Otto was horrified. How could this possibly be accepted by honourable men? “I think that is disgusting,” Otto responded.
Marcellus grinned and commented, “The whole legion knows that, young man. But listen to me, change your way of thinking. If you don’t like the way we Romans go about something, keep your mouth shut.”
Otto learned that Romans allowed the worship of foreign gods provided there was no disrespect to the Gods of Rome. He learned that Emperor Augustus ruled and that all soldiers swore an oath of allegiance to him.
“Then he is the king,” Otto said.
“No, no, no,” Marcellus shouted. “He’s not the king. Romans have no king. Romans will never let any man be a king over them. You mustn’t say that, ever.”
Otto thought that since there was no-one above Augustus and he held the oath of every soldier, denying he was the King of Rome was stupid. But then, much of what he was learning about Rome and its ways was so strange he sometimes wondered if it were all true.
As his confidence increased, he felt free to wander about the camp watching all the different activities when his allotted time with Marcellus was over. He observed the cooks preparing more food than he had ever seen in one place before and doing it day after day. He liked to spend time with the scouts and cavalry who had made something of a mascot of him but most of all he haunted the area where arms drill was held. Sturdy posts were set into the ground for the legionaries to attack with wooden swords and shields under the critical eye of the training officer. The first time he watched, Otto had stood quietly to one side. The next day, after hesitating for half an hour, he lifted a spare practice sword from the bin. He was surprised at how heavy it was. He took a firm grip and set about slamming it into one of the posts. The training officer saw him out of the corner of his eye but neither approached him nor said anything. When the session was over, he went straight across to the Praetorium and spoke to Attius who was with Corvo and Lentus going over requisition lists, a never-ending task.
“The thing is, sir, I need a ruling. That Otto attended training today. He’s not on the strength but he is sort of attached. So, do I chase him away and have a word with Boxer… I mean Tribune Longius, sir?”
“He’s a German when all’s said and done,” Lentus growled. “The last thing we need is any of them learning Roman army skills.”
Attius looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “And what good would knowing what we know do ‘em anyway? They’re big and brave but they’re still a hopeless rabble.”
“Supposing they learned discipline and organization….” Lentus began to say but Corvo could not resist interrupting.
“With all due respect, disciplined and organized Germans? That’s never going to happen…”
“…And even if that miracle occurred, where would they get their arms?” Attius continued, with a shake of his head. “They would need three legions’ worth of kit minimum and where would that come from, eh? They’re so poor they haven’t got a pot to piss in so they couldn’t buy ‘em.” He turned to the training officer. “As I understand it, that young man’s supposed to be some sort of sworn bodyguard to the tribune so he’d better be able to handle himself for Boxer’s sake. Give him the basics in sword, shield and javelin and leave it at that.”
So Otto was allowed to join in weapons drill with the legionaries. He learned to grip the practice sword properly and hold it level as he struck. No easy task since it was double the weight of a standard issue blade. He learned to thrust and never to slash, to use his feet to add to the force of the sword and the shield he carried. The training officer had to admit that in a few weeks, Otto was more than adequate but it was with the javelin he excelled.
His first toy had been a wooden spear. He had grown up with spears always within arm’s reach and they were almost an extension of his own body. The heavy Roman javelin was different to those he had used before. It had a thick wooden shaft into which was pegged a length of soft iron ending in a small blade. When the blade hit the target the peg snapped, dropping the shaft. If it struck flesh, it caused severe injury. If it went into a shield, it stuck leaving an unwieldy length of iron impossible to remove. Otto examined the javelin he was given and hefted it, trying to establish the point of balance. The target was a straw-filled sacking dummy suspended with ropes to a frame twenty paces away in front of the palisade wall. Some humourist had added a pair of straw plaits and a grinning, painted face.
Otto stepped up to the mark, drew the javelin back and squinted along the iron rod to the tip of the blade, lining it up with the target. Although he had not arrived at the peak of his physical strength and still had a lot of growing to do, the weeks of training had hardened his muscles. The breadth of his shoulders and the length of his arms gave him extra leverage over the older and more compactly built legionaries. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and waited.
“Release!” the training officer shouted in his ear.
In one instinctive motion, Otto brought his throwing arm up and around, shifting his weight from his back to his front foot and let the javelin fly. It hummed through the air. The heavy blade struck the dummy dead centre. The impact was so powerful that the straw man was lifted up, still with the javelin attached, and flipped completely over the horizontal pole to which it was tied. The rest of the legionaries cheered. The training officer cut the javelin out of the tattered dummy and discarded it. They were one-use weapons but could be recycled after the armourer had straightened the iron rod and fitted a new peg. He marched ten paces back and gave Otto a fresh javelin. Again, the dummy flew up and jerked on its ropes, scattering straw. The cheering had brought a crowd of spectators, amongst them Lentus and Corvo. Another ten paces back, another powerful strike but at fifty paces, the crowd fell silent. Otto was now throwing from well beyond the accepted effective range of the weapon.
“Release!” the order rang in his ear.
