by R. W. Peake
“Hold, Pullus. You can’t go getting upset when someone runs their mouth at you. Besides,” he grinned, “you are fresh meat, and the boys are just having some fun. Soon enough, you’ll be doing the same to poor tiros like you are now.”
I listened and obeyed, except I did not believe him, promising myself that when I was in their shoes, I would not be so callous. It was just one more promise broken in a life full of them. The interior of the tent was lit by oil lamps, and there was a buzz of laughter and conversation, ribald jokes and the kind of complaining that only soldiers can do. There were a couple of dozen slaves who rubbed down each man with oil, then scraped him clean.
Seeing that there were no bath tubs, I looked to our Sergeant and Calienus explained. “No, we don’t have proper baths in camp; that only happens in winter quarters when we build more permanent facilities. Here we just have the oil and scraping.”
Like other things I had been told, it made perfect sense to me. Not only was it time spent, it was a matter of resources; we should not be wasting water on luxuries like baths. Even so, it was refreshing, and I left feeling like a new man, invigorated by the skilled hands of the slave who rubbed down my tired and sore muscles. It may seem like a small thing, yet I firmly believe that one reason we are invincible is because not only are we well-trained, we are well-cared-for and well-fed. There is no doubt in my mind that the rubdowns that we receive help us recover from our exertions more quickly and thoroughly, so that we are revitalized and able to do more work than our enemies, in every phase and facet of warfare.
Just like the night before, I was asleep before I finished lying down, and it seemed but a moment before I was being shaken awake by Scribonius, while Artorius did the same for Vibius.
“Your turn,” Scribonius whispered, and I came awake immediately, something that I somehow managed to teach myself and it has served me well throughout my career. I can be sound asleep, but at a word I am instantly awake. This night, I sat up and copying what Calienus showed us, tried to do the same thing, pulling my gear from underneath my cot from memory. Instead, I immediately dropped my helmet, making a horrible racket and earning me a round of curses from my comrades. Finally stumbling out, I waited for Vibius who managed to equip himself without making a sound, then we headed to the wall that was our sector. I could see in the darkness the same thing happening up and down the wall as the guard changed. Stifling a yawn I climbed the rampart, feeling somewhat ridiculous not properly armed. I had not yet seen the view from the wall and despite it being dark, there was enough light from the moon and the nearby torches that remained lit throughout the night hours to see the disposition of the outside of the camp. About 30 feet away was a ditch, although from the gloom I could not tell its depth. It was in fact twelve feet deep, different than the standard nine feet, but with Caesar as our general, he favored ditches that were twelve feet deep by fifteen feet wide, versus the nine foot by twelve foot wide standard. This in turn allows for a higher wall, therefore the camp of a Caesar-led Legion was always harder to storm than those of other generals. We stood behind a crenellated palisade made of wood; as I was to learn, two of those stakes belonged to me, and I would carry them everywhere we went, or more accurately our section mule did, along with those of every other Legionary, giving them up to form the wall that protected us. The earthen rampart that I stood on was the product of the dirt that came from the ditch, making the rampart six feet wide. It was tamped down to give us a solid footing and wide enough to allow men to move behind others manning the walls in the event they had to run to a trouble spot. The rest of the dirt formed a ramp leading to the rampart, allowing us to run up to the wall without having to worry about climbing ladders. The Roman camp is second to none of its kind and for as long as anyone could remember, this was how a camp was built, almost every single night on the march, with very few exceptions and only slight variations depending on the threat level. In our long-ago past, some unfortunate army did not go to the trouble and was massacred, so from that time on this was the standard. While Vibius and I stood there, shivering in the damp despite our sagum wrapped around our shoulders, we could hear the low buzz of voices from the other Legionaries on the wall. Vibius and I glanced at each other; the Pilus Prior had been very specific about the prohibition on talking on guard duty, but it seemed that there were others who did not get that warning from him, or were ignoring it. However, we were still too new to even consider disregarding the rules at this point, so we just shrugged and turned back to stare out into the blackness.
All I can say about my first turn on guard duty is that I wish the hundreds and hundreds of times that I have done since then had passed as quickly as that one. I think it must have been the novelty, because before I could believe that the proper amount of time had passed the horn was blowing, and I could see a very faint lightening in the sky. Since we stood the last watch, we at least had the advantage of being fully dressed and returned to our tent as the more experienced Legionaries who had the day watch relieved us, giving us the proper password. There is a new password and countersign issued every full day, and our shift would be the last to use the old one. Now, the commander of the guard Cohort would go to each station and issue the new password and countersign. Like the camps, this was done without exception, no matter where the Legion was located; as I would learn, even on the Campus Martius just outside Rome, we would have to learn and remember the password and countersign. I would also learn that the method of relief that we used the night before was not the norm; the relief of the guard, especially when on campaign, is much more formalized and is done by the commander of the guard that shift, who marches the men of the relief to their specific spot on the rampart. Those being relieved then fall into the marching formation, taking the place of the men who relieved them, continuing in formation to the next post, where the process is repeated. Only after a complete circuit of the camp is made do those that were relieved get dismissed to go back to sleep, or resume their other duties. That morning, the others were just getting dressed and while we waited, Vibius and I gnawed on the small piece of bacon and bread left over from the night before. By this time, our third day, we knew enough to immediately form up outside the tent, and before long the Pilus Prior showed up, snarling his usual cheery morning greeting. Then we went marching off to begin another day.
