The Death of Marcellus

by Dan Armstrong

  “What happens if we lay all three maps on top of each other?” Marcellus asked after studying them for quite some time.

  The maps were drawn on scrolls of papyrus. They were not transparent. Laying them on top of each other would only cover up the two below. But I understood what Marcellus was suggesting. “I’m not certain if that would work, sir, but I could sketch all the troop movements onto a single map. I could use colored ink so each set of movements stands out.”

  “Yes,” he said, “let’s try that.” He leaned in for a closer look. I noticed how he winced just to take two steps. “See this loop?” He pointed to the map describing Hannibal’s movements after Numistro. “Is that not similar to what we saw earlier this summer?” He pointed to the third map and ran his finger through another loop.

  “Somewhat, yes. But on the map tracking Hannibal’s movements prior to our encounter in Numistro, his path is completely different.”

  I feared Marcellus wanted to read too much into Hannibal’s movements. He wanted to be able to predict where Hannibal would be a week before he got there.

  “Maybe so.” He thought a moment. “Put the three maps together anyway. Something might be revealed that’s not immediately apparent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The flap to the tent lifted from the outside. Olcades ducked through the opening carrying a black bag. He was a petulant old man, perhaps five years Marcellus’ senior, skinny and angular, with a bald head and a thick white beard. He surveyed the tent. His small, deep-set eyes came to a stop on me. “Tell your slave to leave, General.”

  Marcellus shook his head. “He’s not my slave, and he’s got work to do.” He glanced at me. “He knows enough not to repeat anything he sees or hears in this tent.”

  The cranky old surgeon gave me a sour look. I bowed my head and pretended to return to my work.

  “Come over here then, General. Lie down on the divan.” Olcades stood back as Marcellus hobbled over to the couch. Only with difficulty could he lay down.

  Olcades pulled back Marcellus’ tunic, revealing a linen bandage that began below his knee and wound up to the top of his thigh. I could see dark stains in the linen from across the tent. It had been a month. I knew this wasn’t right.

  Olcades removed all the bandages. My eyes darted from my work to Marcellus. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard on the doctor.

  I heard Olcades curse. “You’re not going to like this, General, but I’ve got to clean this out. There’s an infection in the wound and it’s likely to get worse. You’ve half a chance to lose your leg.”

  “Do what you have to.”

  Olcades looked over his shoulder toward me. “I’m going to need an extra hand. What about this youth?”

  “Timon,” Marcellus said. “Come over here.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Get some hot water, son,” Olcades said. “And be quick.”

  When I returned with a bucket of steaming water, the doctor had removed all of Marcellus’ clothing. Marcellus’ upper body was covered with hair, and muscled like a bronze cuirass, but also crisscrossed with white streaks of bulby scars. The infected wound zigzagged down his thigh, coloring his leg purple from ankle to hip. The jagged gash, once sewn closed, was puffy and red, seeping with fluid at the sutures.

  Olcades looked at me, then Marcellus. “All I can figure, General, is whatever I used to stitch this closed before—and I was using anything I could find that night after the battle—is being rejected by your body.” He shook his bald head. “I’ve got to pull all the stitches out and replace them with clean linen thread.” He scowled at the ugly mess. “With the extent of this infection, the replacement of the stitches will hurt so badly you’ll wish you were dead.”

  Marcellus stared the old man down.

  Olcades nodded. “All right. If this doesn’t work, I’m cutting the leg off and replacing it with a javelin spike.”

  “Fair warning,” muttered Marcellus.

  I held Marcellus’ ankle with both hands while Olcades used a tiny set of bronze scissors to clip each stitch. With a matching set of tweezers, he pulled the stitches out, some with considerable resistance, some slipping out easily, greased in ooze. Marcellus had so little reaction he may as well have been made of stone.

  The restitching of the damaged flesh went slowly and with considerably more anguish to Marcellus—and to me as I watched. Olcades used his fingertips to push at the most swollen areas, squeezing out great gobs of yellow puss. At times, when Olcades drew the thread through the skin, the purple flesh ripped, leaving the stitch useless and needing to be redone. The going was rough.

