SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion

by John Maddox Roberts

  “Get my gear,” I told Hermes, but he was already there with it. He helped me pull the mail shirt over my head and the twenty pounds of interlinked iron rings slid down my body to hang from my shoulders to just above my knees. I belted on my sword, drawing the belt tight to take some of the weight off my shoulders. With my helmet beneath my arm, I went in search of my troop.

  I found them gathered around a watchfire, a basket of loaves in their midst, a stack of wooden cups by the basket. A copper cauldron steamed over the fire. A ruddy-haired young man caught my eye as I drew near.

  “Join us, Captain,” he said. “Have some posca. It will clear the fog from your head.”

  “Good morning, Lovernius. If there’s nothing better to be had, I’ll take some.”

  He picked up one of the bowl-like wooden cups, dipped it in the cauldron, and handed it to me. I took a drink, winced, and made what must have been a comical face, for Lovernius and the others laughed. It takes years in the legions to actually enjoy hot vinegar and water, but at least it truly does wake you up.

  Lovernius was an Allobrogian aristocrat educated in Roman schools. He was clean-shaven and short-haired in the Roman fashion, but his face was tattooed with horizontal blue stripes. The day was, as predicted, growing lighter, and in that dim light I inspected my men. There were around a hundred men on the praetorian ala, and about twenty in this particular troop. Most were long-haired and wore the dangling mustaches that civilized people find repulsive. They were tattooed fancifully but at least none of them were painted. Over their bright checked and striped tunics they wore short, sleeveless mail shirts. The belts that cinched their shirts were decorated with bronze plaques worked in intricate designs. They all had beautifully made iron helmets crested with fanciful little horns and upright wheels. I hate to admit it, but the Gauls are much better metalworkers than the Romans. Each man wore an open-ended torque of twisted bronze, silver, or gold around his neck.

  Despite their tattoos and mustaches and barbaric ornaments, they were a handsome lot, as Gauls tend to be. They were well above the average Roman in height, their height emphasized by their upright, arrow-straight bearing. As warriors, they were by definition wellborn. As horsemen, they knew themselves to be superior to any mere foot soldier.

  It is not true, as many think, that all Gauls have blond or red hair, although fair hair predominates. About half of these men had the hair we think of as Gallic. The rest were in varying shades of brown, and one or two had hair as black as any Egyptian’s, but even these were fair of skin.

  The loaves were legionary bread; heavy, coarse, and dry. I tore one in two and dipped it in the posca to make it more edible. The men were giving me the same once-over I was giving them.

  “Would you care to address the men before we ride out, Captain?” Lovernius asked.

  “All right,” I said. I choked down a last bite of bread and tossed my cup to the ground. “Listen to me, you hairy-lipped scum. I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, and by will of the Senate and People of Rome I have power of life and death over you. I ask little except absolute obedience and I promise little for failure except instant death. Watch out for me in the field and I will watch out for you in the praetorium. You’ll never go short of loot while I’m your captain and you’ll never go short of punishment if you aren’t the best troop of the best ala attached to this legion. Keep arrows out of my back and I’ll keep the stripes off yours. Is that understood?”

  Soldiers like it when you talk to them like that. It makes them feel tough and manly. These grinned and nodded. I was making a good impression.

  The horses were somewhat small and rough to Roman eyes, but we are accustomed to the showy beasts we breed for chariot races. The Gauls never trim the manes or tails of their horses and these were still shaggy from their winter coats, so the impression they gave was not one of beauty. But I saw immediately that these creatures were ideal for the terrain we would be traversing.

  The men began to stroke their mounts and talk to them. Gauls love horses to the point of worship. Indeed, they even have a horse goddess named Epona, a deity we Romans sadly lack. Most of their festivals involve horses in one way or another.

  The youngest of the warriors, a boy named Indiumix, was detailed to care for my horse and see to its grooming and saddling. He displayed the beast to me proudly, enumerating its many virtues while he stroked it. When I was satisfied with my horse and the others, I mounted. Immediately, the skirts of my mail shirt bunched uncomfortably around my hips. I made a mental note to go to the armorer and have slits cut at the sides, cavalry-fashion.

