“I see.”
“Forgive me, Melyaket puhr Karach. I am very nervous.”
“I can imagine. Just Melyaket, please.”
“Do you own slaves, Melyaket?”
“There are none in my village. But I have seem them in Hatra. They are always from someplace else.”
“Then we are all slave fodder to someone.”
“Yes, I suppose we are,” Melyaket said. Ten horses, five teams, made the final turn and came down the long, straight run to the finish line as if they were chained together. Everyone was on their feet, including us. You could hear the cracks of the whips above the thunder of the wheels. But one whip rested in its holder. As the riders told their teams that this was the moment to reach for that last ounce of speed, we saw him, the boy Varro, leaning over the lip of his chariot. Of course, no sound came to us above the din, but the melody was not intended for our ears. Varro’s team and one other, driven by one who rode for the blues pulled away from the pack in the final seconds of the race. In the end, I could not see who had crossed the finish line first.
“Aieee!” Melyaket cried. “The red-haired boy has won! I have never seen such a thing in my life!”
“You’re quite young, aren’t you,” Gabinius said.
The judges agreed with Melyaket.
“What happens now?” I shouted.
Gabinius said, “You give him this ribbon and purse.” The ex-governor shoved the correct prizes into my hands. People were streaming onto the dirt track.
“Me?”
“Oh, here, take this.” Gabinius took a thick gold chain from around his neck and slipped it over my head. “Curse Crassus. You’ve got to wear something besides that wreath to look the part. No one has gotten a good eyeful of your master. The box is far enough away from everyone else. I’ll handle the guards and servants. Just act imperious, if that’s possible, or at least noble.”
“I’m going to be sick.” Mercurius overturned a lead-lined copper pot, dumping its former contents of minted figs and dates on the serving table. He ran up to our seats and placed the vessel by my feet.
“Stand up straight,” said Marcus Antonius.
“Alexander, you can do this,” ever-earnest Petronius said, gripping the band of iron that was my shoulder.
“Find someone else.”
“There is no one else,” Gabinius snapped.
It occurred to me that Livia might recognize me in this absurd costume as I performed this humiliating pantomime. I bent over and filled half the fruit bowl with my insides.
“This is a disaster,” Cassius said.
Mercurius stepped between us. “May I have a go, dominus? Alexander,” he whispered to me, “just pretend that you are the dominus and he is the slave. I do it all the time. Imagine it is he who has to clip your cuticles, clean between your toes, wipe your ass, remember all your friends’ names, and never get so much as a well-meant hug, not even during Saturnalia.”
I shook my head, breathing hard through my mouth.
“Then imagine you’re going to have him executed in the morning,” Gabinius said. “That ought to strike the right tone.”
The crowd had completely surrounded Varro’s chariot as he carefully directed his frothing team toward our box. Grooms muscled their way in and began wiping the two blacks down. I thought my legs might give way. If I did not find a device to latch onto and quickly, this deception would fool no one.
Varro’s eyes were the blue of the high mountain lakes north of Brixia. He fought for solemnity as he approached, but was unable to keep the smile from chipping flakes of dried dust and sweat from his grimy face. I studied his expression—he barely knew where he was, yet he was completely immersed in this moment of good fortune. Then I had it. All I had to do was run down the lane and leap into the air, just as in my dream. I walked down the center of our aisle, past the tables piled with food and drink and stood with both hands on the railing.
“That was quite a performance, young man.” My voice was authoritative and controlled.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You are Varro, correct?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Varro, wait one moment longer please.” Near the spina, the driver who had placed second was leading his team off the track. I called to a guard to summon the man to me. He was bearded, filthy and dejected, but he was wearing blue. His name was Galeno. When he arrived, bewildered and awestruck, I reached over the railing to grab his hand; habit appropriated his muscles and obliged him to stretch up to give it to me. I congratulated him on a race well run. Now the entire stadium had more equal reason to cheer, and they did, wildly. I wished him luck in the final race and sent him on his way. He had deserved at least that much.
