Prologue....
The house sat in the heart of a large clearing that had been carved out by his forefathers some hundreds of years before from the forests that had once surrounded the area. The farm now lay next to a small stand of trees which provided shade from the hot and relentless sun all year round, the trees all that was left of the once massive sea of green. Three fertile master fields were the source of this family's legacy, one a good few stadia in size providing the family with an endless supply of olive. Field number two now held the extensive vineyard that his grandfathers had built generations before and now produced a fine if earthy red every year that brought a few extra sestercii for the family to use each year. The last field was marked out as the spare field, mostly lying fallow at the southern end and providing his horse and small head of cattle with extra grazing in times of need.The gentle slope that ran around the front of the house and was bounded by seven well trimmed cypress held a bountiful little vegetable garden that kept him, his wife and children and the manumitted slaves stuffed full of vitamins and vigour the year round.
Campania was a fertile land, home to the massive sleeping volcano Vesuvius that almost no one could remember had ever erupted, and home also to a rich volcanic soil that could grow almost any crop, no matter how exotic, so the rolling slope of the land was scored with small farms and larger noble estates.
Not noble by birth, but rspected in the community regardless as peerless fighters, Marcus Anneaus Celer’s family had been there for generations, and they had thrived there ever since leaving Rome for the warmer southern climes.
His wife was still busy out in the fields with his two freedmen as he prepared his kit, not allowing her anywhere near his military gear which had been stored safely in the ceiling of the large barn, oiled and waiting for such a day.
For he had known all along since his return a year before that this day would come, as she had.
He had tried to be a good husband, and had acquitted himself admirably, tackling all the outstanding problems that hadn’t been accomplished by the help, and seeing to it the crops and vines would continue to maintain his family well into the unknown future. Celer loved his wife with all his heart and soul, but a longing for the mortal struggle of combat had stayed with him ever since returning from campaign and no amount of toil and sweat that he exerted on the farm could ever replace that rush of adrenaline that signalled the call to arms. His wife, resigned to the fact that he had another master much stronger than her love could provide, had quietly accepted that one day he would be gone once again, but had hoped against hope that the call would never arrive.
But the Gods pf War were to have their way, and the lone rider had arrived days before, informing that all those who were eligible for campaign were to report to the muster in Capua a week hence.
The day had come.
Celer was alone with his thoughts, seeing to the last documents and details on his desk, then looking at his kit one last time. Wiping the thick oil from the Gladius' blade, he saw that the last few day’s grinding had done its work on the blade, which glistened with a deadly promise as he slid it from its scabbard one last time. Looking around his surroundings one last time, he mumbled audibly to himself: goodbye for now. Grabbing his kit and slinging it over his muscled shoulder, he made his way out towards the door. As he expected, the two freedmen and his wife met him at the entrance to the house, where he hugged her firmly to his chest, husband and wife's eyes betraying their true feelings, and a monument of words unsaid. They both kneeled and prayed to the small shrine that stood at the entrance, the protector of all travellers and warriors that had protected his and his kind for generations. With that, he was gone.
It was time to go.
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Celer trudged down the winding mountain path, down the eastern slope of the long and wide volcano towards Nola, where the Via Aquilia traversed parallel to the coast and made a bee-line for the bustling city of Capua, the main artery for trade and communication between Rome to the north and Benevento in the mountainous heartland, the road then gently sloping down to the sea and Brindisi near the heel of the peninsula in the south. It was a good five day walk for most folk, but Celer’s legs were used to hard walking, having marched the length and breadth of the Italian peninsula countless times, some of those steps wounded or heavily burdened with kit and supplies. He did it in three without a blister.
As he walked he could see the large market town Acerrae over to the west, and the endless stream of traders that plied between there and the coast, and the increase of traffic and trade that coursed through the land. Rome, the city and the Empire, were burgeoning, the land ripe and fat, the crops bursting forth from the soil like a perpetual gift from the Gods.
On the third day he walked into the town of Capua as the sun rose high into the sky. The town was a bustling hive of activity, with military activity paramount, as horsemen and small detachments of men ran or marched to and fro, as supplies were gathered and the inns prepared for the rush of raw recruits that would eventually storm the town en masse and seek solace from their centurions at the bottom of a large flagon of wine . The annual draft of Roman citizens had formed two new Legions as usual, an eclectic mix of veterans and raw recruits mixed together with mathematic precision so that each new maniple had a certain number of veterans to lead them in battle and provide backbone for the younger men when the going got tough.
This particular year, the veterans had signed up in droves; bored with civilian life, already in debt, or all too well accustomed to the nagging of everyday realities and problems, they sought the relative freedom of the campaign, regardless of the pain and suffering that went with it.
They were first and foremost the fighting lions of the Legions. Everything else came second.
As the years went by, and Rome’s armies grew larger and larger, more and more ex-Legionaries found themselves forever tied to the army, as units served longer and longer away from Rome, and the soldiers looked more and more like a professional army.
And through all this Celer trudged, he step becoming surer with each and every roman yard that drew him closer to his next campaign.
As the new recruits formed up into centuries, ready to march off towards the training camp, a few of them elbowed each other as they saw these veterans like Celer march up and enrol, wondering just who they were and what exotic lands they had lived and fought in.
One such veteran was this man from the slopes of Vesuvius, Marcus Annaeus Celer, the old Signifier from the Legions that had fought against Hannibal, who had returned to the fold yet again to serve under the Legion standards, carrying his kit and a well covered pole over his shoulder.
