The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  “Tell your men to expect more of the same,” replied Marcellus. “Anything else?”

  “We risk demoralizing the soldiers if we don’t engage him,” continued Purpurio. “Too much of this stop and go undermines the spirit of the men. We had opportunities last summer that we didn’t take advantage of.”

  “It’s not an opportunity, General, if the adversary has crafted the circumstances to his advantage.”

  Purpurio shook his head in disagreement. “If we don’t force it, it won’t happen.”

  Marcellus looked straight at the man. “If we force it, we may lose the entire army. That’s something all of you have to understand. There’s a larger strategy to the war than answering to the frustrations of impatient soldiers. If all we do is keep Hannibal off Fabius’ back, and Tarentum falls, it will be a successful campaign.”

  “For Fabius,” snapped Purpurio.

  “For Rome, General. You think too much of yourself. I don’t deny the difficulty of what we must do. No one wants Hannibal more than I, but being foolhardy only makes one a fool.”

  “What of Hasdrubal, sir?” asked Lentulus.

  “If the reports from Spain can be trusted, he will enter Italy from the north sometime this summer. This is likely to make Hannibal even more reluctant to engage early on. He’s stretched thin as it is. I expect him to remain on the defensive until his brother’s arrival. All of you, gather your wits. This campaign is likely to be even more trying than the last. Anything else?”

  Purpurio’s dark eyes darted from side to side, but he said nothing. Marcellus turned away, signaling the end of the meeting.

  On exiting the tent, Marcus suddenly embraced me like a brother. It was my first chance to talk to him since arriving, and though it was dark, we left the camp and walked in a light rain.

  “Were you able to manage Rome without me?” Marcus asked with a laugh.

  I immediately thought of the discovery about my mother, but I had decided to keep that secret—yet another secret! Sempronia was next on my mind. I didn’t want to reveal how important she had become to me by blurting it out, so I rambled on about incidents of little importance at the farm, the party that his parents hosted, and the story of the Vestals and their brothers. Then I told him what he most wanted to hear.

  “Your mother set up the tutoring for Sempronia.” I hoped the dark of night would hide any emotion I might show. “I have given her three lessons.”

  “Tell me about her. And please not that she looks like a cow.”

  “She’s a beautiful young woman,” I said. “With blonde hair and a smile to delight any man.” Even as I said these words, I thought of Fulvia striding across the atrium in the moonlight. “But most of all, Marcus, she’s smart. She took to the geometry as easily as breathing. Nothing I did in Rome was as enjoyable as teaching her geometry in the same way my father taught me.”

  “It sounds like she made quite an impression on you.” Marcus gave me a little nudge in the ribs.

  “Yes, she did, very much. Consider yourself lucky, Marcus. I doubt there’s a better match for you in all of Rome.”

  He hadn’t shaved since I had last seen him. Even his full beard couldn’t hide his pleasure. “And we will be married in December. Maybe now I can sleep knowing there’s no cow waiting for me in the stable.”

  “Or maybe you won’t sleep at all, knowing a beautiful woman sits in Rome waiting to be your wife.”

  “Did she ask about me?”

  “Yes. I told her you were the one who’d initiated her tutoring. That seemed to please her.”

  Marcus nodded. “I must thank you, Timon. I asked you to do something that I couldn’t have asked anyone else. That your report is so favorable has filled me with joy. It means I won’t have to go into battle this summer hoping to give my life in glory to avoid a marriage.”

  “Then thank your gods, my friend. I do believe Sempronia will prove a good wife for you. By the way, we had the wrong house. You said it was the third house on the right. It was the fourth.”

  “My apologies. I should have double-checked.”

  The rain became heavier and we headed back to the camp. On the way I asked Marcus about the leather pouch.

  “Do you recall my telling you that I’d lost the crystal lens? That the pouch I wore around my neck was missing when I woke up the day your father and I left for Rome?”

  “I do remember. Did you find it?”

  “No, but I believe it must still be in the camp. You haven’t heard anything?”