“Apologies, Varro.” The boy’s dusty red hair came to the top of the railing. I was confident I could do this with no more than a sprained ankle at worst. “I have kept you and your magnificent beasts waiting long enough. Their legs will stiffen and cramp. Shall we let them walk off their win?” Before anyone could react, I hopped up on the broad bronze railing, swung my legs over the side and dropped down the few feet to the hippodrome floor. My sandals made two small clouds of dust in the midday sun (shades of my flying dream yet again). I held up my hand and Varro took it. When I stepped up to stand beside him on the platform of his chariot I draped the winner’s ribbon about his neck and displayed the bulging purse to the crowd before placing it in his hands. I told him to put the reins in his left hand, then took his right and held it aloft.
There was pandemonium from the moment we began our slow ride around the stadium. It was not precisely like flying; the ride was far less smooth, the path of our flight more predetermined than haphazard, but the adulation of 80,000 people whose cheers were meant for the two of us, even if mostly for the boy, was as uplifting as any sustained gust blown by the Anemoi. “I know why you do this!” I shouted as we rounded the final turn. “I will do it till it kills me!” came his reply, and I believed him. Every time he raced, he lived a waking flying dream of his very own.
By the time we had completed the entire circuit, steps had been placed beneath the governor’s box to allow me to reclaim my seat with dignity. I shook Varro’s hand and wished him luck, then with surprising reluctance, stepped down off the back of his chariot.
Hands reached for me and assisted me back to guarded safety. “Mercurius, do you think I might have a cup of watered wine to still these trembling hands? And some bread and a little cheese?”
“Of course, my lord,” he said without thinking.
Marcus Antonius clapped me on the back as he was taking a swig of his own. I’m fairly sure he was about to give me a compliment before he started choking.
“That was quite clever, Alexander,” Cassius said. “I estimate your master will be able to show his face at a public event in this city in oh, about a year.”
“I’m not so sure,” Gabinius said, picking a date up off the floor, wiping it on Mercurius’ outstretched sleeve and putting it in his mouth. “They’re about the same height. Crassus has a bit more hair, but the wreath covers much. You’d be surprised what people will accept once you insist two or three times running that they have seen what you tell them they have seen.”
Red-faced, Antonius managed to nod his head and rasp out, “Bravely done!”
Melyaket leaned over to me. “That was a wonder. How long did you say you’ve been owned by Marcus Crassus?”
“Since I was nineteen.”
“Three years younger than I am now,” the Parthian said, his voice solemn. “Are you very angry?”
I looked at him, but did not answer right away. “I am rarely very angry at anyone for very long.”
“Perhaps you should be.”
“Perhaps you should be older.”
“Perhaps I shall be.”
“May your gods keep you safe until then.”
“And hopefully a little longer.”
“Yes, for quite a bit longer beyond that, if they ar
e kind.”
The Parthian youth ran his fingers through his hair; it fell immediately back to the places from which he had swept it. “This has been most enlightening. A day I shall long remember.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I have a prior engagement.”
I leaned closer and tucked my head down to elude the ever-suspicious ears of Cassius Longinus. “Will you be free at the dinner hour?” I asked under my breath.
Melyaket raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he whispered. “Are you a worshipper of Mithras?”
“No! Certainly not,” I said, raising my voice. I collected myself and resumed my surreptitious composure. “My master would like you to meet with him privately in his quarters.”
“For what purpose?” Melyaket asked suspiciously.
“He does not confide in me,” I lied.
The Parthian raised his voice to a normal speaking level, which in this venue was tantamount to boisterous. “Well then, I’ll give that some thought.”
“I look forward to our next meeting,” I said. “I am intrigued to learn more about a village that thrives without slaves.”
“Come see for yourself. You would be an honored guest. May the rest of your day prove less taxing.”
