I had a little Gallic pony to ride on the journey; most of my companions were afoot, but there were enough of us mounted to make up a small detachment of horse. It was pleasant to avoid the dusty high road by day, and yet be sure of reaching our billet by midnight. Altogether the first few days of our long march were most enjoyable.
Then as we approached Italy we left the military zone, and saw something of the civilian life of the Empire I had been defending for the last fifteen years. When I marched to Britain and back I had been in the midst of the imperial field army, which was so numerous that I had never come into contact with civilians. My military career had begun at the age of fourteen when I took service with a principalis; now I was thirty-four. The manner of life in the peaceful provinces seemed to have changed greatly in the last twenty years.
When I was a boy at home we hardly ever saw soldiers. But if a few of them passed through our valley my father would go out to greet them. The peasants would deliver rations in exchange for tickets which could be offset against the land-tax; and the local gentry would display their loyalty by providing free wine and cakes.
Now, as we climbed the foothills of the Alps, the peasants were reaping the early harvest of those parts; but we saw only the half-reaped fields. Watchers on high ground shouted that soldiers were coming – we could hear their eerie calls echoing down the pass – and the rustics fled.
To me this seemed strange, though my companions saw nothing odd in it. They were all sons of soldiers, reared on the outskirts of the camp; Alpine Gaul was to them as foreign as Syria, and they were not interested in the habits of the natives. But I wanted to find out whether this fear of the army was something new. At a post-house on the road I inquired of an official courier who happened to be changing horses.
He was an elderly man, a retired trooper (Numidian horse, I should think, though he spoke passable Latin). My question interested him, and he thought a bit before answering.
‘They have done this for some years now, but all the same I can remember the beginning. I have ridden this road since the days of the Divine Commodus. When I first came here the peasants were always glad to gossip with passing soldiers. Every village had a young man in the army, and they liked to hear about the wars. That’s all changed now, of course. You don’t take the sons of peaceful villagers into the army. Then later, when the Divine Severus marched against Albinus, his patrols foraged round here.… Still, that was civil war, and the soldiers were hungry. The ill-feeling wore off after a year or two. The real trouble began when our present Emperor marched back to Italy after the Alemannic War. His troops were victorious, and laden with plunder, and on their way to enjoy themselves in Rome. There was really no excuse for the way they behaved. That was only three years ago, and the peasants remember it. That reminds me, a word of advice. Don’t ride alone in these hills – a stone might fall on your head. Round here any sort of nag is very precious.’
‘You are just setting off to ride alone, and on a much better horse than mine.’ I objected.
‘Ah, but the imperial post pays cash. I bought my horse in that village over there, and they look forward to selling me another. Soldiers take animals by force, what they call annona.’
‘But when a quartermaster levies annona he gives tickets, which the tax-gatherer must accept at face value. At least, that’s how we do it on the frontier. I know. Once I worked in the quartermaster’s office.’
‘And now you are only a Praetorian. What happened? Did they change the lock of the strong-box?’
‘Never mind that. I’m a soldier now, not a clerk. But I don’t understand how annona for the transport of the imperial field army could harm these villagers. The ticket they get in exchange would pay their land-tax for years to come. At a pinch you can sell those tickets, though you lose money by it.’
‘Indeed you don’t understand. This wasn’t the quartermaster’s annona, with tickets given in exchange. This was private plunder. The soldiers wanted ox-carts to carry their booty, and mules to carry the German girls they were going to sell in Rome. They took every animal. Next spring I saw peasants pulling their own ploughs. That’s how some of them kept alive. Others didn’t.’
‘Of course soldiers steal an odd mule if they can. I have never heard of them sweeping a whole village bare. Anyway, if you complain to the legate you generally get your beast back, though somehow it always seems to be impossible to identify the thief.’
‘That may be true on the Rhine, where every ploughman is an old soldier or has a son in the army. In these parts they keep away from legates. Every officer is on the lookout for able-bodied men to repair the roads. A peasant who complained against a soldier would soon find himself swinging a pick, unpaid and in fetters.’
‘Well, thank you for explaining. I see there won’t be any dalliance with village maidens on this march.’
‘Village maidens! You won’t find a virgin in this countryside, and if you did she wouldn’t be allowed to meet a soldier. Ride together, and keep your swords handy. If a boulder should roll down the hill on top of you, it would be very hard to fix the blame. Any messages for Lugdunum?’
A boy led out his horse and he picked up his letter-bag.
We rode carefully through the mountains, and met with no trouble. It was disappointing to travel through empty, hostile country, especially when we had been looking forward to the delights of civilization. But Italy would be more rewarding. Unfortunately we were not routed through Rome; drafts seldom enter the City while the Emperor is absent. But we saw a number of fine towns, from Taurinum to Brundisium, and while we waited for shipping at that port they held their annual festival in honour of the Divine Trajanus.
