A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (45 page)

I had no warning that
dominus
was about to make this mad miscalculation, and had I known, I would have done my best to talk him out of it. His error lay not in remaining in Syria but in allowing his officers two months to fret about it amongst themselves with no logic to underpin their general’s pronouncement. There was no need for him to say anything, unless it was to watch himself assert his own dominance. Why, in a
world
dominated by Romans, who in turn look to the smallest handful of men to govern themselves, Marcus Licinius Crassus among those exalted few, why he of all people felt the need to assert his dominance, I cannot tell you.

Nevertheless, b
y his own hand,
dominus
had brought the axe down twice upon the floor upon which his own commanders stood. The first blow had been insisting that we sail into the storms of the Adriatic. Then, to rush into winter seas only to be told there had been no need for haste? One error in judgment compounded the other, and quietly, like cobras testing the lid of the basket, the susurrations of doubt began. Words like “confidence,” “leadership” and “ability” were, for the first time, whispered with hesitation and anxiety in dark corners by troubled men of character. The floor had been sound, but hairline cracks were widening.

T
hrough this fracture I, fool that I was and grant you still am, would try to slip, and save us all. I was
dominus’
scribe; there was no need to practice forgery. His seal was readily available. Two more requirements need only be met:  in the letter which I intended to alter, Crassus must not reread the contents of what he always signed with a personal flourish, and
domina
must obey, as she always had, the command of her lord and master.

No, I fooled myself, there must be still more than this. For this pie to be swallowed and digested, it must be fully baked. With
those two measures, the dish was as yet underdone; left as is, I’d be caught and I’d be cooked. To succeed, there was a third essential to which
domina
was not nearly so accustomed, in fact, if she complied, it would prove a first for both her and her slave:  she must also obey me.

It had been clear from the
ir parting, now that the venture was close upon them, that Tertulla was having serious doubts about the scope and breadth of their vengeance upon Caesar. If she knew she would be parted from
dominus
a year more than planned, perhaps that knowledge would be wedge enough to pry her husband loose from his strategy. If there was anyone alive who could turn Crassus aside from this madness, it was his wife. This, I prayed, would tip the scales toward peace. Save for Livia, I had never met a more determined woman than the wife of Crassus.

In nuce
, in a nutshell, this is what I intended. Without his permission, in addition to his own dictation, I would add into the body of my lord’s next missive this news that
dominus
would tarry for a full year in Syria before even thinking of taking his war to the Parthian capital. If Tertulla were having doubts, this would be the time for her to press them upon her husband. Then I would hold my breath as Crassus signed the letter, a composition of both his words and mine.

Still, further nudging was necessary, for
domina’s
entreaties must be of a nature so sincere, so contrary to their initial plan to ruin Caesar that even Crassus must pay heed. In the next sealed mail packet leaving for Rome, I added my own letter to Tertulla, knowing that by doing so, my life was now as much in her hands as it had always been in my lord’s.

My lady, you know what it means for me to write to you directly without
dominus’
knowledge or permission. I have served the Crassus family with honor for three decades, and with this letter I continue my service, even if it means my life.

I write to you so that you may know what we here
have witnessed:  the journey to Syria has taken its toll on all of us, but on none more so than the general. It grieves me to tell you he has made command errors which have cost unnecessary lives and a dangerous loss of confidence by his legates. His health has deteriorated. He is not the man you last embraced in Rome. I fear not only for the man, but for our mission.

Your husband’s greatest strength has always been his political skill. Let him wage war against Caesar in the senate. There, he has allies in both parties; there, he is armed with the backing of the people. You and I both know that on that battlefield, he will be victorious. Here, we are on unsure, dangerous ground.

If you value my life, you will destroy this letter and speak of it to no one, especially
dominus
. If you value you husband’s life, you will do what no other can accomplish—write him and turn him aside from this madness. Convince him to return home.

But i
f, in your next letters there is only encouragement for the Parthian campaign, I shall know I have failed to dissuade you from your original course and will, as I always have, do my best to keep
dominus
safe.

Faithfully,
Alexander

If I knew my lady, and none other than her husband knew her better, she would begin a literary campaign, within the confines I had set, to bring her husband home. In six or seven months we would see if this tree would bear fruit, and if Crassus would eat of it. For the time being I, along with all the general’s commanders, would be left to wonder why he would arrive at his destination and not pursue his goal.

People, I have observed, are the most unpredictable of creatures.
A contrivance of the kind such as I have just described often runs afoul of unanticipated outcomes. Could I rely on my lady to react as I hoped she would? Were there other possibilities I had not even imagined that might sprout from such a seed? My fervent hope was that all would go as planned. I had decided that this was an opportunity I had no choice but to exploit, and was worth the risk. You may be wondering if I communicated this scheme to Livia. Fairly certain that my wife was more predictable than most, no, I did not.

•••

The army tramped down through Tarsus and across the plain of Cilicia, a Roman province which thirteen years earlier had provided a haven for bandits plaguing Roman shipping. Pompeius, approaching the height of his popularity (with the people if not the aristocratic senate), was given command of five hundred ships, thanks in great part to the support of a certain Tribune of the Plebs, one Aulus Gabinius, the man Crassus was on his way to replace as governor of Syria. In less than a year Pompeius had extinguished the piratical flame. As we made our way around the eastern tip of the Middle Sea, Crassus’ only grumbled comment about his rival’s victory was that “the field had already been plowed and planted by Lucullus and Vatia; all Pompeius had to do was harvest yet another triumph.”

