A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,37
impotence in my breast? My mind, a treacherous thing, forced me to paint in lurid detail what it was he was seeing when his eyes roved over Livia. I wanted to rip his lungs out with my teeth. I looked at Malchus, looming behind Herclides, sword drawn, completely at ease in the role of savior. My friend, my hero. The phrase “what would I do without him” was for me a real and frightening question. With good reason, slave, the fruit of love hangs so high; Unless both slave and warrior thou be, then come not nigh. I determined that at the earliest possible moment, I would have a word with the towering Malchus, so confident in his skill at arms, and become once again, as I had been so long ago in Athens, a student.
“Not today, there aren’t,” Malchus answered Velus, his voice as sure as the tip of his gladius was sharp.
“Not at the moment, no,” Herclides answered. “But the funny thing about moments, Drusus, is that there are always more of them.”
“Until you’re dead.”
“Until you’re dead,” he agreed. They made it sound like they were drinking to each other’s health. “You realize, this still leaves you outnumbered, what, eight to two?”
“More like six to three,” Minucius Valens called from where he stood facing the two men in the middle of the palaestra, his sword and dagger drawn. “I wouldn’t count these two.”
“Velus, there are no odds here,” Malchus said reasonably. “There’s you, there’s me and there’s Camilla.”
“Camilla, is that your tongue tickling my back? Hello, sweetheart! Drusus, you’re such a romantic. Who else do you know who does that? Who names their sword?” Herclides started to turn around, but Malchus put a hand on his shoulder and a little more pressure on his gladius.
“If you tell your people to fight, Velus, Camilla will leave you ever curious—you will never know how the battle ends. Quickly now—everything that isn’t clothing and isn’t attached to you, on the ground.”
“Now that’s unkind. Leave a man a little dignity, Drusus. I’ve yielded. You’ve seen the streets; at least let us withdraw with our weapons.”
Malchus twisted Camilla, at the same time adding a feather’s weight more insistence from his sword arm.
Herclides cursed. “Throw down your weapons,” he called. “We are done here.” Palaemon’s face was so contorted it was not clear, from his supine and restricted pose, if he was filled with anger, regret or relief. Except for the chill the scarred man sent rippling across my skin from the look he gave Livia as he scrambled away from her, I had never felt so unencumbered.
The ordeal over, Livia put a trembling hand on my shoulder for support. With an uncharacteristic tremor in her voice she said, “I think I’ll leave the herbalist for another day.”
“A wise plan.”
•••
“Why did you come back?” I asked.
“To settle a bet,” Betto said mildly. “I knew that was the healer you were talking to.” I cocked my head and curled my mouth up on one side, a mannerism which, over the years, the familia of the house of Crassus had come to learn as shorthand for ‘you’re not telling me everything; out with it.’ After a moment, he said, “Fine. After we left, we passed this bunch”—he motioned toward the brigands—“and saw them going in. They didn’t look as if they were going to the baths for a dip and a scrape.”
“Into the pool with them,” Minucius Valens said. “We’ll hold them here and send the slaves to the comitium for help.”
“No,” Malchus said. “Herclides, take your wounded and leave this place.”
Betto said, “What? What kind of a rescue do you call that?”
“This here is a twenty-year man,” Malchus said, never taking his sword from the spot where it might easily find the strapping ex-soldier’s right kidney. “He’s come on hard times, but no real harm has been done here. We’ve seen to that. So what if we rescue a few more than we intended? Eh, tribune Cato? That agreeable with you?”
“No, it isn’t. Not really. The man has interfered with the tiny part of my day where I attempt to recover some sense of otium.” He blew a blubbery breath through those shining lips. “Well, I suppose a good supper will restore my equanimity.” With the roasted leg he still clutched, he waved his permission at us and skirted the empty frigidarium with the rest of his party.
As he passed, I said, “Tribune Cato, aren’t you forgetting something?”