As with so many other virtues, I failed to match our ancestors in the hardheartedness so highly esteemed in military men. Our old tales are full of commanders who condemned their own sons to death for disobeying orders, even when the disobedience brought victory. This was supposed to prove something about Roman justice and martial sternness. It never proved anything to me except that Roman fathers are a bad lot.
I mounted the wall surrounding the legionary camp at the main gate and began to walk the circuit, making more noise than absolutely necessary. To my relief, the increased guard Caesar had ordered meant that the sentries stood in pairs. That way they could help keep each other awake. There were watchfires inside the camp, but none along the rampart, lest the night vision of the guards be ruined.
As I made my way west along the southern wall, then north along the eastern wall, I found the men commendably alert, whipping around with leveled weapons the instant they heard me, giving the challenge and not lowering their points until I replied with the watchword. Everyone knew that negotiations with the Helvetii had broken off and the barbarians could be upon us at any moment.
When I got to the northern wall, I found the guards even more nervous. They were closest to the Gauls.
“You’ll have plenty of warning before they come,” I said to the first set of sentries I encountered on that wall. “There’s still the great rampart between the camp and the enemy.”
One of the soldiers spat eloquently. “Maybe. But it’s just manned by auxilia. Those buggers are worthless!”
“Most of ’em would as soon kill us as the barbarians. Not a citizen in the lot. And the cavalry are all Gauls themselves. How can we trust that pack of savages?”
I knew better than to argue with prejudice like that.
“What cohort is this?” I asked.
“First,” said one of them. “The First Cohort always has the honor of guarding the wall nearest the enemy, and the right end of the battle line.”
Being on the right end presented their unshielded sides to a flanking movement by the enemy. Naturally, the last place any sane man would want to be on a battlefield is considered the post of honor. Not that any sane man would want to be on a battlefield at all. It is by means of these spurious distinctions that men are duped into behavior contrary to their best interests.
“Any activity from the barbarians?” I asked.
“Not a sound yet, sir. But they’re out there, you can be sure of that. We’ll be dodging arrows and javelins and stones before long. That rampart’s too thinly guarded, even if the auxilia were good for anything. The savages can make it across by ones and twos. Can’t do any real damage that way, but they can harass us.”
“Keeps us on our toes,” said the other phlegmatically.
About the middle of the north wall I found a pair of sentries muttering in low-voiced conversation.
“You’ll never hear the barbarians coming if you keep that up,” I said when I was ten feet away. They turned around rather stiffly and raised their weapons.
“Watchword!” one of them challenged, barely above a whisper.
“Hercules unconquered,” I replied as quietly. No sense making the enemy a gift of the watchword.
“Patron!” said the challenger. “I didn’t know you had officer of the guard tonight.”
“Burrus? Is this the First Century’s section?”
“It is tonight. Each man is supposed to pull sentry duty every third night. Nobody will get much sleep now that the guard’s doubled.” He jerked his head toward the other man. A pilum in one hand and a massive scutum on the other arm limit the possibilities for gesticulation. “This is Marcus Quadratus. He’s in my contubernium.”
The other man’s helmet bobbed. “Good evening, Senator. Burrus never tires of telling us that his family are clients of the Metelli.”
“Arpinum?” I hazarded, guessing at his accent.
He grinned. “That’s right. Home town of Cicero and Caius Marius.”
“What was it Homer said of Ithaca?” I mused. “ ‘A small place, but a good breeder of men.’ “ The man moved as stiffly as Burrus and I presumed it was for the same reason. “You seem to have received the personal attention of your centurion just like Burrus.”
Quadratus glanced sidelong at Burrus, who nodded.
“He’s broken three vinestaffs over my back in the last five days. His option’s taken to carrying a bundle of them under his arm and passing him a new one when he breaks one over somebody.”
“Is the whole century getting this treatment?” I asked. Even for a senior centurion this was extreme behavior.
“He’s rough on everybody,” Burrus said, “but it’s just our contubernium that’s singled out for special punishment.”
“But why? Is it always the woman? Is your tent closest to his, giving you more opportunity to appreciate her?”
Quadratus managed a rueful smile. “No, she’s just an excuse. He’ll find a speck of rust on our mail at morning inspection, or somebody’s marching out of step. The woman’s the best reason to get flogged, though. At least then you’re getting something for the punishment you absorb.”
“Why does he have it in for your contubernium?”
“Don’t think we haven’t asked ourselves, sir,” Burrus said. “Some think he’s just insane, but I think he’s using us to make a point and cement his control of the Tenth.”
“How is that?” I asked, mystified as always by legion politics, which can be every bit as complicated and cutthroat as the Forum kind. Burrus enlightened me.
“He’s only been primus pilus since Caesar took over a little more than a month ago. That was when Caius Facilis, the old First Spear, retired. It always takes a while for the men to accept a new man as the one with the power of life and death. I think he’s trying to drive us to mutiny.”
“Executing a whole contubernium would drive the point home pretty thoroughly,” Quadratus said. “I don’t think anyone would question his authority after that.”
I had heard horror stories like this before, but it was disquieting to run across an example firsthand, if they were correct. The oddest thing was that they did not act as if this were anything especially atrocious: just one of the many hazards of soldiering, like wounds and inclement weather and being captured by barbarians for torture and human sacrifice.
“It’s happened before,” Burrus said, reading my thoughts. “But never in the Tenth.”
“Has Vinius always been here in the Tenth?” I asked. Some men spent their whole careers in a single legion, but senior officers were sometimes transferred.
“No,” Burrus said. “He was with Caesar in Spain a few years ago, one of the first order centurions in the Seventh.” This meant he had been one of the centurions of the First, Second, and Third cohorts, who were senior to the other centurions of the legion. At least, this was how it was back then. I understand things have changed since the First Citizen’s military reforms. I hope the changes have been for the better, but I doubt it.
“Why did Caesar want him in particular?”
“You don’t make the first order without being good at your job,” Quadratus opined. “He’s a good soldier, at least on the march and in camp. We haven’t seen him in battle yet.”
“And,” Burrus added, “he has a set of phalerae that he wears for ceremonial parades. They don’t award those for good behavior.”
Phalerae are massive, circular medallions worn mounted on a strap harness and worn over the armor. They are decorations awarded for extraordinary valor, so awe-inspiring that men who won them actually wore them into battle, although they were nothing but an encumbrance and extra weight.