“You are undeniably right but the fact is, Otto is gong to have to find himself a wife and soon. The Emperor proscribes marriage for the nobility and the equestrian class.”
“Well, good luck to him, is all I say,” Massus snorted.
“Why? He is a citizen and a knight surely many families would like their daughters to be united with him …”
“Not a chance. Two reasons; firstly he was born the wrong side of the Rhine. How can I put the second reason to you without being crude? I can’t. Would you have your fine-boned trotting pony covered by a war-horse stallion? Of course you wouldn’t. The poor little mare could never carry his foal to term and give birth to it. Now think of the average young lady round here and the size of Otto. Same difficulty.”
“Massus, we are not mere animals.”
“We are when it comes down to it. Mating and producing the next generation is what it’s all about and the same rules apply. If he seriously wants a wife, let me know.”
“He says he doesn’t.
“Clever boy!”
As a legate, Tertius Fuscus had the final say in the choice of his officers. He found himself extremely popular all of a sudden. He received letters daily from the parents of acquaintances in Rome asking to be remembered to him with fondness and wanting to know if he was aware that their youngest son yearned to join the military tribunate? He replied politely without committing himself. Rome worked on favours exchanged. Even if he had no interest in giving a particular youngster an appointment, it did not do to offend his family. Who knew what could arise in future to make their friendship essential?
Then the letter from his father was delivered. Fuscus senior was seeking a higher elected position in Rome. He needed financial support and he needed votes. The father of Nonius Priscus would offer both if his son was commissioned as the new Broad Stripe Tribune of The Second Lucan. Nonius was twenty-three. He had spent two years as a tribune in a legion settled in Italy. He was too young and inexperienced to be acceptable in the second-in-command position on the Rhine but the legion was no longer in Germany. Men may rise or fall in Rome as a result of their networking skills or lack of them but family overrode any other consideration. Tertius’ father had spoken and his son would obey. He replied saying how delighted he would be to accept young Priscus but covered himself by saying his decision was subject to the Emperor’s final approval.
The Noble Nonius Priscus arrived shortly after the troops were able to move into their renovated fortress. He was followed by a train of four carts. One carried his furniture, another his staff; a cook, a barber, a masseur, two body servants and a clerk. A third held his stock of wine and delicacies and the last his carpets and ornaments. He rode a white horse with a decorated saddle and bridle. On one hip he wore an ivory handled sword in a gold-embossed scabbard. He was of middle height, and handsome with chestnut hair and perfect teeth. After he had been sworn in under the eagle standing on the parade ground rostrum beside Tertius Fuscus, he gave his introductory speech to the legion gathered to greet their new senior tribune.
“Men of The Second Lucan, you do not know me yet. You will come to do so over the next few days. You will find me hard; hard but fair. I will not stand for sloppiness of any sort. Uniforms will be spotless, armour will be polished, swords will be sharp, drill will be perfect. Do your best to please me and all will be well, fail me and you will be punished.”
Tertius stared over the men’s heads at some undefined point in the distance while Priscus spoke. The men looked at him expressionlessly.
The legate called a meeting of the senior officers to introduce them to Priscus individually.
Titus Attius bowed and took the tribune’s hand to shake it. It was very soft and white; each evening Priscus rubbed scented ointment into his hands to keep them that way.
“A centurion, marvellous, backbone of the army,” he said.
“Not “a centurion” sir; I am “the” centurion, Titus Attius First Spear Centurion of The Second Lucan.”
“But still, a centurion as I said, eh?” Priscus responded, irked at being corrected as he saw it.
A look of distaste flickered over his face when he met Soranus and saw the tribune’s maimed left hand. Soranus noticed and went slightly pink.
Priscus did not offer to shake Otto’s hand.
“You’ll be one of the auxiliary chappies,” he said.
“I am Otto Longius, Prefect of Cavalry, sir,” Otto told him.
“Yes, but auxiliary cavalry.”
“No, regular Roman cavalry, sir.”
“I do not understand”,… Priscus began.
Tertius Fuscus came to his aid. “Prefect Otto Longius was made a Roman citizen and enrolled in the Equestrian Order by the Emperor himself,” he explained.
Priscus gave a short chuckle. “How eccentric our dear Emperor can be at times.”
The first problem arose after the meeting. Soranus showed the new Senior Tribune to his quarters. He found them unacceptable. As he told Tertius, there was no accommodation for his suite of servants.
“You have a bedroom, a reception room and an office, the same as all the senior officers,” the legate told him.
“But I need somewhere to put my people. I’m sure two of the other officers could share so that I could take over one of their quarters…”
“Ask Roman officers to double up to make room for your servants? No, Nonius, it won’t do. It will not do at all!”
Eventually the quartermaster found a storeroom that they could use.
“Have it swept out and whitewash the walls,” Priscus ordered him.
“Who by, sir”
“Soldiers; there seems to be plenty of them with nothing better to do.”
“You expect the men to clean up the place for your servants?” asked the astounded quartermaster.
“I expect you and the legionaries to obey the orders of their senior tribune,” Priscus told him coldly.
