Nobody Loves a Centurion (11 page)

The purpose of the
pilum
is not so much to kill the enemy as it is to deprive him of his shield. With the massive thing firmly lodged in the shield and bent past further use, the warrior can only abandon the shield or else employ it very inefficiently. The commonly taught technique is to nail the enemy’s shield with the
pilum
, draw your gladius, step in, give the shaft of the
pilum
a kick to uncover the unfortunate wretch, and stab him. Most barbarians are too lazy to pack around heavy shields of the Roman type, so as often as not the
pilum
goes right on through the flimsy shield and impales the man behind it. Then there is nothing left to do except to find another barbarian to stab. Sometimes barbarians try to endure the first storm of missiles by huddling behind overlapped shields, only to find all their shields nailed together by
pila
so that all have to be abandoned, leaving them defenseless.

In short, although the sword gets all the glory, the
pilum
is our battle-winner.

The drill with the
pilum
was always the same: step out, raise the spear over the shoulder, then, at the proper range, take one very long step. Back goes the
pilum
, up comes the
scutum
, and heave. To get the massive spear fifty feet you have to use your whole body and you feel the strain from your right wrist to your left ankle. And in training, this goes on hour after hour. The instructor encourages you with his wittiest line of patter.

“Not very good, sir, but at least you won’t have to walk so far to fetch it, will you?” Or: “I think you scared him that time, sir, but I hear the Germans don’t scare so easy, so you’ll have to do better than that.” Or: “Not quite like making speeches in the Forum, is it, Captain? See if you can do it without nailing your own foot next time.” Or: “What did you do in your last legion, sir? Did you have your slave heave your toothpick for you?” At least he was ruder to the recruits.

Just when I was about to welcome death from exhaustion, it was time for sword drill.

“There’s your enemy, sir,” the ex-gladiator said, pointing to the straw-wrapped post in front of me. “Now kill him! You’ve trained in the
Indus
, unlike young Hermes here, so you should be able to dispatch this barbarian without fuss. Here, just to make it easier for you, I’ll give you an aiming mark.” He took a piece of charcoal and drew a circle as big around as the tip of my little finger at throat level. “There. Can’t miss that, can you? Now, to the throat,
thrust!
” The last word snapped out like the bow of a
ballista
, powered by twisted rope, launching an iron bolt.

If I hadn’t already destroyed my arm and shoulder hurling the
pilum
, I probably could have managed it. As it was, I could hardly raise my sword high enough to make the thrust. My point lazed upward along a wobbly course like a very sick fly, eventually striking the stake about five inches to one side and six inches below the mark.

The swordmaster cupped his chin and clucked, to the vast amusement of an assortment of idle bystanders, of whom there were far too many for a well-run army encampment.

“Sir, I think I detect a certain basic flaw in your technique. Shall I tell you about it? Yes? Well, for starters, it’s best if you
thrust quickly. Once your swordarm is out in front of your shield, it is completely unprotected. This is why we gladiators wear the
manica
when we fight in the Games.” He referred to the heavy wrapping of leather and bronze gladiators wear to protect the unshielded arm. “Your point should go out, strike, and be back behind your shield before your enemy sees anything coming.

“But that is not what you just did. Between the time you launched your thrust and the time that your point missed its target, not only did your barbarian have ample leisure to hack your arm off, but several of his friends sauntered over to have a go at you as well. Now, let’s try that again, and this time, try not to disgrace yourself utterly, eh?”

I was, if I may boast, a good swordsman. But I was out of practice and dreadfully fatigued from the
pilum
drill and I had had no sleep the previous night. All this combined to make me look worse than the rawest recruit. Recall that I was doing all this in full legionary gear: helmet, mail shirt,
scutum
, bronzeplated weapon belts, and so forth, with a combined weight in excess of fifty pounds.

