The origin of the terrible noise now became visible, but seeing the source did nothing to quiet the argument between the frantic voice of reason urging me to flee, and the wonder-struck curiosity cooing foolishly to tarry and behold this spectacle. The impostor general’s minions appeared, row after row of bare-chested creatures in motley leggings and boots of rough-cut hides. Their skin was a brilliant blue painted with swirls and slashes of crimson; the hair that sprouted from below their nostrils hung almost as low as their braids. Each of them held aloft a vertical, six-foot tall length of brass that ended in a bristling head, some with the likeness of boars, some dragons, some horses. As they entered the plaza, the notes they blew from these instruments leapt from deep, droning tones to shrill barks and earsplitting yips. It was enough to make one beg for a return to the first noise that had set our skin to crawling, sonorous by comparison; or at the very least for a good pair of waxed ear plugs. The instrument, I later learned, was called a carnyx, and there would come only one other time in my life when I heard a cacophony of sound that constricted my heart with more dread.
As soon as the last barbarian herald cleared the narrow neck of the street, chariots spilled out and around the marchers, their horses eager to find their legs. The occupants of these careening vehicles appeared to be shouting at the top of their lungs, but we could hear nothing above the braying of the brass and the rumble of the iron wheels. The drivers crouched low in front, their vision in danger of being obscured by the flying tails of the two stout horses that seemed to be barely under their control. Around these horses’ necks were strung a decoration of large bells, but again, they made no sound that we could hear. Behind the men with the reins stood warriors taller than any Roman with oval shields and raised javelins, their bronze helmets fearsome with spikes, fat horns, even full-sized statuettes of ravens in flight. As they flew ever closer, we could see that the woven sides of their chariots were adorned with the grisly evidence of their prowess: the shriveled heads of their enemies, tied in place by their own knotted hair. These trophies bounced and knocked about with each turn of the wheels. The racing steeds wore no necklaces of silent bells-they too were draped with grisly gourds now empty of the essence that in life had made them men.
The chariots split into two streams-one made to cut off the escape of Herclides’ gang, the other curved with wild precision toward where we stood. Behind these barbarians marched what appeared to be a century of regular, Roman legionaries, but by this point, armed soldiers inside the pomerium made little impression. They, too, headed our way.
Herclides’ men, never having been able to reach the main throng of rioters, had been rounded up and herded back to the base of the Palatine, including a defeated but stoic retiarius.
Livia was by my side and we were holding hands. I do not recall who had reached for whom or when. Our helplessness before this fractious army was complete, and that knowledge wedged itself tightly between myself and the pleasure in which I otherwise would have rejoiced. I backed her up the hill as far as we could, watching the heathen general rein in at the base of the road upon which, only moments before, we had expected to die. Turning to Herclides and his men, he warned in perfect Latin that any man whose hand still held a weapon by the time he finished speaking could later reclaim their severed property by withdrawing the nail that would in short order be driving said appendage into the temple door. There was an immediate clatter of arms.
The rider looked up at us; we looked down at him. His stallion snorted and shook its sleek black head. Startled into action, I let go Livia’s hand in order to step in front of her, grasping the trident once again with both hands. Alexandros, the brave, skinny shield!
To Malchus, the apparition said, "Sheathe your sword, Drusus,” his voice muffled by the silver face mask. I knew then, to my shame, that my terror had transformed metal into living flesh. Fear is an excellent mathematician-dividing allies with mistrust, multiplying misgivings into dread. “You are relieved, legionary,” the splendid terror continued, “though I see we have arrived too late to make this a perfect rescue.” The stranger’s horned head turned toward the bodies on either side of his mount. His horse had not shied-it was either well-trained or well-accustomed to the sight and smell of human blood. Malchus cocked his head and lowered his weapon. “As for you!” the masked rider said, turning that hideous visage up to me (to me!?), “Is it really your intent to skewer your favorite student with that thing?”
My poor befuddled brain, while recognizing that danger had just o’erflew us like the dappled shadows from a murder of crows, was as yet bereft of the power of speech. I stood there, able only to cock my head like a dog that has just heard a strange noise. Which, you may be sure, we had.
“Master?” the rider asked. “Are you unwell?”
A gentle punch in the back from Livia jarred my ears and tongue at last.
“Publius? Publius!”
Pulling the Celtic helmet from his head, Marcus Crassus' youngest son laughed. “Apologies, master, I could not help myself! You looked about as frightened as my brother and I were the day you burned your sandals onto your feet saving Father.” He slid off his horse and stepped smartly to stand before me. Relief turned to joy as I held out my hand to the little lord I had entertained and tutored for over a dozen years.
“I didn’t save him-” I started.
“Oh, no,” Publius said, slapping my arm aside, “we’ll have none of that.” He threw his arms around me, pressed his head into my shoulder, squeezed the breath from my lungs, then hoisted me into the air as if I were a sack of lentils. A very light sack of lentils. “Gods, but it’s good to be home!”
“Your homecoming must have been timed by the gods,” I said, struggling to regain my composure after he set me back down. “Tragedy was imminent.”
“I know. I saw. These two weren’t citizens, I trust?” He referred to the dead gladiator and the man I had dispatched. Gladiators rarely were, though none of us could say, and Herclides was silent. “Father wrote to tell me how badly we were needed. Apologies, though, for this one,” he said, pointing to Valens.
Malchus said, “He was your father’s man. Valens. Minucius Valens. He fell to buy us a little time…from these,” he added, pointing.
“Then he died a soldier’s death, a hero’s death, and earned a soldier’s sendoff. We’ll cremate him with all honors, if his own people will permit it.”
“Sir,” Malchus started, “his family will be honor…”
“Livia!” Publius declared, his attention too magnanimous to linger in any one place, “I’d recognize that hair from a thousand paces.”
“Dominus.”
“Tell me true, now, did I see that hand of yours in my tutor’s?” Four cheeks reddened, but there was no time for reply. Publius suddenly and rather startlingly sank to one knee before Cornelia Metella. “Aphrodite come to earth!” he said, holding out his arms. The lady Cornelia smiled in spite of herself. “I beg you, tell me by what name you wish to be called while you grace us with your immortal presence. I shall replace every one of our house gods the moment I have crossed our threshold with dozens, hundreds of your likeness.” Publius rose without waiting for an answer, unclasped his red cloak and gallantly swirled it over the women’s heads and wrapped it about both their shoulders.