  “I haven’t. But I haven’t been actively asking either. I’m sorry.”

  I shook my head sadly. Marcus had been my last hope. I left him at the gate and headed to my tent to get out of the rain.

  Nothing had changed in the camp since I had left. Even if the army had moved twice, I could have located my tent. The only difference were the additional men Marcellus had brought from Rome. Not surprisingly, two new faces greeted me when I slipped into the tent. A tiny oil lamp provided just enough light to see everyone.

  Pulcher was lying down. He sat up and greeted me with his usual sarcasm. “Oh, the Greek is back.” He put a finger to one side of his nose and blew phlegm out the other. “I hope you had a nice time in Rome.”

  Everyone in camp, except Gnaeus, would have loved to have gone back to Rome with Marcellus. They had families, and farms to tend. Remaining in Venusia through the winter was something short of a stay in prison to most.

  A young man sitting on his bedroll extended his hand. “The name is Titus. I just came from Rome. I recognize you from the march.”

  “I’m Timon, the scribe for this cohort. Nice to meet you.”

  A second fellow, also very young, spread his blankets on the ground, then turned to face me. “Horatius,” he said. “I’m part of the new cohort also. Titus and I are brothers—on our first campaign.”

  “We’re twins,” said Titus, clarifying what would have been obvious in better light.

  “Oh, how sweet,” mocked Pulcher. “Our new babies.” He scowled at all of us. “Don’t forget we’re here to fight a war. A difficult spring and summer lie ahead. Get used to pain and having parts of your body sliced up or bruised. Get used to seeing dead bodies. Half of us won’t be alive when and if we return to Rome in the fall. This is brutal work and our success depends on maintaining order amid chaos. Remember that.” He lay down and closed his eyes.

  Troglius was stretched out on his back in bed. When I opened my bedroll beside him, he turned to face me.

  “Hello, Troglius. How has the legion managed without me?” I should have known not to try humor with Troglius.

  He stared at me a moment, then spoke. “We managed just as we always do, but I’m glad you’re back anyway.” He turned over to go to sleep.

  His comment made me smile. I felt no pleasure returning to Statorius’ command, but seeing Troglius warmed me like seeing an old friend. This thought gave me pause. I recalled Caelius’ silly riddle: You will find it in the least likely place it could possibly be—in the hand of a friend you might never see. I shook the idea out of my head, doused the lamp, and lay down for some much needed sleep.

  CHAPTER 59

  Some part of the army drilled every day regardless of the weather. The basic exercises followed a four-day pattern that each cohort did in rotation. The first day was endurance. The men would march three miles at double time in full armor, take a short break, then do it again. The second day was assigned to polishing the armor and equipment repair. The third day was idle. The fourth was sword fighting and javelin throwing. The sword fighting was done at full force in full armor but with wooden swords. On the fifth day, it was back to double time marches.

  Mixed in with these basic exercises, twice a week the entire army trained as a unit. On these days, battle movements, like the transition of the second line to the first line, were practiced until they were done perfectly. Marcellus pushed the men hard When he saw something he didn’t like, it was repeated until done correctly.
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  While the soldiers trained, I focused on my map of the Italian peninsula. On several occasions I went out on horseback with Statorius and five other men from our maniple to survey the land and chart each hill and valley within reasonable riding distance. Little by little, I was improving the map in accuracy and detail.

  The soldiers spent very little time in their tents, other than sleeping. The quarters were tight, and if it wasn’t particularly cold or raining, the soldiers were outside. On a campaign they retired to their tents and went to bed as soon as it was dark. In the winter, if the day’s work had been light, some of the men would sit around the fire after the meal to talk and tell stories before turning in. After I had become more comfortable with Pulcher’s crude manner and the periodic harassment from Statorius, I enjoyed this time of day the most, particularly since the arrival of Titus and Horatius.

  The twins were younger than I was by a year. They should have been velites but need put them in our maniple. Pulcher rode them constantly, hoping to turn “these babies,” as he called them, into hastati. Our being common targets for the sub-centurion drew us together as friends.

