by Mika Waltari
The government building of the province of Achaia was a handsome house with a propylaeum, and the outer courtyard was surrounded by a wall and guardhouses. Both the legionary guards at the entrance were picking their teeth and chatting to passers-by, their shields and lances leaning against the wall. They glanced ironically at my narrow red band, but let me in without a word.
Proconsul Junius Annaeus Gallio received me dressed in the Greek way, smelling of salves and with a wreath of flowers on his head, as if he were on his way to a banquet. He was a goodhearted man and offered me wine from Samos as he read his younger brother Seneca’s letter and the others which I had brought with me as a courier from the Senate. I left my goblet half full and did not bother with more wine, for I deeply despised the whole world into which I had so unfortunately been born, and on the whole, no longer believed any good of human beings.
When Gallio had read his letters, he looked serious and gave me an attentive look.
“I think it would be best if you wore your toga at court only,” he suggested carefully. ‘We must remember that Achaia is Achaia. Its civilization is older and anyhow, incomparably more spiritually directed than that of Rome. The Greeks follow their own laws and keep order themselves. Rome’s policy in Achaia is to interfere as little as possible and let things take their own course unless we are directly appealed to, to intervene. Violent attacks here are very rare. The greatest difficulty in a port city like this lies in thieves and swindlers. We have not as yet an amphitheater here in Corinth, but there is an excellent circus for the races. The theaters perform every evening. A host of pleasures are available to a decent young knight.”
“I’ve not come to Corinth for pleasure,” I replied irritably, “but to prepare myself for my career in office.”
“Of course, of course,” said Gallio. “I see that in my brother’s letter. Perhaps you’d better first report to the cohort commantler at our garrison. He is a Rubrius, so you’d better be polite. Apart from that, you can get the weapon exercises going, for the soldiers have become slack under his command. Later you can travel around and inspect the other garrisons. There aren’t many. In Athens and some other sacred cities, it is not even advisable to wear Roman military uniform, but a philosopher’s rags would be more suitable. Once a week I hold a court here outside the building. Then you must, of course, be present. One must fall in with the customs as one finds them. But we shall tour the building now and I shall introduce you to my chancery staff.”
Chatting in a friendly way on this and that, he introduced me to his treasurer, his lawyer, the superintendent of the Achaian tax office and to the trade representative from Rome.
“I’d like to ask you to stay with me,” said Gallio. “But it is better for Rome if you live out in the city, either at a good inn or in your own house. Then you’ll make contact with the people better and learn their desires, customs and complaints. Don’t forget that Achaia must be handled as carefully as a ball of feathers.
“At the moment,” he went on, “I am expecting some learned men and philosophers to dinner. I should like you to join us, but I see you are exhausted by your journey and the food would not be to your taste, as I see my wine is not either. Go and recover from the trials of your journey first, get to know the city and report to Rubrius when it suits you best. There is no hurry.”
He also introduced me to his wife. She was wearing a gold-embroidered Greek mantle, gold leather sandals and a gold band in her carefully arranged hair. She looked at me mischievously at first and then at Gallio, and then turned serious, greeting me in sorrowful tones as if all the cares of the world oppressed her. Then she suddenly put her hand to her mouth, tittered, turned around and fled from the room.
I thought the Spanish-born Helvia, despite her beauty, was obviously not wholly mature. Gallio hid his own smile, looked solemnly after his wife and confirmed my own unspoken thoughts.
“Yes, Lausus,” he said, “she is much too young and cannot take the duties of her position seriously enough. Fortunately this does not matter here in Corinth.”
The following day I wondered for a long time whether I should send a message to the garrison for a horse and guard of honor to accompany me when I reported my arrival. This I had a right to demand, of course. But as I did not yet know Ruhrius, I thought perhaps it would be better not to make myself too forward. So I dressed according to regulations, in my breastplate with the silver eagles, my iron-shod shoes and leggings, and my red-plumed helmet. Hierex put my short red tribune’s cloak around my shoulders and fastened the shoulder clasp for me.
My departure caused such a sensation at the inn that even the cooks and cleaners pressed around the door to watch me leave. ‘After I had marched in my clinking armor a short distance, people began to hurry up and gape at me. The men pointed at my plumes and shouted something, the women stepped up close to me to poke at my breastplate, and several urchins strode along in time beside me, shouting and yelling. It was not long before I realized they were making fun of my military splendor.
It was such a painful situation that I was seized with a wild desire to snatch out my long sword and lay about with the flat side of it. I also realized that this would attract even more attention to myself. Scarlet in the face, I turned to appeal to an oncoming policeman. He waved at the street urchins with his little stick to make way for me. Nevertheless, at least a hundred people followed me as far as the entrance to the camp.
The guards hurriedly snatched up their lances and shields from the wall. One blew the alarm on his trumpet when he saw the jeering mob trotting toward the barracks. The crowd had not the least desire to set foot inside the Roman garrison, only to be beaten in thanks. They stopped in a semicircle in front of the points of the soldiers’ lances, called out good wishes to me and assured me that not for years had they seen such a wonderful spectacle.
