“Is it so wrong,” Crassus asked me as the little man gathered his tools, “for love to set great events in motion? Did not Menelaus do as much for Helen?”
While I was crafting a response that might somehow cast a benign light on the countless tragedies of the Trojan War, Tulio jumped in. “No, General, not wrong at all. Great love may be proved by deeds both great and small.”
What prattle is this, you ignorant, rotund sycophant? I wanted to ask him how his affirmation of my master’s hopes would sit with him were they to be abruptly interrupted by the razor point of a Parthian arrow piercing his pale, hairless breast? Would Tulio regurgitate such nonsense if he knew that on this misadventure, we were all of us slaves, not to love, but to vengeance? I thought about it and came to the conclusion that yes, he probably would.
When Tulio the fawner had departed, Crassus stood up, toweled off his face and continued in a subdued voice. “I must tell you something, Alexander. If Caesar returns to Rome before me, Tertulla will make her way to Siphnos. He will not think to look for her in Greece. I have sent word to Nicias. She will be safe there. Should the gods send you home without me, follow her there; look after her.” I started to protest, but Crassus raised his hand. “As I left her, I kissed her hands, and folded her fingers about a bronze key hung on a gold necklace. The key opens a strongbox hidden behind the lararium. In it are fifty talents of silver and certified copies of my will and all the deeds to all our properties. She will have those with her. My will is recorded with the Vestals; everything is documented and registered. Hopefully, none of these precautions will be necessary. When all goes well, she will be waiting for me at the Capena Gate upon our return, the same one through which I departed.”
“Then I will pray we both find her safe on Roman soil.”
Crassus grasped my arm in the Roman fashion. “If the fates allow, this war will knit together what Caesar has tried to tear apart.”
“Syria is beautiful, dominus. It is not too late to summon domina to attend you while you serve out your proconsulship without ever having to cross the Euphrates.”
Instead of releasing my forearm, Crassus squeezed till his fingertips turned white and red. “Quiet! Enough! Again, Alexander, you presume too much.” His grip relaxed only after he was sure he had left his marks upon me.
“Dominus,” I said, taking a step back and bowing my head. “May the gods grant us all safe passage back to our families.”
“If you cannot give me counsel within the boundaries I have set, you are no more use to me than Tulio. Less. At least whenever he leaves the room,” he said, the metal in his voice softening, “I feel better. And look better as well.”
“Think of me, dominus, as the little hairs that Tulio leaves behind that prick and itch throughout the day to remind you not only of your stately appearance but of your responsibilities to Rome and family.”
“Oh, I do, Alexander, you may rely on it. Those hairs are nothing, however, that a good brushing wouldn’t remove.”
Chapter XXVIII
54 BCE - Spring, Antioch
Year of the consulship of
Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher
Three days after we passed through the Gates, on the 4th of Martius, we came upon the northernmost city gate. There was a lovely hill overlooking the spot, shaded by several sinewy-limbed arbutus. Their smooth, muddy-orange branches spread like outstretched arms. Just below them, we passed several Roman work crews repairing the ten-foot tall defensive wall that stretched across the narrowing valley. The triple-arched gateway and river bridge were in good repair, but in many places stones from the original walls and watchtowers had tumbled. The old Seleucid monarchs may have been at the mercy of the ground-shaking gods, but those chthonian deities were no match for Roman engineering.
Further on we were met by a most curious sight. A single cavalry commander and two natives rode up meet to us. The Roman looked to be about thirty years of age. “Governor Gabinius bids you welcome to Antioch, proconsul Crassus,” he said formally as he and his dusky companions turned alongside our officers and rode with us. The general made no signal to alter our pace—a column stretching twenty miles was not about to stop for such an informal greeting. The stranger’s voice was deep and rich; he might have been a stage performer. He had the looks for it, with black, curly hair and a full beard in the Greek style. He continued, “Allow me to present Abgarus II, king of Osrhoene, client state of Armenia and ally of Rome.”
