[RS 2.1] With the Lions of Caesar - From Siscia to Bathinus

[Ganbarenippon]

It's nice to see these little details in a Roman AAR for once. More please!

[chaplain118]

The First Days of Training

When we re-assembled at the rally call for the start of our official training, we were marched to center-field of the stronghold. There were many marks on the ground in the center of the field. Crudely painted numbers marked where each man was supposed to go. Centurions walked down the lines, separating soldiers from recruits.

The soldiers were paired up, given wicker swords and shields, and told to spar with each other. A man held on to each of the fighters to keep them in formation.

The recruits looked and pointed at the soldiers. Some had the luxury of standing in almost a full tent. Others had only two or three men beside them. Still others stood alone. The soldiers in tents that were being heavily reinforced watched us with piqued interest. We were going to become the men that their lives depended upon and they wanted to make sure that we would not fail at our tasks.

“Good afternoon recruits!” A centurion bellowed in front of us.

Some of us muttered “Good afternoon” back. Most of us remained silent.

“Unacceptable! When a commanding officer tells you ‘good afternoon,’ you answer him back with ‘Good afternoon, dominus!’ Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, dominus!” And there it was, that word dominus—master. To me, that word will always triumph over the Oath of Fealty that all of us swore that afternoon. To me, calling another man my master was enough to make me recognize that I had thrown away the comforts of civilian life and instead traded it for a life of regimented order and utter obedience.

I don’t remember much of what the centurion told us that day and I won’t attempt to destroy the simple elegance of his words by attempting to quote him.

After this centurion had administered our Oath of Fealty and stripped us of our citizenship for the next twenty years, he motioned to several Optiones, who ran off and returned with wagons piled with armor. On each set of armor was a lead tablet marked with a particular recruit’s name. The Optiones walked down the line and threw each set at our feet. The curious few who bent down to touch it received a quick lash to their hands from the whipping vines that the Optiones carried with them. That had been our first lesson: move only when your officer tells you to.

We had spent the first half hour standing completely still. The Optiones pointed out any mistakes we had in our posture with a sharp smack from their whipping vines. By the second half hour, we remained standing but with the Optiones screaming in our faces. We were told to remain impassive. Those who showed any reaction were immediately dragged out from the line and beaten. I saw a man being dragged out in front of his tent mates and mercilessly kicked by the Optiones until he could barely stand up.

However, no recruits dared to drop out and chose to endure the rest of their service. While the officers did sometimes administer undue punishments (I saw a recruit being whipped when he was caught with an extra piece of bread), the overall training itself made sense. As one centurion said:

“I need soldiers who are vicious, soldiers who march into battle without fear, and soldiers who will kill without hesitation. If you're not a killer, it's in your interest to start learning how to be one.”

The centurions themselves never administered the corporeal punishment on recruits, they saved their whipping vines for real soldiers. The Optiones were the ones who disciplined us. We spent the greater part of our first month of training complaining about those Optiones. Their harsh punishments had given the recruits a strong sense of loyalty among ourselves. Everything we did, we did as a unit, even punishments.

We would be woken up at First Light and gather at the center of the stronghold. There, until the next watch, we would begin morning training, which consisted of physical exercises and marching at different speeds. We broke for lunch at midday and resumed training in the afternoon for another watch length. In later months, those exercises were centered about effective combat. But in the first month, we learned how to do everything in full armor. That blasted armor had been the toughest thing in that entire first month.

By nature, the chain-mail armor issued to the standard Roman infantryman was extremely uncomfortable. The individual rings were layered one after another until it presented a solid face of iron and steel that grew hot from simple movements and required thick padding underneath to protect from potential bruising. The armor hung oddly as well, with most of the weight distributed on our shoulders unless we put on our heavy cingulum belt. We found that it was difficult to walk let alone run and march. Swords slapped against our thighs when we ran, which only added to the general discomfort of moving in armor.

