Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer

by Richard Foreman

  “Never send the Seventh in to do a job that only the Tenth can do,” Roscius declared with relish at the end.

  Oppius glanced across the beach and nodded in approval at Rocius having defeated the troublesome barbarian. He was also pleased to see that his friend had come through the fight uninjured. The standard bearer again surveyed the battlefield. The tide was turning Rome’s way. The Britons were retreating as reinforcements now landed upon the beach without opposition. Caesar himself was leading a cohort from the front and spurring his men on. The standard bearer ordered Teucer to try to bring down a couple of the cavalry horses who were escaping up a narrow track that led up to the top of the cliffs. Should he fell the animals then they would hinder the retreat of the rest of the cavalry and infantry retreating up the path. A number of enemy archers and peltists still lined the tops of the cliffs and covered the retreating forces however.

  One such archer drew back his bow, with the standard bearer in his sights. The Briton had watched both his courageous leap into the water and his marshalling of legionaries as they arrived upon the beach. Both had been crucial to the imminent victory. At least he would stop the standard bearer invading Briton. His arms bulged with muscle as he drew the bow back, yet despite the tension in the string his body remained calm, composed. He took a deep breath and then released the arrow. His skill and technique as an archer were not dissimilar to Teucer’s.

  Oppius remained blindsided and did not notice the missile whistling down from above, aiming straight for his chest. The force of the arrow was such that it would piece through his breast plate – but yet it only went so far as to pierce through Marcus Fabius’ shield. The youth had seen the arrow and, positioned just next to Oppius, had reacted with speed and bravery to move his scutum aloft and across in time.

  Both Oppius and Fabius looked up at the cliffs to see where the missile had come from. The would-be assassin wore a scowl upon his face and pointed down at the standard bearer – and then drew a line across his neck. The Briton also wore a number of bronze bangles and an elaborate necklace to signify his importance. Before Oppius could scrutinize the savage more he spat out an indecipherable curse, turned away and disappeared.

  “It seems that that you’ve made an enemy already. At least it’s unlikely that you slept with his wife. But he was keen on killing you it seemed,” Roscius exclaimed, walking towards his friend.

  “If that’s the case then the bastard can get in the queue. Now I suppose I better thank you lad for saving my life. I owe you one. Let this be a lesson to you though. The shield is mightier than the pen. I for one am glad your father wants you to be a soldier rather than poet.”

  Marcus Fabius smiled, but blushed too. He was pleased that he had earned the standard bearer’s respect.

  “I’m wondering if I should join that queue,” a stern voice issued from behind the standard bearer. Oppius turned to see Caesar standing before him, his face unreadable. Lucius had hoped that Caesar would have witnessed his bravery earlier, but his actions in putting the eagle at risk could as easily meet with punishment, as opposed to a reward. The legionary stood to attention before his commander, unable to look him in the eye, awaiting his fate.

  “After your actions today I cannot now have you serve as a standard bearer to the legion.”

  Oppius’ heart sank, in unison with his face dropping. He felt too sorrowful, ashamed, to feel anger.

  “No, your actions today have left me with no other choice but to promote you to the rank of centurion,” Caesar exclaimed, his marble features breaking out into a smile. Caesar then approached Oppius and warmly clasped him upon the shoulder.

  “Now stand at ease. I should be saluting you. I’m still undecided as to whether you’re mad, or just lucky, but I’d like you to join me for dinner this evening so I can finally make up my mind.”

  6.

  Oppius dressed himself, to the sound in the background of the legions felling trees and constructing the walls of the army’s camp. Caesar had defeated the enemy, but due to the absence of cavalry he could not rout them after forcing them off the beach. The legions would need to fortify themselves against a counter-attack. The newly promoted officer had ordered Fabius to wash his best tunic – and he permitted himself a smile upon thinking that it was the first order he had ever given to someone as a centurion. Oppius had also shaved and polished every piece of metal he had on display. He was perhaps more nervous about meeting Caesar for dinner than had been before any battle.

