A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (18 page)

Then we stopped. Everyone stopped. There came a noise so startling, so magnificent, that
all who heard it were compelled to seek it out, their eyes drained of will, filled with terror. If there was a herald to announce the eruption of a volcano, if the gods trumpeted a warning before the earth split apart and solid ground became as jelly, this was that noise. It was the sound that birthed all despair. It was doom proclaimed in a register so low with so many discordant voices the rain itself lost hope and abated. Malchus was first to regain himself and shout for us all to resume our flight.

The best gladiators are inured to distraction. This sound was curious, but no immediate threat to
the
retiarius
. He turned to look behind him, saw nothing and returned to the task at hand, the task assigned to him and paid for by Velus Herclides. He hefted his trident, shifting it ever so slightly in his upturned palm to settle in that well-worn place of perfect balance. In that moment, flesh and black ash and iron were all as one. Malchus, protecting our rear and retreating backwards up the hill, made a large and unavoidable target. Thirty feet separated the gladiator from Drusus. Another sixty lay between my friend and me. I pushed Livia up the hill and ran the other way.

The
retiarius
was about to release his spear. He was too far away for me to risk a throw on the run, but by the time I could get close enough it would be too late. I shouted, “DOWN!” and hoped that Malchus could hear me above the din. Though he must have heard my feet slamming on the path above him, though his back was to me, Malchus did not waste time turning round to question his orders. He kicked his feet back and threw his hands out in front of him. The trident was moving through the air, but I had called my warning too soon:  the gladiator had adjusted the angle of his throw. Its three barbed points would pierce Drusus through his left side. My knife was out; for this to work, the spear’s living target would be but a blink away from my own. I aimed my blade, leading my mark at a point just to the left of where Malchus’ knees were when he was standing a heartbeat before. The knife spun at an oblique angle into the tines of the spear, disrupting its flight just before I crashed into Malchus myself. His main weapon spent, the tactical situation on the ground changing in an instant, the gladiator bolted. Malchus and I scrambled to our feet; I found myself warding off our assailants with the gladiator’s trident alongside an extremely put out Camilla.

•••

The noise was unbearable. To our left, from the direction of the forum, the Nova Via emptied into the plaza about one hundred yards from our vantage point. Now, bursting from the wide avenue came a running throng. They did not stop to admire the temples or basilicas that lined its borders, but ran as if safety lay
without
the city walls. Many of them were shouting; some were screaming. They were pushed, almost physically, by stentorian blasts echoing and rebounding off every surface. Herclides tried to rally his men, but except for Palaemon, they had voted with the majority and were heading in a diagonal stream across the plaza to blend into the mob and escape whatever horror approached.

I saw what at first I took to be a Roman general sitting tall and imperious on a black, high-stepping stallion, both horse and rider adorned in polished silver furnishings. But no, this was no Roman, but a daemon in human guise. It was bald, yet from the top of its head sprouted two curved horns, each almost a foot in length. Its ears hung thick and low to its neck, framing a gaping, scowling mouth below flattened nose and slitted eyes. It turned to look in our direction and I flinched, fighting the urge to run. Then it pointed at us and I did shut my eyes, but only for an instant. I don’t think anyone noticed.

The origin of the terrible noise now became visible, but seeing the source did nothing to quiet  the argument between the frantic voice of reason urging me to flee, and the wonder-struck curiosity cooing foolishly to tarry and behold this spectacle. The impostor general’s minions appeared, row after row of bare-chested creatures in motley leggings and boots of rough-cut hides. Their skin was a brilliant blue painted with swirls and slashes of crimson; the hair that sprouted from below their nostrils hung almost as low as their braids. Each of them held aloft a vertical, six-foot tall length of brass that ended in a bristling head, some with the likeness of boars, some dragons, some horses. As they entered the plaza, the notes they blew from these instruments leapt from deep, droning tones to shrill barks and earsplitting yips. It was enough to make one beg for a return to the first noise that had set our skin to crawling, sonorous by comparison; or at the very least for a good pair of waxed ear plugs. The instrument, I later learned, was called a
carnyx
, and there would come only one other time in my life when I heard a cacophony of sound that constricted my heart with more dread.

As soon as the last barbarian herald cleared the narrow neck of the street,
chariots spilled out and around the marchers, their horses eager to find their legs. The occupants of these careening vehicles appeared to be shouting at the top of their lungs, but we could hear nothing above the braying of the brass and the rumble of the iron wheels. The drivers crouched low in front, their vision in danger of being obscured by the flying tails of the two stout horses that seemed to be barely under their control. Around these horses’ necks were strung a decoration of large bells, but again, they made no sound that we could hear. Behind the men with the reins stood warriors taller than any Roman with oval shields and raised javelins, their bronze helmets fearsome with spikes, fat horns, even full-sized statuettes of ravens in flight. As they flew ever closer, we could see that the woven sides of their chariots were adorned with the grisly evidence of their prowess:  the shriveled heads of their enemies, tied in place by their own knotted hair. These trophies bounced and knocked about with each turn of the wheels. The racing steeds wore no necklaces of silent bells—they too were draped with grisly gourds now empty of the essence that in life had made them men.

The chariots split into two streams—one made to cut off the escape of Herclides’ gang, the other curved with wild precision toward where we stood.
Behind these barbarians marched what appeared to be a
century
of regular, Roman legionaries, but by this point, armed soldiers inside the
pomerium
made little impression. They, too, headed our way.

Herclides’ men
, never having been able to reach the main throng of rioters, had been rounded up and herded back to the base of the Palatine, including a defeated but stoic
retiarius
.

