The purpose of the pilum is not so much to kill the enemy as it is to deprive him of his shield. With the massive thing firmly lodged in the shield and bent past further use, the warrior can only abandon the shield or else employ it very inefficiently. The commonly taught technique is to nail the enemy’s shield with the pilum, draw your gladius, step in, give the shaft of the pilum a kick to uncover the unfortunate wretch, and stab him. Most barbarians are too lazy to pack around heavy shields of the Roman type, so as often as not the pilum goes right on through the flimsy shield and impales the man behind it. Then there is nothing left to do except to find another barbarian to stab. Sometimes barbarians try to endure the first storm of missiles by huddling behind overlapped shields, only to find all their shields nailed together by pila so that all have to be abandoned, leaving them defenseless.
In short, although the sword gets all the glory, the pilum is our battle-winner.
The drill with the pilum was always the same: step out, raise the spear over the shoulder, then, at the proper range, take one very long step. Back goes the pilum, up comes the scutum, and heave. To get the massive spear fifty feet you have to use your whole body and you feel the strain from your right wrist to your left ankle. And in training, this goes on hour after hour. The instructor encourages you with his wittiest line of patter.
“Not very good, sir, but at least you won’t have to walk so far to fetch it, will you?” Or: “I think you scared him that time, sir, but I hear the Germans don’t scare so easy, so you’ll have to do better than that.” Or: “Not quite like making speeches in the Forum, is it, Captain? See if you can do it without nailing your own foot next time.” Or: “What did you do in your last legion, sir? Did you have your slave heave your toothpick for you?” At least he was ruder to the recruits.
Just when I was about to welcome death from exhaustion, it was time for sword drill.
“There’s your enemy, sir,” the ex-gladiator said, pointing to the straw-wrapped post in front of me. “Now kill him! You’ve trained in the Indus, unlike young Hermes here, so you should be able to dispatch this barbarian without fuss. Here, just to make it easier for you, I’ll give you an aiming mark.” He took a piece of charcoal and drew a circle as big around as the tip of my little finger at throat level. “There. Can’t miss that, can you? Now, to the throat, thrust!” The last word snapped out like the bow of a ballista, powered by twisted rope, launching an iron bolt.
If I hadn’t already destroyed my arm and shoulder hurling the pilum, I probably could have managed it. As it was, I could hardly raise my sword high enough to make the thrust. My point lazed upward along a wobbly course like a very sick fly, eventually striking the stake about five inches to one side and six inches below the mark.
The swordmaster cupped his chin and clucked, to the vast amusement of an assortment of idle bystanders, of whom there were far too many for a well-run army encampment.
“Sir, I think I detect a certain basic flaw in your technique. Shall I tell you about it? Yes? Well, for starters, it’s best if you thrust quickly. Once your swordarm is out in front of your shield, it is completely unprotected. This is why we gladiators wear the manica when we fight in the Games.” He referred to the heavy wrapping of leather and bronze gladiators wear to protect the unshielded arm. “Your point should go out, strike, and be back behind your shield before your enemy sees anything coming.
“But that is not what you just did. Between the time you launched your thrust and the time that your point missed its target, not only did your barbarian have ample leisure to hack your arm off, but several of his friends sauntered over to have a go at you as well. Now, let’s try that again, and this time, try not to disgrace yourself utterly, eh?”
I was, if I may boast, a good swordsman. But I was out of practice and dreadfully fatigued from the pilum drill and I had had no sleep the previous night. All this combined to make me look worse than the rawest recruit. Recall that I was doing all this in full legionary gear: helmet, mail shirt, scutum, bronzeplated weapon belts, and so forth, with a combined weight in excess of fifty pounds.
If truth be told, most Roman legionaries are at best competent swordsmen. A soldier has a vast number of duties to perform and several weapons to master, so sword drill occupies only a small part of his time. Battles are won by masses of men working in close formation to bring the greatest strength to bear against the proper part of the enemy line at the proper time. Single combats of the Homeric sort are a relative rarity and the gladius is more often used to finish off an enemy already wounded by something else than it is employed in duelling with a specific opponent fighting with similar armament.
But gladiators do nothing except train for single combat all day long. They don’t have to pitch tents or dig ditches or stand guard duty or any of the hundred other duties of a soldier. Thus the best of them are artists with the sword, and this instructor was going to be satisfied with nothing that fell short of his own standard of perfection.
And so the long morning dragged on, until I felt like a statue made of wax, slowly melting in the heat. Most of my audience tired of the sorry spectacle and wandered off in search of other diversion. When the instructor finally called a halt to my sufferings, I dropped my shield, sheathed my sword, and pulled off my helmet. A cloud of steam rose from the helmet into the cool air like smoke from an altar.
I heard girlish laughter and looked around for its source, but the sweat pouring into my eyes blinded me for a while. When I blinked and swept the worst of it away, I saw Freda standing there watching me. Beside her was the ugly little slave, Molon.
“It is ancient custom,” I said, “to endure the rudeness of military instructors, who have the authority to upbraid trainees of whatever rank. Insolence from slaves is not so easily overlooked. Do not overestimate your privileged position as the property of the First Spear.”
“No need to be modest, Senator,” said the wretched Molon. “Pretty soon you’ll be fit to match against your slave boy there.” He nodded toward Hermes, who was gaping at the German slave girl with a lovestruck expression, utterly ignoring his master’s humiliation. I would have killed Molon, had I been able to raise my sword.
“And what gives you license to speak to a Senator in this fashion?”
“From what I hear, there are about six hundred of you Senators, and not many of you amount to much.”
That was damnably true. “But I am an exception.” What a liar I was. I hoped the German girl would be impressed, but I thought it unlikely that she knew what a Senator was.
He quirked a misshapen eyebrow at me. “Really? From one of the big families?”
“You mean you are unaware of the gens Caecilia?”
He shrugged his humped shoulders. “I’ve never been to Rome. But now I think of it, there’s been a Caecilius or two in charge here in Gaul.”
“There? You see?” It may seem odd that I should stand there, drowning in my own sweat, trading idle chitchat with a grotesque, insolent slave. I can only say that my situation had departed somewhat from the path of strict sanity and even this odd diversion was welcome. That, and the presence of the German girl.
“Romans,” she said, as if we were something amusing, incomprehensible, and slightly distasteful. To my disappointment she turned and sauntered away, doubtless to inspire erections wherever she passed. Molon stayed where he was. He looked around, then came closer to me.