The Helvetian Affair Read online

  But, Strabo reported that the goat’s liver was a healthy pink with a well-formed right lobe that was larger than the left lobe. So, the gods must be happy with what we had planned for the next day. That night, we anticipated our induction into the Tenth Legion and salivated over the aroma of roasted goat wafting over from a tent in the Second Centuria.

  Bantus roused us before first light. He had us dress in our white trainee tunics, without belts. Carrying our newly dyed red tunics under our arms, he marched us toward the Porta Principalis Dextra of the camp. We were assembled just inside the gate in the intervallum. We were surprised to discover that we weren’t the only ones being integrated into the legion that day. Organized into four contubernia, there stood almost thirty other tirones in white tunics. Although we could see nothing outside the walls of the camp, we could hear the stirrings and murmurings of a large gathering. When Bantus stood us at ease, I realized that, except for the guard detail manning the ramparts, the camp of the Tenth Legion was deserted. Bantus collected the red tunics from us and handed them over to a soldier who carried them out through the gate.

  As the first glimmers of the sun began to glow faintly beyond the camp walls, a trumpet sounded in the field beyond. All movement outside the wall ceased. We heard commands shouted, the sound of metal and movement in unison, then silence. We were then called to attention by our officers and filed through the gate of the camp.

  The sight that greeted us there is one I have never forgotten even to this very day.

  To our right, the entire Tenth Legion was assembled in parade formation in full-dress kit. Ten cohorts formed a single rank, stretching off into the paling horizon, their centuries assembled in columns behind them. My first impression was of ranks upon ranks of ghostly Roman soldiers waiting for us to join them in the shadows. Nothing moved. Even the scarlet plumes on the legionaries’ helmets were still in the darkling airs. From beneath the overhanging brows of bronze helmets, I felt the eyes of the over four thousand soldiers assembled on that silent plain, boring into us, measuring us, and assessing our worthiness to join their ranks.

  In front of each cohort, a centurio pilus prior stood at attention. Their transverse crests radiated from polished bronze galeae like fiery red nimbuses. Combat decorations, suspended by leather harnesses on polished breastplates, caught the first faint glimmers of the new sun: gold and silver torcs; gold, silver, and bronze phalerae disks; and silver hastae purae, awarded to those who have blooded an enemy of Rome.

  To the left of each centurion stood the cohort’s signifer, a wolf’s head pulled over a shining bronze galea. The signum of the cohort, an open, silver hand paying perpetual tribute to Father Iove, was held upright above the heads of the assembled soldiers.

  Behind the command groups, the soldiers themselves stood silently behind a low wall of red shields, their bronzed bosses polished to a mirror finish, from which radiated the golden-yellow winged thunderbolts of Father Iove. Each shield displayed a rampant boar, the symbol of the Tenth Legion.

  To our left, on a low, wooden platform, stood the golden aquila of the legion, the sign of Father Iove, the totem of the legion, the spirit of its resolve. Beneath the golden eagle, the vexillium rubrum, the red flag of the legion, hung in the still air. I could clearly see the image of the rampant boar and the symbols LEG X.

  To the eagle’s right, the aquilifer, the legionary entrusted with the anima of the legion, its very spirit, stood as a silent sentinel. Next to him, I recognized Tertius Piscius Malleus, “The Hammer,” primus pilus of the Tenth Legion, with the leaves of a Civic Crown, the highest award for valor bestowed by the Roman nation, entwined into the red traverse crest of his helmet.

  In front of the platform was set a row of legionary scuta, red oval shields identical to those held by the soldiers of the legion. Against each leaned a sheathed gladius, the infantry sword, with its baldric draped over the shield. In front of each of these was a folded, red tunic.

  Before the aquila, praying over a sensor that misted the golden standard and the red pennant of the legion in clouds of sweet-smelling incense, stood a man, his pure white toga covering his head.

  As we drew closer, the words of his chant became clear to me:

  Divum empta cante,

  Divum deo supplicate,

  Cume tonas, Leucesie,

  Prae tet tremonti.

  I remembered the magister telling me that Roman priests spoke to the gods in an obscure tongue, an archaic Latin, a language no one now understood. The priests had to recite these chants verbatim, without error, or a terrible curse would be incurred.

  Quot ibet etinei de is,

  Cum tonarem osculo dolori ero,

  Omnia vero adpatula coemisse.