The marches themselves were difficult. We were expected to complete five miles within the hour, all while fully encased in iron. Many collapsed mid-way or otherwise vomited from exhaustion. We were expected to maintain formation. Each time a man fell behind, a pair of Optiones descended on him with whipping vines until he picked himself back up and continued running or wait for two of us to carry him. We learned how to march with men draped on our arms. On my first day of marching, I had vomited into my hands and wiped it on my armor. It took me nearly an hour to clean out the chunks.

Aemona was built beside the river Savus. On most days when we finished running, we were marched to the river and told to swim across it. The first time that we were brought there, I made the mistake of undoing my cingulum and removing my armor when an Optio approached me.

“What are you doing?”

“Crossing the river, dominus.”

I remember an explosion of pain radiating across my head and rough hands shoving me—fully armored still—into the water. Other recruits shouted and howled around me. The sound of rushing waters failed to drown out the cracks of canes breaking on recruits’ backs. My legs cramped up while in the water and if it weren’t for several of my fellow recruits pulling me through the waves, I might have died in those first days of training.

[McScottish]

I remember an explosion of pain radiating across my head and rough hands shoving me—fully armored still—into the water. Other recruits shouted and howled around me. The sound of rushing waters failed to drown out the cracks of canes breaking on recruits’ backs. My legs cramped up while in the water and if it weren’t for several of my fellow recruits pulling me through the waves, I might have died in those first days of training.

If only he had had some Batavians to show him how it was done An excellent update, my friend, I always enjoy reading about camp-life as much as about battle and war. You do justice to both. +rep when I can.

[Ybbon]

Maybe the secret to the Roman Army being so singular and successful were they were afraid of the punishment if they failed! 5 miles in an hour with full armour (and weapons and pack?), sounds brutal.

[chaplain118]

If only he had had some Batavians to show him how it was done An excellent update, my friend, I always enjoy reading about camp-life as much as about battle and war. You do justice to both. +rep when I can.

Bah, Batavians, what use were they apart from swimming and revolting?

Maybe the secret to the Roman Army being so singular and successful were they were afraid of the punishment if they failed! 5 miles in an hour with full armour (and weapons and pack?), sounds brutal.

Perhaps. A roman soldier was expected to march 20 miles a day in armor and still be able to pitch a marching camp. Think of how much brute strength one could exert in battle.

[McScottish]

Bah, Batavians, what use were they apart from swimming and revolting?

I'll assume that you're joking...otherwise I might actually have to explain to you. And that might damn near kill you.

[chaplain118]

I'll assume that you're joking...otherwise I might actually have to explain to you. And that might damn near kill you.

Well... am I wrong?

Though I did hear that the oldest horse of the Batavians is pretty good at writing

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I heard that! And great update, also. As McScottish write's - it is always good to read anout training and camp life!

[chaplain118]

A Man Named Favonius

My father's unyielding nature has made me one to either avoid authority or to simply accept it as part of life. The same cannot be said of the other men, particularly those who had been raised with enough money to distinguish themselves from their neighbors but not society. These are the men who constantly complained of the harsh conditions. They complained that their bread was hard, or that their beds were uncomfortable, or that the Optiones were being unnecessarily brutal. In the first few days, many of us retorted with them but stopped after a while. They simply didn't know when to keep their mouths shut.

Gaius Favonius was one of those men. He came from a tiny southern Italian city and bore the odd belief that he should go back one day and become one of the ruling elite with the plunder he's made as a soldier. He had been pampered as a child, being not allowed to play in the dirt, was bathed at least twice a day, and wore the finest linens. His speech was that of a characteristic southern drawl but it was polluted by the lilting vowels of Greek. I had finally understood why my father hated such catemites.

But Favonius was a good kid. His heart was in the right place and he joined out of a sense of duty to the fatherland. His mother had made a beautiful scarf dyed with hatter. He wore it with pride and flaunted it everywhere he went.

“My mother made this for me to take to war. She told me she made one for my father when they were teenagers, and that's what brought him back home to marry her. She says this will bring me good luck.”

I think that Gaius Favonius might still be with us today if he hadn't been so pampered. His parents' lack of Roman discipline made him particularly inquisitive of everything that is happening. “Why?” was his go-to word. He would be appropriately reproached and punished by the Optiones each time, but that never stopped him, not until the day we started practicing with swords.

