‘Get that fire out and bury all the traces,’ he shouted. ‘And get your cooking gear in this.’ He threw down a sturdy pole with a Tbar at one end to which was attached a large pack.
‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.
‘That, my hardy little brother, is the difference between a pleasant country stroll and a legionary route march. It is about the same weight as a legionary’s pack, give or take; I have a hazy recollection of these things, so I’ve erred on the generous side.’ Sabinus smiled innocently.
‘I’ll bet you have,’ Vespasian grumbled as he emptied the remains of his breakfast on to the fire and covered it with soil. He tied his cooking gear to the side of the pack and then shouldered the pole, so that the pack hung behind him. He grimaced at the weight.
Sabinus looked down at his brother. ‘Now you know why legionaries are known as “Marius’ Mules”. Considering your fondness for the creatures you should be very pleased to have the opportunity to be one. Giddy up, little brother!’ Laughing at his own joke he rode off, leaving Vespasian to follow.
‘Why aren’t you marching?’ Vespasian called after him.
Sabinus looked round with another wry grin. ‘As I said: I’m not in training.’
They had gone about a mile before Sabinus slowed his horse and let his brother catch up with him. He took short reed whistle from his pack and blew it, paused briefly, and then blew it again.
‘That’s a standard army beat; a steady three paces a beat for five hours with two brief stops for water will take you twenty miles.’ Sabinus paused, took a swig from his goatskin of water for added effect, and then carried on the lecture. ‘That is the speed a legion, or smaller detachment, travels if it is unencumbered by the siege and baggage trains. If they need to go faster the pace is increased to quick time, which is just over three and a half paces per beat – twenty-four miles in five hours. If, however, the full army, with all its logistical encumbrances, is marching then the most it will achieve in five hours is ten to twelve miles, travelling at the speed of its slowest component, which are the oxen pulling the baggage wagons and siege train.’ Sabinus looked down at his brother, who was starting to sweat in the rising heat. ‘But for our purposes we’ll concentrate on being a detachment. If you can keep up with this pace then marching in a full column will feel like a holiday.’ He led off, whistling the beat for his brother to march to.
‘Why do they only march for five hours?’ Vespasian asked after a few hundred paces. ‘Not that I want to do more,’ he added hastily.
‘Work it out for yourself. Where does a legion wake up in the morning?’ Sabinus said, taking the reed from his mouth but not stopping.
‘In camp,’ Vespasian answered.
‘Exactly. And where will it sleep that night?’
‘In another camp.’
‘Precisely. And who is going to build that camp, or do the gods just magic it out of thin air?’ Sabinus was enjoying himself.
‘Well, the legionaries, of course,’ Vespasian replied testily. The sweating skin beneath the poultice was starting to irritate him.
‘You’ve got it, little brother. Digging a defensive ditch, putting up a stockade, pitching the tents and, most importantly, cooking supper will take up the best part of the remaining hours of daylight. That is the basics of a legionary’s day. Wake, eat, strike camp, march, build new camp, eat, sleep.
‘Of course there’s far more to it than that: guard duty, drill, foraging, latrine fatigue, maintaining equipment and so on. But all this serves only to ensure that the legionary arrives, fit and prepared, in the right place for what he really exists for; and that is fighting and killing, whether it be in a small skirmish or in a big set-piece battle.’
‘Were you ever in a big battle?’ Vespasian asked, his curiosity overcoming his antipathy to his brother.
‘The rebellion in Africa was not like that. Tacfarinas’ Numidian army was mainly light cavalry and light infantry. They’re devious bastards, always harassing you, picking off stragglers, attacking foraging parties, never letting themselves be drawn into battle. The one time they did, at the start of the rebellion, the Third Augusta trounced them. After that they changed tactics and stayed well away from a full legion and started to pick on smaller fare. They managed to destroy a whole cohort of the Third Augusta a few months before we arrived.’
‘How did they do that?’ Vespasian asked as he worked his legs harder against what was becoming quite a steep slope.
‘They caught them on their way back from a punishment raid out on an open plain. The cohort formed up for a hand-to-hand affair, but the Numidians were having none of it. Their cavalry just rode around them, pelting them with javelins, whilst their infantry fired slingshot and arrows at our boys from a safe distance. Every time the cohort tried to charge them they just fell back and carried on shooting. It was a mini Carrhae. Most were dead within four hours; the unlucky few who were captured were pegged out naked in the desert sun with their eyes gouged out and their cocks cut off.
‘The Governor, Lucius Apronius, was so furious when he heard of this humiliation that he punished the rest of the legion by decimation, even though they hadn’t been there.’
‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ Vespasian said. His sandals were beginning to rub at his heels.
‘Who said it had to be fair? The legion had collectively suffered a deep wound. Losing an entire cohort, four hundred and eighty men, at the hands of rebels sullied the honour of the legion as a whole. The only way to restore it was with blood, so Lucius Apronius had them parade in front of him unarmed, wearing only tunics. Then they were counted off. Every ninth man was given a sword and had to behead the tenth man, his comrade, to his left. He might have been his best mate; someone he’d known for years, someone he’d shared a tent with, meals, battles, women. Or maybe he was a complete stranger, a young lad who had just joined up. It didn’t matter; if you hesitated then you were for the chop as well.’
Sabinus paused and reached into a bag that hung from his saddle and pulled out a floppy straw sun hat, the Thessalian type popularised by Augustus during his reign. Placing it on his head he carried on, indifferent to Vespasian’s rising discomfort.
‘One of the Third’s tribunes told me about it soon after I arrived. He said that it was the most terrible thing he had ever seen; a whole legion covered with the blood of their comrades, standing to attention, in front of a pile of more than four hundred severed heads, begging the Governor to forgive them. However, after that they had a deep and lasting hatred of Tacfarinas and his rebels, whom they saw as ultimately responsible for their suffering, and they set about the task of subduing them with a savage vigour. Eventually, a few months after we’d done the hard work and left, they trapped the remnants of rebel army in a fortress called Auzera; after a three-month siege it fell and the Third Augusta spared no one, not even good slave stock. Tacfarinas, unfortunately, fell on his sword before they could get to him, but they found his wives and children, who I’m sure made up for it.’
They had reached the top of the hill and Sabinus pulled up his horse and passed the water skin to Vespasian, who sucked on it gratefully.
‘So Lucius Apronius was right to do what he did,’ he said, wiping the excess water from his chin.
‘Absolutely,’ Sabinus replied. ‘A legion cannot fight and win unless every one of its men has confidence in his comrades. By showing that they could execute their own mates they proved that they could kill anyone, and so restored their faith in themselves.’
Vespasian looked at his brother and remembered his father’s words about the principle that bound a legion together; if he had to stand in its ranks someday then he would want men like Sabinus on either side of him.