LEGION

by William Altimari

  Rufio turned his black stallion toward the hinterland as Valerius came riding up.

  “An east wind is coming,” Rufio said.

  Valerius looked off at the blue sky. He wet some fingertips and held them toward the east.

  “I can’t feel it.

  “It’s coming. The wind of death.”

  Valerius stared at him in silence.

  “I can sense these things. I always could. Every since I was a boy.”

  “What do you feel?”

  “Tragic nights. Endless weeping in darkness.”

  “But we are here,” Valerius said with the confidence of youth. “You came back at the perfect moment. Just in time to save your Gauls.”

  “My Gauls?”

  “Oh yes,” Valerius said with a grin. “It’s in your eyes every minute of the day.”

  “Today I want the men to learn everything they can about a marching camp. I want them to be experts by tomorrow.”

  “Not much time.”

  “The barbarians are out there. Waiting.” He stroked his horse’s mane as he stared far off.

  “Soon do you think?”

  “At any moment. I’ve sensed it before. In Syria, in Spain, in Gaul when I was young.”

  He took the iron helmet hanging from a corner pommel and put it on and tied the thongs.

  “Do you think I could develop this sense?”

  “It will steal your sleep and haunt your dreams.” But it keeps my men alive. And Rufio thanked the gods for it.

  Three hours before sunset, Metellus stuck the shaft of the century standard into the turf of a broad meadow bordered on the north by a stream. On this spot Rufio’s tent would sit. A perimeter was marked off and camp construction began. One third of the men lined the outside edge. They thrust the sharp butts of their pila into the ground next to them and leaned their shields against them, then faced outward, searching for unseen enemies.

  The remainder of the men began trenching. Still in full armor, they dug a ditch about three feet deep and four feet across at the top to form the perimeter of the camp. The loose soil was piled behind the ditch into a rampart. They then lashed together sets of three four-foot wooden stakes they had brought with them. Tied at their narrow centers, they formed six-pronged obstacles that were lined up atop the rampart to form a low but formidable palisade.

  The gateway had no gate but merely an opening. However, the left and right ditches and ramparts overlapped, with the left ones curving inward and around and behind the right ones. In this way, an enemy who made it past the pickets and gateway guards could not rush straight into the camp but had to go around a bend. With his shield in his left hand, he would be unprotected on his right, the side facing the rampart and its defenders. He would not get far. With their characteristic penchant for nicknames, the soldiers called this curving gateway the clavicle, after its resemblance to a small key.

  Valerius ranged about, instructing and encouraging the recruits. He carried the optio’s symbol of office, a long staff with a bronze knob, and he occasionally struck a veteran across a thigh for being too eager to let the recruits do all the work.

  When the trench and rampart were complete and the pack mules safely within the camp, the tents were pitched. There was still plenty of time before sunset to cook the evening meal and lean back on the grass with a cup or two of Celtic beer.

  Diocles sat with some of his tent group around a small fire in front of their eight-man goatskin home.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” he said with the irritability that weariness brings.

  Metellus rested back on one elbow and gave him that infuriatingly bemused look. “I’ve been watching you for the last two hours. You entertain me.”

  “Perhaps I should learn to juggle, too,” he said with a scowl.

  Valerius came up and sat on the grass.

  “Our Greek friend thinks we’re fools, Lucius.”

  The optio grinned but said nothing.

  “The Attic sage believes we like to dig holes and kneel in dirt for no reason.”

  “I never—”

  “Don’t bother to deny it. Sour confusion—that’s how I’d describe your face since we started the camp.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Never consider politics,” Valerius said. “You lie too poorly.”

  “But what is all this?” Diocles asked with a sweep of his arm. “This trenching and mounds and sticks.”

  “Do you thinks it’s for nothing?” Metellus said.

  “What purpose can it serve? It’s a house of straw. Whom could it keep at bay? A three foot ditch and a little mound and these bundles of stakes . . . .”

