Voices rose behind us, a new noise of protest. People were on their feet, demanding that Pompeius stop the killing. When their cries went unanswered, their shouts turned to curses. A cup of wine careened off my shoulder, splashing Magnus’s back with scarlet.
One beast separated from his fellows and turned toward the hunters. Blood stained his hide black. His ears flared in defiance; he trumpeted with rage and stumbled forward, cutting off his attackers’ retreat. He was driven to his knees, but reaching out with his trunk, snatched a shield from a screaming African and flung it into the stands. It arced high overhead, as if the animal had been trained to perform a trick. His head sank to the ground and the hunter drove his spear into the neck at the base of the elephant’s skull. 25,000 groaned as one.
Only five of the original eighteen animals were left alive, all with mortal wounds. They gathered at the front of the orchestra, facing a stunned and horrified crowd, seeming to plead directly with them with raised trunks and cries of the most pitiful nature. The audience jeered the hunters and hurled curses down upon Pompeius. Many stormed from the theater, their tears mingling with vows never to return again. As the remaining elephants’ strength gave out, they sank to their knees, their breathing rattled and labored, yet powerful enough to blow dust up to sparkle in the afternoon sun. The hunters approached, spears held high. Incomprehensible shouts of “cowards” and “barbarians” pelted the foreigners from above; the garbage flung down upon them was in a language more easily understood. The chief Gaetulian shook his spear at the Romans, returned their epithets in his throaty tongue and ran to stab the nearest elephant for spite. As he raised his javelin, the animal rose up on his front legs, using the last of his strength in a final attempt to get away. The hunter with the ostrich plume moved in close enough to touch the beast and grabbed his spear with both hands for a killing thrust to the heart. But he was too late. The elephant moaned, one of the saddest sounds I have ever heard, and died. The hunter jerked back to avoid the rolling corpse, but one bare foot was caught by the dead animal as it rolled on its side. Off balance, the headman squealed and jabbered as he fell backwards, kicking with his free leg at the grey wall descending upon him. I could not hear the bones of his legs break, but I could see his eyes bulge like eggs as the lower part of him was squeezed up into the upper half. His countrymen rushed to his aid, pulling his arms to free him from an embrace from which there would be no release. He screeched at them until the wave of his jellied insides pushed its way out his mouth. Then he was silent. It was the first time I had heard the crowd cheer since that same man had killed the first elephant.
While this was happening, Pompeius left the theater, crouching under the shields of his guard, without comment or apology. Eighteen elephants were slaughtered that day, along with any hope that Pompeius' millions had bought the renewed love of the people he had so wished to purchase.
•••
A gladiator crying for succor, running from his opponent would be jeered and reviled; but let that same behavior be exhibited by a herd of lumbering, implausible creatures and the empathy of the crowd is aroused. There is no logic to it, except perhaps this: the elephants could easily have overpowered the hunters and crushed them. That they appeared to spare them, offering their own lives instead, was seen as noble.
Was it this that touched the heart of the ordinary citizen? Was it not the Gaetulians who represented the best of the heroic Roman spirit, but the elephants lying slaughtered on the bloody stage of Pompeius’ amphitheater? Would any Roman voice such an admission out loud? I doubt it.
Chapter XVII
55 BCE Summer, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives
One may develop a taste for jellied eel, and though I personally have never found it appealing, I admit the possibility that, however unlikely, my taste may someday change. I cannot say the same for a steaming plate piled high with confrontation. This dish, I can assure you, I shall never relish. To Livia, it is practically the staff of life.
“Why in the name of Isis,” Livia said, “would dominus take you to Syria over a trained and experienced healer?”
It was the end of the day. We were in my wife’s clinic across from the old schoolroom where I used to teach Latin and Greek. Though Livia was not legally my spouse, we used the words ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ whenever we could, in thought and in speech, though not too loudly. Livia was in her six month. I had never seen her look more beautiful. But her demeanor had swung measurably toward what honesty demands I catalog as ‘cantankerous.’ Figurative eggshells lay shattered across the floor wherever we tread.
“Dominus has a hundred healers. He is a family man. He would not tear a mother from her newborn child.”
“Maybe he’ll insist we both make the journey.”
“Nonsense. Even were you not with child, there is one compelling reason for him to take me and leave you behind.”
“I cannot imagine what that might be. No offense, Andros, but I have seen you try to lift a legionary’s shield.”
“Droll, but off point. I am dominus’ closest advisor. My effectiveness would be paralyzed were I constantly distracted by worry over your safety.”
Livia’s eyes narrowed. “I hate how you overturn an argument by saying something sweet. But you see,” she said, heading for the larder, “that argument works both ways. Which is why he’ll leave you behind and make me his personal medicus.”
The last patient of the day had left, another satisfied referral from domina. The elderly lady with the uncooperative bowels had departed with a paste of macerated melilot and dates. In the sealed jar’s place, she had left a sizeable gratuity. While this peculium did not legally belong to Livia, Crassus had promised her the same arrangement he had bestowed upon her mother: any money left over from the expenses of running the clinic was hers to keep, to do with as she pleased. Sabina, regrettably, had forfeited all-her money, her freedom and her family when she had been proved guilty of murder. By me. An image of her in the choking dark of Laurion’s silver mines would always hang between Livia and me, a noxious cloud. She had forgiven me, but I would never be at peace. Had I made the right choice? Someone much wiser than I would need to be my judge. Until then, I would rely on Livia’s absolution. In those days, the only solace I could give myself was to wish her mother the release of an early death.
Livia was cleaning her instruments in a large bowl of water. “What are you doing?” I asked. “What is that you have there?” My curiosity was too fervent to be genuine, but Livia decided to play along.
“Brenus gave it to me.” She held up a foamy, grey ball.
“Brenus?” Hanno asked expectantly. He was at the door, sweeping dirt into the street. His gloves were a tremendous help. He almost never dropped the broom. “Where’s Brenus?”
“He’s gone, dumpling,” Livia answered.
“He left with Publius last month. Do you remember?”
“Taog, too?”
“I’m afraid so, Hanno.”
“They’ll be back,” I said. “Don’t you worry; you’ll see them again.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon.”
“How long till soon?”
“I don’t know, Hanno, perhaps in a couple of months?”