Once his duty was assigned, each man saluted and left to carry out his orders. Last to go was Titus Vinius. He was glaring pointedly at me and Caesar was not unaware of the fact.
“That will be all, First Spear,” Caesar said. “You have leave.”
Vinius almost said something, thought better of it, saluted and left, trailing a miasma of hatred so palpable you couldn’t have heaved a spear through it.
“Well, Decius Caecilius, what am I to do with you?” Caesar said when Vinius was gone. It was a good question. The duties of tribunes and staff officers are seldom clearly defined. Everyone knows what a legionary is supposed to do, likewise with optios and centurions. A general and his legatus have a clear commission from the Senate and People. The rest of the officers are pretty much the general’s to dispose of in whatever fashion pleases him. Sometimes, a general will think a tribune capable enough to be given command of a legion. More often, a tribune is expected to keep out of the way.
“Am I to take it that I have already forfeited my cavalry command?”
“You could forfeit much more than that. Do not provoke me, Decius. I am not favorably inclined toward you just now. I requested your presence here as a personal favor. I know that I had at the time what seemed like a good reason for wanting you with me on this campaign, but I confess that the reason escapes my memory.”
He pondered for a while and I sweated. I was sure that there had to be some loathsome duty he could put me to. There always is, in an army.
“It is clear that you have too much time on your hands, Decius. You need something to keep you busy and at the same time remind you of the discipline required of a soldier’s life. From now on, you are to report to an arms instructor at first light every morning and you are to exercise at arms, interrupting only for officer’s calls, where you are to stand in the back and say nothing. At noon, you are to return to your clerical duties here. At night . . . well, I shall find something for you to do at night—something that does not involve the sentries.”
So I was in for humiliation. It could have been worse.
“It may seem to you that I am showing unwarranted leniency with you. It is only because I, too, consider Vinius’s treatment of that contubernium to be unwise. However, he knows the men and he knows the legion and you do not. If he wishes to make an example of them, that is not unreasonable, at the beginning of a campaign. That way, the other men will know exactly what to expect. However, I voiced no such doubts to Vinius, and if his general deems it unnecessary to reprimand a centurion for measures he employs to discipline his men, it is certainly not the job of a newly arrived officer of cavalry to countermand his instructions. I am not accustomed to explaining myself to subordinates, Decius. I trust you appreciate this extraordinary privilege.”
“Certainly, Caesar!” I said fervently.
“I do this only because I know you are an intelligent man, despite your many deceptively stupid actions. As to your ala, I will leave you in that position, but you are to ride with them only for parade until I instruct otherwise. A combat command is entirely too dignified and serious for you at the moment, and Lovernius is perfectly capable of handling them in the meantime. That will be all, Decius. Report to the arms instructor. One of the legionary trainers, not just a sword instructor. I want you to regain your feel for the pilum and the scutum.”
I winced, knowing what I was in for. “As you command.” I saluted, whirled on my heel, and marched away. I was quite unsatisfied, but that was no concern of his. I wanted to talk to him about Vinius’s actions and my reservations about the man himself, but Caesar was clearly not interested. It struck me that Vinius had distracted attention from his questionable behavior by making this a personal clash of wills between him and myself. I knew then that I had made a far more dangerous enemy than I had supposed. I had thought that I was past underestimating men because of their low breeding and boorish attitudes, but I have frequently been wrong about myself.
Hermes was surprised to see me show up at the training compound between the legionary camp and that of the auxilia. He was even more surprised when I submitted myself for arms training. The young recruits paused to gape at the unexpected sight until their instructors barked at them to resume their monotonous exercises. The repetitious clunk of practice swords against shields resumed.
“You’ve done this before, Captain,” the spear instructor said, “so you know the drill. You can warm up for a while with the javelins, then you start in with the pilum. The shields are over there.”
My shoulder twinged with anticipation, knowing what was to come. Javelin throwing is an agreeable enough sport, one at which I excelled. Of course, there is a major difference between tossing the things out on the Campus Martius, without a shield and dressed in a tunic, and going through the same exercise wearing armor with a legionary’s scutum on your left arm.
The scutum is nothing like the light, flat, narrow cavalry shield, which is called a clipeus. The scutum covers a man from chin to ankles and is as thick as a man’s palm. It is oval in shape, made of three layers of thin wood, steamed and glued so that it curves around the body, giving protection to the sides and improving the balance. It is backed with thick felt and surfaced with bullhide, and completely rimmed with bronze. The long, spindle-shaped boss makes a spine down the center, its widened middle section hollowed out to accommodate the hand. The boss is sheathed with bronze: this tremendous contraption has to be managed with a single, horizontal hand-grip in its center, behind the boss.
In truth, the scutum is not so much a shield as a portable wall, turning a line of legionaries into an advancing fortress. In the famous “tortoise” formation a unit of cohort size can advance with scuta overlapped in front, back, sides, and overhead like roof tiles, invulnerable to anything smaller than a boulder hurled by a catapult.