The road ahead had been cleared of traffic. Lining the curb on each side were several hundred turbaned horsemen, each facing his counterpart across the road. As Crassus reached the first pair they raised their curved sabres; when he had passed the swords were sheathed and they sat at attention, their right fist on their breast in Roman salute. This was repeated hundreds of times, creating the illusion of a slow wave of blades rising and falling with our passage.
Crassus, in as foul a mood as ever I had seen him said, “I know neither of you.”
The officer, clearly shocked, said, “King Abgarus has made a peace with Pompeius Magnus that has lasted for years. Osrhoene is as good a friend to Rome as any of our provinces.”
Crassus flinched at the name of Pompeius; he could travel to the ends of the empire and still not escape him. Every place dominus set his foot, Pompeius had walked before. “It has been my experience that the further one travels from Rome, the more the bonds of friendship tend to loosen. Sir, I have no reason to doubt your good will. In fact, when I spoke thus, I had in mind my own countrymen.” Crassus turned to the bearded Roman. “Now who did you say you were?”
“Marcus Antonius.”
“You must forgive me. My memory lapses frequently in my dotage,” he said with unrestrained sarcasm. “It is, after all, a common enough name.” If my master knew how close the fates of this Marcus Antonius and Julius Caesar were to become entangled, it was a name he would never forget. After Antioch, however, their paths were not to cross again. “You must be,” he continued, “a hero of the Syrian province to represent all of Antioch on this historic day, the only Roman to receive us upon our arrival. Or perhaps the son of the good Gabinius?”
“I am neither,” answered the soldier. “Though some may think me so.”
“What, a hero or a relative?”
This seemed to stump the burly soldier, for he paused to exhibit behavior which had all the trappings of thought, though I doubt it contained much of the substance. This was followed by a low, guttural sound which the man had apparently learned to substitute for cogitation. Though I do not often leap to conclusions, I landed firmly on one now: the man was as thick as his beard.
“Marcus Antonius,” Crassus repeated thoughtfully. “Not the son of Creticus?” Antonius nodded. “Never was a praetor more incompetent. But your grandfather was a statesman, and a fine orator. Let us hope, for your sake, the inheritance of your family’s qualities has skipped a generation.”
That was unkind. Defensive and clearly stung, the commander responded, “I fought with general Gabinius against Aristobulus in Judea. I also attended the governor in Egypt and—”
“I am not interested in your exploits. But I am curious to know if it is the habit of your general to welcome a senator and consul bearing the dust of two thousand miles upon his shoulders with but a single countryman and a few choreographed natives?”
The young Roman glanced at his comrades to gage the impact of the insult. The king’s face, whose participation in this embarrassingly paltry reception argued against the legitimacy of his title, remained bland, and the other was clearly a servant; no help for the Roman in that quarter. A flash of anger illuminated Antonius’s face long enough for me to recognize it as an emotion with which he was most comfortably intimate. We often find ourselves at ease with that with which we are most familiar, regardless of whether or not the trait serves us well in the end. Is that not yet another example of how we enslave ourselves? I never realized there were so many forms of the conditi
on, my own being but the most obvious.
I gave Antonius credit for stuffing his nature back into its bottle and muffling his reply with discretion. “Humble apologies, general. Governor Gabinius would have been here himself, indeed he would have sent a cohort to meet you, but everyone, including the governor, is preparing for tomorrow’s games in your honor.”
“He is governor no longer, and whether he knows it or not has been out of office since the day he refused to receive the officer I sent ahead of me over a month ago. Is Gabinius wielding a broom or lending a hand in the kitchen?” Those of Crassus’ commanders who could hear him snickered, but Antonius remained quiet, though his color brightened.
“The fort and fields are prepared for your men and livestock,” he said. “Shall I familiarize your second-in-command with how things are done in Antioch?”
“Do that.” Marcus Antonius wheeled his horse about and dropped back to ride beside Octavius. We rode on at a brisk walk, letting the column fall further behind.
