“Have you eaten well?” Rufio said.
They nodded or mumbled yes.
“Good. Men who eat poorly make war poorly and make love poorly. We’re Romans, so we cannot allow either of those two things.”
An easy laugh rolled through the group.
“Two topics are on my mind tonight. The first is honor.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the ground as he strolled in front of them. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. The long pause, with its tension and anticipation, opened their minds as easily as a finger lifting a lid.
“Honor is your greatest strength,” he said and turned his gaze upon them. “Some of you might think courage is. Yet a courageous man can also be a swine, but an honorable man cannot be a coward. Honor carries bravery with it like a scabbard carries a sword. The existence of one compels the existence of the other.”
He took a breath and retraced his steps in front of them.
“Some of you might have served in the East, so you know how soldiers there are often billeted in cities. There they grow soft, they violate women, they extort money from the local people. They seek pleasure and ease—and they create hatred and contempt. They dishonor themselves”—his gray-blue eyes were suddenly as hard as slate—“and they dishonor Rome. Degrade these Gauls and you’ll destroy much. You’ll betray the legacy of Caesar.” He extended a hand in a gesture of reasonableness. “If you want something from the Gauls, bargain fairly. You’re paid well enough to do that. If you want to sample these beautiful Gallic women, then do it—but take no women against their will. If the Gauls come to you for help, listen to their troubles. You’ll gain far more with your patience than with the edge of your hand. I know—the Gauls are quick-tempered and impulsive. Insolent and selfish and shortsighted. We trust them at our peril. These things are all true—sometimes. But remember this, too—the Gauls are a great race. Not as great as Romans”—Rufio smiled—“but then who is?”
The men laughed and the tension eased.
“And remember this,” Rufio said, changing the tone again. “Anyone who dishonors Rome will stand before me alone”—he paused and glared at them—“and we’ll permanently resolve that matter between us.”
He turned away and drifted to the edge of the firelight. The soldiers had to strain to see him. He turned and came back into the glow of the flames.
“The second topic is you.” His voice hit them with the force of a ram. “The soldiers of Rome—the spine of the Empire. Why are you here among these forests and valleys? Sometimes you must ask yourselves that question. I know that. You’ve had much sorrow in this century. But before I answer, I’ll ask another question. How is a city on the Tiber able to rule the wilderness of Longhaired Gaul? The answer is as clear as carved marble. We succeed because we are not Greeks.” He glanced at Diocles in the front rank of men. “Greek, why is Greece the footstool of Rome?”
Caught off guard, Diocles hesitated.
“Surely you know,” Rufio said.
“I’m a simple man. I look to my centurion to tell me.”
“Then I will,” he said to the entire century. “The answer is that to the Greeks there are no such people as Greeks. There are Athenians and Corinthians and Spartans. Petty squabblers. No cohesion, no purpose. No vision of themselves as the creators of some further greatness. But we”—his voice rose and his arm swept across the crowd—“we are all Romans. Whether we were born in Rome or Venusia or Cremona. The ore might come from many mines, but we’re all forged of the same steel. And the driving heat of that forge is the citizenship of Rome and the irresistible force of her destiny.”
Rufio stalked before the front ranks of men. “And here we are—among these dark forests that most Romans will never see. And before we came, what was here? Savage tribes tearing each other. Wars and threats of wars and fears of wars. And even we weren’t immune to the Terror of the Gauls. We all know how one time long ago the Gauls poured into Italy and sacked Rome itself. But now? Now the Gauls pay tribute to Rome—and yet they prosper. They rear their children in peace, they tend their farms—and Romans needn’t fear Gauls climbing through their windows at midnight. And why?”
“Tell us why, centurion,” Metellus shouted.
“Because we are here! We guarantee the peace of Gaul and the safety of Rome.”
The men were growing excited now, and they shifted about on the grass.
“But what of the Germans?” Valerius asked. “Can you speak of them?”
“The Germans,” Rufio said in a way that showed that here was not a taste to his liking. “We all know their gentle ways and their faithful friendship. We know how they joined with the Sequani in a war against the Aedui—and how when that was finished they turned on the Sequani and slew them like dogs and stole their land. They now stand ready to flood across the river. Eager to steal whatever they can carry and to destroy everything that has been built from the time of Pericles to this moment.” He paused, then said, “But they do not—because we are here!”
He stepped closer, as though the fierce energy of his own person could shoot and crackle like lightning into his men.
“A thousand years from now, when another Livius writes the history of this age, who will be remembered? The great Caesar, of course. And the noble Augustus. And Vergilius and a few others. But most will be forgotten.” He stared at his men with unashamed arrogance. “But we will be remembered. Our names might be lost but our impact will survive. Men of the future will write of our deeds with awe and wonder. They’ll speak in amazed voices of the daring and brilliance of the army of Rome. And here we stand. Will you be worthy of the praise of distant ages?” He drew his sword and held it vertically before him, the tip level with his eyes. “All civilization, all learning, all that we’ve created—all is balanced on a swordpoint. The survival of all that we love is guarded by the swordpoint of Rome. Dare we let it go?”