In ordinary use, the scutum doesn’t have to be maneuvered much, because it leaves so little uncovered to begin with. In a stand-up, toe-to-toe fight, it need only be raised a few inches from time to time to ward off a thrust to the face. But when hurling the javelin, it has to be raised high for balance, placing great stress on the left wrist and shoulder. That will only happen a few times in the course of a battle, but in practice it just goes on over and over—and so it was that morning.
Javelins are about four feet long, lightweight weapons to soften up the enemy before the battle lines clash. The pilum is another matter entirely. It is man-height, made of ash or other dense wood, and as thick as your wrist up to the balance point, where it flares to form an area as long and as thick as a forearm. The rest of its length is an iron shank terminating in a small, barbed head. Compared to a javelin, it has all the flight characteristics of a pointed log.
Military tinkerers are always coming up with ways to improve the pilum, the idea being to make it difficult for an enemy to throw it back at you, always a hazard with missile weapons. Marius slotted the iron head into the wooden shaft, fixing it with one rivet made of iron and another made of wood. The idea was that, upon impact, the wooden peg would break and the shank would then rotate on the iron one, rendering it useless for throwing. Caesar’s innovation was to temper only the point, allowing the relatively soft shank portion to bend. This must have made him popular with the armorers, who had to straighten them out after the battle.
Of course, the pila employed for training were of a more permanent nature. The target was a man-sized straw bale fifty feet away. The pilum is never thrown farther than that. This is primarily because there is hardly a man alive who can throw one farther than that. Most centurions instruct their men to get within ten feet before hurling the pilum. That way you can scarcely miss and the effect is devastating.
The purpose of the pilum is not so much to kill the enemy as it is to deprive him of his shield. With the massive thing firmly lodged in the shield and bent past further use, the warrior can only abandon the shield or else employ it very inefficiently. The commonly taught technique is to nail the enemy’s shield with t
he pilum, draw your gladius, step in, give the shaft of the pilum a kick to uncover the unfortunate wretch, and stab him. Most barbarians are too lazy to pack around heavy shields of the Roman type, so as often as not the pilum goes right on through the flimsy shield and impales the man behind it. Then there is nothing left to do except to find another barbarian to stab. Sometimes barbarians try to endure the first storm of missiles by huddling behind overlapped shields, only to find all their shields nailed together by pila so that all have to be abandoned, leaving them defenseless.
In short, although the sword gets all the glory, the pilum is our battle-winner.
The drill with the pilum was always the same: step out, raise the spear over the shoulder, then, at the proper range, take one very long step. Back goes the pilum, up comes the scutum, and heave. To get the massive spear fifty feet you have to use your whole body and you feel the strain from your right wrist to your left ankle. And in training, this goes on hour after hour. The instructor encourages you with his wittiest line of patter.
“Not very good, sir, but at least you won’t have to walk so far to fetch it, will you?” Or: “I think you scared him that time, sir, but I hear the Germans don’t scare so easy, so you’ll have to do better than that.” Or: “Not quite like making speeches in the Forum, is it, Captain? See if you can do it without nailing your own foot next time.” Or: “What did you do in your last legion, sir? Did you have your slave heave your toothpick for you?” At least he was ruder to the recruits.
Just when I was about to welcome death from exhaustion, it was time for sword drill.
“There’s your enemy, sir,” the ex-gladiator said, pointing to the straw-wrapped post in front of me. “Now kill him! You’ve trained in the Indus, unlike young Hermes here, so you should be able to dispatch this barbarian without fuss. Here, just to make it easier for you, I’ll give you an aiming mark.” He took a piece of charcoal and drew a circle as big around as the tip of my little finger at throat level. “There. Can’t miss that, can you? Now, to the throat, thrust!” The last word snapped out like the bow of a ballista, powered by twisted rope, launching an iron bolt.
If I hadn’t already destroyed my arm and shoulder hurling the pilum, I probably could have managed it. As it was, I could hardly raise my sword high enough to make the thrust. My point lazed upward along a wobbly course like a very sick fly, eventually striking the stake about five inches to one side and six inches below the mark.
The swordmaster cupped his chin and clucked, to the vast amusement of an assortment of idle bystanders, of whom there were far too many for a well-run army encampment.
“Sir, I think I detect a certain basic flaw in your technique. Shall I tell you about it? Yes? Well, for starters, it’s best if you thrust quickly. Once your swordarm is out in front of your shield, it is completely unprotected. This is why we gladiators wear the manica when we fight in the Games.” He referred to the heavy wrapping of leather and bronze gladiators wear to protect the unshielded arm. “Your point should go out, strike, and be back behind your shield before your enemy sees anything coming.
“But that is not what you just did. Between the time you launched your thrust and the time that your point missed its target, not only did your barbarian have ample leisure to hack your arm off, but several of his friends sauntered over to have a go at you as well. Now, let’s try that again, and this time, try not to disgrace yourself utterly, eh?”
I was, if I may boast, a good swordsman. But I was out of practice and dreadfully fatigued from the pilum drill and I had had no sleep the previous night. All this combined to make me look worse than the rawest recruit. Recall that I was doing all this in full legionary gear: helmet, mail shirt, scutum, bronzeplated weapon belts, and so forth, with a combined weight in excess of fifty pounds.
