The Man With Two Names

by Vincent B Davis II

  Maximus was gracious enough to let us converse as we marched, so long as we didn’t forget our military bearing. Most of our conversations consisted of jokes and mockery, usually coupled with boasting and claims of greatness. If you ever supposed the brotherhood of soldiers is forged in battle, you are mistaken. These moments—these petty conversations—make life in the Colors what it is.

  Although Maximus gave us this small liberty, we quickly discovered that when it came to discipline, he took after his father-in-law.

  From Rome, we went along the western coast, toward Genua. If you are familiar with Italian geography at all, you know that this path was through friendly territory. Still, Maximus ordered that we set up camp the same as we would in enemy territory. “I will not be the fool that allows an entire cohort to be destroyed due to a lack of precaution,” he would say whenever we grumbled, and he would say the same thing later when he had four legions under his command.

  It wasn’t until we were a few miles from Genua that Maximus ordered the Third Cohort into formation and addressed us all.

  “I’m proud of how we’ve been marching, soldiers. We’ve made good time and are ahead of schedule. I am sure some of you are already developing new blisters, and if not yet, I promise that you will.” He paused for us to laugh about the validity of his statement. “But hard days are ahead and I need the best out of every one of you. If you think it is cold now, wait till we reach Narbo—then you’ll really experience cold. If you believe we’ve been marching too much, then I regret to inform you that we will be marching a great deal more—and a great deal faster. I’m ordering a forced march from here until we reach Massilia, where we will meet up with Legio VIII and IX. That means thirty miles a day, no breaks, no stopping.” Some of the men groaned. “I know. I am not looking forward to it anymore than you are, but it is imperative that we reach Narbo before the snows melt, so that our strength will be at four legions should the Reds decide to give us a go. Prepare yourselves accordingly, for trying days are ahead of us. Now, remain in formation, and you’ll be assigned to your contubernium.” We snapped to attention and saluted, and he returned the gesture and stepped away. A tribune took his place and began calling out names.

  This was the first time we had been assigned to our smallest combat teams: the contubernium. If you have never served in the Colors, I doubt that you’d be familiar with this term. Though many believe that the century is the smallest maneuver element, this is a misconception. The century, which in theory consists of one hundred Mules (I generally remember it being no larger than eighty at this time), is not how the military is really experienced. You experience everyday life through your contubernium, which is a unit made up of eight to ten men, with whom you do damned near everything.

  We anxiously waited for our names to be called, hoping that we would be assigned to a good group of men. I considered myself blessed when my name was listed with several of the men I had grown close to during training, and I was grateful to have avoided some of the troublemakers.

  My contubernium was made up of seven new recruits, myself included, and one veteran, who had served in several campaigns, most recently in Africa under Marius. The new recruits were Proculus Velius, who we called “Bear” not just for his ridiculous height, frame, and body hair, but because of a story that he’d singlehandedly killed a bear when out hunting as a child. At nineteen, he was the youngest of our band, and his naïve and innocent personality reflected that. He was clumsy, but never careless, as he always sought to make the others proud. He was actually my tent-mate for a portion of the campaign, so I came to know and cherish him a great deal.

  There was also Caeso Alfidius, who we all called “Grumble,” which he did with a certain drawl. He did everything lazily, and to him everything was subject to mockery. He had a dark and ironic sense of humor, but he made us laugh nevertheless.

  Another was Hostus Naevius. It’s hard to describe a man like him on paper and expect to be believed. The man was nearly perfect at everything he did. We called him “Pilate” because of his unrivaled excellence with a pilum, but he could have been nicknamed for just about any aspect of military life. He was a brilliant swordsman, marched in perfect order, was the best swimmer in the whole damned cohort, and was the fastest runner and most accomplished wrestler in the military games. He was a wonder to us.