  “I knew his father Joseph,” Caesar remarked to his manservant, a wizened Jew who had been part of the Julii household since before his birth. Although Joseph spent most of his time in Rome, Caesar would occasionally have the cynical and dry-witted servant attend him on campaign. “Gneaus Oppius. I remember Marius once saying that he was worth two cohorts.”

  Joseph, who was just finishing up from shaving his master and rubbing oils to his skin, thought to himself how it was unlikely that Marius paid him the wages of two cohorts.

  “Sulla once said about Caesar that he saw many a Marius in me. I am hoping that similarly there is many a Gneaus Oppius within his son. I could use a man like that Joseph. But I fear I may be boring you with military matters my old friend. Tell me, what do you think of Britain?”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask. All I’ve seen of it so far is a beach full of corpses and a forest at night. I’m hopeful the sights will improve though. I confess that I prefer Rome. For one thing it rains less. From what I’m told, everywhere rains less than here. I also miss my wife - although I’m sure that I’ll be cured of any fondness I’m feeling for her once I see her again.”

  Caesar smiled. He always enjoyed his conversations with his manservant. From an early age Joseph had used humour to temper his master’s seriousness, or he would become serious whenever Caesar grew too flippant.

  “I was confident that you’d somehow find a way to contain your excitement about the campaign Joseph. But we are close to the edge of the map here, writing a new chapter in the history of Rome,” Caesar remarked whilst checking his hair and how his tunic hung in the large silver mirror his manservant placed before him.

  “Just make sure that your obituary’s not a footnote in that history,” the Jew replied, unable to hide the worry and affection he carried for his master. He had neither been blind to his flaws nor greatness since an early age.

  “Would you miss me then Joseph, as much as your wife?” Caesar replied, touched and amused slightly by the sage old man’s rare show of emotion.

  “There are times when I miss my bouts indigestion more than my wife sir, if that’s anything to go by. No, I’m more concerned about being too old to break in a new master,” Joseph replied, allowing himself a flicker of a smile as he packed away his jars of aromatic oils.

  Caesar let out a laugh.

  “Some people might say I give you too much licence Joseph.”

  “Ignore such people sir. Clemency is a fine virtue, especially when displayed towards someone who holds a razor to your throat each day.”

  “You are as wise as your people’s Solomon Joseph.”

  “But not as rich, unfortunately.”

  “You wouldn’t know how to spend such wealth if you had it.”

  “No, but my wife would.”

  Again Caesar laughed and again a flicker of a smile could be seen upon the wrinkled, good-natured face of his old servant. Partly, he was pleased to have cheered his master up. When he had first entered his quarters this evening Joseph had witnessed Caesar anxiously reading and replying to correspondence. Caesar had looked like he was about to fall off the edge of the map.

  7.

  Lucius Oppius’ nerves increased when he realised that he would be dining with Caesar alone. The soldier was far more comfortable holding a gladius than a conversation. He awkwardly stood before his commander. Rain splattered upon the roof of the tent. Numerous lamps gave the room – for all intents and purposes a triclinium, given its furnishings – a hom
ely glow. Some hours ago Caesar had looked every inch a General. Now, clad in a gleaming white tunic bordered with purple, Caesar appeared every inch an aristocrat. Fine wines and exotic foods adorned the table. Oppius also recalled once seeing Caesar in Rome at the Forum, every inch the statesman, dressed in a white toga, also bordered with purple. Despite his age, Caesar looked as fit and virile as any young officer. Oppius could smell a woman’s perfume lingering in the air and he thought about his commander’s reputation as a lover. Many a woman would just lie back, close her eyes and think of Rome when with most statesmen, but not with Caesar. He acted as if he were still in his prime – and perhaps he was, Oppius mused.

  Caesar welcomed the centurion and clasped his forearm in a Roman handshake.

  “Firstly – and most importantly perhaps – let’s get you a drink. I’m going to insist that you try the falernian. You’ll thank me for it,” Caesar remarked, nodding to an attendant to pour a cup of the vintage.