The king spoke in perfect Latin. His tone was even and without rancor. “With your permission, general,” he said evenly, “I would be honored to escort you to the palace.”
Everything I had seen since we began our approach to the city was a marvel. I was bedazzled by each new sight, including Abgarus. I do not know who was more finely caparisoned: the prince or his horse. The man, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, wore a formal headdress of multi-colored fabric, twisted and intertwined in such a way that I could not help but be reminded of a very expensive pile of laundry. As I said, he was dark-skinned, but not as black as some of the merchants I had seen on our approach to the city. His most striking feature was the hair above his lip: it was greased and twisted to points extending far beyond his face. He wore a black tunic and baggy leggings gathered at the ankles. His waist was covered with a very wide sash of woven fabric—dark greens and deep reds on a field the color of sand. A single curved and bejeweled dagger was thrust through a leather belt adorned with heavy, silver buckles. Its sheath and hilt looked to be fashioned entirely of gold. His long, many-hued coat partially obscured an open vest of some fine, green fabric shot with silver thread. Several tasseled pouches and bags were slung around his neck.
The king’s attendant was another matter entirely. He was curiously unkempt for such a position of honor. Distastefully so. Perhaps it was the custom for an Aramean prince to be accompanied by one so plain of attire as to catapult his own resplendency to even greater heights by comparison. The young man wore light, flowing robes of no distinguishable color; his blouse and leggings were homespun. His head was uncovered and unkempt; every now and again he would sweep a hand through dark, unruly curls. His face had not seen a razor in several days. About his neck, a white head scarf was loosely wrapped, its tasseled ends falling unevenly. As far as I could tell, he was unarmed. His eyebrows, set close to dark brown eyes, implied a serious disposition I suspected was unwarranted. When at rest, his mouth lay straight across his face until at one end it curled in the suggestion of a smile. His only adornment was a length of exquisitely woven multi-colored fabric that tied a knot of his hair at the back of his neck. At the time I remember thinking he did not look like any Eastern native I had ever seen, but then my limited experience did not qualify me as a reliable judge. Whatever his heritage, there were ladies in Rome who would forfeit fortunes to make his secret acquaintance. The lad looked to be no more than twenty or twenty-one.
“Forgive my rudeness, King Abgarus,” Crassus replied. “We are tired and ill-humored, but my perturbation with my hosts should not have descended upon your shoulders.”
The king leaned in his saddle toward Crassus, careful with so many watchful eyes to keep both hands on his reins. He lowered his voice and said, “An inexcusable affront. In Ourha the entire palace would be turned out to bid you welcome.”
Crassus removed his plumed helm and wiped his brow. “To be honest, Abgarus, all that matters is that we have arrived, and to these stiff old muscles, it makes no difference whether one or ten thousand line the way. Do not misunderstand me, I do appreciate and thank you for the precision display of your guard.”
“My swords are your swords. General, Abgarus is the name taken by all who sit on the throne of Osrhoene. You would honor me by dispensing with the formality of title and use my given name, Ariamnes.”
Crassus said, “Highness, I do not wish to create insult where none is meant, but let us rely on and take comfort in formality until time and experience build friendship and trust. In Rome, the praenomen is reserved for family or intimate friends, not to be given lightly. In time, let us hope that we both earn that privilege.”
“As you wish, my general,” the king said coolly. “My people are more quick to recognize a friend. But it is no matter. I shall, of course, respect your wishes.”
We rode in silence for a while more, then Crassus said, “Would it be against custom to ask who this handsome young man is by your side?”
“Not at all. May I present my cousin, Melyaket puhr Karach. He is visiting from afar and traveling under my protection, having recently endured a family tragedy.”
“My condolences for your loss, Melyaket son of Karach,” Crassus said sympathetically.
“You are kind, my lord. However, while the tragedy was real, the family was not my own.”
“How do you mean?”
“The retelling, Governor Crassus, would be as tiresome for you as the reliving of it would be painful for me. To make quick work of it, there were people who wanted something of mine that I did not want them to have. Regrettably, lives were lost.”
