John Roberts - The Year of Confusion

The ambassador at that time was a Hellenized Jew named Isaac bar Isaac. He was a courtly man and he received me with great courtesy. His hair, beard and clothing were Greek. His Latin was excellent, with only the slightest accent.

“Senator, what a pleasure this is. Do you bring requests from Caesar? Caesar knows that my king is his friend and wishes to put his kingdom at Caesar’s disposal.”

This took me a bit off guard. “Eh? Why, no, I come on another matter entirely. Were you expecting requests from Caesar?”

“Certainly. Caesar will go to war with Parthia. It is only natural that he will wish aid from his ally, King Hyrcanus, in the form of ships, supplies, troops, and so forth, all of which my king is most anxious to provide.”

“Yes, it’s good to have friends like Hyrcanus,” I said. “I take it that he approves of this war?”

He made an eloquent gesture of hands and shoulders. “How not? Parthia is an expanding power and casts envious eyes on Judea. Phraates would very much like to have our fertile lands, our city of Jerusalem and especially our seaports.”

This was news to me but it sounded likely enough. I never heard of a king who thought he had enough land, and since all land is claimed, the only way to get it is to take it from your neighbors. We Romans have taken quite a bit of it that way, though we usually had a good excuse.

“I am sure that Caesar appreciates King Hyrcanus’s manifest friendship with Rome.”

“Excellent. Now, how may I be of help to you?”

“A few days ago I saw Archelaus, the envoy from Phraates, in your company at the house of Queen Cleopatra.”

“Ah, yes,” he sighed. “Both Egypt and Judea are allies of Rome, and Archelaus had hopes of convincing us to intercede with Caesar and avert the war that must come. The queen was most tactful, but she made it plain that Caesar’s will was her own, and that it was futile to expect Egypt to take a separate course.”

“At least she and King Hyrcanus have one thing in common,” I said.

He sighed again. “I do wish that this enmity did not lie between the two monarchs. Yet I must represent my king, and he refuses to recognize the legitimacy of Cleopatra’s claim to the throne of Egypt.”

“Caesar may wish to have a few words with your king concerning that matter.” I had some vague memory that Hyrcanus had supported the claim of one of Cleopatra’s sisters and the sister’s husband to the throne of Ptolemy, but I did not care to get entangled in the affairs of the benighted land of Egypt and its equally benighted neighbors. They might resent it, but most people were far better off just doing as Rome told them rather than trying to manage their own affairs.

“I was wondering,” I said, “if you might be able to tell me where Archelaus is staying here in Rome.”

“But of course. He has taken a house not far from here, just off the Forum Boarium, on the street called Harness Makers.”

I thanked him and took my leave. Like everyone else I had interviewed, Isaac had given me a lot to think about. The politics of the east had always been complicated, which was unsurprising since the place was full of easterners. Its great wealth was always a temptation to our greedy and overambitious politicians. Whatever turmoil was going on in Syria or Bithynia or Pontus or Egypt or Judea had a way of poisoning life in Rome as well.

I had a feeling that Caesar’s one-man rule was all that kept our more warlike senators from falling into civil war over who was to have Egypt or Parthia. The day was long past when Roman statesmen put the good of Rome as a whole ahead of personal gain. What might happen should Caesar die? Much as I disliked dictatorship, I shuddered at the thought of the anarchy that must follow its demise.

Harness Makers Street lay near the Temple of Janus. So near the Circus Maximus it was natural that the many crafts that served the races were concentrated in the district. There were builders of chariots, wheelwrights, makers of axle grease, brewers of horse liniment, artisans who made the souvenir figurines that race fans bought by the ton and, of course, harness makers.

Tanneries smell so foul that they are banned from the city, so working only fully tanned leather is permitted. Thus the street smelled wonderfully of that most fragrant of substances, and I found myself inhaling deeply as I passed the many shops where tanned hides were cunningly carved into long strips, then stitched and riveted into the many kinds of reins, control lines, breast bands, and cruppers required by the specialized sport of chariot racing.

The two outer horses on a four-horse team are not yoked and must be controlled by the complicated strapping system alone, a tremendously demanding skill and only the finest leather work will do. Newly dyed harness hung from tall drying-racks after being given the colors of the four racing factions.

Still other workers applied the gleaming brass ornamentation to the finished harnesses. In one shop I saw chariots that were little more than skeletons having the webwork of leather strips that form the front, sides, and floor applied to them. Racing chariots are kept as light as possible and are little more than a pair of wheels and an axle with a tiny platform for the charioteer to stand on. The front of the chariot comes no higher than the driver’s knees. To look at them, they seem so flimsy one wonders why they do not fly apart under the stresses of racing.

Yet I had seen Britons go into battle in chariots little more substantial, though they carried two men rather than one. In fact I never saw a chariot without feeling a twinge in my leg. I was once run over by a British chariot and had almost lost that leg. The fact that I still had it was due to the skills and exertions of Caesar’s personal surgeon, a man whose mastery was as great as that of Asklepiodes.

A few questions led me to a three-storied house with a facade painted a vivid yellow, which was a sensible precaution in this part of town. To paint your house red, blue, white, or green would be to declare allegiance to one of the factions and could lead to its being attacked in one of the occasional riots that erupted between the supporters of one color and another. Nonetheless, the ground floor wall was decorated with paintings of the races, not an uncommon motif in the area.

The doorkeeper announced me and soon the tall, saturnine Archelaus appeared. “Senator, welcome to my house.” He took my hands as if no enmity at all lay between our nations. Or, rather, between Rome and Parthia, since he was not of that nation himself. “Please, come with me.” Instead of going to the usual poolside, he led me up three flights of stairs to the roof of the house, which had been turned into a garden with flower boxes, planters, and small trees growing in big clay pots. The arbors overhead were bare, but it was a warm day for the time of year and it was a delightful place to converse. It had a fine view of the imposing northern face of the Circus.

We took chairs beautifully woven from wicker and paused while the usual delicacies were laid out and then did not talk of important things while we ate. He was a Roman citizen from a long-Hellenized part of the east, but I knew that he would follow the eastern practice of eschewing business until a guest has eaten. This was not a difficult habit to gratify, because he laid a table that was a combination of modesty and sumptuousness. Nothing was so bulky as to suggest a full meal, which would have its own set of rituals, but the ingredients of the small dishes were all of the highest quality. The hard-boiled eggs had been halved and the yolks combined with a paste of anchovies, olives, and vinegar and the broiled quail were stuffed with pine-nuts.

Replete, I produced an appreciative belch and set to business. “First, Archelaus, let me express my sympathy for your plight. That scene in the Senate the other day was uncalled for. It was also very unlike Caesar.”