendancy over his chewing. “I prefer gold—it is
always
beautiful to behold; when you possess it, you will
always
cherish it—when it is gone, you will
never
rejoice.”

“Are they all as polite
as you in Gaul?” Cicero asked.

“I don’t know; it’s a big place. Does polite mean honest? Then I’m more polite than most.
”

Crassus said, “We could use a man like this on the floor of the senate. Think how he’d lessen the hours of squabbling.”

“Think,” Cicero answered, “how he’d lessen the number of senators.”

“You
r senate is a place for speeches, not for Culhwch. Your son and I have struck a good bargain:  you keep your robes and talk and tell us who to kill and we will take our spears and our horses and ride out with your soldiers and kill your enemies by your side. We will take a few heads, you will give us a little gold, then everyone is smiling.”

“An excellent bargain,”
dominus
said. “Tell us then, my lord, how you came to ally yourself with my son.”

“
I am a prince of the Petrocorii. We work the iron mines; nobody in the land you call Gaul makes better weapons. My father was chief of Corterate; still is unless someone’s jabbed a spear through his black heart. Corterate is smaller than Vesunna, just to the east along the river. In Vesunna, the people are richer, the women are prettier and the beds are softer. Especially the bed of the daughter of the headman, a dung heap of a bastard who, it must be known, is a very good friend of my father. Hah! Everyone had it in for me, but I did them a favor. There’s no comparing my seed to the jellyfish she calls ‘husband;’ now they’ll have a strong son who’ll make them proud. Unless they tossed him to the dogs when he was born.” Culhwch took a swig of wine. He added thoughtfully, “That’s what I’d have done.”

“You took another man’s wife,” Cicero said, “in his own house, an ally of your father, and got her with child?”

“Are you deaf, or have you not been listening?” Culhwch asked. He wagged a nail bitten forefinger in Cicero’s face. “That would not be
polite
.” Cicero flushed, searching for those in the crowd of listeners guilty of laughing, but Culhwch had already moved on. “Your son, lord,” he said, addressing Crassus, “had just vanquished the peoples of Armorica and had fixed his eye on Aquitania. I made parlay with this young Roman commander who had blood in his eyes. When he told me he would first make war on the Sotiates, copper-mining scum if you’ve never met one, and after that pursue the gold miners of the Tarbelli, that was all I needed to hear. I swore fealty and offered those few cavalry and charioteers of my father’s who were loyal to me and looking for a little excitement. Couldn’t go home after all that, so here I am.”

“A thousand
such warriors is no small offering,” Crassus said.

“Why make war on your own people?” One could see that Cicero was reluctant to pose another question, but could not help himself.

“First, they are not my people. My people came down from the great island to the north you call Britannia. The southerners of Aquitania, well, who cares where they came from? Second, iron is good, gold is better.”

“I am deeply humbled and gratified by your loyalty to my son.”

“He is a good fighter and a better leader of men.” A scream, too familiar to my ears, came from somewhere near the front entrance, but Culhwch continued as if this was a prosaic celebratory noise. I fought the urge to leave my post, but Crassus gave me no signal. “Impetuous, but he is young,” the Celt said as others moved off toward the disturbance. “You have raised him well. Would that I had a son like him.”

“You are most gracious,” sa
id Crassus. “Let us see what this fuss is about, shall we?”

We came upon a semicircle of guests framing a scene of frozen confusion. Let me see if I can describe it accurately for you. Hanno
(it was his ear-piercing squeal we had all heard) was standing against the far wall to the left of the inventory of guests’ footwear. I had assigned him the simple task of keeping the outdoor shoes organized and fetching those required by departing guests. Remarkably, he could place every pair with its owner’s feet without a single instruction from the reveler. When guests were ready to depart, Hanno unerringly and instantaneously found the correct pairs of shoes amid the wall he had built upon everyone’s arrival.

Now h
e was crying. Kneeling before him was Brenus, Culhwch’s son, his arms devoutly wrapped about the poor boy’s knees, his head lowered in apparent prayer. Almost blotting this pitifully unique sight from view was Taog, his back to his master, brandishing with one hand a seven-foot wrought iron floor lamp, its spilled oil leaving a sputtering arc of dying flames on the tiles. Cradled under Taog’s other arm was the top of a struggling Roman head. But before we get to Betto (whose head it was), I should note that arrayed against the Celtic giant were Malchus, his lethal mistress, Camilla, naked and gleaming in the lamp light, plus several armed guards and guests. Swords and daggers made small, ominous circles in the air, vipers ready to strike. In moments, blood and oil would mingle on the floor.

“Lay down your weapons, gentlemen.” Crassus strode between the antagonists and lowered his arms. Every exposed blade followed the gesture as if attached
to his hands by invisible strings. The voice of Marcus Crassus turned adversaries into contrite children. Even Taog righted the lamp, humbled by the courage of the master of the house, unarmed and vulnerable, walking to a place easily within his grasp. Thankfully, at that moment, Brenus finished his prayer and released his hold on Hanno’s legs.