by Tony Roberts
The recruits looked at Flavius with apprehension, dismay or annoyance. “You’re no optio,” one growled, looking Flavius over with distaste.
“No, but I am,” Casca said loudly. All heads turned his way. Casca continued. “Anyone got a problem with that can answer to my fists, and that’ll sort out any argument in my favor. So any of you mummy’s boys need a bit of good old humiliating in front of the rest of the unit, I’m happy to oblige.”
There was silence. Casca waved at Flavius to get them all into line, including the interested onlookers. There was a lot of muttering and grumbling, but slowly Flavius gathered the group together into a line that was uneven and wayward. Once everyone stopped moving, Casca walked along the front of them, eyeing each one unenthusiastically. Some he just shook his head at. There were Latins, Germans, and other nationalities. “Got lost on the way back home, did we?” he asked sarcastically. “Mummy wondering where her little darlings have gotten to?” He glared at one particular individual who looked as if he was going to throw up. “Joined the army for a drunken bet, did we, soldier?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” the educated tone and supercilious manner got Casca’s hackles rising. “Could you send a message to my family’s villa? It’s just off the main square. I’m sure they’ll pay the army compensation.”
Casca stood squarely in front of the grey-faced boy. “and would you like me to shave and wash you, and change your underwear too?”
The other recruits chuckled, pleased someone was getting unwanted attention rather than themselves. The youngster smiled in appreciation. “Why, that would be wonderful of you.”
“Well it isn’t happening soldier! What’s your name?”
“Uh, Marcus. Marcus Lovinius. What’s yours?”
“My name is Sir! You will address me as such, all of you! And you, Marcus,” he imitated the educated tone but in a feminine manner when he said the young man’s name, “you will stand straight and look the part of a soldier, not that of a retiree! You’re not sixty, so start acting your age, not your weight!”
“Oh, my head,” Marcus groaned, “would you mind not shouting so much?”
There were looks of incredulity and amusement from the others. Casca stepped to one side and leaned forward, his mouth close to the recruit’s ear. “I’ll fucking well shout as loud as I want, if it means it’s the only way I can make myself understood!” he bawled.
Marcus winced, his eyes screwing tightly shut.
Casca leaned back. “Soldier or not, you are a wastrel. I bet you have a slave to wipe your ass after you’ve had a shit. Your idea of hard work is working out whether to have a red or white wine, isn’t it?” Well, you little beauty, you’re in my squad now, and you have descended into the abyss of sin and I am Satan himself! No more sitting around for you, or any of you,” he added, glaring at the line of recruits, “it’s hard work from now on. You’re going to learn how to dig, build, march, fight and be real men. You got it?”
There was a sullen silence in response.
“I asked if you got it!” Casca barked.
“Sir,” came a disjoined response.
“You’re in the army now, and that means a twenty-five-year term. Do you all understand that?”
Marcus uttered a horrified cry. He put his hands to his head. “Twenty-five years!”
“Is that a problem? Marcus lad, look at it this way; you’ll go to lots of places you’d never otherwise see, or even knew existed. You’ll see the wonders of the world and the empire. You’ll meet lots of foreign and exotic people.” He grinned. “And then kill them.”
The others rumbled with amusement.
Casca shook his head and regarded Marcus who looked even sicker, if such a thing was possible. “If you’re thinking of throwing up, well don’t. If you do, you’ll be made to clean it up yourself.”
“But – twenty-five years…”
“Oh, twenty-five years!” Casca slapped his thigh. “Twenty-five years of not being a privileged sot; of not wasting your worthless life doing nothing useful. Think of it, lad. You’ll get something with us that you would never get otherwise.”
“What’s that?”
“Self-respect.” Casca gave the young man the benefit of a long and measured look before resuming his walk along the line. He came to the bully that Flavius had pushed away from the practice post. “You need to learn how to use a sword properly. Your little efforts over there just weren’t good enough.”
