Chapter Six
As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.
—Book of Genesis, 8:22
Legio XIIX, in camp in the land of the Argippaeans, date unknown
From all around the Praetorium came the sounds of the camp, shouted orders, the clash of weapons and armor, the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer, and the steady tramp of marching feet as details of soldiers marched to this work detail or that.
“You know something, sir?” asked Marcus Caelius, from a chair in the camp’s main tent. The legate sat opposite him. Between them, on a low table, sat two cups, a water jug, and a jug of the dwindling store of wine.
“Any number of things, Top,” answered Gaius Pompeius. “And I suspect even more. But I don’t know nearly enough. You must admit, though, that I am learning.”
“Clearly,” the first spear agreed, “though you need some experience in an actual battle…one that we win rather than being allowed or made to escape from. You need some lines on your face and maybe some gray hair. Never fear, command will give you both before your time.
“That, however, is not what I’m talking about. Think about this: what season was it when we were plucked out of Germania?”
“Late summer, heading into what I gather was going to be a typically miserable Germanic fall.”
“Exactly, sir. And what happens when we turn from summer to fall?”
“Rains…temperature drops…leaves turn. Snow soon follows.”
“Yes, sir, and what has been happening to the temperature here since we arrived? Has it been dropping?”
“Hmmm…now that you mention it, Top, no; no, it hasn’t. Quite the opposite.” The legate’s eyes widened at the implication. “And that means that whatever god or gods saved us, they not only moved us in space but in time. Holy crap!”
Gaius’ face clouded with thought, briefly. “Oh, wait…that doesn’t get us as far as we might have thought. Herodotus mentions a Phoenician exploration that circumnavigated Africa, and discovered the sun was reversed down there. If the sun, then, so the seasons. We could, in other words, have been sent far to the south.”
Marcus Caelius rubbed the lower half of his face, contemplating that. “I suppose that’s possible. Okay, but it doesn’t matter for now. What does matter is that we’re in the beginning of spring, and we’d better plant some barley and some wheat, a lot of barley because we have more of it, and quickly, if we’re not going to starve here.
“And, yes, sir, even though most of them enlisted to escape from farming, the boys generally know their way around a plow and a team of oxen.”
“When you’re right, Top, you’re right. Though I think step one has to be making plows and plowshares, as well as training some of our oxen to the plow. Also, I need to figure out how much we can even afford to plant. I know from studies that spring barley takes about two months to grow and that it doesn’t do well in winter. For winter we need to nose around for some rye.”
“Pretty good for a city boy, sir, yes. I’ll get to work on it. Also, with barley, we can usually get in two crops before the temperature turns.
“By the way, sir, I think you’re ready for a lone walking inspection of the camp. I suggest starting with the valitudinarium. Check the ill and injured, enquire as to their health, improving or worsening. Then drag the medicus, Samuel Josephus, for a tour of the latrines, then stop by the animal pens and check on them with their veterinarius. Finally, take a walk along the walls where you will look at the solidity of the palisade, shaking it where it looks iffy.”
Smiling wryly, Gaius Pompeius said, “Your suggestion is my command, Top.”
“Stout lad, sir. Now, while you’re at it, give a lot of thought as to whether we want to move to the better campsite. I think we do but I, of course, am not a highfalutin gentleman officer, so what do I know?”
“Right. So brief me in about three hours on why you think we should.”
“Yes, sir.” Good lad, learning to make use of the tools of his trade, which is to say his subordinates, and doing so at fair speed.
* * *
At the valitudinarium, Gaius Pompeius wasn’t really sure how to act. So he simply told Josephus, “Show me.”
Josephus, for his part, clapped for a slave—the medical establishment was a place where there was a calling for state slaves—to follow along with a camp stool.
“We’ve sent back to duty everyone who was already in bad shape when we came from Germany,” Josephus explained. “These are all fairly new.”
“How many cases?” asked the legate. “And what kind?”