The senior centurion of the cohort came rushing up to me, dressed in nothing but his undershirt. A handful of legionaries with lances and shields hastily assembled into something akin to a line in the courtyard, disturbed by the alarm signal. Perhaps my youth will excuse the fact that I barked orders at them I still had no right to give, as I had not even reported to Rubrius yet. After making them march at the double to the wall and back and stand in a perfect line, I asked the centurion to take over. He stood astride before me in astonishment, stubble on his chin and his hands on his hips.
“Commantler Rubrius is asleep after a strenuous night exercise,” he said. “The men are tired for the same reason. How would it be if you came with me and had a drop of wine and told me who you are, where you come from and why you’ve landed here like the God of War himself, scowling and grinding his teeth!”
From his face and scarred thighs, I could see he was an old veteran and I could do nothing but agree to his request. A young knight could easily be snubbed by a centurion like him and I did not want to disgrace myself further by being made a fool of in front of the increasing number of soldiers gathering around.
The centurion took me to his room, which smelled of leather and metal polish, and began to pour wine from a jar for me. I told him that owing to a promise I could take nothing but water and vegetables, and he looked at me in surprise.
“Corinth is not considered a place of exile,” he remarked. “You must be of a very noble family indeed if your presence here is some kind of punishment for what you’ve done in Rome.”
He scratched his chin uninhibitedly, making a rasping sound on the stubble, yawned hugely and drank some wine. Nevertheless, on my orders he fetched Commantler Rubrius’ clerk and the cohort rolls.
“In the city itself,” he explained, “we only have guards at the Proconsul’s courtyard and at the main gates. Both in Cenchreae and Lycaea-the ports, you know-we’ve permanent garrisons. They have their own quarters so the men don’t have to keep going to and fro between the barracks and the ports. According to the rolls, we’re a full cohort, excluding the engineers, clothmakers and other specialists, so if necessary w
e can be a self-sufficient field corps.”
I asked about the cavalry.
“In fact we’ve not a single cavalryman here at the moment,” he said. “Naturally there are a few horses at the disposal of the Commantler and the Governor, but both of them prefer to use a litter. You can have one of them if you can’t manage without a horse. Corinth’s own cavalry is, of course, bound to assist us on command.”
When I asked about maintenance of weapons and equipment, orders for the day and the exercise program, he looked at me curiously.
“Perhaps you’d better ask Rubrius about that,” he said. “I’m only his subordinate.”
To pass the time, I inspected the empty quarters, with their dust and cobwebs, the weapon store, the kitchen and the altar. The garrison had no Eagle of its own, only the customary cohort field insignia with tassels and memorial plates. After my round of inspection I was both confused and appalled.
“In the name of Hercules,” I cried, “where are the men? What would happen if we had to leave suddenly to fight?”
The centurion had grown tired of me.
“You’d better ask Commantler Rubrius that too,” he said angrily.
At midday, Rubrius at last sent for jne. His room was beautifully furnished in the Greek way and I saw at least three different young women serving him. He himself was bald, his face fat and the veins in it broken, his lips blue and he dragged his left foot as^ he walked. He received me warmly, breathed wine on me as he embraced me and at once told me to sit down and make myself at home without formality.
“Coming from Rome, you must be surprised to find how lazy we are here in Corinth,” he said. “Of course, it’s quite right that a brisk young knight should come and get things going here. Well, well, so you’ve the rank of tribune, have you? From Britain, I see. That’s a distinction, not a command.”
I asked him about service instructions and for a while he did not answer.
“In Corinth,” he said finally, “we don’t need to keep ourselves in a state of readiness. On the contrary, the city council and the inhabitants would be insulted if we did. Most of the legionaries here are married. They have my permission to live with their families and practice a craft or a trade. Now and again on Roman feast days, we muster them, of course. But only inside our walls so as not to attract unnecessary attention.”
I ventured to point out that the soldiers I had seen were apathetic and ill-disciplined, that the equipment store was thick with dust and the quarters filthy.
“Possibly, possibly,” admitted Rubrius. “It’s a long time since I remembered to take a look at the men’s quarters. Society in Corinth takes its toll of a not-so-young man like myself. Fortunately I have a very reliable senior centurion. He’s responsible for everything. Ask him what you want to know. From a formal point of view, you should be my right-hand man, but he would be offended if I went over his head. Perhaps you could work together with a kind of equal status, as long as you don’t trouble me with complaints about each other. I’ve had enough quarreling in my life and want to serve out my time in peace. I’ve not many years to go.”
He gave me a surprisingly sharp look and added with feigned absent-mindedness, “Did you by any chance know that my sister Rubria is the eldest of the Vestal Virgins in Rome?”
Then he went on to give me some cautionary advice.
“Remember always,” he said, “that Corinth is a Greek city, even if the people who live here come from many other countries. Military honors do not count for much here. The art of social life is more important. Look about to start with and then make out a service program yourself, but don’t overwork my soldiers excessively.”
With these instructions I had to leave. The centurion was standing outside and gave me a cold look.
“Did you get your information?” he asked.
I looked at two legionaries lumbering through the entrance with their shields on their backs and their lances on their shoulders. I was astounded to hear the centurion calmly explain that this was the changing of the guard.
