John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

“There’s enough soldiers here to conquer the world!” Hermes said.

“I’m sure Caesar would like to do just that,” I told him, “but we’ve marched ten legions at a time against an enemy and still had a hard fight of it. Still, this army should be able to take on the Helvetii handily.”

“And the Germans?”

“Caesar won’t take on both at once. Ariovistus may have been exaggerating his numbers, but he may have three times as many men as Caesar.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It isn’t good, but Marius overcame odds that great, fighting Germans. Sheer ferocity and courage can only accomplish so much. Discipline counts for more than that, and you saw how they were armed. Those flimsy shields won’t even slow a pilum . Wooden spears won’t penetrate a scutum or a mail shirt. As long as the legions hold their formations, they can deal with greater odds than that.”

“But they’re huge!”

“Just big targets,” I assured him. “Without helmets or armor, they are just meat for a sharp gladius.” I hoped that I was not just reciting a lot of propaganda. Roman armies had been destroyed before, and Hannibal had even done it with inferior numbers. But Hannibal was the best general who ever lived. Alexander’s reputation is greatly exaggerated, in my opinion. Romans are rarely outfought, but we have been outgeneraled from time to time.

But I knew that those wild men had none of the discipline of Hannibal’s veterans. Caesar’s legions would deal with the Germans right after a victory over the Helvetii, when their morale was soaring, and that would make a tremendous difference.

Or am I just indulging in hindsight here? Perhaps I was really far less confident and far more frightened back then. I may have just been putting on an act for Hermes.

“Speaking of swords,” he said, “are you going to get me another one?”

“Not until I replace my own. I still have my cavalry sword, but I need a gladius, too. We’ll see how my luck at dice runs. Maybe I’ll ask Burrus and his contubernium to take up a collection to replace the swords we lost on their behalf. They ought to be grateful for. .” Then, with rising horror, I remembered.

“Run!” I shouted, breaking into a sprint.

“Why?” Hermes cried from somewhere behind me. I didn’t waste any breath on answering him.

The camp of the Tenth was the easternmost. I ran past the others through a heavy smell of new-dug earth. They were still digging their ditches and raising their ramparts. Under the watchful eyes of their decurions the men paused to stare at the crazy, ragged man running by as if all the Furies were clawing at his buttocks, until the decurions barked at them to stop being lazy sods and get back to work.

As I got to the north wall, I saw that all the sentries were facing inward and I prayed to Mercury to lend wings to my heels. I dashed through the Porta Decumana and behind me someone shouted: “Hey! Stop, there! What’s the watchword?” The muscles in my back tensed in anticipation of the untimely arrival of a pilum , but I knew the likelihood was remote, for it can be extremely bad luck to kill a madman.

Through the deserted quarters of the praetorian guards I ran, noticed only by horses and other livestock. As I neared the forum, I saw Caesar and his officers atop the speaking platform, watching something below them. What it was I could not see, for the legion was drawn up by cohorts around three sides of the forum. With a final, Olympic-quality surge of speed I ran between two cohorts and burst into the open amid surprised shouts.

Before the speaking platform stood Caesar’s twelve lictors. In the middle of them, incongruously, stood a painted stone pillar. Before this odd grouping stood the men of the First Century of the First Cohort, dressed in their tunics and armed only with vinestaffs, looks of misery on their faces. But their expressions were as nothing to the woeful countenances of the eight naked men who stood at one end of the double line. First among them was Burrus, who was about to walk between the lines. The vinestaffs were already raised to strike.

“Stop!” I bellowed. “Stop at once! These men are innocent!” A babble of astonishment erupted around the forum and the commands of the centurions did little to quiet it. I ran up to the platform, panting and gasping, and stopped before the odd stone pillar. I saw that it was the grave monument of Titus Vinius. He was to witness the execution, if only in effigy.

“I see you retain your flair for the dramatic, Decius Caecilius,” Caesar said. “You had better explain yourself quickly if you do not wish to join your friends about to go under the vinestaffs.”

I was panting too hard to speak, so I reached into my tunic and took out the silver bracelet. I tossed it up to Caesar and he caught and examined it.

“This gets you a hearing. Come up here, Decius.”

I managed to stagger up the praetorium wall and thence to the platform. Someone shoved a skin into my hands and I choked down a mouthful of heavily watered wine. The next mouthful went down easier and the third easier yet.

“You had better talk before you drain that thing,” Caesar said. Then, to the others, “Gentlemen, give us leave.” The officers filed off the platform, eyeing me like a visitation from the underworld. When we were alone, I talked very swiftly, in a low voice. Caesar’s expression changed little during my recitation. He paled a little when I told him of Vinius’s treachery, but the terrible danger I had undergone seemed to cause him little distress. When I was finished, he stared at me for a while.

“Well done, Decius,” he said at last. “I want full particulars of your experience in the German camp later.” He called for his officers to rejoin us and he gave them, very succinctly, the basic facts of my discoveries. Their expressions were a marvel to behold.

“Well, I always said Titus Vinius was a bastard,” Paterculus remarked, an observation applicable to most centurions. “But, Proconsul, we’ve got the legion formed up here to witness an execution. If we don’t kill somebody , they’re going to feel that things aren’t quite right.”

Caesar smiled. “Oh, I think I can give them a pleasing show.” He leaned over the parapet and spoke to one of his lictors. “Go to the blacksmith’s and fetch me a hammer and chisel.” The man dashed off and Caesar raised his hands for silence, which descended instantly.

“Soldiers! The gods of Rome love the Tenth Legion and will not allow dishonor or injustice to befall it! They have furnished me with proof that the Druids murdered Titus Vinius as a barbaric human sacrifice, and that this fate befell him as a result of his own treachery. The First Cohort, and its First Century, are restored to full honors and their disgrace canceled!” The legion erupted in a tremendous roar and the morning sun flashed from the tips of waving spears. The other legions probably thought we were under barbarian attack. The soldiers began to shout Caesar’s name over and over again, as if he had just won a great victory.

“Wait here,” Caesar said. “I shall be back presently.” He left the platform and walked toward his tent.

Burrus and his friends were so numb with relief that the men who had been about to kill them had to help them on with their tunics. A few minutes later the First Cohort was intact again, standing in armor, crests fluttering in the breeze, shield covers off to flaunt their bright colors. Caesar was giving the gods all the credit, but I took a great personal satisfaction in the sight. It is not often that one gets to see the good results of one’s actions in so dramatic a fashion.

When Caesar came back, he was out of military uniform. Instead, he wore full pontifical regalia: a striped robe bordered with gold, a silver diadem around his balding brows, the crooktopped staff of an augur in his hand. The jubilant legion fell silent at this unusual spectacle.