LEGION

by William Altimari

  “I have no view. I long ago abandoned any attempt to reason it out.”

  Sabinus toyed with the bronze stylus in front of him. He seemed to turn inward toward his own thoughts. An insect in the room buzzed in the ears of the three men standing before their commander. At last Sabinus laid down the stylus and looked up.

  “Rufio, a centurion is a powerful man. Physically he’s stronger than most. In terms of authority, he rules his men more absolutely than the Senate rules Rome. Most important, he carries within him wisdom that can be acquired only at the most terrible human cost.” He stood up. “There are sixty centurions in this legion. I cannot afford the time to put out fires they carelessly start. It’s their task to put out fires for me. Isn’t that so?”

  “That is so, commander.”

  “I have Gauls to keep happy and Germans to keep at bay. Don’t add to my concerns.”

  “I’ll put my full attention to it, commander.”

  “Dismissed.”

  When Rufio reached the door, Sabinus called after him.

  “The soldier you avenged—whoever he is—I’m sure he’s grateful you made a stand for him.”

  “Not for him, commander. For the Twenty-fifth Legion.”

  “Yes,” Sabinus said and the hint of a smile narrowed his eyes. “Be assured, centurion, that the Legate of Augustus is grateful too.”

  The Scorpion was a frightening thing. The Spanish sword or the Celtic bow could be admired from an aesthetic viewpoint, but the Scorpion was pure function. One could not pretend it was anything but an engine of death.

  The recruits assembled on the parade ground and awaited Rufio. The Scorpion was set up before them. Diocles ran his hand along it and used his agile Greek mind to attempt to figure it out.

  This wooden catapult clearly operated on the same principle as the bow, yet it looked much more lethal. Fastened to its own wooden stand, the weapon rose about as high as his waist. The two curved wooden arms in front were more or less horizontal, with a vertical strut in the back to adjust the angle of flight. Each of the arms nestled into an upright bundle of torsion ropes at the front. Firmly secured with iron bolts into a wooden frame, these densely packed cords were made from animal sinew. A wooden, open-topped chute, supported by the adjustable strut, extended back from the frame. Within it lay a wood and metal slider that could be moved forward to engage the heavy bowstring. A lever at the rear on the right could draw the slider and string back to launching position. A ratchet on the left prevented slippage or accidental discharge. The force generated for this terrible tail-sting must be incredible.

  Rufio appeared with a round basket under one arm. Coming up behind him was a mule wagon piled high with hay bales and driven by one of the soldiers from the stables.

  Rufio directed a few of the men to set up some bales in a man-size stack about two hundred feet from where the rest of the recruits were assembled. Then he dismissed the soldier with the cart.

  “The more that a soldier can lengthen his arm, the better. Far better to kill at a distance than to wait for your enemy to close with you and then taste his spear.” He set down the basket and pulled from it a stout projectile. “Today we’ll learn to use the Scorpion’s sting.

  The heavy dart was passed among the men. Diocles examined it. The brutal-looking missile was about a foot long, a third of its length being a pointed iron bolt, pyramidal in cross-section. A wooden shaft comprised the remainder of the dart. Three leather flights were inlaid at the tail to direct its travel.

  “Every century is issued a Scorpion. We’ll learn to use ours as well as any century in the legion.”

  He took another dart from the basket and placed it into the slider of the weapon.

  “Nothing is more demoralizing to a charging enemy than to see his comrades in front of him cut down before they’re even near their foe. In war, the mental factor is as important as the edge of your steel. Cripple your enemy’s resolve and it’s better than if you cut out his bowels. A dying man can still kill, but a broken and frightened man can only die.”

  Rufio pushed the slider forward until it engaged the heavy drawstring.

  “One man can operate this weapon, but I want two of you on it at all times. One loads, one shoots—if the shooter is killed, the loader takes his place.”

  He cranked the slider backward. The mechanism made little noise other than the metal pawl of the ratchet engaging the wooden teeth of the wheel. The curved arms were drawn back and the torsion ropes twisted.

