CHAPTER SIX
The Roman army was a conscript, not a volunteer force, with each man called up slipping into the military class his social standing demanded, but like most things in the Republic, the theory differed widely from the practice. Rome had legions operating on a permanent basis in so many places that recruitment had ceased to be just an annual levy. True, the consuls, on taking office, raised their legions each year, since nothing enhanced a man’s career more than a successful war. Where things differed from the old days was that such soldiers were rarely disbanded.
The hoary old legionary doing the recruiting, a fellow named Labenius, festooned with decorations, looked at the two of them with a jaundiced eye. A pair of well set-up young fellows volunteering like this usually meant that they had committed a crime; quite possibly they had murdered someone, and were trying to escape justice. This was not a notion that bothered him; as long as they killed Rome’s enemies, he was content, and in an army where officers of his rank were selected, with stiff competition for the posts from other experienced soldiers, the number of recruits he brought in was a matter of great importance. The tribunes would more readily appoint him to a centurion’s command if he proved that he could keep his unit up to strength.
The praetor would check their class against the census roll, but they had brought in their own weapons and armour, so he had little doubt that they would qualify as hastarii. The legion broke down into four social groups, based on wealth. The Velites who acted as lightly armed skirmishers, the hastarii who made the first attack in battle, and the principes, old experienced troops, the best in the legion, who would follow up the hastarii to press home the assault. The final group were the triani, who made up the premier line in a defensive battle, or provided a screen for the others to pass through when retreating from a failed attack.
This was the unit, based primarily on the social standing of the recruits, that had conquered the world, through sound tactics, tough training, coupled with a system of generous rewards and ferocious punishments, both designed to encourage valour and discourage sloppiness. Aquila had to unlearn a great deal, for the way the legionary fought did not often lend itself to individual skill. It was the combined weight and iron discipline of the legions that made them feared by formal armies, just as much as barbarian tribes.
‘Drill, drill, drill,’ said Fabius, gasping, his face red from the heat and exertion, while sweat ran freely from underneath his helmet. ‘I can hardly remember a life without it. My spear has become so much a part of me I tried to piss through it the other day.’ Aquila gave his ‘nephew’ a look of mock-disbelief. ‘Easy to make a mistake, “Uncle”. I’m a big boy, didn’t you know that?’
Aquila, who was breathing heavily, but evenly, had no difficulty in finding the breath to reply. ‘Just look at your belly, that should remind you.’
Fabius summoned up enough energy and oxygen to protest. ‘What belly?’
‘The one you used to trail around with you in Rome, “Nephew”. You were a disgrace to the name Terentius, and your prick would have had to be the length of your spear for you to see it.’
Fabius hooted with strained laughter. ‘Nobody is that bad! Anyway, as long as you can feel it.’
‘Come on you two,’ shouted their instructor, ‘or I’ll give you a bag of rocks to carry.’
Fabius hauled himself to his feet and, picking up his sword and shield, he resumed his attack on the padded wooden post, slashing and cutting, but, typically, still summoning up the breath to talk. ‘Where does that man find his rocks? They weigh twice as much as any stone I’ve ever seen.’
That was a mild punishment; a bag full of stones strapped to your back to remind you that slacking was not allowed, weight that made every task, from marching to spear throwing, that much harder. To protest would be worse than useless; once you joined the legions, the officers owned your life. You could be beaten, flogged, scourged, broken at the wheel or even killed if you stole from your fellows or fell asleep on guard duty. Fabius was fond of telling his ‘uncle’, with the little breath he could muster, that joining the legions was the worst idea he had ever had. Yet Fabius was getting fitter, for Aquila’s remark about his belly was right; it was flat and his face had lost its puffy appearance. He was now lean and tanned, and he could run and jump with the best of them, cast his spear, wield his sword and ram hard enough with the boss on his shield to maim a man.
Being a witty rogue, Fabius was popular, and though he never actually stole anything, an offence punishable by death, he had the ability, when it came to interpreting the rules, to sail very close to the wind, especially in the matter of acquiring extras like food. Added to that, he had an utter disdain for permanent ownership, happy to share with his fellows, particularly one that seemed a little down. He also maintained, unchanged from his days in the taverns and wine shops of Rome, his ability to drink to excess — no mean feat in a legionary camp where such things were rigidly controlled.
Quintus Cornelius, whose consular legions these were, came frequently to examine his troops. The tribunes assembled their men before the oration platform to witness the appointment of the centurions, men who only held their office on a temporary basis, facing reselection by ballot every year. In practice, unless the tribunes thought they had failed or held them to be too old, those who had held senior positions were usually reappointed. It was a matter of some importance to the men; the last thing they wanted was to be led by some idiot whose only talent lay in pleasing tribunes.
To the rankers, these noble electors were a group of men much easier to hoodwink than the officers they were set to appoint. Tribunes were the sons of senators and the wealthier knights; they varied in age from youths on their first military posting, to men who had started on the cursus honorum and held office as aediles. No man, in theory, could stand for office until two years had passed since his last appointment, and the best way to enhance a reputation, and repair the costs of being a magistrate, was in the army, on a successful campaign.
Aquila could not keep his eyes off the cavalry, the wealthiest of the intake. They had to be able to supply their own horses, as well as their weapons. The sons of knights, they seemed overdressed and pampered, and, to his mind, indifferent horsemen. They had little to do with the other legionaries, holding themselves aloof from the foot soldiers, even when those men were set to guard their animals. The social difference was maintained in camp somewhat more rigidly than it was upheld in the city, but, in company with the auxiliary cavalry — mercenaries drawn from places like Numidia and Thrace — they would perform their task when the time came, undertaking reconnaissance and screening the legion before a battle.
The men cheered and groaned as the appointments were made, depending on their maniple, but all agreed that the tribunes had done a good thing in reappointing old Labenius to the senior centurion’s job, the primus pilus. He had more decorations than anyone in the army, was as fanatically brave as he was fair-minded, and not above giving an upstart young officer a tongue-lashing if they sought to condescend to him.
The new consul ordered the centurions to put them through their paces, proving that he had a sharp eye by the way he dispensed praise and opprobrium. Soon they would begin the long overland march to the north, picking up the mercenary cavalry plus two auxiliary legions supplied by Rome’s allies. The whole would form a column five leagues long, with catapults and siege equipment, while the baggage train, camp followers, merchants and prostitutes, plus all the mules needed as transport would add a tail some thirty leagues long in the army’s wake.
A Roman army trained en route; first, in the way it was assembled and marched, secondly, in the way it pitched camp. Those responsible for surveying, tribunes and centurions, would ride ahead, select a site for the camp and mark out the perimeter, then they would raise a red flag on the side nearest to water, and lay out the positions for the roads and the ramparts. Each unit, as it marched onto the site, would take up its appointed task, the consul’s tent being pitched on the highest point. A deep trench was then dug, using the earth to form a rampart, thus doubling the height of the defensive perimeter.
Quintus’s legions were in no danger as they marched north through Italy, but he desired that they should be thoroughly efficient long before they encountered any opposition. The camps they constructed often resembled those they would throw up near an enemy position, with deeper ditches, higher ramparts, and stakes driven into the top of the rampart to add to the protective wall. While they constructed the first wall, half the army and all the cavalry would deploy, in battle order, to protect the working parties. Once completed, the others would withdraw in sections to finish it off. Only when the camp was complete, the oath sworn, and the guards set for the night, could those not on duty relax. That is, unless one of their officers wanted them to undertake weapons drill.
It did not take long for the experienced legionaries, who undertook the training, to see that Aquila was already adept in the use of weapons. His thrown spear travelled further, and straighter, than the others. When they
