“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.”
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.”