Legio XIII Gemina
I was only 19 when Caesar levied Gemina. Thinking back, about everything I went through, it all seems unreal. I was part of that great change that came about with Caesar’s war. The Republic was done; this marked a restoration of the Roman Kings of old. Now, here I sit in the soldier’s camp at Pharsalus. At the age of 28 I am to die, here in Pharsalus. Pompey has gathered his last army, and it seems Caesar’s luck has run out. They have double our numbers, and the superiority of the cavalry. This is why I sit here, within my own tent, writing my final memoirs. I will start with my life before Gemina, and what happened to me during these times.
I am called Postumius Crito. I was named Postumius by my mother, because my father was killed before I was born. He was killed in 678 Ab Urbe Condita, during the Third Dalmatian war, took a skull cracker. Right between the eyes. (Skull cracker: Sling shot ammo). He got his ticket home, but not the way either he, or my mother wanted. I was born 2 months after his death, Postumius was my name given in honour of him. It was fine growing up without him I suppose.
When I was 9, my mother took me to my first gladiatorial game. It was at the small arena in my hometown of Ravenna. I remember it was a one on one fight to the death, with one of the fighters being a black skinned man taken from Africa, and the other was Greek. The Greek had a very lethal looking short sword, while the African had a very brutal looking mace, and a small metal shield. I joined in the cheering; I drove them on, yelling my little lungs out. I laughed whenever one fell over, cheered when one took a cut, or almost bought it.
Now, I am ashamed. I watched these men, condemned to fight until they died, and I saw them as entertainment. Being a soldier really grooms out of you the love for blood sport. You identify with the foreigners and home grown boys fighting for their lives. The fight ended in a shower of blood, and a last, deafening roar from the crowd. The Greek stumbled, the African lunged, bashed his head in repeatedly. “What a sight!” I thought, “I want to see another one!” I said… I hate myself for that now.
When I was 11, in 689 AUB, I took a visit to Rome. I went past an Orator, who was giving a public talk about Pompey’s war against Tigranes. Ever since my fathers death, mother always seemed to take more of an interest in the Roman wars. She made me stand there and listen to the Orator, who gave a gloriously endowed retelling of the capture of Tigranes.
Despite my earlier protest, and my prominent cuffing, I became enthralled by the telling. Now I know war is far from glorious, it’s dirt, blood, bad food and death. But the tale of the battle had me completely rooted. After he finished, I continued to stare at him, daydreaming about far away battles and victories for Rome. It wasn’t until my mother shook me that I came back to earth. She said to me, “I never knew you’d be so interested in the supplies of grain, Postumius.” The Orator had indeed switched to this topic. I turned red in embarrassment and the day continued as normal. Except now, I knew what I wanted to do…
689 AUB was also the year that Pompey levied the first Legions, the news was reported everywhere, and now I paid very close attention to military matters. Just like my mother. One could sign up for a unit once they turned 16. I told my mother, she scolded me; hit me round the side of the head. She screamed at me, “No! You are not going to go out like your father!” I hated her for it afterwards. One day, when I was 17 in 694 AUB, I managed to sneak off and apply. I found out the news that Caesar had just conquered all of Lusitania, and maybe they would need the reinforcement for depleted cohorts. This bolstered my hope to massive amounts.
I was turned down. A week after, I received a message saying that they had considered me, and that I was not fit for service at the moment. I slipped into a kind of week on, week off depression. It took me until I was 19 to apply again… This time, I was accepted. The recruiters came in the middle of the night. Banged on our door with the handles of their swords. I was in my bed at the time, and when my mother opened the door, I heard them call my name. “Postumius Crito. Your application was accepted, come with us if you still wish it so.”
Chapter One
I jumped out of bed, and met them at the door. One quick glance at my mothers face wrenched my heart. Her eyes sparkled with tears, her mouth agape in shock. She breathed in sharply, and before I could say anything, one of the recruiters grabbed me by the arm, and hauled me through the doorway. Without a word, we shot off into the night; I looked back at my home. My mother had collapsed to her knees, and then she emitted one loud, wailing sob… That still haunts me. Even now 9 years on.
The remainder of that night is a blur to me. I was too stunned. I was happy I was accepted, but the sight of my mother had counteracted the amazement. I felt somewhere between misery and glee. I remember a camp site, small but crammed with around 2,000 men. All replacements. Caesar had fought a battle, by the sounds of the rumours. One legion needed replacements more than any other, Legio XIII Gemina, the newest Legion levied. At dawn the next day, I was kicked awake by an irritable Centurion.