Swords training happened on the fifth day after we've received our armor. We all looked forward to it. It was a chance for some of the more bellicose ones to show their skills. But really, we just wanted to hold the sword in our hands.

We stood in the morning air as orders were bellowed out about what we ought to do with the swords. When the detail that soldiers are to wear their swords on the right came, Favonius instinctively asked “Why?”

This particular centurion simply said.

“Put your sword on your left side, recruit.”

When Favonius did as he told, the Centurion called over an Optio and whispered instructions. The Optio nodded, ran off, and returned with a shield. The shield was handed to Favonius.

“Grab the shield. Right here, put your arm through the straps like so.”

When Favonius stood there in his full armor and the shield, he looked every bit the model Roman soldier. We watched on in hushed interest, wondering exactly what this Centurion had in mind.

“Very well, recruit, I want you to charge me. When you come close enough, I want you to draw your sword and try to kill me.”

Favonius looked confused. The Centurion nodded and stood with his arms crossed behind his back.

“Whenever you are ready, recruit.”

Favonius looked around to make certain that he had the go-ahead from all the officers. When there was no one to stop him, he yelled and ran forward. The Centurion remained still. I don't quite know how it had happened, but I remember Favonius collapsed to the ground. A pool of blood gathered as he writhed on the ground. The wet sword was cast aside.

“This.” The Centurion ripped the shield out of Favonius' hand and raised the bloodied left arm into the air. “Is why we wear our swords on the right side.”

The wound was deep, there were pockets of severed fat and I remember seeing a tiny sliver of white bone peeking out from the angry mass of bleeding flesh. Favonius was screaming the entire time and some weak-stomached recruits started retching. In an attempt to stop the bleeding, he started tugging at the beautiful scarf his mother made for him.

The recruits who had died in training were buried away from the camp. It was said that they brought bad luck. Their possessions were burned and their names erased from all records. When a recruit dies in training, he never existed.

[Ganbarenippon]

Wow! That was very well done. It's the little details, the scarf, his background, the unmarked grave, that made it very poignant. Not that I should expect anything else from yourself. Bravo sir!

[McScottish]

Some mother 'uckers always trying to ice-skate uphill... The class system, it never changes. Another excellent update, sir!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Brutal and very realistic. I may never look at a scarf in quite the same way again . . .

[Ybbon]

As object lessons go, it would certainly be effective. Poor old Favonius.

[chaplain118]

Dunno how familiar everyone is with the Pannonian Revolt, but let's just say that in a few more updates, Favonius' death won't ever have such an impact on Glabrio.

[O'Ciarain]

Definitely loving this story, and how you show the training and the mundane life of camp.

+rep

[chaplain118]

From Recruit to Soldier

We learned how to draw our swords the proper way: Grip it with the top of the thumb towards the ground and the palm towards the torso, rotate the entire arm downwards in a smooth circle, and finally flick the wrist gently to draw the sword out in a rapid succession. We stood still and practiced drawing and sheathing our swords for almost half a watch before heading to the practice poles.

The recruits were the last to make use of the practice poles. When we got to them, we found the practice poles pitted with so many holes that they had to be replaced. We were spaced at a man apart and told to attack the pole ten times in a tiny circle that the Optiones drew.

Slowly, our misguided concept of combat evaporated away. We learned that the most effective thing to do in combat was to knock an enemy down and disorient him. Often there will be another man beside you who will kill the enemy, or the enemy would be pulled behind his lines by his comrades, removing more men from the fight.

For these reasons, the shield became the most effective piece of equipment afforded a Roman infantryman. Its massive size allowed it to double as a tent, a bludgeon, a field bed, or even a stretcher to carry back the wounded. Fighting with just our shields became a regular part of our training. The thought was that against highly mobile enemies, there may not be enough time for a man to draw his sword. Therefore, a shield must be just as deadly.

