LEGION

by William Altimari

  LEGION

  William Altimari

  IMPERIUM BOOKS

  “Legion,” by William Altimari. ISBN 0-9728726-1-2.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2003106222.

  Published 2003 by Imperium Books, Tucson, AZ 85754-6090 US. ©2003

  William Altimari. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

  in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of William Altimari.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  IN MEMORY OF

  WILLIAM C. ALTIMARI, BOATSWAIN’S MATE SECOND CLASS AND VETERAN OF THE PACIFIC WAR,

  AND TO ALL THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE AMERICAN ARMED FORCES,

  GUARDIANS OF FREEDOM AND LEGIONARIES OF THE MODERN WORLD

  TO RULE NATIONS WITH YOUR POWER, ROMANS, THESE WILL BE YOUR ARTS: TO IMPOSE THE WAY OF PEACE,

  TO SPARE THE VANQUISHED AND SUBDUE THE PROUD

  VIRGIL

  FIFTEEN YEARS BEFORE THE BIRTH OF CHRIST

  1 EVERY MADMAN THINKS EVERYONE ELSE IS MAD.

  Publilius Syrus

  ______

  German horsemen broke from the copse and thundered down the slope. In the clearing, three men lay twisted in impossible poses.

  One of the Germans reined up before the human tangle. The two other horsemen rode up beside him.

  The sunlight slipped through the trees and dappled the tall warrior. Thick hair and a golden beard that could have dulled the edge of Celtic steel made his head seem enormous. His hair was drawn up into a knot at the top.

  He slid from his saddle, a blanket with a leather cinch, and approached the chopped men. He laid aside his shield and made a gesture, and his men dismounted.

  “Romans bleed well,” Barovistus said. He flung back the cloak he had worn to cut the morning chill.

  “They are small men,” one of the others said.

  “So they are.” Barovistus placed a hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. “But they are wise to the ways of war. They must be dealt with wisely.”

  Yet the carrion at his feet had never known war. The Roman traders had come to barter goods, but had fallen to the demand of a more primitive need.

  Barovistus glanced at the purses beside them. “Our men did well. We don’t slay Romans for silver coins. We’ll show the men of the Tiber that they are rotting flesh on the banks of the Rhenus.”

  “But will they back away?” one of the other Germans asked.

  “We must test the temper of their blade,” Barovistus said. “Will they fight for the honor of three nameless men? We shall see.”

  “And if they do?”

  “Then we’ll cut the flesh from their midget limbs and the ravens will feast.”

  The two other warriors laughed.

  “And,” Barovistus added, “the rest of them can return to their olive groves and their feminine Greeks. They can leave the lands of the Rhenus to us.”

  He grabbed his shield and sprang to his horse, and his two men followed.

  The scavengers returned. Ears that had once heard stories of heroes at a mother’s knee, or perhaps whispers of love, were now peeled like the skins of grapes. As black beaks tore at the morsels, beyond the forest the Germans, too, feasted with pleasure.

  Centurions ruled the Roman world. Augustus knew this better than any man. The First Citizen—he avoided the hated words king and emperor—referred to them as “my soldiers.” Ever distrustful of legionary commanders, he knew the danger of unsheathed iron in the hands of ambitious men. Had not even the Divine Caesar erred here? Had not some of Caesar’s own commanders, flush with the victories of his genius, turned on him and sided with the faithless Pompeius? And was it not true that others—both old comrades and pardoned enemies—had gleefully felt Caesar’s hot blood shower their hands as they tore at him on the fateful Ides? Caesar’s trust had brought his fall, a crash that had shaken the world.

  Diocles reflected on these and other matters as he rode through the countryside with the centurion and the twenty recruits. During the journey from Rome, he had gotten to know Probus to a fair degree. Twenty years of service throughout the Empire had earned the centurion much experience to lighten the load of wounds and scars. An air of accomplishment clung to him as naturally as did his dark brown cloak. Diocles had known people of many lands and races, but he had never known anyone who wore pride as well as a Roman.