“So you say.” The bully stepped forward with a swagger. In the blink of an eye he was sent onto his ass by one punch from the scarred optio. He sat there, dazed. Nobody had ever hit him so hard before. Rubbing his aching chin, he slowly got to his feet and stepped back carefully.
Casca pointed at him. “Get into line; another breach and I’ll have you cleaning the camp latrines for a week. Got it?”
“Sir,” the man mumbled, working his aching jaw. This big guy wasn’t someone to mess about with.
Casca finished his walk along the line of men. “Alright,” he said, turning to face them all. “I’m the poor unfortunate cursed to turn you sorry lot into good soldiers. This here,” he pointed at Flavius, “is my assistant. He will enforce discipline and make sure you do as you’re told. I don’t want slackers in my century. Some of you will have served in other units or even legions, but you can forget what you’ve learned there. That was another life. Now you’re serving in the Falcon Century and I want the rest of the cohort to look at us with envy. I want them all to wish they were with us here. So we’re going to learn how to be decent soldiers, and that means learning to do the basics right.” He smiled, but not in a way that was designed to offer any comfort to the line of apprehensive men.
“Let us start by standing in a nice, neat row, not like a line of women waiting to wash their clothing. Stand straight!”
So it began.
CHAPTER THREE
Casca threw himself onto a welcome stool in his tent. Navina offered him a flask of water which he gratefully accepted. “Ahh, that’s better!” He eyed the interior appreciatively. A cloth screen hung across the rear, and he guessed her bed was on the other side. His own bed lay to one side, a rolled-up blanket for a pillow, and another couple made up the bed itself. His stool, a few more blankets acting as rough chairs, and a low rough wooden table completed the furnishings. “You’ve been busy,” he observed.
“Blankets are the only things you can get easily; everything else is almost impossible to get. The table and stool were gifted by your Centurion – he said he didn’t need these anymore.”
Casca was surprised. Normally such gestures were rare. He wondered if Lacano was seeking favors from him. The centurion’s forebears had often practiced some kind of fealty system, where loyalty was pledged in return for gifts by the lord. Maybe Lacano was trying to buy his loyalty. No doubt he’d find out in due course.
“I hope you didn’t mind me putting up the screen,” she said, “I – I just didn’t think…”
Casca shook his head. “That’s fine by me. I’m no Goth rapist. You’re free to come and go as you please. If you need my protection, then I’ll freely give it.”
She smiled gratefully, the returned to her private quarters behind the screen.
Casca closed his eyes and loosened his straps and belt. His armor, a one-piece chainmail hauberk, was removed by being pulled up over his head. He allowed it to fall in a heap on the ground. That was better! He flexed his shoulders and arms. It was cooler but the absence of the weight was welcome.
Roman armor was different these days from times gone by. Chainmail was the standard, replacing the classic lorica segmentata of his younger days. That iron-banded cuirass had fallen out of favor, and the helmet was slightly different too – it tended to be a conical helm with an extra piece of neck protection. It was cheaper to make.
Underneath the clothing varied. It mostly consisted of padded clothing, tied at the waist and down the legs. The skirt of the past was gone, and now cloth l
eggings with leather ties tended to be what was used. This had been mostly adopted from the Germanic tribes. More importantly the Gladius Iberius sword was gone, and what was now used was longer, more like the old cavalryman’s spatha sword. It was much more suited for slashing than stabbing, so Roman infantry tactics had been slightly altered. Even though they still fought in a close-packed formation with shields presented in a wall, they now had to have slightly more room to be able to wield their swords.
The shield itself was also different; no longer the oblong scutum, it was now an oval shape, normally with the interlocked XP symbol of the Christians on it. They still used javelins, however, and a new weapon, a short throwing dart, a couple of which were fixed on the inside of the shield, ready to be used in battle.
