LEGION

by William Altimari

  “I’ll give you ten for the best sword in Gaul.”

  “Give me eight,” Hetorix said, “and I’ll give you the best sword on earth.”

  10 THUNDERBOLTS THAT STRIKE BLINDLY AND IN VAIN.

  Pliny

  ______

  The sun had set by the time Rufio finished meeting with the other five centurions of the Second Cohort. As the senior centurion in the cohort, Rufio would command all six centuries in battle. Two of the centurions had served with him in other legions, and they had been happy to see him. That had lifted his spirits. And they were in need of lifting. His back wound was pulling him down, and the appearance of Adiatorix had revived the pain of an ancient agony.

  The sound of a galloping horse stopped him along the Via Praetoria. He turned and looked back up the street. The hoofbeats told of trouble racing through the night air. It was odd how the tension of a rider conveyed itself to his mount. This horse sensed much.

  “Centurion!” the rider said as he pulled up before him.

  In the bright moonlight, Rufio recognized Titinius.

  “What is it?”

  “Orders from Sabinus. Report to the Porta Praetoria. The Gauls are howling and reaching for their spears. The chief demands to speak with you. Take my horse.”

  Titinius dismounted and Rufio sprang into the saddle. He reined about and galloped off toward the main gate.

  The invigorating wind buffeted his face and the ache in his back was gone. He pulled up before a cluster of men just inside the gate.

  Torches held by several soldiers blazed in a semi-circle before a pack of angry Gauls. Sabinus stood calmly in front of them as Adiatorix argued and pounded a fist against his own chest. Four centurions flanked Sabinus. All were wearing their swords.

  Rufio slid from the saddle.

  “Quiet!” he shouted above the Celtic din. “Respect for the Legate of Caesar!”

  The Gauls stopped as if they had been struck in the face.

  Rufio strode across the open ground toward Sabinus.

  Clearly pleased that Rufio had come, Adiatorix stepped forward, but Rufio placed his hand against the Gaul’s big chest and pushed him back. He walked by the chieftain as if he did not exist.

  “Commander,” Rufio said.

  “The Gauls have a grievance and they wish to address you. Adiatorix believes you will speak for their cause.”

  “Does he?” Rufio said and turned to face the chieftain. “My loyalty is to my commander and my cause is the will of Caesar. Now what is your complaint?”

  Stunned by Rufio’s response, Adiatorix hesitated.

  “Speak, Gaul, or go.”

  “A slave dealer is on his way to Aquabona. We had word from a village downriver. He brings with him many Sequani slaves—people from our own village. We demand these slaves be restored to their homes.”

  Rufio turned to Sabinus. “May I speak, commander?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you to demand anything?” Rufio asked the chieftain.

  “We’re a noble people loyal to Rome.”

  “You’re a conquered people. You may demand nothing. You may request.”

  “Then we request,” he said, biting the words to death in his mouth.

  “And Rome declines,” Rufio answered. “Slaves are the lawful possessions of their owners. The soldiers of Caesar have no legal right to interfere.”

  “You had the right before these people were enslaved. But that commander didn’t act and then stopped us from acting.”

  “There’s no need to repeat the story. That was unfortunate—but a chieftain of the Sequani should be wise enough to know he cannot recover the past.”

  “I misjudged you,” Adiatorix said. “I was childish enough to hope you might speak up for these people.”

  “They’re not my concern.”

  “They are loyal subjects of—”

  “They’re property! Like a saddle or a dog. Are there no German slaves in Gallic huts? Are there no German heads in jars of cedar oil above Gallic doors?”

  Adiatorix glared at him in useless rage.

  “You play the game, Chief, and when it fails to go your way, you call on Rome to smash the dice.”

  Adiatorix whirled and vanished through the gate like a fierce wind. His men hurried behind.

  Some of the younger soldiers holding torches laughed, as young men will, but the centurions remained silent.

