Epikrates takes me further into the bowels of the place and eventually we exit into a grand colonnaded loggia clinging to the cliff face on the western side of the Palatine. A spectacular outlook and yet Crassus would’ve bought this land for a handful of sestertii. The cliff face would have been worthless without the monumental, and no doubt expensive, feat of engineering required to build these stalls.
The loggia space is light and airy, one side completely open to the Aventine across the valley. The marble floor is strewn with thick oriental rugs and at the far end is a magnificent original Periclean Greek figure of Hercules, the famous one that depicts him using a burning firebrand to cauterize one of the Hydra’s necks. I’ve seen this figure several times before, but only cheap Roman copies of it. Now having laid eyes the original I swear it has all the power and grace of the demi-god himself. At the opposite end of the room is a grand desk of white marmor lunensis, the vertical piers depicting more of Hercules’ labors, its horizontal expanse strewn with numerous fine Egyptian papyrus scrolls. By now I’m sure that Crassus’s personal god is this hero. There are too many references to Hercules in his domus for it to be otherwise.
“The dominus will be with you presently, Appias Cominius,” says Epikrates, appearing briefly to interrupt my gawking before again departing.
I jump when a sudden nearby roar erupts. Walking over to the colonnade, I see the enormous Circus Maximus laid out on the valley floor below. Clearly visible are the chariots of the popular red faction and the green faction lining up at the start, their horses bucking and surging. The thunder I felt earlier rises again from the sprawling arena and I realize it’s the feet of thousands of spectators stamping in unison on the flagstones.
“Who is your faction?” asks a voice behind me. I stand up straight like a guilty party caught stealing. It’s Marcus Licinius Crassus. He walks out onto the porch with small steps, his back straight. “Do you have money wagered?”
“I’m not a betting man,” I say.
“I’m sorry?” he replies.
“I said I don’t bet.”
“That’s a shame. I could have told you whether you were going to win or lose … I’m not sure I trust a man who doesn’t trust his own luck.”
“But you know the outcome. So, as I’ve always suspected, luck has nothing to do with it.”
Crassus smiles, his downturned lips merely continuing their drooping inclination. “A fair thrust, an equally fair parry.”
He sizes me up, and I him. Crassus is sixty years old, but looks older. His face is strongly featured with deep lines running from the corners of a long aquiline nose to the corners of those downturned lips, which are thin and hard. It’s a face of cruel calculation. In that face I can see the man who ordered the crucifixion of 6,000 slaves captured at the close of the Servile War, and the decimation of his own legions in order to fortify the courage of his troops.
Crassus’s high, domed forehead is fringed with hair that still holds color. I suspect he dyes it. The way he turns his head when he speaks and asks for answers to be repeated suggests that he is partially deaf in one ear. His frame is on the slim side and that of a man well past middle age, his bare knees bony and slightly swollen, the skin covering them sagging and lined. Though stupendously wealthy, his overall condition does suggest a man who holds his appetites in check. Perhaps it’s his reputation speaking, but there is an air of studied rapaciousness in the way he looks at me. Is he on the hunt for advantage? If so, I wonder what I could possibly have that he wants.
“You’re taller and more athletic than I would hold for a historian,” he says, attempting a smile. “With a few scars you could pass for a legionary. Can you use a gladius?”
“Not without causing damage to myself,” I say honestly.
He grunts. “Can I offer you some wine?” A slave appears, a large Numidian with skin that is glossy and utterly black. Crassus mumbles something at him and then turns back to me. “Perhaps something to eat?”
The questions make me think of the hospitalities the house of Crassus offered me earlier. “No, I’ve recently dined,” I say.
“What?” Crassus asks, reinforcing my first impression that his hearing has dimmed.
“No, thank you,” I repeat. In truth I’m hungry, but the nerves have returned and eating and drinking are two items they won’t permit.
