by R. W. Peake
Despite my record and my hunger for glory, I still possessed the ordinary soldier’s suspicion of being singled out. Every time I was summoned, even if I was told the reason, I was sure that it would turn out to be for some sort of chastisement or punishment. I think it was this insecurity that made me such a good Legionary; no matter how hard I worked, I never thought I was deserving of any praise, preferring to focus instead on the things I did wrong and convincing myself that I had been found out.
Continuing, he said, “You’re being decorated tomorrow morning, so I don’t have to tell you that your gear better be perfectly polished. The Pilus Prior will inspect you first thing in the morning, so you better get to it.”
Standing there for a moment, I tried to figure out what this was all about. I could not think of anything I had done that was especially noteworthy, so I asked, “Sir, if it’s not too much to ask, would the Primus Pilus care to tell me what it is I’m being decorated for?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say that I know myself. All I know is that you better be standing tall and ready for inspection an hour after morning call.”
I knew better than to argue or keep pressing, so I just said, “Yes sir,” and returned to the tent to begin polishing my gear.
That next morning, I and about 40 other men from the 10th Legion were recognized for bravery, while I was one of two from the Legion to be awarded the corona civica. Since it is worn on the head, it is necessary to remove your helmet, and it was only when I received the order to do so that I got an inkling of what I was about to receive. My mind raced; we had not assaulted any towns in either campaign, so it could not be a corona muralis, and we had not relieved any besieged force. Anyway, I was not of sufficient rank to receive a corona vallaris. Caesar stepped forward, Labienus and the Primus Pilus next to him, the Primus Pilus holding a pillow of some rich fabric, on which lay a simple grass crown. My throat tightened; winning this award for saving the life of a fellow Roman citizen is considered the highest honor a man can receive, and here I was barely 20 years old and I was being awarded this honor. Tribune Labienus unrolled a scroll, reading the citation aloud in his braying, parade ground voice, describing the event for which I was being decorated. It was for my rescue of Scribonius that day against the Helvetii, and the instant Labienus spoke the words, I was transported back to that moment, seeing the Helvetii warrior about to plunge his spear into Scribonius’ unprotected face. Feeling a warmth flow through me, I thought how happy I was that it was Scribonius that I saved, because I considered him a true friend, a good man and a good Legionary. For another time I found myself looking down at a beaming Caesar, then bowed my head to save him from being forced to stand on tiptoe to place the corona on my head. It was very light, the woven grass tickling my closely shaven scalp, and I was barely conscious of the words Caesar spoke to me.
“We meet once again Sergeant Pullus, and once again, you bring honor to the 10th Legion.”
“The honor is mine, Caesar,” I replied. “I’m just happy that I was able to save one of my friends from death.”
He gave me a thoughtful look, then said quietly, “That’s really all it’s about, isn’t it? We do what we do for our friends.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he gazed back through his own past. “Did you know I was awarded the same honor, when I was just about your age?” he asked, and I showed my surprise; I had not been aware of it until that moment.
Seeing my face, he laughed, “I know that it was a long time ago, probably before you were born. How old are you now Pullus?”
I almost damned myself to dismissal from the Legions or worse when I opened my mouth, because I was about to blurt out my true age. Thank the gods that I stopped myself in time.
“Twenty-one, sir.”
For a moment, my heart plummeted into my feet as his eyes narrowed, giving me a look that I was sure meant that he did not believe me. My relief was almost overwhelming when he replied, “So you were just born then, it took me a moment to add it up. Must be old age,” he laughed and I laughed with him, the feeling of escape washing through me.
“Still, it’s a remarkable achievement for one of your age, Pullus. I told you once I expected great things from you, and you have not disappointed me. Continue to serve me as you have in these campaigns, and you have a very bright future indeed.”
I promised that I would always strive to serve him as I had in the past and that he could always count on me whenever he called, something he accepted with a nod, indicating that such devotion was no more than his due, then our moment was over as he moved to the next man. Once finished, we were dismissed to go back to our place in the formation. Tradition decreed that I would continue to wear the corona civica for the rest of the day, which I was happy to do, but I must admit that it felt a little strange to be standing in formation with my friends bareheaded, my helmet under my left arm.
Out of the side of his mouth, Scribonius spoke quietly, “I've never properly thanked you for what you did Titus,” using my praenomen, which in itself was rare, at least up to that point. “I’ll forever be in your debt, and the only way I can repay you is to let you know that if ever you need me, for anything, all you have to do is ask.”
A lump formed in my throat at his words, and I couldn’t trust myself to speak, so I merely nodded that I heard him.
