“If I am to be sent there, Marius, I’ll remember your instructions and apply them to the best of my ability.”
“Yes, do that. And you must remember one other thing, which I have not yet taught you …” He stood and held up his finger. I found it humorous that these two, not ten years apart in age, really did look in that moment like father and son. “All great men have great passion. Through today’s election, you’ve proven that you are a great man. But if it is not tamed, the passion that comes with excellence can destroy both greatness and the man who wields it.” He smiled and looked up, choosing his words carefully. “Sertorius, I want you to hear this too. I’ve won many battles in my life, but the first and hardest was the victory over myself.”
“You are as wise as you are brave, Marius. On Jupiter’s Stone, I swear to keep your advice at the forefront of my mind at all times. I ask that all of you ensure I stay on that course.”
“And … one other thing,” Marius said. “In defeat, be calm and work to discover how you may yet wrest victory from its jaws. In victory, be calm and work to discover how you might yet keep what you have fought for.” Marius had never appeared so philosophical. He was clearly working very hard at it, and when he finally burst into laughter, we all did too. “I’m proud of you, men,” he said at length and slapped us all on the back—even Mago. “Let’s drink some damn wine and celebrate what Fortuna has given us.”
II
THE ROAD TO ARAUSIO
648-649 ab urbe condita
“They want the centurions not so much to be venturesome and daredevils, as to be natural leaders, of a steady and reliable spirit. They do not so much want men who will initiate attacks and open the battle, but men who will hold their ground when beaten and hard-pressed, and will be ready to die at their posts.”—Polybius
SCROLL XII
Outwardly, tempers cooled after the elections, although I imagine the tumult continued for some time in the home of the Caepiones.
Gaius Marius left within a week or so for Africa, taking Rabirius and his men with him. He said it would give them an opportunity to become reacquainted with life in the Colors without the risk of imminent danger. Marius was confident that the war in Africa would soon be over.
Maximus and Quintus Caepio were both inaugurated under Jupiter Capitolinus, and within a week they drew lots. Maximus was given the command of the war against the Cimbri and Teutones, while Quintus was to stay in Rome. Maximus told us his joy at the thought of becoming an imperator, like his father-in-law. However, the most rewarding part of that moment in the Senate House, he said, was seeing the look on Quintus’s face.
“To rob him of all the glory and fame he is so desperate for is all the revenge I need,” Maximus said, beaming.
My next step was to be assigned to the legion, and I remember fondly the period of my life that followed. My first experience with the military—I think of it with the same joy a man feels when remembering how he first met his wife. One of my favorite quotes by Socrates has always been, “It is not death which is difficult to escape, gentlemen; no, it is far more difficult to escape wickedness, which pursues us more swiftly.” Perhaps I had this quote in mind at the time, for having escaped the wickedness of politics, I was undeterred by the threat of death that came with a military life.
The fear, the joy, the difficulty in learning how to behave; I struggled, of course, but such struggles thrilled me. The first few weeks of my military career, however, were anything but enjoyable. I took the military tribune’s oath and donned my armor for the first time, and so was let loose into the ranks. I didn’t know the first thing about being a soldier, and tribunes don’t receive any of the training the foot soldiers do. I attempted to learn whatever I could from watching the other tribunes, the centurions, and even the rank and file, but to my disappointment no one was willing to take me in and train me in the most rudimentary details of military life. So I learned slowly. Lucius stayed on under Maximus, as a contubernales, and I would have asked him for instructions, except that he was too busy with logistics and planning and we were so often kept apart.
The majority of my brothers in arms treated me with contempt. The military tribunes, with whom I spent most of my time, would barely hold a conversation with me. The soldiers and centurions too were disdainful, although it was formal disdain, due to the fact that I was their military superior. Eventually, when I had exhausted all my ideas for making acquaintances, I called over a centurion—a man named Gnaeus Tremellius Scrofa—and asked his opinion. Covered in scars, Tremellius exuded an aura of experience and discipline: a proper soldier. I wanted to know what I could do to earn the trust of my comrades.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” he replied. This kind of formality made me uncomfortable; Tremellius was nearly twice my age and had experienced more of life than I had ever wanted to.
“Please do.”
“There is nothing you can do. The other military tribunes dislike you because you are all in competition for promotions and special orders. The soldiers don’t like you because military tribunes are so distant and lofty atop their fine horses; they can give the command for men to die and yet are in no danger themselves. And we centurions hate tribunes because they are almost exclusively incompetent, lazy fools, who give dangerous and vainglorious orders, get my men lost on patrols, and eat far too much of the scant food this army is afforded. But most of all, sir, we really hate tribunes because they have been given a position they did not earn—unless you count being the cum-stain of some rich old senator as entitlement enough to lead good men to their deaths.” He looked emotionlessly at me. “Does that answer your question, sir?”
At length I nodded, to which he saluted and spun away from me.