While we devoted a great deal of time to our close-quarters combat, the most arduous training administered by the Optiones was the pilum toss. Every other day, an entire watch was devoted purely for us to master this skill. For many of the men who had grown up in the countryside, this was simple. Their throws always landed in the target area. Those of us who were not as proficient endured additional training with Verginius. I had seen him split a sword practice pole with a single unflinching toss. Under his tutelage, we threw the pila until our arms hung dead like lead weights.

By the fourth month of our training, it was late summer in Sextilis. We were able to march in formation, perform basic battlefield maneuvers, and engage in mock battles. I found the mock battles the most exciting part of our training. We fought like the soldiers that I had saw on the first day of training. As training wore on, many of us were slowly being introduced to the trainings of the actual soldiers.

Training became much more distinctive. On the days when we were relegated with purely recruit training, we were taught how to mix mortar, build walls, and clear forests. Soon, our duties expanded to keeping watch around the stronghold, making regular patrols, foraging for food, and general duties around camp. On the days we trained with soldiers, we engaged exclusively in combat drills and maneuvers. These drills were conducted with real swords. We placed a leather button on the tip so as to not injure each other. It did nothing for the accidental cuts. Veterans joked that our drills were simply bloodless battles compared to the real thing. We all thought they were lying.

By mid-autumn, we were officially inducted into the tents assigned to us on our signaculum. One of my fellow recruits, Titus Anicius, became my tent mate. He hailed from Ardea and we spent hours talking about what we would do once we returned to Italia. In a way, he reminded me of Pavo, but far less inquisitive of the world around him.

The first two soldiers that I met in my tent were Gaius Flaccus and Numerius Postumus. Flaccus was a big man with traces of Gaul in his blood. He told me that the reason why our tent was rotated back to Aemona was from the mauling the Germans inflicted on the XIII Gemina. His light reddish hair was a source of eternal fascination. I had always thought that people had to dye their hairs to achieve those exotic hues. There were thick scars that ran across his arms in bands. This was his second rotation back in Aemona. In ten more years, he would be ready to be discharged.

Postumus, our decanus—tent leader—had been a veteran of multiple campaigns with the XIII. He’d seen combat along the Rhenus and had also been a peacekeeper during the pacification process of the areas around Aemona. He rarely smiled and most of his words were grunts. While he never sought out an extra assignment to gain his own glory, he never declined any assignment passed down to him either. The four other men of the tent did not survive the bitter battles we would encounter in the hills of Pannonia and the marshes of the Bathinus.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Great stuff (I like a good pilum toss in the morning . . .)! looking forward to seeing how he does in the first real 'bloody' drill.

[McScottish]

I second the words of my brother, a most excellent piece! Training and common life, as essential to a tale as the huge battles and major skirmishes. Let us see what battle makes of our maturing protagonist.

[Ybbon]

And touches like not naming the other 4 because they didn't survive long enough. A good way of building the tension.

[chaplain118]

When War Knocked on Our Door

We only heard rumors of an uprising when we first came, but never actually saw the enemy. So, the fact that a massive and quite bloody rebellion had taken place was not one that we cared much for. Therefore, it was terribly strange that day when the ragged messenger galloped through the main road of Aemona with orders to muster us for war.

He was a finely dressed man and we saw that he had cleaned his war gear as best he could. The sun glinted from distinct spots on his dirt-encrusted armor. His helmet had been dented in one part, but otherwise impeccably clean. His skin was still covered in grime and blood. There was little he could do about that.

When the senior centurions approached the messenger from the officer's quarters, he reached to his travel pouch and extracted a silk banner dyed Tyrian purple and bordered with threads of gold. Upon it was the face of Caesar Augustus.

"Roma is in danger." His voice quivered and threatened to fade when he spoke. "Here, dotted along the Savus river lie the final line of strongholds against the greatest revolt since the Italian allies took up arms against us in the Year of Sextus Julius and Lucius Marcius. Caesar Augustus commands that the rebellion be subdued and has dispatched his own son Tiberius Julius Caesar, conqueror of Raetia and Germania for this monumental task.

