A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,53

Crassus, letting him know that his youngest son would be home within the half-hour. Speak only to him, I told the man, and be sure lady Tertulla hears nothing of it. He saluted, then turned to ride up the Clivus Victoriae at the double.

A heavily accented voice asked, “General, these?” We turned to see a blue-faced man with beard and pigtails of the most extraordinary yellow tilt his head toward the penned-in prisoners. His battered helmet matched his hair: a gold-painted overturned cup crowned by two large, golden balls suspended by a cross-shaped spike. One could not help but interpret their design anatomically. After he spoke, he clicked his tongue and eased his reins to the left. His dappled horse side-stepped into Herclides, congregating the captives into an even closer assembly.

“I’m not a general, you know,” Publius said conspiratorially. “But don’t tell them.”

Malchus scanned the plaza, which continued to fill with hundreds of men now focused on one man. “I don’t think rank has much to do with it, sir.”

“I’ll tell you, Malchus, there’s only one thing that separates a Celtic warrior from a Roman legionary. Discipline. Without Roman discipline, my head would be hanging from that pommel right there. Isn’t that the meat of it, Culhwch? Discipline?”

“True enough, by Macha. But now we, too, have discipline. Lucky for you we like your food better. And your gold.”

Publius laughed. “Culhwch is my Praefectus Alae, commander of my cavalry. Alexander, you’d better make certain that something extraordinary is prepared for our guests’ dinner.”

“I shall see to it personally, dominus.”

“Ahem!” lady Cornelia interjected. And was ignored.

“My son, Brenus,” said Culhwch with no small hint of apology, meaning the youth on the small grey who had ridden up beside the unlikely praefectus. Brenus was no more than twenty, his sparse beard making a stouthearted but doomed effort to cover his freckled cheeks. He had red hair, darker than Livia’s and almost as long. He wore no body paint, which in his case made him all the more frightening. His nose, a hilly palette of outlandish colors, was swollen and crusted with dried blood, bent unnaturally to one side. He was intent on ignoring the pain he must be enduring, yet his eyes watered. I glanced at Livia.

“His beard is thin; I blame his mother,” Culhwch said mysteriously.

Brenus spoke, his nasal voice deeper than I would have guessed. “My heartwall, Taog.” The individual of whom the young Celt spoke was just behind him—a warrior so tall his horse appeared to be six-legged. The sight of him was the living seven-foot definition of his unfamiliar title, and none of us needed to ask for an explanation. He did not speak, but his pale eyes, shadowed by the brow and nose guard of his helmet, were alert and vigilant.

“Nobody asked you for introductions, boy,” Culhwch said. “Waste of a warrior,” he muttered, eyeing Taog. “If a man needs looking after, he’s not a man, is he?”

“Take that up with Mother, if you ever pass her way again,” said Brenus.

“And you were not spoken to, either!” Culhwch said.

Well, this was rapidly getting out of hand. It was time for diplomacy. I opened my palm to catch the agitated father’s eye. “Your Latin is impeccable, sir.”

Culhwch turned to me and grinned, showing a mouth full, mostly, of yellow teeth. I did not like that look, not one bit, suddenly feeling as if the Celtic leader’s frustration had found a less contentious target. “Someone must have stretched you between two trees when you were a babe, eh?” Height isn’t everything, I thought. I may be taller than average, but height is a relative manly virtue: Brenus’ heartwall could wrap one of his hands around my neck and his fingers would touch. But attend, the Celt speaks again. “Impeccable, you say? Do you mock me with your big words? I’ve noticed that Romans who talk big are small in battle. Are you truly weak, or do your words have mystical weight? Are you a wizard?”

“He’s no wizard,” Herclides said, speaking up for the first time since he and his gang were overwhelmed. “He’s just a slave.” Culhwch’s left leg shot out and his boot caught Herclides in the chest, knocking him into several other men in the makeshift corral of Celtic riders.

“A spell spoken by a slave works just the same as one said by a free man,” Culhwch said. “If they know the art, and the words, and speak them impeccably.”

Lady Cornelia stepped forward, pulling Livia with her beneath