  “Caesar’s men used the Scorpion very effectively at Alesia. They needed it. They were outnumbered five to one.”

  When the string reached maximum draw, Rufio leaned forward and took aim by adjusting the angle of launch with the vertical strut. Then he straightened up and faced his men.

  “No man can withstand the Scorpion.”

  He triggered the release without bothering to look back downrange. The string snapped violently forward and the heavy weapon leaped from the ground with the sudden release of so much tension.

  But downrange there was nothing. The stacked bales looked untouched.

  “Diocles, retrieve the dart.”

  He ran to the bales, but the bolt was gone. He turned back and shook his head at Rufio. The centurion stood there with folded arms, and the look of impatience on his face encouraged Diocles to search harder. Suddenly he felt as if his stomach were falling through his bowels as he saw an annoyed Rufio approaching.

  “What’s the matter with you? Where do you think it went?” He walked over to the stacked bales.

  Diocles felt foolish as he noticed the rear tip of the shaft almost flush with the face of one of the bales. The bolt had pierced the packed hay as easily as a finger jabbed into a pile of sand.

  “Did you think I missed?”

  “No,” Diocles lied. “I just didn’t see it.”

  Rufio gave him a look that bored through his skull, and Diocles turned away and rejoined the other recruits.

  Rufio came back and returned the bolt to the slider on the catapult. “The soldier who shows the best natural talent will be given charge of the Scorpion. Veteran or not, it doesn’t matter. He’ll learn how to care for it, how to repair it, and how to use it to make a pointed statement for Rome.”

  For the next several hours, Rufio instructed his men on the use of the Scorpion. Despite their initial fumbling, his patience seemed limitless. However, Diocles had long since concluded that his centurion was by no means the most patient of men. The effort for him must therefore have been enormous. Far more admirable to Diocles than the understanding instructor was the restless and impatient one who succeeded in bending that restlessness to his will.

  Only once did Rufio’s impatience slip its harness. The attention of Licinius had lapsed and he was joking about something with the man at his side. Rufio lashed out with his vinewood cane across the young man’s shin. He shrieked and the pain drove him to his knees. Rufio said nothing, but laid his cane down and continued his lecture on how vital it was to keep the cords dry at all times, as the sinew quickly lost its powers of torsion when wet.

  When Diocles’ turn came at the Scorpion, he could not suppress the exhilaration it so readily gave. So much power brought within the span of the human hand. He felt ashamed at the pleasure he derived from driving the bolts again and again into the stack of hay across the parade ground. The mind of the scholar should have been immune to such primitive passions. Yet the declension of nouns was never like this. On the other hand, the yielding bales of hay had no face. And they surely did not bleed.

  24 IF YOU WANT PEACE, PREPARE FOR WAR.

  Vegetius

  ______

  Today we put to good use the stones we had cut. Our century repaired a section of road north of the fort. There was an eerie feeling of participation in a historical purpose, for this was a road that Caesar had built during one of his great campaigns.

  A surveyor from the First Cohort came with us to ensure the obsessive precision Romans demand of
themselves. His surveying instrument is an interesting tool. It is called a groma. It is made of bronze and is composed of a pole about four feet high that sticks in the ground. An arm swings out from the top and at the end of this is a pivot where two thin bronze arms are joined to each other at their centers to form an adjustable cross. A plumb line hangs from each of the four slender arm tips. Valerius told me that the groma is used for laying out the grid for a field camp. How it works I have no idea.

  One point made clear to me is that the military success of Rome owes much to these metalled roads. The speed with which we can travel is astounding. The weather is irrelevant, since the stone drainage channels carry off the rain. And the durability of the roads is incalculable. This one needs repair only because Caesar’s troops were forced to lay it down in haste in the heat of a military campaign. It looks like it could endure forever.

