Priests were engaged to inspect with meticulous scrutiny the steaming entrails of an unwilling pig, whereupon they made their pronouncement. The entire month of Maius was rejected as unacceptable, that being the time reserved for making offerings to the dead. Which was a happy coincidence, because most senators fled to their country estates for the six-week recess beginning in mid-Aprilis. Not Crassus. Not this year. The priests chose a bright, auspicious day in early Junius, just before Publius was scheduled to depart Rome for the north. His marriage to a most willing Cornelia Metella would be the event of the season. And of course, she was the perfect match.
•••
The day after Hanno and Taog had interrupted our meeting with Publius, the boy and I were sorting the mail into piles: legal, political, supplications and personal. As it did every day, legal had the largest mound, followed by political argument, then requests for everything from money to land. There was one interesting application from one Gaius Octavius, a legate who had fought with Lucullus against Mithridates, king of Pontus. He was the first of several experienced military officers anxious to join this most public of Crassus' secrets, the expedition to Parthia.
I left my office and with Hanno in tow walked to the next one down the hall, the large but spare tablinum of my master, who was at the curia in session with the senate. Before I could lay the letter on dominus’ table, we were intercepted by Brenus, who was smiling like a father. Hanno ran to him and said, “Is it done? Is it?”
“It is indeed, young master.”
“I am not master. Master is master.” Hanno laughed, coaxing smiles from us as easily as one would pluck a daisy.
“Here,” Brenus said, handing the boy an oilcloth chunky with its contents. “Try them on.” The Celt’s broken nose had shrunk to something recognizable as such, and the colors were fading beneath his freckles. Hanno fumbled with the string and finally extracted two strange-looking gloves. Brenus helped him get them on his hands with difficulty, Hanno was so jumpy with anticipation.
“Surprise! Surprise, master!” he said, waving what appeared to be a set of brown leather, two-fingered gloves. The pinky fingers were absent, but the thumb looked normal enough. It was the middle finger arrangement that drew the eye, as if the three fingers adjacent to thumb had been fused into one broad digit. Hanno put both hands so close to my face I had to back up to focus on them. He was flexing the middle “fingers,” which bent in an almost natural motion. “See? See, master, see? Hannibal has all his hands now.” He turned and flung himself into Brenus’ arms and hugged him in that fierce way he had.
“It’s all right lad,” Culhwch’s son said, patting Hanno on the head. “You go an practice with ‘em and don’t worry, I’ve made an extra pair just in case.”
Watching the boy dance away, waving his new prosthetic, I said, “That’s a fine piece of work, Brenus. How did you do it?”
“He slips his third finger into a ring; when he pulls down on it, it carries with it articulating blocks of wood inside the leather attached here, and here. He will not have the same grip as real fingers, of course, but with practice, it should help him grasp objects with more ease.”
“You’ve just made a friend for life.”
“The boy is holy,” Brenus said. “Lugos commands we watch over him.”
“Surely not you personally?”
“He makes the sign.”
“Yes, I have seen it. If Hanno could choose between the sign and six more fingers, you would find nothing in him to revere.”
Brenus spoke as if I were a child. “Use your eyes, Alexander. The choice has already been made. The boy belongs to Lugos.”
“What you see is coincidence, not religion. Look around you, Brenus. Hanno is quite well-looked after right where he is.”
“You are not Druid.”
“No, we are not. If the sign is so important to you, why then did you give him those gloves to cover it up?”
“A man may wear shoes and still know he has feet.”
I sighed. “Understand, everyone recognizes that you and Taog have been very kind to Hanno. You have befriended him and made him very happy. He is fond of both of you. He talks of little else. But be reasonable, Brenus, you cannot seriously be suggesting he’d be better off with you?”
“We would protect him.”
“No. Where you are going, there will be war. Not even your gods are powerful enough to guarantee his safety. On the battlefield, only one god decides who lives and who dies. His name is Chaos, and he is heartless and inconstant. But here, in Rome, another god holds sway: he is Crassus, and in his house, he alone can keep Hanno safe.”
•••
One morning the following week, Tertulla came to me almost frantic. She could not find Hanno. Leaving her with promises that calmed her like sleet on snow, I gathered help and searched the house. When he was not found, I asked Betto if the Celts were drilling. “They’re up on the Campus, shattering decent Romans’ nerves with the din from their chariots. I’ve been telling myself that the roaring in my ears is from the bath water that lodged itself there yesterday, but it just might be the sound of their wheels crashing around in my head. They’re wasting their time, if you ask me. Are you asking me? I’ll tell you anyway. Has anyone told them where we’re going? I can’t wait to see what happens when those chariots drive through a foot of sand.”
“A simple ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”
“I don’t think it would have, no.”
“So, you’re coming with us to Syria, and beyond?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Well, I shall enjoy your company.”
“What a relief, Alexander. I wouldn’t be tagging along if I knew you weren’t coming. We’ll plan a picnic every day. I expect I’ll have nothing to do anyway but lay about and take the Mesopotamian sun.”
“Good. You could use some color. By the way, lord Publius informed me the Celts will be horsed, not in chariots, so there is one less thing for you to worry about.” I turned toward the front entrance.
“I’ll find something to replace it, don’t you worry. If you’re going up there, bring some wax for your ears. Though I doubt cruel Ulysses himself could keep that unholy racket from driving his ship up onto the rocks.” I decided to ignore the flaw in Betto’s metaphor: Odysseus would be unlikely to encounter a Celtic chariot on the waves, and if he did, it would only be for a moment.
I found my quarry sitting on the edge of the track of the Circus Flaminius, snug, happy and lost in Taog’s enormous lap. At last I could look down on the giant Celt. Barely. Hanno was playing a game he had invented himself. He would rummage through my garbage-repository of the best pieces of discarded parchment-find a draft or an invoice and mash it up into a ball. Then he’d toss the missile between one hand and the other and pull the blocks in his glove at just the right moment to create a makeshift pocket in which to snag the projectile. He was becoming quite good at it.
Betto was right about the noise. Imagine that this entire conversation was shouted.
“Master! We’re resting.” Hanno threw a crumpled old requisition high over his head and plucked it deftly from the air before it hit the ground. Taog and I applauded. As did Hanno.
“So I see. Are you having fun?”
“Oh my, yes! Brenus took me for a ride in a chariot! I was scared but then I wasn’t, but then we had to stop because Brenus’ father’s face got red. Do you know what Taog told me? He said his people get buried in the ground when they die and all their stuff goes into the hole with them so they can use it in the afternoon.”