LEGION

by William Altimari

  “Bring your left foot slightly forward. Now slide your right foot backward. Keep the toes of your right foot in a horizontal line with the heel of your left foot. Flex your knees a bit and shift your weight to the balls of your feet.”

  He showed them with his own body.

  “Here you have the most stable fighting stance there is.”

  The awkward recruits looked skeptical.

  “I know it feels unnatural, but soon you’ll be doing it in your sleep. Practice it at odd moments during the day.”

  “When do we get those, centurion?” Diocles asked.

  Laughter sneaked out of the throats of the recruits.

  “We have a wit among us,” Rufio said. “Aren’t we a lucky century? Remember—never keep your feet parallel beneath your body. You’re living men, not statues. The Germans are big and muscular and they’ll try to tip you. If you go down, you might not get up again. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Now the second point. When you approach the enemy, always keep your files straight. You probably think that’s easy. It’s not. Because your shield is in your left hand, your right side is partly exposed. Without thinking, you’ll begin to drift to the right to get the protection of the shield in the left hand of the man next to you. I don’t want to see that. The entire front rank will start rolling and the files behind you will get ragged and try to compensate. Soon the whole century will be fading to the right. That can throw the entire line out of position. The Germans look for that. If they see it, they’ll rush men to their own right and try to flank us on our left. If they do—well, then our loved ones wonder why we’ve stopped writing.”

  Rufio paused. Diocles watched him as he allowed his words to seep into his men.

  “Once you close with your enemy—or he closes with you—strike that first blow. Extend that shield arm sharply and drive that boss right into him.”

  He picked up a shield and showed them.

  “Smash him back, break his momentum. Do it now.”

  They thrust their wicker shields against the oak stakes.

  “Good. Good. I like the way you did that. Do it again—a little more sharply. Do it with confidence.”

  Diocles and the others drove their shields into the wooden enemy.

  “Good. Better. The next thing to remember is to pull your shield back just as quickly. Don’t leave it out there so a German can grab the top edge and pull it forward and away from you. Try it. Good. That’s it. Thrust and retract. Again. Excellent. Again. Keep it vertical when you pull it back. Again. Again. Again. All right, rest.”

  They lowered their shields and paused to catch their breaths.

  “I didn’t say offer yourselves up for sacrifice!” he shouted. “Keep those shields up!”

  They flinched at his words and jerked up their shields.

  “Never lower your shields until the enemy is off the field.”

  They held them up until their arms began to shake from weariness.

  “All right. You may rest them on the ground.”

  They hesitated at first, as though fearful their centurion were laying a trap for them.

  “Swords are the permanent mates of your shields. Never divorce them.”

  He bent down by flexing his knees and picked up a wooden practice sword without taking his eyes off his men.

  “If you drop your sword, retrieve it like that without lowering your head. Never take your eyes off the enemy.”

  He stood up straight.

  “Drop your swords and do as I did.”

  They imitated him.

  “Well done.” He held the wooden weapon out toward them. “The Spanish sword. It’s better than Roman swords were, so we adopted it long ago. Made now of the best Celtic steel. It’s the finest weapon of its kind.”

  “Question, centurion,” a recruit named Licinius said.

  Rufio nodded.

  “Do the Germans use these swords, too?”

  “Only if they get some of ours. Most Germans have no swords at all. They rely on their spears. But when they do use steel, it’s usually a long Gallic cavalry sword with a rounded tip. They attack with a slashing sweep.” He turned his gaze to the entire group. “A race’s personality can usually be seen in its weapons. The Germans’ swords are big and brutal and they flail wildly with them. They’re like their owners—power without discipline. A Roman’s sword is like the Roman mind—sharp and straight and to the point.”

  Rufio was subtly shaping the recruits’ perception of themselves. Diocles marveled at the deftness with which Rufio’s words were used for purposes other than the immediate topic at hand.

