That Guard Which Also Opens
‘Tiros, on your stinking feet! Up, up, you lazy whore-sons! The time for dreaming of empire and glory is over. Today you learn how to stay alive. Learn that - and you might just make this cursed legion proud!’
The harsh voice of Octavio rolled around the windswept waste, startling a score of thin figures into alertness. Although a small man, all walnut-brown and lean muscle, his voice was the envy of every circus crier and arena herald this side of Antioch. The tiros - those left to us after the other maniples had had their pick - pulled themselves upright, rubbing the dust out of their eyes and staring about in the harsh dusk. We were outside the fort and in the middle of that desert which spread out into the Harra. Some distance away, I could see the other maniple Ducenarii and their file-closers herding the remaining tiros into long and bedraggled lines. Rough shouts and curses drifted back and several vine rods were used liberally in the process. In the distance, stood the crude rostrum from which only a few hours earlier Cassianus had proclaimed his doom and propelled us east into the vast Desertum Saracenum known as the Nefud. That rostrum was empty now and the wind swept a thin gauze of dust over it so that it seemed to vanish from my eyes.
Over the far dunes in the east, dusk was arriving in a glorious wash of purple and crimson and I saw the faint gleam of Venus in its imperial folds. The air hung heavy about us here outside the walls and towers of the fort and it made my throat ache with thirst. I stood apart from the rabble before Octavio, watching impassively as he made his initial mark upon these new lads. They were all scrawny and covered in sores from the long march in from Bosana. Most carried the stamp of town-life and now looked about in fear. Only a few seemed made of sturdier stuff that spoke of a dispossessed farmer or that labourer no doubt hiding from some crime - murder or rape, or some such thing. It made no difference. They were legion-marked now. And that meant they would live or die by our code. I stood apart all silent and impassive as I remembered Palladius had done that day I too had enrolled in the exercitus all those years ago - startled at the presumption of my actions and wondering how many days it would take for me to muster out with a broken leg or a shattered arm. He had stood there, all imposing with his scarred mien and shining armour, and I had only just caught that mischievous gleam in his old face that was later to make we warm to him and push harder - to earn his approval and eventual promotion to biarchus and then centenarius. Now I stood a statue to his memory and wondered on that fate of a legion which was once the pillar above all others but now was alone in a lost fort marching east into - what? Blood and vengeance, perhaps? Honour? Yes, but who would know of it, I thought. Or care?
Octavio’s voice snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that he was heaving aloft the battered acanthus flower of that legion. He slapped it hard so that the dust and sand fell from it. ‘Listen, you mongrels, and listen well. Forget that dream you have of wielding a glorious spatha for Rome and the Augustus. Forget that nonsense - that is fine for poets and the like - but you are in the Roman Army now. Now you stand in the ranks of the finest legion ever to have mustered its soldiers in the empire. We are the Fifth - you are all Quintani now! You hear that - Quintani! And as every man here in this maniple will tell you, the sword and the spear, the heavy javelin and the weighted dart is one thing - but it is this that keeps you alive and this alone which allows you to wield that spatha, thrust with that spear, throw that javelin and hurl that dart. This - the scutum. This is the rampart and the tower and the ditch of your body. Do you understand? - You -' He gestured suddenly to a large man with a square face and a snaggle of teeth in his mouth. ‘You - knock me over. Now.’
The tiro looked about slowly, frowning. ‘Me?’ he said.