Combat training would have to wait another day, if they ever got the time. From what he had picked up, it seemed likely that Fodegast was trying to recruit from Mediolanum, or pick up deserters from other army units, or even sweep up stragglers who had become detached from their units for some reason. He was also trying to prevent desertion from the ranks. The proximity of the city was for some too much of a temptation, and getting away from an army that was outnumbered and ill-paid – wages were months in arrears – was preferable than marching to what some saw as certain death. Where they were to go next was open to conjecture; east to the capital Ravenna was favorite, but they could equally go south to the lush uplands of Tuscany. North to the Alps was unlikely, and west would send them into the domain of the usurper Constantine and almost certain battle.
Constantine! Casca took another mouthful of water and scowled. That man had recruited him through his agent Decus Scarnio in Massilia, and had sent him on a mission supposedly to rescue a girl held prisoner in the old frontier city of Argentoratum. Scarnio had placed Constantine’s agent Gerontius in amongst the group to make sure their orders were obeyed. Of course, what had really been going on was an attempted alliance through marriage of the girl to Constantine. With an alliance between the usurper and the Germanic tribes, they could have formed a formidable power bloc. After Gerontius had murdered one of the group and they had got the girl and fled to the Alps, everything had been revealed and Casca had killed Gerontius, and allowed the girl to elope with a Burgundian prince, Matthias, who had been with them.
If Constantine knew how his plans had been thwarted, no doubt he would send someone after Casca to exact a bitter revenge. A pox on him.
He finished his water and unfastened his belt. Time for bed. It was still too cold at night to go bare-chested, so he kept on his undershirt and slipped under his blankets and shivered, trying to get warm. He had been there for perhaps five minutes when he heard a rustling and sensed rather than saw the cloth screen move, and a dark shadow was suddenly standing before him. Navina. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“No. I need comfort,” she whispered, and knelt by him.
Casca lifted the blanket, already regretting letting the warm air out, and she slid quickly under and pressed against his side. She was shivering. He put an arm round her and held her against his chest. He wondered if she desired something more, but she made no move to touch him in any such way. “At least you’ll get warmer like this,” he said softly.
She nodded against him but said nothing. After a few moments he reached out and found her face, and lightly ran his rough and calloused fingers down it. Sure enough, there was wetness where her tears were flowing. He wiped them and stroked her hair.
“You can rest here. Nobody is going to violate you as long as I am here to protect you.”
She sighed against the linen of his shirt. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
He guessed she was weeping again, judging by her shaking and broken breathing. He said nothing more, nor did he do anything more, for there was nothing else he could do, save be a comfort to her. As she lay with him, he cursed those who had done harm to her. They were no soldiers, nor even men. Killing them had been far too merciful.
He remained awake till he was certain she had fallen asleep. Then he allowed himself the luxury of slipping into a deep sleep himself, his arms round the woman who had turned to him in desperation for some reassurance against her crumbling world.
The morning came with the delight of a band of rain. Casca woke alone, and he rolled over, trying to untangle himself from a blanket that apparently had decided to take his legs prisoner. He got free and sat up, rubbing his eyes, listening unenthusiastically to the rain pattering against the fabric of his tent. The recruits were going to love this!
Navina appeared from behind the screen. She smiled at him and placed a bowl of water on the ground before him. “To wash. I’m preparing a meal for you,” she said.
Casca didn’t argue, nor ask where she’d got the food. It was tasty and filling – bread, olives and cheese. Navina looked much brighter that morning and he guessed the reassurance he gave her in the night had done her a world of good.
He had been expecting to conduct some more drill but Flavius called him out into the rain and Casca donned his cloak and armor before braving the elements. It was a miserable morning and his mood wasn’t helped by the sight of a drenched Marcus Lovinius being held firmly by two stern-faced legionaries, seemingly oblivious to the rainwater dripping down their faces.
“Alright, don’t tell me,” Casca said heavily, “you caught him trying to sneak out of camp.”
Flavius nodded. “These two grabbed him by the north gate. Apparently,” he sighed deeply, “he was just walking as casual as you like and he even waved to these two as he passed.”
