A Week in the Life of a Roman Centurion

by Gary M Burge

  Appius’s only hope was in Damascus, where there was a major healing center. People said that the god Asclepius had appeared there many times and that countless people were made well. Physicians with great skill also worked in the temple, and they would know what to do. But Appius must be taken immediately.

  Two medical wagons and twenty horsemen, including Appius’s own guard, departed at once for the long trip west. And as the wagon wheels bumped, jolted and thudded over the road, Appius was delirious, doped by the opium the physicians administered. Without the cohort they could move swiftly, and they arrived in Palmyra in short order. At the Roman fort they were able to change their animals and press on to Damascus. But as each day dawned, the physicians sounded less and less hopeful. Tullus never left Appius’s side. This centurion had saved him in Dura from certain death. And now their bond seemed unbreakable. Tullus felt affection for Appius that he had never felt before. It was a new feeling, one he had not even felt for his own father. In a few days they had done much together. And the shared fight in the guard tower connected them in a manner he could not describe. Yes, there was a bond. And Tullus did not know what to do with it. He simply sat in the wagon with his hand on Appius’s arm and prayed that Asclepius would have mercy on them.

  Damascus was a Greek city—one of the distinguished Decapolis cities—and there one could find anything available in the great cities of the Mediterranean world.

  The Asclepeion, or Temple of Healing, was located in the markets, and while it was smaller than those in cities like Ephesus or Pergamum, it had physicians who had trained at the best Asclepieia of the Roman world.

  The arrival of so many Roman soldiers carrying one of their own immediately brought the attention of the priests and healers. Tullus gave money to the priests, who agreed to make sacrifices on behalf of Appius, who was carried on a stretcher to an examining table. When the healers had stripped off Appius’s clothes and removed his bandages, the ugliness of the wound became clear. It had festered and blackened, and the physicians shared looks that were not promising.

  Asclepius

  Asclepius was a Greek god who lived within the pantheons of both Greek and Roman religions. The son of Apollo, he evolved to become the god of healing and recovery, and his children followed in the same line (among them Hygieia and Panacea). The extent of his work, however, was limited by the gods: he could heal but was not to raise the dead. In some mythologies, when he presumed to raise the dead, he was killed (in one case by Zeus) for his presumption.

  Figure 3.1. Terra cotta body parts used as votive offerings and prayers for healing in an Asclepeion at Corinth

  His primary healing center was at Epidaurus in Greece, but other healing temples, called Asclepieia, were throughout the Mediterranean. The island of Kos, for instance, had an enormous Asclepeion, and there the famed Hippocrates began his medical career. Within the temples, the wounded and sick would lay, hoping for visions of the god who could direct the path of their healing. In the healing rituals, nonvenomous snakes were common—they appear in numerous murals and reliefs. This explains the symbol of Asclepius: a serpent wrapped around a rod (a symbol used even today in medicine).

  “We must cut him immediately. And the damage will be great.” The leading surgeon was a man of about fifty who understood the risks of operating on a Roman centurion. He might save the man. But he might also kill him.

  “And if he dies, it will be a course already set by the gods.” The surgeon looked at the many armed men standing nearby and sought some acknowledgement. He found none. Then he lifted a satchel filled with blades and instruments. Some looked old and well used. But this inspired confidence among the observers, for these tools had been used successfully before and would bring success again. This man was no novice to the healing arts.

  Tullus watched as Appius’s powerful form was laid face down on the stone table. He was delirious and so could not be given more opium. Priests joined the physicians and immediately began singing chants to Asclepius. They burned incense, sprinkled holy water and waved scented leaves over him as the surgeon began to dig out the arrow. Appius moaned, then quickly and quietly passed out. Within minutes the arrow was removed, but the jagged gash in his back was sickening. Tullus could see bone beneath the bleeding and torn muscle. The surgeons closed the wound with sutures of sheep gut. Then they packed it with ground garlic, held in place with linen wrappings that wound around his shoulder and chest.

  Blood and Medicine

  Roman medicine made numerous advances in understanding the human body, and this led to sophisticated surgical techniques that amaze us today. Without sedatives they operated frequently on virtually every part of the body. Nevertheless, from the Greeks (and particularly Hippolytus) the Romans had inherited the theoretical idea of the four humors. This idea argued that equilibrium was what made health and that imbalance among heat, cold, wet and dry contributed to illness.

  Thus a fever (which was viewed as an illness itself) was an overheating of the blood, and its best remedy was to bleed the patient (called bloodletting) to reduce his or her blood volume. The model for this, they believed, could be found in women, whose monthly menstruation relieved the body of impurities. The practice of medical bloodletting continued for over two thousand years and only ended in the nineteenth century.

  Figure 3.2. Medical and surgery instruments

  “Now we are done. And if he lives, it will be thanks to the hands of the gods. The wound was deep and the wreckage great. This man will not return to the battlefield.” The surgeon looked around the room. The other soldiers were prepared for the severe diagnosis. But not this last sentence. This was a death sentence that exceeded anything the Parthian arrow delivered.