  At the end of the day I noticed Valerius off by himself working on a stone with hammer and chisel. When he finished, he called to me to help him. We lifted the heavy block and fitted it as the final piece of the western drainage channel. Into its outer vertical face, Valerius had cut :

  LEG

  XXV

  RAP

  COH II

  >Q RUFI

  He looked at me and said, “Rufio is wrong. Ages to come won’t forget him. A thousand years from now, people will know that the men of his century walked this way.”

  For a moment the levelheaded optio looked wistful. His eyes were softened by a pure and elemental pride such as I had never seen in a man’s eyes before. He seemed embarrassed and turned away. As he stared off at the road beyond, I smiled at his back and felt privileged to share with him this silent moment.

  “The Gauls have grown careless,” Barovistus said. “They look more like sheep than men.”

  The Suebian war chief was down on one knee and gazing across the slope at the village below. Several dozen conical huts, stone and wood and roofed with thatch, spread out in an irregular fashion not far from a gurgling stream.

  “It looks perfect,” Barovistus said. “Give me details.”

  Racovir smiled and knelt at his side. “I knew you’d be pleased.

  The most trusted of the war chief’s young leaders, Racovir was only a few steps from greatness. With the hard looks of a forest god, he lacked only the scars of battle. His hair, as fair as sunlight, was pulled up and knotted at the top in the usual Suebian style. Though he wore black Suebian trousers, his tunic and cloak were the dark Roman red he favored.

  “Sapped by peace. ” Racovir pulled at a short beard the color of brass. “I’m told no man here has borne arms in many summers. They’re as soft as the flesh of a woman’s belly.”

  “How many warriors?” Barovistus asked with the caution of the seasoned war leader.

  “Seventy or eighty. The chief is a frail graybeard.” He sneered. “He trusts the safety of his people to the arms of Rome.”

  “Who did they think you were?”

  “A cavalry officer from one of the auxiliaries.”

  “Attack in two days. By then, I’ll have destroyed the Gallic ala north of Aquabona. How many men will you take?”

  “Allow me seventy and I’ll eat them to the bone.”

  “The children and women will go to the slave dealer. And as many of the men as you take alive. Slaughter the animals and burn the village to the earth. Remember to let a few women escape. They must spread the tale like swamp air spreads death.” He smiled. “Fear is a wonderful disease.”

  The ferrous smell of the armory filled Rufio’s nostrils as he waited in front of the armorer’s cluttered worktable. From the back of the shop, Hetorix carried two objects wrapped in white cloth. He laid one down on his table and presented the other to Rufio. The centurion slipped off the cloth and looked at the most beautiful sword he had ever seen.

  “Does it please you?” Hetorix asked with a smile.

  Rufio laid the flat of the blade across his left forearm. The gleaming metal had been forged and worked with a master’s touch. No impurities were visible in its skin. The edge had been honed with a fanatic’s precision, and then the entire blade had been polished to a soft sheen. The hand guard was carved from Rufio’s ebony and fitted on its underside was a recessed bronze plate where it would abut the scabbard. The grip was cut from bone into eight sides and fashioned with four finger contours. It was topped by a round ebony pommel, smoothly polished and fastened to the tang with a small bronze knob.

  “I dulled many tools on that ebony,” Hetorix said good-naturedly.

  Rufio hefted the weapon. It seemed to balance itself in his hand.

  “Beauty is not its only virtue,” Hetorix said. “I promise you it’ll withstand the trials of war. The grip is ox bone. A young male’s thighbone seasoned five years. It’ll take a shock or two.”

  “Yes.” He laid the sword down and pulled the cloth off the other object. The scabbard glittered before him. Over the wood and black leather sheath had been fitted an embossed bronze faceplate. He took the scabbard and held it in the glow from one of the forges. Above decorative whorls and flourishes, the graceful figure of Victoria, wings at rest, had been intricately hammered into the bronze. She was flanked by the eagle of the Twenty-fifth Legion.

  “For a work like this, I owe far more than eight denarii.”

  He took the leather money pouch from his belt and scooped out some coins. Hetorix reached over with his massive hand and closed Rufio’s fingers back around them.

  “How can I take money from a man who gave me my son?”