The consul makes the slightest gesture with a finger and the slave is gone. “Come, let’s talk.” Crassus walks to a couple of couches on the porch arranged for the view, beckoning me into the one at his left. “You’re wondering why you’re here,” he says, articulating my very thought. “We have no mutual acquaintances, you’ve never held public office, and I know that your family is significantly less than patrician. You live in an insula on the edge of the Subura with a woman whose family is of no consequence. I am a patrician, Consul of the Republic of Rome, and you are a teacher of history.”
“And not a very well known one,” I inject into his overview of my general unworthiness.
“It’s not the small number of followers that matter in this instance but the quality of them,” he says.
I am a little confused and he has picked up on it.
“We do in fact share much common ground, you and I, for I am to be Proconsul of Syria, a five-year term beginning with the new year. All Rome will find this out tomorrow when a decree from the Senate is made public.”
This news does scatter some of the clouds, but not all.
“Before we proceed, swear that all we discuss in this room will be kept private or this meeting will conclude and you can go on your way none the wiser.”
My curiosity has to know what this is about. “I swear it,” I say.
“Your lectures on Ptolemy III and his conquest of the part of the world I will soon inhabit interest me greatly.”
Epikrates, he had given me a hint. “I never saw you in my lectures,” I say.
“My particular interest in Syria has come upon me only of late, for obvious reasons.”
“With respect, Marcus Licinius, I still fail to see how a historian can be of any assistance to the future Governor of Syria.”
“History and fame are two sides of the same denarius, Appias Cominius. Adrianus Fabius Maximus, Leonidas, even Ulysses would be as mysterious to the world as your Ptolemy III, if not for learned men who set their deeds down for posterity. Indeed, I feel a pang of sorrow for this third Ptolemy. According to what I’ve heard reported, he was a general to exceed even the Great Pompey, and yet his name and deeds pass ever more into obscurity as the number of years lengthen before him. Why endeavor to achieve if no one beyond yourself knows of your achievements?”
I am beginning to understand where this is going.
“Syria is your especial subject, is it not?”
“Well … yes.”
“Knowing what has happened in that part of the world will be a helpful guide in the present for a governor who wants to make his own mark on history. As you are a man who records the deeds of others, that makes you a man no less than Homer himself.”
Homer? The flattery is heavy-handed. “Hardly. And I’m no poet, I can assure you.”
“No, but you are a storyteller.”
“I am literate …” I say, a little wary.
“Of course you are.”
The Numidian returns with a gold tray holding a magnificent crystal pitcher and two fine crystal cups.
“Appias Cominius, it’s not hot but I can see you’re perspiring,” Crassus observes.
I can feel a sheen on my forehead, though he is right – there is little heat in the air here in this loggia. The Numidian presents me with his tray and I reach for a cup. Crassus and I both drink.
“Syria is a wealthy province. There is much that can be achieved within and without its borders for the glory of Rome,” the consul informs me.
But of course, he means for the glory of Crassus. Syria is a new province in Rome’s dominion and is yet to feel the yoke of a governor keen t
o squeeze her dry. With Crassus as proconsul there’ll be nothing left but desiccated husk.
I turn as a roar from the Circus fills the loggia. Either the right faction has won, or someone has died well or killed well.
“I sense reluctance,” Crassus says over the noise.
“Forgive me, Consul. I’m unsure of what I’m being asked.”
“I’ve been accused of many things, but being obtuse isn’t one of them. I want you to be my Xenophon. Come to Syria; record what you see for the benefit of future generations.”
It’s a momentous offer.
“Your abilities will make your fortune,” he adds, in the event that I haven’t already grasped this. “On your return, no doubt you’ll have the funds to buy a spectacular Italian villa.”
“What if you don’t approve of what I write?” I ask, trying not to be overwhelmed by the lavish picture he paints of my glory days to come.
“I will demand the right to justify my actions, if I deem it necessary, to be included with any dispatch. But you, Appias Cominius, will have the final say on what is ultimately reported to the Senate and the People of Rome.”
