A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven (32 page)

A short while later, Crassus reappeared, poking his head through the otherwise closed portiere.
Barefoot to ease his bunions, we did not hear his approach, though had he stomped through the hallway in his
caligae
the surprise would likely have been no less. “I neglected to tell you, Alexander,” he said, stifling a yawn. “In your absence, Lucius Curio will perform your duties as
atriensis
.

Chapter
XX

55 BCE   -   Fall, Brundisium

Year of the consulship of

Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

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. Seven sets of three throats to be slit to ensure the safety of each legion. 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. A positive result having thus been secured, the relief of the gathered thousands was no less genuine when, after the sacred birds had been released, 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 into battle, their armies would be blessed and protected; their god would not let them suffer defeat. Now Judea and its boxed god, their people rebellious and troublesome, squirm under the heel of Rome. Every army finds some pretty mystery on which to pin their hopes of victory:  success proves faith justified,
but defeat will not strip it away, for faith is impervious to calamity and disaster. Yet here they were:  seven blessed standards, and every soldier who saw them, even the skeptics, believed with all or some part of his heart that with them marching before us, we could not fail.

I dimly remember possessing this
glazed look of wonder as a child. When I grew to manhood, I discovered that one of three things was true:  either the gods had abandoned me, I was beneath their notice, or they did not exist. Soon the elegant proof of a boot in the back had me rethinking the lessons of childhood. The logic of starvation, when the most appetizing offering on the menu was a maggoty hunk of something that used to be bread, this evidence argued relentlessly for the reevaluation of the idea that someone above was keeping a lookout for me. The irrefutable theorem illustrated by men unafraid to meet your eyes as they beat you—these daily insults were better proof of the way of things than anything I had been taught as a child. They filed away at the chains of my reliance on the gods till they broke, and with almost no effort at all I was able to turn my back on them. Finding myself spiritually on my own was a revelation. I was alone, and better for it.

Unless everything has been taken from you and your soul scraped clean of the last stains of foolish dependence on help from above, you cannot imagine how freeing it is to
depend on nothing but your wits and the occasional bit of good luck. No, I put no stock in those seven eagles staring down upon us with cold metal eyes. I took far more comfort from Malchus’ sword arm, multiplied and compounded by thirty-eight thousand men with hard eyes and rigid discipline.

•••

I had arrived in the port city weeks ahead of the army, to meet with the priest, inspect the ships, inventory the cargo and smooth the way for our departure. I took quarters in the finest inn Brundisium had to offer, The Whistling Pilum. The name made me think of Livia, who was on the Via Appia at that moment, in all likelihood annoying one of the other healers with her tuneless tunes. I wished she was here to annoy me. When the engineers began arriving, they went right to work building a city of their own on the fields outside Brundisium’s walls. Hundreds of citizens poured from the port to watch, but were rebuffed when they offered to help. They were told they’d only be in the way, which was true, but feeling slighted, many returned to their tasks behind the walls.

•••

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. (As I have said, the warlike Hebrews marched into battle with but a single divine emblem of their invincibility; Roman history was rife with evidence that where one sacred symbol was good, hundreds 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, the grievous events at that meeting having
both 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
, brave Octavius, loyal Petronius, ursine Vargunteius, Antoninus, Ignatius, and the one remaining officer whose memory I dishonor by my shameful inability to remember his name.

G
iddy 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 to whose fate my own had been lashed. (Though ever since the night of our return from Baiae, the assistant who had become my replacement had succeeded in unnerving me on just that subject—decades of service and not even a private chat to break gently the calamitous news.)

As the general spoke, his
slow, careful 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.” The general waited for the light breeze of laughter to pass. “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 continued to speak, but his final words went unheard, buried in an avalanche of cheers.

When the uproar had died down, aided by the outstretched arms of the general, my master said, “Many of you veterans, if you are like me, have either misplaced or worn out much of your equipment. When you fought with Pompeius or Lucullus or Caesar, the army supplied your weapons, your shield and your helmet. Everything else, from your cook pot to your armor came from your pocket or your pay. Is it right that the man fighting next to you is better protected just because his purse is heavier than yours? No, it is not right, and in my army,
every
legionary will be as safe as I can make him.

“Centurions! See the posting outside the
quaestorium
for your appointment time. Cassius Longinus and his people will supply each legionary with freshly forged
lorica
hamata
, chain mail for
every
soldier!”

This time
dominus
had to wait even longer for the cheers to subside. “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.” Now Crassus’ voice rose in volume and authority with every sentence. “Does this look like a relief force?” The “NO!” that answered each question was a thunderclap. “Are you nursemaids for infants?” “NO!” “Will you be content to gaze at palm trees from the safety of a sleepy garrison?” “NO!” “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 keep 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,
a stunned Drusus Malchus hissed under his breath, “
Furina’s
feces!” He 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 that had suddenly forsaken him. 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 outbursts. He could be whipped for such an offense. 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.
Next to me, Flavius Salvius Betto clucked his disapproval. Crassus saved the moment by laughing along with his men. Betto clucked even louder, but with such lofty permission, the wave of fellowship 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 Crassus were an invisible shield he could not penetrate. Even with cradled helmet, Malchus 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 beckoned 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 the legionary were the winner of an Olympic wrestling contest. “Let Mars Invictus cause Parthian spears to fall as harmless splinters against our Roman shields!”