Decimation

71 BCE, Southern Italia

Dusk drifted across the Italian countryside. Its hills were densely covered with black-barked ilex trees, their leathery evergreen leaves gobbling up the sun’s last light. The air turned cool, bringing relief to the Roman legions who had been laboring since day’s first glimmer, marching south toward the camp of Spartacus and his army of reckless revolutionaries whom they sought to greet with swords.

“Ho!” bellowed Crassus, the general, bringing six legions of men to a standstill in front of a mound creeping skyward from the grassy valley in which they trod. Crassus climbed atop it, standing among thousands of dandelions whose seeds longed to be carried by the wind. He wore a purple cloak fastened at one shoulder with a silver eagle brooch, its wings spread out to either side, and a breastplate molded to the musculature of his chest. His face looked stern; his eyes, savage.

Mounted soldiers seeking to join the general brought their stallions to a gallop, racing along either side of the troops, their clocking horse hooves kicking up dirt and grass as they dashed to the front of the line and up the mound with enviable speed. Once the cavalry was situated – flanking the general in a spectacle of strength – Crassus addressed his men.

“Let us again consider this war that has been waged against us by the absolute dregs of society – by slaves who wish to make slaves of us!” Crassus yelled, his gruff voice traveling over thousands of iron helmets, their red-plumed crests, fashioned from dyed horsehair, bouncing as the soldiers passionately rustled about. “These escaped gladiators and slaves – once less than a hundred but now numbering in the thousands – have inspired terror, pillaging our villages with hidden daggers and no shortage of aggression. Now they have set their sites on Rome!” he yelled, drawing sounds of discontent from his men.

“Spartacus, a Thracian, a lowly gladiator, a former soldier turned deserter turned criminal, leads them. And he – a criminal – is the man they wish to take over Rome? Blasphemy!” Crassus sputtered. “Tomorrow, at the first sign of light, we will resume our march and, surely, tomorrow we will confront Spartacus and his army. We must fight with valor, not shielding ourselves behind the masses, but each one moving speedily forward with wings clasped to our feet, leading with our swords. You must prove yourselves men worthy of victory!” he cried, emphatically stomping his foot to the ground. “There is no room for cowards among us! And if they be found, they shall be punished,” he roared as redness overran his cheeks. “And so, my soldiers, pluck up your courage!” he said, arousing boisterous cheers from his men. “As for tonight, protected by the veil of darkness, we shall rest,” he said and descended the mound.

When the first beam of morning’s light sliced the horizon, Crassus and his men were already in full stride. By the time the sun stood above their heads, they were engaged in battle. They pounced upon Spartacus and his rebel army, lurching upon them with drawn swords, forcing them to bathe in their own blood, soaking the earth with their gore. And so Spartacus and his men were slaughtered, save six thousand who were nailed on crosses erected along the main road back to Rome, left to die under a brazen sun, their bodies a testament to the consequence of revolt. But the crucified were not the only traitors among them.

“I have confidence on this day to say, we are an army of great men!” Crassus said, his chest puffed with pride. His troops were crouched on a pristine stretch of grass beside the battlefield, their limbs worn and battered. “But before we celebrate our victory in fullness, let us deal with one last matter. With sorrow and disgrace, I must report that a group of soldiers belonging to one particular unit raced into battle, but quickly raced out. Like utter cowards, they abandoned their weapons and ducked behind trees, re-emerging once the fighting had abated, their faces aglow as if they too were victors,” he said, gnashing his teeth in anger. “But their faces will not glow now,” he snarled.

One hundred soldiers were brought before the crowd, bound together with thick rope coiled around their waists, looping from one soldier to the next. They looked to one another for explanation, for solace and for strength, but only met eyes as terrified as their own.

“Let us now disciple this unit with decimation,” Crassus yelled, triggering a collective gasp from his men who would soon witness the execution of one in ten soldiers.

The accused began swooning with fear. The bodies of some began shaking violently, seized by terror; others fell to their knees, frightened into submission; and others watered the earth with a flood of tears. They were promptly divided into groups of ten and forced to draw lots. The unlucky soldier – whether guilty of cowardice or not – was punished for the crime, pummeled to death with stones by his nine comrades. And in this way the Roman Army was taught the consequence of cowardice and fought with greater vigor thereafter, having learned their general was a greater threat than the enemy.