We turned south to march down the coast of what the men boasted of as the Roman Sea. The air was moist, oppressive and drained of color. Mountains pressed us up against the still, grey waters. To the southwest, across this filmy, disturbingly quiet void lay unseen Cyprus. The sound of our passing seemed a sacrilege. We slept fitfully that night on the shore, tucked up under the
looming hills. The dawn brought no change in the weather, which seemed like no weather at all. There was little conversation as the skirmishers walked their mounts through the camp gates, their horses breathing twin plumes of damp sky. Soon, our fortifications would be abandoned to the impatient gulls.

Before midday we came upon a break in the mountains. We had found the Syrian Gates, and as we climbed up through the narrow, misty pass, I thought of my namesake, the brash Macedonian who three hundred years ago had stood with his back against
this same pass to block the hordes of Darius. Now Crassus sought to reenact Alexandros’ victory at Issus; would my master face descendants of those luckless Persians, and would they share the same fate? The clouds dropped low and the mountains leaned in to get a better look at Roman arrogance as it passed.

Having arrived in the friendly Roman province of Syria, Crassus had sent the entire vanguard to the rear so that he could command the very head of the column. Behind him rod
e the eagle standard bearer of Legion I. After the
aquilifer
came three horn blowers, then Cassius, his four clerks and Octavius, legate of Legion I. Behind them rode Crassus' personal bodyguard, a
cohort
of over four hundred handpicked soldiers, including many
evocati
, retired soldiers who had served with Crassus against Spartacus and who had answered his personal invitation to join him on this expedition. These included Malchus and Betto, though I could not see them.

Dominus
either did not know or did not care how he had split both my attention and my devotion by forcing Livia to join the expedition. Though I rode at the spear point of one of Rome’s greatest armies, the nose of my horse a flared nostril away from the tail of the general’s mount, though I was likely never again to pass through this exotic and storied land, every other thought rested miles behind us where Livia walked beside the mules carrying the medical tents and supplies.

Advancing briskly south once we had negotiated the pass, we rode through a wide, fertile valley. Farms sloped up gentle hills on our right, blocking the sea from view. In the distance, a small mountain called Silpios rose sharply on our left.
Now I could barely contain my elation, for I knew that Antioch lay at the foot of that peak. Our journey was coming to an end. The marching legions felt it as well:  you could sense the excitement building all down the line. We followed a bright, green river, hidden by waxy, flowering plants and twisted trees that bent to protect its shyness. As if to guard our curious eyes, when we could catch a glimpse of it, the sun threw blinding, silver spears at us from its surface. We made excellent time on a new, wide stone road; evidence of Rome’s recent influence. Palm trees of a variety I had never seen played a high, percussive song as the breeze passed through their fronds. Hundreds of natives intent on their daily tasks parted to let us pass, and though they stared, they did not look afraid. In fact, as we neared the city, many of the locals began to cheer. I was soon to learn that our approach was not the cause of this unexpected good will, but rather that our arrival marked the departure of another.

Peoples unknown to even the great sink of humanity that was Rome paraded on either side of our column. Merchants led
both camels and mules laden with what fabulous commerce I could only imagine. Strange headdresses adorned both men and women, although woven baskets filled with merchandise were favored by the women, each offering unique, as far as I could see, to the seller. I must admit their posture was flawless. Attire, outlandish and colorful as the birds overhead, was on display. The unintelligible chatter of the throng was just as raucous. On the crowded river, sleek feluccas with sloping, graceful sails avoided smaller craft whose hulls, so fully laden, bowed to kiss the water line. I hardly knew where to look first, it was all so marvelous.

•••

At last, eighteen hundred land and sea miles and nine vials of bruise liniment from Rome, we could count days, not months, until we would arrive at the free capital of Roman Syria,
Antiochia ad Orontem
, Antioch on the Orontes. Here we would install its new governor and ever my master, Marcus Licinius Crassus. If only this had marked the end of our journey.

Was it I who had stood upon the lurching deck of
Scourge of
Ctesiphon
watching the storm’s inevitable approach? Could I have been the one standing on the very ground where Alexandros of Macedon had tutored the young Aristotle? I could swear these memories belonged to someone else, for
this
head was stuffed with a lifetime of day after miserable day on the march with these odiferous Romans.

Truth to tell,
the journey had taken only four and a half months, but I am trying to make a point.

Chapter
XXVII

55 – 54  BCE   -   Winter, On the March

Year of the consulship of

Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

At the sound of the scream, I jumped from my bedroll, ducked through my tent flaps and rushed to the command tent. As I ran, I heard Flavius Betto cry, “Bona Dea! What was that?!” from within his own tent just behind my own. Why couldn’t he be more like these stalwarts here? The guards let me pass unimpeded, doing their best to look as if they had heard nothing unusual. Then I remembered Hanno. I raced back, thrust my head through the opening and saw with relief that he was snoring softly, mouth agape. Back I went to the command tent, skirting the huge map table to throw aside the heavy drapes that hid my master’s bed. The proconsul was sitting up in his camp bed. (Do not be fooled—the name may be evocative of simplicity itself, but accommodation for the general’s rest had required its own ox cart to haul it from Italy.) His gray hair was mashed flat on one side and sticking straight up on the other.

“Bad dream,” Crassus replied to my questioning look. He mopped his brow and added, “Yes, the same one.”

“They’ll be here any moment. I’ll tell them it was I who cried out.”