  Next was Tullus Canius, who we called “Terence” after the comedic poet. Of all the nicknames, none was more fitting. Like Grumble, Terence was always looking for an opportunity to make others laugh—except his humor was decidedly more clever and witty. Also, the man’s impressions were unbelievably accurate. He could pick up on a person’s most minute idiosyncrasies and imitate them perfectly. These alone could keep us laughing for weeks.

  Another Mule assigned to our contubernium was Marcus Axius, who we called “Ax” for short. He wasn’t as unique as some of the others were, I suppose, but he was a damned good soldier to have in your company. I’m not sure I ever really heard him talk much about Rome or the Colors at large, but he bled Legio IV, Third Cohort, Second Century. He believed in each man in our contubernium and would have staked all his earnings on us against any Red. He was the kind of man you’d want at your side when the enemy was in your sights.

  The last of the new recruits was Paullus Fulvius, who was dubbed “Flamen” for his religious piety and moral devotion. Naturally, these tendencies made him something of an outsider in our group of bawdy young men—not to mention that at twenty-seven he was the eldest. This suited him just fine, however, as he was a relatively closed-off person. He spent the majority of his time writing letters home, but when I had an opportunity to converse with him one on one, he was a pleasure to be around.

  The only one of us who had ever served before was Gaius Basilus, who we occasionally referred to as “Bass,” but generally we refrained from doing so, out of respect. He was the leader of our contubernium, or our decanus. I’ve never met a man who looked so much like me. He could have easily been mistaken for my brother, perhaps even my twin. The only noticeable difference between the two of us was his gait, the military discipline that kept with him whether he was in front of a formation or by himself on guard duty. He had the saddest eyes of any man I’ve ever known, so much so that it almost worried me. I couldn’t understand it—none of us could, until we too experienced combat for the first time and took our first lives.

  MAXIMUS WAS DEFINITELY right about one thing: the blisters. Overall, our training had prepared us for everything we encountered at the beginning of our campaign, but several days of thirty-mile marching with full kit was enough to wear down even the strongest of men. We tried to ignore it with laughter. Grumble kept making jokes about how our gear was inspected each night and was expected to be perfectly oiled and shined. “We gonna spit-shine the Reds to death?” he said, with thousands of variations. Somehow this never lost its humor.

  Days during a forced march are unique in that they all blend together. Each day is met with fresh anxiety and discomfort, but the longer you march, the more you begin to see the same things reappear. The same barren plains, the same snow-covered hilltops, the same dead trees, the same mud-thatched villages with wild-eyed spectators. Sometimes we wondered aloud if it was all a cruel joke and they were really just marching us in circles—a continuation of our training, perhaps.

  Every night we made the same fort, going through the same motions to do so. We would receive the same orders, given as if they were new, to scavenge wood and set up our tents in the designated places. Each time, one of the Mules—usually Grumble—was a little bit careless on this detail and returned with less wood than requested, and each time, Bear, who worked harder than a charioteer’s horse, would give away some of his copious quantities of wood to cover up the neglect of the others.

  It was ten days of hard marching until we arrived at Massalia. As we neared, we all craned our necks to get a decent view of the bustling city on the water. It was the first real bit of civilization that we ha
d seen since Genua. We were disappointed, to say the least, that we were not permitted to visit the Greek city, knowing that this would be our last chance to experience anything familiar during the campaign, save maybe Narbo.

  We continued north to the plains between Massalia and Aquae Sextiae, where two of our legions were stationed. Even from a distance we could smell the leather of thousands of legionaries.

  Before the camp was a huge train of pack animals, slaves, and merchants. They clamored around our line, inspecting us, the merchants trying to solicit new customers. The familiar noises of camp greeted us: the thunder of stamping horses, the clamor of sword drills, laughing soldiers. The Mules there gathered around us more vehemently than the outsiders had, circling like Mediterranean sharks. We tried to maintain our bearing, but couldn’t help stealing a few glances.

  They were ragged. Unlike our armor, theirs was scuffed and begrimed. Many of them bore the stubble of a beard, and I even noticed a few wearing animal pelts over their shoulders. The degree to which they ignored regulations shocked us.

