by R. W. Peake
“But…” I started, unsure of how to continue, and again I was rewarded with that slight smile.
“But,” he finished for me, “the problem with that grip is that it restricts your blade from moving laterally, so that you don’t have the same freedom of movement. Is that what you were about to say?”
“Yes, Optio,” I answered excitedly, although to be honest, I was not sure that was what I was going to say until he did it for me.
He nodded again, and replied, “You're correct, tiro…?”
“Pullus, Optio. Titus Pullus.”
“You're correct, tiro Pullus, that at first, your movement is more restricted. But,” he said this with the quiet confidence of a man who knew what he was about, “you’ll regain that with practice. By the time I’m finished with you, nobody will be able to tell how you grip your weapon.”
He turned to the others and finished, “Except that you’ll be alive, and your enemy dead.”
Of course, he was right. And it did not take nearly as long as I thought it would. By the end of the second day, I felt almost as comfortable using the new grip as I had the old. The only men who experienced difficulty with it were the men with smaller hands, who did not have as much length in their fingers to wrap around their thumbs sufficiently. To compensate for this, Optio Vinicius prescribed special exercises for them to strengthen their hands, exercises that once I saw them performing, I began as well. Vinicius had them thrust their hands into a bucket of sand, with their fingers splayed out. Once their hands were buried in the sand, they drew their fingers in as if they were grabbing a handful of sand. It is an extremely effective exercise, and my hands are still strong because of those exercises. In addition, I know that some men actually shaved down the handle, making it slightly smaller in diameter than a standard issue gladius. Once we became accustomed to the new grip, Vibius and I started demonstrating that we were indeed more skilled than our comrades, a fact that did not escape the notice of Pilus Prior Crastinus. It was toward the end of the third day working on the stakes that I became aware of the Pilus Prior standing nearby, watching me with narrowed eyes. Unnerved, I struggled to concentrate on my work, the sweat running freely off of me while my arms, having been hardened and conditioned to such labor, still contained a great deal of energy, reflected in my thrusts.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve held a rudis, is it, Pullus?”
The question, posed in what passed for a conversational tone by the Pilus Prior, completely flustered me. Unsure what to do, I stopped, snapped to intente and replied, “No, Pilus Prior.”
“Who trained you?” he asked with some interest.
“Quintus Ausonius, Pilus Prior,” I answered, which was immediately met with a roar of laughter.
“Edepol! You were trained by old Cyclops himself? He swore that he’d never pick up a weapon for the rest of his life, the bastard.”
I was so shocked that you could have knocked me over with the lightest touch, although I should not have been. Back then, the Legions were still relatively few and small; men such as Cyclops who gained renown were known throughout the Legions. The fact that he was my brother-in-law meant that it never occurred to me to think of him in this manner.
“And how, by Pluto’s cock, do you know Cyclops?” Pilus Prior Crastinus demanded.
“He’s married to my sister,” I said, which drew another roar of laughter.
“By the gods, he’s married too! Well, maybe there’s hope for an old bastard like me yet.” He chuckled.
And then he did something that amazed me even more. Stepping up to me, he slapped me on the back as if I were a comrade and finished, “Well, Pullus. You couldn’t have had a better teacher. I’m going to keep an eye on you.”
And with that, he turned and walked over to Optio Vinicius, who was standing there looking as bemused as I felt. The Pilus Prior whispered something in his ear that I could not catch, but Vibius did.
Later that night, Vibius relayed to me excitedly, “You know what that old knob Crastinus said to Vinicius?” Without waiting for me to answer, he continued, “‘Watch out for Pullus, Vinicius,’ he said, ‘he may take your job.’”
I felt like I was ten feet tall. Those words, however, had the opposite effect than I expected. Looking back, however, I felt that perhaps the Pilus Prior understood me better than I thought. From that day, I was pushed much harder by Optio Vinicius than any of the other tiros, and was subjected to scathing critique of everything I did. The night of the incident, Vibius and I discussed the idea that Vibius should point out that he too was trained by the legendary Cyclops, but luckily, for him anyway, before he got a chance to open his mouth, the next day, he saw the lay of the land. Indeed, not only did he keep his mouth shut, he also endeavored to hold back a bit so that he would not be singled out for special attention in the same manner that I was. It seemed I could not do anything right; my thrusts were sloppy, my slashes were weak, my recoveries were atrocious. Indeed, if Vinicius were to be believed, I would be lucky to survive the first contact of the first battle I was in. If the goal were to take me down a peg, it had the opposite effect. Instead, it just spurred me to work harder and prove him wrong, and I looked forward to the day where we would finally be allowed to pair off.