  “We’ve conquered many peoples in many parts of the world,” he went on, his eyes seeming to reflect inward as he reached for some hallowed memory. “If you could speak to them, they’d tell you that it’s not because we’re the best horsemen or archers. Or even the best spearmen. It’s because the Roman soldier is the most highly trained and most disciplined swordsman on earth. Once we lock with our enemy we’re invincible.”

  Far more meaning weighted Rufio’s words than that carried by technical facts. His voice was heavy with feeling and purpose. He spoke of the weapons of war not simply because it was his job to do so. Rather, it seemed as if these frightening tools represented something of his undiluted self—as if the elements in him had been rendered down to their thickest essence and had been found to be the blood of Mars. That a man so sharp and lively of mind and so attractive of body should find his greatest fulfillment in the clash of armies was to Diocles painfully sad.

  “How do we use this gift from Spain?” Rufio said. “Its primary purpose is the thrust. It’s not an axe. Thrust quickly and deeply into an enemy and withdraw just as fast. I never want to see any of you slash with this weapon unless there’s absolutely no danger to you from that action. When you raise your arm to slash, you expose many of the most vulnerable parts of your body. Let the Germans slash. You keep your sword low—no higher than your hip—with the blade parallel to the ground or angled upward.”

  He showed them with his wooden weapon.

  “Hit with your shield, then step in quickly with your sword. Thrust with confidence. Ignore the chest—too much bone. Pierce the stomach or the intestines. Keep an eye on the armpit—always a vulnerable spot on an enemy who raises his sword to slash. The throat, too, and the face can be good choices if your opponent is not too tall. Step back quickly after your thrust so that when he falls he cannot pull you down with him.”

  “Question,” Diocles said.

  Rufio nodded.

  “What if he’s down but not dead?”

  “Leave him. Don’t waste time finishing him off. The fighting man on his feet behind him is a greater threat to you than a bleeding man on the ground. Look to your right and left to see how your comrades are. If they’re not in trouble, close with another of the enemy.” He looked around. “More questions? All right, grip your sword firmly but not too tightly. Raise your shield, close with your enemy, and strike a blow for Rome.”

  Diocles stepped toward the oak post, struck it with his shield, and thrust the tip of his sword hard against its wooden bowels.

  “Good,” Rufio shouted and walked among them with his cane. “Step back and attack again. Continue attacking and retreating until I tell you to stop.”

  Grunts of exertion mixed with the clatter and thud of wooden weapons as the men assaulted their unyielding enemy.

  From the corner of his eye, Diocles saw Rufio come up beside him.

  “Go for his face!” Rufio ordered.

  Diocles thrust upward at the top of the stake, then withdrew.

  “He’s looking to his right at Licinius,” Rufio said. “Flank him on his left.”

  Diocles swung around to the side and struck the post with his shield, then thrust his sword at the middle of the stake.

  “Don’t gloat—withdraw!” Rufio ordered.

  Diocles leaped back.

  “He has a shield across his up
per body,” Rufio said. “Go for his legs.”

  Diocles closed again. He slammed the stake with his shield and cut sideways at the phantom legs.

  Rufio’s cane sheared down across Diocles’ sword arm. “DON’T SLASH!” he roared and Diocles howled in pain. “Pick up your sword!”

  Diocles reached for his weapon and glared in anger at Rufio.

  “Don’t look at me!” Rufio yelled and he snapped the end of his cane across the bridge of Diocles’ nose. “Face your enemy!”

  Diocles grabbed his sword with his half-numb hand and again assaulted the wooden stake.

  “Thrust into his thighs!” Rufio shouted. “Cripple that savage.”

  Through tears of pain, Diocles attacked and withdrew and attacked again. Finally cries and yelps down the line told him that Rufio was no longer behind him.

  Movement off to his right caught Diocles’ eye. A bald soldier with a red leather eye patch had sat down on the rim of a water trough at the edge of the parade ground. He leaned forward with his forearms on his knees and watched.

  “Is the battle over?” Rufio said and brought his cane down with a crack across Diocles’ shoulders.

