The Risen

by David Anthony Durham

  Head down, he said, “Master, you asked for me.”

  “Tertulla said she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight unless I came and worshipped the goddess,” Crassus responded. “So here I am. She, likely, is fast asleep. I’ve done my worship. Come in and sit with me.”

  Sit with him? Kaleb said, “Master, I didn’t know. A moment, please, and I’ll get writing things. I’ll run and—”

  “No, no,” Crassus said. “You’ve no work to do here. Just sit. Right here. Look.”

  Kaleb lifted his head. Crassus sat on one of the stone benches carved into the temple’s wall. He was casually attired, in nightclothes instead of the toga he’d worn earlier to the Senate. One of his naked legs crossed the other, in a posture more suited to a bathhouse than a temple. Beside him, a jug of what was likely wine and a few mugs. Gold by the rich metallic sparkle of them. Ceremonial, perhaps, though Crassus held one in a limp grip that looked more relaxed than reverent.

  “Did you hear me? I said for you to sit. Right here will do.” The senator indicated a square of stone that protruded from the wall near him. Not a seat exactly, but usable as one.

  Kaleb sat, uneasy despite Crassus’s relaxed manner. Why was he here? Crassus had never asked for sexual things from him, and he had never been familiar in quite this way. Kaleb knew that—no matter how they claimed to look down upon his servile status—both women and men found things to like in his slim physique, in the darkness of his skin, and in the fine lines of his features. He hoped this wouldn’t go that way.

  “Do you know what happened today?” Crassus asked. “It’s mine, Kaleb. The command I wanted. They’ve played into my hands exactly as I intended. My money, you know. That’s what they wanted. So what? I have it, and they don’t. They call me tight?” He guffawed. “You should’ve seen the relief on their faces when I agreed to fund the new legions myself. Disgraceful, really. Here’s what’s happening. Gellius and Clodianus have been stripped of their commands. They’re consuls yet, but not commanders anymore. I have been given a special, sole command. Do you hear what I’m saying? The war with Spartacus is mine. I own it now. The rewards of success will be mine alone. Failure would be mine alone as well, but that’s not a concern. Anyway, you’ll see. You’ll come with me.”

  “Sir?” Kaleb said, before he knew he was going to speak.

  Crassus drank. “Of course you will. I need your stylus, your talents. I’ll have to write a great many letters. Kaleb, you’re going to war. War with slaves, I’ll admit. That’s not a true, noble war. But it’s the one I’ve got. So we go.”

  “It’s my honor, master,” Kaleb said, though his mind reeled. Going to war? Leaving Umma here?

  “You know, of course, that I wish ill on no Roman citizen,” Crassus said.

  “Yes, master.” Kaleb nodded, knowing just how deep a lie that was. Deep enough, perhaps, that at the moment he said it, Crassus likely believed it himself.

  “The lives lost. The damage to the consuls’ reputations. All so unfortunate. But it’s not for me to question the gods. They’ve seen fit to offer me the opportunity I’ve longed for. Kaleb, I’m ready for this.”

  “I know you are, master.”

  “I am, in fact, in quite a good mood. Kaleb, stop gaping like that. Here.” The senator filled the spare mug with wine and handed it to his slave, grinning as if the gesture were sublimely amusing.

  Kaleb held the mug, not daring to take a sip.

  Crassus tilted his mug, drank, wiped the edge of his lips with a thumb. “Yes, a good mood. You, Kaleb, will be beside me as my fortune unfolds. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Do you know why I’m cheered to be faced with these brutes rampaging up and down Italy? Because this Thracian gladiator doesn’t know what he’s actually up against. He may think he does. But he understands nothing about who we Romans really are.”

  He drank and, this time, Kaleb did as well. The wine was gorgeous. The darkest of reds, uncut by water. Sweet and yet as earthy as rich liquid soil.

