A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (6 page)

Before getting back into her carriage, Tertulla laid her hand on my shoulder. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”

Waiting until the ironclad wheels of her carriage began to roll, the guards snickered. One said, “Look, Alexander has a new puppy.”

After spearing them with one of my most well-honed glares, I told the boy, “Now, you must let go so that I may mount my horse.” The rest of our procession had already started to move off. Once asked, he complied straightaway.
Now that’s a welcome change.
I looked round for someone to help me mount. Because of my height, I could have flung myself up and into the saddle, but preferred to avoid such an unseemly display. This proved to be unnecessary, for looking down I saw that the boy had dropped to one knee and was offering to assist me. He had linked his four fingers in such a way that the backs of his thumbs and wrists provided the area of lift I required. Perhaps he would have some utility after all.

But not at this occupation.
A few of the guards had lingered to watch; they laughed as my weight drove the slight child’s hands almost to the ground before I hauled myself up by the pommels, legs swinging wildly. Not having the strength to drag myself up all the way, I dangled between heaven, earth and soldiers’ mirth. Something solid met my soles; recognizing it for the boy’s bent back, I pushed off as lightly as I could and pulled myself inelegantly into the saddle to the sound of enthusiastic applause.

“Get up, boy,” I said. The child Hanno did. I was not surprised to see that in spite of the fact that I had knocked him down, his smile had remained intact. I felt obliged to add, “Thank you.”

We walked on, Apollo instinctively slowing his pace for the benefit of the lad. My horse, it must be said, was more attentive than I, for it was only after we had restarted our journey that I looked down to see that the boy’s oversized head was not his only irregularity. He walked with a pronounced limp, pushing off with his undersized left foot which he planted at ninety degrees to his right. The sight of this asymmetry distressed only those who witnessed it, for the boy had long ago adjusted his style of locomotion such that he was completely at ease with it. He rested his hand on my leg, frequently glancing up to bestow upon me his undiluted grin. If he wasn’t irritating me with that look of gratitude, he was staring with unabashed wonder at every mundane sight we passed. Further proof of his insanity. Any being exhibiting such complete contentment with the world and his place in it must be lacking any true understanding of it.

I would like to be able to tell you that on that day my heart went out to the boy, but suffering the touch of his two fingers on my calf, all I could feel was another headache coming on.

•••

And that was how Hannibal came to be in our midst. Yes, I know, that was not his true name, but within a week the
familia
had changed it for him, from Hanno to Hannibal. It was inevitable. At least he and I had that in common. The difference was that as in most things, the boy perceived this as kind treatment. Hanno loved the change, skipping about the
domus
repeating his new name over and over again. I snagged him in the colonnade and holding hands, we walked back to my
tablinum
.

“Well, Hanno, we must find a way for you to earn your keep.”

“I’m not Hanno. I’m Hannibal.”

“But that is not your real name.”

“It is my
new
name.”

“Do you know it is possible to have two names? I have two, and one of them is a secret. Would you like to hear it?”

“Oh yes, please!”

“My secret name is Alexandros.”

“I want a secret name, too!”

“Hmm. I wonder what it should be?”

The boy walked a few feet, his face crushed in concentration. “I can’t
think
of any,” he said, almost in tears.

“I know. What if we called your secret name Hanno? That would be easy to remember, wouldn’t it?”

“Hanno! That’s a good one!”

“That’s it, then. Now, do you remember
my
secret name?”

“No.”

“It’s Alexandros. Can you say it?”

“I don’t like it. I like Alexander.”

“Yes, quite. As does everyone else in this wretched city.”

Chapter
III

56 BCE   Fall, Rome

Year of the consulship of

Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus

What was Hanno capable of doing which would keep him occupied and out of the way? I tried putting him to work with the fullers collecting urine; while he was used to the smell, the workmen were unused to and unforgiving of the constant spills. The garden was no better, because the peacocks chased him, and there were
bugs
out there! In the kitchen, he was underfoot, and cook sent him scampering back to me. Which was where he wanted to be in the first place, Athena knows why. In fact, he seemed happiest sitting at the foot of my work table in the
tablinum
, eager to accomplish whatever small errands I might demand of him.

Hanno had a keen sense of whether or not he was welcome in someone else’s presence. In spite of lady Tertulla’s warning that the boy was to be treated with respect and kindness, it was an old Roman
custom, far from extinct, to treat such misfortunates as fools, good for a laugh; better yet, with a crowd present, to subject them to ridicule, scorn and derision. The larger the audience, the greater the abuse. Guilt and shame, when spread thinly among enough participants, may vanish altogether. I did not hold with maltreatment of any innocent, but I wish that
domina
and
dominus
had found some other way to help heal the brutal unkindness done to them by Caesar. They might feel noble as they passed the child on their way elsewhere, eliciting sunshine smiles with a treat or a coin, but the brunt of Hanno’s care and feeding were foisted upon me. Have I told you that I do not like pets?

We cleaned him up, gave him a place to sleep and fresh clothes to wear, but when it came time to sit in the
tonsor’s
chair, the
shearing snick of Tulio’s clippers sent him into a piteous hysteria. He thrust his hands beneath his armpits and swayed dangerously back and forth, moaning and hugging himself so tightly that later I discovered bruises on his sides. “Fine,” I told him, “keep your hair. But next year, when you are sixteen and that fuzz on your face becomes visible, you
will
shave it off.”

