any chance of a hot breakfast before we march at sun-up.’
Vespasian sat up and looked around. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked groggily.
‘I mean that if you want breakfast you had better make it now because we start the route march at dawn. Is that any clearer? Now get moving. There’s wood, kindling and legionary cooking gear and rations out the back.’
‘What about you?’ Vespasian asked, getting to his feet.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, little brother, I’m not in training. I’ve got breakfast waiting for me in the triclinium.’ And off he went in search of it, leaving Vespasian struggling with his sandals in the dark and cursing the throbbing of his nose. It had been set on their return by Chloe, an old Greek house slave whose father had been a doctor. She was the only person on the estate with any medical knowledge; having assisted her father until his death, she had sold herself into slavery as an alternative to destitution. She had clicked the cartilage back into place, a process that had been more painful than the original injury, and then applied a poultice of wet clay mixed with herbs and honey that she secured in place with bandages. The poultice had hardened overnight and was now putting pressure on the swelling.
When he got outside he found his supplies in a heap on the ground. He pulled his cloak close around his shoulders against the chill, pre-dawn air, and started struggling to make a fire as best he could in the gloom.
Once he had a decent flame going he could finally see his rations: a cup of barley, a thick slice of bacon, a hard bit of cheese, a pint of water and a skin of sour wine; next to these stood a single cooking pot. Having never attempted anything more adventurous than roasting a rabbit or a chicken over an open fire, he was at a loss as to what to do. As time was short he decided to put the whole lot, except the wine, together into the pot and boil it up.
A short while later, he had produced a stodgy mess that looked very unappealing but was just about edible. He was halfway through his porridge, made slightly more palatable by the wine, when Sabinus arrived on his horse. The first light of the sun bathed the rugged ochre hills with its soft red glow, and the cicadas, alerted to the arrival of the new day, had started their relentless rattle.
‘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
