by R. W. Peake
“What’s this?” demanded none other than Didius. “Are we children that we don’t get a real sword?”
“Exactly,” exclaimed one of the others, someone in the middle of the line, a somewhat swarthy lad standing next to someone who looked remarkably similar to him, although not close enough to be twins. “Aren’t we good enough to rate having a real weapon?”
For the second time that day, Didius was struck down by the Pilus Prior, followed closely by his fellow complainant, and then was joined by the man that had to be his brother, who out of reflex I suppose had reached down to help him.
“Nobody told you to touch him,” the Pilus Prior snarled.
It was beginning to become clear to us that nobody was going to do anything unless they were specifically told to do so, and I made a mental note of it.
“Sorry, Pilus Prior. He’s my broth…” he did not get a chance to finish his sentence, struck again by that infernal stick.
“And nobody asked you for an explanation you cunnus,” the Pilus Prior snapped. “On your feet, the lot of you.”
Once they climbed back to their feet and came to the correct position of Intente, which the rest of us had immediately assumed, the Pilus Prior spoke to the rest of us.
“So, is there anyone else who feels like complaining about not being handed a real sword?” he asked in a deceptively pleasant voice. Fortunately this did not fool anyone, even Artorius, into answering. “You cunni can barely walk in a straight line, so you don’t really expect that we’d hand you a real weapon, do you? You have a LONG way to go before you reach that point.”
Seeing that we had received our basic allotment of gear, he indicated that we should leave the tent, carrying the gear that we were not wearing in our basket or stacked on top of it, along with the possessions we had brought with us and gave the order to ad signa, to get back into our assigned places in line. It did not take us as long fortunately, or perhaps the Pilus Prior had just resigned himself to our ineptitude, so we only had to do it once. Giving us the order to turn to the right again, he started us marching towards the far side of the camp. As we marched we passed by other men, apparently in different stages of training, which I watched only out of the corner of my eye, not daring to turn my head. After a few moments, we reached the far corner of the camp, near the Porta Praetoria, the main gate. There were several rows of tents arranged in a square, all of the outermost tents facing the walls of the camp. Immediately behind each tent facing the walls was the back of another tent, whose opening faced in the opposite direction, away from the wall. Across a wide pathway from those tents was another line of tents, whose openings faced in the direction of the tents closest towards the wall. The effect was that there was a series of streets, with rows of tents acting as the houses, although it was much more neatly arranged than most cities. Such is the camp of the Roman army, even to this day. The camp we were at housed a total of four Legions, the 7th, 8th 9th and 10th. Normally the most experienced Legions are placed closest to the walls, but since we were in friendly territory and had no fear of attack, placing was not as important. This was to be our new home for most of the time we were in the Legions.
Indicating a tent, the Pilus Prior told us, “This is where all of you will be living. There are eight of you here; your Sergeant has already been selected, and one man will be joining you shortly. This is your tent section; look around at each of these men, because they’ll be the ones you’re living with from here until your time in the Legion is up. Or until you die, whichever happens first.”
He gave a short, barking laugh at this, which none of us found particularly amusing. Before he dismissed us to arrange ourselves he gave us one last instruction.
“Before you go in, each of you needs to select one other man from your tent section. This'll be your companion, your closest companion and friend for the time you're in the Legion. He’ll be the holder of your will, he’ll be the man who watches your back wherever you go. Whenever possible, you’ll go together, even when you go out into town, so choose wisely. I’ll give you a few moments to do that, then you’re to go into your tent, and with your choice in mind, you’ll select the spot where you’ll be sleeping. The cot that your Sergeant occupies is the one closest to the entrance; you’ll be able to tell because it’s already occupied with his gear. Now, I’ll return in a sixth part of the watch. Or maybe sooner,” he said this last with quiet menace, “just to make sure that you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing and not already fucking off.”
Turning and stalking off, he left us standing there a bit bewildered, if I am to be honest.
The man next to me, the second tallest man who I had judged to have some intelligence, nodded to me, “My name's Sextus Scribonius. You seem to have your wits about you, like me,” he grinned as he said this. “What do you say we pair up?”
Somewhat regretfully, I told him that I could not because I already had someone, and since my hands were full I nodded in the direction of Vibius, already walking towards me with a smile on his face. Scribonius was clearly disappointed, but he took it well, especially when I explained that we had been best friends for so many years. Immediately he turned to his left, but that was Didius, with whom he clearly had no intention of pairing.
Vibius whispered, “Well, at least this part is easy. Why don’t we duck in now and claim our spots while the rest of them are arguing?”
