Seize the Day, page 4
After the watch was over, Marcus offered Septimus some more wine. It was no longer cold, but wine was wine, always comforting to a soldier. Marcus looked toward the punishment block, but the crucifix was empty. “What happened to Philip?”
“They took him down,” Septimus replied, “at the beginning of my watch.”
“Was he still alive?”
“He was still groaning,” Septimus said, his voice unsympathetic. A soldier had few possessions without a thief taking some.
“Then he’ll survive,” Marcus concluded, waving his friend a desultory goodbye as he left the guard post.
It was a relief to get out of the heat and brightness of the day into the relative comfort of the interior. He went to the mess hall to scavenge some fruit. It was still a while before mealtime, but his stomach was complaining already and he hoped to fill it with something sweet, an orange or a pomegranate. A commotion in the back caught his attention, and against his better judgement he joined it. A tight group of legionnaires were indulging in a soldier’s favorite pastime, gambling. But what kind of gambling? Marcus pressed to the fore, curious.
A solid circle, about a step across, was pegged into the sand. “Circus Maximus,” an Ethiopian explained, gesturing proudly at the structure. Inside were two scorpions facing each other. One was daubed with a drop of blue, the other with red. Two legionnaires were prodding the insects with long grass stalks, inciting them. The creatures were fully aroused and irritable, facing each other, pincers to the fore, tails poised and the poisonous barbs erect. The running odds were favoring the red somewhat, but Marcus could not discover why. All around, the men crowded the ring, their faces sharpened by suppressed excitement.
The red suddenly charged the blue and locked a pincer around its thorax. The other struck with its stinger but somehow the red parried the blow. Both were now fully committed, each holding off the other, not daring to let go. The legs scrambled in the sand and they rolled about, locked in a death grip.
“Two denari on the red,” someone shouted, his eyes bugging out with excitement, “at three to two odds.”
“Taken.” The legion’s trumpeter jumped to accept.
The two insects were grappling with each other, trying for a more advantageous grip. Their bodies intertwined, rolling and thrashing about on the sand. The tails curved dangerously, snapped forward, but the posture was so awkward as to make one unable to reach the other. Shouts greeted each effort as the battle raged in fits.
In the excitement, Marcus bet two sesterces that he did not have on the red. He broke into a sweat, his eyes riveted on the action. However, both insects were visibly tiring, their spasmodic efforts coming at longer intervals, in-between hardly moving at all. Their legs dug into the sand and their bodies twitched, straining to get at the other.
The action remained frozen for a time. The men complained; they wanted to see combat, not gaze at statues. Finally the Belgian reached in with a twig to put some motivation into the fighters. It produced an instant response as both combatants redoubled their efforts. But the red mistook the twig for an attack and in trying to escape it, it opened itself up to a thrust from the flank and the blue stung him between the exposed joints of the carapace. Cheers mixed freely with groans and curses as all awaited the outcome. The red held on for a bit, then slowly, inexorably succumbed to the frenzied attacks of the blue. Then the red moved no more.
The blue was declared the winner. Bets were settled quickly. Marcus had to make promises to pay by the end of next week.
Gambling was a problem. Not the gambling itself, a pastime, but the indebtedness that resulted from it. One not only had to win, but also had to collect, which was gambling of a different sort. Then of course there was always the necessity of paying one’s gambling debts, or risk life and limb.
Only recently Gamba, a Visigoth, had lost a bet to a Sicilian auxiliary. Gamba refused to pay the fourteen denari he owed, although the Sicilian was after him constantly for a fortnight. Then in the middle of a night, four men jumped Gamba coming back from the tavern, drunk, overpowered him and cut off both his thumbs. When he healed they cashiered him out of the army, for he could not hold a sword well or even a spear. Marcus thought of his own 20 years of service yet to go and thought the man lucky to be let off so early. But the man drank away his severance pay in a local tavern and was thrown out of the inn when his money ran out. Gamba the Dark drifted away, bereft of direction and purpose, and disappeared from everyone's life.
