‘You are both aware that if you swear the military oath you may be required to serve on campaign continuously for six years?’
Paullus’ heart sank. Six years was an eternity to a young man. It was impossible to imagine that far into the future.
‘And after you have been released you will be registered as an evocatus. As a veteran, you will be liable to be recalled to the standards for up to sixteen years.’
Before they could answer there was a commotion behind them. Fidubius was bustling towards the basilica. His slave Croton preceded him, wielding a stick to encourage loitering Bruttians to get out of the way.
‘Stop the ceremony!’ Fidubius commanded. ‘It is illegal to conscript colonists of Temesa.’
The laughter lines disappeared from Orestes’ face. No matter how amiable, an ex-consul of Rome would not tolerate being spoken to in such manner by a mere equestrian.
‘There is no question of conscription,’ Orestes said coldly. ‘These men have volunteered.’
‘That one is my son.’ In his agitation Fidubius had not heeded the warning signs. ‘I have the legal rights over him of the head of a household. A son may not go against the decisions of a pater familias.’
‘Military law takes precedence,’ Orestes said.
Belatedly realising his error, Fidubius checked himself, rearranged his features into a more unctuous expression. When he spoke again his tone was conciliatory, even wheedling.
‘They are very young and immature, Prefect. Alcimus is my only son. The father of Paullus is dead. They have duties to their families.’
Orestes nodded gravely. ‘Long ago the general Aulus Postumius had a son. He wanted him to carry on his line and the rites of his household gods. When the lad was young he taught him to read and write, when a youth to fight. The youth was upright and brave. But in battle he left the line on his own initiative to attack the enemy. He was victorious, but Aulus Postumius ordered his execution for disobeying orders.’
Fidubius spread his hands, as if unable to comprehend the relevance of the story.
‘The duty of a citizen to Rome comes before his duty to his family,’ Orestes said.
Fidubius stood silently, unable to muster any response.
The prefect turned to Paullus and Alcimus. ‘You will present yourselves here in four days’ time with your equipment. You will march to Rome with the Bruttian camp servants under the command of a military tribune. Your patriotism is an example to us all.’
Fidubius rounded on Paullus. There was loathing in his eyes. ‘This is all your fault!’
CHAPTER 8
Militia
607 Ab Urbe Condita (147 BC)
THE CAMPUS MARTIUS WAS a low meadow between the city and the Tiber. In the south were the voting pens, where the people elected the higher magistrates of Rome, and various temples, each erected in fulfilment of a vow made on some distant battlefield by a subsequently victorious general. The north, where the troops were camped, was mainly open parkland. The recruits were quartered in tents. The new legions and the reinforcements for those already serving overseas had been raised the month before, and Paullus and Alcimus were with those levies from the more distant parts of Italy that had not yet taken the military oath or been assigned to their units.
The atmosphere varied in the different camps. Those bound for the endless hard campaigning in Spain were evidently unhappy. There were desertions, and sometimes fights broke out, although the overriding mood appeared to be one of miserable resignation tinged with dumb insubordination. Some of the men heading for North Africa gloated avariciously over the riches waiting for them in Carthage, while others were openly fearful of the dangers of a long siege. It was not just the cruel desperation of the Carthaginians, the veterans among them said, disease had run through every besieging army since the Achaeans spent ten years before Troy: always had, always would. The soldiers in the new legions which would be commanded by the consuls who took office the following January tended to be more content. After all it was many months before they might see action. Those with the two legions that would follow the consul-elect Lucius Mummius were convinced that they would be sent to Achaea. Corinth, the capital of that insubordinate league, was as wealthy as Carthage, and it was an accepted fact that all Greeks were cowards. The Macedonians had defeated the Greeks, and now the Romans were stamping out the last embers of Macedonian resistance. In fact the chief concerns were either that there would not be an Achaean war at all, or that the Roman army in Macedonia under the praetor Metellus would end it before Mummius could reach Greece.
Paullus and Alcimus were not long arrived. Army life so far had not treated them badly. They had plenty to eat, and both drink and girls were readily available. Indeed there was a surprising number of brothels around the Campus Martius. These varied from rough lean-tos to affluent houses a little further off. Released from the influence of his father, and freed from the close scrutiny of a small town, Alcimus had developed a strong taste for their varied pleasures.
All in all it was a great deal better than the days between the Choosing and leaving Temesa. Paullus’ mother emphatically did not share the opinion of the Prefect Orestes that duty to Rome outweighed that to one’s family. Her cold silences were almost worse than her bitter recriminations. Your father would not have done such a thing. Small farms foundered when the head of the household was away. Your father would not have deserted us. Of the three slaves Rhodope seemed unmoved. Perhaps in extreme age the full significance of Paullus’ imminent departure had been unclear to the nurse. Pastor said nothing, but the shepherd was a man of very few words. Eutyches, on the other hand, had had much to say. How was he to cope when Pastor drove the flock up into the Sila and Paullus was away? He was an old man, broken with a lifetime of hard labour. Many owners would have given him a beating. Paullus suspected that guilt stayed his hand. The complaints had justification. Paullus had consoled himself that no matter how bad things were in his household, they would have been far worse in that of Alcimus.