Caesar left us behind to build our winter quarters and settle into our garrison routine, which some of the men enjoyed after living under a tent for so many months, but I personally abhorred. I hated the idea of doing nothing, which is what I considered we did in the winter months. Once the gear was mended or replaced, there was nothing but boredom and talk of how drunk we would get that night. This was the farthest north we ever spent a winter to that point, and I for one was not looking forward to the bitter cold. Even in the high summer months, the larger mountains still have snow covering their peaks, so I was sure that we would see more snow and bitter cold than we had ever experienced to that point, and that it would last longer. I was right on both counts; no matter how hard we tried, we could never seem to successfully chink the cracks between the rough boards that made our huts, so that the wind would come whistling through in an icy blast that always seemed to seek me out no matter what part of the hut I was in. Whenever it was our turn to stand guard, we bundled up with every piece of extra clothing we could find, and for the first time I began wearing the bracae that is part of everyday dress for Gauls, but was only allowed for our use during the cold winter months. Our sagum was all we had to keep out the elements, and it was not long before the tradesmen in town started doing a brisk business in selling regulation sagum, waterproofed on the outside in the normal fashion, but lined with animal fur on the inside. It was never allowed for parades or inspections, yet soon every man I knew spent some of their own money on purchasing such a garment. Gloves were not allowed, so we wore socks, which were allowed, on both our feet and our hands. They may not have looked very soldierly, but we had never been in cold like this before. Those townspeople who initially welcomed our presence began to tire of us because of the trouble that invariably followed some Legionaries around, like Atilius who, now that he was off of campaign, began to resort to his old ways of drinking and fighting. It did not help that the army tended to attract a certain class of people that the respectable townsfolk would under any other circumstances have nothing to do with; the fact that they were Roman did not help. While we were originally welcomed as rescuers coming to the aid of the Gauls in this area, once the crisis was averted and we did not leave, the warm feelings that our presence initially generated began to degrade and chill, with much the same speed as the weather outside. It was not long before things became tense, and there were fights between townspeople and soldiers, which was bad enough. Then Atilius killed the son of the headsman of the town in a drunken brawl. This time he was not going to get away with extra duties or shoveling out the latrine; the man he killed was too important politically for such a light punishment. The only thing saving his life we
re enough witnesses that were not Roman Legionaries who testified that at the very least, it was a situation where it was mutual combat, with more than one townsperson saying that in fact the son of the headsman was the aggressor. No matter what really happened, something had to be done, an example had to be made, which is why we found ourselves standing, shivering in the cold in full dress uniform, with our Century forced to stand in the front rank closest to where the punishment was to be carried out. Atilius was led out by two burly veterans in the provost unit, stripped to the waist, his torso standing out oddly white against the brown of his arms, legs and face. He had been kept under close guard so that none of us could sneak him some wine to dull his senses, and we were thankful that he could at least ascribe the severe shaking of his body to the bitter cold. The snow lay thick on the ground, and we could hear the crunching of their feet on the snow as they half-dragged Atilius to the wooden frame placed in the middle of the forum. Each guard took an arm, pulling him over the frame so that his back was exposed before tying his arms down to the upper part of the frame, then lashing his legs to the poles that supported the frame on the ground. Once in position, one of the provosts offered Atilius a gag made of a stick wrapped in leather for him to bite down on, and Atilius opened his mouth to accept it, his jaws clenching as he bit down. Labienus, serving in his capacity as our Legate since Caesar was elsewhere, then read the charge and sentence aloud for all of us to hear, with Atilius' punishment being ten lashes with the scourge. If it had been 20 or more lashes, it would have killed him; ten would be enough to almost kill him. Also present at the punishment was a group of townspeople, including an older heavyset bearded man, dressed in a rich fur cloak and fine brocaded tunic, his long hair pulled back in the Gallic style. Figuring him to be the father of the dead man, we deduced that he was here fulfilling two purposes, first as the representative of the injured party, and second as the headman of the town. There were a few other folk as well who I took to be members of his council. The Gallic chief’s face was set in stone, betraying neither grief nor delight at the sight of Atilius stripped bare and humiliated in this fashion. The man brandishing the scourge was not as tall as me, but he was heavily muscled, and clearly used to administering punishments up to and including execution. Unless, of course, the crime was such that the condemned man’s comrades were the ones detailed to carry it out. We had attended a few floggings with the scourge, yet this was the first of anyone we knew, and I could feel the tension vibrating among us as the man with the lash prepared himself to administer the punishment, swinging his arm in a circular motion to loosen his muscles, the strands of the scourge whistling in the air as he did so. The sound of it cutting through the air was a sound we could all plainly hear, and clearly so could Atilius, his shaking becoming more pronounced as his eyes widened in terror. My stomach formed into a hard knot as I watched, knowing that he had to be punished yet not liking it one bit. Now that he was warmed up the punisher turned sideways, his arm bent at the elbow, forearm parallel to the ground and the braids of the scourge trailing in the snow. With a smooth, fluid motion, he brought his now-straightened arm overhand as he stepped forward, bringing the scourge in a full circle in the air to bring the lashes down on Atilius’ back with a sickening wet slapping sound. Immediately Atilius let out a scream that was audible even through the gag and despite myself, I winced at the sound and sight of the bloody red stripes on his back, punctuated by deeper indentations where the pieces of metal that are embedded in each lash had dug out small chunks of his flesh from his back.
“One!”
