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 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.”
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.