  “You tell him,” Metellus said. He reached for a wineskin and squirted some acetum into his mouth.

  “It’s a camp, not a fort. ” Valerius took off his helmet and laid it on the grass beside him. “If the enemy appears, we’ll meet them on the open field.”

  “They why bother with all this? It took hours. We could’ve gone much further if we didn’t have to stop so early to do this.”

  “Would you sleep just as comfortably in an open field.”

  Diocles said nothing.

  “Or are your dreams just a little sweeter when your skinny Greek torso is surrounded by a ditch and rampart and guarded gateway?”

  “So this is just for peace of mind?”

  “Don’t be a fool. The palisade keeps spies and bandits out. Scavenging animals, too. And it keeps our own animals from straying.”

  “And it discourages deserters,” Metellus said. “Though I cannot imagine anyone deserting Rufio.”

  “Do you feel better now?” Valerius asked with a mocking smile.

  Diocles stood up and gazed down the line of tents. They extended as straight as a sword blade, ten small tents in a row with Rufio’s larger tent at the end. In front of each, every soldier’s shield leaned against a pilum in an inverted “V”. A helmet rested at the apex. All was at the ready.

  “Sit down,” Valerius said.

  Diocles obeyed.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” the optio said. “About, oh, forty years ago, Caesar and his troops bridged the Rhenus. He could’ve built boats—much more easily than a bridge. In ten days his men finished it. Ten days. And he did it for no other reason than to cow the Germans. They’d never even seen a bridge before.”

  Valerius gestured for Metellus to pass the wineskin and he took a drink.

  “Guess what he did then. ” Valerius wiped his lips with the back of a hand. “After marching through Germania for a few days, Caesar returned to Gaul. And then he destroyed the bridge.” He leaned back with a smile.

  “I’m missing your meaning. He didn’t want the Germans to follow him. . . ?”

  “Follow him?” Metellus said, laughing. “The Germans were shaking in awe. Here was a structure they couldn’t even have imagined and he destroyed it as if it were nothing. To show them he could build it again in an instant if he wished.”

  Diocles remained silent.

  “That was Caesar,” Metellus said with reverence. “The Germans trembled in their forests like whipped dogs, and he hadn’t even had to strike a blow.”

  “This isn’t just a defensive structure,” Valerius said. “It’s a moral blow at all who oppose us. Every day, no matter how far we’ve marched or how hard we’ve fought, we stop and trench and fortify. We’re relentless. Look at the camp through the eyes of the Germans for a moment. You’ll fear what you see.”

  Metellus stood up and slapped Diocles on the back. “Not just a patch of ground, my friend. A sword thrust into the heart of the barbarian.”

  Rufio walked along the line of tents. The men were resting around their cooking fires. The veterans talked and joked with the recruits, and they smiled in return. Gaining confidence daily from their newfound skills, the new men moved with increasing surety. And the shared toil drew the bond between new men and old ever more tightly.

  “Have you eaten well, comrades?” Ru
fio asked and he stopped before one of the tent groups.

  “Always, Rufio,” Licinius said with a full mouth.

  “You’ll sleep soundly tonight. But if any of you hears a strange noise, alert your senior tent mate. In these forests there are no innocent spirits.”

  Though he was not thirsty, he reached for a skin of acetum and squirted some into his mouth.

  “Thank you.” He handed back the skin. “Sleep well.”

  He touched Arrianus on a shoulder and moved on.

  Similar chats he held down the line, as he shared food and tales of exotic lands.

  No longer did his men flinch at his approach. They looked up with keenness, expectancy. A kind word or a shared morsel from Rufio was now a banquet at the table of Caesar.

  Diocles was sitting on the grass in front of Rufio’s tent in the fading daylight when the centurion approached. His knees were drawn up with his arms wrapped around them. He stared off into the wilderness.

  “Pensive tonight?” Rufio removed his helmet and sat on the ground beside him.