  When Olcades was finally done, he gave Marcellus a cup of wine. “No promises, General. I did what I could. We’ll give it a few days before making any final decisions. Until then, for the gods’ sake, don’t try to walk.”

  Marcellus gritted his teeth and said nothing.

  Olcades shook his head, then broke the Roman general’s crutch before leaving.

  CHAPTER 69

  Apparently our Greek surgeon knew what he was doing. Marcellus’ leg improved, albeit slowly. Determined to conceal the seriousness of the injury from the other officers, including his son, Marcellus secluded himself in the headquarters’ tent. At night, after all but the soldiers on guard duty had gone to sleep, he would hobble through the camp with a newly-fashioned crutch, doing his best to exercise the leg, far from ready to resume the campaign.

  Had Marcellus been healthy, he might have pushed on after Hannibal, but the possibility of losing his leg was sobering enough to put his desires on hold. In many ways, this was just as well. Marcellus’ wound was only one among hundreds to become infected and need more time to heal. To make matters worse, dysentery had spread through the camp.

  I spent part of every day in headquarters working on the maps. I had redrawn several of them and was nearly done with the one that served as a history of Hannibal’s movements in Apulia. Though Marcellus became increasingly convinced that patterns were emerging, I saw only one—that Hannibal was impossible to predict.

  We received reports from Rome and from Tarentum throughout our stay in Venusia. Hannibal, it seemed, roamed freely in Bruttium, while the three Roman armies stayed still. Fabius held Tarentum. Fulvius monitored travel on the Appian Way, and we were too damaged to travel.

  What most disturbed Marcellus was Hannibal’s mobility. It suggested that the encounter in Asculum had been harder on us than them. Marcellus had claimed a victory for that last day of combat, but to call the sum of those three days a draw now seemed clearly inaccurate.

  The inactivity got to the soldiers. The regular training rotations were maintained, but these repetitive exercises were tedious and frustration in the camp mounted. Fights over trivialities broke out between soldiers every day. Complaints were nonstop.

  One night, sitting around the campfire, Pulcher suddenly launched into a rant against Marcellus. “Why are we still here? Are we soldiers or nursemaids? If we’re going to fight, let’s fight. If not, then Marcellus should let us go home. I have a farm to attend to.”

  Marcus came out of the darkness into the light of our campfire. Pulcher got up, spat on the embers, then muttered, “Must be time for another tutoring session.”

  Marcus watched him walk away, then knelt down between Gnaeus and Troglius. Decius spoke. “Tribune, any chance you’re bringing news of breaking camp?”

  Marcus knew how the soldiers felt. He shook his head slowly. “Not tonight, soldier. No decision has been made.”

  Decius was capable of sarcasm, but Marcus was just as tired of Venusia as everyone else. His patience had grown short and it seemed Decius could feel it. He kept his comments to himself.

  Marcus looked at me. “Tiberius Sempronius is dead,” he said. “Thought you might like to know.”

  The news caught me off guard.

  “Up north. Fighting the Insubres,” continued Marcus. “More than a month ago.”

  I looked at the others, not sure
how to respond with them there.

  Marcus seemed to read my mind. “The wedding will be moved back to the spring.”

  “Is that your wedding, sir?” Gnaeus asked, polite, nothing untoward in his voice.

  “Yes, to a woman I’ve never met.” The firelight flashed across his face, revealing a reluctant smile beneath his beard.

  “For a man like you that must be a big deal.”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes, a very big deal.” His eyes traveled to mine, then to the others. “But just like all of you, I’d rather get on with this war. How about you, Troglius?”

  Troglius looked at me for an answer, then mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “What a surprise,” said Decius. “Troglius would rather be fighting.”

  Everyone laughed, but with respect. This misshapen man of few words came to life in the heat of battle and everyone knew it.

  Marcus stood. “Just wanted to give you that update, Timon. Sorry if I’ve interrupted.”