If truth be told, most Roman legionaries are at best competent swordsmen. A soldier has a vast number of duties to perform and several weapons to master, so sword drill occupies only a small part of his time. Battles are won by masses of men working in close formation to bring the greatest strength to bear against the proper part of the enemy line at the proper time. Single combats of the Homeric sort are a relative rarity and the gladius is more often used to finish off an enemy already wounded by something else than it is employed in duelling with a specific opponent fighting with similar armament.
But gladiators do nothing except train for single combat all day long. They don’t have to pitch tents or dig ditches or stand guard duty or any of the hundred other duties of a soldier. Thus the best of them are artists with the sword, and this instructor was going to be satisfied with nothing that fell short of his own standard of perfection.
And so the long morning dragged on, until I felt like a statue made of wax, slowly melting in the heat. Most of my audience tired of the sorry spectacle and wandered off in search of other diversion. When the instructor finally called a halt to my sufferings, I dropped my shield, sheathed my sword, and pulled off my helmet. A cloud of steam rose from the helmet into the cool air like smoke from an altar.
I heard girlish laughter and looked around for its source, but the sweat pouring into my eyes blinded me for a while. When I blinked and swept the worst of it away, I saw Freda standing there watching me. Beside her was the ugly little slave, Molon.
“It is ancient custom,” I said, “to endure the rudeness of military instructors, who have the authority to upbraid trainees of whatever rank. Insolence from slaves is not so easily overlooked. Do not overestimate your privileged position as the property of the First Spear.”
“No need to be modest, Senator,” said the wretched Molon. “Pretty soon you’ll be fit to match against your slave boy there.” He nodded toward Hermes, who was gaping at the German slave girl with a lovestruck expression, utterly ignoring his master’s humiliation. I would have killed Molon, had I been able to raise my sword.
“And what gives you license to speak to a Senator in this fashion?”
“From what I hear, there are about six hundred of you Senators, and not many of you amount to much.”
That was damnably true. “But I am an exception.” What a liar I was. I hoped the German girl would be impressed, but I thought it unlikely that she knew what a Senator was.
He quirked a misshapen eyebrow at me. “Really? From one of the big families?”
“You mean you are unaware of the gens Caecilia?”
He shrugged his humped shoulders. “I’ve never been to Rome. But now I think of it, there’s been a Caecilius or two in charge here in Gaul.”
“There? You see?” It may seem odd that I should stand there, drowning in my own sweat, trading idle chitchat with a grotesque, insolent slave. I can only say that my situation had departed somewhat from the path of strict sanity and even this odd diversion was welcome. That, and the presence of the German girl.
“Romans,” she said, as if we were something amusing, incomprehensible, and slightly distasteful. To my disappointment she turned and sauntered away, doubtless to inspire erections wherever she passed. Molon stayed where he was. He looked around, then came closer to me.
“Look, Senator, would you happen to need a new slave?”
I was astounded. “You mean Freda? I doubt that I could afford her, and Vinius would surely never sell her to me!”
“Not her, me! Would you consider buying me?”
“Whatever for? Hermes gives me worry enough as it is.”
He nodded and assumed a crafty look. “Just so. I can keep an eye on him for you, beat him when he steals, things like that. You have the look of a master too softhearted to flog a slave.”
“I can see why that would make me attractive to you. Why should I want you?”
“I know this country, Senator. I know the land and all the tribes, I can speak the languages. The local people think the world of me, sir.”
“I could see in what high esteem those German envoys held you. If you are so valuable, how could Vinius bring himself to part with you?”
“Well, Senator, my master has plans that don’t include me, and I think he’d sell me cheap. You could use an intermediary if you don’t want to haggle with him.”
“Listen here, my man. You don’t fool me. I’ve seen every Latin and Greek comedy ever written, and I know that slaves as ugly as you are always conniving rogues. Go try to sell yourself elsewhere.”
He grinned slyly, but then all his expressions were sly. “Just think it over, Senator. I think you’ll realize what a bargain I am.” He turned and walked, or rather lurched, off.
“You’re not going to buy him, are you?” Hermes said, aghast.
“I might,” I warned him, “if you don’t make yourself more valuable.”
That night, after finishing my day’s work on Caesar’s reports, I sat in my folding chair and gave the matter some thought while I digested a frugal dinner, helped along by some heavily watered native wine. I found it surprisingly good. It was getting so that anything that didn’t taste like vinegar was agreeable.
Did Molon really expect me to buy him? If so, why? It was easy enough to imagine that he would not want to be the slave of a man like Titus Vinius. If the man treated his soldiers in such a fashion, what must the lives of his slaves be like? But did he expect Vinius to entertain an offer from me?
There was an obvious interpretation, of course: Vinius had put him up to it, wanting to plant a spy on me. I have always resisted such trains of thought. I have known too many men to dwell upon subversive enemy plans of this sort until they saw plots, spies, and conspiracies no matter what direction they looked.
On the other hand, in typical Roman political life of the day there were plots, spies, and conspiracies everywhere. One just didn’t expect to find anything so sophisticated and sinister in a legionary camp.
SPQR VI: Nobody Loves a Centurion Page 8
