Two men scurried up carrying an open wooden chest between them. It was two feet wide, four feet long and three feet high. They dropped it at the foot of the rostrum and left as quickly as they had arrived. Attius came down and walked around it examining it closely. He gave it a kick.
“Well made that; Legionary Corvo, I have one of these, how many will I need to have twenty in all?”
“You will need nineteen more, sir,” Corvo shouted in reply.
“And if I want twenty-five altogether?”
“That would take an extra twenty-four, sir”
“Very good Corvo; you can count. Can you also read and write?”
“Yes, sir, I can.”
“Even better,” Attius told him then turned to the men ranked in front of him.
“I am having twenty-five of these chests made. They are to be placed strategically on the parapets of the stockade. You are going to fill them with stones from the river. I want round stones as big as you can comfortably hold in one fist. Now, you are saying to yourselves, that isn’t so bad, we can get them out of the pissy little stream just outside the gate. Well you can’t. You bastards can march down to the Rhine and fill up your baskets with as many as you can carry. When my twenty-five boxes are filled level, the job is done. Oh, no wine and barley-bread only until you’re finished. Legionary Corvo is promoted temporary acting optio reporting to me and me only with immediate effect. Temporary Acting Optio Corvo, get your men busy, they’ve stood about in idleness all morning.”
The tutor Aldermar had recommended for Otto was Martellus Flaccus. He was a decanus, a corporal, with fifteen years of army experience. He had been a farrier in civilian life and after his basic training was declared immunes and practised his craft in the legion’s cavalry. He was deep-chested with sloping shoulders and massively developed forearms. Martellus loved horses and he loved the army. He woke in a good mood each morning and never let a day go by without thanking the gods for the life they had given him. He had only one fault. Every few months he would drink impossible amounts of wine, or local beer if no wine was to be had, until he collapsed and had to be carried back to his billet to sleep it off. Since sleeping it off generally took more than a full day, he had been granted an unofficial medical status which meant that on the two or three days each year when he was too sick and hung-over to stand, he was classified as being on the sick list. This suited everyone. His masterly skills compensated for his occasional weakness. He had his head shaved of its dark hair once a week, was missing his bottom front teeth and liked to sing filthy songs in a low voice while he worked. He was a generally affable man who seemed older than his thirty-eight years. The troops called him “Uncle” behind his back. He knew and he did not mind,
He became a different man entirely when faced with a horse which had been misused. Any rider who brought a wounded or bleeding animal to “Uncle Martellus” was well advised to have a good explanation. He had once broken a cavalryman’s foot with a hammer for jagging at his mount’s bit so fiercely that the corners of its lips were split.
When he was called to Lucius’ quarters, he stood at relaxed attention on the veranda. He wore a leather apron over his uniform and exuded a strong smell of horse. Martellus listened politely to Lucius’ suggestion that he spent an hour or so a day with Otto then shook his head with a rueful grin.
“That won’t do at all, sir, begging your pardon. I’m not a schoolteacher. I can’t sit in a room with the lad and learn him anything.”
“I am disappointed that you feel unable to assist me, Decanus Flaccus,” Lucius replied stiffly.
“I didn’t say that, sir, not at all. Why doesn’t he come over to me at the stables everyday? He can learn a bit of the trade and he’ll pick up our lingo in no time if I’m asking him to pass this or hold that, you see if he don’t.”
“That seems a much better idea, Flaccus. Would you please explain it to him?”
Lucius listened to the interchange between Flaccus and Otto in German without understanding a word but judging by the worried expression on Otto’s face and the way he kept pointing at him that the suggestion was not well received. Martellus scratched his head.
“There’s no such thing as German like there is Latin sir. It’s different languages sharing lots of the same words but not all of ‘em, so to speak. His talk is a bit unusual to me but as far as I can understand, he don’t want to leave you unprotected all day long. Says that would not be honourable sir, very big on honour these Germans in their own odd way.”
“Gods above and below; I’m in the middle of a legion camp with thousands of comrades around. What does he think is going to happen to me?”
“I’ll repeat that to him as best I can, sir.”
After what seemed to Lucius an interminable discussion in which even he could make out that words and phrases were being repeated as they tried to make themselves understood to each other, Martellus smiled and nodded at Otto then spoke to Lucius again.
“He says in that case it will be fine as long as you promise not to leave the camp without him.”
Lucius rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Tell him I agree.”
At the end of the further interpretation, Martellus turned to Lucius for the last time.
“All sorted, Tribune Longius; he’s going to come over first thing tomorrow morning to make a start. Two things though, if I’m any judge he isn’t wearing anything under that tunic so better get him a loincloth, in view of all the scandal. Oh, and those soft shoes he wears might be grand for running about in the forest but he’s going to need a pair of regulation boots.
Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius thought everything was now settled. He was wrong. The quartermaster’s clerk refused to hand over the boots.
“He isn’t on the strength, tribune. My stores are for legionaries and cavalrymen. He ain’t neither of those now, is he?”
“He is attached to my staff,” Lucius told him.
“And that would be as what sir, infantry or cavalry?”
“You are being insolent.”