If truth be told, most Roman legionaries are at best competent swordsmen. A soldier has a vast number of duties to perform and several weapons to master, so sword drill occupies only a small part of his time. Battles are won by masses of men working in close formation to bring the greatest strength to bear against the proper part of the enemy line at the proper time. Single combats of the Homeric sort are a relative rarity and the gladius is more often used to finish off an enemy already wounded by something else than it is employed in duelling with a specific opponent fighting with similar armament.

But gladiators do nothing except train for single combat
all day long. They don’t have to pitch tents or dig ditches or stand guard duty or any of the hundred other duties of a soldier. Thus the best of them are artists with the sword, and this instructor was going to be satisfied with nothing that fell short of his own standard of perfection.

And so the long morning dragged on, until I felt like a statue made of wax, slowly melting in the heat. Most of my audience tired of the sorry spectacle and wandered off in search of other diversion. When the instructor finally called a halt to my sufferings, I dropped my shield, sheathed my sword, and pulled off my helmet. A cloud of steam rose from the helmet into the cool air like smoke from an altar.

I heard girlish laughter and looked around for its source, but the sweat pouring into my eyes blinded me for a while. When I blinked and swept the worst of it away, I saw Freda standing there watching me. Beside her was the ugly little slave, Molon.

“It is ancient custom,” I said, “to endure the rudeness of military instructors, who have the authority to upbraid trainees of whatever rank. Insolence from slaves is not so easily overlooked. Do not overestimate your privileged position as the property of the First Spear.”

“No need to be modest, Senator,” said the wretched Molon. “Pretty soon you’ll be fit to match against your slave boy there.” He nodded toward Hermes, who was gaping at the German slave girl with a lovestruck expression, utterly ignoring his master’s humiliation. I would have killed Molon, had I been able to raise my sword.

“And what gives you license to speak to a Senator in this fashion?”

“From what I hear, there are about six hundred of you
Senators, and not many of you amount to much.”

That was damnably true. “But I am an exception.” What a liar I was. I hoped the German girl would be impressed, but I thought it unlikely that she knew what a Senator was.

He quirked a misshapen eyebrow at me. “Really? From one of the big families?”

“You mean you are unaware of the
gens
Caecilia?”

He shrugged his humped shoulders. “I’ve never been to Rome. But now I think of it, there’s been a Caecilius or two in charge here in Gaul.”

“There? You see?” It may seem odd that I should stand there, drowning in my own sweat, trading idle chitchat with a grotesque, insolent slave. I can only say that my situation had departed somewhat from the path of strict sanity and even this odd diversion was welcome. That, and the presence of the German girl.

“Romans,” she said, as if we were something amusing, incomprehensible, and slightly distasteful. To my disappointment she turned and sauntered away, doubtless to inspire erections wherever she passed. Molon stayed where he was. He looked around, then came closer to me.

“Look, Senator, would you happen to need a new slave?”

I was astounded. “You mean Freda? I doubt that I could afford her, and Vinius would surely never sell her to me!”

“Not her, me! Would you consider buying me?”

“Whatever for? Hermes gives me worry enough as it is.”

He nodded and assumed a crafty look. “Just so. I can keep an eye on him for you, beat him when he steals, things like that. You have the look of a master too softhearted to flog a slave.”

“I can see why that would make me attractive to you. Why should I want you?”

“I know this country, Senator. I know the land and all the tribes, I can speak the languages. The local people think the world of me, sir.”

“I could see in what high esteem those German envoys held you. If you are so valuable, how could Vinius bring himself to part with you?”

“Well, Senator, my master has plans that don’t include me, and I think he’d sell me cheap. You could use an intermediary if you don’t want to haggle with him.”

“Listen here, my man. You don’t fool me. I’ve seen every Latin and Greek comedy ever written, and I know that slaves as ugly as you are always conniving rogues. Go try to sell yourself elsewhere.”

He grinned slyly, but then all his expressions were sly. “Just think it over, Senator. I think you’ll realize what a bargain I am.” He turned and walked, or rather lurched, off.

“You’re not going to buy him, are you?” Hermes said, aghast.

“I might,” I warned him, “if you don’t make yourself more valuable.”