Octavio spat into the dust at his feet. ‘Deaf as well as stupid, is it? Yes, you, donkey-face. You know, now that I think I on it, didn’t I meet your mother in a leper’s brothel outside Damascus? I am sure that greasy whore -'
I tried to hide my grin as that tiro swore suddenly and lunged towards Octavio. In a moment, the little Umbrian twisted the bulk of the man aside with a deft swivel of the oval shield. Off balance, the latter stumbled momentarily and then Octavio slammed that shield hard into his side and sent him spinning into the sand below. Then he was hunkered down behind the shield again and staring alertly over its rim, tense and coiled like a snake about to strike. ‘See? It is the arch-stone of everything you do in a battle, lads. A legionary without a shield is nothing more than a town without a wall - Here, get up, you camel-bastard.’ He kicked the dazed tiro up and the latter stumbled back into the loose line, rubbing his side where the shield had caught him. Others around him sniggered. ‘- Find that funny, do you? Anyone else want a try, do they? I thought not. Now each of you grab a shield and wooden spatha from that pile and assemble back in whatever crooked line you can manage - quick!’ The tiros stumbled over to a small bundle of weapons and equipment. Slaves heaved up and handed out shield and sword to each man as he came up. ‘Come on! Back in line - this isn’t an orgy that you can loll about and pick the best one!’ The line that re-assembled at his prompting was ragged with its wall of oval shields dipping and wavering like bushes in a wind. ‘Now watch and learn -'
In an instant, his sword was out. The setting sun lit its length with a long line of fire as Octavio brought the blade in close to the outside right rim of his shield. ‘See? This spatha rests against the scutum. It uses the rim as a base from which to strike. It is hard to see here. Watch as I twist my body one way and the other and how that spatha remains poised, all ready. Do you see it? Well, do you?’ he shouted out. Nods and muttered assents could be heard. ‘Good. Remember this position. This is what we in the legions call the First Guard. There are Six Guards, all placed about and around this shield and by the time the has sun set you will learn all of them - or by all the gods I will want to know why! Watch - Second Guard -'
Smoothly Octavio swivelled and twisted his body and shield into the remaining guard positions - the sword moving in and around the oval rim, his arm lengthening and contracting, with each different guard position, holding the sword back up high or in low and point up or in close with the shield. He moved and twisted like an oiled mechanism and always that shield was before him like a wall, like a charm. I smiled inwardly as I watched him, noting how effortlessly he moved and the precision with which he demonstrated those moves. I found my own muscles tensing in sympathy with him as the old ritual and steps of the legionary echoed in me. ‘See?’ he shouted out, as he finished off the six guards. ‘Learn this ditty, lads, and you will learn the moves all the more easily -
First is for the stomach, hard and fast,
Give the Second to the head and eye,
The Third over to the far right breast,
Give the Fourth, the serpent’s strike, the thigh,
And the Fifth, the Quintani’s best, the chest,
And for the groin, the Sixth, the final try.
And so it went on as the dusk deepened and the dry rasping heat of the Harra faded away. I stood watching him, dispassionate, and the dust rose and the poor recruits worked up a sweat, their breath heavy and sobbing without let. More than once, Octavio raised his hard vine stick and brought it down across the back of a stumbling leg or exposed arm and more than one tiro swore uneasily and tried to lash out at the little Umbrian. The latter just laughed and twisted the other’s leg so that the man tumbled into the sand. Soon the light had faded and only the dusk remained with its deepening sister far in the east. Slaves nearby brought out torches and placed them around us in a wide square. The light from them flared across the sweating backs and faces giving everyone an unearthly pallor.
Eventually, Octavio signalled them all to lower their swords and shields. He grinned into their exhausted faces. ‘Hard work, isn’t it, eh? Six Guards - and each one will keep you alive and kill the other bastard trying to get at you - but only if you keep that scutum in place.’ He dropped his own shield slowly into the dust. And then gripped the sword in both hands. ‘Here - you - yes, you with that pitiful attempt at a manly beard - come on, let’s see how well you have learned all this!’
The tiros moved apart a little to reveal a tall thin lad. His Syrian looks were complimented with a thin beard now covered in dust and gleaming with sweat. For a moment he reminded me on how our Tribune must have looked when he first lifted his sword all those years ago. The lad frowned and pursed his lips. ‘Me, Centenarius?’
Octavio nodded. ‘Afraid, are you? Look, I have no scutum. Just me and this old legion spatha. Come on then . . .’
