As the man moved off into the bright light at the end of thetunnel, for the first time, Julius wondered what exactly he had gotten himselfinto.
Chapter 3
Cold rain splattered on Julius’s face. It trickled down hischeeks, dripped off his sodden clothing, and slid down his arms to fall fromhis numb fingertips. Each quiet breath of air he drew released a puff of mistin front of him as he exhaled, a condition repeated a multitude of times aroundhim. Julius could hear the teeth of Recruit Adueinus chattering next to him. Hewas surprised he could hear them over his own chattering teeth.
The legion recruits stood at attention on the massive drillground, their feet covered in mud, their shoulders struggling to remain squaredunder the weight of heavy cloaks donned to ward off the unseasonably coolweather and the rain. Instead they seemed to absorb the cold along with themoisture as drill centurions marched the recruits around in the weather. Juliuslet his eyes stray wistfully in the direction of his barracks in the perfectlypartitioned Roman military camp surrounding the drill ground.
Although the camp’s layout followed one that had remainedunchanged for the last three hundred years, Fort Tiberius was a more permanentfortification, so black-painted, prefabricated buildings had been erected inplace of the canvas tents used on campaigns. The wall that surrounded it allwas temporary, built from expandable wall segments carried by the men and wagontrains. The collapsible segments could be erected in half the time and were tentimes as strong as a wooden palisade.
Julius realized his mind was wandering when Drill CenturionHaradan, one of the toughest, most grizzled, and intense instructors at FortTiberius appeared in front of him.
“RECRUIT!HOW-LONG-SHOULD-IT-TAKE-FOR-A-SINGLE-COHORT-TO-BUILD-A-STANDARD-LEGION-CAMP?”Haradan shouted rapid-fire in Julius’s face.
Julius’s stomach squished up into his throat and he felt hisknees shake. “CENTURION,” he bellowed, “a single cohort should be able to builda standard camp in three hours, SIR!” He snapped his mouth shut, hoping thecenturion would find no fault with his answer.
“Should? SHOULD? ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT SOME OF MYLEGIONARIES WILL NOT BE ABLE TO FINISH IN THREE HOURS? THAT YOU ARE TOO LAZY TOBUILD SOMETHING THAT COULD SAVE YOUR LIVES IN UNDER THREE HOURS? RECRUIT, IF ITELL YOU TO BUILD SOMETHING IN THREE HOURS, BY THE GODS, IT WILL BE DONE INJUST ONE HOUR. THIS IS NOT SUMMER CAMP!”
The sheer volume of Haradan’s response was overpowering.Beside Julius, Recruit Adueinus released a small whimper that drew Haradan’sattention, and Julius slowly released his pent breath. As Haradan startedbellowing at Adueinus, Julius wondered if this part of training was meant toteach recruits to recognize and hear orders over the din of battle. In thiscase, though, the “battle” was fifteen or so drill instructors yelling,questioning, verbally abusing, and insulting the 13th Recruit Cohort, each onefighting to be louder than the others. And the “battle” was viciouslyone-sided.
With an inner smile, Julius noted that even Tribune Appius,13th Cohort’s commanding officer, was receiving a similar heckling on thestatus of his cohort. Constantine seemed to be holding up pretty well. He evenwore the blank-eyed stare that the recruits had quickly learned to adopt, hiseyes straight ahead, apparently completely ignoring the red-faced drillmastershouting in his ear. He was facing the legion, Senior Centurion Vibius at hisside. Julius had originally been unaware that new cohorts and their leaderswere required to train together, to better foster a sense of camaraderie andtrust. Of course, it also led to a sharing of skills, knowledge, and, in thiscase, blame. Julius allowed the inner smile to creep over his face.
In the blink of an eye, Drill Centurion Haradan was back infront of him. “DO YOU THINK STANDING OUT HERE IS FUNNY, HONEY BUN? WHY ARE YOUSMILING? GET DOWN IN THE MUD AND GIVE ME FIFTY.”
Julius sighed inwardly as he knelt in the mud and droppedforward onto his hands for push-ups. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadtaken a hot bath, or slept, or even eaten, for that matter. He lowered his bodyinto the mud, and then straightened his arms. His body ached from the weight ofthe segmented body armor he’d been wearing day in and day out.
“YOU BRAINLESS WIMP! I DIDN’T HEAR ANY COUNTING. STARTOVER!”
Julius groaned inwardly and started bellowing off a count.
“Never, in all my years as a drill centurion, have I everhad such an incompetent, worthless, idiotic cohort to deal with. I doubt youcould find your bootlaces if you had a manual and a guide! I trust you aren’thoping that being related to our most glorious emperor is going to get you outof this one.” The instructor’s voice was raw, and it seemed to compound themisery of the day.
Constantine was glad that the rain continued to fall. Thatway, no one could see the single tear sneaking down his cheek. He wasembarrassed by the whole operation. Deep down, he knew he had failed in hisresponsibility. Just where had today’s operation gone so completely andhorribly wrong?
The ten squads of 13th Cohort, XIII GermaniaLegion, had marshaled and left their quarters around six on a bright, coolmorning and waited in column formation for the day’s exercise, this onerelatively simple: march to a location, build a temporary fort, take down thefort, then march back to their quarters. The raw light of a new day shone overthem, though the gray clouds promised rain later.
The men were carrying all the necessary gear. The Roman armyhad replaced the traditional wooden crossframe with an expandable haversack,each haversack containing three days worth of rations, an axe, a wrench,several extra nuts and bolts, and that man’s fort component. In total, the packweighed about fifty pounds. Added to this weight were mock double-weight woodenplumbata (the real ones had not yet been distributed), the full complement ofsteel and ceramic armor plating for his shoulders and chest, his helmet, afull-size scuta shield, and his utility belt. Now the average recruitwas carrying upwards of ninety pounds worth of material.
Accompanied by a single drill instructor, the 13th marchedin a line three abreast, with Tribune Appius in the front rank. He couldalready feel the impact the program of constant conditioning was having on hisbody. His arms had gained muscle mass, and his frame had slimmed down. Long marcheshad improved his endurance and fortitude. Today’s march was no exception. Heappreciated that his fitness level meant he no longer focused on his body’sstruggles and complaints; it freed him to turn his thoughts and observationsoutward.
Those may have industrialized agriculture and increasedfood production across the empire, but they’re awkward-looking contraptions,Constantine thought as they marched past massive wheat-harvesting machinesworking the field next to the road. He watched a massive scythe on the nearestmachine sweep left to right through the stalks before it, then followed the cutwheat with his eyes as it was carried up a conveyor belt that rotated it upalmost like a waterwheel into a container in the back part of the thresher machine.The farmer sitting in the driver’s seat waved down at them, and he lifted ahand, then jumped with several other soldiers when a loud hiss of steam eruptedfrom the machine. He smiled at the brief fit of laughter around him.
A few miles into the march, Constantine listened to the lowconversation of the men directly behind him, arguing the merits of themechaniphant versus the combat tortoise. Both machines were cornerstones ofImperial Rome’s military successes. That, plus its air squadrons of dirigiblesand powered gliders, had allowed Rome to dominate Europe, the Mediterranean,the Balkans, North Africa, and the Near East for hundreds of years. Several ofhis legionnaires seemed to have come from the great factories of Brittenburgthat churned out these metal behemoths, or had assembled the heavy ballistaeand steam catapults that armed them. The discussion was lively, and it helpedConstantine, like the men behind him, to pass the time and make the milesunnoticed.