Any apprehension on leaving Temesa had been overcome by relief. Neither Fidubius nor Paullus’ mother came to see them off.
Under the command of a military tribune, Paullus and Alcimus and the conscripted Bruttians had marched north through the Sila. The young equestrian tribune travelled in a mule-drawn carriage. The rest walked, the two Romans carrying their own equipment. But they went in easy stages. By the time they were clear of the forest and descended into the valley of the Crathis river even the Bruttians seemed reconciled to their fate, and the expedition had something of the feeling of a festival procession or a hunting party.
At the town of Interamnium they entered the hill country of the Oenotri. Beyond the lake by Forum Popili, they turned west and followed the Silarus river to the coast. From there the sea was on their left until the road skirted inland of the green mound of Vesusius. When they reached Capua, they picked up the Via Appia to Rome.
They could hear and smell Rome before they saw the city. A distant murmur, like the sea on shingle. The mingled odour of wood smoke and dung, human and animal. It was a windless day and a thick pall from thousands of cooking fires hung in the sky. The road was flanked with tombs, and then they were in the city.
The size of Rome defied comprehension. Paullus thought Temesa and every town through which they had passed, even the city of Capua, put together would occupy only one of its innumerable districts. Perhaps every town in the world could be dropped around the seven hills and still not match the extent of the metropolis.
‘Think of all the women,’ Alcimus had said.
But Paullus had been thinking he was already lost. How could anyone hope to navigate the myriad streets and alleys?
There were paved roads and tall, fine buildings. The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus shone up on the Capitoline. But there was noise and mud and filth and unimaginable squalor. And everywhere there were people, as if every inhabitant of Italy and beyond had migrated here.
Paullus and Alcimu
s had been left on the Campus Martius with the other citizens who had yet to take the oath, and the Bruttians were taken off somewhere else. Another military tribune had registered the newcomers and shown them where to mess and which tent they were to share.
There had been nothing to do but wait. Apart from accompanying Alcimus to brothels, Paullus had hung about the tent. In truth the size of the city daunted him. But today the waiting was at an end.
A trumpet sounded, and the recruits formed up in a rough column in front of the tents. The tribune walked the line, shaking his head as if finding them a sorry lot. The officer was young, but he had the air of a veteran. Or perhaps, Paullus thought, it was just the confidence that came from his equestrian background. If the latter, Alcimus did not share his assurance. Alcimus’ face, usually so stolid, was anxious.
‘Gods below,’ Alcimus breathed, ‘please let it not be Spain.’
The trumpet rang out again, and, in a poor approximation of military order, they shuffled off to the Capitoline.
Several hundred men were assembled in the open space in front of the Temple of Jupiter. The sun beat down, and they were on edge as they watched the sacrifice. When the water splashed its head, the animal seemed to bow its head in acquiescence. The executioner knew his trade, and the beast fell cleanly. The priest, his hands and arms red with blood, pronounced its intestines propitious.
The rites of religion satisfied, a tribune read the register. As their names were called the recruits were directed to one of three groups. The tribune announced that those who took the oath today would fill the ranks of the legions in Africa and Spain and those under Lucius Mummius.
Paullus and Alcimus were in the central group. Thank the gods, they were together.
When everyone was in his allotted place, the officiating tribune approached the men on the right. He called an individual forward.
‘You will take the sacramentum on behalf of your fellow soldiers.’
The man said he would.
‘You are bound for Africa.’
The man remained impassive.
‘You will repeat the oath after me.’
The man nodded.
‘I will obey my officers, follow them wherever they might lead, and execute all their orders. I will defend the Republic of Rome. In battle I will not abandon the ranks in flight or fear, but only to take up or seek a weapon, or to save the life of a fellow citizen. If I see another fleeing, I will cut him down. I will not with malice aforethought commit any theft. Except for one spear, a spear shaft, wood, fruit, fodder, a water skin, a purse and a torch, if I carry off anything worth more than a silver sesterce from the enemy, I will bring it to my officers. Should I break my oath, let the gods curse my household, my family and my own head.’
After the recruit had recited the lengthy formula, one by one the others were summoned forward. They merely said: Idem in me.
The same for me. None of them had a choice. Paullus and Alcimus had no choice. For them it was either Spain or Achaea.
The tribune walked to the front of the central group, called a man to come forward.
Dear gods, not Spain! Paullus was unsure if he had said the words aloud.
‘You will take the sacramentum on behalf of your fellow soldiers.’
Paullus was sweating. He could feel his heart thudding, as if it were too big for his chest.
‘You will serve in the army of Lucius Mummius.’
Relief flooded through Paullus. Beside him Alcimus exhaled noisily. Paullus felt weak. He could hardly wait to say Idem in me, and leave. When he got back to the Campus Martius, he would buy a really good amphora of wine – hang the expense – make a generous libation to the gods, and drink the rest with Alcimus.
*
‘My name is Naevius, but you will call me sir.’ The centurion was short and thickset. Everything about him – the jut of his jaw, the thin line of his lips, even his cropped hair – somehow exuded barely controlled anger.
