"You do not fight for Rome.
"You do not fight for glory, or for riches.
"You do not fight for your centurions or your legates.
"And you do not fight for me.”
There were no looks of puzzlement from the legionaries on the stage, but two of the officers standing behind the general, Ignatius and Antoninus, frowned and shifted uncomfortably.
“Look at the men around you,” he continued. “Meet their eyes and take their measure. From this day forward, for as long as we march together, your tent-mates are your brothers. Your mother is Rome; she spat you from her womb to stand side-by-side with your brothers-in-arms. Fight for them. Protect them. When they stumble, you help them stand. When they tire, you give them encouragement. And when the enemy is but a gladius length away, you kill for them. Do this, and they will do the same for you.
“You think you fight for fame or spoils? Do not let the play of your anticipation distract you from the work of your sword. You think you fight for your sweetheart or a child left behind? Your wives are far away, but your brothers are right beside you. Fight for them, and live! Fight for each other, and we will return to Rome with such treasure it will take a thousand mules to bear the weight of it!
“I make this promise, witnessed by these officers: when we return victorious, laden with Parthian gold, a bonus of 5,000 denarii awaits every fighting man!”
It started somewhere in the middle of the army but rapidly built to a crescendo, a single voice amplified thirty-thousand times: “Crassus! Crassus! CRASSUS! CRASSUS!”
Chapter XXI
55 BCE — Fall, Brundisium
Year of the consulship of
Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives
Clouds black and purple as bruises swelled over the busiest port of Calabria, the grand peninsula that jutted into the sea to form the northern arm of the Gulf of Tarentum. With lumpy, distorted faces these airy witnesses looked down with dismay on a harbor choked with over four hundred vessels: triremes, troop carriers, cavalry transports and cargo ships. Their masts swayed in the wind like the spiny back of the monster Cetus. No lightning could be seen, but thunder rolled, deep and ominous, over the 4,500 light infantry auxiliaries, 3,500 cavalry, 30,000 legionaries and an equal number of support and supply personnel all waiting for the order to sail. To a man they were wishing they were on dry land. Myself included. Thunder without lightning? And in November? The whispers spread throughout the fleet: could this be the curse of the tribune at work?
Thirteen hundred miles due west, the empty Mesopotamian desert waited quietly, parched and alien beneath a vacant sky. This was the unimaginable home of Melyaket who, with an unrefined and ignorant vitality which more than likely rivaled that of his horse, had wasted his youth in any number of barbaric and unsavory pursuits. Now, after the expenditure of thousands of hours of preparation and millions of sesterces, my master was about to make good on his vow to close that prodigious gap in order to annex the country where the youth had gamboled: Parthia, the Eastern Empire, quiescent but grand, Rome’s rival for no other reason than it existed.
As I worked to maintain my balance on that massive, lurching deck, I wondered if the rolling thunder were a harbinger announcing the end of my relative good fortune. The climb up years of servitude to stand at the side of one of the rulers of Rome seemed pointless now. What had I hoped to achieve? Now, my thoughts were only for those I could not see. How was little Felix faring without his mother? Was Hanno safe? Would Curio stay away from him? I needed to focus and somehow survive this perilous adventure. Then Livia and I must find some way to return to our family.
I clung to the swaying main mast, a thick tower of wood slowly scribbling invisible messages on the heavy air, watching closely as Crassus struggled with the silver fibula that secured his cloak over his right shoulder. I would not offer help if none were needed. Transformed by his resplendent military attire, it was as if I were seeing him for the first time. Does what we wear express or hide our true character? Was Crassus more authentic in uniform or draped in his toga?
The whipping wind put the simple task of fastening his cloak beyond him. Lips pressed into a line of concentration, he struggled against the heaving foredeck of his flagship, Scourge of Ctesiphon. The quinquereme was tied up at the very end of the breakwater so that it could lead the fleet; the sea here was growing alarmingly choppy. A covetous blast almost whipped his Tyrian purple lacerna out into the Adriatic, but the general retrieved his cloak when it became entangled in the rigging of the foremast. Now my assistance would not be perceived as insulting. I rushed from my post, and without a word between us, gently pushed the old man’s hands aside. I attached the fibula while the general held on to the unruly garment. Crassus, while offering no word of thanks, favored me with a fleeting and preoccupied smile.
Something chewed at this incarnation of Roman perfection. The pieces were all present: grey hair cropped close, nose thin and jutting, jaw strong enough to lend dignity to any coin of the Republic. Curious that in his lifetime he minted but a few. The armor made him look older than his sixty years. Clothed for war with breastplate and helm, though custom-made to precisely gird his aging body, it seemed ill-fitted, more costume than the resplendent trappings of a consular general. I closed my eyes and imagined my lord in his toga, and instantly beheld a master of Rome. That cloth spoke so much more eloquently of his wealth, influence and authority than the plume and bronze and leather. Yet another more recent image elbowed its way into view. Could it be that it was neither the garb of war nor of politics that suited him best, but rather the comfort of his favorite house tunic, barefoot at home in his kitchen, wooden spoon poised to dip into whatever bubbling pot drew his fancy?
Where was Livia?
•••
Turning his grey eyes downward, Crassus stared at the backs of his tanned, still strong hands as they gripped the railing. He blew air sharply through his nose-a self-mocking snort of laughter that sent his self-confidence tumbling away on that same breath. The clouds overhead bunched closer, darker, lower. “Crassus, you old fool,” he whispered so that I could barely hear him, “what are you doing here, when you could be soaking in a hot bath at Baiae, sipping honey wine? I am a play actor dressed for the wrong part.” Had I been speaking aloud? Had he read my thoughts? He adjusted his leather breastplate and ran his fingers over the gilded and embossed “muscles.”
“I will employ her presents, Alexander, to bring the world to her feet. Look on’t,” he said, smiling. “We have not yet departed the Italian shore, and already her gift of armor has saved my life.”
“I do not follow, dominus.”
“If I’d been forced to wear my old uniforms, squeezing into them would have asphyxiated me long before we reached Syria. Sixteen years since I rode out against Spartacus, and at least as many pounds. I’m not the soldier I used to be, and truth be told, I was not born to it like Pompeius or Caesar.”
“Some wars,” I tried, “are won on foreign soil, some on the floor of the senate. No general is more accomplished on that bloody field than you.”
“That is as may be. But a long time has passed since I last traded a toga for the lorica of battle. I must be mad. Or senile. Can I do this? I must, if this contest is to become my salvation, and Caesar’s ruin.” Thunder mocked with brief applause over our heads.