After a week, we began working with the scuta as well, and we were beginning to pick up on the rhythm of training. Everything appeared to work in cycles of a week, with a new skill being added to the training each cycle. That did not hold for everyone, however. It was after the first week of work on the stakes that Artorius was held back a couple of extra days because he was not considered adept enough with just the rudis to move forward with the more advanced work. This was when Vibius first started showing signs of being more than just the average Legionary, because he stepped in and offered to work with Artorius in the evenings, after our meal. It would have been perfect if Artorius showed any enthusiasm, but after the first few days, it became apparent to all of us that Artorius’ heart was not in learning to become a Legionary. The fight with his father seemed a long-past event; he even admitted to us one night that he could no longer remember what it was about. It was not that he was necessarily a bad Legionary; I just believe that some of us are born to be one thing, others are born to be another, and Artorius was clearly not born to be a Legionary. He did make an effort, so that he was not quite bad enough to be one of the tiros dismissed as unfit for duty, yet not only was he clearly the weakest in our tent section, he was the weakest in our Century and may have been the weakest in the Cohort. However, that discovery was still in the future, so Vibius spent his spare time with Artorius, working with him tirelessly. I marveled that Vibius had the energy, because I was still exhausted at the end of every day, but my friend had always been blessed with more vitality, much to my dismay at times.
While the rest of us would sit and take care of the myriad little things that occupy a Legionary’s free time while watching Vibius and Artorius, it was during those periods that we got to know each other. For some reason, I found that I spent more time with Scribonius than the others, at least during those times I was not with Vibius. He was somewhat quiet, with a thoughtful manner about him, yet I discovered that his placid exterior masked a razor-sharp wit and a sense of the absurd that I enjoyed immensely. Meanwhile, Didius introduced the other boys to dice, and he had to be the luckiest man I had ever seen, or he was an extremely good cheater. Either way, most of the others, with the exception of Scribonius, Vibius, and me ended up owing him things like their next day’s rations, something that was expressly forbidden for Legionaries to wager. It is also one of the more flouted rules in the Legions my entire time in the ranks. However, Didius was smart, I will give him that. He did not actually take the others’ rations; instead, he traded them back for favors, things like mending his gear or standing watches for him. I do not know that the three of us were smarter than the others. I think it was more our mutual dislike of Didius than anything, which meant that of our tent section, we were the
only ones who never owed Didius anything, something that he did not like at all.
Also by this point, we had been integrated into our Century in terms of marching and drill, on which we still spent a portion of the day working. Since we were the last to join the Century, we were the very back rank, a fact that bothered me to no end. That meant that the battles would all be over before I got to have my turn, I fumed to myself, and where would the glory be for me? Being the tallest and the biggest in my Century, and one of the largest in the Cohort, I was sure that I would be placed in the front rank. However, the system that has operated in the Roman army for hundreds of years by that point did not allow for the vanity of a young man. That is how I thought of myself, a young man, despite easily being the youngest in the Legion because of my deception. Later, I was to learn that there were several others who were sixteen; they were just older than I was by months and, in a couple of cases, weeks. Even so, I was still sure that I was bound for glory, and I was eager to show what I was made of.
It was not until a full month passed that we began working together as a whole Legion, with every Cohort, and we were full strength for the first time and one of the last Centuries to be so. I am not sure, but I would guess that we started losing men within the first three to four months of our existence, by virtue of illness or desertion, and it is only just now becoming standard practice, forty years later, that replacements are placed within a particular Legion. However, back then, once we attained our full complement of men, every one lost from that point was one less in the Legion. Even so, it was an amazing sight to see upwards of 6,000 men standing in formation, rank after rank, Century after Century, the Cohorts lined up in their order. We, being the First Century of the Second Cohort, were privileged to be fairly close to the front of the formation, giving us a better view of the proceedings when the Tribunes and the other officers gathered together. My height also helped with the view, except when we were in full dress uniform with everyone wearing their horsehair plumes, which was nothing but a damn nuisance. I am as proud of being a Legionary as any man who has ever served Rome, but I was never much for the pomp and polish, and I always hated those formations where some prig of a Tribune or Legate decided to flex his muscle and call for a dress inspection for no other reason than he could. Luckily for us, once Caesar took command and we began fighting, that sort of nonsense was kept to a minimum. Ironically, the times we wore our full dress uniform the most often were going into battle under Caesar, because he believed it helped the men fight harder. This I did not mind as much because it had a point to it.
Speaking of Caesar, the occasion of our first full formation as a Legion, carrying all of our gear, no less, was also where I first laid eyes on the man. I must say that I was somewhat disappointed. He was shorter than I was by a few inches and somewhat slight, with very fair complexion and features. I did not know it at the time, but no matter how much time in the sun he spent, and he was in the elements as much as we were, he never turned brown the way we did. Some of the boys said it was proof of his noble birth; there were others who were not so gracious, saying it proved that he was womanish and that the rumors of his liaison with the king of Bithynia were true as well. I was not yet confident enough in those days, but before long, any man who uttered such nonsense in my presence would have trouble on their hands of a sort that they did not want.
