Knight of Rome Part I

by Malcolm Davies

  “That’s true…”

  “Then we will need leather bow cases and beeswax; as much beeswax as we can lay our hands on….”

  The senior officer’s mind began to drift. It was December and he had a lot on his mind.

  Chapter 12

  Like any other legion, when The Second Lucan was in the field the course of the legionaries’ days was prescribed by military necessity. At the sound of reveille, every man and every officer had his duty. The marching camp in which they had slept overnight was dismantled. The palisade was taken down and the individual sharpened stakes loaded onto backs, mules or wagons. The earth they had dug out to build a ditch and rampart was shovelled back where it had come from. The ground was levelled and tents folded for transportation. The solders armed themselves and were fed. The horns blasted out the calls, the column formed and marched. They never failed to build a temporary fortified camp each night and it was always obliterated the following morning so it could not be used as a stronghold against them.

  Even their battles followed a pattern, although their opponents did their best to disrupt it. The legion formed up on a broad front three to five men deep with reserve units immediately behind in the centre. Additional troops were posted to strengthen each flank with the cavalry lurking behind them waiting the order to burst out. Each legionary in the front rank was so close to his comrades that the edges of their shields touched. Centurions carried no shields, only their swords and vine-staffs. They stood out in front of their men to give them confidence until the general engagement. They slipped back into their centuries when the enemy closed.

  When the roaring mass of barbarians was thirty paces away, the order to release javelins was given. The front rank hurled their spears into the packed mass of their foes. If enough fell dead or wounded to make them hesitate, a second volley followed. Finally, the two forces engaged man to man. The Roman short swords stabbed out over or between their massed shields. If a legionary was downed, a second rank man jumped up into the gap to take his place. Every ten minutes or so the centurion blew his whistle and the front-rank men pushed forward then stepped back to be replaced by fresh soldiers in a slick, well-practised movement.

  The savage tribesmen were faced with a shield wall several men deep and never had an exhausted legionary fighting in front of them. If they looked up, they could see the golden eagles held aloft in the centre of the Roman formation and their officers in their glittering armour mounted on fine horses. As well as the whistles, horns blew calls to which the ranks of their implacable enemies manoeuvred.

  The bravest and biggest of the enemy were first in the charge and the first to fall. As the battle progressed, the quality of the Romans’ opponents deteriorated. Eventually, the stragglers’ courage failed and they turned their backs to quit the field. Then a cry of “Pursuit and melee” rose up from the centurions. It was a death sentence for the fleeing remnants who died of a sword thrust in the back or were quickly overwhelmed by small groups of legionaries if they tried to stand and fight. The cavalry was released to cut them down with their lances and long swords, mercilessly following them for miles. The recall was sounded only when the legate decided he had seen enough blood for one day.

  It did not always turn out perfectly for the Romans. Sometimes they were forced to fight on the retreat until they reached more favourable ground. Sometimes they were quickly surrounded and had to fight in a square formation. But overall, the final result was rarely in doubt. If they were attacking a fortified position, they used their engineers and artillery or stormed it. If they were advancing across a river, they built a bridge or found a ford.

  The Romans had the equipment, tactics and organization to take on their enemies in the field and triumph. Courageous warriors fought as individuals, running forward to achieve immortal glory. Legionaries were dispassionate; simply efficient workmen plying their trade.

  Who were these legionaries; these routinely brutal rapists, looters and killers of the very old, the very young and anyone in their way? Most of them enlisted in their late teens. Strict rules of eligibility applied but if Rome was threatened, these were relaxed with the exception of two. No runaway slave could serve in a legion on pain of crucifixion if found out. No non-citizen could be a legionary but in time of dire need, legal fictions could be created to get around this restriction, as Caesar showed when he was desperate to reinforce his armies in the Gallic War.