A surly fatigue party cleaned out the room while an angry optio snapped at them. He thought the duty beneath a soldier of Rome as much as his men did.
The recruits came in. Not the sixteen-hundred Legate Fuscus had wanted but after the initial weeding out, there remained nearly fifteen-hundred willing young men. There were divided into groups of eight, the basic number who shared a tent on campaign, and then combined into centuries of eighty. Among them were thirty old sweats still fit enough to serve and twenty-two who had been corporals or optios. Titus Attius would not confirm any man in his former rank until they had been through basic training once more and he could assess their qualities of leadership. They drilled and marched endlessly, or so it seemed to the new recruits. Their lives were punctuated by the yelled abuse of their officers and the thwack of a vine-staff across the shoulders or the back of their legs. By the end of the first month, forty who were not up to the rigours of army life had been discharged and the remainder were beginning to get to grips with the grinding routine.
“Javelin drill tomorrow, Otto, fancy coming along to let new lads see how it should be done?” Titus asked.
A practice range had been set up on level ground outside the walls. The targets were three straw dummies on poles. The men lined up twenty paces away and threw the heavy javelins for the first time. An appreciable number hit the targets or plunged into the ground either side or beyond them. This was not a bad result. These weapons were generally used against a massed enemy so, in practice, a close miss would kill or wound the man standing next to the enemy at whom they had aimed. After three attempts, the throwing line was moved back five paces. There were still a good number of strikes. At thirty paces, the number fell dramatically. Otto strolled up bare-headed and wearing only his boots and a belted tunic. He saluted Titus Attius.
“Greetings First Spear Centurion Attius, what are you doing?” he asked loudly enough for the trainees to hear.
“We are learning how to cast a javelin today, Prefect Longius. Would you like to have a try?” Titus replied, in a voice
also designed to carry.
“Show me how to hold it, then,” Otto responded, acting out the usual pantomime with Titus.
Titus played his part and Otto grasped the javelin.
“Which target?” he asked innocently.
“Try the one on the left,” Titus replied.
“I’ll do my best,” Otto said.
The target wobbled; transfixed dead-centre.
“A chance shot, prefect. I bet you couldn’t do it again; the one on the right, this time.”
The right-hand dummy exploded at the impact; wisps of its straw stuffing blowing away on the slight breeze.
“Oh my, what luck you have Prefect Longius. Let’s make it a little more difficult shall we?”
With Otto beside him carrying his remaining javelin, Titus loudly counted out fifteen paces back. and scratched a line in the turf. They were now forty-five paces away from the final target. Otto spat on his hands and grinned at Titus. This was the final act. It was to show what could be done. The watching recruits would almost certainly never be able to match the power and skill Otto displayed.
“What do you think you are doing?” a voice behind them asked.
Senior Tribune Nonius Priscus stood in immaculate full uniform looking at them with feigned surprise.
“I’m helping Titus Attius train the new men,” Otto replied.
“And do you think it appropriate for a cavalry officer to be performing arms drill with common infantrymen? Eh? Improperly dressed and behaving in such a way as to lose the respect of the men for their officers?”
“Prefect Longius is…” Titus began but Priscus interrupted him.
“I was not addressing you,” Priscus snapped at the First Spear Centurion. “Longius, what have you to say for yourself?”
Otto said nothing but spun and launched his missile. The central straw man burst apart and was knocked to the ground. The javelin, thrown with the additional force of his anger, destroyed it. The recruits gave a cheer. Priscus reddened.
“Would you care to have a go, Senior Tribune Priscus?” Otto asked
The tribune turned on his heel and stalked back inside the fortress.
He did not let the matter rest there. That night was an officers’ mess evening. Titus Attius sat hunched over his food in hostile silence. Otto was equally withdrawn.
“How is the training coming along, Titus?” Tertius Fuscus enquired.
Before he could answer, Priscus jumped in.
“On that subject, legate, I am still waiting for Prefect Longius’ answer to my question. Why was he practising javelin throwing out of uniform with the other ranks?”
“It assists First Spear Centurion Attius to turn recruits into effective soldiers.”
“But is it appropriate? That is the question.”
“No it isn’t” Titus growled. “But anything that anyone, officer or ranker, can do to help these new lads learn their trade is the right thing to do. About that, there’s no question.”
“I practice sword drill on the posts three times a week under the training officer,” Soranus said, trying to lighten the mood.
“No-one asked you to speak, Soranus,” Priscus told him.
“Since when does an officer have to be granted permission to speak on mess-nights?” he demanded indignantly.
“Junior officers should be silent,” Priscus retorted.
“Prefect Longius is the best javelin thrower I have ever seen in my long service. His expertise gives the men something to strive for. In fact, there is a standing reward of one gold piece for any man who can best him. It’s a tradition of The Second Lucan,” Titus growled, speaking for the first time that evening.
“And when did this so-called tradition start, centurion?”
“Up on the Rhine a few years ago, tribune.”
“I think you meant to say, “Senior Tribune Priscus” did you not?”
“As much as you meant to address me as First Spear Centurion Attius.”