  We were filed before the standing shields to face the priest hovering above us on the platform. The commands of our officers were hushed, awed. The incense began to swirl around us. Behind us, I could feel the presence of thousands of silent men, watching.

  Ian cusianes duonus,

  Ceruses dunus Ianusve,

  Vet pom melios eum recum.

  The hooded priest in the white toga raised his hands to the sky, speaking in a loud voice:

  Cume tonas, Leucesie,

  Prae tet tremonti

  Quom tibi cunei

  Decstumum tonaront.

  He bent over the brazier and whispered something I could not hear.

  Then, the priest turned toward the assembled legion and removed the hood from his head. In a loud voice, he proclaimed, “Father Iove has heard the prayer, has heard it sanctified in the sacred name of Rome, and accepts your petition! Let these acolytes join your ranks as his soldiers!”

  From behind us, thousands thundered in one voice, “Fiat! Fiat! Fiat! Let it be!”

  I looked up at the priest. He wasn’t that tall, but his long, slender body gave the impression of height. The hair behind his receding hairline was sandy brown, sparse, and graying. His forehead was broad, descending into thin eyebrows. His eyes were blue, piercing, and cold. His nose was thin and prominent. His mouth a black line slashed across his face. His appearance gave the impression of a dangerous weapon: a slender, razor-sharp sica.

  Malleus, the first spear, stepped forward to the edge of the platform and commanded, “Legio!”

  Behind me, I heard echoing commands, “Cohors!”

  Then Malleus, “Imperatorem . . . Adclamate!”

  Thunder from behind me, “Ave, Imperator! Ave, Imperator!Ave, Imperator!”

  “Ave, Imperator?” This priest was Caesar himself! Our commander! The pontifex maximus of the Roman nation.

  Caesar inclined his head slightly in response to the legion’s acclamation. He turned, nodded to Malleus, and left the platform.

  Malleus waited while Caesar mounted a white horse that was being held by a legionary behind the platform. Then, he rode off toward the town. After that, the primus pilus, in a theatrically loud voice, asked Strabo, who was standing behind our file, “Centurio! Do you attest before the eagle that these tirones have successfully completed their training and are ready to be welcomed into the ranks of this legion as milites Romani?”

  “Confirmo!” I heard Strabo’s voice from behind our rank.

  “Legio!” the Primus Pilus continued. “These tirones have completed their training. Will you accept them into your ranks as soldiers of Rome?”

  “Fiat!” thundered the voice of the legion.

  “Tirones!” the Hammer addressed us. “Remove the white tunic of the acolyte and assume the red tunic of a soldier of Rome.”

  We hesitated, not sure what to do. I heard Bantus’ voice hiss, “Strip!” We did, down to our loincloths.

  Again, I heard Bantus: “Put on the red tunics!”

  I stepped forward, picked up the tunic in front of me, and threw it on over my head. After a few heartbeats, our entire file settled down.

  “Milites,” Malleus continued, “assume the weapons of a Roman soldier!”

  Again, I stepped forward. I picke
d up the sword. I threw the baldric over my head and put my right arm through it so the sword was positioned on my right hip. Then, I picked up the shield, threading my left forearm through the leather support strap and grasping the leather grip. I stepped back into line with the rest of my contubernales. For the first time, I could feel the weight of the sword pressing on my shoulder and against my hip, and I could smell the fresh leather from the bands of my new shield. I grasped the pommel of the sword with my right hand.

  Malleus told us, “Milites! Raise your right hands open to the eagle and repeat after me.”

  I did, and again I repeated the words of the sacramentum in front of my new comrades:

  I, Gaius Marius Insubrecus Tertius, do solemnly swear by Father Iove, greatest and all powerful, whose eagle I now follow, and by all the gods, that I will defend and serve the Roman nation. I will obey the will of the Senate, the people of Rome, and the officers empowered by the Senate over me, and my general, Gaius Iulius Caesar, Imperator. I swear that I am a free man, able to take this oath, and obligated by bond or debt to no Roman. I will remain faithful to the Roman people, the Senate, to the officers empowered over me, to the army of Rome, and to the Tenth Legion until legally discharged by my time of service, by the will of the Senate and People of Rome, by the will of my general, Gaius Iulius Caesar, Imperator, or by my death. I offer my life as the surety of my oath.