Thus set the pattern for the next week, where every day seemed to blur together into one long continuous day of marching and the command Repitate ringing in our ears over and over and over. Of course, the command was almost always accompanied with the smack of the vitus, and although I was a bit farther ahead than the others, as was Vibius, I received my fair share of blows. Our days became measured by the sounds of the tromping of our feet and the blowing of the bucina marking the change of watch, yet slowly, we began to at least look like Legionaries, even if the Pilus Prior kept insisting that we were the worst collection of tiros that he had ever seen. Finally, the day arrived for which all of us, particularly Vibius and I, had been waiting. The morning started in the usual manner, but we were told to carry our wooden sword, and instead of being marched to the forum, we marched past it, took a right turn and headed out the Porta Principalis Sinistra, the side gate on the left hand side of every camp, exiting it and stopping on the other side of the ditches. Arrayed before us were a huge number of stakes, the same type that Cyclops had trained Vibius and me on, and despite Vibius being a few men down from me, I was sure that he was fighting the urge to smile as well. Finally! We would get our chance to show that we were not as raw as the others, and I could feel my stomach twist in excitement at the thought of finally doing something with which I was familiar.
Of course, it was not going to be so easy. They were not going to just turn us loose to start whacking away, and for this task, we were formally introduced for the first time to our Optio, who acted as our Cohort’s weapons instructor. He was a bit taller than average and at first glance looked rather pudgy, but as I would learn that was extremely mislea
ding. Although I did not yet know it, he was the only man in the Legion clearly stronger than I was by a good margin. That was not the only deceptive thing about the man; the other impression that one came away with just by looking at him is that he might have been a bit on the slow side. He wore a somewhat slack expression on his round face, with a tendency for his mouth to hang open slightly when he was not engaged. However, once he took up a weapon, he became something entirely different, a blur of motion and controlled savagery the likes of which none of us had ever seen before. Unlike most of the more experienced men he bore no visible marks or scars, which I supposed was a testament to his fighting prowess. Still, I would be lying if I said that the first day we met I was particularly impressed and I wondered if this man would actually have anything that he could possibly teach me after my tutelage with Cyclops.
“This is Optio Aulus Vinicius,” the Pilus Prior announced.
Vinicius gave the slightest nod in our direction as we stood examining him.
“He’s the second in command of this Century, and he’s also our Cohort’s weapons instructor. Today he’ll begin to show you cunni what it truly means to be in the Legions.”
Turning to Optio Vinicius, he said loudly enough so that we could hear, “Good luck Vinicius. You’re going to need it with this lot.” Returning his attention to us, Crastinus finished, “You’ll spend the day with the Optio. I’ll be by to check on you, so don’t think I won’t know if any of you are slacking off! All the marching and drill is fine, but this is what your real purpose is, to fight and kill for Rome. And die, if that’s the will of the gods,” he added, superfluously in my opinion.
With that ominous warning he left us to the Optio, who was still standing there, not having said a word. It was almost as if he were in a trance, though when the Pilus Prior left the area, he snapped out of whatever fog he had been in.
“All right,” he announced, “first thing is for you to gather round that stake right there,” he pointed to one a little distance off.
We assembled around it as he took my wooden sword from me, then had us maneuver so that our backs were turned to the other men who were training on the stakes around us. My first thought was that was smart because we were a little distracted watching other men working on the stakes, but as I came to find out, Optio Vinicius also did not want us infected by what he considered the bad habits that the other Cohort’s weapons instructors were instilling in their pupils. He held a very high opinion of his abilities, and all I can say is that I am still alive after more than 40 years in the Legions because of what I learned from him, in addition to what Cyclops taught me. There must have been truth to his opinion. Once he had us arrayed like he wanted, he showed us the basic positions that we would use in training. These were exactly the same positions that Cyclops had shown us, making it a struggle to appear interested. Inwardly, I was chafing to get started, yet Vinicius had his own pace and was not going to be rushed by a bunch of tiros, particularly a couple who thought they knew what they were doing. He also took time to show us how he wanted us to grip our wooden sword and as I looked at it, I saw that it was not the way that Cyclops had taught us, so I dismissed it as unimportant, confident that once I demonstrated my skill that some quibbling thing like the way I held it would not be an issue.