  “No, no,” said Gnaeus. “Just us grunts taking in the best part of the day. Congratulations on the upcoming wedding. I’ve got a wonderful family. Can’t wait to see them.”

  All of us knew Gnaeus was lying. He constantly complained about his nagging wife and bratty children. He might have been the only one who preferred winter camp to going home.

  “It shouldn’t be too long,” said Marcus. “The summer is coming to an end.” He turned and walked off into the darkness.

  Decius waited until Marcus was out of earshot. “What’s all this to you, Greek?”

  “I tutor Tiberius’ daughter.” Her face appeared in my mind. “The tribune’s future wife.”

  “Boy oh boy, that’s some luck,” chuckled Decius. “What’s the girl like? You get to diddle her?”

  “Her father just died, Decius. Don’t insult her.”

  Decius laughed at me. “Did she squeal?”

  “Stop!” I demanded, rising to my feet.

  Decius also stood. He moved up close to me, pushing his face into mine. “Did she squeal, Greek? Did she? Was she sweet? Did she stink? How was it?”

  I aimed a punch at Decius’ chin. He caught my fist in his hand and grinned. “Oh my, the Greek wants to fight.” He twisted my arm around my back and shoved to me the ground. When I sat up, he stepped up to kick me.

  Troglius reached out with his long arm and grabbed Decius’ leg by the ankle and held it, leaving Decius balanced on one foot. Troglius gave the leg a twist. Decius fell sideways into the campfire. He yowled and rolled across the ground to put out the embers stuck to his backside.

  Troglius climbed to his feet and stood over Decius. “Bully my friend again and I’ll kill you.”

  I was aghast. Decius even more so. Troglius reached over and gave me a hand up.

  I stood and dusted myself off.

  “Apologize,” Troglius said, glaring at Decius still on the ground.

  The commotion had attracted the attention of other soldiers nearby. Ten or fifteen men were suddenly watching. Decius looked around, his grin gone, his eyes dark but wary of the monster Troglius. “I’m sure the tribune’s future wife is a virgin,” he muttered. “I’m sure she’s the finest woman in Rome.”

  Troglius looked at me. I nodded.

  Later that night, Marcellus hobbled through the camp to exercise his leg. When he reached the camp’s back gate, both guards were asleep. Marcellus immediately had them arrested and placed in irons.

  The next morning at dawn, Marcellus stood the two men in front of the entire army. They had put everyone at risk by sleeping on watch. Only cowardice in battle or outright betrayal were worse military crimes than dereliction of duty. There was no trial. As camp commander, Marcellus needed no council to render judgment.

  Marcellus stated the soldiers’ crime and ordered a bastinado as punishment. The members of the guards’ cohort were called forward. They formed two parallel lines of approximately two hundred and fifty soldiers each. The guilty men were ordered to walk in between. While the rest of the army watched, the two men took off at a run between the lines. Both were immediately tripped, then kicked. They struggled to their feet only to be punched and tripped and kicked again. Neither reached the end of the gauntlet alive. Their bodies were left out in the woods for the animals.

  CHAPTER 70

  Discontent with the long stay in Venusia was not universal. Some soldiers hungered for battle; some were just as happy to stay out of harm’s way. The officers, particularly the young commanders, had strong feelings that they expressed to each other, but none of them had confronted Marcellus with their frustration during the first month in Venusia. As that month stretched into six weeks, however, these officers whose careers depended on the laurels of war began to speak their minds.

  I was taking notes one night when the issue came up in headquarters. Standing across the map table from Marcellus were Nero and Purpurio, the most impatient of the officers. Also there were Lentulus, Asellus, wearing a sling, Marcus, and Gaius Flavus. Two oil lamps supplied just enough light to show the details of the map before them.

  Marcellus had one hand on the table, subtly managing to keep weight off his damaged leg. He had been reviewing the latest reports from Fabius and Fulvius. He concluded by saying, “Fabius remains in Tarentum and Fulvius is patrolling Lucania.” He pointed to a spot south of Numistro. “This is where Hannibal and his troops were last seen. That was two days ago.”

