Legionary

by Hector Miller

  Chapter 1 – Recruit (Oct 235 AD)

  “Name?” stated the clerk. I hesitated for a moment because I had been called Eochar for years. Before I could answer the clerk looked up while tapping his stylus irritatingly on the side of the table: “Are you hard of hearing or just stupid? Name!”

  I breathed deeply and replied: “I am Lucius Domitius Aurelianus.”

  While he wrote down my name he said: “State your trade.”

  Again I hesitated, but before he could intervene I replied: “Farmer.”

  He scowled and said: “That’s not on the list, be more specific.”

  I could read well, even upside down, so I afforded a peek at his list.

  “Huntsman”, I replied. He looked up from his writing, making eye contact and willing me to correct the obvious lie, but I kept quiet.

  He mumbled “huntsman” while writing it down and continued: “Are you able to read and write?”

  I decided to risk a question. “Would that be beneficial, sir?”

  Again he eyed me with suspicion and replied: “Yes.”

  “I am able to read and write, sir.”

  He wrote: “Claims to be literate, but it is highly unlikely.”

  The clerk pointed to an area where many new recruits congregated: “Wait there until you are summoned.”

  I strolled over to the group of at least six hundred recruits. These numbers were a good indication of the heavy losses taken by the Fourth Legion during the recent Alemanni wars.

  All the young men were talking and laughing excitedly while standing together in small groups. Everyone knowing at least somebody. I was hovering on the fringes, suddenly feeling lonely and looking around for the opportunity to approach some or other individual in the same predicament.

  I spotted a loner, with eyes searching desperately. Not unlike myself.

  I approached my quarry in a wide arc. I stopped a pace behind him and said too loudly: “I’m Lucius!” He didn’t turn around, but kept his back to me and replied: “Pleased to make your acquaintance Lucius, my name is Vibius. I hope you are better at fighting than stalking people.” He had me on the back foot, but turned around with a broad smile on his face and clasped my forearm. He continued: “I really am pleased to meet you, it seems that everyone knows everyone, except you and me.”

  It was time for revenge and I replied: “Yes Vibius, I am.”

  He looked at me quizzically and I continued: “I am better at fighting than stalking.” Both of us burst out laughing.

  Vibius’s father worked for the provincial administration, somewhere in the east and had recently been transferred to Sirmium. He had not been in the area long enough to make friends.

  I told him that my father bred horses nearby, but we had travelled a lot until recently, which explained my lack of friends.

  Allow me to digress. I am inclined to speak the truth. Deceit is something I do not enjoy, but I could not share my past and experiences with my friends. Had I told them my truthful story, they would have ostracised me as a teller of tall tales.

  I had lived with the Scythians of the Steppes, fought the brutal Goths and commanded seven thousand barbarian cavalry in a pitched battle. Even if they did, would they believe that I am a prince of the Roxolani and that I had been trained as a master of the sword by a priest from the land of Serica? I think not.

  Would they believe that my father had murdered an emperor, or that the king of the Huns embraced me like a son? Never.

  The only solution was to remain quiet about my past and keep my martial prowess hidden.

  Before we could continue our conversation, centurions arrived and herded us into small groups.

  We did not realise it then, but the centurions were the lead centurions of the ten cohorts of the legion. They each knew the number of recruits they had to gather to replace the losses of the recent campaign.

  It is important to explain the position of centurion in a Roman legion.

  The centurion commands a group of ten contubernia. A contubernium being a group of eight men who share a tent and live like a family for all practical purposes. He would normally have seen thirty summers or more and would possess sufficient practical experience in battle.

  A centurion is not your friend. He represents the backbone of the legions of Rome. Practical, without mercy but extremely capable.

  Every legion is subdivided into ten cohorts and every cohort consists of six centuries. The cohorts are led by the centurion of the first century in the cohort.

  The highest ranking centurion in the legion would be the centurion in charge of the first century of the first cohort. The Primus Pilus, or first spear, is only outranked by officers of noble birth.

  Vibius and I ended up in the group of the centurion of the third cohort, Hostilius Proculus. In a certain way, he reminded me of Bradakos, my mentor during my sojourn in Scythia.

  Hostilius was a brute. Heavily muscled, scarred and devout of any visible compassion. Like Bradakos, he always carried a scowl on his face.

  In any event, we ended up with Hostilius and that was that.

  It was late in the day and we were shown to an area where legionaries had pitched tents for our use. The required tents were erected by each of the cohorts to accommodate its recruits.

  The third had not suffered that heavily in comparison with the other cohorts and only four tents were erected to house the thirty two new recruits.