  “Will you take my thanks?”

  Hetorix smiled a broken-toothed smile. “I will.”

  Rufio smiled in return. “Do you have any old swords you haven’t reworked yet? I need them for training.”

  “I have a few dozen I haven’t gotten to. I'll clean them up and dull the edges for you. I can have them ready in a few hours.”

  “Thank you.” Rufio picked up his new sword and slid it into the scabbard.

  “May it guard you as well as you guard Gaul.”

  Rufio nodded and left the armory without saying anything more.

  Sabinus stood on the rampart walkway and inhaled the smell of bread coming from below. A group of stone ovens was built into the inner turf rampart, and there always seemed to be soldiers there baking bread for their centuries.

  Sabinus savored the smell. Why was the aroma of baking bread always so reassuring to the troubled heart of man? Did it remind him of home and peace and family? It was like a drug, its soothing powers that great.

  Sabinus pulled himself away and stared toward the dark Teutonic forests. Of course, they were far beyond the horizon, but he could see them in his mind. Hatred of the Germans had an honored history at Rome. About a hundred years earlier, the Cimbri and Teutones had ravaged Gaul. Some people claimed these marauders were in fact Celts, but no one really knew. Whoever they were, they slaughtered every Roman army sent against them. When they turned toward Italy itself, panic swept the land. Then, in battles without quarter, the fabled Gaius Marius shattered them. With an army ferociously disciplined and trained, he marched off to meet them and cut them down. At Aquae Sextiae, the Teutones fell like trees, two hundred thousand slain. Then at Vercellae, the Cimbri, too, fed the earth with corpses beyond counting.

  And now the Germans were pressing once more. Like the tide, they always came around again. Not as regularly, but just as surely. Always pushing, testing, forever hungry for that which was not theirs. And Rome was not unique here. Sabinus knew enough history to know that every civilization had had its Germans. It was as if the most perverse gods had decreed it. Every culture rich and grand must have some rapacious horde clawing at its gates. Over and over the cycle went on. Could there never be any peace? Always there were rough-skinned men eager to kick in the door and seize whatever they could carry—and to put to the sword or the torch whatever they could not lift.

  He turned and went down the steps leading from the rampart and walked
to the Principia.

  “Get me Carbo,” he ordered one of the tribunes as he crossed the forehall. “And that German spy Trogus,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

  There was something comforting about the appearance of Sextus Carbo. When he stood in silence before the desk of Sabinus, the Chief Centurion seemed as solid as a walled city.

  “I want the latest reports from the toll-takers and the customs officers at the Rhenus bridges,” Sabinus said.

  “Some written reports just came in about an hour ago, commander. No unusual movement beyond the river.”

  “Any increase in the trade in slaves or weapons?”

  “None reported.”

  Instead of being satisfied, Sabinus felt uneasy.

  “Sit down, Carbo.”

  The centurion placed a stool before the desk and enveloped it with his bulk.

  “I feel them, Carbo. They’re reaching for their spears, and here we wait. The murder of the traders was no whim. It was a taunt.”

  Carbo remained silent.

  “Your own view? You’re not here to pose for sculpture.”

  “My view, commander, is that peace to the Suebi is the time spent resting between wars.”

  “Then say that! Say it without my having to prompt you.”

  Carbo was unruffled. “Decades in the army have taught me caution in the presence of my commander.”

  “Forget caution. I need your experience and your wisdom.”

  “You have my experience and my loyalty and my sword.”

  “Thank you,” Sabinus answered with a smile. He was never able to stay angry for long. “This is what I want. Starting now—this hour—I want four daily scouting patrols across the river, not just one. We have good scouts, do we not?”

  “Men specially trained for it.”

  “Good. I want them to range as far eastward as they can and still return before sundown. I want to know what’s happening out there. Second, I want you to send one of your best centurions to the cavalry fort in the north. I’ll have a letter for the ala commander explaining my concerns and ordering him to be prepared for immediate movement. Do you know if he’s a Gaul or a Roman?”