  “He’ll have no idea that I’m calling up six new legions immediately. Six. I’ll add that to the battered four that already exist. And there. Ten legions. I’ll have forty-five thousand Roman soldiers under my command. And all those men called out of the fields and cities right here in Italy. With my legions added to ones already afield, Rome will have forty-five legions deployed across our empire. Forty-five, Kaleb. Give or take, that means we will have nearly a quarter million legionaries in the field, and even more laboring in support of them. This Thracian may be a clever savage, but he has no idea the force he’s up against. We will destroy him.”

  “Yes, master,” Kaleb said, taking another sip of wine. No need to mention that Spartacus was not truly up against that full force. Each of those armies was trapped where it was, unable to leave without losing all it had been fighting for in the first place. Crassus, even drunk, would know that. So Kaleb simply agreed. “I’m sure it’s so.”

  Crassus talked for some time further, detailing the tactics he had in mind, commenting on the errors the generals before him had made. So many errors. None of them would be repeated. “I don’t doubt this Spartacus will have new deceits planned,” he admitted. “I wish I knew how he got the best of Gellius’s force. Wish Gellius himself could tell me. Some sort of ambush, no doubt. And then the ploy of disguising his army as Romans and marching right up to Clodianus…” He frowned, looking as if he found the notion hard to imagine. “Clodianus should’ve known. Even from a distance, under the standards, this rabble could not have marched in Roman order. It’s impossible. He claims the messenger sent before the legion was a Roman, clearly a soldier. Dispatch sealed with Gellius’s mark. All official. Everything seemed in perfect order. Because of it, instead of looking behind him at the supposedly friendly legion approaching to support him, he was looking forward at the barbarian rabble that was so boldly, and foolishly, marching toward their doom. So he thought. Thus he was caught in the middle.” To demonstrate, more to himself than to his slave, Crassus formed his two hands into pincers and drew them together until they collided. “Ingenious, in its way. But Spartacus wins only by ruses. He’s taken up Hannibal’s manual and is rolling the dice with it again. It will end the same.”

  “Except that you don’t have the option of attacking Thrace to lure him home, as Scipio did to Carthage.” Why did he say that? The moment the words were out, he regretted them. Did wine so loosen his tongue?

  Crassus looked askance at him. For a moment there was an edge of irritation on his features, as if he’d just noticed Kaleb was drinking with him and disapproved. He smirked, and the expression vanished. He took another drink and said, with an air of generous import, “As I rise, so do all connected with me. Serve me well during the campaign, Kaleb, and you’ll be rewarded too.”

  “Serving you is reward enough, master. I’ve no need for further reward.” He said this because he knew it was the right thing to say. Wasn’t it also true? His life could’ve been so, so much more horrible. Was he not privileged? Had he not risen? He let himself hope that the reward in question was his freedom. It happened to some. Why not him? Why not a loyal servant who was at his master’s side as he triumphed and rose in stature? Thinking so, Kaleb forgot the kind thoughts that he’d entertained for the gladiators on getting word of Gellius’s and Clodianus’s defeats. Instead, it seemed so much more to his benefit that Crassus stamp out the gladiators as quickly as possible.

  “Good to hear it,” Crassus said, “but I’ll reward you as is deserving nonetheless. You can go now. Send in the man outside when you do. I should probably have a steady arm to walk me to bed.”

  Kaleb thanked him, awkwardly set the mug down near the others, and moved away a few steps. He almost left, but the mood, so unusual between them, made him pause. “Master, there’s another thing.”

  Crassus grunted.

  “It’s just that…I have care…I mean, just that I care about Umma.”

  Cras
sus looked at him, squinty-eyed. “Umma? The slave girl? What do you mean you care about her?”

  Though he was simply standing still, Kaleb’s heart pounded as if he were sprinting. “I would not want her to leave the household…while…while we’re gone. I hope she’ll not be sold.”

  “Oh,” Crassus said. “I see. Am I to understand that you, Kaleb, my slave, are instructing me on how to handle my other slaves? Have you others you’d like me to sell or not? Do you wish to instruct me on whom I can sell and at what price?”

  “No, master. Of course. No. It’s just…Umma that I care about.”

  “Is that right? Just this Umma?”

  “Yes, master.”