The javelin flew from his hand but not too fast for the eye to follow like the first throw. This time it soared upwards and seemed almost to hover at the highest point of its flight before it plunged with ever increasing speed and force and tore the ragged target from its ropes. It fell in a fluttering heap, pinned to the ground. A long moment’s silence was broken by a roar of cheering.
Lentus turned to Corvo with a sour look on his face.
“And that’s why you don’t teach Germans how to use our kit,” he said.
Marcus Corvo had worked long days for Attius. He had drilled men on the parade ground. He had inspected used equipment deciding what was reusable and what should be scrapped. He had reconciled column after column of figures in the legion’s accounts. He had supervised maintenance repairs of the camp fortifications. He had written reports on every aspect of the legion’s activities. He had learned a lot and grown in confidence. Perhaps most importantly, he had earned the respect of the rest of the officers and men after his epic series of route marches.
Attius was running out of testing assignments for Corvo so it was a relief to him when a messenger carrying a reply to his letter to Legate Quadratus arrived. Attius had written that Corvo was performing well and there was no doubt that he was fitted to the rank of centurion. He had asked the legate to confirm the promotion and to ensure that on his return in the spring with the new recruits, he also brought sufficient specialized equipment for a dedicated missile unit. He took the parchment scroll out of its leather carrying case and began to read it while the messenger stood at attention in front of him. Attius was occupying the Praetorium in the absence of the legate. The charcoal braziers gave off a pleasant warmth which made the messenger’s sodden cloak begin to steam, filling the room with the smell of wet wool. Attius sniffed and looked up at the man. A dew drop hung off the end of his nose and his cheeks were red, almost raw after days of hard riding in the bitter wind.
“You look knackered, soldier. Take your horse over to the stables and tell them to attend to it. Then go over to the cavalry barracks and get them to feed you and gi
ve you as much hot spiced wine as you want. You sleep here tonight. Any nonsense, just say it is by order of Camp Prefect Titus Attius.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” the weary man replied and hurried away.
Attius finished reading. After the usual greetings, the legate hoped that Titus enjoyed good health and all was well with The Second Lucan. He confirmed Corvo’s promotion and that he would consult on what equipment would be required to arm a unit composed of both archers and slingers and ensure it was brought with him in the baggage wagons. He looked forward to being back with his legion around the middle of March and offered his good wishes.
Titus shouted for a clerk to docket and pigeonhole the message then send for Optio Corvo and Tribune Boxer. The nickname Lucius had acquired had stuck. It was how everyone referred to him other than in official meetings and documents. He liked it. He had spent his early youth being self-conscious about his lop-sided nose but now he regarded it as a sort of mark of distinctiveness and pride.
When he and Corvo walked in, Otto was behind them.
“What are you doing here?” Attius barked at him.
“I’m with ‘im ain’t I?” Otto replied, pointing at Lucius who had not noticed he had been followed into the office.
“Sir,” Attius shouted, “You must say “Sir”.”
Otto looked at him unperturbed.
“I’m with ‘im sir, alright?” he enquired in a friendly tone.
“Gods above and below, Boxer, I thought he was learning our language. He speaks it rough as rats.”
“He’s mostly learning off the men sir. They’re not big on grammar and also, they think it’s funny to teach him every foul word and expression they can. It isn’t easy, sir but he is getting better by the day,” said Lucius in defence of his youthful companion.
“And while I’m on the subject, why is he sleeping out on your porch? Give the lad a room, man. He’ll freeze.”
Lucius shrugged.
“He prefers it sir. Says it’s too warm inside. I had to fight to get him to take an extra blanket.”
Attius grunted, scribbled something on a wax tablet and shouted for a clerk, “Here, he said handing it over. “Read it and get on with it.” Then he turned back to Otto. “You, go and stand by the door.” The youth smiled and obeyed, even coming to attention.
“Right, take a seat, Optio Corvo and you, Tribune Longius; the meeting can now begin, at last. Well Corvo, I’ve got some good news for you. Legate Publius Quadratus has authorized your promotion to centurion. You will take charge of a mixed century of archers and slingers. What do you say?”
Corvo drew a deep breath. “May I ask two questions, sir?”
“Of course,” the First Spear Centurion said, a little deflated. He had expected an enthusiastic acceptance but on reflection, it was more like the thoughtful Corvo he had come to know to make sure of his ground before committing to anything,
“Will this be a regular or an auxiliary century?”
“Regular, optio; I thought that would be understood.”
Corvo beamed and nodded.
“And it will be full-time and full strength?”
“Yes, the men serving under you will be permanent transfers from other units plus new recruits coming in the spring. It may end up slightly bigger than normal though not above one hundred men in all.”
Corvo rose to his feet, eyes bright with joy. He saluted and held out his right hand. Attius took it and they shook.
“My grateful thanks to Legate Quadratus and to you sir; especially to you for all the time you have spent over the last few months preparing me for this promotion,” Corvo said with feeling.
“What, even the route marches? Let’s drink to your future success Centurion Marcus Corvo.”
The cups came out and were filled with spiced wine and hot water. They were rapidly emptied to be filled once more. The officers leaned back enjoying the moment. Then Attius reached on to his desk, picked up a scroll and tossed it to Lucius.