Paullus stood in the front rank of the hastati, hoping not to be noticed. Alcimus was on one side, a legionary called Tatius on the other. After the oath, when they had returned to the Campus Martius, they had been assigned to a squad of eight sharing a tent. Paullus had bought the good wine he had promised himself, but there had been no time to drink it before they were summoned to parade in full armour.
Naevius paced up and down in front of the hundred and twenty men of the maniple.
‘You will come to think of me as a stepmother: cruel and hard, with no natural affection. It is my task to turn you into soldiers. You will not enjoy the transformation. You will feel my stick across your back.’
The centurion swished the vine stick of his office in the faces of Paullus and Alcimus.
‘My task is made harder by these two peasants just assigned to us.’
Paullus stared straight ahead over Naevius’ shoulders.
‘Now you rustics are under military law. For those who steal in the camp the penalty is death. Those who give false evidence, the penalty is death. Those who fuck their tent-mates, death. Those who commit any less serious offence three times, death. For these crimes you will be executed. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Paullus and Alcimus both said.
‘The following actions are unmanly and dishonourable: leaving your post, throwing away your weapons, feigning sickness to avoid battle, making a false report of your actions in the hope of commendation. The punishment for these is also death.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When found guilty by court martial, after the touch of this vine stick, it is the duty of your fellow soldiers to fall on you with clubs and stones. Here in the camp they will beat you to death.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Should you contrive to escape, you are no better off. You are not allowed to return to your home. None of your family would dare to receive you in their house. You are completely and finally ruined – worse than an outlaw, denied fire and water.’
Tell that to the brigands in the Sila, Paullus thought. He tried very hard to keep the defiance from his face.
‘On campaign should any soldier attempt to desert to the enemy, or betray any information, he will be killed in the ancient fashion: tortured at length, then bound to the ‘fork’ and beaten to death.’
It was the ultimate degradation. Only a slave should be tortured, not a citizen.
‘Should you mutilate your sword hand, cut off your thumb, the punishment is death. Should you attempt suicide and fail, the punishment is death.’ Naevius laughed, quite happily. ‘In this the army is too generous.’
In a moment the mirth was gone. ‘All other misdemeanours will be punished according to their severity: dishonourable discharge, flogging, short rations or stoppage of pay.’
Naevius stepped back, ran his gaze over the whole unit.
‘As we have two new recruits, they must be introduced to discipline. Five hours of daylight remain. In five hours at the military step a unit should cover twenty miles in summertime. Ten miles out, ten back. Take up shields. Form column of fours. Prepare to march.’
Naevius went to the head of the column.
‘This is the fault of you fucking peasants,’ Tatius hissed.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Paullus muttered. Although Tatius had delicate features, almost like a girl, he was a re-enlisted soldier. Paullus had not liked the look of his new tent-mate from the start.
‘Forward!’ Naevius shouted.
They took the Via Flaminia north. On the water meadows to the west were the camps. To the east, garden-covered slopes, dotted with villas. Where the hill came down close to the road, the soldiers were held up by a throng of travellers and carts waiting to pay their tolls at a customs station. Once through they were outside the city, marching between well-built tombs, as though through a town of the affluent dead.
Beyond the necropolis, the road was as straight as an arrow. The Tiber was not far away to the left. Between the willows on its banks swallows swooped a
nd dived over the water. Boundary stones lined the road. Some of the plots were farmed as small market gardens by families from the city, others were larger farms. To the right, despite the evident risk of flooding in the winter, stood an imposing villa.
It was good to be out in the countryside, but Paullus thought the land still tainted by the city. Several times they passed noisome wagons from which the foul night soil of the metropolis was being unloaded to be spread as manure. Once there was a pungent stench of piss. Somewhere nearby but screened from view was a textile works with its vats of urine.
It was not long before the Tiber looped across their path. At the Milvian Bridge the press of traffic again delayed them. Over the river the Via Flaminia swung east. Naevius instead led them north along the Via Cassia.
The afternoon was hot, with no breeze. They marched in a haze of dust. Yet Paullus was not suffering too badly yet. Alcimus and he had carried their kit all the way from Temesa to Rome. Although Paullus noticed that Alcimus was limping slightly.
Eventually Naevius called a halt a couple of miles beyond the small town of Ad Sextum.
‘Call yourselves soldiers?’ As ever the centurion sounded irascible. ‘Three hours to cover less than ten miles! You are a disgrace to the standards!’
‘But, sir, twice we had to wait,’ Tatius said.
‘You poor little girl,’ Naevius snapped. ‘Of course on campaign no one will hinder your progress – not the enemy, not civilians or refugees!’
Tatius relapsed into a petulant silence.
‘There is a good reason not to accept recruits from the city,’ Naevius said, ‘and you, Tatius, are the clear evidence. It was a bad day for me when you passed muster. Everyone fall out for a quarter of an hour. We return at the quick march.’
Alcimus and Paullus divested themselves of javelins, shields and helmets, and sat by the roadside. Alcimus took off one of his boots.
‘I am not sure I can make it back to the city.’ The heel of Alcimus’ left foot was rubbed raw. The blister was bleeding and oozing.
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