John Maddox Roberts
Nobody Loves a Centurion
1
I blame it all on Alexander the Great. Ever since that little Macedonian twit decided that he had to conquer the whole world before he was old enough to shave, every fool with a sword and a decent pair of boots has sought to do the same. In the days of my youth there were a number of would-be Alexanders in Rome. Marius had a go at being Alexander. Sulla tried it. Lucullus tried it. There were others who never even managed to establish a reputation the equal of those men.
Pompey came close to succeeding. Since Rome was a Republic, he couldn’t simply inherit an army as Alexander had, and he was too lazy to bother with holding the offices requisite for higher military command, so he just got his tame tribunes to ram legislation through the Assemblies, giving him the authority and claiming that a state of emergency forbade his return to Rome to stand for office. He usually manufactured the emergency himself. Most often, his tribunes gave him command after a better man had done most of the fighting, thus bestowing on Pompey the kill and the loot. But that just shows that Pompey was more intelligent than Alexander. Romans are usually more intelligent than foreigners.
Enemy leaders seldom checked the Romans. That was done by their political enemies at home. Political infighting was the bane of the Republic, but it probably saved us from monarchy for more than two hundred years.
And then again, Alexander was usually fighting Persians, which helped him no end. Rome never dealt with a Darius. Alexander faced him twice, and twice Darius ran like a flogged baboon at the first clash, deserting his army, camp, baggage train, and wives. All of the enemies of us Romans were hard-fighting brutes, who bloodied us severely before agreeing to be reasonable and settle down and pay their taxes. Alexander never had to face Hannibal. If he had, he’d have gone straight back to Macedonia to count his sheep, which is all Macedonians are good for, anyway.
The unlikeliest contender of all was Caius Julius Caesar, and he came the closest to winning the imperial crown of Alexander. To my everlasting horror, I helped him almost get there.
It was a long journey, and a wretched time of year to be making it. Late winter brings the worst weather to the Italian peninsula, and it is no better in Gaul. Of course it would have been much faster to sail from Ostia to Massilia, but I hate sea travel as much as any other sane human being. So with my slave, Hermes, and two baggage mules, I set out from Rome, up the coast through Tuscia and Liguria to the Province.
I need hardly point out that I was not in search of military glory. I had to leave Rome because Clodius, my deadly enemy, had won a tribuneship for that year and was in a position to do incalculable harm, and there was nothing anyone could do about it for the duration of his year in office. Also, my family was grooming me for higher office and I needed a few more campaigns under my military belt before I could qualify to stand for the praetorship, and when the patriarchs of my family gave orders, they were to be obeyed by anyone bearing the name of Caecilius Metellus.
In those days, mine was by far the most important of the plebeian families. The gens Caecilia was ancient, incredibly numerous and distinguished beyond words, with a chain of consuls back to the founding of the Republic. My father had held every office on the cursus honorum, plus the non-cursus offices of military tribune, aedile, Tribune of the People, and Censor.
Of course, I stood every chance of being killed while acquiring my military qualifications. But, as I have said, my family was pestilentially numerous and doubtless a replacement would be found.
So, I made my way up the coast, taking my time about it; stopping to lodge with friends wherever possible, staying at inns where it was unavoidable; attending local games and festivals where opportunity presented. I was in no rush to get to Rome’s latest war. Even in my youngest days I had never suffered from the callow recruit’s anxiety that all the excitement would be over before I got there.
We passed from Liguria around the foot of the Maritime Alps and into the Province, the earliest of our extra-Italian possessions, the greatest virtue of which is that it provides us with a way to get to Spain without drowning. The road passed through a string of Greek colonial towns, in time coming to Massilia. It was a lovely place, as colonies tend to be. When you plan a city from scratch, you can pay attention to things like order, proportion, and harmony. Cities like Rome, that just grow over a period of centuries, sprawl every which way with temples, tenements, and fish markets all jumbled together. Massilia was also about as far north as you could go and get a decent bath. In those days it was still an independent city and calling itself Massalia because Greeks can’t spell.
Technically, this area was at war, so it was time to look military. I already wore my military tunic and boots. We dismounted while Hermes got my panoply from the pack mules. My slave was a well-grown youth, about eighteen at that time, with decided criminal proclivities. Every officer needs an accomplished thief while on campaign, to keep him supplied with the necessities and comforts.
First, I pulled on the lightly padded arming tunic, with its pendant skirt of decorated leather straps and matching straps hanging from the shoulders. Then Hermes buckled on my cuirass. There are two ways to acquire great muscles: one is through years of strenuous athletic exercise. The other is to buy them from an armorer. I had chosen the latter course. My cuirass was embossed with muscles that Hercules would have envied, complete with silver nipples and a meticulously sculpted navel. A Gorgon’s head scowled frightfully from between the massive pectorals, warding off evil.
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.