“Christians? Don’t even think about joining those god-botherers,” Cenhud growled at Carausius one day as they tacked their small ship up the wide Scheldt River, against the tidal flow. The scow was carrying home a cargo of amphorae of good Rhenish wine, the tall terracotta jars packed upright in sand to stabilize and protect them. Cenhud warmed to his discourse. “A woodworker, as your only god?” he sneered. “Makes no sense. There are plenty of fine gods, not just one, and every one of them has his own purpose.”
‘My favourite is Mithras,” said the youth. “I’ve seen his temple. In Eboracum, there was a shrine of polished stone to him on the great road.”
“He’s a soldier’s god,” agreed Cenhud, “a good god, and he has high moral standards that even some merchants like, so he has plenty of shrines here, too, built by those who can afford them.”
He could see why soldiers wanted the gods to keep them safe, but why, asked Carausius, did the merchants spend so much on gifting the deities? “Simple, it’s for profit,” grunted the shipmaster, neatly dodging a naval galley winging along under its blue canvas sails. The warship’s beaked ram threw up a plume of spray as it travelled fast upstream under sail, oars and the push of the incoming tide. The sound of the coxswain’s hammer taps came clearly across the water as he kept the 30 rowers in unison, the oars rising and falling like white wings. “Bloody knee-deep sailors, they’re as useless as a bread breastplate,” Cenhud grumbled. “Anyway, why sacrifice? Well, those who give to the gods want their favour, just as they want more money. Give the god some honour, he’ll favour your venture. You just have to know which god to ask for what.
“If you want your crops fruitful, sacrifice to Ceres, goddess of grain. You want your ship kept safe at sea? Call on Neptune. For myself, I give the nod to Manannan mac Lir. He’s the Celts’ god of the oceans, and we Celts have sailed further than anyone,” he said proudly. “We tell people we were pilots before Pontius. We even established settlements in Hibernia, west of Britain.” The seaman stopped abruptly, remembering that his young listener had effectively been orphaned by raiders from that green isle, but Carausius was following his own thoughts as he watched a group of young women washing at the river’s bank.
“Some people ask the gods for other things,” said Cenhud, quickly changing the subject. “They ask for people to be cursed.” Carausius looked around, interested. “They write requests on bits of metal, little scrolls of lead or pewter, asking for revenge on someone. Say you go to the baths and leave your sandals and tunic outside. You come out and the bathhouse slave has nodded off in the steam, and your best leather sandals are missing. Now, it could be the slave sold them to someone, or it could be he’s been sleeping, and they got nicked. Getting him a beating won’t bring back your sandals, but asking the gods to help certainly can.”
The victim, explained Cenhud, could ask a god’s help to get the sandals back, by threatening doom on the thief. To improve the chances of the god taking an interest, the victim would transfer ownership of the missing goods to the god. “If you’re a thief and you read on a lead scroll nailed up in the baths that the god Mercury, whom the victim chose because he had golden winged sandals, will destroy you within nine days unless you return his footwear, what would you do?” the shipmaster asked.
“You’d not risk his wrath. You’d take the damn things back.” “But the sandals wouldn’t be yours anymore,” protested Carausius. “You’ve dedicated them to the god.” “Ah, that’s the best bit,” said Cenhud, grinning. “You can borrow them until you meet him in person.”
VI. Rat
The news spread like wildfire after the Sarmatians arrived. A squadron of troopships docked at Hadrian’s Market and offloaded hundreds of the auxiliaries who had been conscripted for service in the Rhine garrisons, and within minutes of the first stepping ashore, the news they brought set the town buzzing. Major revolts had broken out in Gaul and in Spain, the troops at the Danube were hard-pressed, legions were marching throughout the empire and levies were being raised wherever the tribunes could find men.
A recruiting sergeant called Publio stopped Carausius as he walked across the city square. “You’re a fine fellow,” he said, “why aren’t you enjoying the life of a soldier?” The centurion outlined the benefits: at 17, Carausius was old enough to enlist. He did not need to be a Roman citizen to become a legionary. If he enlisted for the usual 20-year term, he’d not only get regular pay, food and clothing, but his old age would be provided for.