  “But surely there is a chance.” Tullus spoke up plaintively and uttered the words that were on the mind of every uniformed man at the table. “Appius is strong. He will heal. He only needs time.”

  “I have seen hundreds of battle wounds smaller than this and with poorer results.” The surgeon knew he was hearing the language of wishful hope, and this late in his career he refused to indulge it. “His arm will be useless, and if the wound does not take his life it has certainly ruined his body.” This was uttered with such authority that no one refuted it.

  But Dura was not a real battle, Tullus thought. So how could this happen? How could the gods fail us? If only I had not gone off on my own. If only Appius had been armored. If only we had never gone to that useless city.

  For Tullus this tragedy evoked memories of other recent violent events. A life that centered on Raphana, its markets, its temples and the villa, was slipping away. Tullus knew it. The hope of a peaceful and routine life in the legion had been misplaced. The legion did not live to reside in a camp. It was a war machine. And death followed wherever it went. Tullus’s innocence and his faith in life were slipping from his fingers. Appius and his party remained in the Damascus temple of Asclepius for a week. And when it was clear that Appius was holding on, they decided to travel south to Raphana. There were days when Appius appeared drugged and unresponsive. Other days he was clearly awake. But even then his eyes were glassy, his face lifeless. Tullus worried that Appius was departing, perhaps as good as gone. As the wagon plodded slowly south, it felt like a funeral caravan bearing a man who was no more than a shell of what he had been only days before. The Parthians won, Tullus thought. Or perhaps their gods won. Their cruelty was as familiar as their mercy. And now he was seeing nothing but cruelty.

  It was nearly evening when the wagons bypassed the Roman camp of Raphana and rolled directly to Appius’s villa. A courier was sent to summons the legion physicians while everyone worked to unload Appius and his gear.

  Gaius was the first to emerge from the villa gates, and he immediately assessed the situation. Shouting orders to other slaves gathered on the street, within minutes he had even the legionnaires attending Appius following his instructions.

  “Tell me what happened.” Gaius had found Tullus near the wagon, pr
eparing to assist in lowering Appius’s stretcher to the ground.

  Taking Gaius aside, Tullus spoke to him. “It was an arrow—in the fight at Dura-Europos—and the surgeons in Damascus worked on him. But he is broken, Gaius, and few believe he will return to us as he left.” Tullus looked tired and dismayed. He stared at the chief servant, looking for hope or reassurance, but found none.

  “We will do what we can. Make sure you carry him gently, and bring him to his room where he can be washed and dressed. You have the smell of the road on you.”

  As they entered the villa atrium, Gaius stopped the procession when he saw Livia biting her fist, holding back a scream. Heedless of the courtyard filled with unfamiliar soldiers, decorum meant nothing as she saw the limp and lifeless body of Appius before her. Her eyes were filled with fear, and tears flowed as she looked from Appius to Gaius and tried to gain a measure of what all this meant.

  “Is he dead?” She could barely say it. Livia stepped closer and fell to her knees on the cold tile floor, bringing her hand to Appius’s face. He was not dead—she could see that. But he was suffering, and his strength—the strength and fearlessness she had come to rely on—was not on this crude litter. Suddenly she felt alone, adrift, afraid.

  Tullus knelt beside her and whispered. “The physicians did all they could for him. He is in the hands of the gods. But he wanted to come home. In the last three days he has repeatedly said your name in his delirium. He misses you, Livia. And if this is his last place to rest, he will do so with you.”

  Livia fell into Tullus’s shoulder and began to cry, for Appius and for herself.

  “There is no mercy in this life. Hope comes to us and is snatched away. This is unfair! Unfair! My life—our life—is finished!”

  Tullus held her as the soldiers followed Gaius and carried the litter to the centurion’s private quarters. There Appius was carefully lifted onto his bed, and the men retreated.

  “Bring me pumice and hot water. We will wash him. And bring me olive oil with rosemary. We must welcome Appius home.” Gaius dismissed everyone except Livia and Tullus, who were as fixed as statues. They removed Appius’s clothes. They washed him with water and pumice and then massaged him with aromatic oil. Then, now dressed in a white tunic, Appius was left to sleep.

  Visitors from the legion came to the villa the next day. But Appius was not ready to see them. He could speak, but his voice was not strong. The tribunes were the first to arrive, and the senior centurions who knew Appius well followed them. The legion had lost one of its most important men, and now critical decisions had to be made about leadership, the future and the welfare of the legion itself. Casualties were a part of legionary life. Everyone knew that. But rarely did someone become a casualty who was so well known, so admired by so many.

  Bathing

  Crude soap (mixing animal fat—tallow—and an alkali, often ash) had been in use since almost 1500 B.C. However, it was rarely used for personal hygiene. It was used to clean textiles, as a topical medicine for skin disorders and as a cosmetic ointment for the hair. The ancients did not understand germs, and the connection between hygiene and health would not appear until the late Roman period when soap use for cleaning the body became common. Romans preferred washing in water, using a soft pumice or sand. This was followed by scented oils that were scraped off with a curved metal instrument called a strigil.