I carried on in this capacity for a few days, feeling even more alone than I had in Gnaeus Caepio’s house. Finally, I decided to approach Maximus.
“Sir,” I saluted as I had seen others do. “I am sorry to bother you, but do you have a moment?”
“For you, I can make time. What can I do for you?” He set down his scroll and looked up, appearing every part the natural successor to Marius.
“I would like to resign my commission, sir.” He stared back blankly, seeming to search for the humor in my statement.
“What?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve only been in the army for a week. Has military life been so difficult? You’ve taken an oath, Sertorius. It is illegal to go back on that.”
“I have no intentions of leaving the army, sir, but I would like to relinquish my command and join the ranks.” He nearly spit out his sip of wine.
“You’ll have to forgive me if you are joking, Sertorius, but I am puzzled. Why would you want that?”
“I am not joking, sir. I have discovered that I am in no place to lead these men. I want to earn their respect before I lead them.”
“Sertorius, you did earn it. You earned it by birth, by right of helping me get elected.”
“We both know that’s not enough, sir,” I said, and he finally slouched back in his chair.
“I’m surprised to say the least, but if nothing else I admire your spirit. I’m not sure how Marius would feel about this, but I’ll consent if it’s what you really desire.” He paused and seemed to consider the issue. “This might be good, in a way. Perhaps you could report to me how the men feel once the campaign starts and things get rough. I don’t expect you to betray any confidences, but you can help me do what I must to keep the men happy.”
“I can do that, sir.”
“Is there anything I can do for you in return? I feel I must give you something, since you’ll be sacrificing a great deal of money as well as authority.”
“Just give me a chance to prove myself in battle, and if I do so adequately perhaps I can take an officership then.”
“There will be plenty of opportunities to prove yourself in battle, I assure you. And perhaps I can work to put you in the right places to earn the respect of the men
.”
“That’s all I ask, sir.”
“Well, there is currently a group of recruits training. They’ve been at it for a few weeks but will be finishing their training shortly before we step off. Does that work for you?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Consider it done, then.”
I’D WONDERED how Rome had managed to conquer more than any nation that came before her, without being a military society such as the Spartans or the Thebans, but I soon realized that this was because Rome had a military society all its own within the larger culture. I was introduced to this life not when I first donned the colors, but when I was introduced to the Mules beside whom I would fight. All foot soldiers were called Mules for two reasons: because they carried gear like Rome’s favorite pack animal, and because a mule is born of a male donkey and a female horse, symbolic of the mixed and low bloodlines of the common soldier. At first, the term was intended as an insult, but eventually Mules assumed the title with pride. I cannot properly explain what it was like to be a Mule, nor the sense of honor it evoked, but after some time with one’s comrades, the shared suffering, the soldier became fully bonded with the moniker and his peers. The more drudgery, the colder the seasons became, the more it rained, the closer Mules became.
Unfortunately for me, the Mules I met at the beginning of February were anything but my comrades. As Maximus mentioned, they had been training together for a few weeks already, and in soldiers’ sandals, a few weeks feels like a thousand years. They had all discovered each other’s idiosyncrasies and distributed nicknames accordingly.
During my time in the military I have found that each unit has the same cast of characters: there is the overweight and lazy joker; the athletic strongman; the prankster; the worrier; the rebel who thinks he knows how to break all the rules; the soldier with sarcastic quips at the ready; and the patriot, who is doubtless mocked more thoroughly then all the rest combined. Unfortunately, when I was brought into my unit—Second Century, Third Cohort, Legio IV—the men had already assumed their roles, and they didn’t seem to believe there was room enough for me. I was dubbed simply “the new guy” and was treated as such for some time.
We immediately set off on a rigorous training regimen, which always carried with it a sense of urgency. As soon as one task or objective was completed, we were on to the next. We would complete close-order marching drills and then immediately receive orders that we were to begin focusing on weapons proficiency. The next task was always more vital than the last, and the following task would be of greater importance still. We were often told that the new objective would be grueling and few of us would be able to endure it, but most of the time we bound together and overcame the challenge. Although they didn’t favor me, the Mules in Second Century still went out of their way to assist me, unlike the military tribunes.
Eventually I did enter their good graces. One evening after we were released to our tents, Lucius Hirtuleius came by to visit and we talked for a while. Afterward, around the fire, some of my comrades questioned me; apparently they had met Lucius before.
“How do you know him?”
“He’s a good friend of mine. We grew up together,” I said, plopping down on a log.
“Wait … wait … are you the one he used to talk about? Some important senatorial fellow? That can’t be you,” one of them asked, perplexed.
“Well, I’m not a senator, but yes, I assume that was me.”
“Then why in the hell are you here? Why are you a damned Mule?” another demanded.
I was reluctant to divulge this information, but then, I didn’t see how it could hurt. “I joined the military for a few reasons, and I was given a commission as a military tribune. I was only in the role for a few weeks before I decided I wanted to earn the right to lead. I don’t really know the first thing about being a soldier, but I will learn.”