The large table that served as the enrolment desk sat in the middle of the town agora, and the crusty Legate that saw Celer approach smiled to himself on his arrival. Telling the young cadets to step aside, he made room for the veteran, who hailed him from afar, then extended his arm forwards in the legionary embrace: both hands wrapped strongly around the other’s forearm. The officers in command of the last campaign had tried to make him a centurion for the maniples when he had re-enlisted before, but he had refused, insisting only to continue to serve as a signifier. This time would be the same. Uncovering his well hidden charge, he revealed a well oiled but very weather-beaten standard, a large wooden hand affixed outstretched atop a long pole, missing most of the smallest finger, with a partially destroyed laurel wreath beneath it. Under that were three golden phalarae, that had been honoured upon the previous units serving under it before that Legion had been disbanded. It had been given to him as a parting gift from the men who had served with him, and he had kept it well cared for until it was needed again.
‘Brought that old Manus with you again Celer? Isn’t it about time to retire it for a new one?’ the officers joked. He only laughed back at them.
‘Not if Jupiter himself asked sirs! It brought us luck in the past and it will protect us again in the future. I wouldn’t exchange it for a new on my life.’
While he spoke, the Junior Consul for the year walked up smiling, with arm outstretched to greet the hoary veteran, and addressed the assembled crowd.
‘Never fear, Marcus Annaeus Celer. That banner represents the blood, toil and honoured victories of our fair people. It will have the place of honour in our Legion as you will.’
The officers nodded in respect, and motioned Celer to move off over with the other veterans that would form the Triarii maniples, the veritable back bone of the army, who stood by and watched as the new troops were sorted into groups for training.
Decked out with their shiny new equipment, and wearing the standard off white military tunics that befitted their raw recruit status, the young men formed up into ranks and made their way out of the city. Under the guidance of the senior officers, this years recruits marched off fifteen miles into the countryside to an already decided campsite destination, where they stopped, the Signifiers planting the standards for the two Legions in the hard earth. Those standards would represent, from now on, the heart and centre of wherever the Legion would be. The Consul, here personally this year to supervise the initial training, addressed the drawn up ranks.
‘Men, we build out new home here from scratch. Have the centurions show the men where to dig and we will camp within walls before sundown. Listen and learn from the veterans, there is never enough time to prepare a man for battle, so listen and learn well. Training tribunes and centurions, I will leave it to your expert hands, gentlemen.’
With that, he rode away with the new crop of Tribunes and Legates to watch the proceedings from atop a slight rise where his command office would be established.
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The camp was built with rapid and almost machine like precision, and what had once been bare earth soon became covered with buildings, roads and unmistakeable signs of military activity, marches, drills, armed horsemen riding to and fro, and the mixed smell of animal sties being mucked out combined with human sweat and grime.
Days later Celer sat at the crossroads of the main intersection that bisected the camp, oiling the long wooden pole that was literally gouged and dented all over, vein-like with scratches and nicks from various battles that scarred the pole like the same on his body as another century of boys rapidly becoming men marched by, hounded by his old friend and drinking partner Silo. The training was going as expected, the raw recruits submitted to unending and progressive levels and layers of discipline, designed to first break them and then ultimately remake them as fighting machines worthy of the name legionary.
The other veterans chosen to be Signifiers sat around, polishing and tending to their banners, all collected as they were where the men could find them easily as they worked, right in the heart of the camp, reminding all of their sworn duty as warriors and the city whose people they represented. Two young men of about 25, both veterans of the southern campaigns, and a young lad of about 16 years, a strapping hulk of near six feet, walked over to the group somewhat boldly, and stood to attention.
‘We were told to report to you for duty, sirs. Marcus Renus and Philo Capenius. The boy’s name is Lucius- a young orphan from Arpenum that the Tribune wants you to train up’
The veterans around Celer looked the lads and the boy up and down, noting their size and bearing, but showing nothing of affirmation in their eyes.
‘Right, you will live with us every day from now on. Go back to your tents and grab your kit, and check in back to Vibius over here. He will show you to your new digs. You are now part of the very core of this Legion. Consider it an honour.’
The two men took their leave and the veterans continued to scrutinise them as they walked away, aware of the fact that of the privileged few who joined their small but honoured band, many would die in the heat of battle, their sworn duty to stand and fight to the last if necessary their ultimate duty.
The lad turned to follow, but Celer cut him short.
Not you, boy. You stay here with us. The first thing you can do is run over there to old Sextus at the workshop and see if my gladius and shirt have been seen to. The get back here as quick as you can. You start your training now.
The boy looked with eager eyes, nodded his head and left without a word. Quick learner, Celer thought. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and ears open, we might make something of him yet. He ran the boy ragged all day, until he could barely take another step, then saw to it that he was fed a meal that would make him sleep till the dawn awoke his rudely to the next day’s tasks.
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The new men with Celer learned their new trade by practice, as did all troops; every time the new Legions struck camp, the first to move were the standards, who tore their charges from the hard earth as a sign that the whole army was on the move. Public oaths were sworn on these symbols of power as well, the men of each century or maniple operating under a particular banner’s charge would stand in front of the assembled unit and swear pledge their unwavering support of their comrades for future times of duress, raw recruits would start the bonds of duty by swearing a bond of duty with their new comrades.
They would march with each unit, symbolising that particular group’s identity and totem; an eagle, a wolf, a wild boar, a horse or even a mystical minotaur was used, the name of the standard shouted out loud at times of crisis for the men to rally to, each unit’s signalmen sounding out his horn, distributing the commands of the Legates and commander.
But the Manus was special, it was the oldest such standard in the new Legion, and the men that marched under it were the best and bravest veterans that the army possessed, each man knowing that if the fight ever came to crucial breaking point, the entire fate of the army would lay on their efforts alone.
At night, young Lucius tried to stay awake as long as he could, and listen to the stories that the veterans told each other of places far away and deeds long since done, and filed them away in his memory so that one day too, he would tell those of the men he fought and served with.
The legionaries of Rome.
To be continued......
