“What I always say: leave the vanquished living reminders of their defeat.” Publius looked very pleased with himself. “After we’ve gone, who better to speak for us of the futility of opposing our domination than those who have witnessed it firsthand?”
“Well spoken, my son,” said Crassus.
After Publius had introduced Culhwch all around, and the ladies had finished either scrambling from the room or touching the Celt so they could recount their bravery to their friends on the morrow, Cicero waited the minimum number of polite beats before asking how it was that a man like him would leave home and hearth to follow a conquering foreigner. The big Celt looked to Publius, whose only response was an amused look that said, ‘you’re on your own.’ My young master took this opportunity to invite lady Cornelia to inspect the remarkable Armenian tapestries hanging in the hallway leading to the baths. They were remarkable indeed, for they did not exist. Although, there were some unused cubicula in that very place.
“Why does anyone do anything?” Culhwch began philosophically. “For gold or a woman. For me it was both.” Culhwch grabbed a handful off a platter of sliced roast boar carried by Lucius himself. I’d have to remember to commend him on his initiative. The enunciation of Culhwch’s next words fought for ascendancy over his chewing. “I prefer gold-it is always beautiful to behold; when you possess it, you will always cherish it-when it is gone, you will never rejoice.”
“Are they all as polite as you in Gaul?” Cicero asked.
“I don’t know; it’s a big place. Does polite mean honest? Then I’m more polite than most.”
Crassus said, “We could use a man like this on the floor of the senate. Think how he’d lessen the hours of squabbling.”
“Think,” Cicero answered, “how he’d lessen the number of senators.”
“Your senate is a place for speeches, not for Culhwch. Your son and I have struck a good bargain: you keep your robes and talk and tell us who to kill and we will take our spears and our horses and ride out with your soldiers and kill your enemies by your side. We will take a few heads, you will give us a little gold, then everyone is smiling.”
“An excellent bargain,” dominus said. “Tell us then, my lord, how you came to ally yourself with my son.”
“I am a prince of the Petrocorii. We work the iron mines; nobody in the land you call Gaul makes better weapons. My father was chief of Corterate; still is unless someone’s jabbed a spear through his black heart. Corterate is smaller than Vesunna, just to the east along the river. In Vesunna, the people are richer, the women are prettier and the beds are softer. Especially the bed of the daughter of the headman, a dung heap of a bastard who, it must be known, is a very good friend of my father. Hah! Everyone had it in for me, but I did them a favor. There’s no comparing my seed to the jellyfish she calls ‘husband;’ now they’ll have a strong son who’ll make 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, the unnatural colors and shapes of his face would startle anyone not prepared for the sight, especially a boy like Hanno. “And he touched me. I didn’t want him to, but he did. So I screamed. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
While I comforted the boy, Brenus quickly rose to his feet. “He is a child of Lugos. He made the sign and I was bound to pay homage.”
“Sir,” Crassus said, looking up at Taog. “I must ask you to release that man.”
Before he could comply, Culhwch came up behind dominus and shouted, “You pustule on a whore’s teat! You’ve shamed us all!”
“Hold, Culhwch,” Crassus said. “You are not shamed. I sense nothing but a misunderstanding here.”