  Nero, who had appeared agitated throughout Marcellus’ review, made an observation. “Judging by the markers on this map, sir, we have six legions in southern Italy. And Hannibal, it seems, is foraging freely in the area between them.” He drew a circle with his finger in the triangle formed by the cities Venusia, Tarentum, and Volceii. Hannibal’s marker sat in the center of the circle. “We spoke all spring about pinning Hannibal in the south—which we have. But it’s only September. We still have time to engage him. Why stay in Venusia any longer? I understood when we were told the men needed time to heal. But enough time has passed. Why not converge on him right now?”

  Throughout the campaign Marcellus’ word had been taken as law. Nero and Purpurio commonly expressed their opinions in the briefings, Nero often with passion, and Asellus invariably advised Marcellus on equestrian tactics. But Marcellus kept tight control and could be quite severe when challenged. And yet, what Nero suggested was exactly what Marcellus would have been doing if not for the injury to his leg—an injury that out of pride he had decided to keep secret. You could hear the strain in his voice. “Fabius and Fulvius are the co-consuls. They are managing the war. I am under their orders.”

  “But they aren’t doing anything.” Nero said.

  Marcellus stared down at the map. The role of invalid didn’t play well with him.

  “If this means there’s no possibility of combat for the rest of this campaign, General,” continued Nero, “I suggest that you let the allied troops return to their homes. I’m sure my men will be considerably more amenable to recruitment next spring if they don’t have to tell their wives they spent the last three months of the summer training.”

  Marcellus didn’t look up. “That will be all.”

  Nero wasn’t finished. “If we’re not leaving, then why not assemble one healthy legion from what we have here. I’ll take the command if necessary and join up with Fulvius. We can force Hannibal to take on three legions.”

  Marcellus continued to stare straight down, as though he saw through to the underworld. He slowly looked up into Nero’s face. “Hannibal is mine,” he said with such intensity it startled everyone in the tent. “No one goes after Hannibal until I say so. When that time comes, you’ll be the first to know. That will be all.” He turned and walked away from the other men.

  Marcellus, the high-minded soldier, the stone-faced stoic, had revealed the depth of his ambition. It wasn’t surprising to anyone, but he had never said it so boldly. He wanted Hannibal for his own, for the glory. I caught Marcus’ worried look as the officers filed out of the tent.r />
  PART V

  CRITICISM IN ROME

  “In accordance with the books of fate, some unusual sacrifices were made after the horrible defeat at Cannae: one of which consisted of the live burial in the cattle market of a Gallic man and woman and a Greek man and woman, in a place walled in with stone which even before this time had been defiled with human victims.”

  -Livy, The War with Hannibal

  CHAPTER 71

  Olcades gave Marcellus permission to travel at the end of October. It had taken three months for his leg to heal to the point that he could walk without a crutch and ride with a minimum of pain. Although his seclusion had become a topic of gossip among the soldiers, only Olcades and I knew what Marcellus had been through.

  Marcellus, Marcus, and I returned to Rome with the Eighteenth legion the first week of November. The Twentieth legion remained in Venusia with the Venusian allied troops for the winter. The levies from Brundisium returned to their homes.

  Despite our heavy casualties, the summer campaign as a whole had been successful. Tarentum was now under Roman control, as were several other Carthaginian strongholds. Our legion received an enthusiastic welcome as we marched up the Appian Way, but the hottest topic in Rome when we arrived was Cornelius Scipio.

  The same age as Marcus, Scipio was the youngest general in the Roman military. His popularity was fast approaching Marcellus’. The sensation that Marcellus had inspired returning from Syracuse was nothing compared to the praise showered on Scipio on his return from Spain. It foreshadowed a changing of the guard in Rome. In the next two years, men like Fabius, Manlius Torquatus, Quintus Fulvius, and Marcellus would give way to younger men like Scipio and Claudius Nero.