  They were lads with a sense of adventure. They were second sons who would not inherit the farm. They were slum boys who had never eaten every day or had a decent set of clothes until they joined up. In amongst them were older men with a useful trade they could no longer exercise at home for some reason. Although they might be above the age limit, recruiting officers would turn a blind eye to have a skilled metal or leather worker on the muster rolls. Harsh physical training and brutal punishments soon forged them all into the military force Rome needed.

  Titus Attius had over three and a half thousand such men in camp. For the first few weeks, the luxury of sleeping under a roof and not having to march for five hours a day was enough to keep them happy but they soon became bored. The officers arranged training exercises and competitions to keep them occupied but the weather was against them; impossible to hold games in mud covered with a layer of frost or iron-hard earth beneath a foot of snow. Under these conditions, the men had nothing to do with their time and as a result discipline weakened day by day. Some lost all their accumulated pay illegally gambling. Accusations of cheating and knife fights followed. Good comrades quarrelled over next to nothing and the fists flew. Every morning the number of men with split lips and black eyes on parade increased. They had all “slipped on the ice”.

  A punishment frame was set up near the Praetorium and every other day a defaulter was led out to be tied to it and receive his allotted number of strokes. Whipped but not scourged; scourging was almost always a death sentence. The instrument used was a long lash with sharp pieces of bone and metal, nails, glass and even teeth woven into it. Each stroke lacerated the flesh and it took very few to expose the spine and ribs. Few recovered, and of them most were permanently crippled.

  One man was condemned to execution. In a drunken fury he had snatched a centurion’s vine-staff from under his arm, flung it down in the mud and stamped on it. The centurion had kicked him half the length of the Via Praetoria before Attius had stopped him. The sentence was carried out by the corporal and men who shared a tent with him on campaign. The legion formed a hollow square and the punishment party lined up in two rows in the middle. Each of them was armed with a pick-axe handle. The guilty man was brought out, his crime read aloud and then he was shoved between the lines of his old comrades. They beat him to death. None stood back or failed to strike hard. If they had, they would have shared his fate. It was over noisily but quickly. When the screaming, grunting and thud of wood on flesh faded into silence, they stood around, spattered with blood, panting clouds of steam and looking down at the wreck they had made of the companion with whom they had soldiered in good times and bad. Titus Attius stepped forward.

  “This man not only defied his centurion but wrenched the symbol of his office from him and despoiled it. His was a crime against all the legion stands for. It was sacrilegious as well as contrary to military discipline. Let his remains be flung on a dung-heap and his name erased from the muster rolls.”

  That had concentrated the men’s minds for a few days but they soon broke out again. On top of the daily problems, the seventeenth of December was approaching and with it the festival of Saturnalia.

  During Saturnalia, the world was turned upside down. In Rome, slaves sat in their master’s chairs and demanded to be served. People put on ridiculous clothes and wore them in the streets. Dignified leaders of society played pranks and gave silly gifts. Most people drank too much and went to too many parties. On the twenty-fourth when the fun officially ended, they bitterly regretted their behaviour, promising never to be so stupid again – until
next year. If Attius was troubled, in the camp followers’ shantytown they were rubbing their hands together in anticipation of the money they would strip from drunken legionaries who would remember nothing the next morning; not even that they had been robbed and cheated.

  When the civilians of a Roman city cavorted around the streets, drunk, hilarious or both, there was little lasting harm done. But the result of a legion on the border of hostile territory giving itself over to a week’s revelry could be catastrophic. If the tribes across the river got wind of it, even allowing for the atrocious weather, they might mass and attack. It would be a massacre. The obvious thing to do was to ban the legionaries from celebrating Saturnalia but this was impossible. Practically, they would not stand for it and would probably mutiny and there was another reason. All Roman festivals were religious in origin, even the chaotic, orgiastic Saturnalia. To ban it would be an impious action which might well offend the gods; no-one was prepared to risk that. The officers made what preparations they could. A stockade roofed over with planks was constructed inside the camp. This was the temporary drunk tank. Fire pits were dug and oxen purchased to roast. The wine stores were checked. Fortunately, there was enough for a double ration to be issued for the week of the festival. Prefect Aldermar agreed that his men would take no part in the celebrations in return for the legion funds paying for their own winter solstice party, to be held a few days later outside the walls. Instead, they would patrol the forest edges and the banks of the Rhine ready to report any signs of incursion.