  We left the camp by way of the Porta Decumana, the northern gate. I accounted myself an excellent horseman, but my Gauls made me feel clumsy. They all rode like centaurs, each man with his longsword, his lance, and a sheaf of javelins tied to his saddle, with his flat, oval shield slung across his back. (I should note that the names we used for them were only approximations of their real names, which we found hard to pronounce and impossible to spell. The Gallic language has sounds for which there are no Latin letters. That is why one Gallic chief may seem to have a dozen different names, depending upon who is writing the history.)

  We turned to the east, toward the lake. Lovernius explained that it was our duty every morning to inspect the great earthworks and receive the reports of the sentry officers. Thankfully, we would not have to ride the whole nineteen miles of it. The officers of the western half would ride to meet us somewhere in the middle. Every mile along its length a detachment of auxilia lay encamped. No doubt these men were nervous, for their camps were far more vulnerable to attack than the great legionary camp. But then, it is good for sentries to be nervous.

  The guards at the swampy lake end of the wall reported no incursions the previous night. And so it went for seven or eight miles; no enemy action except for curses and spells screamed from the darkness beyond. The sentries spoke contemptuously of these ineffective assaults, but it was daylight now. I knew that it had been different the night before, when these same men had clutched their weapons and strained their wide eyes toward those uncanny voices in the outer gloom.

  About noon, we came to a clear pool and dismounted to let the horses drink. I handed my reins to Indiumix and walked around the pool to stretch my legs. The muscles of my inner thighs were tight from clamping the barrel of the horse all morning. As I was about to turn back, a glimmer in the water caught my eye.

  I stepped out onto a flat rock in the water and bent to look more closely. Something gleamed from the shallows. Getting down on my knees, I fumbled for it, my efforts made clumsy by that magical property of water that made my arm seem to bend beneath the surface. But soon I had it out. It was a beautiful fibula, a Gallic cloak-pin of fine gold. Exultantly, I took it back to show my troopers.

  “Someone’s lost a good pin,” I said holding it up for them to admire. “Bad luck for them, good luck for me!” To my surprise, they looked shocked and angry.

  “Throw it back, Captain,” Lovernius said quietly. “A water sprite lives in there. Someone threw that in as an offering before embarking upon some dangerous feat, perhaps preparing for battle.”

  I looked at the brooch regretfully. “He may be dead and no longer need the sprite’s protection.”

  Lovernius shook his head. “It is death to take gifts pledged to the gods. It may have lain there a hundred years in full view, but no one would touch it.”

  I had seen Gauls toss small coins into pools for luck, but I did not know that it was taken so seriously. With a sigh, I threw the fibula back into the water, where it made a small splash. I was not about to offend the local gods. The men grinned and nodded, pleased that I respected their customs. It was also prudent. They probably would have killed me before we got back to the camp and made up a story about an enemy ambush.

  As we rode on, Lovernius told me just how seriously the Gauls took this aspect of their religion. Sometimes, before a battle, they would pledge a whole enemy army to their gods
in exchange for victory. After the battle, no enemy was spared. Not only were their bodies cast into a pool or marsh, but their weapons and armor, their baggage carts and treasure, their horses, cattle, and slaves were all destroyed or killed and thrown in as well, so that not so much as a cloak or a copper coin remained as loot for the victors. All was given to the gods.

  There were places in the deep forests where great heaps of these strange battle trophies spent centuries slowly sinking into the mud. He also explained to me the horrible punishment meted out to anyone who took even the smallest item from one of them. I vowed never to go within spitting distance of such a trove.

  It was afternoon when we rode back into the camp. I tendered my report to Titus Labienus, Caesar’s legatus and deputy commander, then went in search of a legionary barber for a shave. I was not about to trust Hermes’ inexpert hand at so delicate a task.

  Freshly shaved, my stomach growling, I was walking back through the rows of legionary tents toward my own quarters and lunch when somebody hailed me.

  “Patron!”

