by K. M. Ashman
‘However,’ he continued, ‘before we can turn you into these killing machines, we have to lose that farm blubber hanging around your bellies, and there is only one way to do that. With immediate effect, each morning before training starts, every man will run ten laps of the fort. The last to finish will do an extra ten laps along with the rest of his Contubernium. This will be repeated before your midday meal and again at last light.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he screamed, and the recruits turned to start on the run, confused and shocked at their brutal initiation into the legions of Rome.
----
Prydain moaned at Remus’s feet, coming slowly back to consciousness. The Optio crouched and lifted Prydain’s head up by his hair.
‘Broken nose,’ he said twisting Prydain’s head to examine the damage, ‘and a broken arm. Nothing life threatening, so stop your whining. There is a medical room in the guardhouse. Get yourself fixed up and join your comrades on the run.’
He paused and pulled out the pendant from around Prydain’s throat. Staring at the design etched on the leather, his brow furrowed as a long forgotten memory struggled to reach the surface. When he failed to recall where he had seen the design before, he let it fall back. It did not matter, if it was important, it would come back to him.
----
By the end of the first week, the recruit’s tunics were ingrained with sweat and they each had a week’s growth of stubble on their chins. Everyone stank, as there was only so much dirt that cold water from the horse troughs could remove. On the seventh day, after a particularly gruelling morning, the recruits lay scattered over the sand enjoying a brief respite after a meagre meal of plain dough pancakes and dried dates.
A Tribune came out of the fort dressed in full ceremonial armour, accompanied by three legionaries. Two of the soldiers carried a heavy sack between them, while the third carried a drum.
‘Get to your feet,’ screamed Optio Remus, jumping up from the sand. ‘Form up, three ranks facing me.’
The recumbent recruits erupted into action, knowing that anything less than instant obedience would incur painful retribution. When they were all lined up, Optio Remus called them to attention and the Tribune addressed the men.
‘Tirones,’ he shouted, ‘I am Tribune Mateus and I am an officer of the Ninth. In a few months, we leave this place and march to Britannia. The galleys that Plautius has sent to take you to across ‘over’ the sea approach the shores of Gaul as we speak. The training you have done so far will be as nothing compared to the conflict that is to come. Those who do not heed their instructors will probably die in the first battle, and any turning from the fight, will find their comrade’s blades waiting for them.’
‘However, we are only interested in commanding men who serve without question and if necessary, will die for their fellow soldiers. Therefore, I am giving everyone here a last chance to avoid the ignominy and pain. Anyone wishing to reverse their decision to join the legions can leave right now. You can turn around and cross that bridge with no recriminations. We will even give you money for your trip home.’
The two legionaries tipped out the sack they had carried onto the parade ground and a pile of smaller leather purses fell onto the sand.
‘A month’s wages if you quit right now, no comebacks,’ shouted the Tribune.
A murmur crept through the gathered men. Twenty Denarii to end this nightmare. Some of them had never seen so much money at one time.
‘So what is it going to be?’ shouted the Tribune. ‘Enough money for a month in the best whorehouse in Rome, or a lifetime of pain and fear in a far off cold and God forsaken land? You have a hundred beats to decide and then there is no choice.’ He turned to the drummer. ‘Begin!’ he ordered.
The drummer started beating his drum, each beat approximately five seconds apart, echoing ominously off the fort’s walls. Talking erupted in the ranks, every man discussing the options with the one next to him, but still no one moved. Eventually one stepped forward and his move was acknowledged by the Tribune.
‘No recriminations?’ asked the recruit nervously.
‘No recriminations,’ answered the Tribune. ‘Take your money and leave.’
The disillusioned recruit bent down to pick up a purse from the sand. As he was on his knees, Optio Remus drew his Gladius and placed it under the man’s chin, forcing him back to his feet, still clutching the purse. The parade fell silent, waiting for the thrust that would surely end this charade.
‘There is just one more thing,’ said Remus.
The recruit’s face was white with fear.
‘Don’t you ever let me see you again. Is that clear?’
The terrified man nodded slowly, unable to speak.
‘Good,’ said Remus and lowered the blade. ‘Now, get out of my sight.’
The quitter walked backwards, quickly increasing his pace until finally, he turned and sprinted toward the distant town as fast as his injured feet would allow.
‘Twenty five!’ shouted the drummer, reporting the amount of beats. The voice seemed to spur others into action, and some ran forward to claim the purses in the sand, avoiding eye contact with the veteran Optio.
‘Fifty beats,’ shouted the drummer.
More joined the first man and crossed the bridge, clutching their severance pay tightly in their fists. Cassus looked at Prydain.
‘I’d take the money if I was you,’ he said.
Prydain looked back at Cassus, his nose still swollen from the surgeon’s attempts to reshape it with wooden rods inserted into his nasal passages.
‘I can’t believe you said that,’ he said, ‘after all these years, you think I would quit?’
‘Well it’s not as if you exactly fit in here,’ said Cassus. ‘Look around you. Not many others like you on parade.’
‘What do you mean, like me?’ asked Prydain.
‘You know what I mean?’ said Cassus.
