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.”
“Are you married, soldier?”
“Ten years, sir.”
“Well then, Malchus, your wife will want to hear about this, but she's not likely to take your word for it. 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.
“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. 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 for 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 your wife? 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 1,000 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!”
###
Table of Contents
Preface
Prolog
Part I: Slave to Master
Part II: Master to Slave
Epilog
Glossary
The Bow of Heaven, Book II: Nemesis (excerpt)
The Bow of Heaven - Book I: The Other Alexander Page 28