A Mixture of Madness, Book II of The Bow of Heaven

by Levkoff, Andrew

  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!”

  By my side, Betto whispered, “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 we 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.”

  Malchus nodded gratefully. “Drusus Quintilius Malchus, sir.”

  “Any women in your life, soldier?”

  “Several, sir.” The requisite answer, which still got a laugh from those few who heard him.

  “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 and his legates before the entire army. Get some witnesses: let them hear you back in the sixth cohort of the seventh legion. Again!”

  “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 mate and best friend, Betto. His especially raucous praise was a mixture of pride and relief that the general’s pointing finger had come so close yet passed him 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 the rebel slave Spartacus.”

  “Of course you did,” Crassus said. “Like Malchus, most of you served under Pompeius, or Caesar or Lucullus or me. 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 st
rength.”

  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.”

  Betto 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 here.” 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, Ignatius and Antoninus, frowned and shifted uncomfortably.

  “Look at the men around you,” he continued. “Meet their eyes and take their measure. From this day forward, for as long as we march together, your tent-mates are your brothers. Your mother is Rome; she spat you from her womb to stand side-by-side with your brothers-in-arms. Fight for them. Protect them. When they stumble, you help them stand. When they tire, you give them encouragement. And when the enemy is but a gladius length away, you kill for them. Do this, and they will do the same for you.

  “You think you fight for fame or spoils? Do not let the play of your anticipation distract you from the work of your sword. You think you fight for your sweetheart or a child left behind? Your wives are far away, but your brothers are right beside you. Fight for them, and live! Fight for each other, and we will return to Rome with such treasure it will take a thousand mules to bear the weight of it!

  “I make this promise, witnessed by these officers: when we return victorious, laden with Parthian gold, a bonus of 5,000 denarii awaits every fighting man!”

  It started somewhere in the middle of the army but rapidly built to a crescendo, a single voice amplified thirty-thousand times: “Crassus! Crassus! CRASSUS! CRASSUS!”

  Chapter XXI

  55 BCE - Fall, Brundisium

  Year of the consulship of

  Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus Dives

  Clouds black and purple as bruises swelled over the busiest port of Calabria, the grand peninsula that jutted into the sea to form the northern arm of the Gulf of Tarentum. With lumpy, distorted faces these airy witnesses looked down with dismay on a harbor choked with over four hundred vessels: triremes, troop carriers, cavalry transports and cargo ships. Their masts swayed in the wind like the spiny back of the monster Cetus. No lightning could be seen, but thunder rolled, deep and ominous, over the 4,500 light infantry auxiliaries, 3,500 cavalry, 30,000 legionaries and an equal number of support and supply personnel all waiting for the order to sail. To a man they were wishing they were on dry land. Myself included. Thunder without lightning? And in November? The whispers spread throughout the fleet: could this be the curse of the tribune at work?

  Thirteen hundred miles due west, the empty Mesopotamian desert waited quietly, parched and alien beneath a vacant sky. This was the unimaginable home of Melyaket who, with an unrefined and ignorant vitality which more than likely rivaled that of his horse, had wasted his youth in any number of barbaric and unsavory pursuits. Now, after the expenditure of thousands of hours of preparation and millions of sesterces, my master was about to make good on his vow to close that prodigious gap in order to annex the country where the youth had gamboled: Parthia, the Eastern Empire, quiescent but grand, Rome’s rival for no other reason than it existed.

  As I worked to maintain my balance on that massive, lurching deck, I wondered if the rolling thunder were a harbinger announcing the end of my relative good fortune. The climb up years of servitude to stand at the side of one of the rulers of Rome seemed pointless now. What had I hoped to achieve? Now, my thoughts were only for those I could not see. How was little Felix faring without his mother? Was Hanno safe? Would Curio stay away from him? I needed to focus and somehow survive this perilous adventure. Then Livia and I must find some way to return to our family.

  I clung to the swaying main mast, a thick tower of wood slowly scribbling invisible messages on the heavy air, watching closely as Crassus struggled with the silver fibula that secured his cloak over his right shoulder. I would not offer help if none were needed. Transformed by his resplendent military attire, it was as if I were seeing him for the first time. Does what we wear express or hide our true character? Was Crassus more authentic in uniform or draped in his toga?

