Read Online Nobody Loves a Centurion by John Maddox Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: John Maddox Roberts
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camp in the wilderness surrounded by overwhelming multitudes of howling barbarians. They were not yet ready to mount a concentrated offensive against us, but that was only a matter of time. In the meantime, it was certain thattheir nocturnal assaults would grow in frequency and boldness. Everyone’s principal worry was that they might call upon German reinforcements to help them drive us from their path.
In obedience to Caesar’s orders, I had to wear my armor and keep my weapons handy even when engaged on clerkly tasks. To make things worse, he forbade any drinking during the day. I thought this was carrying things a bit far, but I knew better than to protest.
Before settling down to my papyrus, pens, and ink, I found one of the legion’s sword instructors and arranged for him to teach Hermes the rudiments. Like most such men he was an ex-gladiator and the fact that he had lived to retire proved his proficiency with weapons. The scar-faced brute immediately set the boy to thrusting at a six-foot stake like any other tyro on his first day in the lndus . I knew that within minutes he would feel as if his arm was ready to fall off; but the instructor would not be satisfied until he could keep it up all day, and hit a spot the size of a silver denarius every time. He was already starting to sweat when I left for the praetorium.
From all around I heard the bawling of the centurions and their optios as they drilled their soldiers. The hammers of the armorers made a continuous din and the hooves of the cavalry clopped on the hardened surfaces of the streets as they rode out to patrol or back in to report. I smiled to hear it all, because I was no part of it. I had a task that would keep me sitting, and it would not be in a saddle.
While Caesar and Labienus conferred with a delegation of semi-Romanized Allobrogians, I sat in a folding chair at a field table and drew my sagum close against the chill morning breeze. Clouds blocked what little warmth might have been gleaned from the remote, Gallic sun. Thus wrapped in cold ironand warm wool, I opened the first scroll of Caesar’s reports to the Senate.
It contained bald and uncomplicated notes concerning Caesar’s doings from the time he left Rome: how he took charge of his legion in Italy and marched north into Gaul, picking up his auxilia along the way. At first I took this to be the sort of preliminary notation any writer may make in preparation for the serious work of writing a history or a speech.
I despaired of the task Caesar had set me. Not only were these mere, skeletal notes, but there was a difficulty I had not foreseen: Caesar’s handwriting was astoundingly bad, so that I had to strain my eyes just to make out the letters. To make things worse, his spelling was more than merely atrocious. Among his many eccentricities, he spelled some of the shorter words backwards and transposed letters on many of the longer words.
I thought of the times I had seen Caesar at his ease, usually with a slave reading to him from the histories or the classic poems. Of course, most of us employ a reader from time to time, to spare our eyes, but I now realized that I had rarely seen Caesar with his nose buried in a scroll. It was an incredible revelation: Caius Julius Caesar, Proconsul and darling of the Popular Assemblies, would-be Alexander, was nearly illiterate!
I decided that I would first have to copy Caesar’s notes verbatim. His literary oddities were so distracting that making any sort of sense of them was a daunting task in itself. I spent most of the morning copying the first scroll into my much more polished hand. When I had it rendered into acceptable form, I went over it again. Then a second time, then a third.
After the third reading I put the scroll down, aware that Iconfronted something new in the world of letters. Having copied the notes into readable form, I realized that I could do nothing to improve them. I was, as Caesar had said, no admirer of the ornate,
In obedience to Caesar’s orders, I had to wear my armor and keep my weapons handy even when engaged on clerkly tasks. To make things worse, he forbade any drinking during the day. I thought this was carrying things a bit far, but I knew better than to protest.
Before settling down to my papyrus, pens, and ink, I found one of the legion’s sword instructors and arranged for him to teach Hermes the rudiments. Like most such men he was an ex-gladiator and the fact that he had lived to retire proved his proficiency with weapons. The scar-faced brute immediately set the boy to thrusting at a six-foot stake like any other tyro on his first day in the lndus . I knew that within minutes he would feel as if his arm was ready to fall off; but the instructor would not be satisfied until he could keep it up all day, and hit a spot the size of a silver denarius every time. He was already starting to sweat when I left for the praetorium.
From all around I heard the bawling of the centurions and their optios as they drilled their soldiers. The hammers of the armorers made a continuous din and the hooves of the cavalry clopped on the hardened surfaces of the streets as they rode out to patrol or back in to report. I smiled to hear it all, because I was no part of it. I had a task that would keep me sitting, and it would not be in a saddle.
While Caesar and Labienus conferred with a delegation of semi-Romanized Allobrogians, I sat in a folding chair at a field table and drew my sagum close against the chill morning breeze. Clouds blocked what little warmth might have been gleaned from the remote, Gallic sun. Thus wrapped in cold ironand warm wool, I opened the first scroll of Caesar’s reports to the Senate.
It contained bald and uncomplicated notes concerning Caesar’s doings from the time he left Rome: how he took charge of his legion in Italy and marched north into Gaul, picking up his auxilia along the way. At first I took this to be the sort of preliminary notation any writer may make in preparation for the serious work of writing a history or a speech.
I despaired of the task Caesar had set me. Not only were these mere, skeletal notes, but there was a difficulty I had not foreseen: Caesar’s handwriting was astoundingly bad, so that I had to strain my eyes just to make out the letters. To make things worse, his spelling was more than merely atrocious. Among his many eccentricities, he spelled some of the shorter words backwards and transposed letters on many of the longer words.
I thought of the times I had seen Caesar at his ease, usually with a slave reading to him from the histories or the classic poems. Of course, most of us employ a reader from time to time, to spare our eyes, but I now realized that I had rarely seen Caesar with his nose buried in a scroll. It was an incredible revelation: Caius Julius Caesar, Proconsul and darling of the Popular Assemblies, would-be Alexander, was nearly illiterate!
I decided that I would first have to copy Caesar’s notes verbatim. His literary oddities were so distracting that making any sort of sense of them was a daunting task in itself. I spent most of the morning copying the first scroll into my much more polished hand. When I had it rendered into acceptable form, I went over it again. Then a second time, then a third.
After the third reading I put the scroll down, aware that Iconfronted something new in the world of letters. Having copied the notes into readable form, I realized that I could do nothing to improve them. I was, as Caesar had said, no admirer of the ornate,
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