In the morning the Germans rode back to camp. Naturally they took the horse they had lent me. But by this time I was thinking of them as the last friends I had in the world, and for lack of any other object I walked after them.
I have never again seen the valley where I spent my childhood, or the ruins of the villa where I was born. Perhaps I ought to have made sure that my parents were properly buried; but they were well known and respected figures, and the neighbours would see to that as soon as the district was quiet. Besides, my ancestry is rather Gallic than Roman, as I have explained. We Gauls do not feel so strongly about the rite of burial as do the Italians and Greeks; only Jupiter-Zeus demands that his worshippers be properly buried before they can be happy in the World Below. I was brought up to worship the Three Ladies (I know their names, but I scruple to write them). The Ladies have a special affection for warriors killed in battle; and if the warriors have been killed in defence of their own hearths that gives them a stronger claim on Divine Justice. While he lived my father was no warrior; but he met an honourable death. From time to time I placate the ancestral shades, but I feel sure that all is now well with my murdered parents.
I had another sound reason for avoiding my ancestral valley. My father had died owing nearly two years’ taxes, and if I tried to claim his land, there would be inheritance tax in addition. I had of course no money; the tax-gatherers would be within their rights if they sold me into slavery.
Soldiers, on the other hand, seldom bother to enslave free citizens, unless slave-dealers are jingling ready cash before them. No soldier particularly wants to be waited on by a slave, whom he may have to support when there is no work for him to do; they find it much less trouble to press free men into unpaid service, and turn them adrift when they are no longer needed. After victory the soldiers of Severus would probably have plenty of money; they would be glad to hire boys to water their horses and clean their armour.
Everyone else in central Gaul would be poor and frightened. That is how the world goes; when soldiers are rich civilians will be starving.
I was in Rome for my fifteenth birthday, as muleteer to a principalis, a senior non-commissioned officer in one of the Danube legions. My master had followed Severus from the start, when he first assumed the Purple; naturally, he had done very well for himself. We had three mules to carry our baggage, and could have done with a fourth. But in the autumn, when the Emperor marched east to carry on the unending war against the Parthians, we went back to our garrison on the Danube. After that we had no further need of mules, since our legion never left the camp which had been built for it by the Divine Trajanus. But while my master was selling them (a lengthy negotiation) he was transferred from his cohort to employed duty in the quartermaster’s office, as a reward for long and loyal service. His work was to check and file receipts for requisitioned transport; which he would have found a pleasant and easy job if he had not been practically illiterate. Somewhere in the regimental records he was marked as able to read and write, and that may have been true when he enlisted; but for thirty years he had never had occasion to handle a pen. It was all he could do to sign his name in large letters, sticking out his tongue as he did it. When he discovered that his muleteer was a scholar he kept me on to do the work for which he drew pay.
He was a kind and considerate master, and an experienced old soldier. He dodged his duty, but his papers and his kit were always ready for inspection and he never told a direct lie to a commissioned officer. He could sift camp rumour so that he always knew what would happen tomorrow; he took bribes if they were big enough but it was impossible to cheat him.
After three years in the office my master, who was not a greedy man, was ready to retire. I was then eighteen years old, and he offered to find me a clerkship at headquarters. These clerkships are real plums; you cannot help making money when you are ordered to requisition one ox-cart and ten peasants are anxious to pay you not to take theirs. I knew the ropes already, and in fact I had done the work. As a citizen, with some claim to the rank of honestioris, I was better qualified than most of the other applicants for the post; and with my master’s backing I was certain to get it. I myself was rather surprised when I refused his kindly offer.
I suppose it was because I am a Gaul. Every Gaul is at the mercy of unexpected quirks of honour. What it really came down to was a feeling that it is degrading for a grown man of eighteen to push a pen for a living; if I could not own land I ought to be cutting throats. You may ask in that case why I had allowed my father to educate me for the civil service. But if all had gone well with my family I would have become a country landowner who supplemented his rents by part-time work in the governing of his native district. I would have been far above the kind of imitation soldier who carried an inkwell in his scabbard instead of a sword. That was the aspect of it that stuck in my throat: to be in the army, and to be a non-combatant.