Most times Marcus managed not to gamble, as his daily stipend did not allow him much extra anyway. What little was left over from food, from laundry costs, and a little wine in the evenings, he did not trust to the dice. But this battle of the scorpions was just too tempting to resist. Luck was a blessing or a curse, and only a fool trusted it, Septimus never tired of telling him, but then Septimus did not have a lucky mark. Marcus had only to restore its potency, that was all.
Dejected, as now he owed two sesterces and tomorrow his daily ration of wine to the clerk, he returned to his barracks. To avoid another temptation, he threw himself on his cot, closed his eyes, and with the practised ease of a veteran, fell asleep. At least sleeping, one could escape this place but lately even that did not work; he dreamed of standing watch or being on duty, stifled by the heat and drowning in sand. He must get his good luck back. Maybe Cordelia could get his medallion re-inscribed and then things would improve.
Marcus was shaken roughly awake. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and found Septimus grinning down at him. “I know you were dreaming of young dancing girls prancing around for your pleasure, but it’s time for the evening exercises. It wouldn’t do to keep the whole Maniple waiting.”
On the parade ground the whole garrison took up formation, as it did in the coolness of every morning and every evening. The IInd Maniple of the IIIrd Legion stood at attention in blocks of centuri, each made up of ten tent-units of eight men. Marcus had Caio on his right and Septimus on his left. The eight-man unit serving with him was called a tent even though they were housed in barracks here. They were led by Decurion Castor.
In crisp tones the Decurion reported to the Centurion who reported to the Adjutant of the Prefect, accounting for the 160 men assembled, minus the watch, of course. Bored, the Adjutant took their report and dismissed them as soon as he could. He was a spoiled scion of a patriarch family, although unfortunately for him, not important enough to secure him a better posting. Mauritania on Africa’s north coast, for heaven’s sake! But perhaps tomorrow orders would arrive by the weekly dispatch to release him from the boredom of this place. The army subsisted on discipline, but soldiers, regardless of rank, subsisted on hope.
The unit reassembled for exercises on the far end of the parade ground. They formed into a skirmish line, tightly together, shields solidly interlocked. On command they threw their javelins. As always Septimus threw the farthest, a point of great pride with him. Marcus’ missile landed in the better half of their efforts. Marcus cursed: better was not good enough for him. He gritted his teeth as he cast the next javelin, improving on his first attempt. Decurion Castor berated them for their lacklustre efforts, claiming women and children could do better. “I just don’t know what you worthless lot are thinking! We meet the enemy and you do what? Shoo flies from them? Lick their boots? Kiss their behinds? . . . Exert yourselves!” The javelins flew, not particularly encouraged by the tirade.
Next there was some close-in work with the short-bladed gladius. Marcus pushed, shield on shield, against the immovable bulk of the Nubian. Caio grinned down at him, his white teeth shining in his black face. “Push little man! Push!” Frustrated, Marcus slashed out with the wooden practise sword. Caio’s shield easily absorbed the blow, but the Decurion was on Marcus, yelling, “How many times must I tell you, a gladius is for stabbing. Get close to your opponent and stick it in his stomach then twist upward, slicing him open. Otherwise the enemy will slash you to shreds with his longer sword. So get close to him, get inside his swing and stab. With the point, you dolt! Just so!” Unexpectedly he slammed his shield into Caio, sending the big man falling backward. Straightway the Decurion was on top of the Nubian, knee on the man’s throat, pressing down, choking him. Decurion Castor flashed a delighted smirk, sword point poised above the Nubian’s eyes. “You’re dead!” The Decurion loved his work, making his people miserable.
Caio was mad and took it out on Marcus, who was soon on the ground, trying vainly to hold off the furious onslaught of the Nubian. Picking himself up from the dust, Marcus felt frustrated. He had to find something to excel in! He did a little better against the Belgian who was merely going through the motions. Strangely, the Decurion seemed to overlook his lackadaisical efforts. What did the Belgian have on the Decurion? Marcus wondered, wiping the perspiration from his face.
