by R. W. Peake
Vibius and his father looked equally embarrassed at this display, and finally I dropped back to the wagon to hiss, “By the Furies, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll kill you on the spot!”
He opened his mouth to say something back to me, but evidently, the look on my face stopped him, because he snapped his mouth shut and remained quiet, sullenly sucking on his wine skin.
We made our way to the Praetor’s residence; this was the site of the dilectus, the dilectus being the official recruiting effort for the Legion. Because it was just after midday, there was a line of young men, accompanied by the men who would vouch for them, waiting for their turns in front of the conquisitores, the group of officials charged with finding qualified enlistees to enroll in the name of the Praetor. It was in this line that I first heard the name of the Praetor, a name that every citizen of Rome and probably every human being in the known world has heard of by now. It was by way of overhearing a couple of the older men, obviously the fathers of other boys.
“So do you know anything of the new Praetor, since you’re recently arrived from Campania?” asked one of the men, some sort of artisan, by the look of him. The man he was asking was dressed as a member of the equestrian class, although it was clear that his toga had seen better days.
The equestrian nodded and said, “I know of him. Gaius Julius Caesar is his name, of the Julii.”
The artisan shrugged, responding, “Never heard of him. What do you know?”
The equestrian gave a snort of derision. “He’s ambitious, I’ll give him that. He’s so ambitious,” he said with a sly grin, “that he supposedly became Nicomede’s ‘woman’ when he was serving under Marcus Thermus in Bithynia.”
This caused the other man to hoot with laughter; it has always been the case that the lower classes love any hint of scandal attached to their social betters.
The equestrian became serious. “Whether or not that’s true, that’s what’s said. But what I do know is that Caesar is well loved by the people of your class.”
He did not say this as a compliment, yet if the other man took offense, he gave no sign.
“Well,” the artisan grunted, “what I care about most is whether or not he can properly lead a Legion. The gods know, in my day, it was hit or miss.”
The equestrian looked at the other man in some surprise. “You were in the Legions, citizen?”
“One of Marius’ mules,” the other replied with quiet pride, as well he should have.
The men of Marius’ Head Count Legions were the first of their kind, and showed their supposed betters that they could fight just as well as anyone in the higher classes, better perhaps. In fact, it was the reforms of Marius that opened the door for those of my class to enter the Legions and perhaps advance their own fortunes. For the rest of the time we stood in line, the equestrian was completely respectful of the artisan, and indeed began plying him with questions about Gaius Marius.
Such was the nature of the conversations all along the line as we shuffled slowly towards the entrance to the building, which even I could see was not much more than a large villa. It served as the headquarters and the living space for the Praetor sent by Rome to govern the province and, as I was to learn, carries the same name as the headquarters tent of a Roman military camp, the Praetorium. While we waited, we saw much bustling about, with couriers coming and going, jumping from their horses to walk quickly into the building, then reappearing in a matter of moments, their dispatch bag full, either of answers to the original dispatch they had delivered, or some sort of counter-orders or further questions, or at least so I imagined. Phocas was monitoring Lucius carefully, to ensure that while he was sated enough to be lucid and appear to have all of his faculties, my father was not allowed to render himself insensible. With the day passing and the sun sinking lower, I began to worry that we would be out of luck, since my father had not remained this sober for this long in some time and, despite my threats, I was worried that he would bring ruin to all Vibius and I had planned because of his thirst. Finally, it became our turn; Vibius and his father would follow us, and I took my father by the elbow, applying extra pressure just before the impatient guard made a comment, giving him a look that was meant to convey exactly what awaited him if he failed. His fear was palpable, but he nodded his head and we entered the building.
There were a series of tables, where not one, but three conquisitores were actually standing, each behind a slave who was working as a scribe, writing down the necessary information dictated to them by the conquisitores. The third table to the farthest side of the room was empty, and the Conquisitore behind it waved to us impatiently.
“You’re here to enlist, no doubt,” he said briskly, but I could only nod dumbly. Turning to my father, the official spoke just as briskly. “And you’re here to swear to his citizenship and age, aren’t you?”
For a moment, my father did not speak, and my heart began to hammer even harder. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I could see his lips working but nothing came out.
Finally, his words came in a hoarse whisper. “Yes, your Excellency.”
Obviously unimpressed with my father’s oratory skills, the Conquisitore, a middle-aged man wearing a toga with the badge of his office worn around his neck, snapped, “Out with it, citizen. Who are you?”
Finally given a question he could answer, my father replied, with just a hint of pride, “I am Lucius Pomponius Pullus, citizen of Rome and a member of the tribe Pupinia, of the gens of the Pomponii.”
Nodding, the Conquisitore pointed at me, and asked, “This is your son? Is he the one joining the Legion?”
I spoke up with the rehearsed answer that we were told to give by Cyclops when he explained the process to us.