  I looked around. I stood near the corner of a century block not far from the praetorium. The camp buzzed with the usual activities of such a place. Men in full gear marched to relieve the sentries, others swept and cleaned the streets, others carried supplies hither and yon. Little leisure is allowed in a legionary camp in the daytime. It is constantly being improved. There are always latrines to be dug, a bathhouse to be erected if the camp is to be occupied for a long time. And, it goes without saying, it never hurt to have that encircling ditch another foot deeper, the rampart another foot higher. Men with nothing else to do could always whittle a few more sharpened stakes to set in the bottom of the ditch.

  “Patron!” Now I saw a work detail tightening the ropes of a tent larger than the others and generally policing up its area. Doubtless it was their centurion’s tent, the lofty centurion being excused all such undignified labor. One of the men left the detail and trotted up to me. It took me a moment to recognize him.

  “Young Burrus!” I grasped his hands. He was the son of one of my clients, an old soldier who had served with me in Spain. “I was going to look you up. I have letters for you from your family.” I also had letters for a half dozen or so other soldiers in the legion, sons of other clients of my family. Any time word gets out that an officer is going out to join a particular proconsul or propraetor, he becomes a mail carrier. But Burrus was an especially close client, having backed me in some decidedly rough situations.

  “How is Father?” He grinned, showing that he had lost a tooth on one side.

  “As mean as ever. He swears that you’re living easy up here, that soldiering isn’t what it was in his day.”

  “That sounds like the old brute.” Lucius Burrus had been a boy when I had last seen him. Now he was a handsome young man, of medium height, well knit and with the enduring strength of the Italian peasant, just the sort every recruiter looks for. He was a bit the worse for the wear, though, with bruises on his arms and neck and anywhere else his skin showed.

  “They must be training you hard here,” I commented.

  He winced and looked sheepish. “It isn’t that. It’s . . .” His voice tapered off and his gaze went to the entrance of the tent. So did mine. There was an abrupt cessation of activity around the tent as the door flap swept aside and a goddess walked out.

  How does one describe perfection, especially when it is barbaric perfection? She was taller than any woman should be, taller than any man there. She was about an inch taller than I, although my thick-soled military boots put our eyes on a level. Her face was made up of features that should have robbed it of beauty: her jaw too long and narrow, her eyes set too close beside a nose that was too long and thin, her mouth too wide and full-lipped, her lips pushed outward by teeth that were too large. Taken together, the effect was devastating.

  Her thick, gold-blond hair fell over her shoulders and to her waist, contrasting with her straight, level, dark brows. Her eyes were ice blue, paler even than a Gaul’s, her skin whiter than a candidate’s toga, her body as slender as a charioteer’s whip, and as strong and supple. That body was rendered abundantly visible by her scanty tunic, which was made of red fox pelts.

  You may take it from this that the woman made a powerful first impression. You would not be wrong. Outside the tent she stood there, a flat-bottomed jug balanced on her shoulder, quite aware of the attention she drew and quite contemptuous of it. She didn’t just look like a goddess, she stood like one. Any athlete can look good in motion, but few mortals have the ability to stand superbly. Roman statesmen struggle for years to achieve such dignity and self-possession.

  And yet, here was near divinity embodied in a German slavegirl.

  My somewhat addled thoughts were interrupted by an ugly smack of wood against flesh and the thud of a falling body. I turned to see young Burrus on the ground. Titus Vinius stood over him with his vinestaff raised. Down it came across Burrus’s shoulders. The stick must have been soaked in oil, because it bent without breaking.

  “Don’t have enough work to do, you lazy little shit?” The stick came down three more times.

  An officer is never supposed to interfere with a centurion disciplining one of his men, but this was too much. I grasped his wrist before the stick could descend again. He wore a silver bracelet, a decoration for valor in some past battle, and it flexed slightly beneath my fingers.

  “Enough, Centurion! He is a client of mine. I was giving him news from home.”

  The eyes that glared into mine were not quite sane. “I don’t care if he’s the high priest of Jupiter and I saw what he was doing! Now release my arm, Captain. You are interfering where you have no business.” He seemed to have regained self-possession so I let him go. He lowered the vinestaff, but he kicked Burrus in the ribs with his hobnailed boot.