‘Say it, Cassus, let’s get this over with once and for all.’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘You don’t belong here, Prydain. Take the purse and join the auxiliaries. There is no shame in that. Stop trying to be something you’re not. Even Remus has taken a dislike to you, at least in the auxiliaries you will feel more at home. There are many like you there.’
‘Like me?’
‘Yes, you know, freed slaves.’
‘I am not a slave,’ growled Prydain.
‘Not anymore, but these men are freeborn. Don’t you see? You don’t belong here.’
Optio Remus spotted the two young men talking and approached them, beating the flat of his blade into the palm of his hand, in time with the drumbeats.
‘Well, boy,’ said Remus, addressing Cassus, ‘are you a quitter?’
‘No, Optio!’ answered Cassus bluntly.
‘No, I didn’t think you would be, and what about you, slave-boy?’ he asked staring into Prydain’s face. ‘Are you taking the Emperor’s hard earned money?’
‘Seventy five,’ roared the drummer in the background as more disillusioned recruits made the short journey to the payoff.
‘Can I speak freely,’ asked Prydain, his eyes never leaving Cassus.
Remus grunted his permission.
‘In that case, Optio, you can shove the Emperor’s money up your arse!’
Remus’s expression didn’t alter. Instead, he lifted his Gladius and placed the flat of the blade against Prydain’s cheek.
‘At least you’ve got balls, slave boy,’ he said. ‘But balls are not enough. Let’s see how long you last.’
‘One hundred!’ shouted the drummer and the beating drum stopped.
Remus spun around and strode back to the front.
‘Close the ranks,’ he roared. ‘Numbers?’
One of the Tessaria counted heads and ran back to the front.
‘Five hundred and seven Optio,’ he shouted.
The Tribune nodded to the Optio.
‘That’s better!’ he said. ‘You know what to
do, take them away!’
----
The end of the first week’s training was a huge relief for the remaining recruits and they had been marched to the legion’s dedicated bathhouse just outside the fort’s walls, to bathe in its steaming waters, heated by their huge subterranean boilers.
After the sweat and dirt of the previous week, it was heaven and the pain of their induction was quickly forgotten as they relaxed in the civilized surroundings. Each was shaved and had their haircut, and after they had dressed in clean white tunics, entered an auditorium to feast on fruit and goat meat. Eventually, an elegant figure came out of the baths draped in a rich red toga and sipping a glass of wine, accompanied by two beautiful women.
‘Stand up,’ screamed Optio Remus and the recruits sprung to attention. The gathering silenced, staring at the women as the familiar Tribune began to speak.
‘Soldiers of Rome,’ he began, ‘we are not barbarians, we are civilized men, and we will act as such. Yes, you will be driven to the edge of your physical endurance, but when the chance arises, you will be rewarded with the benefits of civilization. No matter how sparse the surroundings, or barbaric the foe, never forget the race which you descend, for we are truly the children of the gods.’
‘This week has been but an induction. Tomorrow your training starts in earnest. You have twelve hours leave to do with as you wish. I wouldn’t go to the town if I were you, for it is rife with spies and murderers. The women have pox and the wine is cat’s piss. I suggest you prepare your equipment and get some sleep. It will be in short supply for the next few weeks I promise you. For those of you that are successful, the next time we meet, you will commence your battle training. He held up his wine glass to acknowledge the ranks and returned to the baths with a smile on his face.
‘Pompous arse!’ said Cassus through the gritted teeth of his false smile.
‘Who is he?’ asked Prydain
‘The same man who tried to buy us off this morning,’ answered Cassus, ‘I forget his name.’
‘Mateus,’ said a nearby soldier, ‘son of a senator. Never lifted a Gladius in anger, yet poised to lead a Cohort. It’s disgusting.’
‘No matter, ’said Cassus, ‘come on, let’s get out of here. There’s not much time and too many women.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Prydain.
‘Where do you think?’ said Cassus, ‘the town, obviously!’
‘But he said…’
‘Bollocks to what he said,’ interrupted Cassus. ‘He already has his strumpets on call. I haven’t seen a naked woman in two months. I’ll take my chances?’
Prydain paused.
‘No!’ he said finally, ‘I am going to sort out my kit.’
Cassus shrugged.
‘Your loss,’ he said and joined his other comrades as they returned to their barracks.
Over the following few days, they were issued with their personal equipment. Assorted armour, helmets and capes were distributed, and a frantic day of swapping and altering ensued, while every man tried to obtain the best fit he could. Clerks ensured they signed for the equipment so the cost could be deducted from their pay, and at the same time, they signed up to their retirement fund and joined a death club, ensuring their remains would get a decent burial should they fall.
The training was harder than they had ever dreamt possible and every man collapsed each night onto their bunks into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.
Every morning before dawn, they endured their morning run followed by an hour’s physical exercise, and after a breakfast of cheese and oatmeal porridge, they had two solid hours of sword practice with a weighted wooden Gladius on wooden posts. Every man carried out a thousand blows with either hand, repeating the exercise over and over again until they were proficient with both. The instructors side-lined any deemed not to be striking with all their force, while the rest of their Contubernium were made to run ten laps as punishment. Soon every man struck the posts with every ounce of strength they had to stop themselves being alienated by their comrades.