Which we immediately did, to the protests of some of the others, Didius most notably and unsurprisingly. However, the two brothers, seeing us, quickly followed. I selected the spot across from the Sergeant nearest to the door, with Vibius taking the spot next to me, the second man to the left. The brothers headed for the two cots directly across the doorway from Vibius and placed their gear on them, claiming the space as theirs. They were followed by two others, who claimed the spots at the back, next to the brothers, and it was then I began to notice something that did not make sense. There were a total of eight cots, but there were eight of us already, plus the unnamed Sergeant, and the Pilus Prior had told us that one more would be joining us. That made ten men, but only eight spots. Vibius caught on as well, and we were looking at each other in a puzzled manner when we heard a new voice at the entrance to the tent. We both turned to see another Legionary, wearing a uniform identical to us, with the exception that his helmet had a flowing black horse tail on top of it, the tail spilling down near his shoulders.
“So, apparently someone can count,” he said laconically as he stood in the doorway.
He was a well-built man, in his mid-twenties it appeared, with even features and cool grey eyes that appraised each of us. His gaze lingered on me, taking in my size and he pursed his lips in a silent whistle, but did not say anything to me. Instead, he turned to the whole group and announced, “In case you haven’t guessed, my name is Lucius Calienus, and I’m the Sergeant of this tent section. I was a member of Pompey’s 1st Legion, and was promoted to help fill this Legion out with some men who knew their ass from their elbows. And judging from what I’m seeing in this lot, I might as well kiss my ass goodbye because I’m as good as dead the moment we go into battle.”
This did not set well with me, but I kept my mouth shut.
Calienus walked into the tent, standing in the narrow area between the cots and said, “So I see that you, or at least some of you” he turned to nod in the direction of Vibius and myself, “were catching on that there seems to be a problem with the numbers in this tent.”
Not sure how to address him at this point, we contented ourselves with just nodding.
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that you’re correct in your assumption, so there may be hope for some of you yet.”
Turning to the outside to the remaining man, he motioned him to come inside. Having seen that Scribonius had grabbed Artorius, despite the early signs that Artorius might be a weakling, I assumed that Scribonius must have decided that Artorius was the lesser of two evils. Didius walked in, and I have to say that he looked a little
upset that he was not picked, although he did not say anything about it.
Calienus said to Didius, “So you’re the odd man out, neh?”
Didius nodded, and Calienus laughed, but while it was not necessarily a cruel laugh, it still obviously rankled Didius.
“Maybe you’re just slow to make friends. Or,” he became serious, “it means that you’re someone I have to keep an eye on. Either way, you’re out of luck, neh?” Without waiting for an answer, Calienus turned to the rest of us, and explained the mystery of the two missing cots.
They were not missing at all. Instead it meant that at any given time, there would be two men on some sort of duty, at least once we finished training. Even during training, there would be at least one man on watch on our assigned sector of wall, so that at some point, someone was sleeping in your cot while you were out on duty. During training only one would be missing, requiring that someone slept on the ground, but in order to be fair, it was rotated evenly, even Calienus participating. Also, while the sleeping arrangements would change, the area where we stored our gear, under our cots, would remain the same. Didius and the unknown tenth man were given two corners of the tent as their area, making it somewhat inconvenient for them, but was designed to stop gear from being “accidentally” mixed up, a practice that turned out to be a very good precaution with Didius in our tent, although we did not know that then. Once that was explained to us, Calienus showed us the proper way to stow our gear underneath our cots, taking the remainder of the time allotted to us by the Pilus Prior. I imagine it was a sixth part to the instant when we heard a shrill whistle sound outside. Vibius and I knew what the whistle meant, even if we had never actually heard one, thanks to Cyclops, so we immediately grabbed our shield, put our helmets back on, picked up our wooden sword and hurried outside. Falling into our places at the opposite ends of the line, we were followed in a matter of moments by the rest of the group, who seemed to follow our lead and came out carrying their weapons and shields. They got in line quickly, but none of us were sure how to stand at Intente holding our shields or wooden sword. That we assembled in this fashion clearly surprised the Pilus Prior, but he made no comment about it and fortunately, we were not penalized, for whatever reason. Instead, the Pilus Prior showed us how to hold the wooden sword vertically; normally our sword would be sheathed, but since we had not been issued them yet, and the wooden sword would not fit in the scabbard anyway, we were taught this method. Then he told us to go stow the gear in our tents and come back outside.