  “Thank you, Rufio,” Sabinus said and dismissed his men.

  “Commander,” Rufio said, as Sabinus was about to head for the Praetorium.

  The Legate looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “This is not the end of it.”

  “I know,” he said and turned and walked off into the darkness.

  Of the many rooms in the barracks allotted to the centurion, Rufio had chosen a pair with a southern exposure as his primary living and sleeping quarters. He tossed his dagger belt onto a wicker chair and stepped up to the brazier in the corner. Adorned with lions’ heads, it was a pleasing sight after the snarling Gauls. He rubbed his hands together above the embers to melt away the chill.

  The walls were adorned with Oriental tapestries he had brought from the East. Below them were racks holding scrolls of military writings and other histories he had collected during his years in the army, and which he still studied.

  He took a glowing ember with a pair of tongs and lit the three oil lamps hanging from the bronze stand near the couch. The clever arrangement of the lamps softened the shadows and made the room pleasant and cozy.

  He returned the ember to the brazier, then lay down on the couch.

  “Neko,” he called out, but the man was already on his way in.

  “Thank you,” Rufio said when the Egyptian handed him a cup of heated wine. “Do you always read my mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you read tonight?”

  “Weariness, I think.”

  “Did you call the augurs? You don’t need a haruspex to read that.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Tonight the slave-owning Gauls were screaming about slavery. What do you think of that?”

  His full dark lips widened in a smile. “Do you expect the Gauls to be logical? Do you expect them to be Greeks?”

  “Of course, he had a good point, but I wasn’t in any position to concede it to him.”

  “I’m sure you acted in your usual judicious manner.”

  “Tell me, if I gave you your freedom, what would you do?”

  “I would thank you and go and get you another cup of Setian wine.”

  Rufio gazed at him with mock disappointment. “Don’t you think that would make you a fool?”

  “But is it not so that the fool is happier than the wise man?”

  Rufio laughed even though it hurt him to do so. “It is so, Neko, it surely is. And it’s just as sure that it was a happy day for me when I plucked you from the Nile.”

  “Like Moses.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A Hebrew prophet.”

  “Well, you don’t look the part. Go to the first barracks room and bring Lucius Valerius to me.”

  Rufio set aside the cup and stared at the ceiling. He grunted when Paki bounded onto his stomach. She walked up to his chest, then settled down and began kneading her claws into his blue tunic. Her purring was as loud as muffled thunder.

  “You’ll draw blood soon, my girl,” he said as her sharp claws sank through the wool to his skin. He placed two fingers under her chin and scratched, and her eyes narrowed to slits of contentment.

  When he heard the metal studs of Valerius’s sandals snap against the floor tiles, he picked up Paki and set her on the end of the couch. He took an armless wooden chair from against the wall and placed it opposite the wicker one.

  The two men entered and then Neko withdrew.

  “Reporting as ordered, centurion,” Valerius said in a neutral voice.

  “Sit.”

  Being asked to sit in a c
hair was a privilege bestowed only on women and honored guests. Valerius seemed surprised—and wary. The glances he shot around the room showed he had never before been in the centurion’s living quarters.

  Rufio sat across from him in the wicker chair.

  “I need information. Before I begin training tomorrow, I want to know the history of this century.”

  “May I ask the centurion why he picked me to tell him?”

  “Because I want to know. Tell me about the centurion.”

  “Titus Herennius was a fine soldier. But he was long past his day. Old injuries and sickness dragged him down. He was eager to retire. He fought at Actium. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t have the energy anymore to discipline. But we didn’t need it—we were a disciplined century. But then something odd happened. It’s hard to believe, but you can—”

  “If I didn’t believe you’d tell me the truth, I wouldn’t have ordered you here.”

  Valerius hesitated.

  “Patience is not your new centurion’s strongest quality. Tell me the story.”