That night, after finishing my day’s work on Caesar’s reports, I sat in my folding chair and gave the matter some thought while I digested a frugal dinner, helped along by some heavily watered native wine. I found it surprisingly good. It was getting so that anything that didn’t taste like vinegar was agreeable.

Did Molon really expect me to buy him? If so, why? It was easy enough to imagine that he would not want to be the slave of a man like Titus Vinius. If the man treated his soldiers in such a fashion, what must the lives of his slaves be like? But did he expect Vinius to entertain an offer from me?

There was an obvious interpretation, of course: Vinius had put him up to it, wanting to plant a spy on me. I have always resisted such trains of thought. I have known too many men to dwell upon subversive enemy plans of this sort until they saw plots, spies, and conspiracies no matter what direction they looked.

On the other hand, in typical Roman political life of the day there
were
plots, spies, and conspiracies everywhere. One just didn’t expect to find anything so sophisticated and sinister in a legionary camp.

And what did he mean about Vinius’s “plans” which did not include him? I would have thought that a man like Vinius, having no further use for the probably unsellable Molon, would just knock him on the head and leave him in a ditch somewhere. Probably, I thought, it was just more meaninless verbiage intended to obscure his real purpose. This practice is not restricted to speeches before the Popular Assemblies.

Mostly I was wondering how I could get my hands on Freda, and this clouded all my other thoughts. I was around thirty-two years old that year, and should have been past such schoolboy passions, but some things you never truly outgrow. That an entire, battle-hardened legion seemed to share my condition alleviated somewhat the embarrassment of my situation. But not much.

6

T
HE NEXT FEW DAYS FOLLOWED
the same pattern: up at an absurd hour, attend officer’s calls, attend arms drill in the morning, work on Caesar’s papers in the afternoons, drop into exhausted sleep at night, endure the jabs of my fellow officers and the smirks of the legionaries in the meantime.

It was a life that was not entirely without its compensations. Being the laughingstock of an entire army prevents the sort of overweening pride that draws the wrath of the gods. Whenever I chanced to pass men of Vinius’s century, they saluted respectfully and alone among the legionaries they did not find me a source of merriment.

My Gauls visited frequently and showed a surprising sympathy with my plight. For a pack of unlettered savages they were pretty decent men. I only rode with them once during this
time, when Caesar called for a review of the mounted auxilia, of which he was collecting a prodigious force, having scoured all of Rome’s nearby holdings and allies.

Handling Caesar’s papers had another advantage: I was learning everything about his army and its management. Actual fighting takes up only a small part of an army’s time, unless there is a siege. The rest of it is taken up in training and waiting, and the army’s officers have to keep it fed and equipped and paid the whole time. The army’s morale depends upon how well these activities are carried out.

The process of keeping the army supplied and fed was an eye-opener. It meant, primarily, dealing with civilian suppliers. What went on between them and the supply officers was even better than the dealings of the Censors and the
publicani
. The kickbacks were both amazing and blatant, and it came as something of a shock to see how many officers of the army, both legionary and auxilia, owned productive farms or workshops in the Province.

“Do you conceive that this has somehow escaped my notice?” Caesar said one evening when I pointed this out to him.

“It has occurred to me to wonder whether you understood the sheer comprehensiveness of the corruption,” I said. “For instance, here we have one Nazarius, commander of the auxilia archers and skirmishers. He is also the owner of the largest tanneries in the province. Upon arrival here, Caius Paterculus, Prefect of the Camp, deemed all of the tents owned by the Tenth to be unfit for service and replaced them with new ones. The contract for the necessary hides was granted to Nazarius. A legion uses something in excess of eight hundred tents. At approximately twelve hides per tent that calls for”—arithmetic was never my greatest talent—“well, a lot of hides, anyway.
Between the allowance for tentage and what actually passed between Nazarius and Paterculus, I believe that a substantial sum now rests in the purse of the Prefect of the Camp.” This officer had authority over everything having to do with camp management and had actual command of the camp when the legion marched out.