What good would it do now to lecture Brenus about the danger in which he had placed the boy? Hanno was here and there was nothing either of us could do to see him safely home. They thought he would have a place of honor, but Romans know nothing of Lugos. For weeks, Hanno had been sleeping beside their tent, under the guy ropes; spurned even by the slave assigned to the eight-man contubernium whose “preferred” place was at the front of the tent by the flaps. I remember that spot well. That poor man had no reason to be proud, but how could I begrudge him, when that place was all he could call his own? And not even that. Pride costs nothing, yet it is especially precious when it can be “purchased” at someone else’s expense.
Though it must have been written two month’s earlier, Tertulla’s letter found us not long after the incident.
Husband, I am furious at what those reprehensible Celts have done. If the journey were not so treacherous, I would have you send Hannibal back to me at once. Promise me you will keep him safe. I know he is happier on this adventure with Father Jupiter than he could ever be stuck at home with me tending the gardens. I would rather be with Father Jupiter as well.
Eternally, Tertulla
I asked for and received permission from the general to allow Hanno to share my quarters. Up until that moment, I had been feeling powerless. I realized I had always been powerless. Away from home, from the accounts and the estate, I had control over nothing. Lucius Curio now kept his fingers on the pulse of that elegant creature. It no longer belonged to me. And I realized, like that plot of ground outside the legionaries tent, it never had.
It took the arrival of an innocent like Hanno to restore my sense of purpose. At least I could get him out of the rain. At least I could see he was well fed. At least I was able to give him a hug whenever he needed one. Or the reverse.
Outside Rome, here in the world, I was an insignificant man with a couple of interesting metal plaques. The thought of it made me tired. Knowing that Livia and now the boy were close by, sharing the same fate as mine made me both tired and frightened. I did not know what to do. There was nothing that could be done. Not by me. Action was denied me. Thought was my only refuge.
•••
After our brief visit with the “old” king, we continued down amongst the bitter Lycaonians, whose country Pompeius had cracked apart and gifted to its neighbors after the war with Pontus. We came then into Cappadocia. To the south, the green hills of the Taurus Mountains shoved up against each other, row after row, till the blank sky froze them grey, then white. There was a trick I had learned as a child, a game I played by myself given the many hours of opportunity, and I employed it now. I could choose any place within my field of vision and in my mind, swap places with it, visualizing with what I supposed was uncanny accuracy what it would look like to gaze back from that other spot toward the place where I stood. Perhaps I should have been a painter. As I say, I did this now. Instead of looking up at the peaks from the valley below where I rode on Apollo near the head of the column, I placed my mind’s eye on a snow-brushed mountaintop and reversed the view. What did I see from such a height? Did encompassing the full majesty of the army take my breath away, a snake of red and gold stretching the length of the valley floor? No, from such a distance, we were barely visible, save for a thin plume of smoke that might have marked our passing, or might merely have been the smoke from a farmer burning brush, or dust from a caravan’s passing. One couldn’t really say.
Half an hour after the scouts had begun the day’s march, and sounds of breaking camp came through the command tent, the vapor of our breathing mingled above the day’s map as we gathered around the general’s table for the morning staff meeting. It was still dark outside. Servants passed around cups of hot water and small chunks of bacon. After Cassius finished the supplies report, Vargunteius innocently remarked that at this pace, we could be washing our underwear in Ctesiphon by the end of Aprilis.
The quip earned a few laughs, but silence from the general. He appeared to be making up his mind about whether or not to speak, and then he did. He told us that while we would engage the enemy after a short rest in Antioch, we would not be pushing on to Ctesiphon this fighting season. He offered no explanation to soothe the stunned looks of his legates and would brook no argument. He would say only that his reasons were sound, and that once we arrived in Syria, all would be made clear. He assured us that when the facts were known, his reasoning would be readily accepted. Cassius asked him why then, was it necessary to wait? Why not tell them now? Well, Crassus told him, expecting a laugh, you never know, I might wish to change my mind between here and there. No one thought he was funny.
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, by 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.
Through 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 their 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.