  Vibius and I shared the tent with six young men, whose names I fail to recall. We curled up on our felt mats and I fell asleep almost immediately.

  The night passed dreamlessly and I woke with a jolt when Centurion Hostilius kicked my leg.

  “Wake up dogs, we are going for a little stroll around the countryside.”

  “Get your arses outside and line up. Leave your belongings in the tent.”

  A few heartbeats later, thirty two bedraggled young men stood in line, facing the officer. We wore a mismatch of clothes. Some had beards while others were clean shaven. Hairstyles varied from short cropped Roman style to Suebian topknots.

  Hostilius allowed his eyes to slowly wash over us. I am sure I even picked up a hint of despair in his countenance as his scowl increased in severity, his knuckles visibly white as he strangled his vine cane.

  He used his vine cane to point at the first individual in the line. “First recruit, one step forward, second recruit, one step back. Every second recruit follow!”

  Chaos ensued. Eager to please, some stepped back while others stepped forward, leaving confused individuals in the centre, unable to fix the equation.

  Hostilius’s face resembled his red cloak as he passed between the lines, yanking the recruits into the proper alignment by the scruff of the neck.

  Next to the tents lay a heap of shields. They were all damaged in one way or another and probably used for training.

  “Fall out, collect a shield, and fall in line exactly as you were.”

  The result was even worse than the first time. While everyone successfully gathered a shield, we were not able to identify where we fitted into the line. We ended up as a milling bunch, arguing about who was next to who.

  The vine cane struck my back with such force, I was sure it had broken a bone. “You!” Hostilius yelled, pointing to a spot in the dirt with his cane. I complied.

  As soon as he was satisfied that all were in position, he walked to the front of the column. “Follow me”, he said as he marched towards the gate of the camp.

  We did not march, we walked.

  When we reached the gate, which was closed as per regulation, he yelled: “Stop.”

  Predictably, some of the men walked into the backs of others. Two even fell over.

  Although the centurion knew exactly what the situation would be, he was kind enough
not to turn around and mete out the required punishment. He just faced forward and waited patiently as the gates were opened.

  I had trained with the curved oval roman shield, or scutum, as it was known by the legions and my left arm was used to its weight and feel. I normally trained with double weighted shields so in comparison the ones we were carrying felt light as a feather.

  We had walked only five miles and I could see most of the other recruits were battling with the weight of the shields. I emulated them, tried to look tired and allowed my shield arm to sag.

  The lengths we go to in order to be part of the collective!

  Seven miles out of the camp, the centurion called a halt. He had us turn to the side as if to enable him to discuss something with us.

  I had trained with horses since before I could walk and have been taught scouting by the Roxolani and the Huns, who are the best of the best.

  I picked up on the approaching cavalry long before any of my fellow recruits noticed anything was amiss.

  I was unsure what to do so I extended my arm in front of my body, but I did not speak.

  “What is your problem soldier? Are you missing your mother?” Hostilius mocked.

  I responded: “Small group of cavalry approaching from the north, sir”, and lowered my hand.

  He raised his hand, signalling silence and turned his back on us, facing to the north. Within moments all of us could see the dust of the approaching horsemen.

  A group of thirty bore down on us at full gallop. They did not wear Roman uniforms, but all were clothed in the style of the Scythians.

  Hostilius yelled: “Barbarian cavalry approaching, brace for impact. Keep your shields locked and do not yield!” As he had no shield, he moved behind the shield wall for protection.

  I knew what Scythian cavalry looked like. These horsemen were no Scythians. They rode badly, like Romans and had Roman saddles and horses. Their clothes as well as their weapons and armour looked wrong.

  Yet, facing a cavalry charge as infantry is one of the scariest experiences one can have. Then it dawned on me. It was a test.

  The cavalry was a hundred paces away when I turned to Vibius and whispered: “These are not barbarians my friend. The centurion only wants to see who will run. Relax.”

  At about forty paces out, three of the recruits could not bear it anymore. They dropped their shields and ran. The bogus barbarians reined in and halted ten paces from us.

  My eye caught Hostilius watching the recruits intently.

  He called to one of the horsemen and said: “Fetch back the boys who ran and bring them to me.”

  Hostilius stood a couple of paces away, awaiting the return of the cowardly recruits. Everyone was chatting excitedly and patting each other on the back. I focused and tried to listen to the conversation Hostilius was having. The three unfortunates were standing in front of him with eyes cast downward.

  He spoke softly. “Not everyone is cut out to be a soldier. You three are not. You have not yet received the mark of the legionary and therefore you are free to go home. Do not be disheartened. If this had not been done, your bloated corpses would soon lie on the field of battle.”

