A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven

by Levkoff, Andrew

  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 if, 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 rode 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.”

  “You’re a good man, Alexander. We’ll dine in Antioch soon, and have a proper rest.”

  Crassus rose, and though the dream still clung to him like a grasping lover, managed to bid a fond good morning to his water slave, then waited patiently while he emptied and refilled the wash stand basin. While other nobles barely noticed the existence of their slaves, Crassus had a well-earned reputation for being courteous and gracious to all, regardless of their station. It was one of the qualities which he had used to good effect to win high office. And when he got there, the senate was frequently reluctant to oppose him because of his popularity with the people. I could never tell whether he was motivated by guile or genuine regard for the masses he represented, but I should like to think it was the latter.

  Another slave, rudely roused by a swift kick as I flew to meet any who might have heard Crassus’ outburst, ran yawning to fetch the day’s clean uniform. I ignored the fact that I was as yet still barefoot in an unbelted tunic. When I returned, having placated a concerned Octavius and Petronius, a curious Antoninus and a skittish Ignatius in their turn, the general had donned tunic and sandals and sat before a small, spare field table waiting for the arrival of the barber. The rest of his armor was laid out neatly on the sleeping couch.

  “You look worn out, dominus.”

  “Keep that to yourself,” he said, looking up at me with a thin and fleeting smile. “It’s just the aftertaste of that dream. It always leaves me drained. I could manage it better if it were a normal dream, but this wretched nightmare is not some flight of nocturnal fancy. It is nothing more than a reenactment. My dreams, Alexander, will take no pity on me.”

  Dominus reminded me of when I was a boy. Several times I dreamt that I could fly, but I was so immersed inside the wonder of this vision that I could not step outside myself to recognize that I was dreaming. It was not that I believed that what was happening was real. It was real. I ran down the dirt lane that ran from our farmhouse to the road and leapt into the air. My outstretched body dipped back toward the ground but I pushed with my mind and up I went. I swept over field and village and into the heart of the great city, past the Altar of the Twelve Gods, around the Temple of Hephaistos, back along the Panathenaic Way and up to the Acropolis. A hundred feet in the air I looked down at death smiling back up at me from that great height. But I could not fall! I banked into a cloud and felt the cool damp upon my face. I chased a hawk but my talent was crude. At last, it was time to meander back home. My feet made twin tori of dust that rose in the evening sun as I landed gently in our lane. When I woke to discover that this exhilaration, this ecstasy was a lie, I wept. Tears dampened my pillow and I shut my eyes tight, trying in vain to return to a place far more wondrous than the waking world.

  Unlike my remembered fantasy, while he slept, some part of Crassus realized that he was dreaming, but that only increased his agony. Each time he walked down that darkened hallway in the hours before dawn, listening as the sounds of his wife and Caesar grew louder, he struggled to change the inevitable, alter what he had seen, be a man, die if he had to, for honor’s sake. But the outcome was always the same—his wife raped, his dagger bloodless, while he had watched and done nothing but slip back into the shadows.

  •••

  Lost in our own thoughts, we stared at the tent rug.

  My lord heaved a sigh as the tonsor arrived; the forlorn expression on Crassus’ face was not lost on the compact, little man, who instantly made note of it. Everyone in the camp knew that their general’s days were better than his nights, and this they took to be an ill omen. They waited anxiously for news that Crassus rested peacefully, but my public relations efforts to improve morale on this issue were constantly undercut by an army of attendants who could see the truth for themselves. “Salve, proconsul!” The barber hurried to unroll the tools of his trade from his leather kit. Every part of him—calves, thighs, arms, torso, was short, fat and cherubic. Though he was middle aged, his hair having all but abandoned him except for a semi-circle about his ears and the back of his head, he still gave one the overall impression of a pudgy baby.

  “Why is it, Tulio,” Crassus wondered idly, “that so many tonsores I have met over the years are either bald or balding?” As he said this, he removed a gold ribbon from about his neck and laid it and its painted ceramic pendant carefully on the pedestal table before him.

  “General, with respect,” said Tulio in an affable and only slightly obsequious tone, “how many professions allow someone such as myself to approach important personages such as yourself with shears and razors.” With his scissors, he snipped the air rapidly several times for emphasis. “Worrying is the natural state for such a…with your permission…talented tradesman like me. No, my lord, if you see a barber with a full head of hair, it is likely he services the plebs.”

  “I see your point.” Under his breath, Crassus added, “No wonder Caesar suffers the daily plucking of his facial hairs with tweezers.”

  “Pardon, General?”

  “Nothing. Just musing on the paranoia of my fellow senators.”

  “Governor, forgive me, but may I ask why you wear a portrait of the noble Caesar?” Tulio tilted his chin toward the ribboned medallion.

  “Why, Tulio, Caesar is my inspiration.” I pined fruitlessly for my lord’s sarcasm to be a little less obvious. Still, it might pass high enough and quickly enough over the barber’s shortened stature and attention span. Lamentably, Crassus continued. “I’ve worn this portrait every day for the last two years. I gaze upon it whenever my resolve flags or my spirit weakens. It gives me strength.”

  “He is indeed a great man, a Roman without peer,” the barber said appreciatively. Then quickly added, “As are you, General, as are you!” His brow furrowed and he continued nervously, “But of course, two cannot be precisely without peer, therefore you must be more without peer than Caesar.”

  Crassus laughed. “Calm yourself, Tulio, before you burst a blood vessel. Today, my friend, so far from Rome’s laurels and triumphs, you and I are but soldiers. Let each of
us do what we came here to do, and leave to others the task of judging our efforts. For now, I wish for nothing more than a little trim and a fine shave.” To me he said, “Alexander, sit with me while Tulio worries away another hair or two from the several left on his pate.” The little barber looked up from his kit and smiled broadly and with relief; then, as was their odd custom, he bowed his head and tapped his glowing, tanned scalp. Crassus reached over and gave it a quick rub for luck.

  I pulled up a camp chair and sat opposite my master. “Will you take wine?” I asked.

  “Water only. And perhaps a little bread and fruit.” Two attendants ran off to the kitchens before I could utter a word. “Alexander, I can’t believe it’s been five months. We must write to her today. Do not let me forget.”

  “I’ll fetch the writing table.” I started to rise.

  “No, stay awhile. It can wait till after the staff meeting. Talk with me.” I sat with dominus and watched Tulio trim an already perfect haircut. We sat in silence, listening to the conversation between scissors and razor. If there were words to be said, they were private monologs. The food and drink, when it arrived, went untouched.

  Crassus' face relaxed into that state that only a barber’s ministrations can summon. Dominus’ grey eyes remained fixed on some distant point, hardly blinking. For once, the normally loquacious tonsor sensed the mood and concentrated on his work.

  “Tulio, another excellent performance.” In a hand-held metal mirror he confirmed with satisfaction that not one nick marred his clean-shaven face. “You may leave us now,” he said, tossing him a silver denarius. The barber thanked him profusely.