Artorius was brought in on one of the wagons of the baggage train, a Centurion in the Cohort marching behind it having thrown him in the back. By this time we were already finished with our evening routine, having our bath and meal, and were in fact just a few moments away from the call to retire. I began to treasure these quiet moments around the fire, listening to the wild tales of the veterans and watching the inevitable dice game which was a feature at almost every tent. I always thought it somewhat interesting that men would almost always gamble with other tent sections but not with their own tentmates, unless there was no other choice. The only exception to this was Didius, but he was already starting to be shunned by our section and was therefore forced to look elsewhere. I believe that for most of the men, besides Didius, it had something to do with the idea of not wanting to cause any bad blood between such close comrades. Whatever the reason, the idea seemed to be that fleecing men from other Legions was always best; if not other Legions, then other Cohorts, and if not other Cohorts at least other Centuries. However, many times not even this was possible, and nothing stops a Legionary from gambling, so it was inevitable that there would be disagreements among the closest of friends. Personally, I was never much for gambling. It is not that I had anything against it; I could take it or leave it, not to mention I had big dreams that only a large amount of money would fulfill so it was not a fever with me the way it was with other men like Vibius, who I swear would wager on anything, no matter how ridiculous. For a while, he was trying to make wagers on which of the men in the tent would break wind next, yet soon enough he found out that there was cheating going on, because in the dark one cannot tell whether the sound was true or made by using our mouth and he was terribly put out that we ruined such an exciting game for him. However, there was nothing exotic this evening; it was dice, and as usual the next day’s wine ration was up for wager, something that was strictly forbidden but always ignored, when Artorius came stumbling up. He was not wearing his helmet or armor, carrying them instead, and his head was down as he approached, refusing to meet our eyes. There was an awkward silence as he approached, because we had already been told that since this was his third failure he was being dismissed from the Legion. He came to get all of his gear and return it to the Legion quartermaster, where he would be issued a civilian’s tunic and shoes, then given a small amount of money along with a document that he was to carry with him that detailed his disgrace. Because he had committed no crime, unless one considered failing to make it as a Legionary a crime, as I did, he was not punished in any way other than having to carry the shame of his failure back to his family, if he did indeed go back to his family. Many young men were too ashamed to do so, making their way to the nearest big city to try and seek some sort of life there. Despite feeling badly for him, there was also a sense of relief that we would not have to worry any longer about whether or not he would hold up in the trials of combat. It also created some relief to the problem of space in our tent, now having one less body to shift around. Still, it was difficult; we did not know what to say to him, only offering a sympathetic pat on the back instead. While he looked relieved, there was also a new look of fear in his eyes, undoubtedly caused by the dread of what was facing him, the uncertainty of a life that no longer held any particular value to the rest of the world. His only hope lay in his father forgiving him and both of them patching up their differences; otherwise he was all alone in the world, with no real skills. Knowing what I know now, I should have realized that he would most likely turn to a life of crime. He was not cut out to be a highwayman, the type of hard man that lays in wait for unsuspecting travelers. Because of his temperament and his slight build, he probably went into a life of petty crime, stealing what he needed to survive, at least until he got caught. Most of those types eventually do, and ours is not a forgiving society like some of the others I have encountered in my travels. Once he gathered up his gear, Optio Vinicius escorted him to the quaestorium, our last view of him struggling to carry all his equipment, with the Optio walking beside him.
Before we went into the final phase of our training, we held the lustration ceremony, a sacred rite that calls for the gods’ favor onto the standards of the Legion and the Legion itself. Because of its sacred nature, I cannot speak of it. I will say that it is a rite that is usually performed at the beginning of the new campaign season. However, since we were new tiros it was not seen as fitting for us to participate until we were deemed worthy of being called Legionaries. After the ceremony for the rest of the army, we tiros were ordered to remain in our places in formation, where we were faced by the Praetor who was standing on the rostra, dressed in his armor and his general’s paludamentum, the scarlet cloak of general rank. Arrayed in front of him, also facing us, was all 60 of our Centurions, all wearing their dress uniforms, with their phalarae, torqs, and other badges of office and decoration gleaming with the strength of a hundred suns.
“Soldiers,” Caesar addressed us, causing a stir in our ranks because this was the first time we were spoken to in this manner, and it took a moment for the meaning to sink in. We had done it! We were being addressed as soldiers by Caesar because that is what we were. All of the pain and sweat of the last almost four months was as if it never happened, just like the last mist of a bad dream dissolving when you awake because of the brilliance of the new day.
“Today is a great day for you, and for Rome,” he continued, using what I would learn was his oratorical voice, which he pitched higher when addressing large crowds so that it would carry farther.
“You are about to be entered into the rolls of the brave men who have served Rome so well in the past, covering both our eternal city and themselves in glory.”
He indicated the Centurions standing in front of him.
“Perhaps some of you will elevate yourself to the glory and rank of the men you see standing before you. Perhaps not.”
He paused for a moment before continuing in a way that sounded as if he was speaking quietly, yet somehow still pitching his voice loud enough for all to hear, at least in the first few ranks.
“What is certain is that some of you will die, if that is the will of the gods.”
This had our complete attention.
“But if it is the will of the gods that you die, it is still up to each of you to choose how to die. And in dying well, you add even more glory and fame to Rome, to your tribe, to your family, and to yourselves.”
It is a curious characteristic of young men, at least in my lifetime, so I suppose that it has always been so and always will be. As Caesar talked of the possibility of death, while I was at the position of intente I still looked at the others out of the corners of my eyes, and I remember thinking to myself, poor bastards, I wonder which of them will die? As I was to learn later when we talked about the speech, every one of my comrades claimed that they had the exact same thought, for it never occurs to the young that they might be one of those unlucky souls who fall before they live to a ripe old age. It is not until one of us actually falls that it becomes real, and from that moment nothing in one’s life is the same. But at that moment we were still young, full of bright hopes and brash courage, and it was the greatest sense of pride I had ever known in my short life when we finished the oath to finally become MilesGregarii¸ the common Legionary in the service of Rome. We were dismissed for the rest of the day, as those of the Legion who were veterans came to congratulate us. Perhaps the biggest shock was the change in the demeanor of Pilus Prior Crastinus, who was the first man to stand us to a round of drinks at one of the shabby, ramshackle inns that had been thrown up outside the camp.