“Till next we meet, then,” I said, bowing my head slightly. Crassus was right. The youth was too likeable.
The moment Melyaket threw his white neck scarf over his shoulder and disappeared up the steps leading to the exit, two of Cassius’ men followed him out. “If that man isn’t a spy for Orodes,” the quaestor said to Gabinius, “I’ll eat those gold crimps in your hair.”
“Touch them and it will be your last meal.”
“And I thought you were a man who understood metaphor, governor.” Cassius turned on me. “What were the two of you whispering about, eh?”
Have I mentioned that I have never been blessed with an excess of imagination? After stumbling blindly about for something creative to say, out came this: “I…I asked if he might be free for dinner.”
Gabinius said, “I admire your taste.”
The quaestor was not as complimentary. “The man is under suspicion. I don’t give a fig for your personal proclivities, but I suggest in this case you confine your affections to your healer. “It’s not his fault,” Cassius said, turning to the others, “the blame is ours. If we don’t set a high moral standard, why should they bother to emulate us? The long-term consequences are dire, mark my words.”
“Don’t be such a prig,” Gabinius said.
“And a bore,” added Antonius. Petronius, ever-tactful, was silent.
Oh, the unintended consequences of perfidy!
“Back to business. Governor, while you were talking to Crassus, I asked the Parthian about Abgarus. He had no idea, of course, why the king wasn’t here today. Do you? How long have you known this Melyaket?”
“I met him the same day you did. As for Abgarus, he told me he had business outside the city.”
“You see. Neither of them is to be trusted. Did you hear the Parthian mention Hatra? That is their main western military outpost. A training facility the size of Praeneste.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Gabinius stood to a spattering of boos. “Seeing as I am persona non grata in this city, I think I’ll take my own quiet departure. Best of luck to you all. Come, Mercurius. We’re leaving.”
“If it’s all the same with you, governor,” Marcus Antonius said, “I’ve got some silver riding on the final—”
“As you wish. Join me later.”
As the painted atriensis hurried to gather his master’s belongings, I put a hand on his shoulder and thanked him for his help. “Better times,” I said. He smiled weakly, then jumped as Gabinius shouted for him from the top of the steps. He hurried to follow, and that was the last I saw of the little fellow.
Looking at all the extra space in the governor’s box, I suddenly had an inspiration. “Guard,” I said to one of several lining the periphery of our accommodations, “up about twenty rows, you’ll find a red-haired medicus with a young man wearing brown gloves. They’re sitting with two legionaries in tunics, one very large. I don’t think it’s a party you’re likely to miss. If you have difficulty, call out for Malchus or Betto. Bring them all down to me, if you’d be so kind.”
Five minutes later there came a happy squealing from above us. We looked to see the guard leading Livia, unfettered, followed by Betto wincing at every piercing cry that came from behind him. Hanno was too excited to walk down the stadium steps without doing himself or others injury, so Malchus had scooped him up into the cradling logs of his forearms. The boy was sitting cross-legged, facing forward, waving his arms at everyone, pointing at whatever drew his attention, which bordered on the infinite, and occasionally reaching back with his gloved hands to hug the back of Malchus’ neck or pat a drum beat on the top of his head. Every few steps, Hanno would crane his head back and kiss Malchus on the cheek. This would set both of them laughing, which increased both the frequency of the act’s occurrence and the level of Betto’s irritation.
When they were admitted into the booth, with thousands of eyes upon us, I could do no more than greet them formally, which was especially painful for Livia and me, though I am not certain I wished to embrace her considering the expression of suppressed amusement she wore upon her face. There was, to be sure, one exception, and before introductions could be made all around, Hanno had me in his usual, and I must admit, very welcome clutches. To keep him safe, we put him back in the capacious lap of Drusus Malchus, who didn’t seem to mind at all. Betto busied himself with the display of food near the railing, where he and Marcus Antonius exchanged pleasantries, or so he told me later.