  “There was a Gallic boy about eleven or twelve who liked to watch us train. He’d sit near the parade ground outside the fort and stay with us for hours. Even veterans can be flattered by that—though they’d never admit it. We adopted him as one of our own. Everybody took to him. He was a wonderful boy.”

  Valerius frowned and averted his eyes as he gathered his thoughts.

  Rufio remained silent.

  “One day we were marching near the lake. The boy was marching along next to us. We had the cobbler make him a pair of army sandals and Hetorix hammered out a dull-edged sword for him. He was as proud as any boy could be. While we were marching, a raven fell out of the sky—just dropped dead and hit him on the shoulder. It startled him but that was all. Yet many of the older soldiers said it was a bad omen. Everyone was quiet the rest of the day . . . .”

  “And then what?” Rufio said after Valerius had paused too long.

  “The next day was no different than any other. But the day after that the boy was not around. Herennius and a few of us younger men went into the village to see if anything had happened. We found his mother and father bending over him in their hut. His body had broken out into a mass of suppurating sores. He was burning up and delirious. We got one of the camp doctors—he’s Greek and a good one. But no treatment worked. The next day he began vomiting green slime. He died that night.”

  Rufio interlaced his fingers in front of his waist. “It’s a sad story, but there are many sad stories in life.”

  “No, there’s more. The next day the optio fell off his horse and broke his neck. Twelve years in the legions and he breaks his neck. Two days later a soldier choked to death on a piece of salted fish. Three days after that, two soldiers drowned while swimming in the lake. Sank like stones. No one could explain it. Then the idea spread that the century was cursed. Twenty-two men died of accident or sickness within a month of the raven’s fall.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I never placed much trust in omens. I do now.”

  “And Herennius?”

  “That was the worst of all. He began to waste away. He was a tough old boar, but he just started to disappear. The flesh melted from his body. The doctor was baffled. Herennius had no pain but he had no will left, either. He was shriveling to a husk in front of us. One day during a break on the march, he let us rest longer than usual, so I went to look for him. He was sitting against a tree—as dead as dust, eyes wide open. I never want to see anything like that again.”

  “Has anyone died since?”

  “No, but the damage is there. There’s a disease of the heart among the men that’s spread like foul humors. Some in the century are even saying we don’t belong here. Leave Gaul to the Gauls they say, or to the Germans or to whoever else wants it.” He paused. “But don’t ask me who said that, because I’ve forgotten.”

  “I wouldn’t even consider asking.” He stood up. “Thank you. Go to bed.”

  11 USE MAKES MEN READY.

  Roman saying

  ______

  I am about to become a soldier, and the anxiety I feel can barely be put into words. I am an outsider pushing at the door of a closed society. These are not men like Greek hoplites, who trudge off to battle in the sunny interlude between when they plant their seeds and the time they harvest their crops. They are here in the sweetness of spring, but they will also be here when the snow falls. They do not march out to protect their vineyards or wheat fields. These men are a professional army who must stand resolute and untiring for the finest years of their lives—some for their entire lives. Decades of training and experience are given over to preparation for war, deterrence of war, prosecution of war. What will such men make of me? Suddenly I am so frightened I can hardly breathe. Sleep is impossible. I feel I am about to be consumed.

  Diocles thought he would get an early start by arriving at the barracks before dawn. Everyone was dressed and washed, and the aroma of hot wheat porridge and bacon hung in the air.

  “I’m Diocles,” he said and he took a tentative step through the doorway.

  Most of the seven men gazed at him with that half-surly, half-indifferent look reserved for any outsider. It was the price to be paid by anyone attempting to enter a world where experience counted for much.

  “Come in,” a soldier sitting on a stool said in a friendly tone. “That’s your bunk.”

  Diocles laid down the leather sack that held some personal items.

  “I’m Valerius,” the soldier said. “The tesserarius. These wild hairs from a sow’s belly are the best tent group in the legion.”

  A few managed to force a nod.

  “Unless you’re aiming for Vestal Virgin, take off that ridiculous tunic and put on the one there on the bunk.”

