Wetness trickles down his cheeks as he mumbles, almost too embarrassed to speak, about giving up their way of life. The defensor familias is powerless, unable to do what it’s the essence of a man to do. By the time he’s finished, the moisture is gone, leaving a salt track, gritty white against his sunburnt skin.
It was a day of pain stifled in silence when the family moved to a cheap district in Rome where the erstwhile farmer learned the blacksmith’s trade. Money was never plentiful but enough for a decent, if largely self-taught eduction for the only boy in the family. It’s remarkable that his mother encouraged learning, as she was illiterate. But she saw, more clearly than her husband, that education was the best way to advance for someone not born into the senatorial class. She pushed him hard – difficult for her sometimes, for it went against her gentle nature. However she believed that, like sugar in teeth, there’s an acid in the sweetness of compassion which tends to dissolve strength in a boy. Nevertheless, as Danae did for Perseus, she gave him a sense of self worth, a faith that he was destined for an exceptional life.
It was tragic how the wrench tore a piece off his father’s soul, how what remained was too reduced to allow for happiness, how city life turned out to be too different, too remote, how he could never feel the mellow connection there which is the essence of home, and how unsettling feelings would always disturb him, like the rumblings of Tryphon in the subterranean cave.
Being brought up in a stable, albeit simple home and rising in a career that’ll lead to affluence most probably, he feels a tug of guilt that he can’t identify fully with that depth of sadness. He was too young at the time to feel what his father felt, except vaguely, and now the thought of losing his home isn’t something he really considers. He’s always had one; these days it’s in the army, a peripatetic one, but a home just the same. It gives him the emotional security everyone needs. Nevertheless it’s impossible to forget that day – the only time he saw a grown man cry, an event shocking to the core. His Stoic background with its requirement to control feelings through disassociating emotion from pain seemed assaulted. Later he understood that certain tragedies permit a different response.
The loss of the family land brings Crassus to mind, ironically the one man who must be impressed. Was he somehow implicated? He was among the most aggressive latifundia owners, those powerful men who drove down the price of agricultural produce by using slave labour from Rome’s conquests. By squeezing the small farmers during those distressed times he added vast amounts to his domain – unconscionable behaviour in the extreme. Perhaps he’s using some of those disgraceful gains to fund the Parthian campaign.
Is his presence here somehow condoning the outrage to his family? Should he be doing something about it?
There’s no point thinking about the past; any suggestion that Crassus was involved specifically can’t be proved one way or another. The man’s presently the Commander in Chief and that’s all there is to it. Besides he’s showing kindness now and he’s in a position where he’s capable of helping or destroying careers, certainly his own. The man’s an affable fellow, friendly to everyone, even says hello to people of low status, often calling them by name. It’s difficult to imagine him in an evil role.
The clanking beast of war lumbers out of the Syrian plain into rough country framed by low lying mountains of smoky grey. A long shaky line, drawn like a child might, separates earth and sky. Heat smacks his face like the palm of an unseen hand.
Half focussed, he sees a man on the right hand edge of the Road in front of him walking in the same direction as the army – not beside it but on it. Dressed in simple Syrian clothing, he’s bent over like an old man. A pole with a hanging bundle is on his shoulder. He wouldn’t ordinarily notice except for the fact the soldiers ahead make way for him as they pass. They veer around him. He does himself. Later he asks why they all did that. No one knows why. They just did it, as if in response to some instinct.
A rise in the Road appears, a feature more common now. But this one’s different. It looks down to a mighty river, wider than the Tiber, writhing over the landscape like a pregnant brown snake, fat and fertile. A Syrian scout says in perfect Latin,
“The Euphrates – border with Parthia. It’s dangerous these days. The currents are usually lazy but they’re livelier now, what with the snow melt from the Armenian highlands.”
This is it. The invasion’s ready to begin. On the other side of the famous river, the march will take on a different character – more dangerous, more exciting. Discipline will tighten as they start to move through hostile territory. He looks down at the Road, almost feels like patting its stones for it’ll take him to his destiny as if it were a beast of burden. He feels a certain affinity with the trusty track he’s been on so long; it’s like an ally, for once the water barrier is crossed it’ll lead him and his comrades to a victory which promises to be Olympian. The Road will share in it, become more than an ally – a partner. An ideal one too, for he’ll not have to share the spoils with it.
The army takes up rest positions under the trees by the bank. A human ribbon forms along the meander as the troops jostle to get close to the water. The air’s sticky and clouded with blow flies. Since it’s a sign of weakness to slap them off, they keep irritating at will; only reflex action prevents them from entering the men’s eyes. His uniform tossed aside like the others, he wades into the water stripped down to his loin cloth. Thousands of chaotic white shapes spray onto the brown water, staying close to the shallow edge. The water’s too cold for more than a quick dip, the current too fast for a proper swim, not that he has the skill anyway.
He lies down on his side, propped up on his elbow, letting the air cool him as he’s drying. His childhood friend Gaius, who grew up in the same neighbourhood, comes over and sits on the grass, also stripped to his loin cloth; they all are. He’s a crag of a man, big, blunt and square-faced. Unlike Marcus who is quite handsome, Gaius is too rough to be attractive to women, but he could lift a tree trunk heavy enough for three men, or smash into enemy soldiers like a battering ram breaching a fortress wall. He’s the Ajax of the Roman army.
“What d’you think of this Gaius? Isn’t it great – far cry from the marching huh? That dip sure beats the heat.”
“Yeah it’s all right. Nothing wrong with a break. But the men’ve slackened off – not good. Been like that for a while. Slipped off their peak. The Commander doesn’t keep discipline up. Pompey would never allow it – no godamn ever.”
“What are you worried about? They’re still the best in the world.”
“No argument, but I don’t like spending all that time booty hunting. Shit, we could pay for that when the battle starts. Too damn slack.”
“Maybe, but you have got to admire the crafty way he requisitioned those men from Damascus and then let them off after they paid. He didn’t want them anyway – useless idiots; just after the money. I know the locals hate us for it, but who cares.”
“Yeah, but he don’t keep the drills up. Look at what happened when he robbed the Jewish Temple – seemed like the whole damn army went on leave. Nobody did anything for weeks.”
“I agree about that. Wrong to do it. Pompey never took their gold when he invaded Jerusalem. Had respect. Remember? We were both there. I’m glad Crassus didn’t make us go with the squad. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“That’s not the point – he shouldn’t have wasted time.”
“I know. I know. Look at those engineers. Aren’t they terrific. No one can build like Romans.”
Men with huge saws are cutting local trees into planks. Long, square – edged nails drive into newly planed boards. Rafts spring into life and are lashed together to make