Nobody Loves a Centurion(8)

I found them gathered around a watchfire, a basket of loaves in their midst, a stack of wooden cups by the basket. A copper cauldron steamed over the fire. A ruddy-haired young man caught my eye as I drew near.

“Join us, Captain,” he said. “Have some posca. It will clear the fog from your head.”

“Good morning, Lovernius. If there’s nothing better to be had, I’ll take some.”

He picked up one of the bowl-like wooden cups, dipped it in the cauldron, and handed it to me. I took a drink, winced, and made what must have been a comical face, for Lovernius and the others laughed. It takes years in the legions to actually enjoy hot vinegar and water, but at least it truly does wake you up.

Lovernius was an Allobrogian aristocrat educated in Roman schools. He was clean-shaven and short-haired in the Roman fashion, but his face was tattooed with horizontal blue stripes. The day was, as predicted, growing lighter, and in that dim light I inspected my men. There were around a hundred men on the praetorian ala, and about twenty in this particular troop. Most were long-haired and wore the dangling mustaches that civilized people find repulsive. They were tattooed fancifully but at least none of them were painted. Over their bright checked and striped tunics they wore short, sleeveless mail shirts. The belts that cinched their shirts were decorated with bronze plaques worked in intricate designs. They all had beautifully made iron helmets crested with fanciful little horns and upright wheels. I hate to admit it, but the Gauls are much better metalworkers than the Romans. Each man wore an open-ended torque of twisted bronze, silver, or gold around his neck.

Despite their tattoos and mustaches and barbaric ornaments, they were a handsome lot, as Gauls tend to be. They were well above the average Roman in height, their height emphasized by their upright, arrow-straight bearing. As warriors, they were by definition wellborn. As horsemen, they knew themselves to be superior to any mere foot soldier.

It is not true, as many think, that all Gauls have blond or red hair, although fair hair predominates. About half of these men had the hair we think of as Gallic. The rest were in varying shades of brown, and one or two had hair as black as any Egyptian’s, but even these were fair of skin.

The loaves were legionary bread; heavy, coarse, and dry. I tore one in two and dipped it in the posca to make it more edible. The men were giving me the same once-over I was giving them.

“Would you care to address the men before we ride out, Captain?” Lovernius asked.

“All right,” I said. I choked down a last bite of bread and tossed my cup to the ground. “Listen to me, you hairy-lipped scum. I am Senator Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, and by will of the Senate and People of Rome I have power of life and death over you. I ask little except absolute obedience and I promise little for failure except instant death. Watch out for me in the field and I will watch out for you in the praetorium. You’ll never go short of loot while I’m your captain and you’ll never go short of punishment if you aren’t the best troop of the best ala attached to this legion. Keep arrows out of my back and I’ll keep the stripes off yours. Is that understood?”

Soldiers like it when you talk to them like that. It makes them feel tough and manly. These grinned and nodded. I was making a good impression.

The horses were somewhat small and rough to Roman eyes, but we are accustomed to the showy beasts we breed for chariot races. The Gauls never trim the manes or tails of their horses and these were still shaggy from their winter coats, so the impression they gave was not one of beauty. But I saw immediately that these creatures were ideal for the terrain we would be traversing.

The men began to stroke their mounts and talk to them. Gauls love horses to the point of worship. Indeed, they even have a horse goddess named Epona, a deity we Romans sadly lack. Most of their festivals involve horses in one way or another.

The youngest of the warriors, a boy named Indiumix, was detailed to care for my horse and see to its grooming and saddling. He displayed the beast to me proudly, enumerating its many virtues while he stroked it. When I was satisfied with my horse and the others, I mounted. Immediately, the skirts of my mail shirt bunched uncomfortably around my hips. I made a mental note to go to the armorer and have slits cut at the sides, cavalry-fashion.

We left the camp by way of the Porta Decumana, the northern gate. I accounted myself an excellent horseman, but my Gauls made me feel clumsy. They all rode like centaurs, each man with his longsword, his lance, and a sheaf of javelins tied to his saddle, with his flat, oval shield slung across his back. (I should note that the names we used for them were only approximations of their real names, which we found hard to pronounce and impossible to spell. The Gallic language has sounds for which there are no Latin letters. That is why one Gallic chief may seem to have a dozen different names, depending upon who is writing the history.)