Casca glared at the bedraggled deserter. “You wretch! You’re a pitiful excuse of a man, let alone a soldier.” He nodded his thanks to the two guards who released him and left, pleased with their efforts. Flavius had their unit details and Casca would have to pass it up to the centurion. He would make sure he did the admin right. More unnecessary work, courtesy of this little privileged shit.
He slowly walked round the soaked man, describing all his shortcomings in no uncertain terms. As he did so, the rest of the century formed up, keen to see the outcome of the confrontation.
“Rome used to be feared throughout the world,” Casca said, shouting in the early morning air. “But now we’re looked down upon by nearly everyone. And why?” He stuck his face against Marcus’ ear. “Because the empire is full of useless mummy’s boys like you!” He fumed. Rome, his beloved Rome, was dying, and someone was to blame. Why not this spoiled rich kid? “I bet you’ve never had to work a day’s worth in your entire life! Do you know what it is to have an empty stomach? Do you? No, I bet you haven’t! You’ve grown up, safe and provided for, with a rich mummy and daddy giving you everything you’ve wanted and never actually needed.
“Well, son, from now on you’re going to work – oh yes, you can bet your ass you will. I’ve got to report to my commander as to why one of my men tried to desert, and that reflects badly on me.” He punched Marcus in the stomach and the recruit doubled up and fell into a fetal ball, groaning. “Get up,” Casca snarled.
Marcus struggled to his feet, plastered in mud and rain. He sobbed, clutching his aching guts.
Casca angrily swiped the rain from his own face. “In days gone by desertion could mean execution, you know that? Or maybe you’d have your feet whipped – not a nice punishment I can assure you. So, what do I do with you? Kill you? Whip you? Or maybe some other foul punishment.”
He slowly turned and surveyed the others, standing silently in a long line. “A commander is perfectly within his right to extend the punishment to the rest of the squad. You realize that his cowardice could mean all of you being punished too? Yeah, go on, look at this miserable piece of shit.”
Flavius looked at Casca. He wondered what would happen – the unit was not yet cohesive. They didn’t feel like a proper unit.
Casca growled and turned back to a shaking Marcus. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry sir,” Marcus said through cha
ttering teeth. “I – I just didn’t want to stay here – it’s all been a terrible mistake! Please, let me go home and I’ll put in a good word for you with father.”
He got a cuff round the ear from Casca for that. “Shut it! Your father is not going to help you now. Stand straight! Lesson number one – your stomach muscles should be firm, not flabby like a drunkard’s prick.”
The rest of the line laughed.
“Be silent!” Casca snapped. “Same goes for the rest of you.” He looked back at Marcus. “Alright, boy, full kit on and back pack. Flavius, see to it that it’s full of rocks. This lucky boy is going to do a full circuit of the camp – you are to go with him and encourage him to keep going if he should ever decide to stop. Move, soldier!” he barked to Marcus.
He then took the others for a standard set of movements, marching them in lines of ten, turning, linking shields, striking their opponents on the shield and so on. By the time he’d finished, Flavius turned up with a half-stumbling Marcus.
“He only threw up twice, sir,” Flavius said, dead-pan. “Runs like a seventy-year old who’s shat himself, sir.”
“So I see. Stand up straight, soldier!”
Marcus was panting like a dog in the midday sun in Egypt. He looked on the point of collapse. He made an effort to stand straight, cried out in pain and collapsed into the churned-up mud of the camp walkway.
Casca stood over him, shaking his head sadly. “And this is the Roman legionary of today. Oh dear, oh dear. Marcus Lovinius, you are to clean yourself up – doing it yourself of course – and when you have finished, report back to squad leader Flavius here.” He turned to an amused Flavius. “I want him to clean my things. The sooner he learns to be a proper grown-up rather than a child looked after by over-protective parents the better. It’ll do him a world of good in the long run. I’ve got to go see the centurion shortly, and I doubt he’s going to be pleased about the news of his attempted desertion.”