I explained that since I was of full military age, and since my master had no further need of my services, I intended to enlist as a legionary.
That was what my master had done, all of thirty years ago. Nevertheless he considered my plan most eccentric. The army has changed during the last generation. In the old days only Latin-speaking citizens were accepted in the legions; provincials, and of course barbarian foreigners, might serve only as auxiliaries. Nowadays most recruits are the sons of old soldiers; but their fathers have settled on farms just outside the camp and married barbarian girls. Half the recruits learn Latin after they have joined the Eagles.
The law still lays down that every legionary must be a Roman citizen; but town-bred citizens won’t face the life, and the recruiting officers don’t welcome them. In practice any able-bodied man who looks fit enough to march will be accepted into a legion, even though he happens to have been born on the wrong side of the Danube and so is technically not even a provincial but a foreigner. In fact a sensible legate is glad to see the ranks of his legion filled by Germans, provided they are not tribal nobles whose touchy honour makes them unwilling to obey orders. Germans of the lower class are habituated to obedience; and they take the oath of allegiance seriously, since oaths of that kind are the foundation of German society. A legion of German swordsmen, officered by Romans and with a stiffening of Latin-speaking provincials as centurions and N. C.O.s, is a very fine military machine.
That was the kind of machine I joined, soon after my eighteenth birthday. I had decided, on my master’s advice, to move right away from the Army of the Danube, where I might any day meet a soldier who remembered me as a clerk. The nearest place where I could make a fresh start was the Army of Upper Germany, where I took the oath to the Emperor Severus and was mustered into Legio XIV Gemina Martia. It was a first-class corps with a fine record, which had been stationed on the Rhine since the days of the Divine Tiberius.
I quickly settled down and made myself at home, even though most of my comrades regarded me as a freak. In my maniple I was the only ranker who spoke grammatical Latin as my mother-tongue, the only ranker who could read and write without effort. At first our tribune tried to push me into the quartermaster’s office, and the legionaries could not understand why I should prefer marching in full armour to sitting on a padded stool under a weatherproof roof. But the ranks of any long-service corps are full of eccentrics, who must be tolerated if life in a barrack-room is to be peaceful; when I had refused not only soft employment but also promotion I was allowed to exist in peace after my own fashion.
I was left in peace partly because I was a good legionary. I may say that without boasting; bad soldiers are not chosen for the Praetorians. I was strong enough to do my share of the work and lend an occasional hand to a sick comrade; I dodged fatigues if I could, but when I had been detailed I put my weight into the digging; I kept my equipment spotless, because in those days I was vain of my appearance; I stacked all my kit in my own bedplace and never borrowed anything from a comrade without asking him first; I did not get drunk, except on the Emperor’s accession day
and the anniversary of the legion’s founding, days on which I would have been considered mad if I had gone to bed sober.
When they tried to make me a principalis, the first step to becoming a centurion, I refused without thinking about it. The idea repelled me, and that was enough. Plenty of good soldiers refuse to ‘go for promotion’, as the saying is, because they dread responsibility, and my tribune was quickly persuaded to take ‘No’ for an answer. Later, when I had thought it over for myself, I realized that I for one did not dread responsibilty; when I found myself senior legionary in charge of a party I enjoyed it. Presently I understood that I had refused because my loyalty to the Emperor (it is safe to write this now) was qualified.
Severus was the darling of the army, chiefly because his first act as Emperor had been to raise our pay; he also reserved the best jobs in the civil service for retired officers and centurions, and in general favoured the soldiers in all his dealings. There was no one else whom I wanted to see Emperor in his place; and obviously for the chief task of an Emperor, which is to defend the frontiers of Rome, there was no better candidate. All the same, I was by upbringing a civilian landowner. I could not but regret the end of the Antonine Peace. I could not forget that civil war had brought death to my parents and ruin to myself, only because Severus wished to preserve the succession for his son instead of recognizing Albinus of Britain as his adoptive heir.
