Nobody Loves a Centurion (2 page)

Hermes attached my red military cloak to the rings flanking
the Gorgon and unpacked my helmet, carefully mounting its crest of flowing white horsehair. The helmet was of the Greek style, with a peak that jutted out above my eyes, the bronze polished to blinding brilliance and decorated all over with silver acanthus leaves. Or perhaps they were ivy. Or even oak or olive. I have forgotten with which god I was trying to curry favor when I bought the armor.

Hermes latched the cheekpieces beneath my chin and stepped back to admire the effect. “Master, you look just like Mars!”

“So I do,” I agreed. “I may be an incorrigible civilian, but at least I can look like a soldier. Where is my sword?”

Hermes found my dress sword and I buckled it around my bronze-girt waist like one of Homer’s heroes. My position was unclear, so I left off the sash of command. We remounted and rode into the town, where I was received with suitable awe, but the nearest Roman official had disturbing news. Caesar had marched north into the mountains to deal with some people called the Helvetii. They had a town called Genava near Lake Lemannus. All officers and reinforcements were to report to his camp with utmost haste.

This was an unexpected development. I had never heard of an army moving with such speed as Caesar’s. He must have double-timed them all the way from central Italy to be at Lake Lemannus so soon. Knowing Caesar’s lifelong reputation for indolence, I took it for an ominous sign.

So we rode on without even pausing for a bath or a good night’s sleep. Our days of leisure were over, for Caesar had thoughtfully provided relay stations where his officers could acquire fresh mounts and have no excuse for tardiness. The punishment
was unspecified but it was as certain as death, for only a Dictator has power like a Roman proconsul in his own province.

Our path took us north up the Rhone Valley, on the east bank of the river. The landscape had its attractions, but I was in no mood to appreciate them. Hermes, usually so insufferably cheerful, grew subdued. Massilia had been a civilized place, but now we were going into the Gallic heartland, where few but traveling merchants had penetrated before.

We passed a number of small, neat villages. Most of their houses were round, made of wattle and daub and roofed with thatch. The more pretentious buildings were framed in massive timber, the spaces between the timbers being filled with wattle, brick, or stone, all whitewashed to contrast pleasingly with the dark timber. The fields were well laid out, separated by low, drystone walls, but without the geometric rigor so familiar from Roman or Egyptian fields.

The people we passed watched us with curious interest but without hostility. The Gauls love color and their clothes are vividly patterned in contrasting stripes and checks. Both sexes wear massive jewelry, bronze among the poor, solid gold among the wealthy.

“The women are ugly,” Hermes complained, noting the freckled complexions, snub noses, and round faces, so different from the long, heavy features admired by Romans.

“Believe me,” I assured him, “the longer you are here, the better they’ll look.”

“These don’t look so frightening,” he said, trying to keep his spirits up. “The way people talk, I expected savage giants.”

“These are mostly peasants and slaves,” I told him. “The military class don’t dirty their hands much with farming or other
labor. Wait until you see the warriors. They’ll live up to your worst expectations.”

“If the Gauls are that bad,” he said, “what are the Germans like?”

The question was like a dark cloud across the sun. “Them I don’t even want to think about.”

Caesar’s camp wasn’t hard to find. A Roman camp in barbarian territory is like a city dropped from the sky into the wilderness. It sat there, rectilinear as a brick, next to the handsome Lake Lemannus. Actually, the word “camp” fails to do justice to what a Roman legion erects every place it stops for the night. First the surveying team, marching an hour or so ahead of the legion, finds a suitable site, where they mark out the perimeter, the gates, the main streets, and the praetorium. With little, colored flags they mark out the squares where each cohort is to be situated.

When the legion arrives, the soldiers stack arms and get out their tools and their baskets for shifting earth. They dig a ditch around the whole perimeter and heap the earth into a wall just inside the ditch. The wall they palisade with the sharpened stakes they have been carrying on their backs all day. They post sentries and only then do they go into the now-fortified camp to erect their tents; one eight-man section to each tent, ten sections to the century, six centuries to the cohort, ten cohorts to the legion—all laid out in a grid so unvarying that, roused in the middle of the night by an alarm, every man knows exactly which direction to turn and how many streets he must pass to take his assigned place on the rampart. In a sense, a Roman legionary, no matter where he is, is always living in the same spot in the same city.

