IX
Legion
Cisalpine Gaul, Italy
April, 38 A.D.
Life in a Roman legion camp was hardly one of leisure and comfort, or even restful slothfulness for that matter. In fact, life amongst the legions, even during non-campaigning months, was in fact nothing less than Hell on Earth. It was one of hardship, pain, suffering, and plenty of fun things to do. Roman drill masters and tacticians put me through tests and training scenarios that may have even driven my drill instructors back in BUD/S to tears.
Every day it was the same old grind over and over again. The repetition was enough to drive one insane, but of all of us, Helena had it the worst. She was the only woman in the entire camp, and under normal circumstances, wouldn’t even have been allowed to enter the gates. Families or other confidants were rarely allowed to travel with the legions while on campaign, and as a result, many men became very lonely, very fast, and Helena had to deal with being an extremely attractive woman surrounded by, basically, very horny men.
There were three incidents before the boys let her into their little club, the first of which occurred the very next morning after we had arrived in camp. One of Galba’s junior officers had been giving us a tour of the camp when a legionnaire seated outside his tent cooking breakfast stood up, and spanked Helena on her supple tush. I suppose she could have been asking for it. She’d borrowed a pair of Wang’s BDU pants, which because he was just a little guy, were a few sizes too small, and scandalously tight on her. It wasn’t until later that I learned she had done this on purpose. She’d anticipated her need to establish dominance over the unruly men, and hoped to incite a reaction exactly like the one she received so she could deal with it quickly.
She wasn’t very thrilled when I stepped in and defended her before she could do it herself.
As soon as I witnessed the harassment, I snatched the legionnaire’s wrist in a quick motion and turned it in a direction it wasn’t designed to rotate in. The move forced the man’s body to instinctively lean back on his knees. I followed up the hold by kicking the back of his leg, dropping him to the ground. Following him to the ground, I landed on my back, and simultaneously pulled his arm so that his elbow rested against my knee. I could have ended it right there by applying enough pressure and wait for him to tap out, but his action had infuriated me.
So, pausing for only a moment, just long enough to make sure the man knew he had made a very stupid mistake, I pulled on his arm as hard as I could. His elbow bent in the wrong direction, and I heard a loud pop followed by a crack as I nearly broke his elbow in half. The crowd reacted with an understandable gasp of disgust at my results, if not my actions. The man was punished for assaulting a guest of the camp commander, and spent two weeks in the stockade after receiving twenty lashes from his centurion’s olive branch, a ceremonial tool meant for inflicting pain and punishment in lackluster or disobedient legionnaires.
Later that night, Helena explained her plan, and though grateful for my help, asked that I let her handle herself next time.
I agreed.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Two days later, after Galba was satisfied we had settled into the arduous routine of the camp, he had us perform a demonstration similar to the one we had showed Caligula back in the Circus Maximus. The emperor showed nothing but amusement at the general’s unwillingness to accept his word, and approved the demonstration.
We shot some armor, blew some holes in the ground, and Helena shot an apple off the rampart near the porta praetoria from the gate opposite it. Additionally, since we had plenty of time to spare, Wang demonstrated his self-defense and hand to hand combat techniques. Wang borrowed from Asian forms he had known as a boy, and the Special Forces training he had obtained later to show the Romans many kinds of throws, takedowns, holds, pressure points, and submission moves, the last of which gave me the impression he watched just a bit too much professional wrestling as well.
We all had self-defense training, even Helena despite her accelerated basic training program, and we had also trained with Wang during our month long lull period after arriving in ancient Rome. When Galba invited our entire squad, Helena included, to help demonstrate and teach these moves to his centurions and decurions, men just below the rank of centurion, one of them decided to get a little frisky.
The maneuver was simple. The decurion Helena was assigned to held a wooden training pugio, or dagger, in an inverted grip, and was instructed to jab it downwards toward her chest. Helena began her defensive move by grasping his wrist which held the knife, and followed by ducking under the dagger, putting her body up against his. This was followed by her final move, using her hips to toss him over her. It was martial arts 101, but the decurion had more than the self-defense class on his mind.
Helena was wearing boots, her BDU pants, and a white tank-top, the same as the rest of us. The difference between us and her, of course, was her curvy waistline and large breasts, and just before Helena tossed the decurion, he reached around with his free hand to fondle them. Successful though he was, his fun didn’t last long.
