I hesitated for a moment, but I eventually unsheathed my gladius and stabbed it into the dirt. I turned on my heels and made for the trees, hot tears welling up in my eye.
I glanced over my shoulder once as I walked away from him. Scrofa analyzed the gladius as if it were the greatest artifact from Alexandria to the Pillars of Heracles. He wrapped both of his palms around the hilt and pulled it from the earth.
I looked away and continued to walk.
When I stole another glance, he had the hilt tightly pressed between both hands. He held it at his side, as if ready to engage with an enemy, as he had been trained to do his entire life.
Scrofa stabbed forward and flourished the sword before it fell from his grasp. He picked it up again and tried with the other hand, holding it out before him as if he were part of a ceremony. As I turned away again, the moonlight shimmering in my wet eye, I heard the sword drop once more.
I took my time before returning, trying to collect myself. When I did, the proud centurion was lying on the Gallic soil, my gladius wedged in his belly and clutched between his thumbless hands, the same ones that had wielded a sword for Rome most his life and had reared a crop of soldiers like a she-wolf with her pups.
I had to cup my lips to keep them from quivering at the sight. I wouldn’t dishonor his death with sentiment. But still, Centurion Scrofa had once been as a pillar of strength to me. A giant among men in the legion. Brave and unwavering, disciplined but always looking after his men before himself or other officers. If so great a man could fall, how could I do any differently?
I cleaned and shaved Scrofa. I placed my own lorica and centurion’s helm on his head and prepared him for cremation. Once I was finished, he was far more familiar to me. Far more like the man who had led me into my first battle. His face appeared more calm than it had at the end of his life. He was at peace now. His honor was restored. In a way, I envied him, but I didn’t allow my thoughts to entertain the feeling for long.
Our first objective the following morning was to gather firewood. Then I placed one coin over both of the centurion’s eyes, a fee for the ferryman to carry him safely into the afterlife. Lucius placed one between his lips for extra measure.
We used what little oil we still had in our packs, and lit the pyre. The black pitch smoke rose to the heavens as we all stood in a semicircle around our burning centurion.
As the roaring flames reduced to smolders, all the men turned to leave. There was much land to traverse between us and Marius’s camp, and there was no sense in stalling.
Arrea kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand. She alone knew how much that man meant to me, as she had seen me become a man under his tutelage.
She lingered for a moment but then turned to follow the men, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I gave the centurion one final salute.
“Form ranks,” I said, returning to my men. “We have a long march.”
4
Scroll IV
Ides of September 650 ab urbe condita
We could smell the privies, the livestock, and the recently hewn leather armor for miles. That was always the first sign that we were nearing Marius’s camp.
Next was the thunder of a centurion’s voice, and the subsequent execution of his marching orders. We hadn’t seen a real Roman camp since General Caepio had marched us out to our personal cemetery. Something stirred in my guts as we approached it. The forward operating base we had come across did not compare. The walls rose so high above us we had to crane our necks just to steal a glance at the sentry guards atop it.
We passed through the outskirts of camp as merchants and prostitutes heckled us, all of whom commented on our poor appearance and said that it looked like we could use an upgrade, in one form or another. When we reached the walls, the mules at Marius’s camp did not stay still and stare but instead signaled for the gates to be opened, running back into the fort to spread word of our arrival.
Before we had even reached gates, General Marius, the consul, appeared atop his horse.
“Soldiers,” he said, blocking out the sun with the back of his hand and analyzing us for some time. “I’m happy to see you.” His back was straight and his head high, his bearing as noble and imposing as I remembered him.
He leapt from his horse, shooing away the legionary who knelt to offer him a footstool.
He approached and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“General.” I snapped to attention and saluted him, as did the rest of our men.
He craned his head and struggled to count us.
“This is it?” he asked.
“It is, sir,” I replied, remaining in the position of attention.
“Well, at least you live.”
He spun on his heels, passed off the reins of his horse to an orderly, and strode back through the gate. We remained in place, awaiting the inevitable hurling of feces and insults, but none came.
“Come on, then,” he said. We followed him into the fortification, trying to avoid eye contact with the mules who gathered around to watch us. When I felt safe to do so, I stole a glance around the camp. Something struck me immediately. Every piece of armor was identical. Every mule bore the same close haircut. Most of them even seemed to have a similar body weight.
“Things seem different, Consul,” I said looking back to Marius.
“They are.” He smiled smugly. “This is Marius’s camp. You’ve never seen one like it.”
“What about the baggage train? All we saw were merchants and prostitutes.”
He shook his head. “We no longer have baggage trains. Look around.” He pointed to the mules training on either side of our path. “They carry everything now. They carry all their weaponry, their own allotment of grain, cook their own food. This is a different legion, soldiers.” He rubbed his rough hands together.
“Adds a new meaning to the name ‘mule,’” one of my men said, and for once, I was thankful for Marius’s poor hearing.