  “Get up, Burrus! If you’ve nothing better to do here than stand and ogle my property, then go join the latrine detail.” He turned his wrathful gaze on the others. “Shall I find work for the rest of you?” But they were already working furiously, looking anywhere except at him or the woman. I noticed that they all bore bruises, although none of them was as extravagantly marked as Burrus. The slave girl herself walked past us without a glance, as if we did not even exist. Even under the circumstances, I had to force myself not to stare after her.

  Burrus got to his feet, stooped with pain, his face flaming with rage and humiliation. He would not look at me and I was acutely embarrassed to have witnessed his degradation. He gathered his arms from one of the pyramidal stacks and trudged off.

  “That was excessive, Centurion,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice level. “It’s not as if he was asleep on guard duty.”

  “My men are mine to handle as I please, Captain,” he said, giving the word an unbelievably contemptuous twist. “You had better remember that.”

  “You are getting a little above yourself, Titus Vinius,” I said, as haughtily as I could manage. Being a Caecilius Metellus, that was haughtier than most.

  His lip curled slightly. “This is Caesar’s army, Metellus. Caesar understands that the centurions run things. It is we who will bring him victories, not the political flunkies in purple sashes.”

  I would have drawn my sword on him then, but Caesar could have had me executed for it. Under military law, Vinius had done nothing wrong. I tried an appeal to reason.

  “If you don’t want your men ogling your slave, give her some decent clothes. That woman is a menace to the morale of the whole army.”

  “I do as I like with my own property.”

  “You didn’t take your vinestaff to me, Vinius,” I pointed out. “I was staring as hard as he was.”

  “You’re not one of my men,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Besides, you are a Roman officer. You may stare all you like. Just don’t touch.”

  Pulling rank hadn’t worked. Reason had failed utterly. Well, where centurions were concerned, there was always greed. I reac
hed into the purse at my belt. “All right, Vinius. How much to leave the boy alone?”

  He spat at my feet. “Keep your money, aristocrat. He’s mine, the woman is mine, and if the truth be told, this legion is mine. I am First Spear of the Tenth. Proconsuls come and go, but the First Spear is always in charge.”

  I was stunned. I had never known a centurion to turn down a bribe. “I shall speak to Caesar about this.”

  “Go ahead. That’s what you politicians are good for, isn’t it? Talking?” Behind him I saw a dwarfish little man standing in the doorway of the tent where the German girl had stood before. He was grinning at my discomfiture with wide-gapped teeth. He had beastly red hair sticking out in all directions. I looked away. Things had come to such a pass that I could not even stare down a malformed slave.

  I turned and walked away. I had a powerful urge to say something biting, but it would only have made me look even more weak and ineffectual. At least Vinius did not laugh aloud as I retreated.

  This exchange may seem incredible to people who live their lives around the Forum, but the army is another world entirely. A man who has earned the position of centurion is almost as untouchable as a Tribune of the Plebs. He is expected to be a harsh disciplinarian, so he cannot be reprimanded for cruelty. He may do anything with his men short of killing them. Accepting bribes to excuse men punishment or onerous duties has been allowed for centuries as one of the perquisites of the rank. Only cowardice in battle is cause to punish a centurion, and while they may be many things, they are rarely cowards.

  As for force of character and moral ascendancy, such a man has few peers. People usually think that street gangsters and gladiators are tough, but that is because they have never met a Roman centurion with twenty years of brutal campaigning behind him. There is a centurion in command of every century, and there are sixty centuries to each legion. The First Spear is always the toughest of the lot.

  No longer hungry, I went to the armorer to have my mail shirt altered and cool down in the meantime. I knew it would be foolish to go to Caesar with anger-fogged thoughts. While the armorer worked, I went over his stock of used weapons. By the time I had found suitable arms, I was back in my customary state of philosophical equanimity. I bought a good Gallic long-sword that was far better for mounted combat than anything I owned, and an old but sound gladius, together with sheaths and shoulder belts to go with them.