Several of the animals took a step or two forward on the stage. Others made strange and unsettling sounds. “The people must see we are their masters,” Pompeius said, pointing. “Kill them; start with that big one near the end.” He turned to Crassus, pointing straight down through the iron fence. “I’ve had a store of weapons laid in against the wall. Fear not, the hunters will never run out of javelins.”
The soldier with the ostrich plume said something to his men and stepped forward. He hefted his spear, calling out to his victim, motioning with his free hand. Stepping forward with his left foot, he threw the javelin with such speed and grace the spear cut the air as if it had been loosed from a bow. The point entered just below the animal’s left eye, deftly skirting the armament of muscle and bone to rend the soft center of its life, killing it instantly. Its legs, lifeless pillars, buckled; the corpse crashed to the stage, snapping the spear with a stomach-twisting crack as the creature hit the ground. On both sides of the fallen giant, the animals screamed and side-stepped away in terror. The elephant furthest to the right smashed into the fence with force enough to break several of the iron crosspieces, shoving the marble Venus into the column behind it. The head of the goddess broke and fell, then the body toppled in a crash that sent the animals in a wild-eyed search for safety. The crushed trainer lay in a crumpled, lifeless heap, spared the sight of the carnage to come. Perhaps his prayer had been answered after all.
The audience’s cheers were ecstatic.
Rather than charge and retaliate, the elephants appeared desperate to escape. Javelins were now being flung at them by all the hunters. Believing the place where they had entered the arena was the way to their salvation, they bunched about at the rear of the stage, crying out as they pressed against the bars, being wounded all the time in their flanks and legs. Their grunts and cries, pitiful wailing notes were pressed indelibly into every ear. Tertulla turned away. Our eyes met and I could see the water welling brightly in hers. The crowd grew silent, their jubilation extinguished.
Suddenly the elephants turned and rushed away from the rear of the stage, stampeding toward their executioners, stumbling over the bodies of those already dead or dying. At first we could not discern the reason why they reversed direction, but then we saw that men with torches had appeared at the rear of the theater, jabbing with their flames, denying the stars of this last day of celebration their freedom.
“Madness!” Crassus shouted, grabbing his wife. “Stay here, Alexander. Be my witness.” They were already up and moving. Truth to tell, had I wanted to flee, my legs would have betrayed me.
The Gaetulians circled round to the right. The elephants, only ten remaining now, ran wildly toward the curving fence, straight at us. Iron had never looked so flimsy. Pompeius crouched horrified, his hands clutching the wreath on his head. His guards and lictors huddled about him.
The animals’ flanks were exposed, and the hunters loosed a barrage of javelins that thumped and tore into their thick hides. Instinctively fleeing from the source of these new wounds, the victims collided with their brothers, the entire herd smashing headlong into the barrier just beyond us. The fence folded outward over the first rows of seats like a jaw dropping. I saw two men knocked flat and bloody by the iron bars; there may have been more. These were not senators, who had already fled to higher ground, but fools looking for a better view.
Voices rose behind us, a new noise of protest. People were on their feet, demanding that Pompeius stop the killing. When their cries went unanswered, their shouts turned to curses. A cup of wine careened off my shoulder, splashing Magnus’s back with scarlet.
One beast separated from his fellows and turned toward the hunters. Blood stained his hide black. His ears flared in defiance; he trumpeted with rage and stumbled forward, cutting off his attackers’ retreat. He was driven to his knees, but reaching out with his trunk, snatched a shield from a screaming African and flung it into the stands. It arced high overhead, as if the animal had been trained to perform a trick. His head sank to the ground and the hunter drove his spear into the neck at the base of the elephant’s skull. 25,000 groaned as one.
Only five of the original eighteen animals were left alive, all with mortal wounds. They gathered at the front of the orchestra, facing a stunned and horrified crowd, seeming to plead directly with them with raised trunks and cries of the most pitiful nature. The audience jeered the hunters and hurled curses down upon Pompeius. Many stormed from the theater, their tears mingling with vows never to return again. As the remaining elephants’ strength gave out, they sank to their knees, their breathing rattled and labored, yet powerful enough to blow dust up to sparkle in the afternoon sun. The hunters approached, spears held high. Incomprehensible shouts of “cowards” and “barbarians” pelted the foreigners from above; the garbage flung down upon them was in a language more easily understood. The chief Gaetulian shook his spear at the Romans, returned their epithets in his throaty tongue and ran to stab the nearest elephant for spite. As he raised his javelin, the animal rose up on his front legs, using the last of his strength in a final attempt to get away. The hunter with the ostrich plume moved in close enough to touch the beast and grabbed his spear with both hands for a killing thrust to the heart. But he was too late. The elephant moaned, one of the saddest sounds I have ever heard, and died. The hunter jerked back to avoid the rolling corpse, but one bare foot was caught by the dead animal as it rolled on its side. Off balance, the headman squealed and jabbered as he fell backwards, kicking with his free leg at the grey wall descending upon him. I could not hear the bones of his legs break, but I could see his eyes bulge like eggs as the lower part of him was squeezed up into the upper half. His countrymen rushed to his aid, pulling his arms to free him from an embrace from which there would be no release. He screeched at them until the wave of his jellied insides pushed its way out his mouth. Then he was silent. It was the first time I had heard the crowd cheer since that same man had killed the first elephant.