  Though a Greek, Diocles was treated correctly by the centurion. Neither slave nor freedman, Diocles was a freeborn citizen of Rome summoned to these Gallic fastnesses by his powerful patron—the commander of Legion XXV Rapax. Diocles had made certain Probus knew that from the outset. Yet what even Diocles himself did not know was why he had been summoned here at all.

  “You ride well,” Probus said as he glanced at Diocles before checking the position of the late morning sun. “We should be at the fort by midday.”

  Diocles looked over his shoulder at the recruits strung out behind him. “They don’t ride so well.”

  Every one bounced along on his saddle.

  “We’re not a race of horsemen. But we make do. They will too.”

  Probus was about forty, but he wore it heavily. He might once have been handsome, but most of that had been scoured away by service in savage outposts.

  “So how does Gaul seem after Rome?”

  “Clean,” Diocles said, smiling.

  “A slave’s navel is cleaner than Rome. But what of the Gauls? How do you take their measure?”

  “I’ve not seen enough of them to make a judgment.”

  “Why is it that Greeks give every answer like they might be taken to court for it?”

  “Natural contrariness.”

  Probus scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Then let me educate you. The Gauls are a great race.”

  “You served here before?”

  “Long ago I was posted here with Legion XVI Gallica. Of course, Caesar had broken the Gauls years before. But there were still rebellions here and there. And by the gods, could they fight!”

  “But not as well as you. . . .”

  “No discipline, the Gauls. There’s no sense to the way they make war. They hit the line like runaway stags. In two months I could train these skinny lads to cut down any onslaught of Gauls. Discipline. No barbarous race can stand before it.”

  Diocles studied the eyes and gestures of Probus but said nothing.

  “A Gaul fights like he and his enemy are the only two men on earth. No Roman would make that mistake. But man on man they fight like Titans.”

  “Were you posted to this fort then?”

  “Oh no. This one hadn’t been built yet. We had temporary camps and we moved about.”

  “Is it true that—“

  “And the women! Gallic women would make Venus rage in envy. When the heat is on them they can burn you to a cinder.”

  Diocles laughed.

  “The women wear trousers here, and when they cut that thong and let them drop, thank the gods and take a deep breath. They can ride you to death.”

  “But you still live . . . .”

  “But I’ve definitely shortened my life,” Probus said with a smile.

  The group rode on, with Probus offering an occasional word of encouragement to his tiring recruits.

  “How long have you been with the legion?”

  “This will be my first day. I was with II Augusta in Spain, but it seems my talents are needed along the Rhenus. I was on leave in Rome when I was ordered to take these skeletons with me to Gaul.”

  “So today you’re coming home, in a way.”

  “I suppose. A soldier does what he’s told.”

  A
movement in the distance caught Diocles’ eye, but he saw that Probus had already noticed. On a ridge to the east, a blonde warrior, spear and shield visible, sat astride a small horse.

  The centurion lifted his helmet from a saddle pommel and pulled it on. The warrior observed them as they rode by, then jerked his mount around and disappeared down the far side of the ridge.

  “Let’s bring it up,” Probus shouted to his men.

  They tightened the line and brought their pack mules closer in.

  “A Gaul?” Diocles asked.

  “No.” Probus knotted the thongs beneath his chin. “I didn’t know the Germans were on this side of the river. I don’t like it.”

  “He didn’t seem hostile.”

  “Germans are born hostile. They tumble from the womb reaching for a sword.”

  Diocles scanned front and back but saw no others.

  “They war on Romans, on Gauls, on each other. They have all the ferocity of the Gauls. And none of the grace.”

  “But we’re not at war with them now, are we?”

  “My friend, Germans are at war with mankind.”

  They rode on in silence.

  Soon they came upon cultivated areas being worked by a man or two. Occasionally one of them guided a plow behind a trudging ox. The fields were sparse compared to the lush holdings Diocles knew from Italy. Yet whatever sustenance the Gauls drew from these patches seemed enough. They were big and muscular, with fair complexions nicely set off by colorful shirts and trousers.

