I understood that in that fading light, we had wrestled on the fulcrum between two futures: one bright, one bloody. I understood that I had failed him. I had failed us all. “I am not your enemy, dominus.”
“No,” he sighed. “You are not.” He pushed himself up off the bench. “It is dark. Let us go in.”
Chapter X
56 BCE Fall, Rome
Year of the consulship of
Cn. Cornelius Lentulus Marcellinus and L. Marcius Philippus
“Where’s my sword?” I asked.
Malchus and Betto both laughed. Hanno stood by as my second, ready to offer a towel or a footstool which he had strapped to his back. “Here you go,” Betto said, handing me a six-foot wooden pole with a leather-bound crosspiece that made the contrivance look distressingly like a miniature of a crucifixion cross. Then, without thinking, he tossed a shovel to Hanno, who had the good sense to step out of the way.
“Why are you trying to hurt me? Why is he trying to hurt me?” Under my tutelage, Hanno’s Latin was improving slowly. (Lady Tertulla had implored me to assist, rightfully arguing that correct speech is the first step on the road toward civilized comportment.) The boy had already honed to a fine edge the cadence of indignation, though I cannot say from whom he had learned the art.
“Hannibal, I was not trying to-”
“You threw the shovel,” Hanno persisted. “I saw you throw the shovel.”
“Yes, I did throw it, but I-”
“Betto knows I catch bad. He knows.”
“Betto would never hurt you. He is your friend, Hannibal.”
“Friends don’t throw things.”
Betto muttered, “Sometimes they feel like throwing things.” He walked with disinclination to retrieve the shovel. As he passed Hanno he said, “Sorry.” Hanno looked at him as if he were a dog he wanted to pet but was afraid it might bite.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Betto had begun to dig through the dew-topped grass into the moist earth beneath.
“You’ll see.” We were standing just inside the track of the Circus Flaminius up on the Campus Martius. The sunrise was just brushing the tops of the hills to the north. At this hour there were few who shared the arena with us: a half-dozen chariot trainers, their riders and mounts blowing hot clouds as if they burned from within; ten pairs of men practicing with wooden swords and wicker shields in the grassy center of the field, their bare chests slick with sweat despite the dawn’s chill. The shops beyond the colonnade that encircled the stadium were still shuttered. Across the street, the sharp applause of hammers and chisels could already be heard coming from the construction site of Pompeius’ colossal theater. The temple dedicated to Venus Victrix, rising opposite the stage behind the great semi-circle of seating was so tall that, above and beyond the roof circling the Flaminius, I could see the gilt statues of Pompeius and the goddess burning in the morning sun.
I regarded the wooden contraption with disdain. “I thought you were going to show me how to defend myself. What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Walk,” Malchus said.
“Walk? Walk where? I thought we’d be doing what they’re doing,” I said, pointing to the sparring men. “I know how to walk; I want to learn how to defend myself.”
“You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Alexander.” said Malchus. “You only think you know how to walk. But you’re the boss.” And off he sprinted toward the soldiers. “Come on, then,” he waved.
I did not care for the smile on Betto’s face as he paused from his excavating to watch. “Stay with Betto,” I told Hanno.
“Ave, brothers!” Malchus called as we approached. A few grunts of reply were tossed at us, but that was all their concentration would allow. To me, Malchus said, “We agree that while we train, I am your superior and you promise you won’t hold anything that happens during these exercises against me or Betto? Right?”
“You’re not going to cause me bodily harm, are you?”
Malchus grinned.
“I am insulted,” I said warily, “that you felt the need to ask. And also a little distressed. You have my word.”
“Mind if we have a look at a scutum?” Malchus called to the nearest combatants.
One of the soldiers gave the sign to hold and his partner ceased his assault. “Mine is third from the right,” he said, breathing hard. “Just put it back the way you found it.”
Malchus saluted. “Go on,” he said to me. “Take it out of its sack and drape it over the post. Don’t throw it on the ground.” I went to the line of enshrouded rectangle shapes leaning up against a long railing and unlaced the ties on the soldier’s shield. I wondered why the men practicing nearby were using practice shields instead of these. I supposed the real thing was too valuable to damage.
Doing as Malchus bid, I carefully removed the oiled goatskin and lifted the semi-cylindrical rectangle by its sides. Gods, it must have weighed twenty pounds! The edges were protected by a thin frame of iron nailed into the outer leather covering, painted bright red with golden wings and lightning bolts leaping from the central, oblong, iron boss. Painted in the upper right corner in brightest white was the Roman numeral ‘VI.’ The inside was lined with canvas, except where a circular hole at the center was bisected by a horizontal iron grip directly behind the boss. At the top hung two iron rings which I surmised erroneously were to enable the sturdy artifact to be hung as a decoration of honor once the need for it had passed.
“Hold it proper,” Malchus said, coming up. “Here, like this.” He took my left hand and had me grip the handle palm down. “Now hold it up in front of you so just your head is exposed.” I did. “Good. Now stay like that for a count of fifty.” I made it to eighteen. Before I dropped it to the wet grass, Malchus caught it, then returned it to its covering and its place against the railing.
“You want to know why those men are using wicker shields instead of these? It’s not just because they don’t want to damage the pretty paint. The wicker surrounds an iron center-they weigh half again as much as the one you just held.” I heaved a great sigh of defeat. “You want to tackle the likes of Herclides? You want to fight like a soldier? Then you’ve got to be fit like a soldier.”
As we walked back to Betto and Hanno, my brow creased. “Maybe we ought to go home and release the men I hired to take your places while we’re gone.”
“This ought to do for starters,” Betto said, shoveling the last of the dirt into a large canvas bag that Hanno was holding open for him. Malchus held the pole upright for his friend, who reached up and attached the bag to the crosspiece. “I’d say it’s close to 25 pounds. Maybe 30.”
“What do you mean, ‘for starters?’”
“A legionary carries twice that on the march, not counting weapons and armor.”
“And don’t forget the shield,” Betto smiled. “It hangs from the crosspiece on those rings.”
“Now, Alexander,” Malchus said, “shoulder that pack and we’ll start you off easy: five times around the track. Off you go. Well, Flavius,” he said, throwing his cloak on the dewy ground and sitting cross-legged upon it, “I hope you packed enough breakfast for everyone.”
“Two portions for you, one for me. As always. Hannibal, have a seat. What did you bring to eat for yourself?”
“I’m not hungry. Can I have that apple?”
“Only if you’re going to eat it,” Betto said, about to toss the piece of fruit to the boy. He checked himself in time. Malchus chuckled and spit an olive pit into the hole.
The Circus Flaminius was 800 feet long and 300 feet wide. Over the next several weeks I would memorize each brick, shop and pennant along its wide dirt oval. Every day, three hours before dawn, I trudged up the Capitoline and marched with my pole and its fertile baggage, a lost, lonely ghost in the black upon black shadows of the great stadium. My right leg, pierced by one of Sulla’s archers the day I met my master, grew quickly strong and its hindrance was imperceptible.