Some time in the night, baggage animals and carriages had arrived with our equipment. I stumbled outside, to see scores of the men awake crowded around a large pile of sacks, and strong boxes. There was a man of impressive rank stood atop a small wagon. He bore a large scar down the left side of his face, and he moved his arm awkwardly on occasion. His plume was coloured red and black, his belt adorned with various awards for gallantry. He waited until enough of the recruits were gathered round, before he spoke.
“Listen here children, I was pulled out of the 1st to come and babysit you lot. I was having a good time up there with Caesar’s victorious Legions. But, when I heard there was a bunch of men eager to get bled up in Gaul, well… I thought it may be worth my while to train you all into a bunch of hardened killers. Because that’s what you’ll be up there… Killers.”
“I have the honourable rank of Principales. I serve a multitude of roles, mainly combat. I have been in service for 14 years. More men have I killed than craps you’ve taken. During your training, you will be given the necessary equipment and skills to take down a Gaul as he tries to spit you on his spear. You will learn to fight as a unit! The Gaul’s place personal honour and glory in battle above all else. And that is why they lose! The difference between us and them is this: Julius Caesar can give us an order, and KNOW it will be carried out. Vercingetorix can give an order, and HOPE it will be carried out!”
Next, he handed out the equipment. He called men forward by name, and shouted out their ranks. Three quarters of the recruits were ranked as “Miles.” I included. Miles were the lowest rank of Legionary available. There were some who were bumped straight up into Legionary and one or two who were given Centurion. But it didn’t matter… He still outranked us all. I was given my Lorica Hamata, (Torso armour) a Gladius, (Short, stabbing sword) Scutum, (Large shield) two Pila, (Very powerful javelins) a belt, a Galea (Helmet) and finally… A small dagger, but very sharp. Called a Pugio.
After that, we were given free roam of the small camp. I didn’t talk to anyone though, kept to myself. I drank the wine I was offered, I fell asleep soon after. The next day, we were awoke at the same time. Dawn. This time, we were given our equipment to carry, 45 pounds of weight, along with the armour you were wearing, your pila and your weapons. We each had 9 days of food. The forced march would take us from our camp, to the conquered lands of the Nevii. The Nevii tribes were the first that felt Caesar’s blade, and in the year that had passed since they were defeated, little had changed. Roving bands of Nevii warriors still roamed the wildlands around the towns. We were ordered to march with our weapons drawn, in case of attack. Half a Legion’s worth of reinforcements murdered would be a great achievement for an ex Nevii warchief.
We marched into one of the Roman military towns. It was comprised mostly of Nevii peoples. But the garrison was entirely Roman. 4,000 men defended the conquered Nevii region. 1,000 of them defended the military town. We came in, and were ordered at ease. Tomorrow, we would begin our training.
Chapter Two
The night passed slowly, I was apprehensive of the training, frightened that I would show myself up. And yet excited at the prospect of learning how to actually take another mans life. I remember having dreams about a burning wasteland, it resembled Rome. Except, the streets were red with blood. The dead were piled high, and I was the only one alive. The vivid dream turned from its bloody prophecy, to daylight streaming into his wide eyes, immediately. He gasped in shock, and groaned as the light burned into his retinas.
The Optio smiled at me, as I quickly lifted my hands to shield my eyes. He then laughed, and said, “God help the recruits. They’re all soft as *** ***.” He left the soldiers tent, the jingling and clinking of his armour fading away, to be replaced by the hustle of the morning activities. I sat up in the flimsy tarp that was given as a sheet, and rubbed my eyes, yawning at the same time. There was a call outside. “Get your asses outside, now!” I didn’t wait any longer, as I recognised the owner of the voice.
I hurriedly rose, mumbling “***, ***, ***.” repeatedly as I grabbed hold of the red dyed soldier’s tunic. I flung it on, quickly grasped my discarded helmet and placed it on my head. I pulled on the Lorica Hamata, and tied my belt around my waist, with the scabbard attached. I feel a sense of triumph at my quick dressing, but it soon turns to despair, as I look around for my shield. The Scutum is gone. I overturn the small bed, I look everywhere. Nothing. My heart is wrenched with fear of what that *** Principales will do to me.