For a moment, the lad hesitated and then to the soft urging of the other tiros he advanced forwards slowly, his shield in close and the wooden sword tight against it. Nearby a torch guttered suddenly and its sound seemed to frame the lad’s advance with a choric hiss. Octavio stood almost casually both hands wrapped about the sword, nodding as if encouraging him on. ‘Good, lad. Nice balance. Now keep that spatha in close, see? Hold it against the scutum but not so tight it is kissing it. That’s it.’ I saw the lad begin to circle Octavio slowly as if testing him. The Centenarius affected not to notice and remained facing the other tiros. ‘See? He’s got a good footing there. Firm but flexible. Note that all of you -'
Octavio lunged then in a savage side-step towards the lad. In a flash, his sword rose up high above his head, his hands crossed about the hilt, the blade thrusting out and down from his head. I saw that Syrian lad blink once in surprise and then attempt to hunker down behind his shield but it was too late. Octavio’s sword was in past the rim of the oval shield, flicking it aside. He turned a half-step and then brought the sword forward low and up, his hands below the level of his groin. His knees flexed to bring him into a crouch - and even as the lad was watching that shield tipping away to his left, the sword was forwards and into his belly below the ribs. For a moment, he gazed blankly down at it - the tip touching the filthy tunica - before he slowly lowered his sword-arm in resignation. Octavio nodded once and then stepped back. ‘We call that first position the Guard of the Bull - see?’ Again, he raised the sword in both hands reversed so that the length of the blade seemed to sprout from his head downwards in a long thrust. ‘Good for a head thrust or pushing aside a loose shield.’ He dropped again into the second position - knees bent, the sword up and forwards. ‘This is the Guard of the Bireme - see? Good for lunging in low to disembowel or again tip a scutum aside. You will learn these all later. And may all the gods protect you if you find yourself alone in a battle without a scutum and having to use these!’ He gestured to the lad to return. ‘I meant what I said - about your footwork. Keep at it, lad, and you’ll stand just fine in the ranks - now, scutums up again. First Guard, all of you!’
It was then, as the tiros hefted up the shields once more, that I saw a figure moving softly through the dusk towards me, a slave trailing him with a torch. I nodded quickly to the Centenarius and then moved apart from that endless litany of drill and abuse to intercept the new arrival. I recognised the tall figure of Angelus as the latter began to move off to one side, beckoning me to follow him. I caught up with him and his slave, unbuckling my helmet to place it under my arm.
He looked down at me and then over to the recruits. ‘I have seen better beggars outside the Christian basilicas, Ducenarius.’ His dark face was guarded, the eyes shadowed in the dusk.
I smiled back. ‘Octavio is good. He will make fine legionaries of them, Tribune.’
Angelus smiled coldly at that. ‘If he has the time, Ducenarius, if he has the time.’
We walked for a while without another word across the loose black dust, our feet rasping on the stones and the fragments and the dry shards of bone. The Tribune gazed out east frowning a little and I knew enough not to break into his thoughts. Behind us, that slave walked after us, holding the torch up high against the deepening gloom. The air was dry and heavy as the sun fell into the west.
We reached a low rise and paused on its crest. I saw Angelus nod once to himself in thought then he smiled that cold cruel smile that always made me shiver inside. ‘Dispense with the usual rituals and swear these tiros in tonight under the maniple standards. Order them to repeat the sacrementum. Feed them and make sure they are placed carefully in the conturburnia. If you have any wine left, pass it out tonight. Make sure it is all drunk. You understand, Ducenarius?’ He looked hard at me.
I nodded. ‘We march out tomorrow then?’
‘Tomorrow it is. We leave this cursed place and we will leave it as we found it, empty and forlorn.’ Again, he gazed down at me. ‘We march with devotio at our head into that which is nothingness itself. We march down into Hades, Ducenarius, and all our standards are nothing now but blood and battle. And Roma follows us in rags and bare feet . . .’
‘Tribune?’
He shook his head then. His face took on a strange look, as if he were waking from a dream. ‘Do you remember in the tent last night and Cassianus kneeling before that praepositus? ‘
‘How could I forget? I have seen Greek tragedians play worse than that moment.’ My levity failed to make an impact on him.
‘Do you remember how this Aemilianus reacted? How a war ravaged his face and that strange look crept over him - only to be banished with a lazy smile?’
It was a moment scarred into my memory - as the Armenian knelt and proffered up his command only for Aemilianus to reject it and raise up Cassianus as if he had been reborn. I still saw that moment as temptation filled him only for him to place it aside and retain his place among the ragged numeri. I nodded back. ‘I wondered on why he never took that offering, Tribune.’
Angelus gave a low laugh then and it made me look at him again under the torchlight. His face was covered in shadows but the teeth seemed bared somehow and his laugh was rough and dark. ‘I have seen that face before, Ducenarius. That moment he struggled with command and then refused it! Oh I have seen that face . . . I have seen this praepositus before. That was his true face, Ducenarius. Not this light Gallic mockery he wears now, no. I looked on him even as Cassianus rose up reborn and saw . . . ' For a moment, his voice trailed into silence. He looked away into the gloom. ‘I saw another man and I could not believe my eyes. I thought the gods were playing tricks on my mind in the tent - that heat, the flickering oil lamps, that heavy fog above us, that they were all confusing me and it was nothing but a trick of tiredness and confusion - but then I saw, I saw . . .’