Many old soldiers, the sergeant said truthfully, were given large land grants to farm. He didn’t say that they were usually along the frontiers of the empire, where the settler-soldiers were a useful resource and could be called back to the eagles in time of civil disturbance. The sergeant eyed Carausius’ physique and mentally matched it to the muster officer’s written specifications: a lithe youth with quick eye, broad chest, erect neck, muscular arms and shoulders, hardened feet and strong legs. Height wasn’t too important, but bravery was.
“You’d be a proper Roman soldier, not a mere auxiliary in some funny local costume,” the centurion flattered Carausius. “One day, you might be a centurion commanding 80 men. You’d draw twice the pay of an ordinary soldier. And, you’d share booty like the money from the sale of captives. You’d be a fine soldier, and think of the women who find the uniform irresistible!” The boy blushed, eager to be convinced.
As he trotted home, a white rat scampered out of a drain and ran across the paving stones in front of him. The youth frowned. He’d seen such a thing before, but where? He shrugged and turned for his house. For no reason he could understand, an image flashed across his mind, of a tall man with long, dark hair, who’d arrived by sea to visit his parents at their home in Britain. The man was called Myrddin, he remembered, a sorcerer who ‘walked with kings in high places.’ The phrase struck him, his mother had used it when she spoke of the wizard, and the boy gulped in sudden misery at his loss.
One day, he promised himself, he would go back to Britain, one day he would try to put right the things that had been done to his village, his family and even, he mused, his country. He felt the tug of his homeland, and was angry at the murder of his father and the injustice that had dragged him and his family away from their land. It would be a fine thing if he could somehow correct at least some of that wrong, and he made a mental vow that one day.....
That evening, the memory of the rat sighting was obscurely nagging at him and he mentioned it to Cait. “That’s good fortune,” she said. “The Romans regard a white rat as a bringer of good luck, so it’s auspicious to see one. Good fortune comes with such a sighting.” Carausius nodded. He was superstitious, and an augury was a message directly from the gods. He would not ignore it, in fact, he was cheered that the gods had even noticed him. Maybe they smiled on his vague plan to return to Britain. Maybe, he let the half-formed thought surface, maybe one day he could avenge his father. A fierce heat ran through his body, surprising him and somehow sealing the impulsive pact he was creating. The sorcerer Myrddin would be part of his life’s work, he knew with a certainty he could not explain, and some of that work would be about the return of his homeland to its rightful gods. Carausius shook his head to clear his thoughts. First things first, he thought. He’d join the army.
Persuading Cait to let him enter the military was his next task, and it was a difficult one, but she saw that the teen had a sense of purpose, and gave reluctant blessing. Cenhud was sorry to see his fine steersman go, but recognized that with the turbulence in the empire it was only a question of time before Carausius was press-ganged into service anyway. Better go as a volunteer, he reasoned.
So, a few weeks later, and after some basic training, the young Briton and several dozen other recruits recited the Sacramentum, that powerful oath of allegiance that changed a soldier’s life entirely. Once taken, the oath meant the legionary was the absolute subject of his general’s will and authority. On pain of death, he must obey in all things. However, he no longe
r had responsibility for any action he was ordered to do, be it muster, march or murder.
The army had some iron rules. A soldier would not desert and would not steal from the camp. He must take any plunder to the tribunes and would only leave the ranks to fight the enemy or to save a Roman citizen. One rule overrode all others: the safety of the emperor always came first, and the soldier would love nothing or no one, including himself or his children, more than he loved the emperor. One recruit stepped forward and recited the whole oath, then one by one, the others stepped forward and swore they would do it as the first man had said. Carausius uttered the ‘me, too’ words: “Idem in me,” and bound himself irretrievably to the Roman military.