“Yes, I am Titus Pomponius Pullus, also a citizen of Rome by virtue of my father and his father and grandfathers before him. I am also of the gens of the Pomponii, and my mother was a citizen as well, of the tribe Galeria, and of the gens of the Asinia.”
The Conquisitore indicated to his scribe to write down the appropriate information.
Once completed, the Conquisitore looked at Lucius and asked, “And his age?”
Here was the moment of truth; we had rehearsed this many times. As you know, gentle reader, the years of the birth of Roman citizens are recorded by the number of years from the founding of Rome and the Consuls for that year. It had been drilled into me that I was born in the year of the Consulship of Publius Servilius Vatia and Appius Claudius Pulcher but now, in order to perpetrate this fiction, we were forced to consult the annals to determine the Consuls for the year before. I could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down my back as I waited for what seemed to be the week that it took my father to answer.
However, it must not have been long because I detected no change in the expression of the Conquisitore or the scribe when my father finally said, “My son, Titus Pomponius Pullus, was born in the year of 430, as reckoned from the founding of Rome, under the Consulship of the dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla and Quintus Caecilia Metellus Pius, may the gods favor both of their memories, on the date of April twentieth.”
This raised an eyebrow from the Conquisitore, though not in a suspicious manner.
“Just a couple weeks ago, eh, boy? Couldn’t wait to join the Legions, could you?”
Finally, an answer that I could give honestly!
“No, Your Excellency, I couldn’t. It’s been my dream since I was a boy to serve.”
“Good,” the Conquisitore replied. “Would that all of your fellow citizens had your patriotism. But it’s auspicious, your birth date, because you’ll be assigned to the 10th Legion, and its symbol has already been established.”
Looking at me, smiling, he added, “It’s the sign of the bull, the symbol under which you were born. It must be that the Fates have brought you here.”
And with that, my father’s part was essentially done. The scribe used his stylus to write down the relevant information on a beeswax tablet, then handed it
to me, instructing me to go through a door on the left to be examined by a fellow who would determine that I was fit enough to join the Legion. Lucius was told by the scribe to wait, pointing him to the back of the room where other fathers were standing, while I went into the other room for my physical examination. There, another man waited, quickly identified as a doctor and with his own scribe standing next to him, to whom I handed the tablet. I was told to disrobe for the doctor to examine me, if that is what one could call it, asking me a few questions about my overall health, telling the scribe to write that I was physically fit and had no identifying marks. In particular, they apparently were looking for any marks to indicate that I was once a slave. Passing the examination with no other comment than the physician’s exclamation about my size and musculature, I was ordered to dress, then handed the tablet and told to go back into the original room, where Lucius was still waiting. The process took no more than a few moments. My father was presented with a document, written on vellum, containing the information that we gave concerning my birth, with the extra information provided by my physical examination, which he signed, his hand barely shaking at all. It was done. The Conquisitore told us what would happen next.
“Lucius Pullus, your part is done. Titus Pullus, you’re now a probatio, and as such will take an oath before you’re sent to the camp of the 10th Legion. It’s not the full oath that all Legionaries must take; that will only be administered once you’re considered to be worthy to be a soldier of Rome.”
I bristled a bit at that; if he only knew who he was dealing with! However, he either missed my irritation or ignored it and continued with, “You’re to report at first light at the camp of the 10th Legion. Until then, you may spend your last evening as you wish. The scribe will give you the directions to the camp. It’s just outside of the city walls.”
Whereupon he had me swear an oath to Mars, Jupiter, and Roma, then, once completed, he motioned to the door, indicating that our business was finished. By this time, Vibius and his father had entered and were in the same process I had just endured, and we grinned at each other as I walked out the door.
Phocas was waiting for us; when I told him that our ruse had worked, he whooped with joy, ignoring decorum as he hugged me with all his might. While he did so, I was reminded that this was a moment I should be sharing with my father, except he had made a straight line for the wagon and the amphora, ignoring the celebration. For a moment, just one, I experienced a terrible sadness as I watched my father make his supplication to the only god he truly worshiped, or for whom he had any feeling, for that matter. Then I shook it off, enjoying the moment Phocas and I were having. Presently, Vibius and his father emerged from the villa, Vibius’ face plastered with what must have been the same silly grin that was on my face, and we embraced. We had done it! We had joined the Legions together. The thought that this was merely a first step never entered our minds; as far as we were concerned, we were both as good as Legionaries. Fortunately, the gods did not disagree with our assessment.