  Then, the primus pilus commanded, “Milites!Contra . . . VERT’!”

  When we were facing the legion, Malleus acclaimed, “Infantes! Salvete novos!”

  The legion thundered, “Salvete! Salvete! Salvete!”

  When the echoes of the acclamation had died, Malleus commanded, “Centurio Strabo! Miss’est!”

  Strabo ordered:

  “Ad Dex’ . . . VERT’!”

  “Promov . . . ET’!”

  “Dex’ . . . Dex’ . . . Dex’, Sin’, Dex’!”

  “Pick up your feet, Pagane!”

  “Right . . . Right . . . Right, Left, Right!”

  “Get in step, Lentulus!”

  “Dex’ . . . Dex’!”

  When we got back to our tent, we were energized by the ceremony, our significatio. The cry of “salvete” by the thousands of our new comrades rang in our ears. And, Caesar Imperator was here among us. Caesar himself! Something was about to happen, something big. We were part of it; we were finally wearing the red infantry tunics of the Tenth Legion. We were soldiers of Rome.

  I sat on the edge of my bunk, my new gladius across my knees. I loved the substantial feel of its weight in my hands. I pulled it partially out of its sheath; it slid out smoothly and silently. For a moment, I felt I was violating it. As the light coming in through the tent flap enflamed its edges to glowing white, I knew it had been honed razor sharp, and it was mine. Miles Romanus, a mulus, a grunt in the Tenth Legion, the best legion in Caesar’s army—in any army—and I was part of it.

  Bantus burst into our tent. Loquax saw him and tried to call us to attention, “Ad, Pedes!”

  Bantus told us to be at ease, laxate, “You’re soldiers . . . You don’t have to bounce to your feet for an optio.”

  “Boys, I got some good news for you and some other news, so listen up,” he started. “Let me give you the good news first! As soon as you get your quarters squared away, you have a pass to leave the camp . . . Go up to the town, have a few drinks, celebrate your significatio . . . You worked hard . . . You deserve it. Uniform’s tunics and belts . . . Wear your pugiones . . . That’s so these sorry civilians know you’re Roman soldiers . . . Be back here by the first call for night watch . . . Other than that . . . go relax for a couple hours . . . Enjoy yourselves!”

  We all sat there stunned, silent. Since we had reported over two months before, we had not had a moment off, had not been outside the camp walls, except for training. “Have a few drinks . . . Celebrate . . . You deserve it.” Bantus could have said it in Greek, and it wouldn’t have sounded more foreign to us.

  Finally, Rufus broke the silence, “Mammis Veneris! It’s about time!”

  I snapped him with the end of my sudarium before he could continue.

  “Tacet’!Tacet’!” Bantus interrupted. “Settle down! Let me tell you the other news before the celebrations begin.”

  We settled down to listen.

  “Bene.” Bantus continued, “We have orders to break camp and move out the day after tomorrow. We’re headed for Gallia with the army.”

  Mutterings around the squad bay: “Mercule!” “Cacat!”

  “Settle down!” Bantus continued. “There’s been a fight up near Gennava . . . The Eighth held the barbarians off, and they retreated back over the Rhodanus . . . The general wants us up there quick . . . so he’ll be running our asses off to get there . . . You guys are goin’ to stay together as a contubernium in the Tenth Cohort—at least until we get over to Gallia Transalpina, Gaul-Over-The-Alps . . . We’re bringing Tulli back to be your decanus . . . He’ll be moving in with you guys tonight.”

  We were a bit shocked: a fight near Gennava; got to get up there quick. It was starting to hit us that we were going into combat, going up into Gallia comata, a place of nightmares and cold, dark forests, with giant savages screaming for Roman blood. I felt my hand tightening on the hilt of my new sword. Somehow it didn’t seem as substantial as it had only moments before.

  Bantus was talking, “Before you guys head to town, go by supply and draw your tegimenta, your shield covers . . . Got to keep those nice, new shields bright and shiny to impress those hordes of hairy barbarians you’ll be meeting soon . . . Get this place squared away before you leave . . . Oh, yeah . . . before I forget . . . Scratch your initials or your sign somewhere on your sword hilt or near the bottom of the blade . . . They all look alike after a while.”

  IV.

