Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (7 page)

“That is pathetic, truly pathetic,” he sighed, with what sounded like genuine sadness, “but since we have so much to do today, we’ll have to work on this another time. Now, I’m going to give another command, to tell you to turn to the right. When this command is given, you'll all immediately pivot, like so,” he demonstrated by pivoting on the ball of his left foot, while simultaneously turning on his right heel, then after turning, bringing his left foot back to its original position next to his right foot. “You will not move until you hear the last word of the command,” he commanded next, which confused me.

How would we know which was the last word?

However, it became clear that this was yet another trick, when he called out, “
Ad
GLADIUM
,” putting the emphasis on the second word, causing at least three of the others to turn in the manner he had demonstrated. For some reason I did not move; I think I was already beginning to understand how things worked, or so I thought at the time.

Immediately, the Pilus Prior screamed, “Do not move!” Then he ran over to the unfortunates and roared at one of them, “You miserable bag of
cac
! I said to wait for the FINAL word of the command.”

“But Pilus Prior,” the man replied, in a whining, wheedling voice that I recognized immediately as belonging to Didius.

Before he could get another word out, however, the thud of the stick smashing into his gut sounded, and I heard him fall, choking.

“But what? There is no but, you
cunnus
, you piece of filth! You’ll wait for the command!”

Before Didius could give any response, Pilus Prior Crastinus leaped to the other two, administering the same type of punishment to them that he had doled out to Didius. It turned out that one of them was Vibius, although I did not find out until later, because he was at the farther end of the line, towards what would become known as the “little end.”

Once the three recovered and were at the original position of
Intente
, the Pilus Prior again commanded, “
Ad
Gladium
……
Clina
!”

Immediately, we all turned in the manner we had been taught, except that now, one of our group, while he had indeed turned in the exact manner that was specified, turned to the left instead of the right. This sent Pilus Prior Crastinus into an ecstasy of rage.

“By the gods, what has been sent to me?” he asked rhetorically.

Running over to the man standing facing the one to his left, instead of staring at the back of the man to his right as he should have, I could hear by the tone of voice that this had taken the anger of the Pilus Prior to a new level.

“Are you daring to tell me that you don’t know your left from your right?”

“N-n-no, Pilus Prior,” came the answer, almost forcing me to look down the line to see who could possibly not know their left from their right.

The response obviously caught the Pilus Prior by surprise as well, because there was silence for a moment, then he asked in a deceptively calm voice, “What’s your name, boy?”

“Q-Q-Quintus Artorius, Pilus Prior,” came the answer, in a quaking voice.

“Well, Quintus Artorius, seeing as your whore of a mother and slave of a father never bothered to teach you your left from right, let me show you.”

“That’s your right hand! That’s the hand you’ll hold a sword in, do you understand? So when I give you the command,
Ad
Gladium
,
Clina
, which direction do you suppose you’ll turn towards? No, don’t tell me, point.”

A silence, where Artorius obviously pointed in the right direction.

“Very good, Artorius. Now, turn around and face the way everyone else is facing. And remember, if you obey an order and find yourself as you just were, you were wrong. Got it?”

“Yes, Pilus Prior.”

Once we were faced the correct way, he taught us the command to march, starting on the left foot first, which made sense because it automatically put our shield side first, and would be how we would fight. After a few fits and starts, and more beatings, we finally got it right, then marched to the section of the camp, behind the
Praetorium
but still part of the headquarters area, where the quartermasters were housed in their own tent, almost as large as the
Praetorium
. Inevitably, we bungled the halting when the order came, which was of course by design of the Pilus Prior, to whom we were taking a healthy dislike at this point. After more beatings, and practice of starting and stopping, we were then told to go into the tent, where we would be issued our basic necessities as a Legionary. I was first in line, and immediately ran into trouble because of my size, when I was handed a tunic, the soldier’s tunic, plus a spare and told to try it on. Instead of hanging loosely in the proper manner, it was fairly tight, particularly across the shoulders. The first pair of boots I was handed were too small as well, as were the next few pairs. Finally, after rummaging around, the Legionary assigned as
immunes
for the quartermaster found a pair that almost fit.

He immediately moved on to the others, passing out their own set of boots, all of which fit, I noted dismally. This was not shaping up to be a great day for me. While the armor I was handed fit, it was also a little snug. Fortunately it was not enough to restrict my movement, and I gave a quiet thanks to the gods for that small favor. Some of the other lads looked lost, and more than one staggered when they were handed the armor and told to put it on over the tunic. We were told by the
immune
to invest in a padded undershirt that was not issued, but could be made by one of the merchants dealing in such items who were a permanent fixture outside the camp. Handing us our belt and harness next, he showed us how to bunch the mail of our armor above the belt so that it would distribute the weight better. Next came the helmet, and once again I presented a problem, although this was more my problem than for the
immunes
. The helmet fit, except that it fit more tightly than it did on the others, so that the felt padded cap that the others wore was useless to me, at least with its normal thickness. I was sure that this too would require a trip outside camp at the first opportunity. In the meantime, the helmet was riding on my head with nothing in between it but my hair, which kept catching on some of the internal fittings. Because of that discomfort, I resolved that I would cut my hair as short as I could, a style that I wear to this day. Hair may be the pride of a woman, but it is the shame of a warrior, at least that is what I told the others when they teased me about being practically bald. A hidden benefit of shaving my head was that it gave the normal cap just enough room to fit, saving me a few sesterces. Even so, it was still a snug fit but I learned fairly quickly that this was an advantage; it kept the helmet from slipping down over my eyes or turning sideways which was a constant problem for a lot of my comrades. Once the helmets were passed out, we were given our shield, not the real one but the one made of wicker with which Cyclops had trained Vibius and me. Having held a shield many times by this point, Vibius and I had no trouble, something that did not go unnoticed by the
immune
, who narrowed his eyes though he did not say anything. The others had some trouble, handling it awkwardly, not sure how to grasp it correctly. One of the others even dropped his, causing a string of curses to be launched by the
immune
, yet thankfully there was no beating, the Pilus Prior not being nearby at the time.