“No, sir, I am not. I am simply stating the regulations. I can’t hand out kit to anyone who just comes along and asks for it. Not unless they have a chit, sir and are on the strength.”
“Very well, soldier; since I do not have all day to argue with you, I shall buy a pair of boots. How much are they?”
The clerk sucked his teeth and shook his head.
“I can’t sell off legion stores just like that, sir; bribery and corruption that is, very serious offence.”
“What is the answer then? Decanus Martellus Flaccus says that Otto has to have them.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that right away, sir? Give me a chit and I can issue a pair to a farrier’s assistant. Doesn’t have to be a sworn-in soldier you see; an assistant could be a civilian auxiliary.”
Otto had never worn anything on his feet as heavy as army issue hobnailed boots. He had trouble walking in them but at the same time, he was grinning widely and seemed to be proud of his new footwear.
Lentus and Attius watched Temporary Acting Optio Corvo lead his punishment detail down to the Rhine. The men were in full armour, helmeted and carried wicker baskets on their backs.
“Did you order him to make ‘em wear full marching order sir?” Lentus asked.
“No, I didn’t tell him anything; just what I wanted done and that he was in charge. Let’s see if he makes a pig’s ear of it,” Attius replied with a chuckle.
An hour and a half later, Corvo arrived back at the gate with a group of twenty men. Half of them formed a cordon with shields and javelins at the ready, the other ten struggled with the first load of stones as well as their heavy kit. Attius had been waiting for them. He kicked the side of the chest.
“Get this up in the middle of the walkway over the Porta Praetoria and fill it up,” he commanded.
While the soldiers were busy, he drew Corvo aside.
“You’ve only got half of ’em working Temporary Acting Op
tio Corvo, what’s the idea?”
“If the German’s are watching from across the river, sir, they’ll see that sixty men are on watch at all times. That’ll put them off the idea of a hit and run attack, sir.”
“How would they manage that, it’s all open ground?”
“They could come across upstream, mass in the forest and make a rush to cut us off from the camp, sir.”
“And what would you do if they did?”
“With a hundred and forty men we could fall back in good order to our bridgehead fortress and send a signal.”
“So why did you march back with the first load, Corvo?”
“Because now I know how long it takes. The next lot I send up won’t be able dawdle and pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Impressive, Temporary Acting Optio Corvo; carry on,” Attius told him.
Throughout the rest of the day, the carpenters produced more containers and the legionaries more stones until the light began to dim as evening approached.
“You do understand that with only half the men working at any one time it’s going to take twice as long?” Attius asked Corvo.
“I consider it worth it to keep my unit secure, sir” he replied.
“But they’ll be on barley-bread and water for twice the time as well.”
“That’s their fault for behaving like arseholes in the first place, sir,” Corvo told him.
Attius noted that Corvo had said “my unit”. He went to see Legate Quadratus.
“Marcus Corvo, sir, shaping up very well in the first task I’ve given him. With your permission, I’d like to confirm his promotion to optio but not assign him to a century. He can be directly under my command for the moment so I can see exactly what he’s made of.”
“Very well, Titus, I leave it to your judgement.” He handed Attius a sealed scroll. “This is a commission appointing Lucius Taurius Longius to the command of missile troops. If in your judgement Corvo is the man we need, set it all in motion before my return. If not, well, that is the tribune’s misfortune because an unassigned tribune he will remain. I shall be gone the day after tomorrow so it’s all up to you until the end of March anyway.
The next day Corvo paraded his men in the cold early morning drizzle. Before they could march off, Attius loomed out of the softly falling skeins of rain with his hands behind his back under his cloak.
“Marcus Corvo,” he boomed, “You are no longer a temporary acting optio.” He paused long enough to take in Corvo’s attempt to hide his disappointment before continuing. “Legate Publius Quadratus has made your promotion permanent.”
Corvo stood taller and saluted his first spear centurion. But Attius had not finished.
“Optio Corvo, you are improperly dressed where is your officer’s helmet crest?”
Before Corvo could reply Attius stepped forward and handed the transversely worn horsehair crest denoting the rank of a centurion or optio.
“Here you are, Corvo,” he said quietly. “Wear it with pride.”
Otto stamped over to the stables early on the morning of his first day with Martellus Flaccus. The new boots seemed to crash into the ground of their own will and he felt he had to lift them very high to compensate for their weight when he took the next step. He entered the open-fronted forge soon after the charcoal fire had been blown back to life with the mighty leather bellows slung over it. He walked into a wave of heat which was pleasant after the damp, chilly air outside. He looked around but could see no-one. There was a horse tethered to a ring set into a pillar. It was a huge, bay stallion. All the horses the German cavalry rode were massive. They had to be to carry their heavy, armoured riders.
The horse turned its head and rolled back one eye to catch a glimpse of Otto. It stamped the ground with its two front hooves, each bigger than a dinner plate, shaking the long hair on its fetlocks. Otto went forward slowly, letting one hand slide along the horse’s flank and over its shoulders and neck until he reached its head. He slowly stroked the broad forehead while he spoke to the stallion telling him how powerful, how handsome he was. The great animal calmed and nodded its head in time to the caressing words.
