A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (46 page)

“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.

“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.”

T
he 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.