While I stayed in the ranks I could follow orders blindly. If I took promotion I might one day have to choose between loyalty and treason, a choice I wished to avoid.
When I had served on the Rhine for eight years I was drafted in a vexillation from the XIVth to join the Emperor’s army in Britain. That was serious campaigning, but under such a leader never dangerous. The Caledonian barbarians cannot face a real Roman army; our only trouble was to bring them to battle. I did my duty, and received the military decorations normally given to legionaries: bracelets, necklets, and medals to be worn on the cuirass. When the Emperor died I was among the troops who proclaimed Caracalla as his successor, and the handsome donative I then received was the beginning of my private savings. But it is not a sound plan that soldiers should be more richly rewarded at the opening of a new reign than at any other time; it makes them hope for frequent successions.
When the Emperor campaigned against the Alemanni I was transferred back to my original legion. In Germany the fighting is always stiffer than in Britain, and the Alemanni gave us plenty of hard work. For two days, after we had suffered heavy casualties, I was senior soldier of my century. After that I found it more difficult than ever to dodge promotion, but once again I stood up for my right to continue in the army as a simple legionary.
After a single campaign the Emperor left Germany and marched east to continue that everlasting Parthian War. On the Rhine we went back to our peace-time routine. I was in my thirty-fourth year, and had served fifteen years with the Eagles. The normal term of enlistment is sixteen years, and I must begin to decide my future. I could take my discharge, and settle down to farm on my allotment near the camp. Or I could sign on for another sixteen years, since I was still young and fit.
It seemed to me that in my middle thirties I would soon grow bored with the life of a veteran smallholder. It would be pleasant to lie in bed while the trumpets blew for reveille, but that kind of pleasure very quickly wears off. I would be free to spend every evening in the regimental canteen, whereas guards and duties keep a serving soldier busy two nights out of three. But my pension would not cover steady drinking thirty nights in the month, and after a couple of years all my cronies would have left the Eagles; I had seen plenty of veterans sitting about the canteen, cadging drinks from recruits, avoided as bores by every experienced soldier. I did not want to dwindle into that kind of nuisance.
On the other hand, if I took the oath for another sixteen years I would have to accept promotion. Principales dislike old soldiers who remain in the ranks and give advice while dodging responsibility, and if I stood my right to remain a legionary one of them would presently charge me with disaffection. While Caracalla was Emperor we soldiers had the best of everything, but in his day no one ever wriggled out of a charge of disaffection. Yet if I accepted promotion they might detach me from the legion and post me to the interior on internal security duties. In other words I would be a policeman, arresting decent farmers because they were slow to pay their taxes; worse still, I might be made into a loathed and loathsome tax-gatherer.
I made up my mind that I would get right away from the army. I would sell my veteran’s allotment (that was illegal, but done every day), and leave the frontier. Somewhere in central Gaul a steady man with a good military discharge could get a job as night-watchman to a merchant or private bodyguard to some grandee. It would be a dull life, and I did not look forward to it; but there seemed to be nothing better.
Suddenly I was offered a way out, and one that had never occurred to me. The primus pilus, the senior centurion of the whole legion, ordered me to report to his quarters. As soon as I got there he told me his plans.