‘What? You saw what, Tribune?’ I urged.
His smile dropped from him and all that was left was the cold face and dark distant eyes. He reached up and stroked his long coiled beard. ‘I saw a smear of dye about his temples. Oh so faint no none else would see it. The heat, I expect. His sweat. But there it was. A little smear, nothing more . . .’ He turned to face me and I saw that there was nothing kind or easy in his face. He turned to me and it was as if a statue faced me. ‘And we all thought this Armenian was a fool!’
I reached out on impulse then and gripped his shoulder. ‘Angelus, my Tribune, what is it?’
He stepped back, brushing away my hand, and laughed then, like a madman, like a lunatic. He laughed and I shivered to hear it. That laughter rose up into the darkness even as his slave hurried up to crouch at his feet in fear, holding the torch in both hands like a ward. Light flared across his Syrian face and Angelus laughed and laughed. In confusion, I stumbled back away from him, down that slope, my feet sinking into the black sand. He laughed and not once did his cruel eyes leave my face.
‘We dance it seems to a strange tune, Felix! A tune played by a man on the lowest rung! A man who has left more than this fort! Don’t you see, Felix? Can’t you see what no one else sees but me? Oh I never would have known but for that moment when I recognised his face again and saw that smear! It has been staring us in all our faces all the time and we have been fools not to notice - he has even shown us the truth but we have all ignored him!’
I fell away down that slope, away from his mad words and his dark laughter, the light carving him out from the dusk like a caryatid against an obsidian wall. I fell back, the sand and the bones piling about my heels, even as that slave cracked his face into a grin in sympathy with his master - and it was as if I retreated from a god of Madness with Mockery at his feet. ‘Don’t you see, Felix?’ he shouted out into the night, ‘A dead man leads us all!’
‘Cassianus -' I tried to shout back even as I fell away from them both, down into darkness.
That name caused Angelus to laugh even louder. ‘Not him! Not him! The other one!’
I turned and ran. I ran away from Angelus as his laughter battered my ears. I turned away from him still standing on that crest, the slave crouched below grinning inanely, the torchlight flaring before them both, and all I saw was a great wall of darkness pressing down upon them from behind like a wave, like a portend of doom - and in my heart I heard it again, that pounding, the hideous footfall of my end, its gigantic shade falling on me from within my heart. I felt the gleam of ivory, the stench of something which only inhabits a soul riven with fear - and I felt a monstrous presence envelop me as that thunder approached me step by step. Only now the brittle laughter of Angelus framed it.
I turned and fled into the dusk even as that which portended my doom rose up from within me.
(p.s. Cassianus the Levon. or Leo . . .)
Re: IB SAI AAR - The Nowhere Legion
Thank you very much Clarissimus!!!....I asked only for a small map and....you gave us nothing less than the Geography of Ptolomeus!!!!..
.....Again thanks!..Now all is clear! The evil projects of the Barabrians and their insidious movements!! That the True Roman Gods want to watch our heroes!!!
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sadly I lost my debate with my partner, she said that they are hair styling, instead I said, that the man had over the head something like a crown of laurel or a similar thing, then she said that I'm almost blind and I have to undergo a view control and maybe change the glasses...but I responded that she was wrong because in the late III century the forms of crowning were quite elaborate and strange, then she looked at me as she was watching a poor moron........but I maintained my point of view o.c.!!!....now I have to confess her that she was right,.......hard times are waiting for me.........
........anyway good sculpture!! 
, due to the announcement that the end is coming,......I want to repeat that the Avatar of SBH is wonderful!! for many reasons: 1) It is a good Roman sculpture, probably of the second half of the III century 2) It is strange: the face is quite normal and well sculpted, but the hairs!!!......fantastic!!....Incredible!! 3) It is a challange: Try to find something similar!...not easy! I studied Roman Art and Sculpture but....I did not see anything like it!!
Well, if this is what Death looks like, maaan, I would be a fool to flee...Honestly, I find the video highly unrealistic, what guy will start crying when a girl like that catches up with him?! Unless, of course, that's his wife 
)
Originally Posted by Yeepeep
one to ponder on, don't give anything away! Just me speculating.
