John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

How does one describe perfection, especially when it is barbaric perfection? She was taller than any woman should be, taller than any man there. She was about an inch taller than I, although my thick-soled military boots put our eyes on a level. Her face was made up of features that should have robbed it of beauty: her jaw too long and narrow, her eyes set too close beside a nose that was too long and thin, her mouth too wide and full-lipped, her lips pushed outward by teeth that were too large. Taken together, the effect was devastating.

Her thick, gold-blond hair fell over her shoulders and to her waist, contrasting with her straight, level, dark brows. Her eyes were ice blue, paler even than a Gaul’s, her skin whiter than a candidate’s toga, her body as slender as a charioteer’s whip, and as strong and supple. That body was rendered abundantly visible by her scanty tunic, which was made of red fox pelts.

You may take it from this that the woman made a powerful first impression. You would not be wrong. Outside the tent she stood there, a flat-bottomed jug balanced on her shoulder, quite aware of the attention she drew and quite contemptuous of it. She didn’t just look like a goddess, she stood like one. Any athlete can look good in motion, but few mortals have the ability to stand superbly. Roman statesmen struggle for years to achieve such dignity and self-possession.

And yet, here was near divinity embodied in a German slavegirl.

My somewhat addled thoughts were interrupted by an ugly smack of wood against flesh and the thud of a falling body. I turned to see young Burrus on the ground. Titus Vinius stood over him with his vinestaff raised. Down it came across Burrus’s shoulders. The stick must have been soaked in oil, because it bent without breaking.

“Don’t have enough work to do, you lazy little shit?” The stick came down three more times.

An officer is never supposed to interfere with a centurion disciplining one of his men, but this was too much. I grasped his wrist before the stick could descend again. He wore a silver bracelet, a decoration for valor in some past battle, and it flexed slightly beneath my fingers.

“Enough, Centurion! He is a client of mine. I was giving him news from home.”

The eyes that glared into mine were not quite sane. “I don’t care if he’s the high priest of Jupiter and I saw what he was doing! Now release my arm, Captain. You are interfering where you have no business.” He seemed to have regained self-possession so I let him go. He lowered the vinestaff, but he kicked Burrus in the ribs with his hobnailed boot.

“Get up, Burrus! If you’ve nothing better to do here than stand and ogle my property, then go join the latrine detail.” He turned his wrathful gaze on the others. “Shall I find work for the rest of you?” But they were already working furiously, looking anywhere except at him or the woman. I noticed that they all bore bruises, although none of them was as extravagantly marked as Burrus. The slave girl herself walked past us without a glance, as if we did not even exist. Even under the circumstances, I had to force myself not to stare after her.

Burrus got to his feet, stooped with pain, his face flaming with rage and humiliation. He would not look at me and I was acutely embarrassed to have witnessed his degradation. He gathered his arms from one of the pyramidal stacks and trudged off.

“That was excessive, Centurion,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice level. “It’s not as if he was asleep on guard duty.”

“My men are mine to handle as I please, Captain,” he said, giving the word an unbelievably contemptuous twist. “You had better remember that.”

“You are getting a little above yourself, Titus Vinius,” I said, as haughtily as I could manage. Being a Caecilius Metellus, that was haughtier than most.

His lip curled slightly. “This is Caesar’s army, Metellus. Caesar understands that the centurions run things. It is we who will bring him victories, not the political flunkies in purple sashes.”

I would have drawn my sword on him then, but Caesar could have had me executed for it. Under military law, Vinius had done nothing wrong. I tried an appeal to reason.

“If you don’t want your men ogling your slave, give her some decent clothes. That woman is a menace to the morale of the whole army.”

“I do as I like with my own property.”

“You didn’t take your vinestaff to me, Vinius,” I pointed out. “I was staring as hard as he was.”

“You’re not one of my men,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Besides, you are a Roman officer. You may stare all you like. Just don’t touch.”

Pulling rank hadn’t worked. Reason had failed utterly. Well, where centurions were concerned, there was always greed. I reached into the purse at my belt. “All right, Vinius. How much to leave the boy alone?”

He spat at my feet. “Keep your money, aristocrat. He’s mine, the woman is mine, and if the truth be told, this legion is mine. I am First Spear of the Tenth. Proconsuls come and go, but the First Spear is always in charge.”

I was stunned. I had never known a centurion to turn down a bribe. “I shall speak to Caesar about this.”

“Go ahead. That’s what you politicians are good for, isn’t it? Talking?” Behind him I saw a dwarfish little man standing in the doorway of the tent where the German girl had stood before. He was grinning at my discomfiture with wide-gapped teeth. He had beastly red hair sticking out in all directions. I looked away. Things had come to such a pass that I could not even stare down a malformed slave.

I turned and walked away. I had a powerful urge to say something biting, but it would only have made me look even more weak and ineffectual. At least Vinius did not laugh aloud as I retreated.

This exchange may seem incredible to people who live their lives around the Forum, but the army is another world entirely. A man who has earned the position of centurion is almost as untouchable as a Tribune of the Plebs. He is expected to be a harsh disciplinarian, so he cannot be reprimanded for cruelty. He may do anything with his men short of killing them. Accepting bribes to excuse men punishment or onerous duties has been allowed for centuries as one of the perquisites of the rank. Only cowardice in battle is cause to punish a centurion, and while they may be many things, they are rarely cowards.

As for force of character and moral ascendancy, such a man has few peers. People usually think that street gangsters and gladiators are tough, but that is because they have never met a Roman centurion with twenty years of brutal campaigning behind him. There is a centurion in command of every century, and there are sixty centuries to each legion. The First Spear is always the toughest of the lot.

No longer hungry, I went to the armorer to have my mail shirt altered and cool down in the meantime. I knew it would be foolish to go to Caesar with anger-fogged thoughts. While the armorer worked, I went over his stock of used weapons. By the time I had found suitable arms, I was back in my customary state of philosophical equanimity. I bought a good Gallic long-sword that was far better for mounted combat than anything I owned, and an old but sound gladius, together with sheaths and shoulder belts to go with them.

In front of my tent I found Hermes awaiting me. He had laid out my lunch on a folding table I had brought, along with a folding chair. There is no more useful object in a military camp than a comfortable folding chair. I sat and dropped my burden beside me while Hermes poured watered wine from my stock. He seemed oddly excited.

“Master, I think I saw a goddess in the camp today! It must have been Venus. Doesn’t Caesar claim to be descended from Venus? Maybe she was visiting him.”