Other Alexander, The (27 page)

A Mixture of Madness

Book II of

The Bow of Heaven

On the fields to the east of Brundisium, before the troops prepared to board the ships, Crassus assembled the army. There he offered up many cleansed and garlanded sacrifices:  seven lambs, seven bulls and seven pigs. A city augur, proud of girth and unashamed of excess, possessed of such capacious jowls they’d have made a roomy pair of mittens, this practical priest had allowed his mouth to be stuffed with bribes too prodigious for a lesser man to swallow. What a completely expected relief came, after the sacred birds had been released, when the blessed father interpreted their flight as an auspice that our enterprise was looked upon favorably by the gods.

Crassus had had crafted seven of the most exquisite and opulent standards, taller and richer than any soldier had ever seen, crested with eagles of hammered silver and gold. The priest had blessed and anointed each with sacred oil. They were mounted in a row at the back of a raised reviewing stand, seven sanctified emblems that were the soul and strength of each legion. Beneath them, rustling gently in the slight breeze were many mounted, tasseled, purple
vexilla
, banners numbered with gold thread and images of wild animals, woven from the finest Tarentum lamb’s wool. Before these flags and standards stood the senior officers of the army, their helms and breastplates shining as brightly as the standards above their plumed heads.

It is said the Hebrews would march to war carrying a small cabinet containing stones marked by the hand of their god. With this gilded ark leading them to battle, their armies would be blessed and protected; their god would not let them suffer defeat. Judea and its god, rebellious and troublesome, now squirm under the heel of Rome. Every army finds some pretty mystery on which to pin their hopes of victory:  success proves faith justified; does defeat strip it away?

At a trumpeted signal from two dozen
cornicines
standing on a separate platform, men secreted among the 420 centuries raised thirteen foot tall standards stacked with bronze disks, silver wreaths and purple tassels that ended in a honed and oiled spear point, itself over eight inches long. (The warlike Hebrews marched into battle with but a single divine emblem of their invincibility; Roman history was rife with evidence that where one was good, hundreds of blessed symbols were better.)

As each decorated pole was offered humbly to every century’s standard bearer, the shout that went up from the troops created such a noise that within the city walls those that were not already watching the spectacle were joined by everyone else, bringing commerce, shipping and the entire city of Brundisium to a standstill.

As he mounted the wooden steps to the main dais, Crassus handed his plumed helmet to me and smiled. I marveled at the weight of it, but he seemed to wear his armor lightly. His eyes were alight as they had not been since before Luca, three years earlier, the grievous events at that meeting having darkened and narrowed his vision. He stepped crisply up to the raised wooden platform, his armor glowing dully under the overcast sky. The roar of the army escalated to madness as soon as his grey head could be seen climbing the steps. He took his time, greeting and complimenting his lieutenants, warmly grasping their forearms, each in his turn: Cassius Longinus, his quaestor, Octavius, Petronius, Vargunteius and the other legates.

I returned to my
contubernium
, giddy with the enormity of this spectacle. I imagined what it would feel like to don the general’s helmet, to wear, just for a moment, the trappings of a god. Until that moment, I suppose I had never truly understood the power of the man with whose fate my own had been lashed. As the general spoke, his words, having been memorized by the banner-bearers, were repeated loudly from where they stood so that all in the great multitude could hear. The timing was imperfect, creating eerie waves of words, cresting and falling in dissipating ripples.

“Have you ever seen a legionary weep?” Crassus shouted. “I don’t mean the man who has lost at knucklebones ten times running; that poor wretch has cause to cry. I speak of a soldier, battle-dressed, armed with
gladius
and
pilum
, brilliant in polished helm and painted
scutum
. No, not this man, trained, strong, deadly:  this is not a man who weeps. Yet today, your general stands before you, water welling in his eyes. Shall I tell you why? Because in my forty years of service to our people, I have seen and fought with many armies, but none such as this. The cohorts that blanket this field are the finest group of veterans that Rome has ever assembled! We are a Roman army - there is none finer in all the world! So, should my tears fall,” he shouted above the roar, “should my tears fall it is because I stand here, now, with you and for you, at the proudest moment of my life! And because you men of valor have chosen to stand here with me...,” Crassus said, but this last went unheard, buried in an avalanche of cheers.