I steal a look outside the tent. The grey light of early morning indicates the time, while in the centre of the fort, a large gathering of soldiers were listening bleary eyed and yawning to the loud voice of the Principales. His name was Amatius Petronax; no one knew anything about him. And as I had sat on the outside of the veterans circle in the dark the previous night, I had heard them say things about Petronax that was less than comforting. What could I do?! I couldn’t go out there; Petronax would nail my balls to a cross! I swallowed my fear, and marched out of the tent.
Petronax lined the men up. The first part of the training was the inspection. I was visibly sweating. I straightened up, like the men around me. I held my pilum, butt first into the ground, and where my shield should have been rested against my side, I hung my arm limp. Ahead of me, sitting on a low wall, were three Centurions. One of them pointed at me, and nudged one of the Centurions. He looked at me, and the others around me, before he cracked into a wide grin. The Centurions burst out into laughter, as Petronax marched down the line of soldiers. He stopped at the soldier to the right of me, my eyes flicked nervously right, and I could make out Petronax lifting up the chin of the soldier, checking his helmet was tied. Petronax grunted satisfactorily, and stopped in front of me. “Oh ***…” I remember thinking.
The Principales looked me up and down. The look of annoyance on his face being replaced by a slight curve of his mouth, as he struggled to contain his mirth. He stared me in the eye, causing me to shrink down a little. “I was hoping there would be one of you idiots stupid enough to *** up their easiest training. Now I get to have Virgil beat the *** out of you…” I made a grave mistake then. I opened my mouth.
“What do you mea-” I got no further. His fist uppercut me hard on the chin. My head snapped back, my loose helmet flew off; I twisted in shock, and fell face first into the dirt. I gasped in the mud, and almost choked. Before I could move for myself, a rough hand seized my hair, and pulled me up. Petronax’s face sneered close to mine, his nose inches from my nose. “Who the ***?! Gave you permission to speak freely you stupid ***!?” I just spluttered in reply, still too shocked to speak. “At least that put a stop to your big mouth.” Petronax thrust my head back down into the dirt. I leaned on my hands, breathing heavily, my head throbbing. Behind me, Petronax addressed the troops.
“See here, his small beating at my hands, as punishment for his undermining of my authority, will be nothing compared to what awaits him this evening. Everyone take notice of this *** imbecile. He has no shield. His helmet is not tight. His armour doesn’t gleam! See how he eats dirt? Like the common *** worm he is! Let this be an example to the rest of you! Anyone I see in such a piss poor state will be getting ten times the beating I gave out today. I want all of you, back to the tents. Training will commence tomorrow, after you see what happens to him later, you will all obey me like I was Jupiter himself!”
I was dragged from the dirt, and taken into a large tent. There was a large wooden table at the end of the tent, with parchment and wax tablets spread across it. Seated there, was a Centurion with several small scars on his face, and one, long scar scaling the length of his right arm. He was wearing his red tunic, and his crested helmet lay on the table next to a bowl of grapes. He had his arms resting on the table and was staring fixedly at me. I had to avert his gaze and instead ended up looking at the large white sheet that constituted a floor in the soldier’s tents. He spoke suddenly.
“Postumius Crito? Is that your name? Speak!”
“Yes, Sir!” I replied hastily, still avoiding his stare.
“It says here you are to be punished for dereliction of duty? What did you do?” I hesitated a second before speaking. Choosing my words carefully.
“I did not appear in full kit at the first training session, Sir!”
“What was wrong with your kit, Miles?”
“The helmet was loose, the armour not shined and my Scutum was missing, Sir!” I risked a glance at the Centurion as I spoke; he nodded carefully as my words came and snapped his head up at me when I mentioned the shield.
“No Scutum? By Pluto’s balls, he should have caved your head in with his own Scutum! You *** idiot… How could you forget the most important part of your uniform, Miles?”
I swallowed before answering. “I have reason to believe my Scutum was stolen, Sir!” The Centurion chuckled, almost silently.
“I have seen this happen before. I can get you a new shield, but there is one problem. I still have to carry out your punishment. I will go easier on you, but you will have to face it like a true Roman. The men over there will escort you out, to the forts middle.” At that moment, two men had appeared either side of me. They pushed me towards the tent flap. I could do nothing but move in the direction they prompted. I was stricken with terror and adrenaline. What would they do to me?
SPQR! An ambitious historical project, coming soon. Check the Library for early version test writes. Recommended for anyone with a love of history.