“More than one?” Crassus asked.
“A few.”
“Indeed! And you are here under the good king’s protection presumably because you left more of them alive than you slew.”
“More than a few.”
“And now they search you out. You see the price of not being thorough. Your people could learn a thing or two from Marius or Sulla.”
“Unfortunately, great general, my enemies are rarely gathered in one place, out in the open, all at the same time.”
Crassus laughed. “I like this man. And also that such a cunning warrior rides beside me unarmed. You are unarmed, are you not?” At these words, Cassius jerked his reins and interposed himself between Crassus and Abgarus. In an instant, three more mounted legionaries had crowded round Melyaket, their swords drawn.
“Jupiter’s knees, Longinus,” Crassus exclaimed. “I was in jest. Leave the fellow be.”
Cassius replied, “With respect, general, I cannot afford your sense of humor. A perfect and ironic time for treachery to strike—just as we are about to enter the city.”
“Nonsense. If you want to rise as a politician, Cassius, and what young officer does not, you’ve got to think like a chef. Look at this fellow. He simply does not have the right ingredients for the meal you suggest. Combine cleverness, youth and a quick wit and try as you might you will never prepare a dish of suicide. You don’t want to kill yourself, do you, Melyaket? There, you see, Cassius? Trust me, I’ve been mixing recipes of men in the senate for thirty years.” Dominus ordered the guards back into rank and the march continued. “Tell me this, son. How did you dispatch these enemies?”
“As quickly as I could,” the young man answered. “I apologize, general, I know what you are asking…”
“I understand. Let others boast on your behalf. Otherwise the glory is diminished. What are your weapons of choice?”
“I am trained in many, but some have said I have a gift with the bow.”
“I will require a demonstration.”
King Abgarus asked, “If I may, general, what weapon do you prefer?”
Crassus took no more than a moment to answer. “Overwhelming odds.” He glanced back at the column that disappeared in a haze beyond the last bend in the road. He turned back to Melyaket and added, “I think you will enjoy meeting my son when he arrives.”
“I look forward to meeting the re
nowned Publius Crassus.”
Dominus furrowed his brow but made no comment. “Well, Melyaket puhr Karach,” he said, “I hope your cause was just.”
“If it were not,” said King Abgarus, “he would not be riding at my side.”
Cassius said to the king, “Regrettably, majesty, I am unable to risk the life of my general upon the word of a…new friend.” The quaestor shifted to face Melyaket. “Tell me, my clever, funny friend, exactly where is this place from which you found it necessary to flee?”
“My village rests at the base of the southern flank of the Jebel Sinjar, my lord.”
“Sinjar? That’s Parthian territory, is it not.”
Abgarus shrugged, “Parthian, Armenian, Mygdonian. Even Osrhoene has at one time raised its banners in that barren dirt. There is nothing there worth owning, I promise you. Apologies, Melyaket, but you know I speak truth.”
“Noble king,” Melyaket said with a wink, “you will never see the riches hidden there, for unlike me, you have never called Sinjar ‘home.’”
Cassius used a tone of voice which made those who heard it cower and those at whom it was directed blurt truth from fear. “To which nation do you swear allegiance, boy?”
Melyaket neither cowered nor blurted, though his eyebrows creased in thought before he spoke. “There is a brook that tumbles down the mountain above our village. Its spring is a sacred place. The women beat our clothes against the flat rocks of the stream’s banks. As the water passes beneath an overhang of rock shaped like the palm of a hand, there is a deep pool where the water rests, cold and clear, before refreshed, it continues its rush down the hill. If the day is sunny and warm and the echoes of laughter and splashing cannot be heard from this place, we know a child must be in trouble. Before it reaches the village, this playful stream hides from us, diving beneath the earth, but we catch it again by the bucketful in the well that sits in the center of the square. It is surrounded by three olive trees so old no one remembers who planted them, but we know what feeds them.
A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven Page 33