*
Yes, that was the moment in time when this adventure began for me all those years ago. Though I still had many questions, I knew that I would accept Marcus Licinius Crassus’s generous offer of service. But there were signals of what lay ahead buried in that first conversation, had I been wise enough to identify them.
For all the consul’s obscene wealth, he lacked what his young protégé Gaius Julius Caesar and nemesis Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus were rich in – accomplishments on the field of Mars. I simply failed to recognize that the man with an eye on posterity would be content to merely bleed Syria white. Crassus was looking enviously east, hoping to follow in the footsteps of Ptolemy III. He wanted to have me in his wake, recording his every valiant deed like, as he said, a Xenophon. But Xenophon, the Athenian writer, recorded a bloody retreat: ten thousand Spartan mercenaries falling back to Greece, fighting as they fled, their leaders slaughtered. Only with hindsight did I recognize that Crassus’s reference to the Greek was also an omen.
And, speaking of omens, there was the sacrifice I witnessed that fateful morning where a young bull was given to Mithra in order to divine whether a relationship between Parthia and Rome would turn out to be bountiful. Of course you know what Mithra thought about it, because that’s where I began this account. As you may recall, the priests declared the sacrifice null and void, but I’m sure Mithra just laughed at the priests’ arrogance. I long ago came to the conclusion that the message of that sacrifice was in fact a personal note to me, had I only been wise enough to recognize it. And the message was this: for the love of Rome, give Syria a very wide berth! For at the time I didn’t connect that Parthia lay next door to Syria, and that this was, of course, the fat plum Crassus was eyeing from his palace atop the Palatine.
So my wife Quinta and I journeyed with Crassus’s household and took up residence in Antioch, which, while not Rome, was nonetheless a pleasant enough city. Quinta busied herself with household duties like a good Roman wife should, while I became Crassus’s shadow. That first year is not one I want necessarily to write about, though I should tell you a little of what happened. The proconsul continued the recruiting drive for his army in Syria while his son, Publius, released from Caesar’s campaigning in Gallia, raised more levies in Northern Italy for his father’s growing legions. Marcus Licinius Crassus then went to war against Parthia. The numbers enrolled in his legions in the first year of campaigning nudged 38,000, which included several thousand auxiliaries of Syrian horse. Publius remained in Italy while Crassus and his most senior legate, Gaius Cassius Longinus, drove toward the Euphrates. In this first year of campaigning the legions swept aside defenses that were, in truth, lackluster and disorganized, installing Roman garrisons in the towns and cities they captured throughout Parthia east of Euphrates.
But then Crassus received word that several of his investments back in Syria weren’t doing as well as they might so he returned the army to winter barracks forthwith in order to repair the minor hits to his finances. It was at this time that the Parthian monarch, Orodes II, sent a delegation to Crassus to complain about the injustice of attacking his kingdom – a recognized ally of the Roman Republic no less – and to inquire of the proconsul’s intentions. It was a moment I shall never forget. Crassus took a little time to consider his reply. And then with the hint of a smile he said, “Tell your king that I shall give him his answer on the streets of Seleucia.”
So ended the first year of the proconsul’s assault on Parthia. I shall henceforth concentrate on the second year of the campaign and the events that followed that few people, if any, will be aware of. My intention is to write a history, though admittedly it will be a flawed one. This is because, while I’ve been a spectator with a seat in the front row of the Circus, witnessing firsthand many of the events to be outlined, I’ve also too often had to rely on the accounts of others, sometimes years after the events in question.
First and foremost, however, this is not intended to be a history of me, as Xenophon might have written it, but rather an account about a legion of men and of one man in particular, a Roman who truly deserves the immortality that Crassus craved. For this reason I now conclude this arrogant preamble written in the first person and switch instead to that of an invisible observer. I will endeavor not to jump around; but like many old men I do find that talking about a later incident can spark memories of an earlier one. You’ll just have to bear with me.