We spent the night at an inn; it turned out to be the last night either Vibius or I would spend under a roof for some time to come, although we did not yet know that. There was a tavern attached to the inn, and Vibius’ father at least was determined to give us a proper send-off, which my father was only too happy to participate in, since it meant that the wine would be flowing. I was ashamed at Lucius’ obviously naked desire to suck up all the wine that Vibius’ father was willing to pay for, but thankfully, Vibius’ father was gracious, despite his modest means. By this point, enough time had passed for me to witness that, despite Vibius’ lowly status in their family, there was real affection between father and son, and I mused about what that must feel like. Despite the convivial atmosphere, I drank just enough wine, watering it at that, to keep from appearing ungracious. I was not much of a drinker of wine in those days, and although I am not much of one now, I certainly have experienced moments of which Bacchus would be proud, including a period of several weeks when I stayed more or less perpetually drunk, but that happened much, much later in my life. The evening progressed, and Vibius, his father, and my father got drunker, even as I grew more impatient.
At some point, one of the whores that can always be found in such establishments made her way to our table, and Vibius’ father poked his son in the ribs and winked. “Well, son? How about your father giving you a real going-away present, huh?”
Vibius’ face flushed immediately, a combination of embarrassment and anger.
“Father, I’m sworn to Juno, and she’s the only woman I want.”
“Just wait, that’ll change.” His father laughed, which Lucius found equally amusing.
“No it won’t,” Vibius snapped, and I could see he was very angry now.
So could his father, who made a placating gesture.
“Pax, son. I was only joking. Forgive a father for trying to give his son something to remember,” he said.
Vibius softened immediately. “No, Father. I should be begging your forgiveness. I know you meant well; it’s just that I already miss Juno.”
Vibius’ father put his arm around his son and nodded. “I understand, Vibius. You’re just like me. I’ve been with your mother going on twenty-four years, and she’s still the only woman for me.” He paused. “Most of the time.”
He said this last with a roar of laughter, and even Vibius could not remain upset.
The evening passed by quickly enough, but once it was time to retire, I found I could not sleep, being much too excited. For a moment, I envied Vibius, who lay across the room, snoring peacefully, making me think that perhaps more wine would not have been a bad idea. Lying on my cloak that I threw over the pallet of straw, I stared at the sky through the small window placed high on the wall, wondering how different my life would be one short day from now. It was with this thought in my head that somehow, I finally fell asleep.
Roman gladius; (pl.)gladii suspended from the baltea (Drawing on right)
Roman galea; (pl.) galeae of the Late Republican period
Roman scutum; (pl.) scuta of Late Republic with pilum; (pl.) pila
Tools and cooking equipment carried by a Legionary. From top: Cooking pot and wicker basket; ladle. Tools from left to right are: sickle; pickaxe; turf cutter; palisade stake, of which two were issued per Legionary.
Chapter 3: Tirones
Any regret from the night before about not partaking of wine was immediately dismissed when I saw poor Vibius, who looked slightly green, his eyes rimmed red, and his breath smelling like my father’s in the morning. We had paid the slave maintaining the watch to wake us two parts of a watch before dawn, despite it being only a short walk to the camp. Neither of us could rouse our respective fathers, which was fine with me, but I felt a pang about not going to the slave quarters to wake Phocas and Gaia. Making our way down to the main room of the inn, we rummaged around until we found a loaf of bread and some oil that was close to turning rancid, and split the loaf, soaking it in the oil. Carrying our portions out the door, we began to make our way in the dark, the few belongings we were bringing with us slung over our shoulders, along with the appropriate token that we were to hand to the soldier at the gate to show that we were now part of the Legion. Walking slowly, neither of us said much. Despite our eagerness, we also knew that we were embarking on something momentous. After all, we were still boys to a large degree, and I would be lying if I said we did not have any fear of what we were headed into.
Arriving at the gate, we stopped a short distance away, not wanting just to walk up on some guard who might be half-asleep and would kill us before our career even started, so we sat on the ground, waiting for the light to become strong enough so that we could approach without fear. While sitting there, we made out other shapes of men approaching, then heard them talking quietly, as the others who enlisted the day before began to show up. Vibius and I smugly but quietly congratulated ourselves for being the first to arrive, making no sound to alert the others to our
presence, although I do not know why. Instead, we sat listening, learning about our fellow tiros as they talked among themselves.
“So what do you think it'll be like?”
This from a high-pitched, nervous-sounding voice.
“It’ll be the hardest thing we’ve ever done,” came the response from a grim-sounding, deeper voice.
“By the gods,” came another. “I can’t wait to kill some barbarian scum! I bet I have the most kills of anyone in this Legion!”
Vibius and I glanced at each other and, despite barely seeing the other in the gloom, I could tell we were both making a mental note of that voice. We wanted to see this mighty warrior for ourselves as soon as it was light.
“Gerrae! That’s awfully big talk,” replied the grim-sounding voice, which I could just begin to make out as a shape against the slowly lightening sky.
It was hard to tell from my vantage point, sitting on the ground, but he seemed to be nearly as tall as I was, but as I learned later that was not the case, and was simply because I was sitting down.