Martellus had arrived but stood back and said nothing, watching the German boy and the stallion. His long experience had made him a good judge and he could tell that he was looking at a born horseman. The farrier was pleased; he warmed to Otto from that moment.
“Ave Iuvenis,” he called and repeated in German that he had just said, “Hail, young man.”
Otto’s education had begun. That night he returned to Lucius’ quarters, stood in the centre of the main room and, frowning in concentration, said his first words in Latin; “Hail Tribune Longius.”
Lucius smiled, “Hail Otto,” he replied, watching the broad grin of achievement breaking out on the boy’s face.
To the salutes and fanfares of those of The Second Lucan remaining in camp over the winter, the legate, his officers and legionaries marched out of the Porta Decumana; not to return until spring. When the gate had shut behind them, the men on parade expected to be stood down. They were disappointed. Attius looked around slowly with what he thought was a benign smile on his face. The spirits of the soldiers sank. This could not possibly be good.
“Well, boys,” he began, “here we are comfortably housed for the winter. Good, tight roofs overhead and plenty of supplies, charcoal and firewood to cook with and keep us warm. Sounds perfect doesn’t it? Perfect for soft civilians maybe, but not for the hard men of The Second Lucan. I know in my heart you do not want to laze about for months on end and lose your fitness for combat and your fighting edge. Optio Corvo tells me that the stone-gathering fatigue will be finished today. Therefore, the second and third cohorts will assemble at sun-up tomorrow ready to undertake a twenty-mile route march. That is, ten miles out and ten miles back. Optio Corvo will march alongside the head of the first century of the second cohort as I have another task for Centurion Lentus. The day after tomorrow, the fourth and fifth will have their turn followed by the rest of you. I do not like to disappoint any of my boys. That is all, dismissed.”
A short while later Lentus came into Attius’ office.
“A word, sir?” he asked.
“What is it?” Attius replied.
“I think that the centurions will be unhappy about the presence of Optio Corvo taking a lead on the march tomorrow… if I may say so…sir.”
“Why is that?”
“In case he’s reporting back to you on them; it’s like you have no confidence in your officers...or so it seems…to some…sir.”
Attius shook his head and laughed.
“Can you tell me, Lentus,” he said, “how it is that men who’ve fought their way up through the ranks to the centurionate can behave like a mob of temperamental Greek actors at times? I didn’t know you were all so bloody sensitive. You don’t like Corvo being there either, do you?”
Lentus stiffened to attention.
“Truth to tell, First Spear Centurion Attius, I do not.”
Attius laughed again.
“I’m not going to tell you or anybody else what I’ve got in mind. Have faith in your First Spear Centurion. Is that all?”
The next morning was bright and cold under faded blue skies without a cloud in sight. The four centuries marched out under the gaze of Attius. Corvo stood on the left of the optio leading the second century in place of Lentus. Six hours later they were back, chilled to the bone, splashed with mud, hungry and weary. Whatever task Attius had wanted Lentus to do must have been forgotten because he had received no orders all day.
The following day, the designated cohorts stood at attention awaiting the command to set off when Attius called out to Corvo.
“Optio Corvo, you will march at the left of the leading centurion: carry on.”
Lentus visited Attius again that evening but this time smiling broadly and cradling a flask of the best wine he could find in the camp followers’ taverns.
“Would you drink with me, sir?”
“Of course; you look like a man who has something to celebrate.”
“Well I think I understand. This is all about Optio Corvo; you’re testing him.”
Attius held out a wine cup.
“Fill it up, Lentus and let’s drink to plans and plots.”
Every day, Optio Corvo left camp out with the route-marchers and every day he made it back. On the very last day, when the tired, wet and hungry men stood to attention waiting for Attius to dismiss them, he walked over to Corvo and looked him up and down. Marcus Corvo had been a spare, sinewy man before the gruelling marches day after day, had begun. Now he looked almost skeletal. The bones of his face were prominent under his stretched skin and dark half-moons under his sunken eyes demonstrated his fatigue. He was managing to hold himself to attention but only just. Attius noticed one of his kneecaps trembling because his racked thigh muscles were strained to their limits. But he had endured and accomplished what had been required of him.
Attius leaned in close and spoke directly to the exhausted man.
“You’ve marched one hundred miles in the German winter without a rest day, Optio Corvo. That takes some doing. Spend tomorrow in your bunk or in the officer’s bathhouse; report to me the day after.”
He stepped back and gave the order to dismiss all troops.
Chapter 11
Otto was a changed youth by the time December came. He no longer walked in his boots as if an inexpert puppeteer was pulling his strings. He had advanced in his informal Latin studies to the point where he could manage a simple conversation and he had learned much more than just the language from Marcellus Flaccus. First of all, he now knew that the camp of The Second Lucan was not Rome but only one of scores of military bases spread across the empire, although he had no conception of the distance between Gaul and Egypt. Initially, he had talked with Marcellus solely in German but they spoke more and more in Latin as time went by.
Marcellus had explained that sex acts between men and men or women and women were tolerated as long as there was willingness on both sides. When a slave was involved, a master could do as he pleased.
Knight of Rome Part I Page 11
