A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow - By Levkoff, Andrew Page 0,64

them proud. Unless they tossed him to the dogs when he was born.” Culhwch took a swig of wine. He added thoughtfully, “That’s what I’d have done.”

“You took another man’s wife,” Cicero said, “in his own house, an ally of your father, and got her with child?”

“Are you deaf, or have you not been listening?” Culhwch asked. He wagged a nail bitten forefinger in Cicero’s face. “That would not be polite.” Cicero flushed, searching for those in the crowd of listeners guilty of laughing, but Culhwch had already moved on. “Your son, lord,” he said, addressing Crassus, “had just vanquished the peoples of Armorica and had fixed his eye on Aquitania. I made parlay with this young Roman commander who had blood in his eyes. When he told me he would first make war on the Sotiates, copper-mining scum if you’ve never met one, and after that pursue the gold miners of the Tarbelli, that was all I needed to hear. I swore fealty and offered those few cavalry and charioteers of my father’s who were loyal to me and looking for a little excitement. Couldn’t go home after all that, so here I am.”

“A thousand such warriors is no small offering,” Crassus said.

“Why make war on your own people?” One could see that Cicero was reluctant to pose another question, but could not help himself.

“First, they are not my people. My people came down from the great island to the north you call Britannia. The southerners of Aquitania, well, who cares where they came from? Second, iron is good, gold is better.”

“I am deeply humbled and gratified by your loyalty to my son.”

“He is a good fighter and a better leader of men.” A scream, too familiar to my ears, came from somewhere near the front entrance, but Culhwch continued as if this was a prosaic celebratory noise. I fought the urge to leave my post, but Crassus gave me no signal. “Impetuous, but he is young,” the Celt said as others moved off toward the disturbance. “You have raised him well. Would that I had a son like him.”

“You are most gracious,” said Crassus. “Let us see what this fuss is about, shall we?”

We came upon a semicircle of guests framing a scene of frozen confusion. Let me see if I can describe it accurately for you. Hanno (it was his ear-piercing squeal we had all heard) was standing against the far wall to the left of the inventory of guests’ footwear. I had assigned him the simple task of keeping the outdoor shoes organized and fetching those required by departing guests. Remarkably, he could place every pair with its owner’s feet without a single instruction from the reveler. When guests were ready to depart, Hanno unerringly and instantaneously found the correct pairs of shoes amid the wall he had built upon everyone’s arrival.

Now he was crying. Kneeling before him was Brenus, Culhwch’s son, his arms devoutly wrapped about the poor boy’s knees, his head lowered in apparent prayer. Almost blotting this pitifully unique sight from view was Taog, his back to his master, brandishing with one hand a seven-foot wrought iron floor lamp, its spilled oil leaving a sputtering arc of dying flames on the tiles. Cradled under Taog’s other arm was the top of a struggling Roman head. But before we get to Betto (whose head it was), I should note that arrayed against the Celtic giant were Malchus, his lethal mistress, Camilla, naked and gleaming in the lamp light, plus several armed guards and guests. Swords and daggers made small, ominous circles in the air, vipers ready to strike. In moments, blood and oil would mingle on the floor.

“Lay down your weapons, gentlemen.” Crassus strode between the antagonists and lowered his arms. Every exposed blade followed the gesture as if attached to his hands by invisible strings. The voice of Marcus Crassus turned adversaries into contrite children. Even Taog righted the lamp, humbled by the courage of the master of the house, unarmed and vulnerable, walking to a place easily within his grasp. Thankfully, at that moment, Brenus finished his prayer and released his hold on Hanno’s legs.

“Master!” the boy cried, running into my arms. “Sorry. That man frightened me. I’m really sorry. His face is ugly.” Brenus had allowed Livia to treat his broken nose, but she could do little more than clean him up and offer him a draught of poppy-laced wine, which he refused. He would heal over time, but until then,