  Diocles grunted in pain but made no protest as he turned back to the stake and assaulted it again.

  Streams of sweat burned his eyes as he attacked the immortal enemy. Occasionally he had to stop and massage the tightening muscles of his right hand. Then he resumed his war.

  An arm came around him from behind and he flinched as though from a blow.

  “You’re holding it like you’re gripping a timid maiden,” said a gravelly voice, and Diocles turned to see the one-eyed man standing behind him.

  With callused hands, he took Diocles’ fingers almost tenderly and loosened them on the contoured grip of the sword.

  “There,” he said. “You want to hold it, not crush it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man turned away and walked back toward the fort.

  “Retreat and rest!” Rufio shouted about the din.

  The men stepped back but were careful to keep their shields up.

  Diocles watched as Rufio walked among them and checked their stance and bearing. Apparently satisfied, he stood before them again.

  “You acquitted yourselves well, but not nearly well enough to have survived. The Suebi are about to charge again. Get ready for the second wave.”

  The soldiers tensed.

  “Here they come. Hit them!”

  19 DRIPPING MOISTURE HOLLOWS OUT A STONE.

  Roman saying

  ______

  Valerius stood before Rufio’s desk early in the morning and tried to stifle a yawn.

  “Do your new responsibilities exhaust you?”

  “No, centurion. I had an erotic dream last night and I still haven’t recovered.”

  Rufio laughed and shook his head. “After the sword drill this morning, take the century on a three-mile march. Armor and full packs. When you get back, release the veterans to their other duties and take the recruits to the hospital. I’ve arranged with the chief bandager to begin their lessons in wrapping wounds. After their meal, give them another sword drill. Make it a hard one. They can take it. Questions?”

  “Diocles has some kind of skin rash. He’s scratching all the time.”

  “Send him to me.”

  Valerius left and Diocles came in a few minutes later.

  The flesh below his eyes was a hideous purple from Rufio’s blow across his nose. He was scratching at the back of his neck.

  “Yes, centurion?”

  “Do you have a skin disease?”

  “No, centurion. Bites. I think there are fleas inside the fleece of my mattress.”

  “That’s easily fixed. Go to my sleeping quarters and bring the chest next to my bed.”

  He did as he was ordered and placed the small wooden chest on Rufio’s desk.

  Rufio flipped it open. He removed four old wreaths of dead oak leaves that lay on top and pulled out several strips of cedar.

  “Take these. Open the stitching on the side of your mattress and slide these inside. Fleas hate cedar. They won’t annoy you again.”

  “Thank you,” he said without feeling.

  “You didn’t come in to write last night.” Rufio placed the wreaths back in the chest.

  “Too tired, centurion.”

  “I thought maybe your hand was cramped.”

  Diocles said nothing but stared toward the window beyond with eyes as blank as river stones.

  “Dismissed.”

  Diocles turned and went on his way.

  “One thing more, soldier,” Rufio said.

  Diocles stopped in the doorway and turned around to face his officer.

  “Petulance is a quality I despise.”

  “Yes, centurion.”

  “Go.”

  Metellus was, in Diocles’ opinion, the most intelligent man in the century, after Rufio. This was not surprising. In battle, it was his task to use the century’s standard—theirs was a silver boar—as a signaling device for the deployment of the troops. Victory or defeat might turn on quick signaling by the standard bearers. He was also in charge of the century’s accounts—pay, soldiers’ savings, and the like, so he had to be skilled in basic mathematics.

  Metellus surpassed these lower limits of expertise. Quick-witted and clever, he viewed the world with a perpetually half-amused, half-bemused expression that hinted at a sharp insight into the foibles of man.

  In appearance he was un-Roman, with sandy hair and light skin. He rather resembled the Gauls, among the women of whom he was reputed to have more sated lovers than any three ordinary men.

  This morning he was looking annoyingly superior as he leaned against his bunk and gazed at his Greek tent mate.

