when he saw the jeering mob trotting toward the barracks. The crowd had not the least desire to set foot inside the Roman garrison, only to be beaten in thanks. They stopped in a semicircle in front of the points of the soldiers’ lances, called out good wishes to me and assured me that not for years had they seen such a wonderful spectacle.
The senior centurion of the cohort came rushing up to me, dressed in nothing but his undershirt. A handful of legionaries with lances and shields hastily assembled into something akin to a line in the courtyard, disturbed by the alarm signal. Perhaps my youth will excuse the fact that I barked orders at them I still had no right to give, as I had not even reported to Rubrius yet. After making them march at the double to the wall and back and stand in a perfect line, I asked the centurion to take over. He stood astride before me in astonishment, stubble on his chin and his hands on his hips.
“Commantler Rubrius is asleep after a strenuous night exercise,” he said. “The men are tired for the same reason. How would it be if you came with me and had a drop of wine and told me who you are, where you come from and why you’ve landed here like the God of War himself, scowling and grinding his teeth!”
From his face and scarred thighs, I could see he was an old veteran and I could do nothing but agree to his request. A young knight could easily be snubbed by a centurion like him and I did not want to disgrace myself further by being made a fool of in front of the increasing number of soldiers gathering around.
The centurion took me to his room, which smelled of leather and metal polish, and began to pour wine from a jar for me. I told him that owing to a promise I could take nothing but water and vegetables, and he looked at me in surprise.
“Corinth is not considered a place of exile,” he remarked. “You must be of a very noble family indeed if your presence here is some kind of punishment for what you’ve done in Rome.”
He scratched his chin uninhibitedly, making a rasping sound on the stubble, yawned hugely and drank some wine. Nevertheless, on my orders he fetched Commantler Rubrius’ clerk and the cohort rolls.
“In the city itself,” he explained, “we only have guards at the Proconsul’s courtyard and at the main gates. Both in Cenchreae and Lycaea-the ports, you know-we’ve permanent garrisons. They have their own quarters so the men don’t have to keep going to and fro between the barracks and the ports. According to the rolls, we’re a full cohort, excluding the engineers, clothmakers and other specialists, so if necessary we can be a self-sufficient field corps.”
I asked about the cavalry.
“In fact we’ve not a single cavalryman here at the moment,” he said. “Naturally there are a few horses at the disposal of the Commantler and the Governor, but both of them prefer to use a litter. You can have one of them if you can’t manage without a horse. Corinth’s own cavalry is, of course, bound to assist us on command.”
When I asked about maintenance of weapons and equipment, orders for the day and the exercise program, he looked at me curiously.
“Perhaps you’d better ask Rubrius about that,” he said. “I’m only his subordinate.”
To pass the time, I inspected the empty quarters, with their dust and cobwebs, the weapon store, the kitchen and the altar. The garrison had no Eagle of its own, only the customary cohort field insignia with tassels and memorial plates. After my round of inspection I was both confused and appalled.
“In the name of Hercules,” I cried, “where are the men? What would happen if we had to leave suddenly to fight?”
The centurion had grown tired of me.
“You’d better ask Commantler Rubrius that too,” he said angrily.
At midday, Rubrius at last sent for jne. His room was beautifully furnished in the Greek way and I saw at least three different young women serving him. He himself was bald, his face fat and the veins in it broken, his lips blue and he dragged his left foot as^ he walked. He received me warmly, breathed wine on me as he embraced me and at once told me to sit down and make myself at home without formality.
“Coming from Rome, you must be surprised to find how lazy we are here in Corinth,” he said. “Of course, it’s quite right that a brisk young knight should come and get things going here. Well, well, so you’ve the rank of tribune, have you? From Britain, I see. That’s a distinction, not a command.”
I asked him about service instructions and for a while he did not answer.
“In Corinth,” he said finally, “we don’t need to keep ourselves in a state of readiness. On the contrary, the city council and the inhabitants would be insulted if we did. Most of the legionaries here are married. They have my permission to live with their families and practice a craft or a trade. Now and again on Roman feast days, we muster them, of course. But only inside our walls so as not to attract unnecessary attention.”
I ventured to point out that the soldiers I had seen were apathetic and ill-disciplined, that the equipment store was thick with dust and the quarters filthy.
“Possibly, possibly,” admitted Rubrius. “It’s a long time since I remembered to take a look at the men’s quarters. Society in Corinth takes its toll of a not-so-young man like myself. Fortunately I have a very reliable senior centurion. He’s responsible for everything. Ask him what you want to know. From a formal point of view, you should be my right-hand man, but he would be offended if I went over his head. Perhaps you could work together with a kind of equal status, as long as you don’t trouble me with complaints about each other. I’ve had enough quarreling in my life and want to serve out my time in peace. I’ve not many years to go.”
He gave me a surprisingly sharp look and added with feigned absent-mindedness, “Did you by any chance know that my sister Rubria is the eldest of the Vestal Virgins in Rome?”
Then he went on to give me some cautionary advice.
“Remember always,” he said, “that Corinth is a Greek city, even if the people who live here come from many other countries. Military honors do not count for much here. The art of social life is more important. Look about to start with and then make out a service program yourself, but don’t overwork my soldiers excessively.”
With these instructions I had to leave. The centurion was standing outside and gave me a cold look.
“Did you get your information?” he asked.
I looked at two legionaries lumbering through the entrance with their shields on their backs and their lances on their shoulders. I was astounded to hear the centurion calmly explain that this was the changing of the guard.
“They’ve not even mustered!” I cried. “Are they to be allowed to go like that, with filthy legs, long hair and without an under-officer or escort?”
“We don’t hold guard parades here in Corinth,” the centurion said calmly. “It’d be better if you hung up your plumed helmet somewhere and got used to the customs of the country.”
But he did not interfere when I ordered the under-officers to see that the barracks were cleaned, the weapons polished, that the men shaved, cut their hair, and in general tried to look like Romans. I promised to return the following morning for an inspection at sunrise, for which I also had the prison scrubbed and fresh switches prepared. The veterans looked alternately in surprise at me and at the furiously grimacing centurion, but they thought it best to say nothing. I remembered the advice I had been given and hung up my parade uniform in the equipment store and instead put on a simple leather tunic and a round exercise helmet when I went back to the inn.
Hierex had had cabbage and beans cooked for me. I drank water with my food and went to my room so depressed that I felt no desire whatsoever to make the acquaintance of the sights of Corinth.
When I returned at dawn to the barracks, something had indeed been happening in my absence. The guards on duty at the entrance stood to attention with raised lances and gave me a rousing greeting.
The senior centurion was dressed for exercises. He did his best to make the sleepy men wash at the water troughs, barking at them in a hoarse voicc. The barber was fully occupied and on the sooty altar a crackling fire was burning and the yard smelled of clean soldiers rather than of a pigsty.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the signal blown when you arrived,” said the centurion sarcastically, “but Commantler Rubrius is particular about his morning sleep. Now you’d better take over. I’ll watch. The men are eagerly awaiting a sacrifice. A couple of pigs would do if an oxen is too expensive.”
Because of my training and upbringing, I’d had little experience of sacrifices and under no circumstances was I going to make a fool of myself by spearing squealing pigs to death.
“It’s not yet time for sacrifices,” I snapped. “I must first see whether it’s worth staying here or whether I’ll give up the whole assignment.”
As I walked around, I soon noticed that the small number of men there knew the drill and could march
