A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,48

where it belonged. As Greece honored Zeus, so Rome continues to venerate Sulla with its imitation of the Olympiad. And Rome, being the repository for all the world’s stolen wealth that it is, keeps offering greater and greater prizes for the winners in each event. The celebration of Sulla’s conquest is an irresistible cynosure for every athlete within a thousand miles. They stream to Rome to compete, leaving our original celebration destitute of quality competitors. I spit on Sulla’s Victory games. In private, naturally.

•••

I paid little attention to whatever ointments and herbs Livia was purchasing. My eyes, and those of Valens and Malchus, were trained on the crowded street, scanning for trouble. Buccio kept a rear guard at the back entrance to the shop. All of us had short clubs looped into our belts, save for our two real legionaries, Malchus and Valens, who kept their hands on the pommels of their ill-concealed swords. And of course, there were my knives.

We came to grief at the intersection of the wide Nova Via and the Porta Mugonia at the base of the Palatine. To our left loomed the vined and hoary columns of the temple of Jupiter Stator. The wind rose, the bare branches of the trees above us on the hill argued with each other in coarse, scratchy voices, and it began to rain. We were just about to start our climb to home and safety when Livia called my name with low urgency. We turned to see twenty of Clodius Pulcher’s brutes walking quickly down the cream brick steps of the temple. Most were unknown to us but their leaders had sickeningly familiar faces. To a man they wore the look of smug imprudence that comes from being on the side with overwhelming odds in its favor. Two of them wore the trappings of gladiators: a retiarius with his net and trident, and a hoplomachus, with padded leggings, a small round shield on his left forearm, a dagger in his left hand and a stained lance in his right. Neither of them wore helmets, but their expressions were as hard as armor. Those two stood on either side of Velus Herclides. There were only four or five long strides between us.

“Furina’s feces!” Malchus muttered under his breath. “This is not good, Alexander.”

“Drusus Quintilius Malchus,” Herclides called, smiling like a cat with a sparrow beneath its paw, “How do you like me without the beard?”

“This crossroads is a sacred place,” Malchus called back as Herclides’ men moved in, forming a semi-circle in the broad plaza of the gate. Behind us rose the Palatine.

“I was hoping you and I might have another moment.”

“And you’ve just brought weapons into a temple.”

“But as you can see, we’ve brought them back out again.” His men chuckled.

“Bad luck to spit in the face of the gods,” Valens said. His gladius slid into view, whispering a soft farewell to its scabbard. Behind Herclides, the scarred Palaemon leered.

Malchus held Valens back with an outstretched arm, then stepped in front of him. “Your complaint lies with me, Velus. Let us walk apart and settle our differences privately.”

“You?” Herclides said with surprise. “You’re a fellow legionary. How could you think a bone with any meat on it lay between us?” His face was smiling, but his eyes, flitting left then right to check the positioning of his men, made my legs weak. “It’s the women we want, same as before.”

I called out, “What would Clodius Pulcher say if he knew what you were up to?”

“Well, if it isn’t the Mantis. Best guess? He’d probably say, ‘save some for me.’”

When the laughter died down I said, “You know who we serve.” Somehow, I kept my voice from flying off into the upper registers. “Let me remind you: Marcus Licinius Crassus.”

“Mantis, hadn’t you better start praying?” This evoked a drool-laced cackle from Palaemon.

“Back then,” I continued, fear spilling words from my mouth like bees fleeing the nest, “you must have been, what? Fifteen? Twenty? Old enough to remember. The Via Appia? Spartacus? You are no more than twenty assembled here. Marcus Crassus was in a hurry back then, what with wanting to nail up six thousand as quickly as he could. With you lot, he’d most probably, and this is just a guess, of course, but I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he took his time with you and your men. You’d be begging for crucifixion by then, that is, if you still had tongues. Is that how you picture