Before the next event, the drivers walked to a recessed area filled with screaming young women and not-so-young women waving scarves and tokens for their favorites to wear. The drivers took the ones they fancied, and later, when the day was done, took the ones they fancied.
On his way back to the carceres, the starting end of the track, Varro glanced at the governor’s box and noticed two gloved hands wildly waving at him. This was partially commonplace: everyone was waving and everyone was wild. But the young charioteer did now have a special relationship with the ersatz proconsul, that is me, and so veered in our direction.
“He’s coming! He’s coming!” frothed Hanno, bouncing in the tight restraint of Malchus’ grip.
“Drusus,” Betto observed coolly from below, “you look like a horse breaking a rider.” A flailing arm sent a glass cup into the air but I caught and set it down out of harm’s way.
“Left-handed,” Malchus said, impressed. “‘Guess all that extra work you and Betto did up in the Circus Flaminius paid off.”
“I could give him something,” Livia said, reaching for her kit.
“No,” I said. “We’re not giving Hanno any of your Egyptian opium. He may never be this close to a chariot race again. Let him enjoy it.”
“My lord governor, why such pessimism?” my wife said with joyful sarcasm. “You may yet preside over many more races.”
A withering glance was all I had time to give her, for Varro had arrived. The newcomers crowded about the railing.
“You’re the winner your name is Varro!” a delighted Hanno said.
“I am.”
“My name is Hannibal, but my secret name is Hanno. This is my master and his secret name is—”
“Varro needs to get ready for the next race, Hannibal,” Livia said, introducing herself as the boy’s doctor.
“An honor to meet you, Hannibal. Shall I tell you a secret?”
Hanno drew in his breath. “What is it?” he whispered, leaning over the railing as far as Malchus would allow.
“As of today, he is my master, too.”
This sent Hanno into the rapture of one of his smiles, and Varro was too close not to be infected. “Tell me, Hannibal, do you have something to give me for luck, for the next race?”
Malchus almost
lost his grip on the boy as Hanno’s level of thrilled excitement spun into frantic indecision.
Betto, his mouth full of grapes, said, “Give him a glove.”
Malchus whipped around to glare at his thoughtless friend, but it was too late. Hanno insisted, and as Livia untied the laces, she explained about an ‘accident,’ but nothing could prepare the charioteer. The look on Varro’s face when he saw the mutilated hand froze not only his own features, but everyone else’s who could see the horror in the young man’s eyes. And then it was gone, most of it.
“That’s pretty awful,” Varro said.
“Yeah, it is,” Hanno agreed. “I have two of them they look just the same. You can see—”
“I had a little brother who died when he lost just one of his fingers. He got a fever and he never got better.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know I’m really really sorry.”
“Of course you didn’t know,” Varro said, looking up at the boy looking down upon his new hero. “But if you’d let me, I can’t think of anything better than this glove to take with me for luck.”
Ten charioteers began the next race, this time driving three-horse teams on larger, stronger chariots five times around the spina. I won’t keep you in suspense. Varro won. The One Who Sings walked up the steps at the railing and made a solemn and grateful ceremony of returning Hanno’s lucky talisman. Livia held the glove while Varro grasped the boy’s bare hand in both of his and told him how he was sure that when he sang of its owner to his horses, they practically grew wings. After a short moment, Hanno withdrew his hand and as was his usual custom when he had no words, pressed his head onto the charioteer’s chest and let his arms do the talking for him.
Because of the more spacious accommodations in the larger chariot, this time when the new governor of Antioch drove round the track with the red-headed boy who, with this new purse, was only 150,000 sesterces shy of buying his freedom, they had company. I venture to say that for that third boy, his deformities hidden by kind distance from the crowd, his brown-gloved hands extended in victory, his smile evidence of a delight unmarred by a single grain of impurity, this had been the happiest moment in his life.
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 36