There is no garrison of real soldiers at Brundisium, but the Emperor’s ships in the harbour are commanded by a praefect of commissioned rank, who carries a sword and apes the manners of the military as much as a sailor can. He persuaded our centurions to furnish a guard of honour for the sacrifice to the Divinity of the Emperor (I suppose the centurions got a present, but they did not share it with us and I don’t know how much it was). After we had done our part in the religious ceremonies we were given reserved seats in the amphitheatre; they were bad seats, right at the top, but then there were so many of us that we took up a lot of room. Some of my comrades grumbled, but I realized that the local magistrates were doing their best.
On the frontier we watched wild beast hunts, and occasionally some military offender is sentenced to fight until he is killed. But this was the first time I had seen gladiators on a big scale. From our distant seats the many duels going on at once made a fine spectacle, but of course we missed the finer points. I could not follow the details of the fencing, or see the expression on a swordsman’s face as he meets death, which the experts tell me is the thing to watch for.
All the same, I was a little disappointed in the gladiators. I suppose a civilian is thrilled to see a man die by violence; but in Britain and Germany I had killed men, and seen others die in the ranks at my side. Besides, a soldier can very easily work up a feeling of sympathy for an over-matched swords-man; in the next battle he may himself meet a better man.
The wild beast hunt was much more interesting. The magistrates had provided a dozen bears. First these smashed up some naked criminals; then hunters carrying boarspears fought the bears. That was a most thrilling spectacle. One big brown bear killed three hunters, and fought so fiercely that the crowd begged for his life. The magistrates agreed, so the hunters caught him in a net and put him in a big cage on wheels. I envied the citizens of Brundisium, who would see him fight again while I was trudging across Asia.
Next morning we sailed for Dyrrhachium, and though it was now the beginning of winter we had a smooth and easy passage. From Dyrrhachium through Thessalonica to Byzantium we would follow the Via Egnatia, the great highway to Asia. It is a good road; beside it stand taverns and post-houses, and there are depots of provisions for the troops who pass along it daily all the year round. On such an easy journ
ey I would as soon walk as ride, and it would have been expensive to ship my pony over the Adriatic. I sold him in Dyrrhachium, though I lost on the deal.
The Via Egnatia is always so thronged with soldiers that it is as much a part of the frontier as the Rhineland. All the civilians we met earned their living by catering for soldiers, and they were pleased to see us. In Italy we had seen the peaceful provinces, and we should march through more of them in Asia; for the present we were back in our familiar military world.
Of course we discussed what we had seen. I had been especially impressed by the gracious beauty of Brundisium, its fine amphitheatre, and the splendid imperial arch that marks the terminus of the great road. I thought how pleasant it would be to live always in such a gracious city, to see the gods and the Divine Emperor worthily honoured, to meet learned travellers and hear the gossip of all the world. The citizens, well fed, in clean tunics, appeared to me the happiest of men. I was proud to know that for sixteen years I had toiled to protect such gracious living from the rough hands of grubby barbarians.
My fellow-Praetorians did not see things in the same light. Marching beside me was a fellow named Flaccus, who had served his time in one of the Rhine legions. For three generations his family had served in the same legion, as he told every stranger within ten minutes of meeting him. He was a real professional, who could see no good in anything done by civilians.
‘It’s all very well,’ he answered, when I had praised the Games at Brundisium. ‘You may say if you like that those magistrates were generous; but they didn’t really do anything. The bears fought well; bears always do. The criminals squealed most comically; that’s why criminals are killed in public. The hunters were brave, because otherwise the bears would have killed them. As for the gladiators, they were too far off for me to see them properly; but I’m sure they could not face legionaries. The point is that all these people, and the bears too, were doing what they are fitted to do. The magistrates just stood about and watched, and at the end we were ordered to give three cheers for their generosity. I would have liked to belch instead of cheering; but somehow when you are lined up on parade you can’t disobey a command.’
‘We thanked them because they had spent a lot of money. There would have been no Games if they had not paid for the bears and the gladiators.’
‘I know that, of course. But where do they get their money? Why is it that everyone who lives in a city is rich, and you never meet a peasant who has a second pair of boots? What do they do in their city that is any use to the rest of the world? They eat flour milled in the country, from grain grown in the country. The linen and wool of their clothes came from the country. The marble for their temples comes from the most outlandish places; I know, because a cousin of mine once beat up a policeman and was sentenced to the quarries. How do these townees get away with it? There must be dirty work somewhere. And then honest soldiers are ordered to cheer their generosity!’
‘They make things with their hands, I suppose, and a lot of them write in offices. That can be hard work, you know. I worked in an office myself when I was a boy.’
‘But now you are a man you earn your living honourably by the sword. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Soldiers and peasants, they are the only people who do anything useful. Yet somehow the townees enjoy what the peasants produce. I wish I could get to the bottom of it.’
‘The Empire is full of cities, while barbarians live in villages. Surely you are proud to be a Roman?’
‘I am proud to be a Praetorian, as I was proud to be a legionary. But I am not a Roman; my family is German. If I were not a soldier I would rather live among the Germans than grow corn to be taken by tax-gatherers to feed idle townees.’
‘Careful, Flaccus. The tax-gatherers serve the Emperor, and the police prick up their ears when they hear anyone grumbling against high taxes.’
