LEGION

by William Altimari

  Mid-morning came before Rufio called the first halt. The column left the road and relaxed on the grass of a shady grove off to the right.

  Diocles pulled the leather stopper from his flask and took a small drink. “What is it?” he asked when Valerius sat next to him with a puzzled look. He noticed several purple bruises on the soldier’s neck.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I was ready to hate that motherless swine and then he does this. I don’t know.”

  “Does what?”

  “Gives us six hours for a five-hour march. That’s the standard—twenty miles, military pace, five hours. But he gives us six.”

  “Is that bad?” Diocles asked and reached down and rubbed his feet.

  “He probably did it for the recruits. I’ve never known a centurion to put any slack in the rope—for new men or anybody else.” He shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m surprised he’s not riding. I’ve seen his horse. It’s a beautiful animal. Small, though.”

  “It’s Numidian. No one breeds horses like the Africans. Rufio knows his mounts. It’s unusual for a centurion to have his own horse. He’s probably traveled with that stallion all over the empire. I’ve heard old soldiers say a Numidian can live on grass alone. Survive without grain.”

  Diocles gazed toward the edge of the glade. Rufio was sitting on the ground apart from the men with his back to them and staring into the distance. He seemed like the kind of man who would own such a horse. Life lived to its limit.

  “I want to hate the bastard,” Valerius said. “He almost strangled me yesterday.”

  “Why?”

  “I made a remark about centurions taking bribes. By the gods, they all take bribes! If you want to avoid some dirty job or go on leave, you have to bribe them. It’s part of the system.”

  “They why complain?” Diocles asked with annoying Greek fatalism.

  “They get paid more than fifteen times what a common soldier gets! Yet every time you need a favor, you have to give them a sweetener. Blood-sucking leeches.”

  “You gave yourself a title earlier. What was it?”

  “Tesserarius. I’m in charge of assigning work parties for different jobs within our century. The name comes from the fact that it’s also my duty to get and pass the watchword for the day. I get it on a tessera from one of the tribunes. Then I countersign the tablet and send it back. It changes every day.”

  “Sounds like an important position.”

  “I get one and a half times the pay of an ordinary soldier. But I’ll never rise any higher. I speak my mind too much.”

  “Discretion is one of the noblest virtues.”

  “See that sandy-haired fellow? That’s Metellus. You saw him in the barracks. He’s the signifer for our century. He carries our standard in battle—ours is a silver boar—and he’s in charge of the century money accounts. Soldiers’ savings and deductions from their pay and things like that.”

  “Speaking of that, when do we see silver?”

  “The next stipendium is in about three weeks. May, September, and January. Seventy-five denarii for your blisters. But you won’t get any this time. Recruits get no money until they’re entered onto the books as trained soldiers. That takes about four months. They got traveling money, though, before they left home.”

  Diocles looked at his swelling feet. “I think I’m being underpaid.”

  The sudden intensity in Valerius’s eyes caused Diocles to turn and follow his gaze.

  Rufio was on his feet and staring like a predator at some black speck on the road in the distance.

  “Century up!” the centurion said without looking at his men.

  “He is cautious, isn’t he?” Diocles said.

  “Yes,” Valerius agreed, in spite of himself.

  A cart full of people, driven by a middle-aged man with a dagger in his belt, came into view. Two riders followed.

  “Just slaves,” Valerius said. “They must be the Gauls that all the noise was about last night.”

  “There was trouble?” Diocles gazed at their hopeless faces.

  “Adiatorix wanted them freed. They came from his village originally. The Germans snatched them awhile ago.”

  “Why? To trade?”

  “The Suebi piss on Roman money, but they like Roman goods. The hairy-faced barbarians don’t know the first thing about making iron, but they know how to raid and rob and then barter for what they want.”

  “There’s a young girl with them.” Diocles watched Rufio approach the cart. “What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know. It was Rufio the chief asked for help.”

  Diocles snapped around in surprise. “And did he give it?”

  “No. A centurion’s loyalty is to his legion—not to this fallen race. What’s wrong? You look disappointed.”

  “Do I?”

  Rufio let the cart and riders pass and they traveled south down the road.

  The century fell into line again, but now Rufio had them march next to the road rather than on it. At first this seemed a sweet release from the hard stone, but soon Diocles’ thighs and hips ached as he struggled to march over the uneven ground.

  “We should be at the auxiliary fort soon,” Valerius said when he saw the sweat running down the Greek’s face.

  “My head feels like it’s baking inside this helmet.”

  Valerius laughed. “We don’t usually march with our helmets on.”

  “What’s an auxiliary fort anyway?”

  “A small fort for a troop of foreign soldiers who serve Rome. This one holds an ala of Gallic cavalry. Five hundred strong.”

  “They’re not citizens, then?”

  “No, but they will be on discharge.”

  A cool breeze heavy with the scents of spring flowers caressed Diocles’ grateful face.

  “Even the Germans are enlisted sometimes,” Valerius said. “Caesar himself used German cavalry against the Gauls. We have our own cavalry—about a hundred and twenty scouts and messengers. But the Gauls and Germans are better horse-fighters.”