To Helena’s credit, she was unfazed by her attacker and followed through with her throw as planned. Instead of ending it there, she held onto his wrist, twisting it hard, stunning the man long enough for her to step around his arm, lock her ankles near his neck, and fall next to him, positioning him in a textbook arm bar maneuver. However, unlike in a cage match, she broke his arm, just above the elbow.
The man wailed in pain, clutching his crippled appendage. As he squirmed on the ground, I saw that the break was compound, and part of his radius bone pierced his skin. Helena, calm and collected, got to her feet, stepped around the decurion, reared her right leg back, and kicked him with the force of a freight train right in his groin. Unable to determine which body part hurt more, he continued wailing, but kept switching between straddling his arm and clutching his balls. Satisfied, Helena kicked some dirt on the man and turned to leave.
The decurion couldn’t let it go though, and between cries of pain, managed to call Helena a whore, a bitch, and words I hadn’t even learned yet. She stopped and returned to the man, who had now given up swearing and was fearfully trying to crawl away. Grabbing him by his broken arm, the pain almost driving him to unconsciousness, Helena pulled his back off the ground, and jabbed her middle three fingers into his throat.
She didn’t break his neck, but it took him at least a minute before he could breathe again, and he never uttered another word, or even a pained sound, for a very long time after that.
Finished with her attacker, she turned and came to stand by Santino and me. The gathered crowd was stunned. Legionnaires, auxilia, centurions, tribunes, and even Galba himself stood with mouths agape, having witnessed everything. Passing by the general’s position without a word, since her Latin at that point was still rather horrible, she gave him a look which transcended the language barrier, saying little more than, “you’d better hope this never happens again.” Nodding in disbelief, Galba turned, and left the area. Afterward, no man in the camp dared even touch Helena, and those who had to spar with her were laughably nervous.
Except for one stubborn dumbass.
By the end of the second week, most of the legionnaires looked at her with nothing but respect and friendliness, and offered her the same jibes, jokes, and taunts they would any other man in the camp. The third incident, however, happened at the beginning of the third week. Helena and I made our way to visit Gaius and Marcus when along the way, a nearby legionnaire offered Helena a wolf whistle. Without pausing, she thrust her palm upwards into the man’s nose, breaking it. The man got off the easiest of the three, and he proved to be the last who treated Helena like an object of interest. She was a legionnaire now, and while she still received jokes for being a female over the months, her sharp wit and evil eye always made sure she had the last laugh.
She slowly became a kind of mascot for
the legion. The combination of her fighting prowess and physical beauty was very rare in the Roman world, and many legionnaires claimed she was Minerva personified in human form. Minerva was, among many things, the beautiful goddess of war and warriors, so the stretch didn’t seem that unbelievable, even to my modern eyes. As the weeks went on, the men quickly realized they would not get far lusting over her, but they fell in love with her all the same, bestowing her with the title Mater Legionis, Mother of the Legion.
They even crafted a special suit of legionary armor specifically for her. Tailored to fit her frame, impressive, since no measurements were taken, she’d slipped into a red linen skirt and wool shirt, and draped the tight fitting and battle ready lorica segmentata armor over her head, which was custom molded to fit her comfortably around her chest. She attached a standard legionnaire belt, a scarlet cape, and pulled on her likewise newly fashioned caligae.
Boots laced and legs flashing, Helena took a stroll through the camp.
This time, many wolf whistles were offered, but Helena laughed off each of them, knowing they were offered only in jest, and directed more toward the armor than herself. She happily thanked the trio of men who had taken the time to remold the armor to fit her feminine curves, and even offered the lead designer and forger a kiss on the cheek in gratitude. The designer rubbed his face, and had the long, lost look of a man who had just fallen in love. His fellow men playfully shoved him, unhappy they weren’t equally thanked, shaking him from his fantasy. Other men, who had observed the event, offered her swords, daggers, helmets, and other knickknacks. Helena joyfully ignored them.
As for the rest of us, fitting in was as simple as making sure we didn’t do anything too stupid. We’d spent the time recounting war stories – our own of particular interest to the legionnaires, and theirs to me – gambling, and training.
Training defined the Roman military, as did more training, and even more training after that. While the Roman’s benefited from our personal defense lessons, they didn’t spend the rest of their days lounging either, and neither did we. We learned enough to hold our own in combat, but we’d never cut it as front line soldiers in the legions. After two months of hard training, other duties took us elsewhere. We spent much of that time analyzing our strategy for the upcoming campaign to retake Rome.
