were seeing him for the first time. Does what we wear express or hide our true character? Was Crassus more authentic in uniform or draped in his toga?
The whipping wind put the simple task of fastening his cloak beyond him. Lips pressed into a line of concentration, he struggled against the heaving foredeck of his flagship, Scourge of Ctesiphon. The quinquereme was tied up at the very end of the breakwater so that it could lead the fleet; the sea here was growing alarmingly choppy. A covetous blast almost whipped his Tyrian purple lacerna out into the Adriatic, but the general retrieved his cloak when it became entangled in the rigging of the foremast. Now my assistance would not be perceived as insulting. I rushed from my post, and without a word between us, gently pushed the old man’s hands aside. I attached the fibula while the general held on to the unruly garment. Crassus, while offering no word of thanks, favored me with a fleeting and preoccupied smile.
Something chewed at this incarnation of Roman perfection. The pieces were all present: grey hair cropped close, nose thin and jutting, jaw strong enough to lend dignity to any coin of the Republic. Curious that in his lifetime he minted but a few. The armor made him look older than his sixty years. Clothed for war with breastplate and helm, though custom-made to precisely gird his aging body, it seemed ill-fitted, more costume than the resplendent trappings of a consular general. I closed my eyes and imagined my lord in his toga, and instantly beheld a master of Rome. That cloth spoke so much more eloquently of his wealth, influence and authority than the plume and bronze and leather. Yet another more recent image elbowed its way into view. Could it be that it was neither the garb of war nor of politics that suited him best, but rather the comfort of his favorite house tunic, barefoot at home in his kitchen, wooden spoon poised to dip into whatever bubbling pot drew his fancy?
Where was Livia?
•••
Turning his grey eyes downward, Crassus stared at the backs of his tanned, still strong hands as they gripped the railing. He blew air sharply through his nose—a self-mocking snort of laughter that sent his self-confidence tumbling away on that same breath. The clouds overhead bunched closer, darker, lower. “Crassus, you old fool,” he whispered so that I could barely hear him, “what are you doing here, when you could be soaking in a hot bath at Baiae, sipping honey wine? I am a play actor dressed for the wrong part.” Had I been speaking aloud? Had he read my thoughts? He adjusted his leather breastplate and ran his fingers over the gilded and embossed “muscles.”
“I will employ her presents, Alexander, to bring the world to her feet. Look on’t,” he said, smiling. “We have not yet departed the Italian shore, and already her gift of armor has saved my life.”
“I do not follow, dominus.”
“If I’d been forced to wear my old uniforms, squeezing into them would have asphyxiated me long before we reached Syria. Sixteen years since I rode out against Spartacus, and at least as many pounds. I’m not the soldier I used to be, and truth be told, I was not born to it like Pompeius or Caesar.”
“Some wars,” I tried, “are won on foreign soil, some on the floor of the senate. No general is more accomplished on that bloody field than you.”
“That is as may be. But a long time has passed since I last traded a toga for the lorica of battle. I must be mad. Or senile. Can I do this? I must, if this contest is to become my salvation, and Caesar’s ruin.” Thunder mocked with brief applause over our heads.
The conscript fathers, their senatorial robes shaking with outrage, had chafed and brandished their fists in vain. Crassus had abandoned his consular duties and marched from the city at the head of one of the greatest war machines ever assembled by a single man. Unsanctioned by the senate, here was a rogue army to match any sponsored by the state. If the people’s coffers had not been opened to pay for this enterprise, how, you may ask, was it possible for Crassus to amass such a force? Before Publius left Rome for Gaul, he estimated that based on existing intelligence reports, three legions would have no difficulty subduing the backward desert dwellers of the Euphrates. “If three will do,”