  “So you use whatever works best. . . .”

  “It’s the Roman way.”

  As the century marched on, Rufio took a position near Diocles and Valerius. The man seemed tireless. His face looked as cool and dry as if he had just risen from a nap in some shady bower.

  He turned and gazed back over his shoulder.

  “Century halt!”

  Diocles had heard nothing, but now he detected hoofbeats. He looked back the way they had come. A horseman was racing toward them up the road from the south.

  “Titinius,” Valerius said while the rider was still a good distance off.

  “You have a sharp eye,” Diocles said.

  “Mostly for young ladies.”

  “Quiet in the ranks!“ Rufio ordered.

  The tribune reined up his lathered mount in front of Rufio.

  “The century is ordered to return to the fort immediately,” the tribune said. “We found three murdered Roman traders on this side of the river.”

  “Germans?” Rufio asked.

  “Looks like it. Money was still near the bodies. Sabinus wants to take counsel with his senior centurions.”

  “Are there any other centuries out?” Rufio asked with obvious concern.

  “All are in but you.”

  “Good.” Rufio ordered the century about.

  “Do you want me to ride with you?” Titinius asked.

  “No. Go back to the fort and tell Carbo we’re coming in now.”

  As they began the march back, Diocles turned to Valerius. “How did he know where to find us?”

  “Rufio had to give a report to the Chief Centurion on where we’d be. We keep records on everything. Documents are the blood of our army.”

  Diocles scanned the forest off to the left, but no hostile horsemen were visible.

  “What will happen now?” he asked and continued to search the woods for lurking enemies.

 
“Difficult to say. Sabinus is no slug, like the last commander. He may act. Trouble is coming, don’t doubt that. And with Germans it always gets worse before it gets better.”

  12 TO EVERYONE, HIS OWN IS BEAUTIFUL.

  Roman saying

  ______

  The soldiers of Rome are a diverse lot. The impact of Rome has been so great throughout the Italian peninsula that the term “Roman” has come to signify far more than the citizens born on the banks of the Tiber. Judging from the variety of accents here, I would guess that few of these “Roman” soldiers call Rome their home—or, indeed, have ever even been there. I questioned Titinius about this and he confirmed it. He says the centurions prefer to recruit lads from the farms rather than the cities. The country boys are stronger and healthier than those who must daily inhale the effluvia of Rome. Licinius, lean and wiry and eager, comes from a farm outside Mantua. Plancus, a good-natured ox of a youth, hails from a small village near Neapolis. The short but formidable Arrianus comes all the way from Venusia. Now they are all citizens of a single community, the arrogantly self-contained world of the Roman legion.

  An afternoon breeze slipped in through the window and soothed the back of Rufio’s neck. He paused in the notations he was making and savored the spring air’s caress. When he picked up his pen again, he was interrupted by footsteps in the outer room.

  There are many varieties of beauty. The man coming through the doorway possessed the sort only a soldier of Rome could love.

  Rufio stood at the approach of Sextus Rutilius Carbo, Chief Centurion of the Twenty-fifth Legion.

  “Sit down, centurion,” Carbo said in a voice informed with the gentle nuances of cinders being crushed in an olive press. He scooped up a stool and dropped it in front of Rufio’s desk.

  “May I sit?” he asked unnecessarily.

  Carbo sported a patch over the place where his right eye had once lived. The patch and thong were cut from a single piece of leather and dyed bright red. A scar snaked out from beneath it and crawled up toward his scalp. Only a fringe of silver-white hair protected his head from the weather. Yet a head such as that needed little protecting. The bald dome squatted on the neck like a capital on a marble column. It seemed as if could sit there forever—and it probably would.

  To Rufio, every wound was like a torque of silver awarded for valor, but he knew many felt otherwise. Facial disfigurement was considered especially appalling, even disgraceful, particularly by civilians, so great was the Italian obsession with physical beauty. Even some political and religious offices were barred to those maimed in this way. Rufio was certain Carbo would never leave the army.

  “I’ve checked the service records of all my centurions. Only four have ever fought Germans. You are one. How would you advise Sabinus?”

  To be asked for an opinion by a man such as Carbo was an honor.

  “As much as you or I might like to, we cannot go to war over the three merchants. If a full-scale bloodletting is the only answer to every outrage, we’ve lost all flexibility. And you have to stay flexible and keep your ability to maneuver—even against barbarians.”

  “You sound like a politician.”

  “My experience has been that soldiers are better at politics than politicians are at soldiering.”

  Carbo snorted in agreement. “What would you do then?”

  “We could send two cohorts for a sharp strike. Bloody their face.”

  “And you’d offer that advice to Sabinus?”

  It was clear that Carbo was testing him.

  “No, I would not.”

  Carbo folded his arms across his chest. His dull red tunic looked like it had been new when Romulus was still swinging from the nipple of the wolf. With his big torso and thick bowed legs, he hid the seat beneath him. It seemed as if at any moment the stool might slide upward and disappear between his buttocks.

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s exactly what the Suebi want us to do. They know we won’t send out a full legion for the dead traders. They’re trying to lure out a smaller force and then annihilate it.”