  Maximus ordered us to halt. He swung gracefully from his steed and asked a few tribunes where he could find their commander. We stood at attention as the Mules of the Eighth and Ninth stalked closer still.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” one wild-eyed Mule asked Flamen.

  He hesitated but replied, “Paullus Fulvius.”

  “I don’t give a damn. You’ll be dead before I can remember it.” The Mule spit, and his comrades roared with laughter. My face flushed with embarrassment. Although I hadn’t been directly addressed, I knew the Mule’s words were meant for all of us. I looked away.

  “But see how well they stand at attention? What good little boys and girls,” another said with a toothless grin.

  “They’ll make good sport, won’t they?”

  “Oh, but have you seen how nicely their armor is shined? They look ready for a damned Triumph!”

  “They’ll make beautiful corpses, I bet. Lovers of Venus on the funeral pyre.”

  One of them slithered up to Bear. “Aye, everybody leave off this fat one. He’s mine!” he shouted to the others. “You ever been with a man before?” The Mule licked his lips. Bear, to my left, shuffled anxiously. His face was wrenched with so much anxiety that I was afraid he might cry. “I won’t tell anyone if you play real nice.” Bear remained at attention, as we had been instructed, but he couldn’t have squirmed any more. Finally, a few ranks up, we watched as the centurion Tremellius—the same I’d talked to when I too was a Tribune—broke rank in proper order and approached the heckling Mules.

  “Soldier!” his voice erupted. He buried his fingers in the soldier’s chest like a knife. “You take one step closer to this formation and I’ll have you flogged. All of you, get back to your drills and leave my men alone.” They tried to chuckle this off but it didn’t gain any traction.

  “You damned replacements are all the same,” one of them shouted, as they skulked back the way they had come.

  “Welcome to the Colors, boys,” Grumble said.

  “Think he’ll really try something?” Bear finally managed to whisper.

  “If he does, I’ll bury my dagger in his gut. Don’t worry.” Ax broke formation to pat Bear’s shoulder.

  “Quiet, men. You’re at attention,” Tremellius spoke up from the front. Needless to say we all fell in and shut our mouths, feeling like babes both consoled and chastised.

  Maximus finally returned to our column. “Here we are, men. It’s been a long few days, hasn’t it?” We nodded. “Well, it isn’t over yet. We’ll only be staying here overnight. Tomorrow we leave for Narbo. This time, we will not be conducting a forced march, but we will be planning for future maneuvers in enemy territory. So we’ll cover far less ground per day, but we’ll increase security measures.” He ignored the audible groans from the ranks. It is sad to think now of our lack of discipline, but at that point, we hadn’t endured the real nature of warfare. It was all still a game to us, in a way. “Disperse yourselves among the Eighth and Ninth, get to know your new comrades, and then you’ll be shown to your quarters for the evening. We’ll have an accountability formation before you’re dismissed for the night, so ensure that your gear is in good order. Dismissed.” More groans as we fell out of line.

  “Welcome to the Colors, boys!” Grumble chuckled again.

  “Shut up,” was the only reply.

  SCROLL XIV

  As one might expect, meeting our new “comrades” didn’t go as smoothly as we would have liked. Very few of us even tried to meet the others, and those that did were ridiculed until they left. We quickly came to understand that this was typical of the way replacements were treated. And we couldn’t blame them; after all, we’d only been brought in because their friends had been killed. Once they learned we were actually replacements for Legio IV rather than them, they lost interest in mocking us—in fact, they lost interest in us entirely. When addressed, they would exhale deeply and look away until the foolish Mule gave up and returned to our side of camp.

  The next day we left for Narbo, as planned. And since we didn’t have to march thirty miles a day, our new pace seemed almost relaxing. Still, our bodies were sorer than we’d ever known, and the repetitiveness of the road made us all cranky.