  He turned around, unaware of my eavesdropping and yelled like only a Roman centurion can: “Quiet!” His vine cane biting into the arms and legs of the recruits nearest to him. “You may think that you are fortunate compared to those boys”, he pointed at the three walking down the road. “They are the lucky ones. You ladies now belong to me and I do not suffer fools like you. You will soon curse the day that you were born.”

  “Back to camp. On the trot.”

  I was the only one who did not vomit. I even had to fake looking tired when we arrived back at camp.

  Trestle tables had been set out. One for each of the cohorts, attended by a myriad of clerks.

  The twenty nine of us lined up on the instruction of the centurion.

  He stood next to the tables, observing the process.

  Two wax tablets were laid out on the table.

  “Gaius Cottius”, yelled Hostilius. “Approach.”

  One of the young men stepped forward and came to stand next to the centurion.

  Can you read and write, Cottius. “Yes, Centurion”, he replied.

  “Read this” he said, “and then write it word for word on the second tablet.”

  Cottius smoothly read the inscription and proceeded to copy the text as instructed.

  Hostilius handed the writing to a clerk who scrutinized it and nodded in acceptance.

  Hostilius said: “Congratulations Cottius, welcome to the staff of the quartermaster. Your pay will be double that of a normal legionary.”

  He pointed with his vine cane to where Cottius should proceed.

  “Lucius Domitius Aurelianus.”

  I had seen what happened to Cottius and for the first time in my two day long military career, I was paralyzed with fear on hearing the centurion call out my name.

  If I were to end up in the service of the quartermaster, I would be a clerk for twenty years. I was horrified.

  “You said that you are able to read and write. Is that correct or are you a liar, Lucius Domitius?”

  “I can read and write Centurion”, I stammered.

  A wax tablet was handed to me. The only thing I could come up with was to read the text, but read it badly, like a child would.

  I looked up at Hostilius when I was done reading. His eyes narrowed and he pointed to the second wax tablet and stylus. I wrote, trying to draw the letters badly and change around the letters to confuse the reader.

  The clerk checked my work and scowling, shook his head. My gaze met Hostilius’s eyes, which were still narrow with suspicion.

  He kept quiet and pointed to the spot I should move to. With relief I noticed that I was standing nowhere near Cottius.

  When we had all performed the test, twenty seven of us were left. A smiling Cottius and another recruit were escorted away to the section that would join the staff of the quartermaster.

  It was late afternoon but I could see that the proceedings were long from being concluded.

  We were ordered to line up. We had to wait for the arrival of a clerk accompanied by four legionaries carrying a heavy chest.

  Each of us received our joining bonus of three hundred bronze sesterces. For me it was small change, but for some of the recruits it was more money than they had ever held in their hands and they were visibly overawed.

  I took the money and tried to look pleased.

  Once all of us had received the payment and made our mark to confirm the receipt, Hostilius took over.

  “You will now take the legionary oath and receive the mark of the legion.”

  We all had to face our new comrades and recite the oath, one by one.

  “I swear to do as my emperor commands, I swear to never desert my legion and I swear to give my life should it be required.”

  While we were giving our oaths, our names were entered into the rolls, as the oath would legally bind us to the service.

  We then advanced to another table and one by one had the name “Legio IV Italica” tattooed onto the inside of our right wrists, just below the palm.

  Once we were done, Hostilius clasped our forearms one at a time and said: “Welcome to the third cohort, legionary. Now you belong to me!”

  Chapter 2 – Training

  “Wake up ladies, time to look pretty for the party.” The centurion’s voice boomed around the tents.

  In the early light of dawn the cohort barber had set up his mobile station and proceeded to cut our hair short and shave off our beards.

  Barbering thirty men takes time. While we were waiting in line, the centurion shared some of his wisdom.

  “Let me give you some advice boys. One day you will find yourself fighting for your life against some or other wild barbarian. Barbarians love their long hair and beards. Use it against them. Grab it and pull them closer so they can taste your iron.”

  “What do you
see when you look at my face?” he asked no one in particular. Predictably he received no answer so he raised his vine cane and pointed to Vibius, standing in line next to me.

  Vibius was no fool and said: “Lots of battle scars, sir.”

  “Good, I see at least one of you has some sense.”

  He continued: “When you fight, your face tends to get damaged. The surgeon cannot stitch the pieces back together if you have a beard, boy.”

  About a watch later we were all clean shaven with short cropped hair.

  “Now that we’ve neatened you up, let’s go get dressed up pretty. Follow me.”

  Hostilius escorted us to the stores of the quartermaster.