by Ray Gleason
“Contubernium . . . Ad Dex’ . . . VERT’!”
“Prov . . . ET’!”
“Gradus bis mov . . . ET’!”
The day of our significatio, our acceptance into the Roman army, would be the fifth day before the Ides Aprilis, a day that was considered fastus, auspicious, and comitialis, a day on which the Roman people could assemble to conduct business.
A few days prior, Bantus had our acting decanus, Minutus, collect our white trainee tunics, leaving us one each to train in, and had Moelwyn, our newly-assigned contubernium slave, take them down to the civilian vicus just outside the Porta Decumana to be dyed infantry red. The process took two days. When Moelwyn returned from the vicus with them, we were excited by the prospect of finally donning them. I remember sitting on my cot, running my hands over the red fabric. Bantus told us not to try to outrun our own chariot horses, but to store them away until we had been invested.
Three days before the significatio, Spina had his aid, Marcus, remove the exposed stitches from my injured arm. This time Spina sampled his medicinal wine and didn’t use it for washing my wound. He examined my injury and congratulated himself on a “jawb well dun.” Then, he congratulated me on acquiring the first “noble scah” of my military career. He then warned me to keep the arm bandaged and go easy with it for the next few days, “No sword practice and no pilum chucking!”
Then, Spina offered me a swig of his pitcher.
I got back to our tent around the seventh hour. Moelwyn was outside working on a harness. I greeted him in Gah’el.
“Please speak Latin, Domine,” he answered me in Latin. “That is the language of the legions.”
I sat down next to him and started examining the harness he was working on. I recognized it from the time I worked in Gabinius’ stable.
“What’s all this for?” I asked Moelwyn.
“The contubernium mule, Domine,” he answered me.
“We have a mule?” I blurted. “What for?”
“Every contubernium has a mule, Domine,” Moelwyn answered. “It’s used to carry things that are not essential for a legionary to carry on his furca, his pack pole. In this legion, the mule carries the tent, tent poles, and pegs, eight sudes, the sharpened wooden stakes to fortify the daily marching camp, extra rations, water, et cetera.
I realized that Moelwyn had been with the army much longer than I had. “How long have you been with the legions?” I interrupted.
“Me, Domine?” he responded. “Eight years this month.”
“Eight years!” I repeated. “You’re almost halfway there.”
“Yes, Domine! Halfway there, as you say,” he agreed. Then he continued, “It’s not good to talk about . . . . Domina Fortuna does not like mortals to boast of her gifts to them.”
Realizing that soon we would all be marching through the Alps to face hordes of rampaging Helvetii, I nodded in agreement, then rubbed my Bona Fortuna amulet, and spat toward the north.
The mule’s rig seemed to be in good shape. I wondered briefly if the metal fittings on it had come from my Avus Lucius’ forges down in Mediolanum. Then, I asked Moelwyn, “Were you brought down from Gallia comata?”
“Me, Domine?” He seemed a bit startled by the question. “Gallia comata . . . No, Domine . . . Never been there . . . I joined this legion in the provincia and went with them into Hispania . . . I was born a couple hundred miles from here, up in the foothills of the mountains to the north . . . near a great lake . . . My village is called Sarnis.”
“You joined? But you’re a . . . a,” I stammered.
“A slave, Domine?” Moelwyn finished my question. “Most of us in the legions serve voluntate ipsius. We are voluntary slaves . . . We sold ourselves to the res publica.”
“Why would you do that?” I blurted, not understanding why anyone would voluntarily become a slave.
Moelwyn shrugged and said, “In my village, all we could grow were rocks . . . I was starving . . . When I was fourteen, I left my family and wandered down into the valley, looking for work and food . . . The only thing I knew how to do was herd goats . . . but small farmers did that for themselves, and large farmers used slaves . . . and even they were eating better than I was . . . Then a Roman told me that I could sell myself to the state . . . serve in the army . . . Three squares a day, a roof over my head, and the work wasn’t all that hard . . . After twenty years, if I did my job and kept my nose clean, I’d be released and be granted Roman citizenship . . . What did I have to lose? I wasn’t a citizen . . . I had no rights . . . I was starving . . . So I did it . . . The army’s even holding my purchase price . . . I get it when I’m freed . . . I’ve had to take a few beatings over the years, but most of the soldiers are pretty straight . . . As long as I do what I’m told . . . be respectful … they leave me alone . . . All in all, it was a good choice . . . I got no regrets . . . In twelve years, I’m free.”