  The wine and Caesar’s gregarious manner soon helped Oppius relax and the centurion was flattered to be asked his opinion about various matters of soldiering. Caesar again thanked his newly promoted officer for his actions that day too.

  “You captured my respect and loyalty today Oppius, as well that beach. You have earned my gratitude – and a promotion. Your father was a standard bearer too, no? He would be proud of you.”

  Oppius was shocked and intrigued to hear Caesar mention his father. It seemed that it was only after his death that Oppius had started to get to know him, from stories from other legionaries. His father had spent little time at home when Oppius was young. He had resented back then how his father had devoted more time to the legion than to his own wife and son. Yet now he understood just how much the legion was its own family too, often full of orphans.

  “I met and knew your father a little. I was even there, with my uncle, on the day that he died in the arena. He fought bravely, like a lion. Unfortunately his combatant was a snake.”

  Gneaus Oppius had died during a gladiatorial contest with a soldier from the Ninth Legion. The duel was meant merely to be a display of arms between two champions, to fight for the honour of their legions. Yet rumour had it that Gneaus’ opponent had baited his sword with poison. What seemed like a minor flesh wound at the time ultimately proved fatal.

  “If you are just half the soldier that your father was Lucius, then you’ll be twice as great a soldier as most.”

  Oppius was at a loss as to how to respond. Should he feel like he should live in the shadow of his father, or have him serve as an example of the kind of soldier he should be? Perhaps witnessing his guest’s awkwardness Caesar changed the subject.

  “There has been plenty of conjecture, both back in Rome and among the men too I warrant, as to why I have come to this island. It’s certainly not for the women. I did acquaint myself with one of them however whilst in Gaul. She only spoke her native language but I considered that a blessing. Most women, like children, should be seen and not heard. But back to the matter. Some have judged that I have travelled to Britain in order to mine its tin and assess the rest of its natural wealth. Or – and in Cato’s eyes especially I dare say – I have invaded this land merely to satisfy my vanity and a lust for glory. Or I am here because of my love of pearls. Some have said that this is all a propaganda exercise, to furnish me with some colourful anecdotes for after dinner speaking. There is a grain or two or truth to all of these theories Lucius, but what I’d like to talk to you about is another reason why I have landed on this sodden isle.”

  Caesar here leaned forward a little whist couched upon a sofa, as Oppius involuntary did so too - drawn in by his commander’s magnetism.

  8.

  “Several months ago I received intelligence that one of our very own countrymen had landed upon these shores, charged with the task to recruit warriors to aid Gaul in the fight against our forces. Someone in Rome is conspiring against me. I do not lack enemies, nor am I averse to making more of them if needs be. The report went on to say that the agent possessed a knowledge of the language and a chest filled with gold. As you may have realised the number of Britons fighting in Gaul has increased over the past six months Lucius. This man is proving to be a thorn in our side.”

  The charm and warmth went out of Caesar’s aspect as he spoke about the agent. His eyes were narrowed in scorn, his voice cold. Oppius could not help but despise the treacherous agent too, in sympathy.

  “The latest intelligence from my own agents suggests that he is recruiting among the tribes and villages in Kent, a region not far from here. You are familiar with the British archer in our ranks?”

  “Yes,” Oppius replied, with a part of him now wishing that he didn’t know the man. For the centurion could sense what lay on the horizon.

  “And he is familiar with this area and that of Kent I believe. Do you trust him?”

  “Yes,” Oppius again replied, cursing his own honesty and Teucer’s trustworthiness. Every “yes” was like a nail in his own coffin, he fleetingly thought.

  The rain thrummed upon the roof of the tent even louder and thunder rumbled in the distance. Bowls of squid, mushrooms, quail eggs and honey-glazed slices of pork lay before him, but Oppius no longer felt hungry.