Life as a legionary was tolerable. There was a lot to absorb, and the drill sergeants were harsh, but Carausius was a quick learner. All recruits had to take a Roman name on enlistment, but Carausius already bore one, a small mark in his favour. Years later, he’d add several more names, to honour his mentors and superiors, as it was more usual to have three names: your given (or personal name), the name of your clan and the cognomen which identified your family within the clan. After that, far in the future, all his names would be famous to some, infamous to others…
Meanwhile, the youth had a lot to learn. In the barracks, he surveyed the pile of equipment and weapons for which he was now responsible, beginning with cleaning them. Happily, he didn’t have to cope with the heavy, intricate armour worn by officers, but he did have a full torso chain mail shirt to clean and polish. This was worn over a heavy wool tunic that stretched to the knees.
At the neck, he wore a scarf to protect his throat from chafing against the mail, and clasped at his right shoulder for better freedom of movement was his dull red cloak, the sagum. ‘Putting on the military sagum’ meant readying for war, as the hooded, oiled-wool cloak was the soldier’s most important clothing. It served as coat, blanket, groundsheet, impromptu sail or even, wrapped around the forearm, as a makeshift shield. Its frequent, final use was as a burial shroud, but the centurion, a chipper Sabine who oversaw 80 soldiers, didn’t mention that to the recruits.
“The best wool goods come from Britain,” he told them, “and you’re lucky because you have that stuff straight from the emperor’s own weaving sheds in Britannia. “It’s where they make the scarlet cloaks that are only worn by officers, so smarten up when you see one. The Brits have great respect for our Ruperts. They call them Red Dragons,” he said proudly, “and well they might. We’re the best troops in the world.”
Carausius’ military kit had more elements. He had knee breeches, toeless socks and underpants all made of wool, and a pair of ankle-high leather marching boots, closed all around, unlike the classic open-toed caligae, that had given the mad emperor ‘Little Boots’ Caligula his name when, as a child, he’d been fitted with his own miniature footwear.
The new boots, much prized by the troops, had soles that were nailed in D-shaped patterns that cunningly distributed the force of the footfall from the heel diagonally to the toe, making marching much less tiring. “These,” said the sergeant proudly, “are your own LPC’s.” He paused for the expected question, which duly arrived. “Why?” said the old soldier innocently.
“Leather personnel carriers.”
Next came a metal helmet with a horsehair crest, and a heavy metal-reinforced, curved elm wood shield with outer layers of leather and linen and a great bronze boss in its centre. “On the march, you can use this for shelter against the rain, but first you put this leather cover over your shield to keep the wet off it,” instructed the sergeant. “If you don’t, it will become too heavy to be useful and you’ll be fucked. Also, when we march, we count the cadence. Every thousand paces is a mile, and we need to know where we are. By counting, we have a good idea of how far we’ve travelled at all times, and the officers keep itineraries that tell us how far it is from one place to the next. Exempli gratia, it’s 227,000 paces from Londinium to Eboracum, where the mighty Sixth Legion is encamped, bothering the local whores. So, brush up your numbers, and you’ll never get lost!
“Now, take a look at the sharp bits.” The centurion indicated an array of weapons laid out in a display. “This,” he said, hefting a 10lb javelin, “is your pilum. It’s called ‘Rome’s Secret Weapon.’ Four feet of wood, plus two feet of nasty pointed iron, and you’ll throw it about 20 yards. This behind the head is a lead weight to give it extra impetus, and the blade’s soft, so it bends on impact and is useless if they want to chuck it back at you. It’ll either go right through the infantryman’s protections, or at least it will stick in, and not easily be yanked loose. You have two of them, and two volleys of these are usually enough to decide any skirmish. It’s a proper wog-stopper, but this,” he said as he picked up a longer thrusting spear, “is much more use at close range.”
The centurion put the spear aside, turned and picked up a short broadsword and its belted scabbard. “If you lose everything else, keep this because …” he eyed the recruits, “it’s what you’re all about. This is your gladius, your very own steel sword. It has a point, see?” and he stabbed it at the nearest youth, who jumped back, “and two nasty sharp edges.” He swatted the sword, whirring it through the air. “But you usually stab with it because a stab is much more deadly. Cutting at someone, however hard you do it, doesn’t often kill because bones and armour cover the vitals. Striking also exposes your arm and side. Thrusting, on the other hand, covers the body and the adversary often gets the point stuck in him before he even sees the sword. Remember: the point always beats the edge. You thrust, you don’t cut. Now, pay attention.”