  “Then what would you tell Sabinus?”

  “To wait for a bigger provocation and hit them with eight cohorts. Hit them hard and give no quarter.”

  “Good.” Carbo stood up. “That’s exactly what I advised him. There’s talk in the legions and in Rome that Drusus is planning a campaign for this summer.”

  “Drusus is the man to do it. But even if there’s no campaign, we cannot sit on our shields if the Germans cross the river. If they march, Sabinus cannot wait for orders from Rome. The time is coming to hurl those savages back into the forests that vomited them out in the first place.”

  Carbo walked across the room and pushed the stool back against the wall. “There’s a rumor in camp that you plan to retire.” He straightened and looked back toward the centurion. “If war comes, I need you.”

  Rufio nodded but said nothing.

  “Stand by me and I might even celebrate by buying a new tunic,” Carbo said and turned and walked toward the door. “I know that would please you.”

  Rufio smiled at Carbo’s back as the Chief Centurion waddled on his bent legs out of the barracks.

  “Neko,” Rufio called after Carbo had gone.

  As usual, the Egyptian appeared as swiftly as a specter.

  “Find Valerius and bring him here.”

  When Valerius arrived a few minutes later, Rufio did not offer him a seat.

  “You’re the optio of the First Century.”

  “No, centurion, I’m the tesserarius.”

  “You’re now the optio. Double pay of course. You may move into these quarters or stay where you are—the choice is yours.”

  Valerius looked stunned.

  “You’re a very experienced soldier and you’re one of the few people I know who’d have the courage to call me a fool if you thought I deserved it—or allow himself to be strangled if I ordered it. So I’m taking a chance on you. Don’t add yourself to the long list of people who’ve disappointed me. Dismissed.”

  He just stood there, dazed.

  “Well?” Rufio asked.

  “I don’t . . . I . . .” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

  “The centurionate is within your grasp if you learn to put a rope on your tongue.”

  “Yes, centurion. Any other orders for the day?”

  “Go celebrate.”

  Valerius was barely gone when Titinius came in. He did not seem pleased to be there.

  “What is it?” Rufio asked in exasperation. Did no one realize how much clerical work the command of a century entailed?

  “Sabinus demands to see you immediately.”

  The centurion rose without a word.

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Do you want to tell me?” Rufio said, surprised to find an ally among the tribunes.

  “It’s Crus,” Titinius answered with the expression of someone who has just chewed on a bitter root. “He wants your balls.”

  Sabinus was seated at his desk when Rufio arrived. He had his chin in his hand and seemed absorbed with some distant problem.

  “Commander,” Rufio said, rousing Sabinus from his preoccupation with raging Germans.

  He looked up in annoyance. “When you took that slave from Tribune Crus, all you did was create problems. The slave dealer came here to make his deal with Crus, but of course there was no deal to be made—thanks to your beneficence.”

  “If I hadn’t spared him, Crus would have killed him, so the slave dealer would still be out of a deal.”

  Sabinus ignored the logic of that. “Add to it that Priscus and his two over-muscled gladiators barely got here with their lives—or so Priscus claims. Crus insists the least we can do is offer Priscus protection from the Gauls—that we owe him that for his trouble in coming here. And, of course, I’m responsible for the welfare of Roman lives here. Gallic ones, too, for that matter.”

  Rufio gazed at the handsome young Legate.
The burdens of command were pulling him down like a dozen mail loricas at once. He was clearly less than pleased that Rufio had added one more. Yet despite being the focus of his anger, Rufio found he was beginning to like the new commander very much.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand you, commander, but I thought I’d already been suitably reprimanded for the folly of generosity.”

  The muscles of Sabinus’s jaws looked like they were about to burst the skin.

  “Are there more like you, Rufio? Tell me now so I can fall on my sword and end the dread.”

  “My mother told me I was unique.”

  “The gods aren’t that kind. I ordered you here to call on your experience with the Gauls and ask you if Priscus is truly in danger.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “They’d slay him to free the slaves?”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Adiatorix and his people, of course.”

  “How would you know it was he? He could say it was Gallic bandits who did it and then fled into the wilderness. Would Sabinus retaliate against a possibly innocent village?”

  “No, Sabinus would not.”

  “The Gauls are capable of slaughter and worse.”

  Sabinus sighed and passed his hand across his forehead.

  “Where are Priscus and the slaves now?” Rufio asked.

  “Here—within this fort.”

  “They should stay here for a while and leave at night. The Gauls wouldn’t expect that. They can be very simple in these matters and that just wouldn’t occur to them. Priscus would be out of the region before the Gauls woke up.”

  “Very well. Now, something else—off the official record. Am I obliged to give them a military escort? Crus implies that I am.”

  “Crus is wrong. If you were obliged to provide soldiers to everyone who felt threatened by a Gallic snarl, you’d thin the cohorts to skeletons. Who’d be left to bribe the centurions?”

  Sabinus gave him an amused look.

  “Commander, there aren’t enough soldiers in all of Gaul to give bodyguards to every Roman trader. If you see a Gaul draw his bow, then naturally that’s another matter.”