  “But it’s been sun-bleached as a symbol of my goodness and piety,” he said and reached for the off-white one.

  Several of the soldiers cracked their cheeks in a smile.

  “Fine. That means there still might be hope for us to have our character improved.”

  Diocles peeled off his tunic and donned the slightly darker one. Also on the mattress were a bronze helmet, a pair of military sandals, a belt and dagger, and a bronze water flask.

  The leather sandals had thick soles studded with dome-headed nails. The upper parts sported a confusing array of thongs. As Diocles bent over, he shot a glance at the feet of one of the soldiers to see how they were fastened.

  The dagger was formidable looking. The double-edged leaf-shaped blade was about ten inches long with a strengthening ridge down the center. A thin sheet of bronze overlaid the handle and the scabbard was hammered from the same metal. Rectangular plates of tinned bronze decorated the leather belt. He fastened the belt around his waist with the dagger at his left hip, like everyone else.

  “No sword for you yet,” Valerius said in answer to Diocles’ questioning look around. “Not until you learn how to use it.”

  The water flask had been filled by someone, a thoughtful touch that surprised him. He tied it to his belt by the strap around its neck.

  “Helmets on and let’s face the sun,” Valerius said.

  The helmet was heavier than Diocles would have thought, and it was fitted inside with an iron skull plate. Fortunately, the helmet was lined with leather. He pulled it on and fastened it under his chin by the leather ties attached to the cheek guards.

  The century began assembling in the open space between the two barracks blocks. The puffy-eyed soldiers were yawning and loosening up when Rufio emerged from the building. Diocles knew that by now he should not have been surprised by his appearance. He looked as if he had just been scraped and buffed. Didn’t he sleep rumpled and messy like other men? Maybe he simply leaned himself against a wall at night like a spear.

  He stood before the center of the rank with his hands on his hips. Diocles had noticed that the centurions wore their swords
on their left hip and their daggers on their right, opposite the way of ordinary soldiers.

  “All awake?” Rufio asked. “Good. Today we march. There’s an auxiliary fort about ten miles north of here. We march there and back, military pace, six hours. Health check—anyone ill or injured, step forward.”

  No one did.

  “Good. Iron men. Let’s march.”

  When the men, six abreast, filed through the Porta Praetoria, the pink sun was just topping the trees on the horizon. The column turned onto the metalled road and headed north.

  Diocles was not accustomed to such early rising. He struggled to stifle a yawn when he noticed Rufio glance his way.

  The damp air invigorated as only a spring morning could. After the fetid alleys of Rome, Diocles had forgotten how miraculous the effect of sweet air could be.

  The century passed the civil settlement north of the fort and moved into the countryside, though they remained on the stone road. Like the recruits, Diocles had no idea how to march. Yet the new men were given no instruction. Apparently they were expected to pick it up by observation. Even more obscure was the reason for marching. It had always seemed to him an idiotic way for men to walk.

  Yet as the morning wore on and the column began to generate its own rhythm, the purpose of marching became obvious. Rather than being wearying, it was effortless once one got the feel of it. In some odd way, the legs took on a life of their own and swung forward without any conscious exertion at all. One’s mind could focus on other things, such as observing the terrain for enemies, and still the legs carried one forward in a way in which indifferent trudging never could.

  And there was a mental component as well. Diocles found the metallic cadence of the hobnails on the stone strangely compelling. It would have been no less so for the other men, though perhaps all were not sharp enough to realize it. Yet all must have felt it. The snapping rhythm of the nails was not simply the feet of men—it was the march of Rome. Relentless, reasoned, filled with the surety of its own destiny. True, there had been other marching feet down the centuries. Yet this was not the headlong rush of Xerxes and his ravening Asiatics. Nor was it Alexander and his amazed troops kicking in the doors of collapsing empires without thought or purpose. Something far different was rolling through the Gallic countryside.