Just seeing a Roman military camp makes me proud to be
a Roman, as long as I don’t have to live in one. It has been said that some barbarian armies have given up just watching a legion set up camp. Next to Caesar’s legionary camp was the somewhat less rigorous but still disciplined and orderly camp of the auxilia, the troops levied on the allies or hired as mercenaries: the archers, slingers, cavalry, skirmishers, and so forth. Roman citizens fight only as heavy infantry, helmeted and armored, with the big, oval shield, the heavy
pilum
that can be hurled at close range clean through an enemy shield, and the short sword that is awesomely effective in the hand of an expert.

“Look at that!” Hermes said exultantly. “Those barbarians will never attack a place this strong!”

“This is what Roman might looks like,” I told him, not wanting to dampen his spirits unnecessarily. Inwardly, I was less confident. A single legion and a roughly equal number of auxilia was not much of a force to pit against a whole barbarian nation. Perhaps, I thought, these Helvetii are not a numerous folk. That should have disqualified me for the office of augur then and there. It is with such comforting fictions that I frequently bemuse myself.

Beyond Caesar’s camp, hazy in the distance, I could just make out a sprawling, disorderly town, doubtless Genava. The men were also at work on another project; an earthen rampart that stretched from the lake out of sight in the direction of the nearest mountains. It lay between the camp and the town, and I calculated its purpose to be to discourage the Gauls from trying to overrun the camp with their favored tactic of a head-long charge. I fully approved. The more barriers there were between myself and those savages, the better I liked it.

Our path took us to a spot perhaps a quarter of a mile from the legion camp, where a work party toiled atop the long
rampart under the supervision of an officer. Their spears were propped in tripods with their shields leaning against them, helmets atop the spear points. The slender javelins and narrow, flat shields identified the men as skirmishers. Their officer grinned broadly when he saw us.

“Decius!” It was Gnaeus Quintilius Carbo, an old friend.

“Carbo! I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you here! Now I know we’ll win.” I slid off my horse and took his hand, which was as hard as that of any legionary. Carbo was a long-service professional, from the rural gentry near Caere, and about as old-fashioned a Roman as you could ask for. Old frauds like my father and his friends put on a show of being traditional Romans, but Carbo was the genuine article, a man right out of the days of Camillus.

“I felt you’d show up, Decius. When I heard that Clodius was tribune and you were betrothed to Caesar’s niece, I knew it was just a matter of time before you’d join us.” Carbo, bless his iron-bound, martial heart, thought that I would be eager for action and renown.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked him. “Are you in charge of engineering?”

“No, I’m a commander of auxilia for this campaign.” He nodded toward the party working atop the wall. “These are some of my men.”

“You?” I said, astonished. “You’ve campaigned with Lucullus all over Asia and marched in his triumph! You should have a legionary command. Why would Caesar put a man of your experience and seniority in charge of skirmishers?” I felt it was an insult to him, but he shook his head.

“It’s not that sort of army, Decius. Caesar doesn’t do things like other commanders. He’s put some of his most experienced
men in charge of the auxilia. You’ve seen this terrain, these forests? Believe me, it gets worse as you march toward the Rhine. You can’t march legionaries through that in any sort of fighting order. You have to take them through the valleys and to do that you have to have plenty of flankers out to clear the woods to either side of the line of march. Gauls like to fight at the run, too, so the advance skirmishers have to be the best, otherwise the barbarians will be on top of you before you see them coming. Auxilia are important in this war.”

“I’d say that any sort of soldier is important if this is Caesar’s whole force.”

“That’s right. I don’t suppose you have any reinforcements following you?”

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Just my body slave, Hermes. Do you have anything you want stolen?”

He made a sour face. “I suppose it was too much to hope. Pompey’s supposed to be raising two more legions for us, but we’ve seen no sign of them.”