Moelwyn spat toward the north to ward off any misfortune.
Later that day, during the tenth hour, our new optio, Bantus, examined my arm and decided that I could rejoin the training, except for sword and pilum drills. He agreed with Spina that I’d have a nice scar to impress the caupona girls with, demonstrating what a miles gloriosus I was.
Bantus’ training for us that evening was on packing the sarcina, the legionary marching pack. He had Moelwyn distribute two wooden poles to each of us: one about four pedes in length; the other shorter, about two pedes. Each pole was about a palmus maior in circumference, about three fingers short of a foot. Then, Bantus gave each of us a length of rawhide lashing.
“M’audite, Tirones,” he called out over the noise we were making, talking about what to do with the wooden poles. “I’m going to show you how to construct a furca.”
When we finally settled down and he had our attention, he continued, “The furca is a forked pole that carries your pack and equipment while you’re marching impeditus, or as the veterani call it, mulare, muling it. I’m going to show you how to construct one.”
Bantus grabbed Rufus’ poles. “The furca’s made from a thick staff about four pedes in length,” he said, holding up the longer staff.
“A shorter cross piece is fixed about a pes, a foot, from the top of the long stake.” Bantus demonstrated, making what seemed to be a cross from the two stakes.
“To attach them, you carve a notch in each . . . You interlock them . . . like this . . . Then you lash them together with the rawhide bindings. . . Any questions so far?” he asked holding up the cross in one hand and a set of rawhide bindings in the other.
There were scattered mutterings of “n’abeo” around the tent.
Then, still holding up the crossed stakes, Bantus joked with us by asking if we knew the difference between a criminal’s cross and a legionary’s furca. When we didn’t answer, he said, “A cross carries a criminal till he’s dead. The legionary carries his furca till he wishes he was dead.”
We didn’t get it, but Bantus just laughed and muttered, “Infantry humor.” Later we would know what he meant. By the time we got over the Alps and chased the Helvetii halfway across Gallia, we all knew the difference between a furca and a cross, and I think some of us would have preferred the cross.
But, Bantus continued, “First, notch your stakes, the shorter one in the center, the longer about one pes from the top. Don’t go any deeper than about halfway . . . a little less is better . . . The cut’s no longer than the diameter of the stake . . . Remember the stakes have to fit together . . . so use them to measure your cut . . . Go ahead … Get to work.”
I pulled out my pugio, the knife Macro had given me for my sixteenth birthday, seemingly a lifetime ago, and laid the shorter stick across the longer in the correct position, about a pes from the top, centered. Using the opposing stakes, I scratched cut lines on each to mark the width of the cut and started whittling out the notches.
Bantus walked around the tent, inspecting our work. Moelwyn assisted him. “Bene . . . bene,” I heard him saying to my
mates as they worked. “No, Lentulus . . . Go look at how Pagane’s doin’ it . . . He’s got it right.”
Finally, we had our stakes notched and fitted. I looked worriedly at the pile of sawdust and wood chips around our bunks. We would have to get that swept up before evening inspection.
Bantus was talking, “Before I show you how to lash the poles together, I want you to wet and stretch the rawhide bindings.” As he spoke, Moelwyn brought in a bucket of water.
Optio . . . ad quam rationem,” Loquax started. “Sir . . . why—”
Bantus seemed to have anticipated the question. “You wet and stretch the rawhide because it will shrink when it dries . . . That way you get a tight binding of the two poles . . . If you fasten your furca with dry rawhide and it gets wet . . . and I assure you, it will . . . the bindings will loosen, and the furca will come apart . . . You’ll be trying to march while balancing all your shit in your arms . . . That’s a real rookie mistake, boys . . . Soldiers I train don’t make those kind of mistakes . . . So, wet the bindings in the bucket . . . Stretch ’em out good . . . and I’ll show you how to lash the furca together.”