Normal legionnaire training took around six months, and every day of it started off with a run. Afterward came sword training, where centurions taught us the ins and outs of Roman swordsmanship. Romans fought with the tips of their swords, always stabbing, and never slashing. A legion fought like a machine, blocking and stabbing in choreographed sequence. It wasn’t flashy or destined for accuracy in Hollywood, but it was effective, as many defeated barbarians could attest to. I knew the basics, and understood why they were so effective, but the others did not. One time, when Santino tried to slash down at his training partner with his wooden training sword, a centurion smacked him with his olive branch, just as he would have with any of his other trainees. Santino had not been happy, but had learned his lesson.
We also learned the fine art of spear casting, and even though I had no intention of trading in my rifle for a pilum, I figured it was still a good skill to learn. More intense training came in swordplay, how to hide behind our shields and rely on the person next to us for additional protection, as well as how to snap quick attacks with as little risk as possible. Legions fought as units, and any individual heroics were frowned up. Their strength relied on their discipline, maneuverability, and coordination, all philosophies drilled into us harder than pretty much anything I’d ever experienced before.
The modern military could take a page out of the Roman army’s training playbook. As a result of the constant pace of physical and weapons drills, along with long distance runs, those of us who needed to shed a few pounds did so easily. Another thing we learned quickly was how to dig a mean ditch. Along with the digging came knowledge about Roman camp fortifications, how they were erected, and what we needed to do to contribute. If we had to move and build a new camp, the Romans made sure everybody could pitch in and lend a hand.
As for the rest of our wayward companions who had accompanied us the night we fled Rome, Caligula took to running a legion camp very efficiently, and Galba happily relinquished full control to his emperor. Fully recovered within a week, Caligula was seen walking amongst the troops, and training daily with the camp’s officers.
The surviving Praetorians from the bloody battle in his home were commended, and as a group, were elevated to a newly created position within the Praetorian rank. The one hundred and five survivors, including Quintilius, who was promoted to the rank primus pilus, formed a new sect known as the Praetorian Sacred Band. The name was an homage to the Sacred Band of Thebes, a personal bodyguard unit to Theban kings that contained one hundred and fifty pairs of lovers. During one battle against the hoplites of Sparta, they defeated a foe which greatly outnumbered them, but were eventually slaughtered by Philip II of Macedon, whose victory removed the Greek city-states authority over the land.
Unlike their Greek counterpart, the Praetorians were not required to partake in homosexual activity and create sexual pairs, but the number of men was set permanently at three hundred.
Many of the survivors were promoted a rank or two, and they recruited the remaining men needed from the two Praetorian cohorts that had joined us in Caere, choosing only those they deemed feverously loyal. Once merged, the Sacred Band became Caligula’s flagship unit, and newly promoted Quintilius became the highest ranking centurion in the camp, even higher than Maximus Nisus, the legion’s own primus pilus. Nisus took Quintilius’ promotion in stride, aware that Praetorians were rewarded with special privileges and honors. Quintilius took the promotion graciously and professionally, and even though I knew he was booming with pride and happiness, he never let on that he wasn’t doing anything but his duty.
Gaius and Marcus were also promoted. Originally holding the rank of optio, a centurion’s second in command, they were not only promoted to the centurion ranks, but also accelerated to the rank of pilus prior, or “superior file,” the second highest ranking centurion in a legion.
A Roman legion was simplistic in design, but could become frustratingly confusing when it came to the specifics of the chain of command, and the finer details of its construction. A legion, comprised of around six thousand men, was broken into ten cohorts, containing slightly less than six hundred men each, which were broken into centuries. Six thousand was a rounded up number, most legions containing only slightly more than fifty two hundred front line soldiers, but when combined with officers, administrators, and other staff, the number was closer to six.
The breakdown of centuries got pretty confusing, but each cohort had six centuries, of about eighty fighting men each. Things got even more confusing, as the first centuries of each cohort was doubled in size, and depending on what cohort you were in granted you superiority, and certain centurions of equal rank still had more power than others...
It didn’t really matter. The system confused even me.
The end result was Quintilius was in complete command of the Sacred Band, his orders coming directly from Caligula, and Gaius and Marcus each commanded one half of the three hundred man unit. It was a large honor for the two young men I had come to call friends, but they took their new posts like any seasoned soldier would. Caligula had no patience for tribunes in his Sacred Band, knowing that centurions were the real leaders on the battlefield.
And so things went.