However, that day, I was not impressed, to say the least. Caesar mounted the rostra, giving a speech of welcome to us, noting that although we had been here for varying lengths of time, we gathered as a Legion just that day, making welcoming us appropriate. Despite my lack of awe at his appearance, I will say that he gave very good speeches. He was not like some of the patricians that took a turn at leading us, who would talk to us like we were children or spoke to us of high-flown principles and ideals, for which none of us gave a rotten fig. No, Caesar spoke plainly, and I could see that I was not the only one who appreciated it. He did spend some time telling us how we were upholding the finest traditions of Rome, and how, under his command, we would make our ancestors proud, yet it was not overdone. Such rhetoric is like adding spice to a stew; the right amount, and it makes for a memorable meal, one that you will tell others about for days to come. Too much, however, ruins it, and while it still is memorable, it is for the wrong reasons. So we stood and listened while he told us that he would always lead from the front, indeed starting that day, then when he was finished, he stepped down from the rostra, turning over command to the Tribune in nominal command of the Legion. Such was my first physical contact with the man who would lead us down the path to our destiny.
After he stepped down, he strode to the Porta Praetorium, the main gate of the camp and, leading us, took us on our first long march. To that point, once we were integrated with our Century and our Century with our Cohort, we had started forced marches, but they were all out a certain distance, then back to the camp. All this was done with the goal of building us up to this moment when we were going to put in a full day’s march, then make a marching camp for the first time. None of my tent section had been present for the building of the camp that we were staying in at that time, with the exception of Sergeant Calienus; because it was a semi-permanent camp, we had only been involved in work details making improvements. Although we had never stayed outside of the camp at the end of a march, we always carried all of our gear, some of it put in the wicker basket that is then attached to the pack, which we carried over our shoulder using a stick with a crossbar called a furca, to which we attached everything. Our scuta, in its leather cover, was strapped to our back, our helmet attached to that. We wore our arms and loricae, carrying a pilum in our left hand to serve as a staff, while our second pilum we held in the same hand as our furca. For the tiros, it meant carrying the rudis, which was attached to our belt with a leather thong instead of a scabbard, and practice pilum, and it was only when we were arrayed in such a manner that we could finally tell exactly how many veterans were among our comrades. It turned out that all of the leaders of each Century were veterans, along with the Sergeants of each tent section and a few Gregarii in each Century, so almost a quarter of the Legion appeared to be veterans.
Taking our spot in the column, we marched in the lead spot just behind the command group, with the First Cohort serving as the vanguard, meaning that we did not have to worry about eating as much dust. This was something that we would learn to treasure, although on this first march, we were more worried about how we would bear up, this being our first real test. The fact that just in front of us marched our commanding general, along with his bodyguard, all of whom rode while he walked, did not help with the pressure that we felt. And he set a cracking pace, quite a bit quicker than what we were accustomed to on our other marches and, for once, I was thankful for my long legs. Normally, in standard close order drill, I had to pay particular attention to avoid stepping on the back of the man in front of me, but with this type of route march, we could stretch our legs a bit more.
The weather was pleasant; it was still late spring, but my country is warmer than most places, and what felt pleasant to me, I have learned is unbearably hot for others, mostly Gauls or people who come from those areas farther north. The first few miles passed easily enough, yet I could see others were struggling to varying degrees, the worst of them being Artorius. Both Pilus Prior Crastinus and Optio Vinicius roamed up and down the length of the Century, using their viti to encourage laggards. Between them, they must have easily covered twice the distance of our march. My admiration was tempered by the knowledge that they did not carry the same loads that we did, their gear being carried on one of the pack mules attached to our Century. Our tent section not only had its own pack mule but its own slave, a miserable little creature we called Lucco, who was responsible for guiding the mule to our final destination, wherever that was, among a variety of other duties. We stopped every two parts of a watch for a short break, during which we were allowed to ground our gear, yet not allowed to sit down.
We were allowed to place our hands on our knees and bend over a bit in order to relieve some of the strain on our backs brought on by the weight of our scuta and galeae, but that was all. As we would find out later, once sufficiently conditioned, we would be allowed to sprawl out in any position we chose, although someone would always be on guard, but until we reached that point, we had to content ourselves with standing there. Despite being only slightly fatigued at this point, I could feel the strain of the load I was carrying and wondered how I would feel after more miles. During our rest, most of us talked quietly; Scribonius and I discussed our new general.
“What did you think?”
He eyed me curiously as he asked me, yet all I could think to say was, “He gives a good speech. Why, what did you think?”
He frowned, something I noticed that he did a lot, then shook his head. “I don’t know, really. All I do know is that I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.”
The bucina cut our conversation short, and I thought no more about it.
By the time we made our second stop, I was beginning to feel true fatigue, and the weaker men like Artorius were clearly at the end of their tether, barely managing to make it to this point because their fear of the wrath of the Centurions was greater than their fatigue, yet I could not help wondering how much longer that would last. As we rested again, I looked over at the general, standing talking to the Primus Pilus of our Legion, who had fallen back to talk to him, I supposed, from his place up in the vanguard. Neither of them seemed to be in the slightest bit fatigued, something that angered me more than anything else. How could they appear as if they were just out for a daily stroll, without a care in the world? Well, I was determined that I would not falter in front of them, no matter what! When we set out for the final leg of our march, I was grimly determined to appear just as fresh as they did now, no matter how much of a sham it might have been. The idea that they would even notice a lowly tiro in his private struggle never occurred to me; like all youngsters, I was still of the opinion that somehow the world revolved around me.