“These men can do all of this because they’ve devoted their lives to it. No more fighting in the war season before retiring to the harvest. These are real warriors. They live and die by the sword... unless, of course, they live out their contract. They’ll be done with their service in sixteen years, and will then be rewarded by the state for their sacrifice.”
“Sixteen years?” I whispered, shocked. It was hard for a young man my age to fathom swearing away sixteen years of his life, but most of the mules around us appeared even younger than I.
“That’s right. For the good of the Republic. You saw a bit of the new legion, Sertorius, but now my reforms are complete.” He turned to me and smiled. “You know this now, and the Cimbri will too, soon enough.”
We walked on for a while, looking around the camp, mostly in silence. This legion felt very foreign to the one I had served in, under Maximus, and I wondered if I was even prepared for it.
“You’ll dine with me. We have much to discuss.” Marius clasped his hands behind his back as he walked, his shoulders straight and his gaze fixed, displaying a soldierly discipline that we now sorely lacked.
“Dine with you, sir? We cannot,” I said. Although we had ceased to care, we were still very aware of our grotesque appearance and worse smell.
“Nonsense. The survivors of Arausio are hailed as heroes,” he said without turning to me.
“We did not receive such a warm welcome from our forward camp,” I said, more to myself than him. He stopped in his tracks and turned to me.
“I’ll send a message to the camp, then. I’ll make sure the tribune is flogged,” he said, as carelessly as if he were ordering another cup of wine.
“Can we at least bathe first?” Lucius asked.
“That won’t be necessary. No Roman matrons will be in attendance—it’s just soldiers, and soldiers smell.” He grinned. He turned and noticed Arrea at my side, her hand clutched in mine. “Naevia!” He called to a girl juggling a vase of water, and she set it down and hurried to him.
&nb
sp; “Sir?” she replied. I could tell from her skin and accent that she was Numidian, but she was clothed as warm and fine as a Roman lady.
“Take this girl to get a bath. Offer her something of yours to wear and I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”
“Yes, dominus,” she said, and reached for Arrea’s hand.
My love looked at me, afraid to leave my side. After a moment of hesitation, I nodded, and we released hands. She parted from me for the first time since I’d washed up on the bank of the Rhône.
“What should we do, Centurion?” one of the men asked me, too afraid to ask Marius directly.
“You’ll dine with me. All of you. I said that the survivors of Arausio will be hailed as heroes, and heroes eat,” Marius said with finality. Enlisted men were never allowed to dine with officers. We were keenly aware that we were unfit for such company.
He led the way to his praetorium.
The roaring laughter of a merry feast greeted us, and ceased only when Marius came to a halt before the table.
“Men, these with me are the survivors of the battle of Arausio. Make some room, they will be dining with us.” The officers at Marius’s table looked perplexed but followed his order regardless. “Bring some more chairs.” Marius gestured to his Numidian slave, Volsenio. “Come, Sertorius, Hirtuleius. You’ll sit by me. We have much to discuss.”
I peered around the table, suddenly keenly aware of my appearance. These men were perhaps tougher than the Caepiones and their lot, but they were no less noble. Their faces had clearly been oil shaven recently, and their hair was perfectly delineated.
I stopped walking.
“Sir, please allow us to at least shave first.”
“No.” Marius grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward. “That won’t be necessary.”
I said nothing more as we followed on the consul’s heels, afraid of what might happen if we strayed too far.
“Well,” he said, turning to us with a smile as we took our seats, “you’ve lived.”
“It would appear so.” I fixed my gaze on the table.
“I’m not sure it appears that way,” a man said from across the table. Stealing a glance at the speaker, I was stunned. He was far too handsome to be a soldier. He had striking features—pronounced cheekbones, wavy blond hair, and eyes as icy blue as the Rhône.
“This is my brother-in-law Lucius Cornelius Sulla,” Marius said, gesturing to the man.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sulla said as jovially as an old farmer. We reached across the table to shake his hand.
“Well, brother-in-law as was… His wife, Ilia, the little sister of my wife, Julia, just passed away this past moon.” Marius took a cup of wine from Volsenio.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” I said. “I met your wife once. She was as fair as she was respectable,” I said, unable to meet the man’s eyes but unable to look away completely.
“The will of the gods. They do seem determined to take the young and beautiful, and allow us brutes to live and thrive.” Sulla shrugged.
“So, Sertorius”—Marius turned his gaze again to me—“or should I call you ‘centurion’ now?” He leaned back and crossed his arms.
“You can call me whatever you like, sir,” I said somberly, but my words still managed to illicit a laugh from Marius and Sulla.
“I went through a great deal of trouble to acquire you that military tribuneship. I’ve never had a man refuse such a kind offer.” Plates of roasted bird were placed before us.
“I apologize, sir.” I searched for something else to say, perhaps a way to explain my decision, but I couldn’t find the right words.
Marius leaned over to his former brother-in-law. “After Sertorius helped my son Maximus get elected to the consulship, I secured a military tribuneship for him. He then proceeded to denounce his commission, become a member of the rank-and-file, and earn the title of centurion by scaling the walls first in a pitched battle with the Gauls.”
