I almost damned myself to dismissal from the Legions or worse when I opened my mouth, because I was about to blurt out my true age. Thank the gods that I stopped myself in time.
“Twenty-one, sir.”
For a moment, my heart plummeted into my feet as his eyes narrowed, giving me a look that I was sure meant that he did not believe me. My relief was almost overwhelming when he replied, “So you were just born then, it took me a moment to add it up. Must be old age,” he laughed and I laughed with him, the feeling of escape washing through me.
“Still, it’s a remarkable achievement for one of your age, Pullus. I told you once I expected great things from you, and you have not disappointed me. Continue to serve me as you have in these campaigns, and you have a very bright future indeed.”
I promised that I would always strive to serve him as I had in the past and that he could always count on me whenever he called, something he accepted with a nod, indicating that such devotion was no more than his due, then our moment was over as he moved to the next man. Once finished, we were dismissed to go back to our place in the formation. Tradition decreed that I would continue to wear the coronacivica for the rest of the day, which I was happy to do, but I must admit that it felt a little strange to be standing in formation with my friends bareheaded, my helmet under my left arm.
Out of the side of his mouth, Scribonius spoke quietly, “I've never properly thanked you for what you did Titus,” using my praenomen, which in itself was rare, at least up to that point. “I’ll forever be in your debt, and the only way I can repay you is to let you know that if ever you need me, for anything, all you have to do is ask.”
A lump formed in my throat at his words, and I couldn’t trust myself to speak, so I merely nodded that I heard him.
Caesar left us behind to build our winter quarters and settle into our garrison routine, which some of the men enjoyed after living under a tent for so many months, but I personally abhorred. I hated the idea of doing nothing, which is what I considered we did in the winter months. Once the gear was mended or replaced, there was nothing but boredom and talk of how drunk we would get that night. This was the farthest north we ever spent a winter to that point, and I for one was not looking forward to the bitter cold. Even in the high summer months, the larger mountains still have snow covering their peaks, so I was sure that we would see more snow and bitter cold than we had ever experienced to that point, and that it would last longer. I was right on both counts; no matter how hard we tried, we could never seem to successfully chink the cracks between the rough boards that made our huts, so that the wind would come whistling through in an icy blast that always seemed to seek me out no matter what part of the hut I was in. Whenever it was our turn to stand guard, we bundled up with every piece of extra clothing we could find, and for the first time I began wearing the
bracae that is part of everyday dress for Gauls, but was only allowed for our use during the cold winter months. Our sagum was all we had to keep out the elements, and it was not long before the tradesmen in town started doing a brisk business in selling regulation sagum, waterproofed on the outside in the normal fashion, but lined with animal fur on the inside. It was never allowed for parades or inspections, yet soon every man I knew spent some of their own money on purchasing such a garment. Gloves were not allowed, so we wore socks, which were allowed, on both our feet and our hands. They may not have looked very soldierly, but we had never been in cold like this before. Those townspeople who initially welcomed our presence began to tire of us because of the trouble that invariably followed some Legionaries around, like Atilius who, now that he was off of campaign, began to resort to his old ways of drinking and fighting. It did not help that the army tended to attract a certain class of people that the respectable townsfolk would under any other circumstances have nothing to do with; the fact that they were Roman did not help. While we were originally welcomed as rescuers coming to the aid of the Gauls in this area, once the crisis was averted and we did not leave, the warm feelings that our presence initially generated began to degrade and chill, with much the same speed as the weather outside. It was not long before things became tense, and there were fights between townspeople and soldiers, which was bad enough. Then Atilius killed the son of the headsman of the town in a drunken brawl. This time he was not going to get away with extra duties or shoveling out the latrine; the man he killed was too important politically for such a light punishment. The only thing saving his life were enough witnesses that were not Roman Legionaries who testified that at the very least, it was a situation where it was mutual combat, with more than one townsperson saying that in fact the son of the headsman was the aggressor. No matter what really happened, something had to be done, an example had to be made, which is why we found ourselves standing, shivering in the cold in full dress uniform, with our Century forced to stand in the front rank closest to where the punishment was to be carried out. Atilius was led out by two burly veterans in the provost unit, stripped to the waist, his torso standing out oddly white against the brown of his arms, legs and face. He had been kept under close guard so that none of us could sneak him some wine to dull his senses, and we were thankful that he could at least ascribe the severe shaking of his body to the bitter cold. The snow lay thick on the ground, and we could hear the crunching of their feet on the snow as they half-dragged Atilius to the wooden frame placed in the middle of the forum. Each guard took an arm, pulling him over the frame so that his back was exposed before tying his arms down to the upper part of the frame, then lashing his legs to the poles that supported the frame on the ground. Once in position, one of the provosts offered Atilius a gag made of a stick wrapped in leather for him to bite down on, and Atilius opened his mouth to accept it, his jaws clenching as he bit down. Labienus, serving in his capacity as our Legate since Caesar was elsewhere, then read the charge and sentence aloud for all of us to hear, with Atilius' punishment being ten lashes with the scourge. If it had been 20 or more lashes, it would have killed him; ten would be enough to almost kill him. Also present at the punishment was a group of townspeople, including an older heavyset bearded man, dressed in a rich fur cloak and fine brocaded tunic, his long hair pulled back in the Gallic style. Figuring him to be the father of the dead man, we deduced that he was here fulfilling two purposes, first as the representative of the injured party, and second as the headman of the town. There were a few other folk as well who I took to be members of his council. The Gallic chief’s face was set in stone, betraying neither grief nor delight at the sight of Atilius stripped bare and humiliated in this fashion. The man brandishing the scourge was not as tall as me, but he was heavily muscled, and clearly used to administering punishments up to and including execution. Unless, of course, the crime was such that the condemned man’s comrades were the ones detailed to carry it out. We had attended a few floggings with the scourge, yet this was the first of anyone we knew, and I could feel the tension vibrating among us as the man with the lash prepared himself to administer the punishment, swinging his arm in a circular motion to loosen his muscles, the strands of the scourge whistling in the air as he did so. The sound of it cutting through the air was a sound we could all plainly hear, and clearly so could Atilius, his shaking becoming more pronounced as his eyes widened in terror. My stomach formed into a hard knot as I watched, knowing that he had to be punished yet not liking it one bit. Now that he was warmed up the punisher turned sideways, his arm bent at the elbow, forearm parallel to the ground and the braids of the scourge trailing in the snow. With a smooth, fluid motion, he brought his now-straightened arm overhand as he stepped forward, bringing the scourge in a full circle in the air to bring the lashes down on Atilius’ back with a sickening wet slapping sound. Immediately Atilius let out a scream that was audible even through the gag and despite myself, I winced at the sound and sight of the bloody red stripes on his back, punctuated by deeper indentations where the pieces of metal that are embedded in each lash had dug out small chunks of his flesh from his back.