  The day of the seventeenth dawned cold and bright with a keen east wind, ice on the horse troughs and stream but no sign of snow. Attius stood in front of his expectant men. He looked around with a stern expression on his face then grinned, flung his head back and roared, “Io Saturnalia!” The legionaries shouted the traditional greeting in response, “Io Saturnalia!” They drew their swords, beating them against their shields. Attius let the thunder roll over him for a few minutes then lifted his hands for silence which eventually fell.

  “Well boys, we’re a long way from home but we can still have some fun. Those contraband dice boxes half of you have hidden in your kit can come out for Saturnalia. Anyone who loses all his money will not do without. We’ll be roasting two oxen every day and the wine ration is doubled...” He had to fall silent as a second roar of cheering and shouting broke over him. When it had subsided sufficiently, he continued. “…The Porta Decumana will be open from the beginning of the third watch of the day to the end of the second night watch. One cohort at a time, you may leave the camp and booze or shag yourselves silly as I’m sure most of you will. No blades of any kind are to be carried by off-duty men, not even a fruit knife. Any soldier found in possession of one will be severely punished. Armed patrols will circulate the shantytown for your protection. And lads, if one of your mates is too drunk to stagger back to his billet, do the decent thing and carry him home. At the beginning of the third night watch the gates will be closed and the patrols withdrawn. If you are still out then you’re on your own. That’s it. The senior centurion of each cohort will now come forward and draw lots to decide who goes first. Dismiss!”

  The priests were guardians of the water clock and sundial and timekeepers for the legion. Each twenty-four-hour day was divided into three-hour watches, summer or winter. A clerk in the Praetorium had the duty of turning over the hourglass so it was precisely on time that the gate was opened for the third cohort, who had drawn first position, to enjoy their debauch. The stood more or less in formation wearing tunics, cloaks and boots eager to go. They catcalled the guards and told them to hurry but they stood firm until the signal was given. The heavy wooden gate was dragged back and the crowd surged over the bridge to be lost in the alleyways between brothels and wine shops. As the light began to fade, torches on poles blazed, raucous singing and music drifted back to camp. Pimps and barmen stood outside their establishments shouting their wares; the most accomplished near-virgins, the best almost-Falernian wine were definitely on offer. Some half-dressed women stood in the entrances, trying to smile and beckon as they shivered in the cold. The soldiers circulated and their money flowed in a steady stream into the pockets of the proprietors of these places of dubious entertainment. The patrol on provost duty had a quiet time, overall. There were a few fights and they were forced to execute a bouncer on the spot; he had been too rough throwing a soldier out of his master’s bar. They were glad enough to form up to return to camp when the horn sounded recall. There are few things worse than being sober and on duty when everyone else is having the best of times.

  The crowd wove and staggered its way back to barracks in reasonable order. The gate was closed and there was no-one drunkenly beating on it for entry in the middle of the night, this time. In the morning a soldier was found lying behind a wine shop in a pool of frozen vomit. He had taken on too much sour wine and gone outside to relieve his stomach of it, passed out and died of the cold. Two deaths on the first day of Saturnalia, the civilian barely counted, and the gate guards engaged in only one scuffle, it had been better than expected. Attius was pleased. The third cohort men were pale and hung over the next morning. The soldiers who had not yet had their turn mocked them. They couldn’t take their drink like real men. Some of them were offered lumps of bloody, fatty beef for breakfast and the rest laughed at their nausea. The second day watch came to an end and the next crowd of eager revellers moved through the open gate. This was repeated over the next few days. The bathhouses operated night and day offering some relief for the symptoms of over-indulgence. By the time each party had recovered, the more sedate offering of roasted oxen and a generous wine ration in camp was almost a relief.