Get comfortable, Viridia. You are? Then let’s begin …
Parthia, east of the Euphrates
a.d. III Non. Mai, 701 AUC
(5 May, 53 BC)
I
Publius caught a flash of steel within the dust cloud ahead.
“There!” he shouted to Marcius Censorinus and Megabocchus, ripping his mount’s head around and digging his heels into its ribs. The young man’s horse reacted as Publius knew it would, setting back on its hindquarters before launching itself forward. Within seconds he and his two friends – veterans from the campaign in Gallia alongside Caesar – were riding at full gallop towards the enemy, eyes streaming tears in the dust, each pulling their focale up around their noses and mouths to keep the worst of the sand from their throats.
Around and behind them were twenty thundering horses, some of the 1,000 Celtic cavalry brought across from Gallia, men who would follow the prefect to the ends of the earth. Through the grit, Publius could make out enemy numbers now.
Around half of the Parthians were cavalry dressed in heavy mail, their horses sheathed in the scales of steel. They were charging into the rear of the column with lances, trying to get the legionaries to turn and fight, hoping to entice them away from the column and make them easier pickings. The fearsome tactic was working. Publius watched several legionaries run toward the heavily armored Parthian horsemen, whom the Arabs called cataphracts. The legionaries hurled their pila, but these javelins had little effect, glancing off the fish scale armor. Other enemy horsemen appeared from out of the dust, lightly armored mounted archers who kept their distance from the Roman javelins and stabbing gladii, and instead cut down the legionaries with well-aimed arrows often fired at full gallop. The enemy tactics were starting to affect the entire century. More and more legionaries were coming to the aid of their fellow infantrymen.
Publius was first to engage the cataphracts. Charging at one to stab the man with his spear, the Parthian used his horse as a shield. The animal reared up so that the force of Publius’s spear thrust hit its polished armor, which merely deflected the blade. The horse then wheeled at the prefect, becoming a massive steel-encased club that knocked Publius’s own mount screaming to the ground.
The Roman came down hard, the impact stunning him briefly. Coming unsteadily to his feet, head ringing, he watched his companions Censorinus and Megabocchus hurl their pila, attempting to kill or wound the Parthian cataphract, but their
javelins too were brushed aside.
Publius’s senses came back to him in a rush. As the cataphract’s horse reared, he saw his chance. Grabbing the pugio from off his hip, he raced to the wheeling beast, slid beneath it and slit its belly open with the short, razor-sharp blade as the animal passed above him, just as he’d seen German soldiers do to Roman cavalry mounts in Gallia. The animal’s exta dropped immediately to the sand, the horse stomping over its own entrails in distress. The Parthian fell hard to the ground and then his horse toppled over onto his leg, breaking it and trapping the man.
The legionaries saw what Publius had done, mirrored his tactic, and the other cataphract was soon brought down in similar fashion. The enemy archers melted immediately into the dust, chased off by the Celts. And the Roman column marched on, the century reforming in an orderly fashion, its officers barking orders at legionaries trotting to rejoin the ranks.
Publius held up his hand in salute at the departing century and received a cheer from the men in return. With Censorinus and Megabocchus, he rode around the general area, surveying the results of the minor skirmish. Four legionaries lay dead, killed by arrows. These had passed clean through their helmets or their shields and mail cuirasses as if they were naked. Three other legionaries were badly wounded and would not survive, arrows having skewered their limbs and chests to their shields so that they couldn’t fight or run. The prefect dismounted and plucked an arrow from the ground. Its steel head was heavy and viciously barbed. A weapon like this hit hard and once it pierced skin and muscle, pulling the head out would do even more damage. Publius shuddered.
Censorinus pushed an arrow through the hole it had made in a legionary’s shield and removed it clean. “The enemy’s bows are powerful,” the young cavalry officer observed, giving voice to Publius’s thoughts as he examined the arrow. “You don’t want to be struck with one of these.”
Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) Page 3
