by R. W. Peake
"I've been holding it the regular way my entire career, and no bastard, barbarian, or Roman has ever knocked my sword out of my hand!"
He made this declaration one day about a month after I joined, when the question arose about why we were allowed to choose which way we gripped our sword. Which, as I knew by then, was a bit unusual, at least in the sense that we rankers were allowed to choose for ourselves. And unfortunately for me, despite the fact that I knew at the time it was a bad idea, I could not stop myself from making yet another enemy. For the moment he uttered those words, I took them as a challenge that I could not ignore, nor could I let pass without contesting it. Such is the hubris of the young, strong and stupid, I suppose.
As spring approached, more of our time was shifted from work projects to honing those battle skills we would need. Additionally, we began resuming marching out from camp several miles, our Centurions knowing from long experience that unless they did that the moment we had to appear somewhere for our true purpose, we would do so in no shape to fight. They tried their best to keep us busy during the winter, except it is just not the same. I had continued my own personal habit of spending a third of a watch of my free time, emulating my Avus, working alone at the stakes, and while this drew some curious onlookers in the beginning, very quickly, the novelty wore off and men decided they had better things to do. With one exception, and that was Caecina who, while he did not stay for the entire length of my sessions, always spent some time watching. Sometimes, he would even be there waiting for me, making a joke about wanting to learn by watching. Other times, I would be close to finishing, and he would suddenly appear. It was extremely disconcerting, even if it was flattering, but I soon became accustomed to it. One other change that occurs in our training is that we begin to spar; first as individuals, then in sections, and finally Century against Century. Only occasionally would we go Cohort against Cohort, if only because it put so many men in the hospital, even with faceguards, padding, wicker shields, and rudii. Most of the time, however, was spent fighting each other within our own Century, five sections against five sections the most often, since it simulated what we would go through in an actual battle. At least, that is the theory; even after one campaign I knew that very quickly, especially in a hot fight, the ranks of each section get shuffled because of losses suffered and each man to the rear moves up his file. I suppose the only consolation for me was that now I was in the first rank and to the right of the line; I did not have to worry about stepping forward. Of course, it also meant I was in the most danger because my comrades of my section and I would face the onslaught of whatever enemy we were facing when they were at their freshest. I cannot lie; despite being aware that, on the face of matters anyway, my promotion to this position just at the beginning of my second year under the standard was a huge honor, it was also not lost on me the very strong possibility that Urso had purposely placed me in a position of danger that is fourth, behind the Primus Pilus, the Aquilifer, bearer of our sacred Eagle, symbol of the Legion, and our Signifer, in this case bearing the standard of both Century and Cohort. The latter of the trio actually stood next to me with the Primus Pilus just on his other side, while Aulus Capulo, the Aquilifer, stood just behind Urso and, as I would learn, this made matters even more dangerous. Yet, even now, I cannot say with any certainty that Urso had put me in this spot simply because he wanted me dead, if only because of some of the events that happened later. He is still an enigma to me, despite the fact he has been dead several years now. But that is for later.
As we go through the rounds of drills that pit section against section, once we have faced each section, we are then broken down to individuals facing each other one on one. Still, with a Century of one hundred sixty men, I had to be patient before I got the chance to face Bestia. And, although I never breathed a word of my plans to anyone, not even Domitius, whom I had come to like a great deal and was beginning to trust, the rest of the Century seemed to sense that there was a storm brewing between Bestia and me. Only later did I realize that it was something of an inevitability we would clash; after all, I had been training for the profession since I was ten years old, and everyone was well aware of whose blood ran in my veins. Factoring in the extra third of a watch I was putting in at the stakes on my own, even after the roughest of days, it was only natural that facing Bestia ignited some spirited wagering, of which I became aware one night when Domitius came to my bunk where I was seated, trying to mend one of my tunics.
"If you're smart, you'll have enough money to have someone do that for you," he whispered to me, not before glancing about to make sure everyone else was occupied.
Puzzled, I asked him why he said this, and he grinned.
"Because you're pairing off with Bestia tomorrow, that's why! And if you want me to, I'll put some money down on you. In my name, of course," he added hastily, probably at seeing my expression.
Legionaries will gamble on anything and everything, yet it is considered bad form to bet on oneself. In fact, the more pious among us insist that it is daring the wrath of the gods because of the sin of hubris. While I do not now nor did I then consider myself to be particularly religious, neither am I willing to run the risk that I am wrong and they are right. Besides that, in this case in particular, if it were somehow found out that I had placed a huge wager on myself, and I won as I planned to, this would be doubly humiliating to our weapons instructor. And I want to stress that I actually liked Bestia a great deal, yet I had somehow convinced myself that his callous disregard for the grip that had been taught to my Avus by Aulus Vinicius was not only an insult to the shade of Vinicius, but to my Avus as well. He had, after all, insisted that first his Cohort, the Second of the 10th Equestris, followed by the entire Legion when he became Primus Pilus, use it. Once he became Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, he had instituted the Vinician grip, although he only did it for all newcomers to the army. Sitting on my bunk, I did think about Domitius' offer for a moment, then shook my head.