The old soldier looped the belt with its scabbard over his head. With a casual, practised move, he slotted the gladius in, over his right shoulder so the sword handle protruded clear, for an easy grab. “It’s here, it’s handy, and it’s out of the way when you’re holding your shield on your left. In a scrap, you throw your pilum when I tell you, and you either level your spear or you whip out your sword. Got it?”
Around the barrack room, the youths nodded, fascinated. One day they’d hurl the heavy javelins at barbarians. The ones the spears didn’t impale would be impeded by the heavy weapons sticking out of their shields, and then they’d….. a ripple of guilty starts ran around the room as the daydreamers saw the centurion glaring at them. “Pay close attention,” he warned. Next, the sergeant picked up a lead-weighted throwing dart. “Six of these. Clip them to the back of your shield. At my word, you hurl them at the hairies. They carry a hell of a lot further than a javelin. On your belt, you’ll wear this – and don’t stab yourself with it.” He lifted a foot-long knife with a crescent-shaped pommel. “This is your pugio, your punching knife, and more politicians have been assassinated with them than anything else, so don’t forget to wear it when you’re all senators.”
Carausius tried to take everything in. There was a military pack which the soldiers hefted on a short carrying pole, plus a water skin, cooking kit, cloak bag, entrenching tools and even a six-foot heavy stake that would form part of the rampart in a marching camp. In full parade gear the Mules of Marius, as the soldiers ironically called themselves after the emperor who’d reformed the army, hefted about 80lbs of equipment. Each man carried about two weeks’ worth of basic food supplies, including precious salt and an anchovy-and-fish sauce to flavour his food. Last, in his personal purse, usually worn in front at the waist, he kept his coins and personal small treasures. “That purse,” grinned the centurion, “is called a scrotum and the scabbard for your sword is a vagina, and don’t let them get together or you’ll get no rest!”
In the barracks, talking to the other young recruits in his eight-man section, Carausius learned more about his new life. Legionaries were not just soldiers, it seemed. They were manufacturers, labourers and builders of roads, bridges and forts. To the local populace, they acted as customs officers, tax collectors, administrators, and police officers. Recently, they’d been permitted to marry, so the row of small wooden hous
es in Forum Hadriani where they’d kept their concubines, were being rebuilt in stone with a pleasant bath house attached.
One high-class concubine, Lautissima Laurea, ‘Most Magnificent Lauren,’ as the troops called her, had prevailed on several senior officers susceptible to her charms to build her a special love nest. Envious mere footsloggers were not allowed to sample Laurea’s tempting goods, though they had glimpsed her gilded nipples under her filmy kirtle, but they avidly discussed the rumours. The best were that she had a ‘love swing’ above her silk-cushioned couch, enough scented oils and love potions to float a trireme and, since two soldiers had spotted a plump tribune thrillingly dressed and painted like a Frankish whore, they believed she had a whole wardrobe of role-playing costumes. What they didn’t know was that the concubine made a nice side income selling a peep show to a few of the locals, who took turns watching the officers’ antics through a hidden spyhole.
Those peeping civilians were playing with fire, for they would have been severely punished if their secret had reached military ears. The army had not gone soft. There were formidable disciplinary actions for wayward soldiers, and civilians were far less well regarded and faced even worse punishments. Carausius and his fellow recruits learned some harsh facts. Desertion, the crime most feared by the officers, called for the offender to be clubbed to death by his fellow legionaries, on the premise that the coward’s action had put them all at risk. Mutiny, too, called for the worst punishment, and a general could order the decimation of a rebellious legion, when every tenth man selected by an officer walking down the ranks would be cudgelled to death by the previous nine of his comrades. It was a terrible vengeance designed to keep the rest of the troops obedient.
Lesser crimes drew fines, extra duties, demotion or mere reduced rations. The punishment for some minor crimes was to order the soldier to sleep outside the protected environs of the camp, when the dangers of a slit throat from a cutpurse not only gave most offenders a sleepless night but improved the watchfulness of the sentries.
Arthur Britannicus Page 4