A pause was called and everyone rushed to get something to drink, even water. Marcus collapsed among his tent-unit. The veterans complained of the strict regime. “Who is going to attack us here? You think the pirates would want any of this? Nothing but sand, scorpions and fleas.”
Sagging against a parapet, Marcus grumbled to Septimus, “I really should join one of the auxiliary units. Look at the archers; they get almost double the pay that we receive.”
“Yes, but they are all foreigners,” Septimus reminded his friend. “The cavalry is mostly Celt or German, the archers are Syrians, and the slingers are from Iberia. Think they would want you? You don’t speak their language.” They had often had this conversation before, which had become somewhat ritualized, mostly to fill the waiting. “There are the engineers and they work all the time, building, constructing something. Not for extra pay either, just for a little better rations. They are no better off than slaves. The state uses the army as a cheap labor force, to maintain the roads and bridges, ports and fortifications, working them to death. What kind of life is that? The artillery is no better, stuck with lumbering machines, the ballista and onagers. No thanks. Too much work there too. That leaves only the quartermaster core, but that is too difficult to get into without some influence.”
“There are the signalmen and the standard-bearers,” Marcus pointed out.
“You don’t play the trumpet and you have to earn by some heroic deed the honor of carrying the standard.”
“A courier then?”
“How many times must I tell you, don’t even think of it? Day and night on the road, in good weather or bad, half the time chased by bandits or insurgents.”
“Then perhaps a cook?”
“That’s no good either. Have you ever seen a cook who wasn’t fat, too heavy to carry his own weight?” Septimus dismissed that option too.
“Maybe I should learn to write,” Marcus mused, remembering what the clerk had said.
That was new enough to give Septimus pause to consider. “Then you’d better learn to read as well, for the one goes with the other.”
The respite was over and they formed up into centuri and charged back and forth across the parade ground stirring up more dust in their wake.
Stuck between a solid block of men, with armor clanking and feet pounding, Marcus felt the awesome power of the Roman army. To a single voiced command, the trumpets blared the orders, and the formations stopped, wheeled and assumed a new posture. The shield-wall closed and on signal the soldiers threw a devastating volley of javelins, then surged forward to engage the enemy in close combat. Like a nest of wasps, the legionnaires swarmed the opponents, the short gladius stabbing in the press where there was no space to swing a sword. Line after line charged the enemy, sweeping away what remained until the battle was won. And every legion, every cohort and every maniple responded to the same drill with intimidating uniformity. Therein was the full terror of the Roman might . . . that and, of course, the paper trail it left behind, Marcus added to himself. But on the practice field the paper did not have the same weight as in the clerk’s office.
He was mad at himself, first for betting and losing, and then for being bested at practise. He put all the anger into the exercise. In the tight formation he elbowed the Nubian and stepped on his foot to pay him back for the rough handling at sword practise. Still, his frustration stayed with him.
Back and forth the units charged, the earth trembling under the weight of the hobnailed sandals, the units merging and separating into the required formations. The armor grew heavy, the breath grew short and sweat poured from the bodies. The throats soon turned raw from the constant yelling, the voice hurled like a weapon to intimidate and paralyze the enemy. Still they trampled on, the Decurions swearing at the troops, inciting them to greater efforts. The horns blared anew and two centuri shifted on command. Then a forward charge, wheel and charge again.
Finally the cease and stand-down sounded to the grateful troops. All rushed the water trough trying to drink and splash some water onto themselves to cool down.
“I’m going to join the engineers. They can’t be any worse than this,” Marcus complained between breaths to Septimus.
His friend merely smiled. It was this way every time. “What did you think when you joined the army? That it was a vacation? With spas and brothels instead of exercise and duty? Your father was in the army before you, so you have no excuse.”
“He made it sound so adventurous.”
“Ah! Veterans always brag and stretch the truth to the limit. You can believe only half of what they tell you.”