  The whipping wind put the simple task of fastening his cloak beyond him. Lips pressed into a line of concentration, he struggled against the heaving foredeck of his flagship, Scourge of Ctesiphon. The quinquereme was tied up at the very end of the breakwater so that it could lead the fleet; the sea here was growing alarmingly choppy. A covetous blast almost whipped his Tyrian purple lacerna out into the Adriatic, but the general retrieved his cloak when it became entangled in the rigging of the foremast. Now my assistance would not be perceived as insulting. I rushed from my post, and without a word between us, gently pushed the old man’s hands aside. I attached the fibula while the general held on to the unruly garment. Crassus, while offering no word of thanks, favored me with a fleeting and preoccupied smile.

  Something chewed at this incarnation of Roman perfection. The pieces were all present: grey hair cropped close, nose thin and jutting, jaw strong enough to lend dignity to any coin of the Republic. Curious that in his lifetime he minted but a few. The armor made him look older than his sixty years. Clothed for war with breastplate and helm, though custom-made to precisely gird his aging body, it seemed ill-fitted, more costume than the resplendent trappings of a consular general. I closed my eyes and imagined my lord in his toga, and instantly beheld a master of Rome. That cloth spoke so much more eloquently of his wealth, influence and authority than the plume and bronze and leather. Yet another more recent image elbowed its way into view. Could it be that it was neither the garb of war nor of politics that suited him best, but rather the comfort of his favorite house tunic, barefoot at home in his kitchen, wooden spoon poised to dip into whatever bubbling pot drew his fancy?

  Where was Livia?

  •••

  Turning his grey eyes downward, Crassus stared at the backs of his tanned, still strong hands as they gripped the railing. He blew air sharply through his nose—a self-mocking snort of laughter that sent his self-confidence tumbling away on that same breath. The clouds overhead bunched closer, darker, lower. “Crassus, you old fool,” he whispered so that I could barely hear him, “what are you doing here, when you could be soaking in a hot bath at Baiae, sipping honey wine? I am a play actor dressed for the wrong part.” Had I been speaking aloud? Had he read my thoughts? He adjusted his leather breastplate and ran his fingers over the gilded and embossed “muscles.”

  “I will employ her presents, Alexander, to bring the world to her feet. Look on’t,” he said, smiling. “We have not yet departed the Italian shore, and already her gift of armor has saved my life.”

  “I do not follow, dominus.”

  “If I’d been forced to wear my old uniforms, squeezing into them would have asphyxiated me long before we reached Syria. Sixteen years since I rode out against Spartacus, and at least as many pounds. I’m not the soldier I used to be, and truth be told, I was not born to it like Pompeius or Caesar.”

  “Some wars,” I tried, “are won on foreign soil, some on the floor of the senate. No general is more accomplished on that bloody field than you.”

  “That is as may be. But a l
ong time has passed since I last traded a toga for the lorica of battle. I must be mad. Or senile. Can I do this? I must, if this contest is to become my salvation, and Caesar’s ruin.” Thunder mocked with brief applause over our heads.

  The conscript fathers, their senatorial robes shaking with outrage, had chafed and brandished their fists in vain. Crassus had abandoned his consular duties and marched from the city at the head of one of the greatest war machines ever assembled by a single man. Unsanctioned by the senate, here was a rogue army to match any sponsored by the state. If the people’s coffers had not been opened to pay for this enterprise, how, you may ask, was it possible for Crassus to amass such a force? Before Publius left Rome for Gaul, he estimated that based on existing intelligence reports, three legions would have no difficulty subduing the backward desert dwellers of the Euphrates. “If three will do,” his father responded, “then let us add five to the two already billeted in Syria and thus make seven. Seven will do more, do it faster and do it more safely. And seven,” he said finally, “will impress upon the tribes of Mesopotamia that Rome has come to stay.” Crassus received not a single additional as from the senate or any other source. The entire enterprise was equipped, salaried and provisioned by the Croesus of Rome, Marcus Licinius Crassus.