"No, thank you, though," I finally said. "I appreciate the offer, but I think that could make things worse."
"If you beat him, what could be worse? For Bestia, I mean," he joked.
I remember thinking, but I want to do more than just defeat him. I am going to send his rudis flying through the air before I'm done.
"How do you know about me and Bestia pairing off?" I asked him curiously.
Again, Domitius grinned, tapping the side of his nose as he replied, "Because I overheard Bestia go to Tiburtinus and ask him to pair the two of you up. He says you need to be taken down a notch, that you're 'not bad,'" he said this last in a surprisingly fair imitation of Bestia's growl, "but still not as good as he is."
"So why are you betting on me?"
This time, Domitius' laugh was somewhat strained, and he answered, "Who said I was betting on you? I just told you if you wanted to bet on yourself, I'd do it for you."
I felt my mouth drop in astonishment, except the expression on his face as he sat there, looking very much like he was bracing himself for me to swing at him, instead brought a chuckle that turned into a bout of laughter from both of us that quickly drew the ire of some of the others. Chastised, we managed to mute our mirth as he sat with me the rest of the time I was repairing my tunic. While we continued talking, my mind was elsewhere, meaning I pricked myself with the needle more than once.
"Try not to lose too much blood," he finally said dryly. "I want you at your strongest tomorrow."
"Why?" I shot back. "This way, you have an advantage when you bet against me!"
This time, it was a snarled order from Philo himself, roused from his bunk, that got us quieted down.
The next morning when I rose, I could instantly feel the charged atmosphere, the anticipation, mainly because even those comrades of my section who normally at least greeted me now did so with a mumble, refusing to meet my gaze. Only Domitius seemed cheerfully unaware that there was some undercurrent, although as I got to know him better, I would learn
that chewing on his bottom lip was a dead giveaway of his nerves. But I did not know that at the time and, honestly, I was thankful for at least one friendly face. Oh, Philo and Mela were all smiles, yet they were not friendly in the least, while Caecina was always smiling, so I did not put much faith in it. As we got in line for our morning portion of porridge that was reheated from the night before, which would be supplemented by whatever bread we had managed to avoid eating the day before, Philo made sure he got behind me in line.
"Big doings today, boy," he whispered into my ear, and even knowing he was baiting me, I felt the anger rouse itself deep in my belly. "Now you're going to find out what it's like to face a real man with a gladius, not those fucking barbarians who don't know which end to hold!"
It took a great deal of willpower, but I managed to turn about slowly, and I was proud that my tone was cool as I replied, "And how many barbarians have you killed, Sergeant?"
His dark features flushed, and he retorted angrily, "More than you have, boy!"
"No doubt that's true, but how many chieftains have you slain? And remember," the only way I managed to grin was knowing how angry it would make him, "I'm just getting started. That was just my first campaign. I imagine after a couple more, I'll catch up to you...at the least."
"Or you'll be dead," he spat back, and I knew he was not referring to death by barbarian.
I gave an elaborate shrug and replied, "If that's what the gods will. But I think even you'll have to agree that I've been favored by the gods so far. Like my father and grandfather too."
I did not wait for a reply, just spun about, thankful that it was my time to ladle out some porridge so that I had the excuse to do so.
While our sleeping arrangements are set and pre-determined, the same is not true for our eating and, over time, somehow I had managed to snatch a spot next to Domitius that became my more or less permanent place at the table. As we spooned the porridge into our mouths, we were able to converse in low tones as we chewed, making it difficult for others to hear. I do not want to give the impression we were unique; this is quite often what takes place, particularly on days as charged as this one was.
"Where's Bestia?" I mumbled to Domitius, for I had noticed immediately after the call to rise that he was missing from his bunk, but Philo had not seemed to notice he was gone, telling me that it was in all likelihood pre-arranged.
Domitius shrugged and muttered back, "Don't know. I woke up early just in time to see him slip out the door."
I frowned, irritated that I had somehow missed the man I was going to be facing in a short period of time leaving out a door that was literally just a few feet from me. In truth, I am naturally a heavy sleeper, and it is only through many years of practice that I have managed to learn how to avoid dropping into a deep sleep. Although, during the winter in particular, I tend to allow myself that luxury. What could he be up to? I wondered. Recognizing that speculation was useless, I shrugged and finished shoving the rest of my meal down my throat before shoving my way back from the table, which, as it always did, prompted protests from the men on either side. It was a bad habit of mine, forgetting how strong I was so that even when the bench I was on was full of other men, it did not take much effort to push it back with my legs. I also forgot to announce I was doing so, and on more than one occasion, caused some hot porridge to drop in one of my comrade's laps. Mumbling my usual apology, I stepped over the bench, but before I made more than a couple of steps, Philo stopped me.
"Where do you think you're going, boy?"
I turned, and before I could stop myself, I shot back, "I was going to the latrine. Why? Did you want to come hold the sponge for me?"
