In the ancient times the festival of the blessing of the standards had been a sacred act, in which rose petals and palm leaves and other offerings had adorned all the
vexilla and the
aquila of the legion. Priests had chanted the rites to Jupiter Maximus and swung little orbs of incense while the legate with his tribunes and the centurions had ordered the legionaries to prostrate themselves and re-dedicate their oath to the
respublica and the Augustus. It was held at midday as the sun stood over the castellum and all the men of the legion would then eat and drink their fill of sacrifices and offerings, clad in their finest arms and armour, all sporting their torcs and
armillae . In this way the standards would be renewed and purified for another year. That evening after the garlanding the men would line up to receive their yearly coin from the legion’s pay chest - somewhat worse for wear and often unable to count correctly - much to the amusement of the veteran soldiers who were waiting to gamble all that coin into their hands . . . It thus remained a sacred moment in the yearly Kalendar of the
exercitus of Rome. It echoed still among us but as with all things Chronos loosens his touch and everything withers and fades.
At midday we all assembled on the wide, flat and dusty
campus beside Nasranum. The Quinta stood in the centre with its six maniples in full formation, the sunlight gleaming from helmet, shield rim and lancea tip. A little forwards were the
vexillarii of the centuries, twelve all told. In front of them stood the lonely
draconarii, Suetonius among them, of the maniples. Before us all, in honour, was the old
aquilifer of the legion - a lean and sparse veteran from the rugged lands of Anatolia we all called ‘Canus’ for his white hair - while the Ducenarii and Centenarii ranged themselves in a long line before the rankers. All were spotless in white tunicas and yellow cloaks. Crests had been fitted to our helmets and the scale and chainmail armour was burnished clean of rust and dirt. On our right stood the Clibanarii, faceplates raised and holding in their hands the reins to their proud Nissaean horses. The latter’s manes and tails were all bound up in scarlet ribbons, the bridles and saddles adorned with gold coins and medallions. At the head of the vexillation stood three
vexillarii and then, all alone, the troop’s
draconarius. On our left were ranged the two Arabum
numeri with their own thin standards that seemed drab and thread-bare compared to ours. Behind us, stood the newly arrived camel troopers of the Ala Antana Dromedariorum usually based at Admatha but now detached to us as escorts and messengers. These latter were all of Arab stock and were as filthy and greasy looking as their mounts. The camels were kneeling in the dust to the rear, snorting and eyeing us all with their great rheumy eyes, all the while chewing and spitting.
Before us, lay a wide rostrum upon which stood our Tribune, Angelus. Beside him was Aemilianus,
praepositus of the Arabi, Parthenius, Vicarius of the Clibanarii, and to one side the
praefectus of the camel troop, Tusca, sweating in the midday heat. Before them all stood our Dux, Cassianus, resplendent in silver-chased armour, clasping a massive helmet in the crook of one arm. A rich scarlet cloak draped his shoulders. Along the front of the rostrum at ground level were his guards, all equally magnificent in armour and helm which contrasted oddly with their harsh Illyrian faces. In the centre of all rose the labarum of Christ, emblazoned with the emperor’s icon.
It was midday under the scorching heat of the Harra and we began that ancient rite, the
Rosalia Signorum.
Cassianus began then by praising the generosity of the emperors, Valens and his brother Valentinian, their concern for the welfare of the
respublica, the valour of the legions and the vexillations and the auxilia in defending the empire from the barbarians. He raised his voice in the dusty air and mouthed the usual formulas of piety and devotion that were required. He talked of service to state and god and emperor that we had heard a dozen times over and again at this time in the ritual Kalendar of the
exercitus of Rome. His words were dry and thin like a papyrus being slowly torn asunder by a bored hand. I remember looking slowly around and seeing men beside me, their heads lolling in the heat and the dry air. Sweat fell into the dust at our feet from their brows. Behind me, I saw Suetonius lean in against the pole of the
draco as if using it for a support. Its long silk tail was flaccid. Up and down the long lines of the soldiers, the little red flags of the centuries seemed faded and thin, already covered in that dry sand of the Harra. And his voice droned on as that magnificent and awful sun blazed high over us all and I felt a drowsiness fall like heavy chains over my limbs and I blinked to clear my eyes.
Something happened then and for one
unlucid moment I felt as if I had slipped into a dream state and that a vision was ensnaring me. Something brushed my face as if cold water had been thrown across it. I rose my head and frowned.