  Figure 3.3. A pair of strigils, or skin scrapers

  Appius had not lain in a bed for so many days in his entire life. Gaius brought him everything he needed. Livia walked in and out of his room compulsively and nervously, setting Appius on edge. She wanted him to talk, to reassure her that he would be fine. But Appius remained silent, staring at the ceiling and counting his heartbeats as they throbbed from his shoulder.

  He did not feel fortunate to be alive. He felt angry to be wounded.

  And as his strength returned, his anger grew. His left arm was useless. He could only manage minor movement, though his hand was capable. But Appius could not lift his arm much above his chest. Its strength was gone, and efforts to press it into service only brought crushing pain. And this fed the anger brewing in his mind.

  His only respite from the pain was the opium the physicians brought him daily. This slipped him into a haze of bliss and sleepiness. But even with this relief and sleep, his attitude toward Gaius and Livia and everyone in the household became unpredictable.

  Opium

  The use of opium for injury was a common therapy. Opium’s cultivation extends back to the Babylonian era and possibly earlier. The poppy plant (which exudes a latex substance containing morphine) had such immediate and powerful effects on a patient’s well-being (although short-lived) that many saw it as a temporary healing. Many of the Greek gods were sculpted holding these poppies and thus showing their gift to humanity. In particular, Apollo often held poppies, but they were also common in statues of the Greek god Hypnos (sleep; Somnus in Latin) and his twin Thanatos (death; Thanatus in Latin).

  “The opium has helped you heal.” The physicians were attending him one morning as he sat in the sunny atrium. “But it is time to end this. You cannot live your entire life in oblivion. The god Hypnos has been tending you long enough. You must get up and return to life as best you can.” The physicians knew this news would not please Appius, so this day a senior tribune who was watching him stood conspicuously with them.

  “Then get out—all of you!” Appius yelled. “I know what I need. I know what has happened to me. And you cannot tell me how I will repair myself.” He tried standing but even then felt a weakness wash over him. Was it the residual opium? Was it the injury? It did not matter. He could sense the soldiers distancing themselves from him, not recognizing him for who he was. He had enjoyed enormous respect for years. And now he was sensing their pity. Rage boiled and surged inside him. It felt uncontrollable.

  “We need to think about the legion and your cohort, Appius.” The tribune was standing straighter, projecting strength for what he knew he had to say. “Your cohort returned this week from the north, and the centurions are already talking about what to do if you fail to return.” The tribune stared at him and waited for another explosion. But it didn’t come. Appius simply gazed at him without saying a word. Then Appius’s soul descended to a place it had never been before.

  “So I am no use to the legion.” He slumped in his weakness and now dejection. A statue of Apollo, brimming with youth and virility, towered over him. The contrast was unmistakable.

  “I did not say that. I simply say that we need to think about the future.”

  “Then I will return to Gallica and the cohort and resume my service to the emperor.”

  “How do you imagine that, Appius? You are too weak to even stand before us. And your arm—look at your arm. You could not even carry a battle shield, much less enter into fighting. Things have changed, Appius.”

  “I will challenge any centurion who dares take my place.”

  “Challenge with what? You cannot even dress yourself. You cannot even wear the weight of your own armor. Can you ride? Can you haul your pack and javelin as every man does? You cannot.” The tribune had grown intense. This was an argument he had rehearsed. Perhaps he had used it before.

  The Gladius and Scutum

  Figure 3.4. Roman sword and scabbard

  The gladius (named after the gladiolus flower, with its sword-shaped leaves) was the Roman soldier’s preferred weapon in infantry combat. It was a short, two-edged sword used for stabbing and thrusting when enemy lines engaged in combat. Its handle and hilt were personally built for its owner, and it was used with a large rectangular shield with a pronounced steel boss at the center (a scutum). The infantryman would hit his opponent with the center of the shield and then produce the gladius with an upward thrust in close quarters as his enemy regained his balance. Roman sources describe the gladius and the scutum as accounting for the successes of the Roman infantry.

  Figure 3.5. Bas-relief of Roman shields


  “And you?” Appius growled, “Can you march with the legions? You who barely knows how to raise a sword? You who cannot build a tent or a siege-work?” Appius stood up holding firmly to the back of a chair. He challenged the tribune to his face and tried to disguise his unsteadiness. “I could end your life in a moment with just a gladius.”

  “Sit down and shut up. This is not the Appius I know. This is not the man who led our legions across deserts to great honors in Syria. You are broken, Appius. And it remains to be seen whether your breaking is in your arm or in your heart. We must leave. You may not return to the legion until we speak again. Our physicians will visit you every day and report to us on your progress.”

  “So I am of no use.”

  “And do not ever threaten me with a gladius again. I will make no word of it with the others. And this will be true of all who stand here.” The tribune stared at the physicians. “You are broken, primus pilus. Repair yourself and return to us. But do not return until you are whole.”

  Led by Gaius, the physicians and the tribune walked to the gate. When the doors shut, silence closed in on the atrium. In Appius’s mind, the walls of the villa had become a prison, not an infirmary. All had been lost.