In the camp outside a town whose name is not worth remembering, he’s reading Plato’s Republic – the part containing the allegory of the prisoners in the cave. Chained their entire lives facing a wall inside a cave, they see shadows cast by a fire outside of people carrying bundles. To them the shadows are reality for that is all they’ve ever seen. When they’re released, they encounter the actual figures but refuse to believe they’re real and that they’ve been living under an illusion. It takes a painful transition before they’re disabused.
In the middle of reading it for the second time and wondering whether it applies to himself, a few comrades come over to his tent. They’re in a good mood now the day’s march is over.
“Marcus, you at the books again? Too much of that reading stuff’s bad for you. Relax. Come on out for a few drinks. Shit. I hear the girls around here are pretty friendly. They like Roman soldiers – especially ones with money, the greedy bitches ha ha ha. And the wine’ll make your head spin.”
“Thanks Gaius; I don’t feel like it tonight. You go; have a good time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They’ve seen him like this before and know better than to pester him. So they leave him alone. Gaius can’t help himself saying as he goes through the tent flap,
“You’ll be sorry when we tell you tomorrow about the great game we take down tonight. Ha ha ha.”
It’s not that going out drinking and chasing girls with friends isn’t enjoyable. It is, clearly. But tonight he’s in a sombre frame of mind – burdened with questions. He enjoys the fellowship and his good looks make him pretty successful with girls. Did he make the right decision to go on this expedition; was it based on a mistaken sense of reality – shadows on the wall? The letters start moving on the parchment as he loses concentration. It’s pointless to continue, so he rolls it up and puts it in the box, and lets his mind go to what’s really bothering him.
He could have joined Julius Caesar’s invasion of Gaul when he mustered out of Pompey the Great’s legions at Brundisium. Many think Caesar is the best general in Roman history, superior even to the divine Scipio, a match for Pompey, but he operates in the indigent North. There’s a better chance for riches in the East; that’s why he’s here. But what about the new Commander in Chief? He’s a lot different from Pompey, or Caesar. Can he really be counted on for the success everyone knows he’s aching for?
Is it an illusion that Crassus is filling the role of a general, acting a part that’s really not his to play? He’s certainly not type cast for it. Will that spoil the expectation of riches? If it does, he’s made a bad decision to come, possibly even a disastrous one.
Perhaps all that doesn’t matter anyway; the Roman army can be counted on. It always wins. Besides, an illusion isn’t necessarily bad in itself – can often be harmlessly pleasant. However sometimes it can sidetrack the logical flow of thought and seduce even worthwhile motivation into a perilous dance with fate.
He’s thinking too much – time to go to bed. Maybe it would have been better if he had gone out with Gaius and the others – they always have a good time. But at least he’ll be healthy in the morning while they’re nursing hangovers.
❧
Next day the army’s on the march early, heading towards the fingers of the dawn which are slipping over the Road stirring up another hot day. Light splinters in the dust kicked up along the way cause eyes to squint and recovering heads to ache.
The morning banishes the doubts he had last night; its freshness brings out the positive. He’s pleased with himself, a little cocky even, justifiably proud of his recent promotion to pilus prior; and why not. It’s unusual for one so young, a few months shy of thirty, to be in charge of 600 men, a cohort. Since it’s the largest tactical combat unit in the army, he’ll have a certain independence of command.
He’s on the way up. Eventually, if fortune maintains its smile, he’ll become an eques, a knight, complete with an estate. It’s not out of the question. Also, Crassus has begun to include him in strategic conferences. Why, the great man even comments on his talent for instant pattern recognition in the battlefield – an instinct everybody knows outstanding generals have. The Commander in Chief says he could become one. How complimentary is it when he’s said to offer a new perspective, unspoiled by the conventional thinking so common in the High Command.
The opening battle, which he senses will be a decision point in history, is going to be his ultimate test.
As he marches, he looks at Owl’s Head, his dagger; it’s the one piece of equipment for which he has allowed himself a bit of indulgence. It was a curious little man, the master craftsman in Damascus who made it for him the last time he was in Syria, with Pompey’s army – never stopped talking about his celebrated skills. How disgusted he was with the regular pugio issued by the Roman army; he could do so much better, make something that had a killing urge in itself, a spirit imparted by the elegance of his design. He was very persuasive. It’s not hard to accept when a weapon is personally made it has a magical quality, something that enhances a young man’s belief he’s immune to the risk of death.
When he had finished it he took forever to explain the technicalities behind how he had etched the silver hilt and the wide-leaf blade in their arabesque patterns, how he had decorated the scabbard with silver and gold bars, how he had inlaid an owl’s head in gold on the pommel, and how carrying Athena’s favourite bird would instil the goddess’ martial spirit and some of her wisdom. The fellow charged a fortune – almost six month’s wages, most of which had to be borrowed. But it was worth it.
Owl’s Head always reminds him how important the dagger is to his style of fighting. He can still hear his old instructor, as loud – voiced as Stentorius, shouting at the new recruits to get in closer to their opponents, right up close, how that’s the Roman way. The admonition was meant to overcome any natural inclination to stand back, but he often goes further; he can close so tight that it’s hard to use his sword. That’s where Owl’s Head comes in. While he’s proven he’s above average in general weapons skills, he accepts he’s not with the best. However, his reflexes are so quick he’s lethal with the dagger, nobody faster. It’s where speed is of the essence.
As the march gets under way, the uniform steps never wavering from the beat, slip into a sandal-crunching monotony. The Road compounds the Asian heat, so much more extreme than in Europe; maybe its stones are imposing a mischievous test of endurance. Every day is like this – hot and boring. Tedious though they are, the daily marches complement the training exercises to make the Roman soldier the fittest in the world, at least normally so.
No one likes the marches, but they must be endured. How else can infantry cover the vast overland distances? It’s part of being a soldier, however humdrum. He looks for relief in day dreams – images of the booty that lies ahead, gold and silver in sacks of shining coins, gold goblets inlaid with precious stones, and polished silver plates, jewellery by the wagon load, heaps of glistering plunder which the cunning Commander in Chief will extract from the opulent Parthian nobles, the richest people in the world. Try as they will, they’ll never be able to hide it from the master wealth collector. As a pilus prior he’ll get a handsome distribution, not a lion’s share for that’ll go to the legati and Crassus himself, but a leopard’s portion, enough to make him rich.
A commotion erupts beside the Road; a donkey is bucking and braying. But it fails to divert the locals. They keep staring with wooden eyes at the shiny creature in a submissiveness that inflates his natural pride.
But not for long. Like most of the people who’ve arrived to watch, he too hails from the land. His late father comes to mind, the face like a rusty quince insinuating into his mind’s eye. The old man is reminding him, as he always did, that the land is a member of the family, more than that, it’s the dominus familias, the boss. The phrase won’t go away; it’s like a pesky moral tenet. Why should it? The army will never replace his formative attachment. Even his cognomen reflects it. Anyway, returning eventually to agriculture, hopefully as the owner of an estate, is not inconsistent with a soldier’s lot –