There upon that rostrum the Armenian was pulling off his
armillae one by one and throwing them into the dust below. He was silent now and that dark face of his was sombre like a man who has seen an unwelcome truth in his heart. Each golden arm-band spun through the air and landed with a dull thud. Little tufts of sand marked where they fell. Lastly, Cassianus unclipped the massive gold torc about his throat, held it for a moment before him as if weighing up a decision, and then too threw it away from him. It sparkled for one solitary moment as it flew away from his open hand. The sound of its landing was marked by the silence of all of us who stood arrayed before him.
He stood divested of his medals and awards. In his face there seemed to war a strange thing - vanity, pride, ambition - but against these brittle humours another arose and asserted itself and that thing which possessed his face was the thing which made him strip away his external show: shame . . .
Shame possessed Cassianus. I saw it as bile in his mouth and repressed anger in his eyes. I saw it in the clenched fists as he pulled off each golden arm-band. In the manner in which he threw them away from his body. I saw it in his stiff jaw that seemed to want to shout and rail against a thing unjust and uncalled for. But he did not rail or cry out. He stood alone surrounded by his officers and guards shorn of honour and reward. He stood mute, his eyes blazing with an anger that only shame can stoke up. Below his feet lay those gold ornaments all abandoned and neglected.
All around me, men stiffened and I felt a sudden tension coil about us all.
He looked up at us then and smiled the smile of an Armenian lion. ‘
Commilliatones, I came here in arrogance and pride. I rode the imperial steed of authority and resented that I had under me nothing but worn-out legionaries and forgotten soldiers. I chaffed to be posted to a lost fort that no-one cared to remember or even name. I desired nothing but service under the sacred Valens and battle in the north of Cappadocia against this usurper called Procopius. What did I care for Nasranum and these Saraceni who drift out here like locusts? What honour or victory could lay out here in a desert peopled only by bandits and vagabonds and thieves? And so I came here on the cloak of arrogance and bitterness. I abandoned men in battle. I left Romans to die. I deserted the castellum under my command and marched north to a fruitless victory in an oasis lost to water and respite. I opened the west to these thieves and tent-dwellers no better than beggars. This fort is a broken fort now. It holds nothing but shame and dishonour. I have betrayed you one and all. We all stand now in oblivion and I alone am responsible.’ He paused for a moment then and his eyes fell upon the glittering ornaments in the dust and sand at his feet. ‘We are all alone now here in the Black Desert. This enemy I have despised has swept through us without even battle or challenge, we are so low in their eyes. They have swept on past us, laughing and spitting upon us. They ride now west into the
respublica, the eyes of their riders shining with contempt, the banners and standards flowing high in the wind of triumph. They ride west and leave us behind as worthless, as scuff and rags on the wind. I have been robbed of honour and dignity and the truth of it is that it was I who did this. I alone am responsible. And so I throw away now the marks and emblems of my pride and hubris. I throw to my feet these gaudy baubles. They are nothing but a mockery in my eyes.’ He reached up then and unclasped the rich scarlet cloak at his shoulder so that it fell lifeless to the floor. ‘I have betrayed Rome. I have betrayed the emperor.’ He tossed away the helmet as if it were nothing but a broken wine vessel. ‘I have betrayed you all and am not worthy of standing here under your gaze.’ He reached down then and unsheathed his spatha. It was a magnificent weapon encrusted with gems around an ivory handle crowned with the head of an eagle. He unsheathed it and held it across his hands as if offering it up. His dark eyes glittered - and he raised it above his head, high. ‘This alone I retain. The sword of Rome. This sword. It took the words of one man here among you all to make me realise what all of you knew in your hearts. He spoke and I saw the truth in his heart. He spoke and I saw that far from being of no worth and being held in contempt, these Saraceni and their Persian pay-masters have committed a grave sin. They have left us all alone here far behind them as they sojourn into the west. And I ask what shall we do? What shall we do now that they have swept over us as if we are of no worth? And this man among you made me see that it is
we who should be feared. It is
we who should be marching with our eyes bright and our weapons sharp. It is we, Romans, who should be falling upon our enemies in vengeance and blood. He spoke those words and all here on this rostrum heard them and not one here disagreed. I made a pledge then. I place down the command of the Dux Palaestinae and all that it holds. I place aside that imperial title and its authority as I have these baubles. It is said that there is another title lost to Rome as we have become lost to Rome. A title stolen in battle over a hundred years ago far in the east by the Euphrates. It sank in ignominy as our pride has sunk. Last night deep in the gloom of anger and shame that title was offered to me as a final crown of thorns and I embraced it. I took it up and wrapped it about my head. I stand now before you all not as a commander appointed by the sacred Valens but instead as a commander raised up by the Tribune of the Quinta, saluted by the commander of you ragged men I abandoned in my hubris, honoured by the acting commander of these clibanarii famed across the Roman world. I stand alone now as the Dux Ripae, the Commander of the River - and the authority I wield is nothing but this sword. As this title has no honour left so I too will not bear gold or silver trinkets. I stand before you as nothing but a Roman soldier vowing to avenge this insult. I will march to the Euphrates and reclaim that title in battle among the corpses of our enemy. I will march east towards that scorpion which is Persia and mark that march in blood and vengeance - not for God or the little gods still left in your hearts, not for the emperor and his glory, and not for the vanity of triumph or the idle boast. I will march and carve out of the bodies of these Saraceni one word alone and that word is honour. I will march east until I cannot march any longer and the last thing I will hold in this hand will be this sword. That sword alone will redeem you all, this I swear on my life.’