The men were on their feet and roaring, Diocles among them, swarming around Rufio before he could loose another breath.
17 TO HOLD A WOLF BY THE EARS.
Roman saying
______
Barovistus sat astride his horse on a ridge. The breeze fluttered the golden hairs that fell out of the knot at the top of his head. He breathed deeply and stared into the limitless expanse of the German hinterland.
“You spend much time on your horse these days,” Orgestes said when his black and white mare reached the top of the ridge.
Barovistus looked at him, then turned away and said nothing.
“The young men want war,” Orgestes said. “Most of the older men, too. All because of your words. And yet you sit here alone.”
“A war chief is a lonely man. Lonely in any army. The Romans have war chiefs they call centurions. Men of great power, great strength. Men of great loneliness.”
“What’s your plan?” Orgestes asked, refusing to sympathize.
He continued staring off beyond the meadows toward the dark forests. “The Romans have cut out our vitals. With their silver cups and soft garments they’ve made us soft. They try to destroy in us what it means to be Suebi. They want our men to be like women. And when they’ve weakened us, they’ll smash us and hurl us far back into the heartland from which we came.”
“Why should they do that?”
“Because they fear us. They know that one time long ago the Teutones and Cimbri almost marched on Rome itself.”
“Then the answer is to show them that they have nothing to fear.”
Barovistus looked at him as if he were mad. “They have everything to fear. We are men of blood and war.”
“Yes, but—”
“The fox devours the hen as we’ll devour them. This is the purity of what we are. This is what it means to be Suebi. It will never mean anything else.”
After a pause, Barovistus said, “You stare but do not speak.”
“What is there to say?”
“What would you have us do?” Barovistus shouted with sudden anger. “Lie on
silks in marble cities? Grow flabby like women? Be like Romans?”
“Is that what you think I want? You’re the fool’s fool. And you have no excuse. You served with them—you know better. Do you think the legion beyond the river is filled with flabby women? They’re warriors trained and drilled in all the ways of war.”
“They’re small and slight.”
“They’ll have your head upon a spear.”
“And what a sight it would make,” he answered with a fierce grin.
“If we close with them there will be no letting go. The Romans will destroy these young men without mercy.”
“No. One of us is greater than three Italians. They’re dwarfs. We’ll hack them down like the farmer hacks wheat.”
“And if we fail?”
“Death in war is not failure. It is greatness.”
“Death in war is just death.”
Barovistus turned away.
“What’s your plan?”
“First to show the Sequani they must not fight by the side of the Romans.”
“They are allies.”
“We’ll make the cost too high.” He folded his hands on the horse blanket in front of him. “We’ll choose a village—one far from the fort—and we’ll destroy it. We’ll slay every fighting man and sell their women and children to Priscus. Then we’ll put it to the torch. We’ll show the Sequani the simple choice—abandon the Romans or submit to be slaughtered.” He clawed at his dense golden beard as he stoked his inner fires. “Then we’ll attack the ala of Gallic cavalry at the fort north of Aquabona. I’ll lead this attack myself. Five hundred men means hundreds of swords and horses to be plucked like fruit.”
“And what of the Gauls there? They’re great fighters.”
“We’ll slay them all. That’ll draw out the Romans and we’ll face them at last. And we’ll take no captives.”
18 FIRE TESTS GOLD. ADVERSITY TESTS STRONG MEN.
Seneca
______
If any soldier enlisted simply to be a fighter, he would have been wiser to choose marriage. Military duties comprise only a small fraction of the activities of a legionary. Paperwork seems to be the primary task of the Roman soldier. The immense tabularium in the Principia houses most of the documentation for the legion. Service records, official correspondence, copies of orders—all are tended by a tireless army of clerks.
Of course, there are manual duties as well. The Roman obsession with hygiene ensures that a large number of soldiers are scrubbing something, somewhere, at any time of day. Surprise kit inspections have so become the norm that they are no longer surprises. They are expected at all times and are prepared for incessantly. And when the men are not scouring their own quarters, they are cleaning their centurions’ rooms. Rufio, however, has Neko, his Egyptian slave, to do this for him.
Outside the fortress there are as many tasks as there are inside. Work parties are continually engaged in felling timber or making charcoal. At the edge of the civil settlement is a sawmill operated by men from this legion.
Soldiers are also tasked with bridge building and repair—which they do with speed and skill—and are called on to show the Gauls how to drain some of the fetid marshes around here. For some reason, the Gauls seem to have problems with this and need to be retrained all the time. They are an impatient race and are not inclined to focus their attention on something that does not show immediate results. The Gauls are incomparable stock raisers and metalworkers, but hydraulics eludes them.
A vineyard extends beyond the rear rampart and, as is to be expected, the soldiers tend this with extraordinary dedication. We have herdsmen to tend our animals, as well as trackers and hunters to supplement our meals with game. The most skillful butchers I have ever seen are soldiers in this legion. Nothing is wasted.
Guard duty is another preoccupation. There are guards stationed at the gates, on the walls, and inside and outside the Principia. The Praetorium, Sabinus’s house behind the Principia, has its own guards as well. Soldiers guard the granaries, the artillery sheds where the catapults are kept, and the armory. Guards are even posted at the hospital.