  “We’ll skirt the village,” Probus said. “These wide-eyed lads can gape at Gallic maidens some other time.”

  To the east, round wooden buildings with conical thatched roofs spread out among the farmland.

  Probus picked up the pace. Roman soldiers became the primary features of the landscape. Probus waved to them on the way by. Sometimes on horseback, but mostly afoot, the soldiers gibed at the lanky recruits. Weighted down more with tools than with weapons, most groups were apparently work details sent out to cut timber or to repair roads. The track on which Diocles’ roan mare stepped was not some Celtic rut, but a metalled road of hard stone. Each piece had been set with precision, and a stone curbing held the roadbed in a tight embrace.

  Diocles noticed that Probus’s expression had changed. The centurion’s eyes had taken on a keenness he had not anticipated in the veteran soldier. A new posting, new friends—possibly new battles—lay ahead. Though a centurion had a greater right than any man to be jaded by life—or numbed by death—Probus refused.

  “I want to thank you for letting me travel with you. I—”

  “You were no trouble. You’re not too talkative like most Greeks.”

  “I think instead.”

  He looked at him with a half-smile. “Now you are trouble.”

  “Perhaps we might share food together sometime.”

  “I’ll be commanding the First Century of the Third Cohort, as well as the entire cohort. You can find me there.”

  “I’ll look for you. It’ll probably take both of us some time to get our bearings.”

  “Not this old cock. Have you ever been to a legionary fort? Every one is arranged almost the same throughout the Empire. Sometimes the shape varies—depends on the terrain. But the inside is the same. I could find the Third Cohort blindfolded.”

  Diocles admired the peculiar Roman genius for organization. Forts the same everywhere—what a simple thing, but how efficient, and how powerful.

  “The fort might seem confusing at first, but it’s built on a grid and you should master it easily. It still dazzles the Gauls.”

  “I’m sure it does—what must they have thought when they first saw it?”

  “Thought? The Gauls don’t think—they feel. Not such a bad way to spend a life—if you happen to be a Celt.”

  “And a Roman?”

  “Destined for greater things.” Probus quickened his horse’s gait. “Come and I’ll show you the greatest men in the history of the world.”

  2 CHANCE, NOT WISDOM, GOVERNS HUMAN LIFE.

  Roman saying

  ______

  Diocles urged his horse up a slope, and when he reached the top he stared in wonder. A meadow spread before him like a carpet, the stone roadway streaking through it in a hard white band. Beyond it lay his goal. On rising ground, a quarter-mile off, sprawled the timber fort of the Twenty-fifth Legion.

  It was, indeed, an awesome thing. In the midst of the Gallic wilderness, it rose as a silent statement of Roman power and resolve. Rectangular, it must have been fifteen to twenty hectares in extent. Diocles approached it with Probus and the recruits, and they rode over a wooden bridge. A manned gate, now open, spanned a pair of ditches surrounding the fort. The first ditch, about fifty feet from the wall, was V-shaped and nine or ten feet deep. The second ditch, some ten or twelve feet closer in, was cut in an oddly distorted V. The slope nearest the fort was shallow and inviting to any would-be attacker. However, the outer slope of the ditch, which an attacker could not see until he was in the ditch itself, was nearly vertical. If a shower of javelins rained on him from the wall of the fort, he would turn to flee up the sharp grade. There he would struggle and die, pinned to the scarp like an insect.

  Diocles glanced at the soldiers in the ditches who were cleaning out the loose soil and clumps of weeds. Then he followed Probus and his recruits up to the fort.