‘Forward edge,’ shouted Julius, their instructor. ‘Head, leg, body, change. Back edge, head, leg, body, change.’
The training continued until the strikes were second nature. Then came the finer points, the high parry, the low parry and most important of all, the killing thrust. Over the days, they combined all the drills until eventually; the Tessaria added a new dimension, the Scutum. It was like they were learning all over again, but this time their balance was altered by the weight of the shields, not only in defence, but also as an attacking weapon, smashing the central brass boss into the enemy faces painted on the wooden pole.
For drill instruction, they marched in formation around the fort, keeping step with everyone else as the pace was called out by the Tessaria, learning the commands they would hear in battle, yet safe within site of the legion’s fortress.
The midday meal was fruit and bread, washed down with water from the river before continuing the arduous training. Afternoons consisted of more exercising, more sword practise and more drill, interspersed with wrestling and trials of strength and endurance. All around them, hundreds of other recruits shared their pain, as each was pushed to their limits, learning the basics required to be a legionary. Swimming was a welcome relief from the physical pain, but even there they were required to swim back and fore until exhausted, eagerly encouraged and often rescued from potential drowning by the Tessaria from the comfort of their safety boats.
Those who had been identified as being particularly adept at certain skill were formed into smaller units, concentrating on their own talents. Sagittarii worked constantly with their bows, slingers worked their way through mountains of stones and the better riders were given extra practice with the horses and though there were dedicated cavalry within the auxiliaries, the legion had their own force of horsemen that were always in need of recruits.
Finally came the evenings and they were worst of all. Every recruit was made to clear a patch of sand and dig a hole in the soil beneath. Dimensions varied, but as long as it was as wide as the digger’s outstretched arms, as long as their own body with their head was lower than the pit edge when standing on the bottom, then Julius would be satisfied and the recruit allowed to backfill the void. Even though Prydain’s broken arm prevented him from digging, he too was kept busy, ferrying leather buckets of water to the thirsty recruits. Soon every man was exhausted and his muscles ached from the constant demanding exercise. It was a task universally hated by the recruits with little explanation as to the purpose, but it was not until every trench was once more level, that the men were dismissed for the night. It didn’t take long for them to realize that the more they helped each other, the quicker they could be dismissed and the quicker they could eat.
The evening meal was issued as a pack of uncooked food sufficient to feed eight men. It consisted of a piece of meat, usually pork or mutton, and a basket of barley along with whatever assorted vegetables that were available at the time. Each Contubernium built a fire on their stone hearth and cooked a communal stew in the brass pot to make the meal stretch further.
Every week, the Century set out on a twenty-mile route march to be completed in five hours, and when they could achieve that with ease, they started again, but this time carrying their personal equipment strapped to a Furca, the crucifix shaped pole each soldier carried over his shoulder on the march.
As the weeks progressed, the equipment increased. As well as carrying their Furcas, they wore their Lorica Segmentata for the first time, the upper body armour made from bands of overlapping iron fixed to a leather under-vest. In addition, as their fitness and strength developed, they were issued with their Pilae, Gladii and Scutum and every time the legionaries marched they found it easier, building up their strength, stamina and technique until they could easily achieve the twenty miles in full battle dress.
At last, the constant training and weeks of pain passed and the recruit intake was told to pack up their belong
ings to parade outside the fort with all their equipment. The men did so eagerly and efficiently, now well versed in the drills and familiar with their kit. The excitement was palpable; for this was the day they would be posted to their Cohorts and started battle training.
Six centuries of men lined up in front of the fort in full battle dress. Their instructors walked up and down the ranks, tightening straps, checking water bottles and generally ensuring that everything was as it should be.
The ranks waited in silence and it seemed to Prydain that the life of a legionary consisted of waiting, rushing and polishing armour. Finally, the same black charger rode out of the gates carrying the Legatus, who had last addressed them, months ago. He came to a halt in front of the gathered men and stared at them for a long time. The difference in sixteen weeks was astonishing. They held themselves more upright and there was an air of arrogance about them as they stared directly to their front, disciplined and attentive.
‘Tirones,’ he shouted, ‘tomorrow, the legion moves into the field to start battle training and I know you are eager to join them. You have worked hard and your instructors tell me you are ready,’ he paused, ‘But I am yet to be convinced. The men of this legion have fought and died in many campaigns and I would be doing them an injustice if unready recruits were to water their ranks like cheap wine. Therefore, I have a challenge for you. Today you will be given a final task.’
‘Oh shit,’ muttered Cassus under his breath, ‘why do I feel another route march coming on?’
‘No problem,’ answered Prydain quietly. ‘Five hours of hard work and it is over.’
The Legatus continued.
‘Each Century will march with full kit to a camp already situated in the hills. Within the camp will be five standards, each bearing a number of a Cohort within the legion. You will return here with a standard, and those who are within the allotted time, will stay together within the Cohort whose standard they bear.’ He paused again. ‘You will note I said there are five standards, yet there are six Centuries. The Century, who fails to return with a standard, will be split up and shared between the cohorts.’