The roar of laughter from the rest of the men around the table drowned out whatever it was that Philo said, but his poisonous glare was eloquent in itself. Using the commotion of my comrades howling and slapping the table in delight at my wit, I slipped out the door before he could stop me. I was fairly sure that he would not come after me, if only because of the indignity of being seen to chase after me like a boy trying to tag along with his father. I was right, except instead of heading to the latrines, I made my way rapidly out of the camp, but rather than taking the side gate nearest to the training ground, I used the Porta Decumana, our rear gate, so that I could surreptitiously check and see if my suspicions were correct. Reaching the corner of the wall, I peeked around it, forced to squint because the sun had not yet risen over the hills to the east. Nevertheless, it was light enough to see what I had feared; Bestia was at the stakes, working up a good sweat as he got loosened up for our bout. Seeing all that I had come for, I turned about and headed back in a thoughtful and pensive mood. Looking back now, I know I should have taken this as a compliment that Bestia thought highly enough of me he did not want to start our bout cold; at the time it was just worrisome, and I will say my cast of mind was gloomy as I retraced my steps, thinking that perhaps losing this bout was not only inevitable, but might not be the worst thing that could happen. Of course, as soon as that thought came into my mind I shoved it away, shaking my head at myself. Lose? On purpose? That was, and I am afraid still is, something foreign to my nature and in this, I suppose, I am more like my Avus than my father. Whereas Titus Pullus, and I, are rash and impulsive, especially when our blood is up, my father is more calculating and able to keep his head, a trait that I admire greatly. Yet, as much as I admire it, this is the one characteristic of my father where, even now that I am older, I cannot seem to emulate. While he was willing; not eager, but willing to lose a battle if it meant winning a war, I suppose that my Avus and I share the same desire to win not just the war, but every battle along the way. Somewhere, somehow, neither of us seemed to learn the lesson that no individual can win at everything they do, no matter what type of contest it may be. No, if I were forced to articulate a response to that statement it would have been, and still is; why not? Why can a man not win every time he steps into the arena, real or imagined? If my Avus, or I for that matter, can be accused of greed, I would be forced to acknowledge that, yes, in this way I am greedy. Not for money, or titles, but for victory in everything I do. That day, as I made my way back to my hut it was that avarice for conquest that formed the hard lump in my soul to do what I was about to do to Aulus Bestia. I would not cripple him as I had Gaius Maxentius, but I was determined that after this day he would be the one taken down a notch, not I. No, I swore to myself, there will be no doubt who is the better man with a sword after this.
"Where have you been?" Domitius grumbled immediately after I entered the hut. "Everyone else has already headed out to the stakes."
"I do have eyes," I commented, my tone as dry as my throat.
"Hurry up and get ready," he commanded, and I was somewhat bemused by not only his presence but how he rushed about, helping me gather my gear.
"Why aren't you out there with the others, making sure you have a good spot?" I asked him, for I was genuinely curious.
"Well, someone has to be your second and make sure you don't get lost," he mumbled. "It might as well be me."
He was handing me my segmentata as he said this. I had long since become accustomed to the process of donning it, which I will say is about the only drawback in its design. Because it has to be buckled into its proper place once it is on, it does take a bit longer to don than the old hamata, the chain mail of my father's and Avus' era and is still worn by our Centurions. When I was first issued the gear, I abhorred the idea of wearing it because one could glance at the ranks of a Legion and tell who the Tirones are, and who are the veterans. However, after my first campaign, I discovered to my pleased surprise that it was superior in many ways to the older armor, even if those advantages were more by accident than design. Oh, do not mistake me; I am sure that whoever the praefecti fabrorum who came up with this configuration had some of these advantages in mind when they created this, but I was never under any illusion that the main reason for the design was nothing more than the ease of repair and maintenance. Wherea
s a rent chain mail shirt can be repaired, it is a time-consuming process, with each individual link having to be bent and riveted, one link at a time, while with the segmentata it is a matter of replacing a plate. This is accomplished by simply unfastening a buckle or two, thereby allowing our armorer Immunes to effect repairs so much faster that it is impossible to judge how much time is saved. In my case, I was reminded of the one drawback to the new armor as Domitius helped me into the segmentata, and that was more to my purse than to my person. Because of my larger chest, the plates for my segmentata have a shallower curve, except I am also wider across the chest as well as deeper so that the standard plates, even after they are recurved, left a gap of more than a hand's breadth right down the middle of my chest. Hence, I require plates that are also longer, the expense for which came out of my own funds. Not that I am complaining; as far as I was concerned, keeping me alive was the best justification for the expense. That day, holding my arms out as Domitius fiddled with the last strap, I tried to examine him unobtrusively out of the corner of my eye.
Stopping, he looked at me and informed me that he was aware of my scrutiny by asking with a sigh, "What is it?"
"Nothing," I blurted out, giving the lie to my words when I felt the flush of blood rush to my face. Seeing him look at me intently, I finally managed, "It's just that I'm wondering why you're helping me."
"Somebody has to," he replied carefully, but I noticed that he had turned his face away to pick up my helmet to check that the wicker faceguard we use was securely fastened. Turning back, he shrugged. "I suppose it's a family tradition, after all. Didn't my grandfather help your grandfather?"