‘Duratius,’ he said, as I stood at attention before him (every soldier is a good deal more respectful to a primus pilus than to a legate), ‘within less than a year you can take your pension and go. I won’t stop you. But they tell me you are thinking of signing on again, and that I won’t allow. When you apply to re-enlist, someone will ask for a confidential report, and I shall advise against you. I’ll tell you why, since the regulations don’t permit you to ask me questions. I have no complaint against you so far. You are smart on parade, sober, willing when there is digging to be done, and never the first to run from a tight place. You have never been first in the charge either, but that only proves you are a well-trained soldier. In fact you would be a model legionary, but for one serious fault. We have followed the same Eagle for twelve years and more, and I am still not certain that you are on our side. There’s no zeal in you, either for the cause of Eternal Rome or for our glorious Emperor Caracalla. The next time we charge the Germans I don’t want you behind me. So now you know the worst. In a few months you leave the army – for ever.’
‘Very good, sir,’ I said, standing stiffer than ever. If he felt like that about me he could have me flogged to death as a malcontent; when he offered to get rid of me peacefully he was being very lenient.
‘That was the right answer,’ he said in a more friendly tone. ‘ I don’t like legionaries who argue. I wish I knew what lies at the back of your mind. You are an educated man and a citizen; in the roll they have you down as doubtfully an honestioris. Yet you carry a sword as though you were a labourer digging a ditch at so much a foot. Everyday you earn your daily pay, and never try to do more.… And yet you want to stay in the army. I shall offer one more chance. I have been told to pick a draft for the Praetorians. I have put down your name, though of course you may refuse the honour. Take it or leave it. In either case I shall be rid of you. Either you start for Syria within three days, or at the end of the year you are mustered out of the army, with your discharge marked “no readmission”. Which shall it be?’
‘The Praetorians, of course, sir. And thank you for the opportunity.’
‘Very well. Tomorrow you will report to the paymaster, for your papers to be brought up to date. Then take a day’s leave, to put your kit and baggage in order. On the third day you will parade in full marching order, with your baggage packed and your paybook signed and balanced. You are not entitled to a government baggage-mule, but if you have a mule of your own the government muleteers will look after it. The legate will inspect the parade, so take pains with your turnout. But you always look well on parade, so that will not bother you. I wish I knew why you are content to be a parade-ground soldier. You have never done that little bit extra that would earn commissioned rank for a man of your stamp. That’s all. Dismiss, and never let me see your face again.’
2. Marching to Antioch
The draft I joined on the third day was about 800 strong, the equivalent
of two cohorts; for it was made up of that year’s recruits to the Praetorians from the two armies of Upper and Lower Germany. Nevertheless we were commanded by a centurion, with two other centurions to help him. Of course we were to march through the peaceful interior of the Empire, and only legionaries of good character are chosen for the Praetorians. All the same, the Praetorian Praefect would have done better to send an officer of higher rank. Our three centurions were splendid soldierly figures, men in vigorous middle age who filled out their cuirasses most martially; and those cuirasses were hung all over with decorations won by valour in the field. But they regarded this peaceful march as a holiday. During their long journey from Syria to Gaul there had been no soldiers under their command, and they had got out of the habit of doing duty. So long as we answered our names in the morning, and reached our appointed billets some time before dawn, we were left very much to our own devices. Any one of us could have deserted without trouble; but then no legionary would desert while on his way to join the glorious and highly-paid Praetorians.
I had a mule to carry my baggage, and once we had got through the final ceremonial parade I hung my armour on him as well. But I slung my baldric over my handsome linen tunic, to show the world that I was a soldier on active service, a man not to be bothered by inquisitive civilian police. The whole draft together must have had nearly a thousand mules, but they were no trouble to us. I was amused to see that there was only one official muleteer from the military train; others had indeed set out from the Praetorian camp in Syria, but they had been left behind to enjoy themselves in the cities of Asia while requisitioned peasants did their work for them. We would pick them up again on our journey. Meanwhile the chief muleteer from time to time requisitioned more peasants, and sent the first lot back to their homes. It was an excellent arrangement. Muleteers of the train never bother to fit a pack-saddle properly, because they know that when they gall a beast the quartermaster will produce another. These peasants took care of our animals, for fear that if they displeased the soldiery they would be made to walk all the way to Syria.
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