Crassus and his officers came after the survey teams, surrounded by an elite cohort of bodyguards, 450 legionaries, mounted to keep pace with the general. I had seen to the purchase of a most magnificent tent for the generaclass="underline" it took five mules to bear the poles, leather and trappings. His personal gear was borne by twenty-five pack animals. It was my task to oversee his forty personal servants who followed at the back of the column with cooks, doctors, including the limping chief medicus, Darius Musclena, and a thousand other non-combatants. After the legates and other officers there then followed the mass of the army: five legions flanked by cavalry. The baggage train, seven miles long of its own accord, was protected by the seventh legion and 1,000 auxiliary cavalry. The remainder of a total of 2,500 horsemen patrolled up and down the flanks of the column.
From the first scout to leave at dawn to the last mounted archer to arrive at the finished camp, the army of Crassus snaked through the landscape for over fourteen miles! And that was marching six abreast. When the way was narrow, the length of this ophidian behemoth grew longer still.
•••
Now both Nature and man strove to impair our progress. The mountain ridges of Bithynia had either to be scaled or circumvented, and its rivers and streams, as many as three in a day, had to be forded. Once, the earth shook so violently beneath our feet, the steep hills dislodged a rocky attack upon our flanks. Many men were unbalanced and thrown to the ground, upsetting the military precision of our progress into jumbled, cursing chaos. Sometimes broad, sometimes narrow, often in need of repair, the Via Egnatia’s poorer country cousin pinched our ranks and caught at our feet. I am told that it is a Roman general’s duty to apply his engineers and legionaries to the health and recovery of these cobbled arteries to ease the passage of those who would follow. Not Crassus. He pressed forward, leaving this frivolous task to armies of the future, for whipped by the terrors that afflicted him by night, he was not to be impeded by day.
That is until some fifty miles northwest of the Galatian capital of Ancyra his way was blocked at a wide crossroads by Deiotarus. He rode at the head of a hundred chariots disturbingly reminiscent of the Celtic variety that had drained the pink from my cheeks when Publius had returned to Rome. The memory was fresh enough to produce the same effect, and I instinctively turned to search for Livia in the haze of men behind me. At least no severed heads dangled from the charioteers’ belts or harnesses.
Deiotarus, like Culhwch, was an ally, but unlike Brenus’ father, this cunning ruler with ruddy complexion and braids of white was no prince, but a king. It was the source of his crown that rankled my master. Deiotarus, a tetrarch of Galatia, had assisted Pompeius a decade earlier in his fight against the obstreperous Mithridates, king of Pontus. As a reward, Pompeius had given him sovereignty over the other Galatian tetrarchs and lobbied the senate on his behalf to bestow upon him the honorific of King of Lesser Armenia. Reluctantly, at the urging of Cassius and Octavius, who recognized that a hundred thousand sore feet could do with a day of rest, dominus tarried at the king’s invitation to admire the construction of the king’s new fortress at Blucium.
Supper in the impressive but unfinished dining hall was as lavish and varied as the conversation was not. At least the roof over our heads offered protection from the elements. Though a huge fire hissed and popped in the grate, we were none of us warmed by the chill spread by my master’s sullenness. Standing behind him at my customary wall-bracing post, my stomach churned with embarrassment at his ill manners. He made no effort to engage his host in conversation, answering his inquiries with little thought and fewer words. My lord had hardly touched his food, but his wine cup was well-caressed.
“So,” the king said, swallowing a mouthful of roast lamb and wiping his fingers on a square of cloth, “on your way to pay a social call on King Orodes, are you?” They sat next to each other at the high table.
“The business of Rome is none of yours.” Dominus’ stare followed a fly’s spasmodic progress across his plate. “Highness,” he added reluctantly, in lieu of an apology.
“’Not what I heard.” Deiotarus waited for a response, got none and said, “My sources tell me you’re not on Rome’s business. How could you be, when you left the city shy of one blessing: the auspices of the senate.”
“Let me rephrase, then: my business,” dominus said, stifling a belch, “is none of yours.”
“Fair enough,” said the king. “You could just be taking up your post in Syria…” Crassus tilted his cup to his lips and emptied it. “…with an invasion force, to govern a province? If I could raise an army this great-”
“If you could raise an army this great by even a third,” Crassus interrupted, this time belching in earnest, “I might find the need to suffer your impertinence.”
I winced. From where he sat at Crassus' right hand, Octavius whispered a caution.
“Calm yourself, legate,” said the king. “We are all friends here. The proconsul knows I have no wish to offend. Cursed with a curious nature, I am. No harm meant.” Some men simply refuse to appear insulted. But then, having felt the sting from the slap on their cheek, know just where to slip the knife, their smile never fading.
“Oh, of that I am certain,” Crassus said. “For why, with my invasion army at your gates, would you risk my ire.”
“Now there, proconsul, is something I am certain I do not risk. Why waste your time on a people your good friend Pompeius has already subdued?”
Crassus smacked both hands to his armrests and made to rise from his seat, but was undone by the wine in his belly. Before he had gained his feet, the Galatian vintage was arguing persuasively for a second airing. He sank back in his chair and instead of making response, drank half a cup of water. Octavius rose instead, and Athena be praised, Crassus' second in command wisely took that moment to call Brenus and Taog forward from where they waited by the great doors at the end of the hall. Crassus did not, or could not object to the interruption; I could tell by his drooping shoulders that he had grown weary. The legate had invited the Gauls, thinking the king might wish to trade tales of their common Celtic ancestors. Deiotarus had as much in common with these Petrocorii as he did with Crassus' forebears, but decided that he, too, would welcome a change in the direction of the conversation.
Places were made for the Celts at the king’s table and they spoke amiably for several minutes, more about Taog’s size than about the migrations which had brought them so far from their ancestral island origins. As the plates were being cleared for a course of sweets before a display of Galatian entertainments, a side door burst open. Thrust inside by a rush of wind and a spray of rain came Hanno, careening at speed, arms flailing to keep his balance. He was followed moments later by an out-of-breath and terrified Livia, her red hair turned to dripping ropes of rust, a modern-day Cassandra.
Simultaneously, my wife, Brenus, Taog and yes, I am afraid even I lost all sense of decorum and shouted “Hanno!” all in varying degrees of shock, horror and alarm. Guards and guests leapt to their feet, Hanno slid to an arm-paddling halt before the high table, and Octavius rose with his hand on his knife pommel. The horror was displayed primarily by myself, for four things were instantaneously obvious: not only had someone secreted the troubled young man into our midst, Livia knew about it, had kept it from me, and now she and I, and perhaps others, were in a deadly amount of trouble.