He gaze swept us all then and by all the gods and goddess I have ever known, in battle or peace, in day or night, in passion or repose, I saw not a man upon that rostrum but something else. Something divine touched him then and it was as if another stepped into his flesh to own and use it. He stood there, his arms high, that naked sword offered up, his face filled with shame and that desperate yearning to wipe it clean - and I saw something few Romans had ever seen. I saw not a man but one dedicated now to death and sacrifice. I saw the ancient Roman act of
devotio and knew that although he stood there above us on that rostrum, his officers all phalanxed about him, he was already a dead man pledged to offer up his blood not to save us in battle but instead to wipe away that shame which marked us all. A shiver ran through me then and all around me, in the ranks and the files of the legionaries, among the iron-clads of the cavalry, and even among the
numeri and the
tiros all herded together to one side, something moved through us; a sweet wine; a breeze which caressed our limbs in a cool balm - and it was as if the gods fell upon us to watch and breathe in this act. I heard a distant murmur at my back and felt rather than understood that ancient Etruscan litany Octavio always uttered. Those dark words encased not so much my ears but my soul and I felt the heat vanish and the sun fade away until all I could
feel was the cold touch of the underground gods who feast on sacrifice and blood. The earth underneath me shelved as if a great beast was emerging below. I stared wildly about but all I saw were men whispering old chants to themselves or repeating without understanding those blasphemous Etruscan words - words whose syllables tasted like black wine on the lips - while others repeated the names of the saints in honour of a martyr who yet lived above them. A shiver swept through us all and it was the breath of the gods of the dead marking one for their own.
‘
Dux Ripae . . .’
It was Arbuto, that Frank, with his blond hair always untamed, who uttered that phrase which broke the spell over us. He uttered it and stood forward stripping his own decorations and rewards as he did so. There was something wild in his Germanic eyes and I saw a grim fatalism as if he gazed upon the end of his gods which I had never seen before. He strode forward and threw down his
armillae and he tore off the torc from his neck and then he drew out his own sword and pledged it high to the Armenian above him - and then his men followed slowly, pulling off golden arm-bands, ripping away the torcs, throwing them all into the dust, while raising up that dull iron of the sword in both hands. And then all around me, men were flinging away their honour and their awards as if they were nothing but cheap copper or bronze trinkets. Gold littered the
campus. One after the other, the spatha was held up and from each mouth rippled out that new command, ‘Dux Ripae’, and I saw knuckles whiten about the blades and handles of the swords. That command echoed out across the wide ground, across the desert, across the broken black ground sheathed in bone and detritus. It rolled up against the walls of the castellum like a battle-cry. It housed itself deep in the soul of every man there. And there was not one single man left who had not divested himself of all the honours he had earned.
We, the
Exercitus Euphratensis, stood before our lord and commander, our weapons raised to honour him his sacrifice and I saw blood drip from the blades. It ran down the hands, the arms, across the white tunicas, to fall gently into the sand at all our feet. As he pledged himself to us so we pledged ourselves back to him under that high midday sun deep in the Harra, as Romans, as legionaries, as soldiers, as comrades.
Cassianus nodded then, once, and in a fluid movement swept his sword down and into his sheath. He stepped forwards to the edge of the rostrum and bellowed out the command which heralded the ritual:
‘Standards, Down!’
And one by one, the labarum, the eagle, the dragon and the red flags dipped, ready for the blessing and re-dedication . . .