Once we did so, he marched us over to the forum, which in an army camp is the large clear area next to the Praetorium where the Legions are mustered when they are to be issued orders en masse, or some other event occurs that requires everyone's presence. The rest of the time, at least in the early days of the Legion, it was being used by us tiros as we were taught how to march and perform close order drill. There were other small groups, along with a couple of large ones, composed of a full Century, normally eighty men. However, in the case of our Legions, and in every Legion raised by Caesar from that point forward, he made a change by commanding that a Century would consist of a hundred men, which was changed back to eighty men by the man now known as Augustus. This was why we had the unusual sleeping arrangements in our tent; normally eight cots were sufficient, since the Century of traditional size consisted of ten sections of men, one section to each tent. Of course, we did not know this was unusual, and would not learn otherwise until much later in our careers. Now, these Centuries were all marching about under the order of their respective Centurions. Assisting them was the Centurion’s Optio, the second in command of each Century; we had yet to meet ours because he was working with the rest of the Century. As it turned out, we were the last of the First Century of the Second Cohort to be added, explaining why we were getting the undivided attention of the Pilus Prior and not the Optio. The Pilus Prior had us watch the other groups marching for a moment, and even to our untrained eye, we could see that they were in different stages of training. Smaller groups like ours still displayed a tendency to look like they were shambling along, and they were being “encouraged” with the Centurion’s stick more often than the others. It was also plain to see that being smacked with that stick was going to be a regular part of our lives for some time to come.
After a few moments, the Pilus Prior said, “You can see that you’ll be spending a great deal of your time just learning how to march in the proper manner, and obey the commands given you while you march. And know this you cunni,” he finished, “my Cohort will be the tightest, best drilled Cohort in this Legion, or you’ll all die trying.”
He laughed at his own joke, if indeed it was. For ourselves, we were not sure. The rest of the day was spent marching about, with a liberal amount of bashing with the stick, which we learned was called the vitus and is a symbol of the Centurion rank. Up and down we marched, learning the basic commands, and I never suspected one could become so tired from just walking around, yet by the time we were through, I was exhausted. So were the others if the looks of them were any indication. We marched through at least two watches; the watch is divided into increments of three hours each, and the end of each watch is signaled by the sounding of a horn. I could not tell which horn it was, but as I learned later the change of the watch is sounded by the bucina. Either the Pilus Prior thought we had been through enough, or we were at a point where we would not have improved, but either way we were thankful for the break.
We were marched back to our tent and put in the charge of Sergeant Calienus, who informed us that it was almost time for the evening meal, so he spent the time waiting showing us the proper way to stow our gear under our cots. As one might surmise, everything had to be arranged just so, and although he did not have to do so, Sergeant Calienus explained why.
“Let’s say it’s the middle of the night, and you’re all sound asleep, thinking of the women you’re missing back home,” he said, drawing a chuckle from us, which he did not seem to mind. “Then out of nowhere, the horns are blasting and men are shouting because an attack on the walls has started. It's pitch black, and you have to fall to your defensive station, which” he added, “I’ll show you where it is on the wall on the way to draw our meal. Anyway, everyone’s screaming and shouting, there’s a horrible racket coming from the barbarian horde outside the walls, and it’s utter chaos and confusion.”
While he was talking, he was seated on his cot facing us, except he was demonstrating as he spoke, pulling out first his armor and putting it on as he continued explaining, “So you've got just a moment to get your gear on and stand to on the wall, or there'll be Hades to pay, or worse. What if the breach to the wall happens in your area, because you couldn’t get armed and ready in the proper amount of time?”
By the time he was finished, he had put on his helmet, donned his armor, strapped on his baldric, grabbed his shield and was ready to go, all without looking for any piece of his gear. We were all suitably impressed, and I at least saw the immediate sense of what he had said. As we were to learn, this was the way of Sergeant Calienus; while the Pilus Prior used his vitus and the most inventive cursing I had ever heard in my life to that point, Sergeant Calienus talked to us like we were already Legionaries. I supposed it was because he was not as far removed from having been like us as Pilus Prior Crastinus, although I was hard pressed to imagine that Crastinus was ever a tiro. In fact, I imagined that he had been born in his armor, fully formed and ready for battle from the day he was born, an image that I was to learn was carefully cultivated by him, and one that I would come to use myself.
Sergeant Calienus marched us back to the quaestorium, the tent that is located next to the Praetorium and serves the quartermaster, where we were given our flat loaf of panis castrenis, had the small stoppered bottle for our olive oil filled, and watered wine put into our flask. Some of the boys looked at what they were being handed with a combination of puzzlement and distaste; for me, it was nothing since I had always been indiffere
nt to food as far as what it tasted like. I did miss my meat, although I did not say anything since that would have exposed my poverty to the others. Over the years I have developed a belief that one reason I was so large was due in part to my father’s lack of success as a farmer. Because we did not have much grain with which to make our bread, we ate more meat than was normal for most Romans, and I have since seen people like the Germans who are my size and whose diet is composed mostly of meat, which seems to support my idea. Still, it was not something I liked to talk about with the others, so I pretended that I liked the diet of bread and chickpeas just as much as everyone else.
“We get bacon every other day, a nice salted chunk of it, but today's not the day. And you’re lucky that we’re in camp and only training, or it would be straight water, no wine,” Calienus explained.