“Here is your commission Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius. The legate has designated you to have special responsibility for the missile unit under Centurion Corvo and also to act as second to the Artillery Commander so you had better report to him and begin to learn the ropes.”
It was the turn of Lucius to flush with pleasure and grin.
“Thank you, sir.”
Attius waved the gratitude away.
“It’s one of the greatest pleasures of an officer’s military life to witness the promotion of worthy young men…” he held up one finger in emphasis. “…worthy young men, let’s drink to ‘em!”
The clerk came back carrying a sacking bundle he had fetched as ordered on the wax tablet he had been given. He handed it to Attius, saluted and went out.
Attius unwrapped the coarse cloth revealing a red leather belt with a silver buckle and a matching scabbard holding a wide-bladed dagger. The weapon had begun its life as regulation issue but the handle had been cross-lapped with red leather strips and the pommel covered in embossed silver. He withdrew it from the scabbard. The blade shone in the lamplight and the razor-sharp edges and point were flawless; not a knick or a dent. Satisfied, he pushed it back and beckoned to Otto who came over to where the three officers sat. He held out the belt with the scabbard and knife to the youth.
“Here,” he said speaking very slowly and clearly, “Take this to defend your master. It is a prize for your javelin skill.”
Otto understood and reached out but then withdrew his hand. He looked at Lucius who nodded his approval. Only then did he take the gift, clutch it to his chest in both hands, smiling widely with pleasure and bow to Attius.
“What did he stop for?” Attius asked.
“He can only accept a gift of arms with my permission,” Lucius explained.
The senior officer sighed and shook his head.
“Rather you than me, Boxer,” he said. “Why don’t you all piss off now and get drunk?”
The next morning, Lucius woke late with a burning throat and a demon hammering the inside of his head with a sledgehammer. He sat up and felt his stomach heave. When he had at last finished vomiting sour wine and bile, he washed his face, dressed and contemplated his breakfast of bread, cheese and water. He pushed the plate to one side and forced himself to his feet. The cold air outside rocked him back on his heels but after a few deep breaths he began to feel a little better. He made his slow and careful way over to the artillery lines and introduced himself to the commander.
Cestus Valens, Commander of Artillery Second Lucan Legion, was a sturdy man in his early forties with a round, jolly face under a few strands of white hair. He looked like a benevolent doctor or teacher. His manner was in tune with his appearance. He was always cheerful and friendly, even in the most extreme circumstances. He was also a talented and efficient killer, and proud of his profession. He smiled at Lucius and returned his salute.
“And what can we do for you today, young Boxer?”
Lucius showed him his new commission.
“As you see, sir, I am to second you.”
“First of all, forget the sir; Cestus will be fine. Now, what do you want to do; learn the trade of destroying enemy strongholds and killing men at long range or fanny about?”
“I want to learn.”
“Right ho, that’s the ticket. Are you any use at mathematics?”
“Not bad.”
“Get better. The effective use of artillery is theoretically based on mathematical principles. In practice, the theory falls to the ground when it’s too cold or too wet or the wind veers. Only experience can teach you how to allow for the conditions you face. I’ll lend you some geometry texts to get your head around. Now for smashing things up, we have the Onager and Ballista both of which hurl rocks. For knocking over people we don’t like, we have the Scorpion which is basically a dirty-great crossbow. We can also fire pointed bolts with the ballista at longer range than the scorpion; not so accurate but when they hit someone, everybody knows abou
t it. Where would you like to start?” Cestus took Lucius by the arm and led him over to a large wooden machine under a lean-to roof. “We’ll take a look at this onager shall we? By the way, we tend to turn in on ourselves in the artillery. The men are slow to take to newcomers but once they understand you’re serious, they’ll open up to you and then you’ll really begin to master the business.”
Centurion Marcus Corvo walked at a stately pace as befitted the dignity of his rank with his vine-staff under one arm, in conversation with First Spear Centurion Titus Attius. They were making an informal inspection of the camp, keeping to the log pathways which had been laid down against the mud. From time to time Attius would spot something of which he disapproved and would roar out a command that had legionaries suddenly scurrying to obey. The rest of the time, he was listening carefully to Corvo. He had asked the newly promoted officer what ideas he had in respect of his new command and was pleased at the detailed thought Corvo had already given the matter.
“My century must be fully trained as infantrymen and be able to stand in the line of battle with javelin, sword and shield.”
“Agreed,” said Attius. “That is essential.”
“But when we are on manoeuvres, the men should be excused all fatigues.”
“Why?
“Suppose, sir, the legion is engaged on building a marching camp, the best use for my men will be to act as armed look-outs. In the event of any incursion, they can deploy their slings and bows to slow up any hostile activity before the enemy get too close. They need to be used in threes and fours for this to be effective. If they are excused the labour of building the marching camp, they do not need to carry entrenching tools, which means they can have their bows, slings and ammunition with them ready for use.
“And where would you post them in the line of march?” Attius asked.
“Depends on the terrain; in open country they should be out wide semi-scouting but if we’re in thick forest, wherever you think best to put them, sir. Missiles aren’t a lot of use if you can only see for a few yards between the trees, sir.”
Knight of Rome Part I Page 12