  One cold evening, several weeks after my return from Rome, I decided to show off what I had learned in Syracuse during my time working in Hektor’s kitchen. The twins made a fire, and as soon as it got going, I asked Gnaeus and Seppuis, who did most of our cooking, if I could make the meal that night.

  “Go ahead, Greek,” said Gnaeus. “I doubt you can come up with anything worse than what Seppius cooks up.”

  I had been thinking about this for a couple of days and had already made the effort to get some eggs from the camp’s chicken coop and a half-jug of goat’s milk. I collected two pounds of wheat from our collective rations and washed it thoroughly, rubbing the husks off, and rinsing it well. I put the wheat in an iron cauldron half-filled with water and hung it over the fire on a brass tripod. After the wheat had softened, little by little I added the goat’s milk until I had a thick porridge. Then I cracked eight eggs into the cauldron, added three fat dollops of honey, and stirred it all in. I let it simmer on the fire until my tentmates began to complain that I was taking too long. I gave it a taste. Hektor could not have done better. “Time to eat!”

  Seven hungry faces pressed in close to the cauldron to get a glimpse of what I had stewed up. Each soldier had his own bowl and spoon. One by one they ladled themselves a bowl and sat down around the fire.

  Pulcher, who always served himself first, took one hesitating taste from his spoon, then a mouthful. “Hey, this is good, Greek. Maybe we’ve finally found a use for you other than drawing in the dirt.”

  Pulcher’s appraisal proved universal. “The best I’ve ever had,” said Horatius. His brother echoed the same.

  Gnaeus swallowed three spoonfuls before condemning his own cooking. “I think I’ve lost a job,” he said with a big smile, surrounded by a porridge-coated beard. “Anytime you feel so moved, Greek.”

  Seppius needed only one spoonful. He reached over and patted me on the back. “Could it be I’ll be looking forward to eating again?”

  Decius said nothing. That amounted to a compliment from him. Troglius put down his spoon and simply poured the porridge into his mouth, drooling it down his face and the front of his tunic. Then he refilled his bowl.

  The porridge contributed to an unusually good mood that night, causing everyone to remain around the fire, trying to stay warm, not quite ready to go to bed. The camp was quiet, and other clusters of men sat around campfires all the way down the line of tents. A piccolo tune from across the camp carried in the evening breeze.

  “Did I hear that you make maps, Timon?” asked Titus, who was identical to his brother except for his deformed right ear. The top third of it was bent out at a right angle from his head. With their helmets on, I couldn’t tell the brothers apart.

  “That’s one of my jobs,” I replied. “It’s a lot of work.”

  Pulcher laughed out loud. “This porridge might be good, Greek, but what you do isn’t work.”

  I had learned not to disagree with Pulcher and let it go.

  “How can you possibly know the shape of a piece of land the size of Italy?” asked Horatius. “How can you draw something that’s too big to see all at once?”

  “I use geometry.” I lowered my voice so as not to invoke the wisdom of our sub-centurion. “I make measurements directly from the land and then use the concepts of geometry to translate them proportionally onto a map.”

  “Proportionally? That sounds like Greek to me,” snorted Pulcher, his face all the more ugly when lit from below by the fire.

  “What’s that mean?” Gnaeus’ question gathered Troglius’ attention, and he leaned into our conversation.

  “Do you know what half a distance would be?” I asked.

  Troglius looked to the twins. Decius answered with a grin. “Yes, half a distance is like half a glass of wine. It takes two of them to make a whole.”

  “Exactly, and for a third—it takes three to make a whole.” I pulled an unburned stick of kindling from the edge of the fire and used it to draw in the ashes. “This shape is called a triangle,” I said. “Because it has three sides.”

  Decius nodded. Pulcher stood up and walked away. The others’ blank faces suggested the worst.