“In Germany a few years ago? Not what one might call an “ancient” tradition, then. In any case, behaviour and indeed personnel suited to the barbaric wastes of the borderlands will not necessarily do in a legion garrisoned in Italy,” Priscus told him.
Titus, Otto and Soranus looked at Legate Tertius Fuscus for some supporting comment but none came. Tertius was a troubled man. During his service in Upper Germany, he had come to see the legion camp as an island of security in the perilous wilderness surrounding it. The interdependence of officers and men was an unstated pact necessary for mutual survival; this had altered some of his long-term attitudes because they were irrelevant if not harmful in the hostile situation in which he had found himself. But now, things were different. The legion, officers and men, no longer needed to stick together through thick and thin simply to ensure that most of them would be alive the next day. As the fear of imminent danger diminished, he found he was slipping back to his previous ways of thought.
Officers were noble, soldiers were commoners, centurions could become Equestrians if they lived long enough and accumulated sufficient money. Nobles disdained commoners as uncouth beings. If one of them managed to gain wealth or rise in the political world, he could never truly become one of Tertius Fuscus’ class. In Germany Tertius would have scoffed at the idea that Otto Longius was letting the side down by joining in weapons drill. Here, close to three Roman cities with nothing but peaceful countryside in between them, he was no longer sure who was in the right. So he said nothing. Nonius Priscus took his silence for assent.
New tribunes arrived, the privileged sons of the Fuscus tribe’s political allies. They contributed the minimum they could and spent much of their time hunting in the hills. As the longest serving tribune below Priscus, Soranus should have been next in rank and privilege but he found himself over-worked because he was ordered to perform the duties the young huntsmen avoided. Protesting got him nowhere and alienated his superior officer. It all came to a head one mess-night.
“Tribune Soranus, could you do us all the favour of keeping your crippled hand below the table out of sight? It puts me off my dinner to have to see it,” Priscus called down the table.
One of the new tribunes giggled.
“I lost my thumb to a German spear,” the humiliated Soranus explained
“Some while ago, you told me you regularly attend sword drill under the training officer. Can’t be much use at it if some hairy barbarian can do you that amount of damage. Please keep it in your tunic or something. Your left hand is quite repulsive; reminds me of a chicken’s foot.”
The colour drained from Soranus’ face. Livid and red-eyed with outrage he stood and stared at the senior tribune, murder written all over him. The next day he resigned his commission; the day after he was gone.
“I am sorry for this,” Otto told him.
“Not as sorry as I am. I once behaved badly towards you, Otto but I have always counted you as a friend. We have been through a lot together, unlike the fashionable newcomers. I could write to you when I am settled in Rome.”
“I would like that, my friend.”
The upheaval of Soranus’ sudden departure emboldened Priscus. One day several weeks later, Felix limped past him on the parade ground, whistling as usual. He fell silent and saluted the officer without breaking stride.
“You, man,” the senior tribune shouted. “Stand still.” He walked around Felix examining him. “Don’t you come to attention when addressed by an officer?” he demanded.
“Doing my best, sir,” Felix replied.
“Don’t speak until given permission. Here,” he called to a nearby optio, “lend me your stick thing.”
He reluctantly handed over his vine-staff. Priscus took it and rapped Felix on his bent leg.
“Come to attention in a proper, soldiery manner,” he ordered. Felix hissed with pain but the offending leg could never be straightened again. Priscus hit him again, much harder. Tears welled up in Felix’s eyes and he bit his lip against the wave of agony in his
knee. The tribune raised the vine-staff high to strike him a third time but the optio’s plea made him stop before the blow fell.
“Sir, don’t do that I beg you. This is Evocati Felix, his knee was smashed by a German axe,” he said.
“In which case, why is the useless cripple still wearing the uniform?”
The centurion was horrified. “Evocati Felix was awarded a gold chain for gallantry during an ambush and received a commendation and medal for his conduct when we were besieged. You mustn’t abuse him like this sir, you really mustn’t.”
“Mustn’t? Mustn’t! Who do you think you’re talking to? When Attius hears of this you will be reduced to the ranks and flogged. I shall see to it personally,” Priscus roared and flung the vine-staff back at the optio. He caught one end but the other flipped up and struck his left eyebrow. A few drops of blood welled up.
Felix and the optio looked at each other in shock.. They were both left speechless by the criminal disrespect that had been shown to the centurionate and feared the consequences.
A delegation of junior officers told Titus Attius the story. He did not explode in foul-mouthed rage as they had expected. He nodded grimly and marched away to request an urgent meeting with the legate and the senior tribune.
“When Senior Tribune Nonius Priscus threw the optio’s vine-staff at him he committed an outrage. The situation can still be recovered if he will apologise to the man concerned,” he told them calmly but in a tone of voice shaking with repressed outrage.
“I will not,” Priscus replied with a sneer.
“I was not addressing you, sir,” Attius told him. “My remarks were for my legate.”
“Impossible, Titus. I cannot countenance a senior officer humiliating himself in front of the men as you suggest,” Tertius told him.
“I did not mean a public apology, sir, I know that would be out of the question. I suggest in private, to the optio who was insulted. That will do.”
Knight of Rome Part II Page 22