We did as Bantus instructed, and he showed us how to lash the furca poles together. Bantus went around, inspecting the bindings and their tightness. Finally, when he was satisfied with our work, he continued.
“The sarcina, the infantry marching pack, is constructed by strapping the loculus, your leather satchel, to the cross piece of the furca,” he told us. “The loculus is primarily for carrying your marching rations . . . buccellatum, your hardtack . . . salt meat . . . pork and mutton usually . . . Sometimes we get some beef . . . If you can scrounge any cheese, fresh fruits, or vegetables along the way, toss them in there too . . . This way, your food’s accessible to you during rest breaks . . . Wrap any cheese you get in a damp cloth . . . That helps keep it soft . . . soft enough to chew, anyway . . . What is it, Felix?”
“Optio, do we get rest breaks on the march?”
“Usually,” Bantus responded. “When it’s not a forced march or when we’re not in proximate contact with the enemy, the legion takes about a quarter-hour rest break every five thousand passus or so. It’s a good time to get the furca off your shoulder . . . grab a piece of buccellatum . . . maybe a hunk of cheese, if you got it . . . wash it all down with a swig of posca or water . . . Stretch ’em out . . . Then we’re off again . . . Back to this sarcina . . . your marching pack . . . You tie your patera, your mess kit, and your cochleare, your eating spoon, to the cross piece like this . . . Some guys like to put their spoons in the loculus . . . Keeps it cleaner . . . It’s up to you. Balance the mess kit with your lagoena, your water bottle . . . What is it, Loquax?”
“Optio! Do we carry water on the march? I thought that was carried in the baggage train.”
“Always carry some water with you, Loquax,” Bantus told him. “Sometimes we get separated from our supplies, and we can’t find a good source of potable water at the end of the day . . . A soldier can go for a few days without food, but won’t last a short summer’s day without water . . . Some guys carry two water bottles, just in case . . . Keep ’em filled . . . You can carry water or posca . . . I recommend the water . . . Load a skin or two of posca on the mule for the end of the day . . . Now, back to the sarcina . . . In this legion, soldiers carry their dolabrae, their digging picks . . . You can tie them here on the furca and not unbalance it . . . Always tie the dolabra high on the furca . . . You don’t want it digging into your back or shoulders on the march . . . The digging baskets go on the mule . . . I get that right, Moelwyn?”
“Recte, Domine,” Moelwyn’s voice sounded from the back of the tent. “The entrenching baskets go on the mule in the Tenth . . . with the rutra, the shovels.”
Bantus chuckled. “In the field, a good mulio, a teamster, is worth a month’s pay . . . Makes sure everything’s packed right . . . Keeps the mule healthy . . . Make sure you treat ’em right . . . You don’t want to be carrying all that stuff yourself . . . Bene . . . Your field cloaks . . . some guys like to roll them up and put ’em in a saccus, a cloak bag, and tie the bag to the cross piece . . . I’ll let you in on a little trick . . . Wrap your cloak around the upright of the furca, right where it sits on your shoulder . . . That way, it’ll cushion your shoulder a bit . . . Save the cloak bag for whatever fresh food you can scrounge, or if we get lucky, any swag we can pick up . . . While I’m thinking about it . . . even cushioned with a cloak, the furca’s going to press the chainmail of your lorica down into your shoulder . . . After a couple of days on the march, you’ll be in agony . . . So, when you’re suiting up in the morning, slip some cloth, a towel if you got one, between the lorica and your subarmalis jacket on your left shoulder . . . What is it, Felix?”
“Optio! Why the left shoulder?”
“On the march, the furca’s carried on your left shoulder. You’ll hang your helmet on your lorica . . . You’ll be carrying a pilum or two in your right hand,” Bantus explained. “You guys are lucky . . . The Tenth marches light . . . In my old outfit, we each carried two pila and an entrenching stake on our right shoulders and had to strap our unit mess gear, digging baskets, and even extra darts for the ballista on our furcae . . . We were humping more stuff than the mules . . . That’s why we were called muli Marii . . . Marius’ mules. . . Your namesake invented the furca, Pagane.”
“Intelligo, Optio,” I said, not really knowing how to respond.
