A dozen soldiers from other units were loitering in front of the log buildings the army had thrown up in the fields around Perinthus. More were coming and Alexandros wanted everyone to see what happened. By the time he reached the head of the first line of men, at least two-dozen curious onlookers were watching.
"Soldier," he growled, "show me your bow."
The lead man-a senior noncommissioned officer, what the Western army would call an optimate-held out a long, curved bow in stiff hands. Alexandros took the weapon, and ran a hand along the smooth upper limb, tracing the S-curve and digging the corner of a nail into the thin lines of glue holding the bone and willow laminate together.
The weapon was modeled on the Hunnic horse bow, but heavier and faster to produce. The "Alexandrine" bow was not designed for use from horseback, but rather while standing in serried ranks. The Macedonian knew, from stolen books, a trained man could loose six shafts within a minute's time. An arrow flung from this recurved bow, driven by a strong man's shoulder and arm, could punch straight through the heavy pine laminate shields favored by the Legions or even the overlapping iron armor of the Persian or Roman heavy horse. Alexandros imagined a battle line of nearly a thousand Peltasts supporting his main body of pikemen. Arranged in three or four ranks, the Peltasts fill the air with an unceasing, constant rain of arrows. Should an enemy cavalry charge manage to break through the arrow storm, they would face the hoplites and their eighteen-foot spears, also arrayed in ranks.
Alexandros knew, from long experience, the phalanx was unbreakable if composed of disciplined, veteran, properly trained men. He was also sadly aware a gulf of nearly seven hundred years separated him from the last true phalanx army. Rome had eclipsed the Greek city-states and their armies of hoplites. This little army was a ghost of the power he once employed. Still, he would do what he could with the time and materials at hand.
He finished his inspection of the bow. The glue and laminate seemed sound. The centurion's sword was well oiled and free from rust. Alexandros grunted, gave the man his weapons back, then moved on to the next soldier in line. This time, as he bent the bow in his hands, he heard a creaking sound, and-sure enough-the laminate was cracking, warped by moisture. Alexandros made no comment, returning the shaking, pale-faced soldier his weapon. So he went along the lines of men, testing each bow with his own hands, examining their armor, sword and dagger. Some men carried axes or maces as well, and these weapons were also subjected to a close scrutiny.
"You men," he shouted, at last, when he stood before them, "are soldiers in the army of the Republic of Rome. You have sworn oaths to the Emperor, to serve faithfully, to stand your ground, to obey the orders of your superior officers."
The sun had climbed far into the sky, and the day was hot and very humid. Standing at inspection, in their mailed shirts and leather bracings, the men sweated furiously and some looked rather wilted. Alexandros, himself, did not feel the burning sun and many of his men had remarked, quietly, and only to close companions, the general seemed tireless and it was widely known he rarely slept.
"You are not children," Alexandros barked, cold voice ringing in their ears. "More than half of your weapons are useless, pitted with rust or split in this damp climate. Your armor is likewise rusted, with loose or rotted straps. You have failed to follow my direct orders: that each man's kit be spotless, that his arms and armor be kept in readiness, clean and free of rust, at all times, that he draw a heavy bow sixty times a day in practice, that by every third day each man should loose ten times forty arrows against a target."
The cold dispassionate tone struck each man like a physical blow. In the back ranks, one of the younger men-a Gepid by the look of his wild red hair-staggered and nearly fell.
"The lives of every man in this army are placed in peril by your failure. There must be a punishment, for I will not have men's lives spent uselessly. Syntagmarch Valamer, step forward!"
The syntagmarch stepped away from the line, his face a mask, and stood before the Macedonian. Alexandros saw the man's weapons and armor were in moderate condition, though his sword hilt was chased with gold and his tunic was of fine-quality linen. Pride struggled with fear in the Goth's face and Alexandros remembered something of his history. Valamer was a chieftain, one of the Gothic amali-their most noble tribesmen. A man used to command and assured by an ancient tradition of unquestioning obedience.
He knew the bows were ruined, the Macedonian thought, and could not bring himself to seek aid from the armorers, or from me. It was not the first time such a thing had happened. Caring for the bows was especially difficult in these humid lowlands-they needed to be stored, when not actually in use, in specially heated wooden boxes. A damp bow was useless.
"You have failed me, soldier," Alexandros said, his voice carrying into the ranks. "My father once said this to me, and to my half-brother: there are no bad legionaries, only bad officers. You are at fault here, for you knew your duty and you did not carry it out."
Alexandros gestured for the man's sword, and Valamer, face turning sickly gray, removed the spatha from its baldric and presented it to the general. The Macedonian hefted the sword in one hand, then removed it from the sheath in a quick, fluid movement. He raised it over his head.
"This man, Valamer, a Goth, has shown himself unworthy of being syntagmarch! Therefore, until he redeems himself by deeds, he shall be no more than a common soldier, an attendant, who will hold the horses and gear of other men, while they fight!"
The Goth blinked and breathed again, then his mouth settled into a tight line. In common course, only camp followers, or the wounded, or raw recruits held the horses of men in the line of battle. He was shamed, but he would not be killed out of hand. Alexandros did not return the sword, though he sheathed it again. The general did not look at Valamer and the Goth remained standing, swaying slightly, weaponless.
"Many of you," Alexandros continued, his voice still cold, "followed this poor example and have not kept your bows dry, your arms and armor clean. I know this discipline is new to you, for many of you have come from brave nations, but those nations are not Rome. You will, therefore, learn to keep those tools which sustain life and bring victory as if they were a dear child."
Alexandros' voice suddenly rose and his anger leaked through in a biting, acid tone.
"Each man whose kit has failed inspection will be provided with new weapons and armor from stores, but his pay will be docked to account for this waste. Further… men know how to follow orders and do their duty; but children, boys, are oft remiss, for they have not learned the ways of men. Therefore, each man who has failed his duty will have his hair shorn and his beard shaved. You have acted like boys, now you will look the part, until you have learned discipline!"
At these words, the soldiers gave out with a groan of fear. The Goths, Germans and particularly the Franks in the ranks were devastated. Some men, heedless, fell to their knees and began crying out, begging for forgiveness. Amid the tumult, Alexandros beckoned to Chlothar, the commander of all the Peltasts in the army. The big Frank's face was tight with anger and his liquid blue eyes were filled with pain. He too came into Alexandros' service with short, shorn hair-disgraced. The Macedonian saw the look in his eyes.