  Kaleb kept his gaze focused on his master’s chest, so as not to stare while still being able, to some degree, to see his face. Despite his squint, the severity of pucker to his lips, Crassus was unreadable. He always became unreadable the moment he wanted to. Kaleb knew from experience that one couldn’t judge what was going on inside his mind from the expression he wore on his face. Too often he had seen people doomed as Crassus smiled amiably. Just as often, he had watched benevolent pronouncements issue from a face so sour, it would have appeared to foretell only doom. He waited. It was the only thing he could do, trying his best not to reveal his inner mind any more than his master revealed his.

  It took a long time, but when Crassus finally answered, he said, “Fine. It’s not as if I care one way or the other. Now go, and send the man in.”

  That was the night that, made foolish by the wine, Kaleb had gone to Umma. He woke her and pressed a finger to her lips. The night they lay together on a mat in the closet among the cleaning supplies. They made love, and he told her what Crassus had said, and told her of the promised reward. It was the night that, laughing, she had tried to make the face of the Crassus who was a frog that had swallowed a scorpion. It’s the night she said, I want you to always be with me. Only you.

  She could not have said a dearer thing. He wanted the same. In all the world, that was the only thing he wanted.

  —

  Though he heard the myriad sounds of the thronging army the entire time they talked in the tent, stepping from behind the flap out into the morning is as shocking this time as it’s been since Kaleb first arrived among the troops. Noises that were muffled are suddenly clear. So many men and horses, things clanking and ringing, armor jangling, leather creaking, voices by the thousands murmuring unintelligibly, others booming orders, horns announcing the progression of the day. It’s a cacophony that Kaleb doubts he’ll ever get used to. And the stench. No matter that there’s an order to how they laid out the latrines and that the commander’s tent is far from them, still, such a collection of humans and animals cannot help but smell foul. They’re a city without paved streets, without stone buildings or the trappings of urban luxury. Just the men, the animals, the weapons, and the awareness of the purpose they’re all gathered for.

  It’s the visual impact of the gathered army that most impresses him. He fears it, though he can’t say why. He’s part of it, after all, in service to it. Stuck down among the camp, he can see only so far, but the size of the gathered throng is written in the sky above. The blue of the morning is stained by so many tendrils of smoke rising straight up to a height and then smeared into one, as if the god Jupiter were brushing the smoke away with a swipe of his great hand.

  When he climbs up onto the wooden platform, Kaleb is careful not to take in the view it offers him. He sets up his small table, stacks the wax tablets he’ll make notes on, arranges a number of styli within easy reach. He’s near enough to hear every word his master speaks, yet he thinks himself invisible, small behind the commander and the senior officers arrayed beside him. Only when everything he needs to fulfill his role is in place does he straighten, raise his head, and look out over the gathering army.

  What is it that impresses him most? The pure mass of soldiers, for one. Forty thousand armored, armed men. Thousands more than that in varied support roles as well. They fade into the distance, stretching out over the training field at the edge of the fortified camp. They’re ordered into neat geometric rectangles, sectioned off by cohort and centuries and various units that Kaleb doesn’t fully comprehend. It’s the complexity of that order—the fact that so many are arranged in such precise ways—that makes the mass of individuals into one machine of purpose.

  An unstoppable machine, Kaleb thinks. Proof that Rome is Rome and ever will be. Master of Italy. Of the Mediterranean. In time, master of all the world, as Crassus often promises.

  The army takes some time to arrange, but when all are in place, horns blare, demanding silence. It takes a moment, but the soldiers hush. That too seems unnatural. So many out there, silent now.

  Crassus is to speak to them. All know it, though they don’t know what it is he’s going to say. They don’t know why there’s a square left empty in the center of the gathering. They will soon. But first the auspices. No venture like this can begin without verifying that the gods favor it. And so in the space directly in front of the platform, the keeper of the auspice chickens opens the cages and offers the birds release.

  Crassus glances over his shoulder. “Kaleb, note that the auspices were taken in accordance with all the proper prescriptions. Note the outcome with clarity. It should be a good outcome. I’m told these birds will have hunger to match ours. They had better.”

