Call to Juno (Tales of Ancient Rome #3)(89)
Drusus picked up his shield and spear. “I’ll ride swiftly. I’ll bring reinforcements. Better Rome fights than concede to Etruria.”
Marcus placed his hand on his friend’s leather armband. “No, I hope the Senate decides this conflict with Veii must end. Ten years is enough. Better to swallow pride than let Mastarna rule Rome. And with peace, Caecilia will be spared. Isn’t that what you want?”
“What I want is for him to die! I want his head on a spear. I want him to suffer.”
“Then pray I meet him tomorrow. Pray he may yet fall, even if his army wins.”
“And I’ll pray that the smaller can defeat the greater. But if not, know I’ll not let your death go unavenged.”
After Drusus had left, Marcus took a moment to compose himself. He could hear the shouts of the centurions outside as they marshaled their companies. He knew that, as soon as he emerged, he would be swept into the turmoil of preparation. He breathed deeply, rueful he’d resisted the urge to pull his friend close and bid farewell with a kiss. He had courage to kill a foe but was too cowardly to declare his love to a man he would never see again.
FORTY
Snowcapped Mount Soracte loomed dark and lonely above the plain, its serrated mass blued by distance, the gray chain of mountains beyond billowing along the horizon. The clouds hid the sun. The battle that day would be fought under bleak skies.
As Marcus prepared to inspect his troops, he wished he could recall each hoplite as could Furius Camillus. The general knew the battles in which his soldiers had fought and how they’d received their scars. It was a knack of his to recognize each warrior, inspiring their loyalty. Marcus remembered the first time he’d been acknowledged in such a way, firing him to pledge allegiance to both the Furian and to Rome.
Riding along the lines, Marcus took care to ask the names of the men he didn’t know. It was the least he could do before urging them into an onslaught that might see them dead by the end of the day. Wind-burned veterans in the rear and middle rows of the phalanxes grunted approval as they saluted. Marcus called to one. “How many times have you shown courage?”
The infantryman thrust out his chest. “Only my foes can tell you that, sir.”
He smiled. “Then I must watch you today, given I can’t hear the words of those you slay.” His response provoked a grin from the ranks.
The younger soldiers in the front lines also saluted. Marcus felt sad these inexperienced youths may never fight another battle. They would be the least likely to survive. One young hoplite’s face was white, unable to hide the tremor in his spear hand.
“Your first fight?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus remembered waiting for his initial encounter with a foe. How hard it had been not to vomit out his fear. How he’d prayed his bowels would not turn to water. He leaned down toward the soldier. “Believe me, nerves will give birth to courage.”
The youth’s eyes met his, back straightening. He saluted again. “Yes sir!”
His review of the phalanxes ended, Marcus directed his bay to inspect the companies of leves. These light infantrymen could not afford the panoply of a hoplite but were just as brave. Armed with only four javelins and their shields, they would be the first to engage the foe together with the slingers and axemen. He murmured encouragement to all the skirmishers. They showed surprise, then smiled at gaining the attention of a military tribune for one brief moment.
Marcus raised his lance to the assembled battalion, bellowing, “Today you are Rome. You fight for our State, not for personal glory. Every man must hold his ground to help each other. We will be outnumbered, but while there is breath in our bodies we may yet drive back the multitude!”
The troops roared in response. No ragged shouts. No feeble yells. Pride swelled within Marcus, feeling Furius Camillus would be proud of him as well.
Early morning birdsong was drowned by the clash and scrape of metal as a thousand hoplites took their position. Buckles on corselet straps were tightened, swords adjusted in their scabbards, boots laced fast.
Marcus waited on a rise at the head of the brigade of two turmae he would lead. Behind him, Aemilius viewed the entire battlefield, the standard-bearer beside him holding aloft the wolf insignia. The general would remain at the rear, but his troops did not doubt his daring or resolve. He would make the decisions that day as to whether to advance or retreat, regroup, and advance again. For the first time Marcus could remember, Aemilius had embraced him. The moment of affection was both startling and upsetting.
Twelve men across and eight men deep, the ten phalanxes of the regiment stood in one long battlefront. Their heavy armor declared their wealth and status. Each warrior’s shield overlapped, protecting the man to the left with wood, leather, and bronze. Marcus noticed how the emblems emblazoned on the shields identified each soldier. The varied decorations formed a motley pattern but the weapons were uniform in one respect. Round and heavy and curved outward, they covered the hoplite from chest to groin.
Each company was a bristling beast, a death machine. Long javelins in their right hands, the first three ranks held theirs horizontal, the spear points poking through the gaps in the rows in front. The next two lines held their lances at a slant, ready to be brought down to take the place of fallen comrades. The veterans at the rear stood with their javelins upright, the last line of attack. Together, these serried hoplites were the backbone of the army, and its awesome blade.