  The wall was as surprising as anything he had yet seen. Not wood—which could be set alight—the wall was a massive turf rampart. The earthen blocks were about a foot and a half long and a foot wide and a good half-foot thick. They must have weighed sixty or seventy pounds apiece. Not only were they immune to the torch, but they would be impervious to the ram, though Diocles suspected that what the Gauls or Germans knew about ramming would fit in a sparrow’s eye. Yet it was characteristic of the Romans that if they expected a light rain, they built for a storm. Unlike fatalistic Greeks, these men left nothing to the gods—or to chance.

  The sloping rampart rose about eleven or twelve feet and was surmounted by a five-foot wooden parapet. Soldiers were leaning against it and watching as they approached.

  A pair of wooden lookout towers loomed above the oaken gateway. Probus and Diocles passed beneath these and entered the recessed gate area. Probus spoke for them both and one of the men on duty checked a papyrus sheet on the table in front of him. He exchanged some words with Probus that Diocles could not hear.

  “We’re cleared,” Probus said and signaled his recruits to follow him in. “I have to report with these wretches. You’ll want the headquarters building, too, so we’ll go up together.”

  They rode into the fort and a metalled street stretched out before them.

  “This is the Via Praetoria. We’ll take it up to the Principia.”

  Diocles looked right and left to orient himself. Sunken into the ground on either side of the thoroughfare were timber-lined drains flushing with wastewater, to be carried under the walls and away. Lining both sides of the street were low buildings that were apparently barracks. Soldiers came and went in considerable numbers here. The barracks were timber, with plastered and whitewashed exteriors, and the sun striking them caused Diocles to squint as he rode by. Roofs of wooden shingles angled off them, and a few lounging soldiers found shade beneath the overhangs.

  The traffic ensured that little attention was paid to the newcomers. Most soldiers went about on foot, though occasionally a horseman threaded in and out.

  “This is the Via Principalis,” Probus said at a wide intersecting street. “That’s the Principia.”

  Diocles had not known what to expect, but he had not expected this. Easily a hundred feet across, the building extended along the opposite side of the Via Principalis. It might have been mistaken for a Roman country villa were it not sited here in the core of a legionary fort. A long portico with ten or more columns graced the front of the Principia and flanked an arched gateway in the center. Here, too, all was plastered and whitewashed to a dazzlin
g purity. The angled roofs of the portico and of the building beyond were fitted with terra cotta tiles that contrasted with the bright walls. Who could ever have dreamed that this exquisite arrangement was the pulsing heart of the Roman military animal?

  Probus and Diocles rode to the headquarters and dismounted, while the recruits brought the mules up behind.

  Diocles followed Probus past a plinth supporting a bronze sundial and went into the entrance hall. Several soldiers were on duty. After identifying himself to one, Diocles was told the Legate was out of the fort at the moment. However, a tribune would be along to escort him to the Praetorium, the commander’s residence.

  He turned to Probus, but the centurion had already gone on. Suddenly he heard a commotion outside. Had he arrived an hour later he would have missed it. Had he and Probus lingered a bit longer over meals or rest stops, all this would have passed before he had reached the fort of the Twenty-fifth Legion at Aquabona on the Rhenus. Yet Fortuna had rolled not other dice, but these.

  He went out and saw several soldiers hurrying past and buckling their sword belts. They were quickly joined by others, and all ran off down the Via Principalis. Diocles looked around and saw a pair of horsemen racing toward him up the Via Praetoria. They turned left in front of him and galloped down the Principalis. Their tense faces startled him.

  “What is it?” he asked as he snared a soldier running by.

  “A Greek slave grabbed a weapon and took a hostage down by the stables.”

  Diocles released the man’s sleeve and bolted down the road.

  He knew well the story of Spartacus. Ever since the revolt sparked by the Thracian gladiator a few generations earlier, the Romans were nervous to the point of obsession about slave risings. He knew they would crush even the whisper of rebellion.

  Diocles followed the crowd to one edge of the fort. Next to a bank of stables, some bales of stale hay left from the winter had been piled up. The defiant slave stood atop a tall stack. At his feet on a lower bale crouched the terrified hostage. The slave held a drawn bow, the arrow pointed at the other man’s skull.