“They’ve not even mustered!” I cried. “Are they to be allowed to go like that, with filthy legs, long hair and without an under-officer or escort?”
“We don’t hold guard parades here in Corinth,” the centurion said calmly. “It’d be better if you hung up your plumed helmet somewhere and got used to the customs of the country.”
But he did not interfere when I ordered the under-officers to see that the barracks were cleaned, the weapons polished, that the men shaved, cut their hair, and in general tried to look like Romans. I promised to return the following morning for an inspection at sunrise, for which I also had the prison scrubbed and fresh switches prepared. The veterans looked alternately in surprise at me and at the furiously grimacing centurion, but they thought it best to say nothing. I remembered the advice I had been given and hung up my parade uniform in the equipment store and instead put on a simple leather tunic and a round exercise helmet when I went back to the inn.
Hierex had had cabbage and beans cooked for me. I drank water with my food and went to my room so depressed that I felt no desire whatsoever to make the acquaintance of the sights of Corinth.
When I returned at dawn to the barracks, something had indeed been happening in my absence. The guards on duty at the entrance stood to attention with raised lances and gave me a rousing greeting.
The senior centurion was dressed for exercises. He did his best to make the sleepy men wash at the water troughs, barking at them in a hoarse voicc. The barber was fully occupied and on the sooty altar a crackling fire was burning and the yard smelled of clean soldiers rather than of a pigsty.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the signal blown when you arrived,” said the centurion sarcastically, “but Commantler Rubrius is particular about his morning sleep. Now you’d better take over. I’ll watch. The men are eagerly awaiting a sacrifice. A couple of pigs would do if an oxen is too expensive.”
Because of my training and upbringing, I’d had little experience of sacrifices and under no circumstances was I going to make a fool of myself by spearing squealing pigs to death.
“It’s not yet time for sacrifices,” I snapped. “I must first see whether it’s worth staying here or whether I’ll give up the whole assignment.”
As I walked around, I soon noticed that the small number of men there knew the drill and could march properly if they wanted to. They did get rather breathless after marching at the double, but in the group batde-drill they could all throw their lances at least somewhere near the sacks of straw. During the sword exercises with blunt weapons, I noticed that there were several really skilled swordsmen. When they were all finally panting and sweating, the centurion made a suggestion.
“What about standing them at ease,” he said, “and showing us how you can fence? I’m a bit old and fat of course, but I’d be glad to show you how we used to use a sword in Pannonia. It was there, in Carnun-tum, that I got my centurion’s stave.”
To my surprise, I found I had to exert myself with him. He would have had me against the wall with his shield, despite my longer sword, if he had not become out of breath so soon. The swift motions and the clear sunlight of Corinth gradually began to make me ashamed of my former irritability and to remember that all these men were older than I and had served a couple of decades longer. There were just about as many degrees of service as there were men in the troop. A legion of normal strength has nearly seventy different pay grades to increase the zeal for service.
I began to seek a reconciliation with the centurion.
“Now I’m prepared to sacrifice a young bull,” I said. “I’ll also pay for a ram for you to sacrifice. The eldest of the veterans can sacrifice a pig. Then we’ll have meat of the best kinds. It’s not worth bearing a grudge against me for a little exercise in acquaintanceship, is it?”
The centurion looked me up and down and his face lit up.
“I’ll send the best men I’ve got down to the cattle market,” he sai
d, “and they can choose the animals. You’ll provide some wine, too, I suppose.”
Naturally I could not refuse to take part in the sacrificial meal with the men. They vied with each other at extracting good bits of meat for me from the jars. I had to drink some wine too. After the exertions of the day, I was made drunk by the meat alone and the wine went straight to my knees after such a long period of abstention. After dark, a number of women whose profession no one could mistake, though some of them were young and pretty, came creeping cautiously into the camp. I seem to remember that I wept bitterly and told the centurion that one could never trust any woman because every woman was guile itself and a trap. I also remember that the soldiers carried me lying on the God of War’s couch high up on their shoulders around the yard, singing the Pannonian legion’s bawdy songs in my honor. I remember nothing else.
During the last night spell of guard duty, I woke by being sick all over myself as I lay on a hard wooden truckle-bed in the quarters. My legs buckling beneath me, my hands holding my head, I staggered out and saw men lying all over the yard, every one of them where he had fallen. I felt so appallingly ill that the stars in the morning sky danced in front of my eyes as I tried to look up. I washed myself as best I could and was so bitterly ashamed of my conduct that I might have thrown myself on my sword had not all the sharp weapons been locked up in good time the night before.
Tottering through the streets of Corinth with their fading torches and pitch caldrons, I at last found my inn. Hierex had been anxiously waiting up for me. When he saw my wretched condition he undressed me, wiped my limbs with a damp cloth, gave me something bitter to drink and put me to bed under a woolen coverlet. When I woke again, cursing the day I was born, he fed me carefully with a few spoonfuls of wine in whipped-up yolks of egg. Before I even had time to think about my promise, I had gobbled down a portion of well-spiced meat stew.