Pompey and Crassus, Caesar’s colleagues, had secured him his extraordinary five-year command of Gaul and had promised to support him. If he trusted those two, I thought, he might be waiting a long time for his reinforcements.

Carbo looked me over with an even more sour expression. “And Decius, do yourself, me, the army, and the immortal gods a favor and get out of that parade rig before you report to Caesar. This is not like the other armies of your experience.”

“Really? I thought I was pretty well turned out.” For the first time I noticed that Carbo wore a plain, Gallic mail shirt and a potshaped bronze helmet devoid of decoration, just like any legionary except that his sword hung on the left side instead of the right and he had a purple sash of command around
his waist. Even as I noted this, we heard a series of trumpet notes from inside the camp.

“Too late,” Carbo said. “There’s commander’s call. You’ll have to report immediately. Prepare for a little ribbing.”

We set out on foot for the camp, Hermes behind us leading the animals.

“How long is this rampart you’re building?” I asked Carbo.

“It stretches from the lake to the mountains to contain the Helvetii, about nineteen miles.”

“
Nineteen miles
?” I said, aghast. “Is this Caius Julius Caesar we’re talking about here? The same Caesar I knew in Rome, who never walked where he could be carried and who never lifted a weapon heavier than his voice?”

“You’re going to meet a different Caesar,” he promised me. And so I did.

We entered the camp by the southern gate and walked up the Via Praetoria, which led straight as an arrow’s path through the center of the camp to the praetorium, the inner compound containing the commander’s staff tent, surrounded by its own low earthen rampart. The Via Principalis intersected the Via Praetoria at right angles; beyond it lay the quarter occupied by the higher officers and whatever troops they cared to keep separate from the regular legionaries, decurions, and centurions. Usually, these were
extraordinarii
, men with more than twenty years in the ranks who had no duties except for combat. I noticed an unusual number of tents ranked beyond the praetorium and asked Carbo about them.

“A special praetorian guard Caesar has organized. They’re mostly auxilia, both foot and cavalry.” Other generals used praetorian guards, usually as bodyguards on campaign, but often as a special reserve to employ at crucial moments in battle.
From the size of Caesar’s guard, I assumed that their purpose was the latter.

Before the praetorium, along the length of the Via Principalis were ranked the individual tents of the prefects and tribunes. At the juncture of the two streets stood the legion’s shrine: a tent containing the standards. Before it stood an honor guard, and since the weather was good the standards were uncovered on their wooden pedestal. The guards stood motionless with drawn swords, and from their short mail shirts and small, circular shields you might have taken them for auxiliary skirmishers; but their position and the lion skins covering their helmets and hanging down their backs proclaimed that these were
signifers
and the
aquilifer
, among the most important officers of the legion, raised from the ranks because they were the bravest of the brave.

We saluted the eagle as we passed, and I noted that the rectangular plaque below the eagle, with its dangling horsetail terminals, read:
LEGIO X
. That was comforting. The Tenth was rated by everyone as the best. By everyone except the other legions, that is. I knew a number of men who served with the Tenth, both officers and rankers. If I had to be out here with only a single legion around me, I couldn’t have asked for better.

Two of the praetorian guards stood before the gap in the waist-high rampart that surrounded the praetorium; men armed with thrusting spears, bearing light armor and shields. The rampart was more a symbolic partition than a real defense. In the middle of its eastern wall was the high platform from which the general could address the forum, an open space where the legion could assemble, and where the traders did business with the legion and the local farmers could hold markets on specified days.

Naturally, we were the last to arrive. A large table had been set up before the big general’s tent and all the senior officers were grouped around it. These were the tribunes and prefects, the officers of auxilia, and a single centurion. This last, I knew, would be the centurion of the First Century of the First Cohort, known in every legion as the
primus pilus
: First Spear. Alone among the officers he wore bronze greaves strapped to his shins, archaic armor abandoned centuries before by other foot soldiers but retained as a sign of rank for centurions. At the moment we entered, he was gesturing toward something on the table with his vinestaff, a three-foot stick the thickness of a man’s thumb and another badge of the centurionate. As we walked in, he looked up, and his face froze.