A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,15

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