  “Now if I divide each side in half.” I made a mark in the middle of each of the three sides. “And use my fingers as a means of copying this distance.” I extended my forefinger and thumb like the arms of a compass to measure the length of half of one side. “And make a second triangle, one side at a time.” I touched my finger then my thumb in the ashes and drew a line from one spot to the other. “The second triangle will be identical to the first except proportionately smaller by half. It’s half the size.”

  Decius seemed to be following me. The others appeared to be entertained just watching me draw in the ashes. I went on. “Imagine that instead of half the size, it was a tenth, or a hundredth. I could reduce the size of something very large, like all of Italy, proportionally, so that it could fit on the top of a table as a map. That is, I make measurements directly from the land, then reduce them all by the same amount—by the same proportion—to reproduce the actual shape and layout of whatever region I want to map—smaller, but identical.”

  I had gone too far. All the eyes before me had glazed over. Decius got up and went into the tent. Troglius reached out with his finger and drew a circle in the ashes. “What’s this called?”

  “A damn circle, you fool,” slammed Pulcher, who had stepped out of the shadows up close to the campfire.

  Troglius looked up at me, his face blank with question.

  “That’s right, a circle,” I said. And at that moment I saw it—the slightest portion of what appeared to be a leather thong around Troglius’ neck. My heart began to pound.

  All of a sudden everyone headed into the tent. Apparently my geometry lesson had put everyone to sleep—except me. I lay in bed awake much of the night thinking about what might be around Troglius’ neck. If it were the pouch containing the lenses, I would have to be tactful when asking about it. I didn’t want to endanger my friendship with Troglius.

  CHAPTER 60

  I paid close attention to Troglius when he rolled out of bed the next morning, trying to see what hung around his neck. We slept fully dressed, and the lighting in the tent was bad. I saw nothing.

  Eating breakfast around the campfire as the sun came up, however, I definitely saw a bulge. Something was hanging on the thong beneath his tunic.

  I watched him again that night, verifying what I had seen before. I wanted to ask him about it, but I didn’t have the chance. We shared meals with the others in our unit, but to ask Troglius the necessary question, and to ask it with care, I needed to be alone with him. Another week passed before I got that opportunity.

  It was the day our cohort worked on equipment. The calf-skin that covered Troglius’ scutum had been torn. He knelt on one knee outside our tent tugging on th
e hide, trying to stretch it so that it could be stitched back together.

  I sat down across from him to watch him work.

  “Troglius,” I said. “Do you remember the crystal lens that you helped me find after the battle outside Numistro?”

  His two misaligned eyes met mine in separate darting glances.

  “I lost it and the pouch that I kept it in. I think I might have lost it in the tent just before I left for Rome. Is there any chance you might have found it?”

  Troglius shifted his weight to his other knee. He seemed built on a different scale than I was—or really just about anyone. His head was large and misshapen, block-like, almost square. His tiny eyes, set wide apart, rose to mine individually, then seemed to come together. “I borrowed it.”

  “Oh, you did?”

  “I took the pouch off your neck while you were asleep. I didn’t know you were leaving the next morning. I had planned to return it the next night while you were asleep.”

  Instead of delving his reason for not asking me first, I nodded my head. “Do you still have it?”

  He lifted the thong from around his neck. “The lens didn’t work for me,” he said, drawing out the pouch beneath his tunic.

  “What do you mean? Did you have some specific need for it?”

  Troglius gripped the pouch in one hand and stared at the ground to his left and right, clearly not wanting to face me.

  “It’s fine, Troglius. I’m just curious.”

  He continued to stare at the ground with such sullenness I wondered if he might have lost one of the lenses.

  Without looking up, he extended his hand, the pouch in his palm. Trying not to reveal the extent of my anxiety, I accepted the pouch and took a quick peek inside. Both lenses were there, neither chipped nor cracked.

  I had been holding my breath since bringing up the subject. I had never expected to see the lenses again, especially after that crazy night in the Community of Miracles. I took a deep breath. “Thank you. I’m sorry it didn’t work for you.”