The camp Adjutant’s runner came up to them, inquiring, “Where is your Decurion?”
Septimus looked at the man, noncommittally. “Castor? He’s around here someplace.”
“Find him. I brought a new recruit assigned to him.” The runner motioned toward a not-so-young man.
“But we have our eight in the tent!” Septimus was surprised.
“Astrix is being reassigned.”
“Where to?” all within earshot jumped in to ask.
“Massilia, in southern Gaul,” the adjutant’s man replied.
“The lucky dog, he’s going home.” Or close enough to it.
Astrix hollered jubilantly when he caught the news. He rushed to the man, demanding, “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Now where’s that Decurion?” He was growing impatient with this delay.
“Who’s the new man?” A few crowded around to get a better view of him. He wasn’t much to look at, short and stocky, with the swarthiness of a southern climate. But there was the detached air of a veteran about him, of someone who had seen worse and knew not to ask for more than what was provided.
“He’s fresh out of prison,” the Adjutant’s man glanced at the tablet he was holding. “Selinus from Iberia. He chose this instead of being condemned to the salt mines.” That explained it. Only a fool really wanted to be in the army without some form of coercion.
“What was his crime?” someone asked.
“Disrespect of some local authority.” The clerk looked up and smiled. “In the army we know exactly how to deal with disrespect.”
People laughed. “You poor sod! You jumped from the frying pan into the heart of the fire.”
Decurion Castor arrived and was unhappy at losing a trained man for such an unpromising prospect. He looked about calculating. “Marcus. You and Septimus teach him the drill. Teach him to stay out of my way until he knows how to conduct himself properly.”
“Yes, Decurion.” Both Marcus and Septimus struck their chest with their fists in acknowledgement of a direct order.
This was a significant event. The loss of a trusted comrade and the arrival of a green man. The veterans looked at the fresh meat for there were opportunities for a clever man to profit from a new man’s ignorance of army routines and customs. But first things first. Astrix’ imminent departure had of course to be celebrated. Immediately plans were made to hold a bash at the Blue Dolphin. Marcus had to regretfully decline because he was broke, but Astrix grabbed him by the arm and reassured him. “This one is on me, my friend. I’ll be sad to leave you all, but . . . you just don’t know how good it will be to get back home to my people.” They knew. Of course they knew. Everyone dreamed of going home. Except the Nubian, as he had no home. That is, he called the army his home. Born to a camp-follower, he knew nothing else.
Thus it was that after cleaning up, the whole troop went off to the Blue Dolphin, by special permission of the Centurion. They were joined by a few Celts from other units, with a long list of errands for Astrix to do for them when he got home.
The Blue Dolphin was an unpretentious place run by a Phoenician, Cyrus Babirus, formerly of Tyra where he could not make a go of the same business because of the cut-throat competition. Here there was no competition, but little business until the Romans showed up. “Bless the army, bless even the pirates who made the occupation necessary,” the Phoenician said in thanks to his gods every night, burning incense at the small shrine in his house.
There were only two public rooms to the place. One, nicknamed the pit, the other the high room. There was little difference between the rooms. The pit was open to all, but the high room only to those willing to spend money. Tonight the Romans took possession of the high room, driving a few of the more affluent locals away with their boisterous noise.
“Who did you have to bribe to get such a cushy reassignment?” the Belgian asked while slapping Astrix with considerable force on the back.
“My family does know some influential people,” Astrix allowed, winking broadly. Yes, the wheels of administration could always be greased with the proper lubrication, proving once again the adage, it was not what you knew but who you knew that counted.
“By Minerva, I envy you,” Marcus confessed to his friend. “You’ll get to see green again and the fair hair of your women with tender white skin. And eat something decent, other than the beans and lentils they serve us.”
“Ah yes. Bouillabaisse, soft cheese, mushroom sauce and sausages.” A dreamy expression crept into the lucky man’s face, and all around him the soldiers started salivating at the mere mention of such exotic foods. The bastard! But a lucky bastard. In the army luck counted for a whole lot.