  We just wanted to fight. Before joining the Colors, I’d never truly desired to spill another man’s blood. Of course, every boy dreams of being a brave warrior and fighting for his country, but those kinds of ideas work better in your fantasies, fit better into poems and children’s stories, than in any actual consideration of the brutal nature of sword against flesh. As I’ve said, I’d never relished the idea of combat. But after joining, that changed somewhat. I’m sure outsiders would ascribe this to the culture of the Colors, but I couldn’t disagree more. I believe it was due to the inanely dull nature of most military matters. You join to be a soldier, a warrior, dreaming of valor and stories to tell your womenfolk. These kinds of aspirations make marching around quietly in frozen mud agonizing. The more we marched, the more we shined our gear, the more we wanted to fight something. The longer we were called on to scour the tree line in the distance, the more powerfully we wanted to see war-painted Reds, ready for battle.

  Unfortunately for us—or so we thought—Narbonensis Gaul was friendly territory. Even the villagers no longer glared at us, but rather applauded as we passed by, the children playfully running alongside for as long as they could keep up. Pilate and Ax would point out the prettiest girls along the road and laugh about how much they’d have to pay for a few hours of indulgence.

  The one redeeming trait about Narbonensis Gaul was the warmth that came from the coast. The climate was far more agreeable to us than Northern Italy and Cisalpine Gaul. The majority of the snows had melted and flowers had begun to bloom. We appreciated the colors and scenery, although we were all too manly to admit it.

  The nearer we came to Narbo, the more anxious I became to see Titus. It had been nearly three years since we’d last seen each other, and I had no idea what to expect. Would he now be like the Mules of the Eighth and Ninth? Battle-hardened or battle-scarred? I could barely fathom how much I’d changed in three years, and I was not fighting the Reds in the north. He kept coming to mind during the march, but I could hardly recollect what he looked like. His face seemed jumbled, like a reflection in rippling water. But it wasn’t his appearance that concerned me, but the state of his person. No matter what he would be like, I could hardly bear the length of the journey to see him.

  Although it felt like an eternity, in reality I didn’t have to wait long. It took us about a week, covering twenty miles a day, to near the city—the last friendly place we’d see for the remainder of the campaign.

  WHEN WE ARRIVED at the fortifications outside Narbo, we were once again greeted by the incumbent force. They gathered around to watch as we marched to a halt and stood at attention. We cringed, anticipating further mockery.

  But the soldiers were silent. They looked on
with sad, empty eyes, pink-rimmed and strained. It was the same look that had concerned me in Basilus. Some of these Mules lowered their eyes and shook their heads, kicking the dirt beneath their sandals. Eventually they turned and moved away, like a departing funeral party.

  As Maximus addressed the current commander, I felt my gut drop. What if Titus was as lifeless as these men? What had they seen that had begotten such solemn spirits? This was not the humorous, lively culture of the Colors that I knew. I broke military bearing to crane my neck to look for Titus. No luck.

  “Soldiers, we’ve arrived at our destination. Now the real campaign begins,” Maximus said, smirking as he returned to the formation. “As a reward for your efforts thus far, there will be no accountability formation this evening, but do not give me cause to regret this leniency. Tomorrow morning we will hold a change-of-command ceremony, and then you will receive your orders. I have plans for the ensuing months, but I will be conferring with the current commander and other officers this evening before any decisions are made. What I will say is this: you will see battle soon.” He left the center of formation and stepped closer to our cohort. “Your service thus far has been more than adequate, but I need the best out of you now. Soon, many of you will wet your swords for the first time. My orders for you this evening are to call on whatever god you choose and ask him for favor and strength in the coming days. You will need it.”

  He then addressed the Eighth and Ninth. “I apologize that your previous commander failed to prepare you for this campaign. You have been freezing your asses off in the north for a year or more now, doing little to nothing except wasting your own time. The military bearing you were taught has ebbed away. If you think this will continue under my command, however, you are mistaken. You will look like soldiers, conduct yourselves like soldiers, and fight like soldiers. Prepare yourselves accordingly. Dismissed,” he said with a salute that was quickly returned.