It is the duty of the Legate to announce the count of the punishment lashes and Labienus did so with an impassive face that showed neither pleasure nor distaste at what was taking place. The punisher recovered, returning to his original position, then brought his arm up and over again, striking Atilius another time, the sound of the lashes striking his back, blood now freely flowing as it was, even more pronounced. Again, Atilius let out a muffled scream, his legs beginning to collapse out from under him as he cringed in pain. The knot in my stomach now threatened to burst and I could taste the bile rising up in my throat, yet I was determined not to show any sign of weakness.
“Two.”
Eight more to go. There is no way that Atilius will survive this, I thought, he’s going to die and there’s nothing we can do about it. The blood now dripped off his back, making bright red splotches in the white snow, and I focused my gaze on the ground instead of on Atilius.
Somehow, Atilius did survive the punishment, though just barely. Once he was cut down, we were ordered to drag him off to the quaestorium. He lost consciousness about the fifth or sixth lash, and Calienus quietly told us that Labienus had actually done Atilius a favor, because some commanders would have insisted on reviving him before finishing the punishment.
“At least this way he didn’t feel those last few,” he told us as we walked along.
We were carrying Atilius by the arms and legs, facedown so that we could not avoid seeing the damage done to his back. Dull white of bone along his ribs where the skin and muscle had been flayed from his skeleton were clearly visible, and while I was not sure what purpose the muscles along one’s back performs, frankly I did not see how he would be able to get any use out of them whatsoever, as shredded as they were. Nearing the tent, he began to moan, his head moving slowly as he regained consciousness.
“Easy there Atilius,” Romulus said in what for him passed as a soothing tone. “You survived and we’re taking you to the hospital.”
I do not know whether Atilius heard or understood Romulus, for he made no intelligible sounds, just moaning over and over. Getting him into the tent, we placed him on his stomach on the table that the doctor indicated, then he ran us out when we tried to stay and watch the doctor work on him.
Before we left, Scribonius asked the doctor quietly, “Will he live?”
The doctor shrugged. “Only the gods know right now. If he survives the next day, then he has a good chance, but only about half of the men who are scourged do.”
“Couldn’t you be a little more optimistic?” snapped Vibius.
The doctor’s face reddened, and he was clearly about to make a sharp reply, but then he saw our faces and his look softened. “He’s your comrade, then?”
“He’s our friend,” Vibius replied firmly, making sure that the doctor knew that just because Atilius was guilty of a crime did not mean we were willing to minimize our relationship with him. The doctor stifled a smile before continuing, “Well at least he has that going for him. Most of the men who receive this kind of punishment are dragged in here and dumped by their so-called friends, then they get out of here as quick as they can. It’s good to see men stick by their friends.”
His kind words mollified our anger at him for his earlier callousness, and we left it that we would be back to visit the moment the doctor sent word it was possible, which he promised to do. Walking back to our tent, the formation had since been dismissed, but the rack still remained in place, and it would for the rest of the day as a reminder to all of us what awaited those who fell afoul of the rules. Atilius’ blood was spattered in a semicircle around the rack, extending a good two or three feet away, yet despite our best efforts, we found our gaze pulled to stare at the rack and its gore as we walked by.
Atilius did make it through the next day, but only just, and he was weak as a newborn babe for several weeks. His back would carry the hideous scars for the rest of his life, a symbol that he had broken the laws of the Roman army and been punished, a fact that he did whatever he could to hide, only very reluctantly taking off his tunic, and only in front of us. As far as his behavior, he was not allowed to leave camp for the rest of the winter, since there were still hard feelings with the townspeople who did not think that his punishment was harsh enough. There were other incidents after that, until Vesontio was made off-limits to all Legionaries, who were then forced restrict themselves to the shacks of the camp followers located outside
the walls of the town, a fact that suited the pimps, whores and purveyors of swill that they called wine perfectly well. Of course, the army has many men like Atilius who just seem to have a problem following some of the simplest rules, something that I could never understand. If I was told to stay out of a town or city, I stayed out, yet for some men the lure of the forbidden was just too strong, and it became a regular occurrence for us to be trooped out to witness a punishment almost once a week. What puzzled me was why this was happening so often, when the two years we were at Narbo men obeyed the rules much more readily and we had a punishment formation perhaps once a month, if that.
“You’re no longer tiros,” explained Calienus, and he saw by my expression that I did not understand. “When you first joined as a tiro you were scared to death of all the rules and regulations, right?”
I nodded that I understood this.
“But now you know all the rules, and you’ve seen most of the punishment that the army will dish out to someone who fucks up,” he continued. “Add to that now you’ve faced death dozens of times, so that you’ve lost your fear of most things, including being punished.”
Despite not feeling that way personally, I could see how others might, and I nodded again as I thought about this. Perhaps that was true; after all, we knew death in a way that very few people do, and it had visited men we knew, so that we recognized in a way that most people cannot that death visits us all. Once the fear of death is gone, it removes a major obstacle in one’s path, and in some cases, the path that these men were following meant that being caught in town was not of major importance to them.