  On the fourth evening of the festival Otto was using one of the camp latrines. Each of them was a narrow hut in which half the floor space was taken up by a rectangular pit. Over it was fixed a full-length bar to support the back of the thighs while the men squatted. The pit was nearly over-flowing and stank, even in the draughty cold of the winter. At least it was not buzzing with blowflies crawling over buttocks and into eyes and mouths like in summertime. It was closed from the outside air with an old leather tent flap and lit with one smoky oil lamp casting a guttering light on the half dozen pots filled with supposedly clean water that held sponges on sticks for wiping everyone’s backsides. Otto was alone, staring down at his booted feet and just finishing his bowel movement when he felt a blast of cold air as someone came in. He did not look up. Three legionaries were at the entrance. Two were in the mellow stage of drunkenness but the third was a flask of wine ahead of them and was looking for a fight. He was short and barrel-chested with a thick neck. His blood-shot eyes rested on Otto and he grinned evilly.

  “That’s that German bastard who whacked me on the foot and made me look a right twat in that shite-hole of a village,” he said.

  “Oh, come on, Tubby, don’t make trouble…” one of his companions began but he was too late.

  Tubby took three strides across the latrine, grabbed Otto by the ankles and hurled him backwards over the bar on which he had been sitting. His shoulders and the back of his head hit the surface of the semi-liquid ordure with a slapping sound. For a moment he was held, staring up in astonishment, but then he slipped underneath. He thrashed and floundered until his legs came free and he managed to get his feet under him. A great bubble of stench filled the latrine as Otto grabbed the bar and hauled himself free. He was plastered from head to foot in shit, his ears, mouth and nostrils full. Tubby lifted a boot to kick him back under but his mates pulled him away.

  “That’s enough!” one of them shouted.

  “Come on; it’s a joke. Io Saturnalia!” he yelled as they dragged him outside.

  Otto stood in the middle of the floor dripping, stinking, humiliated and enraged. He poked his head through the door-flap to make sure no-one was about then slunk out. Keeping to the shadows, he made his way towards the open gate. The guards were all at one side, pushing and shoving a group of drunks who th
ought it would be funny to climb up onto the rampart from the outside. Otto darted past them, down the slope of the rampart and under the bridge. In the frigid darkness, he could make out the faint glow from the frozen river. He walked in a crouch to the centre and stamped hard. A splintering fissure opened up and he fell forward, thigh deep in the invisible water beneath. He let himself fall full length and as the ice cracked around him, he forced his body into the current, letting its burning chill wash the filth away from his body. He turned and twisted, trying to get as clean as possible in spite of the agonizing cold. He took in gulps and forced them back out through his mouth and nostrils, until at last he could bear the pain of the icy water no more. He crawled to the bank and pulled himself to his full height at the side of the bridge. He climbed up to the gate and forced himself to stroll as nonchalantly as he could past the guards who were now back at their posts.

  “What’s up Otto, fallen in?” one of them called but as he went by, the sentry wrinkled his nose. “Shit yourself first and then fallen in maybe?” But by the time he made his remark, Otto was already gone.

  He made his way home and went in through the back of Lucius’ quarters. He took a bucket, filled it with well-water and flung in his boots and a block of soap. Then he took a clean tunic and loincloth from the small supply of clothes he had been given and walked over to the bathhouse. Passing a fire pit, he stripped, balled up his wet clothes and threw them into the blaze.

  A bare-foot, naked man carrying a change of clothes was not the strangest sight the attendant had seen in the past few days and, in any case, he was a slave and could not risk making any comment. Otto poured hot water over his head and body, soaped himself, rinsed the scummy lather away and went straight into the hot room. Five times he repeated this until he felt as clean as he was going to for a long while, then he plunged into the cold pool. When he emerged, he called the slave.