  The augur himself is a dour man with a great hook of a nose. His black priestly robes are voluminous, mostly heaped over one arm, leaving his chest and shoulders bare. He carries a bronze lituus, stafflike, with a curling spiral at the top. He lifts it to call for utter silence. He gets it, though most of the troops will not see what transpires. Only those on the platform, and the officers arranged shoulder to shoulder around the augury circle, will.

  Having silence, the augur plucks several small cakes from a tray. He holds them up for Crassus to see. He says something meant only for the cakes themselves, and then he tosses them toward the chickens. Several have leaped out already, heads jerking, looking around nervously. They jump back, wings flapping as they dance a few feet into the air. They land just as quickly, heads darting. This side. That side. They spy the cakes where they lie on the dirt, first with this eye and then with that.

  The ring of officers seem nervous. Many of them dip their heads or look away. They hold still, trying to appear nonthreatening. Do they believe that at this moment Jupiter is watching, and that he’ll express his will through the actions of these chickens? Yes, Kaleb knows they do. They’re Romans. But even as they believe, they stand as if trying to become invisible to the birds. It’s a strange posture for Roman officers.

  It’s one of the chickens still caged that acts first. It flies through the open door and hits the ground running. Just like that, all the others do the same. They all converge on the cakes. Six chickens in a sudden feeding frenzy.

  Something in the fracas excites the augur. Bending low, in among the birds, he points. “There! Jupiter has spoken. A cake fell from this one’s mouth and hit the earth. This one then took it up greedily, and it fell yet again.” He straightened. He rearranges the folds of his robe hanging from his arm, regaining his gravitas in the process. “It’s undeniable. Jupiter Best and Greatest blesses our venture and what is to be done here today.”

  Kaleb keeps the smirk he’d like to give off his face.

  His work complete, the augur strides away. He kicks through the birds as the keeper begins to scoop them up. It falls to Crassus to pass on the results. He does so solemnly, but with an enthusiasm that Kaleb recognizes as relief. “Jupiter is pleased!” he announces, throwing the words out over the army. “The message is clear. What we do here today, and this war we will prosecute, has the favor of the gods. It is so and will be written.”

  That last word reminds Kaleb of his work. He writes truncated sentences that he’ll fill in more fully later.

  The legion receives the news with a collective roar, one that rolls ove
r them, booming from various quarters as the verdict is understood by those farther away. For a time there are various rituals to go through. Crassus formally accepting command of the entire army. The generals under him declaring their loyalty to him, and then horns blaring to ask each corresponding cohort of legionaries to do the same. It goes on for some time and interests Kaleb little. It’s all a prelude to one thing every person here will remember for the rest of their lives. They still don’t know, and Crassus doesn’t get to it immediately. He speaks first of the task ahead of them, of the dire threat of the uprising and the disgraceful enemy they must face. He admits that there is little honor in defeating such a foe but claims there is much honor in defending Rome with bravery, with blood and bone. That, he declares, is what this army, under his leadership, will do. He asks them if they remember Sulla. He says a man’s past accomplishments should not be gloated upon but may serve as a barb to drive one to achieve future success. Some years before, Sulla had appointed him to command the right wing in the Battle of the Colline Gate against the Marians and their Samnite allies. It was a dire time for Rome, enemies truly at the gates, but, Crassus says, he and his troops stood strong and kept Rome safe.

  Safe, Kaleb thinks, in the hands of a murderous dictator, which is what Sulla was. He doesn’t write that, of course. He only notes what his master will want noted, the terse details that he’ll give flourish to later. He doesn’t write down the frequent asides that come to him. No matter how much his days are spent at forming words, they’re never his words. Better that way, he’s sure. If he was free to form his own words he’d write, I want you to always be with me. Only you. Good words to remember, he’s decided, but not to write. He hears them even now, amid an army on the verge of war and just moments away from carnage he knows is coming. They’re a reminder of why all this is to be endured. He’s not with Umma now but will be soon, when this is over and they return to Rome and when, as Crassus has promised without ever saying the words, he gives Kaleb the only reward that matters.