  “I suppose. There’s so much to learn.”

  Rufio leaned back on the grass and remained silent.

  “I’m a freeborn citizen of Rome,” Diocles went on. “Nursed along the Tiber. You’d think I’d know what it means to be a Roman.”

  “Of course you know.”

  Diocles shook his head from side to side.

  “What troubles you tonight?”

  “A month ago I’d have sneered at Valerius and Metellus. Just as so many civilians do when you mention soldiers. And now . . .” He sighed. “I marvel at their wisdom. And they’re so young.”

  Rufio smiled.

  “I’m a scholar. A man sheltered by his books. What I know about life—real life—could be balanced on the tip of a pilum.” He stood up and stared off toward the darkening east. “I’m soft and weak and I know nothing.”

  “And you’ve not yet seen battle. If you do, you’ll learn all there is to know about the nature of man. Now go get me my officers. I need them.”

  When Metellus and Valerius came to his tent, he left the signifer in command and rode east with Valerius.

  The meadow sprawled for about two miles beyond the camp before it was broken by woods.

  “I want a sentry line a mile out from the camp perimeter. ” Rufio traced it with an extended forefinger. “I want four men patrolling at all times. Changed every hour so they get enough sleep. I want the password changed every hour, too. They’ll be inspected at their posts every half-hour. I’ll take the first three hours, Metellus the next two, you the last three.”

  “Yes, centurion.”

  “I want them mounted. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” he said with a smile. “Horses hear better than men.”

  “You and Metellus will sleep in my tent when we’re in the field. Get to sleep early—you’ll be up early. I’ll feel much better if I know it’s you who’s welcoming the dawn.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rufio gazed at the distant forest as he idly thumbed his ring.

  “Are you sensing it again?” Valerius asked.

  “Yes. I can almost smell those yellow-haired savages.”

  Rufio was up before dawn and patrolling the camp on foot. The night had been quiet and all was well. By the time the sun had topped the trees to the east, the men were cooking their morning porridge.

  Valerius was out inspecting the sentry line while Metellus supervised the breaking of camp and the loading of the gear onto the pack mules. The bundles of palisade stakes would be last. Caution always.

  Rufio walked among his men and observed their interactions. The gruffness of the veterans had softened now that the recruits had sweated through the construction of a marching camp. And the new men, though still respectful, were no longer overawed by them. It was clear to them that their centurion would not allow them to be abused any more than was necessary to toughen their hides.

  While a pair of soldiers folded his tent, Rufio put on his mail lorica and buckled his swordbelt. Lost in his reverie, he dressed without thought. Hoofbeats from the east startled him.

  He grabbed his helmet and hurried to the gateway. Valerius was coming in, riding fast.

  The animal had barely stopped when Valerius jumped from the saddle.

  “What?” Rufio said, putting on his helmet.

  “The east wind.”

  “Where?”

  “About two miles northeast. They put a village to the torch. I saw smoke so I went to check it. Orders?”

  Rufio smiled at his optio. Never had it occurred to Valerius to leave the Sequani to the wolves. This was a fighting Roman.

  “Three ranks,” Rufio said and tied the thongs on his cheek guards. “Recruits in the middle, veterans front and rear. Diocles with me.”

  The men assembled in two minutes.

  “Double time. March with valor. Move!”

  The men swung into a quick cadence across the meadow. Smoke was darkening the sky to the east.

  The plain rose gently to a broad ridge. When the century reached the summit, Rufio raised his hand.

  “Dress ranks!”

  The line had become ragged on the incline, and now the veterans straightened it out. They pushed in closer, shoving and jerking the recruits into no more than a three-foot frontage for each man, and three feet in front and back to allow room for throwing their pila.

  Metellus and Diocles flanked Rufio on horseback at the front. Valerius guarded the rear from his mount.

  In the village below, all was chaos. Flames were devouring dozens of huts and seemed to mock the buckets of water thrown at them. The black smoke obscured much, but the shrieks of the women could be heard even from here.