  “Britain is far too hostile at present for me to send a cohort out to track down this recruiting officer. No, less will prove more. Two men will prove far more efficient than two hundred for the job ahead. I mentioned earlier Lucius how I couldn’t quite figure out if you were mad or lucky. Well I am now asking you to be mad and lucky. Mad enough to accept this mission, not that you have much choice in the matter unfortunately. And I also want you to be lucky enough to complete it,” Caesar remarked, popping an olive into his mouth and smiling, as if amused by the shock that he had just inspired in his centurion.

  “And should I locate the agent,” Oppius remarked.

  “Ideally I would like you to capture the rogue and bring him back to me, but failing that – kill him,” Caesar replied, whilst grinning in an altogether different manner. “You have my blessing to torture him too, in order to extract the names of his employers out of him.”

  Oppius finished the remainder of his blood-red wine. The falernian was a world away from the watered-down acetum he was used to drinking. Perhaps Caesar had opened the vintage as he suspected that it would be the soldier’s last good meal. Oppius thought how his father was considered a legend within the legion. He would now be making history too, Lucius grimly joked to himself, as the shortest ever serving officer with the legion. Promoted one day, killed the next.

  9.

  After listening to Caesar run through some finer points of the mission the centurion was finally dismissed, with the General insisting that he take the remaining food and wine from the table and give it on to his unit. The rain abated not as Oppius made his way from Caesar’s tent back to his own. Yet getting wet was the least of the soldier’s problems. Never mind the rain, life was shitting upon him, he judged. He recalled one of Caesar’s last comments. Either he should return having completed his mission – or not bother returning at all. Caesar could display both warmth and a steely coldness within the space of a sentence.

  Rather than try to soften the blow for Teucer by giving him a measure or two of falernian first Oppius recounted his meeting – and disclosed their imminent mission – as soon as he returned.

  “With friends like you, who needs enemies?” the archer exclaimed, filling the air with curses – in Latin and his native tongue. “It’s a suicide mission, at best. Can we not somehow get out of it?”

  “Caesar’s not one to take to take no for an answer,” Oppius replied, shaking his head. The centurion recalled how his co-consul, Bibulus, once tried to defy Caesar during their term in office. Caesar bullied and humiliated his colleague to such an extent - at one point even stooping to dump excrement over his fellow consul - that Bibulus remained in his house for the rest of the year. The people had called it “the consulship of Julius and
Caesar”, such was his dominance and will at getting his own way.

  “And he wants just the two of you to head into enemy territory and find this agent?” Roscius asked. Part of him felt relief at being excluded, but part of him felt uneasy at not being able to be there for Oppius.

  “I was all for volunteering you to join us but Caesar repeated that less is more. He said that we needed to be a blade, which cut through the land, rather than a hammer, trying to bludgeon our way to success.”

  “Caesar is a bastard for ordering you to go on such a mission,” Roscius replied, whilst also silently offering him thanks for providing the unit with a veritable banquet of food, to be washed down with plenty of wine.

  “Caesar is Caesar,” Oppius responded, shrugging his shoulders.

  Within the hour however, after several cups of wine, the four men were toasting their commander – and raising their cups also to Oppius and Teucer. Roscius joked to the Briton if he could have his gladius if he didn’t come back, rather than inherit his bad luck. Fabius alone was quiet during the drinking session and banter. Oppius took him aside later that evening and said “to not to start mourning me yet lad,” offering him a smile and the last quail’s egg. Oppius also took Roscius aside however and asked him to keep an eye on the youth - and make him practice his archery - until he returned. The Roman handshake the two friends gave each was firmer than usual that night.

  10.

  Oppius adjusted his trousers again in the muggy heat, feeling ill at ease in his woollen barbarian clothes. Trousers were unnatural he considered. The skirt of a tunic felt more natural, manly. The centurion also felt uncomfortable wearing bits of barbarian jewellery. A man was not supposed to jangle as he walked along. He missed the feeling of his gladius hanging from his belt too. He was duly armed with a dagger and bow however.