Livia was by my side and we were
holding hands. I do not recall who had reached for whom or when. Our helplessness before this fractious army was complete, and that knowledge wedged itself tightly between myself and the pleasure in which I otherwise would have rejoiced. I backed her up the hill as far as we could, watching the heathen general rein in at the base of the road upon which, only moments before, we had expected to die. Turning to Herclides and his men, he warned in perfect Latin that any man whose hand still held a weapon by the time he finished speaking could later reclaim their severed property by withdrawing the nail that would in short order be driving said appendage into the temple door. There was an immediate clatter of arms.

The rider looked up at us; we looked down at him. His stallion snorted and shook its sleek black head. Startled into action, I let go Livia’s hand in order to step in front of her
, grasping the trident once again with both hands. Alexandros, the brave, skinny shield!

To Malchus, the apparition said, "Sheath
e your sword, Drusus,” his voice muffled by the silver face mask. I knew then, to my shame, that my terror had transformed metal into living flesh. Fear is an excellent mathematician—dividing allies with mistrust, multiplying misgivings into dread. “You are relieved, legionary,” the splendid terror continued, “though I see we have arrived too late to make this a perfect rescue.” The stranger’s horned head turned toward the bodies on either side of his mount. His horse had not shied—it was either well-trained or well-accustomed to the sight and smell of human blood. Malchus cocked his head and lowered his weapon. “As for you!” the masked rider said, turning that hideous visage up to me (
to me!?
), “Is it really your intent to skewer your favorite student with that thing?”

My poor befuddled brain, while recognizing that danger had just o’erflew us like the dappled shadows from a murder of crows, was as yet bereft of the power of speech. I stood there, able only to cock my head like a dog that has just heard a strange noise. Which, you may be sure, we had.

“Master?” the rider asked. “Are you unwell?”

A gentle punch in the back from Livia jarred my ears and tongue at last.

“Publius? Publius!”

Pulling the Celtic helmet from his head, Marcus Crassus' youngest son laughed. “Apologies, master, I could not help myself! You looked about as frightened as my brother and I were the day you burned your sandals onto your feet saving Father.” He slid off his horse and stepped smartly to stand before me. Relief turned to joy as I held out my hand to the little lord I had entertained and tutored for over a dozen years.

“I didn’t save him—” I started.

“Oh, no,” Publius said, slapping my arm aside, “we’ll have none of that.” He threw his arms around me, pressed his head into my shoulder, squeezed the breath from my lungs, then hoisted me into the air as if I were a sack of lentils. A very
light sack of lentils. “Gods, but it’s good to be home!”

“Your homecoming
must
have been timed by the gods,” I said, struggling to regain my composure after he set me back down. “Tragedy was imminent.”

“I know. I saw. These two weren’t citizens, I trus
t?” He referred to the dead gladiator and the man I had dispatched. Gladiators rarely were, though none of us could say, and Herclides was silent. “Father wrote to tell me how badly we were needed. Apologies, though, for this one,” he said, pointing to Valens.

Malchus said, “He was your father’s man. Valens. Minucius Valens. He
fell to buy us a little time…from these,” he added, pointing.

“Then he died a soldier’s death, a hero’s death, and earned a soldier’s sendoff. We’ll cremate him with all honors, if his own people will permit it.”

“Sir,” Malchus started, “his family will be honor…”

“Livia!” Publius declared, his attention too magnanimous to linger in any one place, “I’d recognize that hair from a thousand paces.”

“
Dominus
.”

“Tell me true, now, did I see that hand of yours in my tutor’s?” Four cheeks reddened, but there was no time for reply. Publius suddenly and rather startlingly sank to one knee before Cornelia Metella. “Aphrodite come to earth!” he said, holding out his arms. The lady Cornelia smiled in spite of herself. “I beg you, tell me by what name you wish to be called while you grace us with your immortal presence. I shall replace every one of our house gods the moment I have crossed our threshold with dozens, hundreds of your likeness.” Publius rose without waiting for an answer, unclasped his red cloak and gallantly swirled it over the women’s heads and wrapped it about both their shoulders.

“Do that,” lady Cornelia said, tilting her head ever so slightly, “and you will bring the wrath of all the gods that protect the house of Crassus down upon us. I don’t think I’d care for that. It might interfere with your plans to court me.”

“And bold as well,” Publius said, snapping his fingers without taking his eyes off lady Cornelia. The closest legionary removed his cloak and ran to his commanding officer. Instead of draping it over any one or two of the rest of us shivering lot, he clasped it about his own shoulders.

“
Dominus
,” I said, “may I borrow one of your men to announce your arrival?” Publius called forth a rider; I instructed him to speak only to Crassus, letting him know that his youngest son would be home within the half-hour. Speak only to him, I told the man, and be sure lady Tertulla hears nothing of it. He saluted, then turned to ride up the Clivus Victoriae at the double.

A heavily accented voice asked, “General, these?” We turned to see a blue-faced man with beard and pigtails o
f the most extraordinary yellow tilt his head toward the penned-in prisoners. His battered helmet matched his hair:  a gold-painted overturned cup crowned by two large, golden balls suspended by a cross-shaped spike. One could not help but interpret their design anatomically. After he spoke, he clicked his tongue and eased his reins to the left. His dappled horse side-stepped into Herclides, congregating the captives into an even closer assembly.

“I’m not a general, you know,” Publius said conspiratorially. “But don’t tell them.”

Malchus scanned the plaza, which continued to fill with hundreds of men now focused on one man. “I don’t think rank has much to do with it, sir.”

“I’ll tell you, Malchus, there’s only one thing that separates a Celtic warrior from a Roman legionary. Discipline. Without Roman discipline, my head would be hanging from that pommel right there. Isn’t that the meat of it, Culhwch? Discipline?”

“True enough, by Macha. But now we, too, have discipline. Lucky for you we like your food better. And your gold.”