“You all know we march to Syria. Do you think proconsul Gabinius is such a poor governor we must come to his rescue with such a force? Last I heard, Antioch still stood.” Crassus’ voice rose in volume and authority with every sentence. “Does this look life a relief force?” The “NO!” that answered each question was a thunderclap. “Are you baby sitters? Will you be content to gaze at palm trees from the safety of a sleepy garrison? Are you armed and girded for peace? NO! I know men on their way to WAR when I see them!” The cry of affirmation was deafening. I had to put my hands to my ears, almost dropping the general’s helmet.

Crassus waited and let his eyes sweep across his legions. “You must also know that the senate has withheld its blessing.” Boos and whistles swarmed like locusts. “The day
that
decision was made the senator’s
wives
must have gone to the
curia
while the men rummaged through their houses searching for their testicles!”

While he waited for the laughter to subside, Crassus looked down and scanned among the closest ranks, men of the first century of the first cohort. Then he looked up again and called out, “Would you like to know the secret of our invincibility?” He was departing from the script and the banner bearers were forced to kept up as best they could.

A legionary shouted, “We march for the First Man of Rome!”

“Gratitude,” Crassus said, pressing the cheers to silence with outstretched arms. “But our strength does not come from me, nor from any you see upon this platform. For the answer, I shall demonstrate. “You,” he said, pointing. “Leave your shield and ascend the rostrum.”

Behind me, my large and stunned tent-mate muttered under his breath, “You have got to be kidding me.” Drusus Malchus, a man I had known since my first days in the house of Crassus, broke rank and the safety of anonymity to join his general. Behind Crassus, the legates were smiling. The stair planks creaked as Malchus climbed, gripping the rough-hewn hand rail for the equilibrium he had suddenly misplaced. A large splinter speared his left hand and before his mind could stop his mouth he shouted, “
Fucking
son of a whore.” His brain reminded him where he was before he finished speaking so that the last word was more miserable whimper than curse. Face flushed with crimson, he let the long sliver remain rather than risk any more unmilitary gestures. He could be whipped for such an outbreak. If that was his fate, he’d have plenty of company:  those within earshot, and there were many, laughed out loud with as much lack of intention. It was hard to say who was more embarrassed.

To break the solemnity of such a moment was surely an ill omen. Crassus could not have that, so he saved them all by laughing along with them. With such lofty permission, the wave of amusement spread until Malchus had made the top of the stage. He came to parade rest several feet from the general, as if the aura surrounding him were palpable. Even with cradled helmet, he was still a full head taller than anyone on the dais and half again as broad. Yet pulled from his place in the ranks, the poor man looked like a gasping fish tossed up onto a hot beach; the sea of his brothers-in-arms just beyond reach.

“Do you need a medic, son?” More guffaws. Drusus shook his head spasmodically. “Let’s have a look then,” Crassus said, motioning him closer. There was a stirring of awe as their godlike leader took the legionary’s hand in his own. Crassus gave a crisp, hard yank and pulled the two-inch sliver from Malchus’ palm. There was a tumultuous cry as he held it aloft.

“Let this,” he shouted over the cheers, “let this be the first and last casualty of our campaign!” Crassus grabbed Malchus’ hand and as he finished his next sentence flung it aloft as if Malchus were the winner of an Olympic wrestling contest. “Let Mars Invictus cause Parthian spears to fall as harmless splinters against our Roman shields!”

By my side, Betto whispered with as much hope as sarcasm, “They’ll have to be very tiny Parthians.”

