Marcus Crassus had no such excuse, but like a slave whose decisions are not his own, my master was carefree of the consequences of his actions. He was as close to a god as any man could hope to come. But godhood, it turns out, is a trap: the burdens and responsibilities are just as great as the privilege. Aristotle once said, “Virtue makes the goal right, practical wisdom the things leading to it.” My master was virtuous, but he was not wise. What need has a mortal god of perspective, when a god may suit his morals to his needs? have the wisdom to maintain more than a shred of rational perspective? Men like Crassus see what they want, reach out for it and it is theirs. Consequences to their own wellbeing are weighed, but what of others? What of the multitude who follow him like flowers chasing the sun? What are they to a god?
Should a small man choose unwisely, though the future repercussions of his error are unknowable, the immediate ripples of causation are most often also tepid and contained. When a man like Crassus chooses his fate with clouded vision, the gods themselves may avert their eyes. My master dragged fifty thousand souls behind him on the rushing tide of his miscalculation. Only a handful of the multitude that followed him into the desert realized that they did so, not for conquest or the glory of Rome, but for one man's love, for the restoration of his honor, and for the administration of his vengeance. Marcus Licinius Crassus would have his war. And Alexandros son of Theodotos would be by his side.