The effect was instantaneous. Off the chair he flew, piercing the puzzled but indifferent barber with a doleful eye. He was on me in an instant, showing his gratitude in a manner that was
uniquely Hanno’s:  a painfully sincere hug with forehead pressed against my chest. If I did not embrace him in return, he would continue holding me until I did. In this, I was an apt pupil, learning on my own the added benefit of a few kind words and a gentle pat on his head. Tulio rummaged in his supplies and recovered a thin braid of leather which Hanno promptly refused. Exasperated, I had the barber give it to me and said, “We can’t have you running around like a wild man. You’re not a barbaric Briton, are you, boy?”

“No! I’m not.”

“That’s right, you’re not, so let us at least arrange your hair so you won’t be eating it along with your porridge.” Hanno blew air from his compressed lips and nodded. I exhaled with relief, for I had no idea what I would have done had he refused. Thank the gods, he allowed me to tie back his plaits with the headband. I took a spare boar-bristle brush from Tulio and examined its narrow handle. “Tulio, when you have a moment, would you please build this up to make it easier for Hanno to hold?”

From that time on, Hanno’s remarkable hair, though it hung half way down his back, was always restrained by that leather thong. He even learned to tie it up himself. And when he received his modified brush, one could almost always find it thrust through a loop in his belt, as dear a possession as any gladiator’s sword. Watching him sit on the floor in my office, brushing away with ardent diligence, I caught myself smiling and quickly returned to my work.

In spite of myself, and the teachings of my school, I slowly warmed to the boy. The poor creatures who suffered from mental inferiority were known to Aristotle. He, unlike most of the illiterate and uneducated masses, did not share the belief that madness was either just punishment meted out by an irate god, or the result of demonic possession. Even his predecessor and teacher, Plato, believed that this sickness might at times be divinely inspired. Aristotle knew that those who suffered this affliction did so from physical causes, but the belief that mental health or disease is dependent upon moral virtue or vice persists. Hanno’s parents, whoever they might have been, must not be faulted for their actions; in his
Politics
, Aristotle himself wrote, “as to the exposure and rearing of children, let there be a law that no deformed child shall live.” If he would not suffer their existence, what audacity to question the great teacher’s wisdom. Human perfection is the ideal; human imperfection, deformity of any kind, must by definition be less than human, mustn’t it?

I put down my pen and studied the child as he pulled the entangled hairs from his brush and dropped them on the tiles. Hanno did not belong to me, yet he was nonetheless mine;
domina
had given me authority over him on her behalf. A slave’s slave. I oversaw many in this way, but somehow Hanno was different. It seemed more poignant that in his case I ordered him about, slept in better quarters and ate better food (not that he would accept half the things he was offered). Just as Crassus lived a life beyond my reach. Did that mean I was entitled to look down upon Hanno as Crassus looked down upon me?
Dominus
would angrily deny that he did any such thing, but no matter how much slack he might pay out on my leash, the collar was still firmly bound about my neck. (I speak metaphorically, of course, although in other houses it was easy enough to find literal examples of tethering.)

Ironically, for most of us, being a slave was a mixture
of shame but also of community—a gentle incentive to treat each other with civility, since there were plenty of others eager to remind us of our lowly station. Hanno did not know he was a slave, and if he did, he would hardly care. Why should he, when his prior life had offered no more freedom and far less cheer? I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable at the instinctive impulse to summarily exclude the child at my feet from the rest of our
familia
. At the sound, he looked up at me and smiled.

•••

In a few more moments, I was interrupted again. Lucius Curio, holding an armful of scrolls cleared his throat at the entrance to my office. I bid him enter and sit, sending Hanno to the kitchen for a sweet roll. As he squeezed past Curio, who made certain no part of either of them came in contact, Hanno asked for two. Two small ones, I told him, and off he went at lopsided speed, ignoring my shouted entreaty to slow down.

Lucius sat stiffly, feet flat on the floor.
“How can you abide to have that
thing
scuttling about beneath your legs all day long?” I looked up to make certain no one was actually pinching his nose.

“Hanno is a member of the
familia
,” I said.

“I mean really, why wasn’t the poor creature left out in the woods as a
n infant?”

“He was.”

“Then I am at a loss. It’s not yours, is it?”

“Let’s get on with those requisitions, shall we.”

“Your productivity cannot help but be negatively impacted.”

“Remember that w
hen
domina
comes to you with a request you predict will negatively impact your productivity. Lay out your reasons and I am certain she will withdraw her application.”

“The house should think of its reputation, then. Word is bound to get out.”

“Have you no empathy whatsoever, then?”

“Empathy is a luxury for patricians
, priests and women.”

“
I see. I’ll bear that in mind should you ever incur the ire of the master.”

Curio gave a short laugh, and I had to agree with him, there was little chance of that.
“I for one, do not intend to have children,” he said, curling his upper lip as he handed the first account across for my perusal and counter-signature. “The pleasure gained compared to the effort required appears paltry by comparison.”

“You sound like your previous master, Lucius Calpurnius Piso,
a staunch follower of Epicurus.”

“
Former
master. You don’t see a slave plaque hanging around
my
neck, do you?” Curio’s eyes, grey or pale blue depending on the light, smiled benignly at me. Just now, they were cold and empty of color.

“Humble apologies. I misspoke. To be fair, you don’t see one hanging about mine, either, do you?”

“No,
and I won’t, but that is of little consequence, since you are only
required
to don yours when you leave the grounds.”