They exchanged glances. Some of them shook their heads in disbelief, while others bellowed their laughter. I assume some must have thought I was telling a flagrant, boastful lie, but word soon spread throughout Second Century, and I was never again treated as an outsider. The name “New Guy” was ditched in favor of “Stallion,” because I gave up my horse to march with the Mules.
I won’t bore you with too many stories about my training. It’s considered unfashionable to talk of training after one has finished and left for campaign, so I won’t break tradition here, but I can’t stress enough how important this experience was for me. As I said before, I cherish my memories of this time.
PERHAPS IT’S worth mentioning that my recollections of my time in the military will be slightly different than what I have written of my political life. I suppose the reason for this is because military experiences are deeply personal, perhaps so more than any other realm. When telling these stories, I feel the urge to attach some moral to them, but of course, for the sake of veracity I cannot. When wearing the soldier’s kit, nothing outside of the military seems to exist; nothing else is real. It is simply imagination and memories. A military story doesn’t really end, because they rely far more on the experience of what happened, than on what truly happened. I find myself replaying these memories again and again in my mind—not only the heavy combat but the most rudimentary, boring moments as well. Occasionally I speak of my first days in the Colors, but I cannot ever seem to get the details right. I tell and retell so that the listeners may feel what I felt, but of course this is impossible. I share this now because some of the things I will tell you may not coincide perfectly with historical record. It is impossible to distinguish what actually happened from what only seemed to happen—so for any inaccuracies or embellishments, I apologize. My desire is that you will feel what I felt, that you will know the feeling of blistered feet after a thirty-mile quick march bearing sixty pounds of full kit. I want you to know the deep sense of belonging one feels when wielding a shield beside his brothers; how the most idiotic of jokes could keep you laughing for weeks; how one loses all sense of time except as it pertains to the next meal, next letter, next cup of wine, next night of sleep.
I LEARNED all that I needed to during my training. I became proficient with the gladius and the scutum; I was soon able to march in rhythm with the rest of my century; and I learned how to pack the proper gear for a movement. I memorized formations and specific orders, going over them in my head each night. Perhaps the most important things I learned on the Field of Mars were the nicknames the Mules had for damn near everything. The Cimbri and Teutones, who we prepared to fight, were known as “Reds” for the color of their hair and the complexion of their skin. The name was meant to dehumanize the enemy; we hated them as much as we feared them, and we often boasted of our desire to kill a Red. Our soldier’s wine was known fondly as “piss,” to honor its quality; we didn’t have a term for good civilian wine, since we never had any. Close to everything associated with military life had a name that resembled its nature to us, but would have meant nothing at all to an outsider.
I’m ashamed to admit that the thing we did most in training was complain. I tried to avoid it—especially because I knew I might one day lead these men—but complaining was integral to the culture of being a Mule. Every one of us did it from time to time.
Complaining was the best way to bond with your companions. We ridiculed the officers, the food, the sleeping arrangements. Acknowledging the lowly nature of our situation highlighted the fact that we were going through it together, and we bonded through adversity more so than through similarities or personal sentiments.
WE SPENT the remainder of February training, and when March arrived, we knew it was time to leave for the north. We were all excited. We talked of nothing else. And though no one admitted it, everyone was scared. Not so much of death, but of being so far away from home, in a strange country, when so many of us had never left Italy. But all in all, we were ready to leave, ready to put ourselves to the test and see if we had indeed become real soldiers. I think I was perhaps the most anxious to leave
, since it meant that I would be seeing my brother, Titus, again.
The officers conducted the annual ritual of announcing war on the Cimbri to begin the war season by throwing the ceremonial spear across the boundaries of Rome into the Field of Mars. The ranks were given license to applaud, chant, and in all ways display our bloodlust.
On the third of March, the first auspicious day of the month, Maximus led the Third Cohort from the Field of Mars toward Gaul, to reinforce my brother and his Fourth Legion. Somehow, I believe I knew even then that I would not return the same man. I don’t mean to be trite, but I knew the course of my life would be forever altered after leaving Italian soil. And by the gods, I was right.
SCROLL XIII
One of the first things I noticed as we mobilized was that even though it was war season in Rome, the weather conditions were hardly conducive to military actions in the north. The higher elevations in northern Italy and Cisalpine Gaul created the driest cold imaginable. Even in March, when Rome was enjoying a new sun, bright flowers, and warm air, the north was nothing but frost and dead vegetation. The further we went, the fewer colors there were to look upon. Eventually, the color of dirt and the rare tree replaced the olive orchards, and the chirping little birds gave way to the buzzards that feasted on the carcasses of animals that hadn’t been able survive until summer. The scarlet tunics we all wore were anything but original or creative, but they bore the only color we saw for some time, and that scarlet reminded us of home.
The Man With Two Names Page 16