While this was happening, Pompeius left the theater, crouching under the shields of his guard, without comment or apology. Eighteen elephants were slaughtered that day, along with any hope that Pompeius' millions had bought the renewed love of the people he had so wished to purchase.
•••
A gladiator crying for succor, running from his opponent would be jeered and reviled; but let that same behavior be exhibited by a herd of lumbering, implausible creatures and the empathy of the crowd is aroused. There is no logic to it, except perhaps this: the elephants could easily have overpowered the hunters and crushed them. That they appeared to spare them, offering their own lives instead, was seen as noble.
Was it this that touched the heart of the ordinary citizen? Was it not the Gaetulians who represented the best of the heroic Roman spirit, but the elephants lying slaughtered on the bloody stage of Pompeius’ amphitheater? Would any Roman voice such an admission out loud? I doubt it.
Chapter XVII
55 BCE Summer, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives
One may develop a taste for jellied eel, and though I personally have never found it appealing, I admit the possibility that, however unlikely, my taste may someday change. I cannot say the same for a steaming plate piled high with confrontation. This dish, I can assure you, I shall never relish. To Livia, it is practically the staff of life.
“Why in the name of Isis,” Livia said, “would dominus take you to Syria over a trained and experienced healer?”
It was the end of the day. We were in my wife’s clinic across from the old schoolroom where I used to teach Latin and Greek. Though Livia was not legally my spouse, we used the words ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ whenever we could, in thought and in speech, though not too loudly. Livia was in her six month. I had never seen her look more beautiful. But her demeanor had swung measurably toward what honesty demands I catalog as ‘cantankerous.’ Figurative eggshells lay shatte
red across the floor wherever we tread.
“Dominus has a hundred healers. He is a family man. He would not tear a mother from her newborn child.”
“Maybe he’ll insist we both make the journey.”
“Nonsense. Even were you not with child, there is one compelling reason for him to take me and leave you behind.”
“I cannot imagine what that might be. No offense, Andros, but I have seen you try to lift a legionary’s shield.”
“Droll, but off point. I am dominus’ closest advisor. My effectiveness would be paralyzed were I constantly distracted by worry over your safety.”
Livia’s eyes narrowed. “I hate how you overturn an argument by saying something sweet. But you see,” she said, heading for the larder, “that argument works both ways. Which is why he’ll leave you behind and make me his personal medicus.”
The last patient of the day had left, another satisfied referral from domina. The elderly lady with the uncooperative bowels had departed with a paste of macerated melilot and dates. In the sealed jar’s place, she had left a sizeable gratuity. While this peculium did not legally belong to Livia, Crassus had promised her the same arrangement he had bestowed upon her mother: any money left over from the expenses of running the clinic was hers to keep, to do with as she pleased. Sabina, regrettably, had forfeited all—her money, her freedom and her family when she had been proved guilty of murder. By me. An image of her in the choking dark of Laurion’s silver mines would always hang between Livia and me, a noxious cloud. She had forgiven me, but I would never be at peace. Had I made the right choice? Someone much wiser than I would need to be my judge. Until then, I would rely on Livia’s absolution. In those days, the only solace I could give myself was to wish her mother the release of an early death.
Livia was cleaning her instruments in a large bowl of water. “What are you doing?” I asked. “What is that you have there?” My curiosity was too fervent to be genuine, but Livia decided to play along.
“Brenus gave it to me.” She held up a foamy, grey ball.
“Brenus?” Hanno asked expectantly. He was at the door, sweeping dirt into the street. His gloves were a tremendous help. He almost never dropped the broom. “Where’s Brenus?”
“He’s gone, dumpling,” Livia answered.
“He left with Publius last month. Do you remember?”
“Taog, too?”
“I’m afraid so, Hanno.”
“They’ll be back,” I said. “Don’t you worry; you’ll see them again.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon.”
“How long till soon?”
“I don’t know, Hanno, perhaps in a couple of months?”
“Will I see him tomorrow?”
“No, dumpling, not tomorrow. We’ll let you know as soon as we find out. Now let Livia talk to Andros. You’re doing a wonderful job with your broom.”
“I am doing a wonderful job! Thank you!” The smile came back.
“You were saying…”
“I was saying how you are staying and I am going. Now, do you really have any interest at all in this?” She waved the grey ball at me. “It’s quite remarkable.”
“I’m listening.”
She lowered her voice for the first few words. “Our Celtic friend showed me how to make it. It’s mostly goat fat and beechwood ash, if you can find it, but any fine ash will do. You mix it with water and it cleans everything, even clothes. He calls it soap.”
“Remarkable.”
“He also claims it makes your hair shiny,” she said.
“You’ve used it on your hair, haven’t you? I can tell. You look stunning.”
“Don’t try to flatter me out of going and thank you.”
“Livia is beautiful!” Hanno said.
“Why thank you, dear. You’re beautiful, too.”