Crassus waited for the noise to die back down, allowing the men a good deal more license than he would once they were on the march. “Tell us your name,” he demanded. Then, under his breath, “You’re a good sport, Malchus. This will all be over in a moment and you can take cover.”

“Drusus Quintilius Malchus, sir.”

“Any women in your life, soldier?”

“Several, sir.” The requisite answer, which still got a laugh.

“Well then, Malchus, your sweethearts will want to hear about this day, but they’re not likely to take your word that you stood with your general before the entire army. Get some witnesses:  let them hear you back in the sixth cohort.”

“DRUSUS QUINTILIUS MALCHUS. SIR!”

“That’s more like it,” Crassus said, taking a step backward, his left arm extended to present the soldier to the army. “I give you Drusus Malchus, legionary:  first century, first cohort, first legion.” Thousands cheered and whistled, none louder than his contubernium mates. Our especially raucous praise was a mixture of pride and relief that the general’s pointing finger had come so close yet passed us by.

“Well, Malchus, I shall have to commend the cooks. You have obviously found no fault with the food.” My friend reddened and grinned, but kept silent, his inventory of replies having been exhausted by remembering and saying his name.

Now Crassus paced slowly across the stage as he spoke, tens of thousands of eyes following his every move. “Legionary Malchus achieved his status of rank through constant training and practice, expert sword and shield work, applied in the only furnace hot enough to temper his skills to the hardness of steel – the field of battle. I know this without asking because the same is true of every man in his century, I’ll wager in his legion. They could not have earned their posting otherwise. With whom did you serve, son?” he asked with a wink.

“With you, sir. Against Spartacus.”

“Like Malchus, most of you served under Pompeius, or Caesar or Lucullus. To face and engage the enemy, there is no substitute for this metal – forged with strength and rigorous training it is a most deadly alloy. And those of you whose sword points are as yet unblooded – know that every century is crammed with men of experience ready to guide you.”

Crassus walked to the edge of the platform. "Training, strength and experience. A most deadly triumvirate.” He pointed back toward giant Malchus, who flinched at the gesture. “Legionary Malchus has them all. Is this what makes us invincible?”

“Yes!” cried the multitude.

Crassus raised his arms as if to enfold the entire field. “You are my children, and as a father loves his sons, I swear by Jupiter, I love each and every one of you. And so, to keep you safe, I must answer ‘no.’ These things makes us deadly, but they are not what makes us unconquerable. Know that each day we march I will sacrifice to Mars Invictus so that when this war is over, we may
all
return to our beloved families and homes. Every one of your lives is precious to me; that is why you must heed me now and learn this lesson above all others. Those who have been tested know this truth, but all must share in the sacred secret of our indomitable strength.”

The silence that followed was stunning and strange amongst that throng, especially after the good-natured jesting and camaraderie. The general paused to let the stillness grip every man, then called out, “Legionary Drusus Malchus did not come to this field alone. Nor should he stand here, alone upon this stage. Bring his tent-mates forward.”

I panicked. Should I stay? I was not in uniform, not even a soldier. At last I caught Crassus’ eye and he gave me peace with a short shake of his head. “Lucky,” Betto said, edging past me. He and six other serious faces marched up the stairs, their joyous relief at not being singled out short-lived. “Come, come,” Crassus said, gesturing with his hand, “stand beside your worthy companion.” He spoke directly to the soldiers on the stage, but his voice was loud and carried far. “I will trouble you with no more questions, but speak plainly. When we bring the battle to the enemy, when
pila
are thrown and swords are bloodied, when ranks are closed and the press of bodies weigh upon your shields, remember for whom you fight.

"You do not fight for Rome."

"You do not fight for glory, or for riches."

"You do not fight for your centurions or your legates."

"And you do not fight for me.”

There were no looks of puzzlement from the legionaries on the stage, but two of the officers standing behind the general frowned and shifted uncomfortably. I would mention this to Crassus when the day was done.