  De Itinere interAlpes

  WE MARCH ACROSS THE ALPS

  Bantus was wrong. We didn’t leave camp the next day, the day of Mars, or even the day after that, Mercury’s day. It was Iove’s day before the augur, the haruspex, and priest all agreed it was faustus, propitious to march. Rumor had it that Caesar Imperator was fuming, but as superstitious as soldiers are, even he did not dare to initiate a campaign without the favor of the gods. Rumor also had it that the delay had something to do with Crispus’ girlfriend in the town.

  Bantus just shrugged and repeated the age-old wisdom of the Roman army: “Festina lente . . . Hurry up and wait!”

  When we did leave, the general had us hotfooting down the road at the double, thirty to forty thousand passus a day, impedimenti, loaded down like the muli we were. Bantus told us the mountain passes would slow us down, and we might have some trouble with the highland tribes, a bunch of thieving brigands who notoriously showed no respect for the Roman imperium, so we had to go as fast as we could while we were on flat ground in “friendly” territory. Although the march to Gallia normally took an army marching expediti, unburdened with a supply train, over thirty days, the general was determined to have us in position along the Rhodanus in less than twenty.

  The first day out we passed through Patavis; by the second, Vicetia had seen our backs; the third day, we marched around Verona, where we had been snowed in last Ianuarius.

  Despite being in “friendly” territory within the Imperium Romanum, each night we dug a marching camp. Most of our mates in the centuria were immunes, exempt from fatigue details, so they went off to perform whatever duties they had, while the rest of us dug and piled dirt. Our assignment was a portion of the fossa et vallum, the ditch and the rampart, to the right of the Porta Decumana, the rear portal of the camp. By the time we were done and the sudes, the entrenching stakes, were lashed together and in place, the baggage train was pulling in through the gate we had just constructed.

  Moelwyn had our tent erected in its assigned place, but we had little time for it. Our contubernium was assigned sentry duty on the rampart to the right of the gate, and since most of our mates were exempt from that too, we had one wa
tch on, one watch off, through the night. At the first glimmer of dawn, we pulled everything down. The entrenching stakes went back on the mule, and the dirt ramparts were pulled down into the ditch, filling it. Entrenching baskets went back on the mule with the squad tent Moelwyn had pulled down. Dolabrae, our entrenching tools, were cleaned and strapped to our furcae. Then, back on the road, double-time, we truly understood what it meant to be a mulus Romanus.

  Along the paved military roads, we marched four abreast at the rear of our cohort, which marched at the rear of the legion. So, furca on the left shoulder, pilum in the right hand, we ate the dust stirred up by over four thousand pairs of caligae and a few hundred horses and mules. About every five or six thousand passus, we got a break and a couple of mouthfuls of water to wash down a piece of buccellatum. Then, back on the road, double-time, about a thousand passus, regular pace for a thousand more, and then back to the double.

  We double-timed through Brixia, camped near Bergomum, and passed north of Mediolanum. I remember looking to the south. There was a slight smudge of smoke marking where the city lay. I wondered briefly what Mama was doing at that very moment, whether she was thinking of me.

  In camp that evening, Tulli told us that we’d cross the mountains near a tiny piss-ant town called Ocelum, where the pass opened that would bring us through to Gallia, south of Gennava. Rufus and I were boiling up some porridge. We didn’t have to be on the ramparts until second watch. We hoped to fill our bellies and get a couple of hours of sleep before that. Despite the extra padding where I carried the furca, my shoulder was aching. I hoped it wouldn’t keep me awake, but after humping over thirty-five thousand passus that day, once I wrapped myself up in my woolen cloak, I doubted Hannibal and all his elephants could keep me awake.

  Tulli had told us that once we got up into the mountain passes, all bets were off as to how many passus we made each day. Snow drifts, avalanches, bandits— we’d have to get through all that merda to get to Gallia. In the mountains, our cohort would be detailed with securing the impedimenta, the baggage train. The good news was that we could dump our packs in a wagon and march expediti, with just combat gear. The other news was that if the wagons got stuck, we were expected to “unstick” them, so we’d better keep our shovels and digging picks handy. The bad news was that the baggage train attracted bandits like a tavern attracts drunks. So, we’d better keep our shields, swords, and pila close at hand— even when we were digging some teamster out of a snow drift.