‘The police don’t interfere with Praetorians. Our job is to defend the Emperor; so long as we defend him no one minds if we grumble. Perhaps when we get out east we shall be ordered to sack one of those rich cities. Have you heard old soldiers talk about the sack of Lugdunum, after the Divine Severus had beaten the usurper Albinus? They say our present Emperor set on his Praetorians to sack Alexandria, just to teach those insolent townees not to be uppish.’
‘I’ve heard about the sack of Lugdunum until I could scream with boredom. It’s not a topic that appeals to me; my parents were killed in that campaign. When we get east I want to visit the great cities, and I hope the townees will be friendly to soldiers. There’s a grove outside Antioch … I’ve heard all sorts of stories about it.’
‘The townees will be friendly, while your money lasts. I have heard good reports of that brothel at Antioch. But it would be even greater fun to batter the whole place level with the ground, and set those stuck-up educated townees to scratching the earth for a living.’
I did not pursue the conversation. We would be marching side by side for many days and it was better to be silent than to quarrel. I knew that most soldiers shared Flaccus’s low opinion of cities; but I myself wanted to see the wonders of the world, not to destroy them.
At Thessalonica we halted for a few days, hoping to find ships to take us across to Ephesus. But it was too wintry for sailing, and in the end we trudged on to the ruins of Byzantium, destroyed by the Divine Severus during his war with the usurper Niger; and so over the Bosporus to Nicomedia. But while we waited at Thessalonica we were shown another spectacle; its splendour finally convinced me of the worth of great cities, for only a great city could have staged it.
What we saw was a whole day of chariot-racing, an amusement common in Greek cities; though in the west everyone prefers gladiators, and Rome is the only western city rich enough to afford racing as well as blood. The Thessalonica circus is so big, a furlong from end to end, that there was plenty of room and we had good seats. My place was opposite the far turn, where thrilling accidents happen. Nobody else wanted it. The experts struggle for places near the winning post, where it is easier to lay bets and collect your winnings after the finish.
The principal race of the day was for four-horse chariots, eight times up and down the circus, a course of two miles in all. Twelve chariots started, four from each of the three factions of Thessalonica. A lot of money was at stake, and the charioteers went all out. I have never before seen anything so exciting. Only three chariots finished, but that was in accordance with the tactics of the race; their allies of the same colour had sacrificed themselves by sprinting at the start or by blocking rivals at the turn. Five other teams were pulled up when they lagged behind; but four were upset, at a cost of eight horses and a charioteer gravely injured. And it was all done by graceful young men, displaying their naked bodies to the best advantage; a much more gratifying sight than a lot of beefy hairy gladiators snorting and grunting to look fierce.
I knew something about horses, rather more than is known by the average infantry soldier. But I had never driven any kind of vehicle. This seemed to me the most magnificent sport in the world. Now that I would be in the east for a long stay I determined to get to the bottom of this business of chariot-racing.
In Nicomedia I managed to sneak another half-day at the races, which are held frequently in all eastern cities. But we were marching fast, on the last lap of our journey. At the beginning of autumn we had left the Rhine; now the grass had started to grow. We must hurry if we were to reach Antioch in time for the spring campaign.
We came down through the Cilician Gates in the first days of April. A day’s march from Antioch we went into camp to clean our armour and draw new boots for our ceremonial arrival at imperial headquarters. When the great day came we fell in on parade in review order, with extra special attention to turnout; after the inspection we got ready to march off.
Just then a courier galloped up in a great hurry and spoke to the centurion in command. He stood us at ease while he talked with the other centurions and a few of the senior principales. Then we were once more c
alled to attention, while he gave out fresh orders.
‘Soldiers, the Purple is vacant. The news has just reached Antioch that yesterday our beloved Caracalla was murdered, as he rode to worship the Sun in the great temple at Carrhae. In this dangerous crisis the joint Praetorian Praefects call on all loyal soldiers to assist them. In half an hour we march; but we shall march in battle order. Load your ceremonial armour on the baggage mules, and fall in again prepared for action.’
3. The Available Candidate
Our centurions kept us marching at attention until a tribune came out from the camp to take over. He allowed us to march at ease, but in silence; no singing, and no talk above a whisper. So we arrived at imperial headquarters with no common plan. We were the kind of soldiers every officer likes to command, efficient and smart on parade, but as soon as we broke ranks powerless individuals.
We knew that the next Emperor would be chosen by the army, and that the legions would probably follow the lead of the Praetorians. The constitutional theory I learned as a child is that the Roman people entrust their sovereign power to an individual, and that his nomination by the Senate makes him Emperor. Occasionally the theory squares with the facts: if an Emperor dies in Rome, in his bed, after his death has been foreseen. But within living memory the Divine Severus had been made Emperor by the swords of the Danubian legions, and the imperial field army in Britain had chosen Caracalla to succeed his mighty father. There is only one field army (perhaps it would be better if we had two, since the Germans often attack us while we are fighting the Parthians). If the soldiers at Antioch choose a ruler, the Senate and the garrison troops in the west must acquiesce in our choice.
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