  Their cries cut into Rufio. Like the wail of a woman he had heard so long ago.

  “Drop your gear!”

  The veterans dumped their cross poles with their equipment and swung their shields off their backs and peeled off the leather covers. In their right hands they hefted their pila. The recruits copied their actions.

  “Move!”

  Down the slope they marched in three tight ranks.

  No fighting could be seen. Women and old men were running everywhere, and even small children were dragging buckets. Yet there were no warriors.

  “Help us please!” said a graybeard who ran up to the centurion.

  Rufio had seen many burning villages. He knew what had to be done.

  “Pull your people back. Don’t risk any more. Let the huts burn. We’ll send soldiers to help you build more.”

  The stench was overpowering, but it wasn’t simply wood and straw. Assaulting the soldiers was the most loathsome odor a human can smell.

  “Do it!” Rufio shouted. “Get them away from those flames!”

  The old man ran off waving his arms at the women.

  “Where are the fighters? Metellus, circle the village. Quickly and report.”

  Metellus jammed the staff of the boar standard into the ground and galloped off through the smoke.

  Rufio scanned the distance but could see nothing.

  A dazed young woman, coughing and choking, staggered out of the smoke. She carried a small burnt log and held it out toward Rufio.

  He slipped from his horse and hurried to her. When he reached the woman, her legs buckled. She fell to her knees and vomited and dropped the black log at his feet.

  He picked it up and had to suck back his own breakfast porridge. An incinerated infant lay in his hands.

  Though shaking with rage, he set it down gently.

  “Valerius!”

  The optio rode up from behind the third rank.

  “Hold the men here.”

  Rufio ran through the smoking village. Past flaming huts and crying women he bolted, but no warriors were to be seen.

  He caught up with Metellus at the edge of the village.

  “Nothing,” the signifer shouted.

  Rufio glimpsed a young woman hiding in the
shadow of an unburned hut.

  “Come,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

  She stepped forward, a red-haired girl of about eight clinging to one of her legs and sniffling.

  “Where are your men?”

  “Still fighting,” she said and pulled her daughter more tightly to her.

  “Where?”

  “A short run from here east of the village.”

  He whistled sharply and in an instant his horse galloped up beside him. Diocles followed quickly behind.

  “Show me.” Rufio mounted his horse and pulled her up behind him.

  “Mommy!”

  “Come here, sweetheart,” Metellus said and he scooped the girl into his saddle.

  The five of them raced off to the east.

  It was a startling sight. Seventy or eighty enraged Gauls had beaten back equally as many Germans and pushed them against a low hill. Hemmed in, the German warriors could neither flank the Sequani nor risk turning and fleeing up the hill and being cut down in flight.

  Both sides were nearing exhaustion, their arms wielding weapons that seemed as heavy as lead.

  “Metellus,” Rufio said and pointed behind him.

  The signifer turned and galloped off to get the century, the little girl still in the saddle in front of him.

  “Thincsus is a poor tactician,” Rufio said, referring to the German god of war. He turned to Diocles. “Do you see what’s happened here? The Suebi allowed themselves no line of retreat. Savage amateurs.”

  “What happened?”

  “No scouting. No spies. They underestimated the number of Gauls. And the Germans are fighting for greed and glory. The Gauls are fighting for their lives.”

  “Can we do something?”

  Rufio turned to the woman behind him on the horse. Her arms still hugged his waist.

  “Is your husband there?”

  “I have no husband,” she said with fearful eyes. “But my brother fights. He’s their leader.”

  “I’ll bring him home to you.” He jumped from his horse. “Get in the saddle.”

  The century appeared, Metellus riding at the right of the first rank, the standard in his hand. The little girl gripped the horse’s mane in front of him.

  “Valerius!” Rufio boomed. “Twenty men. Veterans. Around the back.” He made a hooking gesture with his wrist. “Pila. On Metellus.”