"The barbarian rebels have seized all of Illyria south of the Savus. Sirmium lay groaning under the weight of the barbarians. They have besieged Siscia, and should that fortress fall--and fall she cannot!--the road to Italia will lay open. Not since the the Cimbri has Italia been in greater danger. Never since Hannibal has Roma felt such terror.

"The war banner has been unfurled at every fortress. Roma cries to her sons for protection. Remember your Oaths, sacred before the gods and unbreakable on the punishment of death. Tiberius Julius asks for your swords and your shields to be present on the western fields of Siscia within twenty days." Without another word, he turned his horse around and galloped away to other forts and strongholds.

When the centurions broke the news to the camp, I noticed an obvious difference in attitude between us--the fresh soldiers--and the veterans. We were exuberant. Many of us congratulated each other that we had enlisted at the right time. To think that immediately after our induction, we would fight in the next titanic struggle that Roma had against the world. We had all grown up hearing the names of the old heroes of the war against Hannibal. Their tales were immortalized in poetry and arts. We trembled at the thought that our actions in this unheard of land would later resonate in the same way as that of Scipio Africanus.

The veterans, however, had a different view. Most of them remained silent. A few were visibly upset. They did not care so much for the thought of fame and glory in war. Most of them were indifferent to the news. They ignored us when we badgered them with questions of combat. Especially annoying to them was our constant boasting of what we'd do when we had our hands on one of the rebels.

Training took on a new course of urgency. The distance between Aemona and Siscia required a six day march; five and a half on a forced march; three if by barges. We were expected to become fully combat effective within fourteen days. And so, we extended each training session by a watch period. Verginius and the other Optiones woke us hours before the sun rose. Our muscles still aching, we rolled and tumbled out of our cots and stood in formation. Yawns were punished.

In those fourteen days, the Optiones handed much of their power back to the Centurions. Verginius no longer disciplined us. Instead, we were rebuked, verbally and sometimes physically, by our Centurion Sulpicius Rufus himself. He was not one of the sadistic centurions who enjoyed beating his soldiers. He only wanted us to perform our duties as best we can. He was like a father to us, and being an Evocatus—veteran reserve—who proudly re-enlisted, he knew how to conduct himself and his men in combat. He never raised his voice except to make himself heard, even in the heat of combat.

On certain days, we would not be given lunch and still be expected to conduct our mock battle drills effectively. On other days, we would be roused out of bed not much after we had just lied down and told to begin morning exercises. Those days were among the worst days of my life. Looking upon them now, I know that they had been made to simulate the environment of prolonged combat. For ten days we endured the chaos and confusion created by our Centurions. On the eleventh day, we were gathered at the conclusion of our drills and told to rest for the next four days. Rations were doubled and each man received two extra servings of meat with his rations.

The grim-faced veterans said that the good meals were only a sign that the coming campaigns will be brutal. We asked them what combat was like, and they responded in vague words. Eventually we gave up.

We carried most of our belongings on our person. A tent had a pack mule, but it was saved for only the heaviest and most cumbersome items. Sometimes, a mule will be commandeered by the artillerists who operated the scorpio to carry their heavy machines.

In general, a pack mule carried the construction equipments: picks, spades, axes, pails, rope twine, and the tent itself. A single infantry man carried his own bedding, cooking pans, utensils, rations, and other utilities on a crude cross over the right shoulder. Our shields were expected to be covered at all times in leather and slung on our backs from the left shoulder. Two pila were bound to the cross.

Each tent also had two slaves. However, they were rarely given our individual items to carry. They were much more skilled at other things such as arms repair, and even some medicine. A good pair of slaves could be expected to earn their freedom in as little as thirty years, depending on if their tent masters could stay alive.

Barges carried us down the Savus towards Siscia for the entirety of the trip. Much of our time and efforts were spent in keeping ourselves from boredom. We gambled what little money we had on dice games. We taught each other songs from our homes and told stories of the things we've done. At night, we took watch only to keep ourselves from washing ashore. On clear nights, we lied on our backs like children, pointing at stars and making both new shapes and stories out of them.