In the settlement, officers supervise the markets to keep swindling to a minimum. Nonetheless, sharp practices do go on.
Sabinus himself is not without responsibilities to the local populace. He must arbitrate disputes among the Gauls, or among Gauls and Romans. He must also protect them from bandits and invaders. Because Roman soldiers are the finest practical engineers anywhere, all civic building projects fall within the Legate’s sphere of command. Even natural disasters are his to subdue. Should famine strike, the fort granaries must feed the local people.
To be a roman soldier is a privilege accorded few, but with that comes a responsibility far heavier than any lorica of mail.
“The Saturnalia is over,” Rufio had said after the balmy day of swimming, and soon Diocles knew exactly what he had meant. Every morning for the next week, the recruits were out early on a route march. When they returned, they had to clean the stables and stack bales of fodder. By mid-afternoon, when they were convinced they had reached their limit of endurance, they were led out on a second march. The first few days of this brought them almost crawling back to the fort at the end of the day.
Diocles had not been aware that he had at his command such a marvelous range of obscenities that he now poured—silently—on the silvered head of Rufio. Yet by the end of a week, the edge seemed to be dulling on this ordeal. Once his muscle aches began to ease, the rationale for this regimen became clear. The brisk marches over roads and hills strengthened legs and increased endurance. However, a man fought also with his arms and back. What better way to prepare him for the weight of shield and sword than to condemn him to the rank realm of those tireless dung producers?
The full century went out on the first march of the day, but the veterans were assigned other duties in the afternoon. It surprised Diocles that twenty or more soldiers in the century were excused from normal fatigue work of all kinds, though not from drilling. Then Valerius explained that these were the specialists who had more vital tasks. These fighting men were also blacksmiths, tanners, wood-cutters, wagon makers, butchers, charcoal burners, hospital orderlies, clerks of various kinds, and so on. It was the earliest goal of a private soldier to so distinguish himself at his duties that his centurion might choose him to be trained for one of these specialties. In this way he would become an immunis and so excused from normal fatigues. Diocles the scholar would have considered this a sadly humble goal. Diocles the soldier now gazed upon it as though it were the entrance to paradise.
After a second week of marches, the skin of his feet was as tough as the leather that surrounded them. A once-tortuous march over roads and valleys seemed more like an outing than an effort. The shoveling out of the stables had blessed his palms with calluses as rough as the footpads of a dog. Bales of hay he had dragged around like slabs of marble were tossed about with increasing ease.
“Weapons training starts today,” Rufio told the assembled recruits at the beginning of the third week, and the excitement could be tasted. Though Rufio had said that battles were won more with pickaxes and turf cutters than swords, these tyros yearned to be warriors. As in all armies in all times, those most eager to draw blood were those who had never smelled it.
Behind the fort spread a flat parade ground. Here the commander could address the cohorts from the stone tribunal at one end. The area was also used for cavalry drill in good weather. Abutting it on the north side was a smaller area of level ground where several dozen stout, six-foot-high stakes had been sunken into the earth. Diocles noticed they were heavily battered.
Rufio led the recruits across the parade ground to the staked area. Metellus and Valerius were off somewhere else.
A mule cart rolled up behind them and Rufio pointed to it.
“One sword and shield for each man,” he said. “Then stand before your enemy.”
The cart was filled with long wicker shields
and wooden short swords identical in size to the standard equipment of the legionary. When Diocles pulled a practice shield down from the cart, he was startled by how heavy it was. The sword, too, weighed so much that he could not imagine how anyone could ever learn to wield it. No wonder Herakles had preferred a club.
Diocles approached one of the stakes, and the mid-morning sun was beginning to bake him inside his helmet. Some sort of bug bites on the back of his neck had started to itch. He wiped the sweat from his face and positioned himself before his oaken enemy.
“Are the shield and sword too heavy for you?” Rufio stood before them with his vinewood cane in hand.
They shrugged or mumbled in reply.
“Never lie to your centurion. Of course they are. They weigh twice as much as real weapons. Learn to use these and the others will seem like toys. You’re all asking yourselves why you must wear helmets today. The helmet increases your weight and changes your balance. If you learn to fight without it, you’ll have to learn all over again how to fight with it. I don’t want to teach you twice.” He tapped his chest with the tip of his cane. “I’ll be your weapons instructor. I’m told there are many good ones with this legion, but I’ll train you myself. If you have a question, ask. Only weaklings are afraid to ask for help. I’ll have no weaklings in my century.”
The recruits shifted their feet and a few of them looked at one another.
“You have two weapons. Both are important. Without your shield to protect you, your sword will be useless—because you’ll be dead. But your shield is more than protection. It’s an offensive weapon, too. A real shield has an iron boss in the center. That’s not just to protect your hand, it’s for striking your enemy as well. Is anyone here left-handed? No? Good—that makes things simpler. Now the first thing to learn is how to stand. A downed soldier is a desperate soldier. Nothing you learn today will be more important than how to stay on your feet. Place your feet about shoulder-width apart.”
He pointed at his own feet with his cane.
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