John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

“What of that? Rome produces plenty of soldiers. You are a man of uncommon quality and unique talents, as I have frequently remarked in company of all qualities.” This last was true. Caesar had been known to speak highly of me to people who denounced me as a mere eccentric if not an utter fool.

This was not the Caesar I had known in Rome. He sounded like a man possessed by the urge to conquer. He certainly didn’t look like a conqueror. Tall, thin, and rapidly balding, he looked far too frail to take the weight of an army upon his narrow shoulders. He wore a plain white tunic, with only his legionary boots and sagum to proclaim his status. Between tunic and boots his legs stretched as skinny as a stork’s. “I shall consider what you say,” I told him, inwardly vowing to get out of Gaul as rapidly as I could.

“Excellent. Now go and join your ala . They are quartered in the northeast corner of the camp. Draw whatever equipment you require from the supply tents. Then come back here for dinner. All my officers who are not on watch or other duties dine in my tent.”

I saluted. “I take my leave, then, Proconsul.”

He returned the salute and I walked away.

“And, Decius?”

I about-faced. “Sir?”

“Do get out of that ridiculous rig. You look like a statue set up in the Forum.”

Abruptly, I realized how absurd Caesar would look in a dress uniform, like a mockery of a general in one of Plautus’s comedies. That was why he insisted on soldierly plainness. Caesar’s vanity was as famous as his debts and his ambition. He was having nobody near him who looked better than he.

Morning in a legion begins far too early. Somewhere a tuba bellowed like an ox in mortal pain. I awoke on my folding camp bed and tried to remember where I was. The smell of the leather tent told me. I reached down and shook Hermes, who was sleeping on a pallet next to me.

“Hermes,” I said groggily, “go kill that fool blowing the horn. You can borrow my sword.” He just grumbled and rolled over. Someone threw open the door flap. It was still dark outside, but I could vaguely make out a man-shape against the glow of a distant watchfire.

“Time for morning patrol, Captain dear.” It was one of my Gallic troopers.

“Are you serious? The horses will be as blind as the rest of us in this murk.” I sat up and kicked Hermes. He mumbled something incomprehensible.

“It shall grow lighter anon, and soon the little birds will be singing. You may trust my word in this matter, beloved.” He ducked back out and let the flap fall. There is really no way to describe how a backcountry Gaul talks, but this is a sample. I grabbed Hermes with both hands, raised him, and shook him as hard as I could.

“Wake up, you little swine! I need water.” My head throbbed. Caesar’s field table had been austere, but he was liberal with the wine. Hermes had managed to sneak himself some of it.

“But it’s still dark!” Hermes complained.

“Get used to it,” I advised. “Your days of lazing around until sunup are over. From now on, you get up before me and you have hot water and breakfast ready.” Eating breakfast was one of those exotic, degenerate habits for which I had been condemned in Rome. Hermes stumbled outside. Immediately there came a thud and a curse as he tripped over a tent rope.

I laced on my boots, stood, and lurched outside. The camp was coming to life all around me. The altitude and the earliness of the year put a bite in the air and I wrapped my sagum , which was also my blanket, closer around me. Soon Hermes returned with a bucket of icy water and I splashed my gummy eyes, rinsed my foul-tasting mouth, and began to feel marginally better.

“Get my gear,” I told Hermes, but he was already there with it. He helped me pull the mail shirt over my head and the twenty pounds of interlinked iron rings slid down my body to hang from my shoulders to just above my knees. I belted on my sword, drawing the belt tight to take some of the weight off my shoulders. With my helmet beneath my arm, I went in search of my troop.

I found them gathered around a watchfire, a basket of loaves in their midst, a stack of wooden cups by the basket. A copper cauldron steamed over the fire. A ruddy-haired young man caught my eye as I drew near.

“Join us, Captain,” he said. “Have some posca. It will clear the fog from your head.”

“Good morning, Lovernius. If there’s nothing better to be had, I’ll take some.”

He picked up one of the bowl-like wooden cups, dipped it in the cauldron, and handed it to me. I took a drink, winced, and made what must have been a comical face, for Lovernius and the others laughed. It takes years in the legions to actually enjoy hot vinegar and water, but at least it truly does wake you up.

Lovernius was an Allobrogian aristocrat educated in Roman schools. He was clean-shaven and short-haired in the Roman fashion, but his face was tattooed with horizontal blue stripes. The day was, as predicted, growing lighter, and in that dim light I inspected my men. There were around a hundred men on the praetorian ala , and about twenty in this particular troop. Most were long-haired and wore the dangling mustaches that civilized people find repulsive. They were tattooed fancifully but at least none of them were painted. Over their bright checked and striped tunics they wore short, sleeveless mail shirts. The belts that cinched their shirts were decorated with bronze plaques worked in intricate designs. They all had beautifully made iron helmets crested with fanciful little horns and upright wheels. I hate to admit it, but the Gauls are much better metalworkers than the Romans. Each man wore an open-ended torque of twisted bronze, silver, or gold around his neck.

Despite their tattoos and mustaches and barbaric ornaments, they were a handsome lot, as Gauls tend to be. They were well above the average Roman in height, their height emphasized by their upright, arrow-straight bearing. As warriors, they were by definition wellborn. As horsemen, they knew themselves to be superior to any mere foot soldier.

It is not true, as many think, that all Gauls have blond or red hair, although fair hair predominates. About half of these men had the hair we think of as Gallic. The rest were in varying shades of brown, and one or two had hair as black as any Egyptian’s, but even these were fair of skin.

The loaves were legionary bread; heavy, coarse, and dry. I tore one in two and dipped it in the posca to make it more edible. The men were giving me the same once-over I was giving them.

“Would you care to address the men before we ride out, Captain?” Lovernius asked.

“All right,” I said. I choked down a last bite of bread and tossed my cup to the ground. “Listen to me, you hairy-lipped scum. I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, and by will of the Senate and People of Rome I have power of life and death over you. I ask little except absolute obedience and I promise little for failure except instant death. Watch out for me in the field and I will watch out for you in the praetorium. You’ll never go short of loot while I’m your captain and you’ll never go short of punishment if you aren’t the best troop of the best ala attached to this legion. Keep arrows out of my back and I’ll keep the stripes off yours. Is that understood?”

Soldiers like it when you talk to them like that. It makes them feel tough and manly. These grinned and nodded. I was making a good impression.

The horses were somewhat small and rough to Roman eyes, but we are accustomed to the showy beasts we breed for chariot races. The Gauls never trim the manes or tails of their horses and these were still shaggy from their winter coats, so the impression they gave was not one of beauty. But I saw immediately that these creatures were ideal for the terrain we would be traversing.