There were a number of other pieces of equipment; a spade, which was handed to us by the
immune
with a smirk and a comment, “You’re going to get to know that piece of equipment very well.”

We stared at him blankly, not knowing exactly what he meant, but he was right. Along with the spade came the turf cutter, our
patera
from which we would prepare and eat our meals, a basket to put the smaller items in, the pack and a grinding mill that was to be shared by our tent section, along with spare thongs and other odds and ends. Finally, we were left with just two pieces of gear to be handed to us, and again Vibius and I thanked the gods that we knew what to expect. Alone out of our group we knew that we would not be getting the real sword or javelins that day, just the wooden sword and practice javelins. Therefore, when we were handed our wooden weapons, we made not a sound, which was fortunate, because the Pilus Prior had just entered the tent behind us, although we did not yet know it.

“What’s this?” demanded none other than Didius. “Are we children that we don’t get a real sword?”

“Exactly,” exclaimed one of the others, someone in the middle of the line, a somewhat swarthy lad standing next to someone who looked remarkably similar to him, although not close enough to be twins. “Aren’t we good enough to rate having a real weapon?”

For the second time that day, Didius was struck down by the Pilus Prior, followed closely by his fellow complainant, and then was joined by the man that had to be his brother, who out of reflex I suppose had reached down to help him.

“Nobody told you to touch him,” the Pilus Prior snarled.

It was beginning to become clear to us that nobody was going to do anything unless they were specifically told to do so, and I made a mental note of it.

“Sorry, Pilus Prior. He’s my broth…” he did not get a chance to finish his sentence, struck again by that infernal stick.

“And nobody asked you for an explanation you
cunnus
,” the Pilus Prior snapped. “On your feet, the lot of you.”

Once they climbed back to their feet and came to the correct position of
Intente
, which the rest of us had immediately assumed, the Pilus Prior spoke to the rest of us.

“So, is there anyone else who feels like complaining about not being handed a real sword?” he asked in a deceptively pleasant voice. Fortunately this did not fool anyone, even Artorius, into answering. “You
cunni
can barely walk in a straight line, so you don’t really expect that we’d hand you a real weapon, do you? You have a LONG way to go before you reach that point.”

Seeing that we had received our basic allotment of gear, he indicated that we should leave the tent, carrying the gear that we were not wearing in our basket or stacked on top of it, along with the possessions we had brought with us and gave the order to
ad signa
, to get back into our assigned places in line. It did not take us as long fortunately, or perhaps the Pilus Prior had just resigned himself to our ineptitude, so we only had to do it once. Giving us the order to turn to the right again, he started us marching towards the far side of the camp. As we marched we passed by other men, apparently in different stages of training, which I watched only out of the corner of my eye, not daring to turn my head. After a few moments, we reached the far corner of the camp, near the
Porta
Praetoria
, the main gate. There were several rows of tents arranged in a square, all of the outermost tents facing the walls of the camp. Immediately behind each tent facing the walls was the back of another tent, whose opening faced in the opposite direction, away from the wall. Across a wide pathway from those tents was another line of tents, whose openings faced in the direction of the tents closest towards the wall. The effect was that there was a series of streets, with rows of tents acting as the houses, although it was much more neatly arranged than most cities. Such is the camp of the Roman army, even to this day. The camp we were at housed a total of four Legions, the 7th, 8th 9th and 10th. Normally the most experienced Legions are placed closest to the walls, but since we were in friendly territory and had no fear of attack, placing was not as important. This was to be our new home for most of the time we were in the Legions.

Indicating a tent, the Pilus Prior told us, “This is where all of you will be living. There are eight of you here; your Sergeant has already been selected, and one man will be joining you shortly. This is your tent section; look around at each of these men, because they’ll be the ones you’re living with from here until your time in the Legion is up. Or until you die, whichever happens first.”

He gave a short, barking laugh at this, which none of us found particularly amusing. Before he dismissed us to arrange ourselves he gave us one last instruction.

“Before you go in, each of you needs to select one other man from your tent section. This'll be your companion, your closest companion and friend for the time you're in the Legion. He’ll be the holder of your will, he’ll be the man who watches your back wherever you go. Whenever possible, you’ll go together, even when you go out into town, so choose wisely. I’ll give you a few moments to do that, then you’re to go into your tent, and with your choice in mind, you’ll select the spot where you’ll be sleeping. The cot that your Sergeant occupies is the one closest to the entrance; you’ll be able to tell because it’s already occupied with his gear. Now, I’ll return in a sixth part of the watch. Or maybe sooner,” he said this last with quiet menace, “just to make sure that you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing and not already fucking off.”