Sulla raised his eyebrows and nodded as if quite impressed. “I know some playwrights in the city who could make a marvelous tale out of that.” He tapped his lips with his finger, clearly trying to imagine it.
I said, “I was no real centurion. It was honorary. I’ve seen real centurions, I’ve served under them. I did not deserve the title.” I picked at my meal. I had dreamed of a fine course like this for months, but I was unable to stomach it.
“You led men into battle, didn’t you?” Marius asked, gulping thankfully at his wine.
“I did.”
“Then you were a centurion.”
“Not for very long, sir. All my men died within a few months of my appointment.” Lucius twitched uncomfortably at my side.
“Well, regardless of all that, you are a centurion no longer,” he said. “Look at me when I am speaking to you.” His voice was quiet and crisp. I hurried to do so. “You are a centurion no longer. I plan to make you, both of you”—he gestured to Lucius—“tribunes in a new unit.”
“Tribunes?” Lucius asked, nearly spitting out a bite of food.
“Yes. That’s right. And this time, neither of you will be allowed to resign your commission,” he said with a grin, and slapped my shoulder to ensure I matched his expression. “We are forming a new unit to obtain intelligence about the local tribes and the Reds. You two will be leading it.”
Marius took a sip of his wine and looked at us over the rim of his cup.
“I’m honored, sir,” I said.
“Marius has told me that you have some command of the Gallic language, is that correct?” Sulla asked. It was becoming apparent that the two had discussed my situation previously.
“I do, sir. Although it’s been some time since I’ve used that knowledge properly.” That was mostly a lie, as I had been communicating with the villagers of Arelate for months now, but I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing to if I acknowledged that.
“I’ve no understanding of any language but my own, sirs,” Lucius hastened to inform them.
“No matter. Sertorius’s understanding of Gallic will be enough. We have other uses for you,” Marius said. I was forced to lean in closer to hear his words—the table was roaring with laughter over some bawdy joke or another, but I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the other Arausio survivors were as silent as statues, staring at their already empty plates.
The dinner continued for some time, as did the laughter from Marius’s officers, and the quiet indifference of our men. When the meal was concluded, Marius dismissed his staff, but requested that Lucius and I stayed for a bit longer. Marius’s praetorium dimmed as the light outside faded, and candelabras were lit in the corners of the tent.
“You received the letter I sent you in February, didn’t you?” Marius asked.
“I did, sir,” I said, recalling the several rolls Marius had sent me explaining his first years in service to Rome. “It was very encouraging.”
“Well, that was its purpose. I wanted you to remember that you can seize victory from the jaws of defeat. I’m afraid that the message didn’t land, though, judging by the look on your face and the slump of your shoulders.” I straightened quickly.
“Both of you, soldiers, listen to me. We will require much from you over the next few months. If Rome is to be victorious, I must be able to count on men like you. Can I do this?” He leaned in closer.
“You can, sir,” I said, and Lucius nodded emphatically beside me.
“Look at me with your one good eye, Sertorius. I want to hear you say it again.”
“You can count on us, sir.” I looked at our consul but found that I couldn’t stop blinking.
“Good. I won’t have either of you wallowing. Understood? That’s an order.”
“I have only one request, sir,” I said. Lucius seemed to lean away from me in his chair, leery of what I was about to ask. “I’d like only to visit my home before war season begins in March. I want to deliver word of my brother’s death to my mother, in person.” Marius leaned b
ack in his chair and scratched at his chin.
“No…no, I don’t think so. You’re too valuable to me here.”
“Marius, come now, don’t be ridiculous. We can spare the man for a few months,” Sulla said from the corner of the tent, where he was pouring himself another cup of wine from a bronze amphora, apparently unwilling to wait on Marius’s slaves to do it for him.
Marius inhaled deeply, seemingly displeased at being spoken to in this manner by a subordinate. His face eventually softened, though, and he nodded his head.
“Yes. Fine, you can go. On a few conditions.” He held up two fingers. “First that you’re back before war season. If the Reds return, they won’t wait to initiate battle with us. I’ll have need of you, and I’ll not be swayed on this. The other condition is that you stop by the city of Massilia on your way.”
“Massilia, sir?”
“Yes. We’ve heard rumors of mutinous behavior there, and I need to confirm or deny it to know if something must be done. Consider it your first mission in collecting intelligence. While there, you can buy a slave and a horse—you’re a tribune now, after all, and you’ll be required to have them. That will be your explanation for your presence.”
“Understood, sir,” I said, although I was already uncomfortable about the idea of going into hostile territory.
I waited for two nights, for Arrea’s sake as much as my own, and then we set off once again for Nursia. As hesitant as I was to visit hostile territory, I was far more nervous about going home. I didn’t know what to expect, how I would be embraced by my mother or by my brother’s widow, or what I could possibly tell them to ease their pain. Regardless, I felt it was my duty. And my duty was all that I had left.
The Noise of War Page 4