“Yeah!” Hanno dropped the broom and clapped by bumping the heels of his hands together in rapid succession.
“Where are your first gloves, Hanno?” I asked. “Those look newer. They are the second pair, aren’t they?”
Hanno nodded. “I don’t know.” He thought about it hard, and realizing he had no idea where he had left them, his lower lip began to tremble.
“They’re probably in our room,” Livia said. “Don’t worry about it, dumpling. We’ll find them.” She dried her hands on a towel and turned to me. “One of us is going to have to stay behind to look after the baby.” She patted the ball of her stomach.
“It cannot be me. And the thought of you here, safe with our child, will give me strength on my journey.”
“Crassus is going to war, Andros! Whose skills do you think are more valuable, a healer’s or a scribe’s?”
“Scribe indeed. Your sense of humor blossoms when your humors are out of balance. Think on it, love—when has dominus ever gone anywhere without me?”
“I’m going,” Hanno said.
“That’s good, dumpling. It’s almost time for supper. Please put the broom in its place and be sure to wash that dust off before you come to table.”
“No, Livia. I’m going to war with Father Jupiter. Want to see me march?” He began to limp about the room.
“Hanno, you are not going anywhere.” Seeing his face begin to crumple, I quickly rephrased. “Because we have a very important job for you. We need you to stay here and help look after little Marcus when he comes.”
“Or little Sabina.”
“Are they coming with Brenus and Taog?”
“You know, they may just. One or the other. You and Andros will have such fun playing with the baby while I’m away.”
“I refuse to have this discussion with a pregnant woman. Besides, it is entirely academic. We need only put our cases before dominus.”
“Let’s go to the kitchen, then. I have an insatiable craving for a plate of jellied eel.”
•••
The truth was, neither of us was anxious to go before Crassus to plead our case. Whatever his ruling, if he was determined to forego the sight, scent and touch of his beloved wife for two, maybe three years to achieve his goal, he would not think twice to demand the same of one of us. For a generation I had belonged to the growing, fortunate familia of the Crassus household. But now, just at the moment when Livia and I were about to make our own true family together, Crassus would snatch it away from us. Throughout my life, experience has been there to be my willing teacher, yet what a poor student I have made. Why can’t I remember that not once have I ever seen a coin, whether grimy copper or bright gold, that had but one side.
PART II – A Hardness of Stone
Chapter XVIII
55 BCE - Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives
As you came to the end of the last scroll, you who read this, did you laugh at our folly? I could not blame you if you had clucked or tsked, but can we be faulted for imagining that Crassus would take some interest in his newborn property and show some regard for its parents? He did neither. It was both of us he wanted and both of us he took. Livia was as skilled a doctor as dominus had ever seen, the equal of her mother and more, for Sabina had lacked the knowledge of the ancient Egyptian healing arts. Of course Crassus would take her, though I begged on my knees for him to leave her behind. When that failed, I had nothing more to say, for I would never ask for him to take her and leave me, even to be a father to our son.
Yes, a son, Felix, born to us on the 3rd of October, seven pounds of soundless, red-faced fury that melted into entranced repose the instant he found his mother’s nipple. Our master’s plan was to set sail from Brundisium in November. Five weeks. That is all the time he gave us. So we held him, fed him and inhaled the indescribable scent that belongs only to new life. We stayed up nights to comfort his cries, then lay exhausted with him curled between us, lulled at last by the tiny rasp of his breath.
You may wonder at our choice of a name that means happy, blessed and lu
cky. Wonder no more. The choice was not ours, but lady Tertulla’s. Do not forget we were but pets, and never has there been a bitch that names its own litter. Yes, I was bitter. Far easier was it to absorb the consequences of a life without choice when I was the only one suffering those consequences. Now one had become three, and it was as if I had been enslaved anew. Curio’s harsh words rose like bile; I drank to drown them out, but I cannot hold my wine. Livia held my forehead as I kneeled over the basin. She ground mint and waneb root (the herb she had insisted on buying that day at the baths) and suffused them into a tea. Within minutes I was still bitter, but at least my stomach and head were much improved. We decided Felix was a name hard to dislike; perhaps, for once, this would not be another instance for life to laugh at us poor mortals with its sadistic sense of irony.
Hanno was entranced. The moment his stable chores were through, he dashed to our quarters to thrust his head into Felix’s basket to see what ‘little brother’ was up to. That is, after he’d passed inspection.
“Don’t you dare touch that baby till you’ve washed your hands, young man.” Livia guided Hanno to the basin.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Hanno scrubbed away as Livia had shown him, rubbing the tops of his hands and the bumps where his fingers used to be.
“Soap,” she reminded him.
“It’s very slippery! I can’t hold it.”
“Do you want me or Andros to help you?”
“No, I can do it by myself! I like the bubbles. They have shiny colors.” The boy chased the ball around the basin, splashing water on the floor. “It’s very slippery,” he repeated.
“Would you like some help now?” Livia asked gently.
“Yes, please.”
Hanno was very gentle with the baby; to watch them together only multiplied our sense of loss.
•••
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 20