Training and teaching and training and learning and training, we were quickly becoming well versed in military history, legion tactics and strategy, sword handling, horse riding, spear casting, and ditch digging. While not officially folded into the legion’s command structure, we were treated as mercenaries may have been, albeit ones who weren’t paid, and Vincent was invited to attend all command staff meetings. He ordered me to attend as well,
unofficially promoting me as his second in command, which likewise garnered me no additional pay. Flattered, I accepted, and spent another large chunk of my time engaged in strategizing for the upcoming campaign against Claudius.
To keep me even busier, it was about the time when the first snow started to fall, in mid-December, that the Romans assigned us watch shifts to participate in during the course of the day. Each of us was assigned a different shift, which were rotated biweekly. My first shift landed me patrolling the ramparts between midnight and six in the morning. By the grace of God, our gear had managed to find its way to our camp a few weeks after our arrival, carried by a few loyal slaves of Caligula’s, and was greatly appreciated by us all.
We found cold weather gear in the supplies, which made those long windy nights much more bearable. I didn’t know how the Romans didn’t freeze to death, but they endured, and somehow remained healthy. It honestly seemed like a miracle.
My watch shift rarely synced up with Helena’s so we rarely had time to speak with one another. I missed her during that time. The sparks we’d felt months earlier had yet to rekindle, but we cherished the time we spent together nonetheless. It wasn’t until late January that we were lucky enough to land watch shifts that kept both of our nights free, and while many of them were spent talking about our pasts, most revolved around current affairs and our lives in the Roman world.
We always had plenty to talk about. Over the past four months, I had started a process of lumping more and more responsibility for our predicament on my shoulders. My actual responsibility notwithstanding, I took it upon myself, and only myself, to try to understand our situation and find a way to get home. And even though it was difficult with little reference, I wracked my brain over the topic day and night. Neither Varus nor Caligula had thought to bring the orb or manuscripts with them, so all I could do was to think on the subject, something I did in excess.
The problem was that there wasn’t anyone for me to talk to. Vincent knew the classics, but time travel was a mystery to him. Varus knew about the orb, but not how it was related to time travel. Santino had watched a lot of movies in his day, but was hardly the guy to go to for an existential debate about anything. Everyone else fell into one category or another, and it forced a sense of ownership of the problem onto no one but me. This was compounded by my new leadership position within the group when Vincent ordered me to attend Galba’s meetings. Even there, he took a backseat during the proceedings to let my more – eclectic – mind cogitate on the issues. Vincent himself had even become a major internal debate because of those actions. I’d yet to understand a single decision he’d made in the half year we’d been stuck here. It all culminated in making my life extremely stressful, and Helena knew it.
“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly one night, feeling something was amiss from across the tent.
“Hmm? Oh. It’s nothing,” I replied, likewise keeping my voice to a whisper.
She shifted onto her side to see me more clearly. “Come on, Jacob. I know you better than that by now. You have that far off look again. The one that says you’re trying to wrap your head around something so complex that no matter how hard you try, you know you’ll never figure it out. You know, like Santino when he’s trying to figure out which boot goes on which foot.”
I chuckled. “You always know what to say to cheer a guy up.”
“I know,” she said playfully. “So what’s wrong?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. I hate to sound like a broken record here, but I just can’t shake the feeling that somehow we’re here for a reason, and I don’t mean just in this camp, but in Rome, in 38 A.D. Based on the decisions Vincent’s made since we arrived here I can’t help but think this whole thing is a setup. Somehow he knew we’d get sent here, and he knew that sphere would do something crazy, and now he’s on some kind of mission he hasn’t filled the rest of us in on. Except, everything we’ve done since we’ve been here has been a mistake, and as a result, we’ve totally fucked everything up.”
“Are you sure you even deserve an answer?”
My eyebrows furrowed. “Of course I do. It’s my fault we’re here to begin with and I deserve to know everything I can to try and figure out a way home.”
“Maybe that’s not really you’re responsibility either,” Helena insisted.
“Not my… How can you say that? If not me, then who?”
She sighed and looked away. “If you want my advice, then I say you should forget about it, but if it means that much to you, talk to Vincent. Get him to talk to you.”
“I guess. To be honest, I’ve been hoping to avoid that conversation, or to have him come out to us on his own.” I took a breath and thought. She had a point that the longer I let this fester, the worse it was going to get. I had to clear my own conscience and there was only one way to do that.
“I’ll talk to him.”
The Last Roman (The Praetorian Series - Book I) Page 49