  Diocles ignored him and picked up his newly issued lorica of mail and lifted it over his head. He lowered it to his shoulders, and it seemed to want to pull him to the ground. It felt as if it weighed at least twenty pounds. He began buckling on his dagger belt, but Metellus stopped him.

  “Loosen the belt.” He reached out and grabbed the mail on each side above the hips. He pulled it up slightly. “All right, now tighten the belt.”

  Diocles did so.

  “There,” Metellus said and he let the few slack inches of mail fall over the belt. “Now part of the weight is shifted to your hips. You don’t want to end up a hunchback.”

  “Will you show me how to do this?” Diocles pointed to the pile of equipment on his bunk.

  Metellus started pulling the items together. There were two large sacks. A cloth one held a cloak, an extra tunic, and fresh linen underwear. A leather sack carried a slab of bacon, a lump of hard cheese, three days’ rations of hard-baked wheat biscuits, and a flask of acetum, the vinegary wine that was their daily issue.

  Metellus took the long, T-shaped pole that each man was issued and tied the packs to it. Then to the crossbar he tied a heavy pickaxe, its edge protected by a bronze guard, and a turf cutter, a small saw, and a sickle for foraging.

  “This basket it for moving loose dirt when we entrench and the strap is for shifting turf,” Metellus said and fastened them on. He added a small bronze cooking pot and a bronze skillet that he tied to the pole by the leather loops on their handles.

  “Shields today?” Metellus asked the optio across the barracks room.

  Valerius thought for a moment. “No, next time. But everybody carries two pila. Would you pass the word for me down the barracks?”

  Metellus nodded as he picked up Diocles’ kit pole. “Carry it over your left shoulder, your pila over your right. Hold everything loosely or else your hands will give out before you’ve gone a mile.”

  “Thank you,” Diocles said and rested the pole against his shoulder. The weight almost staggered him.

  “You’ll get accustomed to it,” Metellus said.

  “More easily than I’ll get accustomed to Rufio.”

  Metellus folded his arms and gave him that bemused lo
ok.

  “Don’t stare at me like that,” Diocles said like a cranky schoolboy.

  “So he tweaked your nose and rubbed your fur the wrong way. How tragic. The Germans would never do such a thing, would they?”

  Diocles turned away, uncertain whether to feel angry or foolish.

  “You were reared in Rome, weren’t you?” Metellus asked.

  “So?”

  “Then you have no excuse for being ignorant of one of the oldest of Roman sayings.”

  “Which is?” Diocles asked as Metellus walked away.

  “He who loves well chastises well,” he said over his shoulder and he went out the door.

  Diocles’ lips parted, but he said nothing. He just stared after him in embarrassment and confusion.

  The grove of trees near the cove was so dense that little light penetrated its depths. Varacinda sat on the grass in the shade as Rufio approached on foot.

  She stood up and smiled. Dressed in black, she seemed more a creature of the forest than the same kind of being as Rufio. She walked ahead of him through the trees.

  He heard splashing and laughing. Soon he could see a break in the trees, and they stopped about ten feet from the edge of the woods.

  Six naked young women, ranging from about eighteen to twenty-five, swam in the blue water or lolled on the bank. At the sight of them Rufio found himself suddenly growing in the most obvious place. He shifted his weight and extended the leg nearest Varacinda to conceal it. She looked at him with eyes that told him she was not so easily fooled.

  “Not all obey the command of the centurion,” she said with a smile.

  He turned toward the lake again. He was about to ask her to show him, when she pointed and said, “Flavia.”

  A young woman was stepping up out of the lake directly in front of them. She faced them unseeingly. Water slid from her as she emerged as gracefully as Venus rising from the Cytherean Sea. Her pink skin contrasted with the long black hair that hung down her back and with the black triangle exposed now in innocent allure at the summit of her thighs. She strode toward them, her heavy breasts rising and falling. She stopped a few feet up the bank and lay down on a blue cloak to dry in the sun. As she leaned back on her elbows, her breasts fell softly to the sides. She extended one leg and kept the other bent at the knee and allowed the spring sun to caress her.