Finally, after what seemed like a full watch, he had us each stand in front of a stake and he returned my wooden sword to me. Then he walked from one of us to the other, checking our stance, kicking a foot wider here, turning a set of hips there. Finally, he returned to me, and I felt a flush of pride when he looked at my position and found it satisfactory.
Then he saw the way that I was holding the wooden sword but instead of hitting me, he just said quietly, “You’re not holding the weapon the way I demonstrated.”
“No Optio,” I answered, yet I made no move to change, instead just waiting for the chance to show off to him, sure that he would desist from this lunacy.
“And why aren’t you holding it the way I showed you?” he asked, as if he were truly interested.
“I…I’ve had training, Optio, from a man who was in the Legions, and this is the way I was taught to hold it.”
I winced in anticipation of a smack of some sort but instead, Vinicius merely nodded.
“You’re right, that’s the way the majority of the Legions are taught to hold the weapon, but that’s not the way I teach it,” he explained.
Unsure what to do, I stood there but still did not change the grip.
Sighing, he simply said, “All right, I can see you need some convincing. So, turn and face me and assume the first position.”
This was the position that makes us ready to strike, with the blade held parallel to the ground, the arm pulled back, ready to strike and with the hips twisted slightly. That was the position he had told us to get in originally, so I dropped back into it, facing him.
“Now, strike me. As hard as you can. Give me a killing blow.”
I was confused and very apprehensive. Confident as I was in my strength and ability, I was sure that even with the wooden sword I would impale the man, or at the very least break his ribs when I struck. If he was worried, he certainly did not seem to be, and he repeated, a little impatiently, “I said, strike me. Give me all that you’ve got.”
As if sensing my concern, he added, “And don’t worry, if you land the blow, I’ll absolve you with my dying breath.”
He said this last with enough sarcasm that it made me angry, so I immediately struck my blow, punching the wooden sword forward hard as I twisted my hips with as much force and speed as I could. To this day, I am sure that if he were any other man, I would have killed him, wooden blade or no. Instead, with a speed that I had never seen before he lashed out with his bare left hand, using a sweeping motion across his body to make contact with the wooden blade before it touched him, sending the wooden sword flying from my hand. Even as my eyes tried to comprehend what was happening, he made his own move, stepping forward to strike me hard in the stomach with the end of his vitus, which he held in his right hand. Now I was the one who was sure that I was going to die, despite wearing my armor, and I dropped to the ground as if I had been ordered to fling myself down, so violently did I hit the ground. I am not sure how long I was out; it could not have been that long because everyone was still clustered around me, leaning over with a combination of worry and malicious glee. Vibius looked worried, while Didius grinned like it was the happiest day of his life. Optio Vinicius was the only one not bent over. Instead, he stared down at me impassively, hands behind his back, watching as I slowly crawled to my feet.
“I thought for sure you were dead,” Vibius exclaimed, thumping me on the back in relief.
“So did I,” I answered honestly, slowly pulling myself erect, my pride fighting to overcome the searing pain in the pit of my stomach where he had hit me. That night, when I removed my armor and pulled up my tunic, I sported a huge bruise as big around as my fist on my stomach, which stayed with me for several weeks, turning all sorts of interesting colors.
“Do you know why I was able to do that?” Optio Vinicius asked politely.
I considered the question. To me the answer was obvious; he was simply quicker than I had been, yet I knew that was not the answer he was looking for, so I thought carefully. Slowly, the answer came to me, and as the look of understanding came to my face, he smiled slightly.
“Because my thumb was exposed,” I answered, and he rewarded me with a nod.
And therein lay the secret. The thumb is the weakest part of the hand. The normal method of holding the sword is by wrapping the hand around the hilt, with the thumb on the outside of the fingers. When pressure is applied in the right direction by a sudden violent force, against the base of the thumb, it is too weak to maintain its position. By wrapping the fingers over the thumb, the thumb is supported and protected. While it is true that if one were to fight barehanded in this manner it would break your thumb, the pommel and guard of the sword provide e
nough protection to prevent this from happening on those occasions you use that end of the sword in a fight. Despite the obvious evidence I was still not convinced, because there was one disadvantage that I could see. I debated opening my mouth, yet to this point he was almost gentle with us, despite the ache in my stomach, which I had asked for, after all.
“But…” I started, unsure of how to continue, and again I was rewarded with that slight smile.
“But,” he finished for me, “the problem with that grip is that it restricts your blade from moving laterally, so that you don’t have the same freedom of movement. Is that what you were about to say?”
“Yes, Optio,” I answered excitedly, although to be honest I was not sure that was what I was going to say until he did it for me.