“Bene,” Bantus concluded. “For our conditioning march tomorrow . . . ten thousand passus at first light . . . You’ll march impediti . . . Fall in with your furcae packed and ready to go . . . We march under full kit . . . lorica and galea . . . but without shields and swords . . . We’ll swing by the range on our way out, and each of you will pick up two practice pila . . . And remember to pad your left shoulders . . . We’re in the field soon, and you don’t want to start a campaign with a bum shoulder . . . It won’t get any better . . . Any questions?”
Scattered responses of “n’abeo.”
“Bene,” Bantus started. “Before I forget . . . another piece of veterani lore for you rookies . . . We’ll be marching over the Alpine passes in a few days . . . It’s still winter up there . . . colder than a centurion’s heart . . . And the sun shining on the snow’ll blind you . . . Scrounge yourself up a couple of extra sudaria . . . Use one to wrap around your head and ears . . . The cold up in them mountains’ll freeze your ears off . . . I swear . . . Use the other scarf as a mask . . . Cut some narrow eye-holes in it . . . It’ll keep you from going snow blind . . . Grease helps too . . . Rub some on your face and lips . . . It’ll keep ’em from chapping . . . You guys getting this?”
Scattered mutterings of “compre’endo.”
“Bene,” Bantus continued. “Collect up some money among yourselves and send Moelwyn down into the vicus . . . Have him buy you some woolen socks and some manicae, gloves, if there are any left to buy . . . If he can’t get the gloves, you can cut finger holes in an extra pair of socks . . . Wear socks under your caligae . . . I’ve seen guys lose fingers and toes up in them high mountains . . . And each of you get a good, sturdy pair of leather bracae to wear underneath your tunics . . . What is it, Rufus?”
“Optio, are bracae authorized? They’re inromanitas, un-Roman,” protested Rufus.
Bantus chuckled, “Having your balls freeze off is un-Roman too, Rufus . . . We all wear ’em when it’s cold . . . Only the patrician snobs, the purple-stripers up from Rome, worry about that being ‘un-Roman’ shit . . . Most of ’em have no balls to freeze off anyway . . . Their wives’ve already removed them . . . Get yourself each a good, solid pair of bracae . . . None of that Gallic wool shit with the colors and plaids . . . leather . . . They’ll keep you warm up there in those passes . . . Any more questions?”
We had none.
“Bene,” Bantus said getting up and looking around our tent. “This place looks like some drunken carpenter’s workshop! Get it cleaned up before the start of the first watch!
I’ll be back to inspect.”
I was lucky. The quartermaster still had the bracae, gloves, and socks I had turned in when I received my clothing issue. For a couple of minervae, Moelwyn was able to get them back for me through one of the slaves that worked in the supply tent. The rest of the guys had to compete with over four thousand other muli for the limited supply of leather trousers and woolen socks to be had in the vicus and in the town. Luckily, the civilians seemed to know months in advance where we’d be going and what we’d need to get there, so they had had some time to lay in a good supply—with which they were now happy to part for a prime price.
The evening before the significatio, the legionary haruspex pulled the liver out of a healthy, black goat and declared that its appearance indicated that the gods favored the acceptance of the trainees into the legion. Strabo could hardly conceal his skepticism and contempt when he told us this news. Bantus seemed more terrified by his centurion’s irreverence than relieved by the propitious omens.
Our haruspex was an immunis soldier from the Second Centuria of our own cohors, whose only qualification for the job seemed to be that he was born in a barn just outside the town of Veii and had black, curly hair like a genuine Etruscan. So, of course, everyone called him Crispus, “Curly.”
The haruspex’ job certainly did have its perks. He pulled down extra pay. On top of that, Crispus was not only exempt from all fatigue details, but he and his mates also got to keep most of the meat from the sacrificial animals. I later found out that Crispus had a healthy side business with the purple-stripers, who were known to slip him a quadriga or two so that he might claim to see propitious things in the entrails of chickens or the viscera of goats.
Strabo wondered out loud whether a cow farting in a northerly direction during the dark of the moon meant the gods were against long sea voyages. That made Bantus go pale. I rubbed my Bona Fortuna and spat. I made a note to myself that if we ever went into battle, I wouldn’t stand too close to Strabo. I should have spat twice.