“Fifty-seven,” the medicus replied, “a fairly light load. As to what kind…” Josephus shouted for the wax tablet, the cera, of the morning report.
“I’ve got eleven cases of the squirts,” Josephus said. “They’re in their own tent under mild quarantine in case it’s worse than eating out of a dirty bowl, which is the most likely explanation. I honestly think that’s all it was but better safe than sorry. I’ve got three fractured limbs, two of which are healing nicely, but one of which seems to have become infected. We are treating that, of course, but I may have to amputate the leg.”
“Do you have enough opos in case you do have to amputate?” Gaius asked.
“To dull the pain while I saw away, yes. To keep him sedated while he’s recovering, technically yes, but I think I have to save that for the inevitable even worse cases.
“Then there’s one centurion suffering from an old case of malaria. Not a lot to be done there; he has to come in periodically and has, so far, always managed to get through it. We help a little by dosing him with silphium and keeping him covered in wet cloth, when the fever’s at its worst, and changing the cloths, or drying him and covering him with blankets when he gets the shivers, but that’s the limit of our abilities. Well, that and restraining him when he gets delirious.
“The remaining forty-two are fairly minor: cuts and scrapes, the occasional superficial sword wound from training. Most of those will be discharged by tomorrow with a prescription for light duty for a few days or a week.”
After a short reflection, Gaius Pompeius said, “Bring me to the one who might need his leg amputated.”
When they arrived in the ward for the unfortunate, Josephus introduced them by saying, “This is Mucius Tursidius, Legate. Mucius, this is the commanding officer.”
Tursidius looked to be about nineteen years old. And very, very ill, his face pale and covered with sweat, even though he was now shivering.
“What happened to you, Tursidius?” asked Gaius, taking a seat next to the hurt soldier’s cot, on the stool placed by the medical slave. He couldn’t help but notice the smell of putrefaction.
“Sheer bad luck, sir,” said the legionary, still obviously full of pluck. He also smelt of unwatered wine, which likely helped. “We were loading logs onto a wagon when the horses bucked and a pile of the logs rolled onto me. Broke my leg in a few spots, and some bone came sticking through the skin. Hurt like…well…I don’t know what it hurt like. Still does, but duller now. It’s gettin’ worse now; I can tell. Stinks more.”
Suddenly, pluck disappeared and Tursidius grabbed Gaius Pompeius’ arm with the desperation of a drowning man. “Sir? Sir?” he begged. “They think I can’t hear but I can. I know the surgeon is thinking about cutting my leg off. Don’t let them, sir, I beg you. If I could get up I’d beg you on a bended knee. Don’t let them. Do anything—drown me in one of the latrines; anything, but don’t let them cut my leg off.”
Tursidius let go the legate’s arm, let his head fall back, and began to sob, “Don’t take my leg…don’t take my leg…”
Later, on their way to check out the latrines, Gaius Pompeius asked, “What do you think, medicus—is there anything you can do for the boy?” The legate laughed at himself, “I say ‘boy,’ but I’m not much older.”
Josephus shook his head. “We’re doing everything we know to do, keeping it clean, disinfecting with vinegar. There’s an old method I learned that came from somewhere in the original land of Abraham about washing with hot water, and I’m trying that, too. We drain the wound and apply poultices.” Josephus clenched fists, looked skyward, and just barely suppressed a scream of frustration. He let his chin sink onto his chest and said, “Nothing works; it just keeps getting worse.
“Not even my God is listening.”
Gaius Pompeius placed a gripping hand on the Jew’s shoulder. “Look, Samuel, you can only do what you can do. Nobody, not even your god, expects more.” Which, thought Gaius, is not, come to think of it, especially bad advice to give myself.
Later, at the latrines, Gaius noted the dearth of flies. “Some, of course, only to be expected, but fewer than I expected. Less stink, too.”
“Well,” said Josephus, “as far as the stench goes, we make lye with the ash from the wood fires. Doesn’t fix it all but helps a little. Mind, there just isn’t that much wood for burning so we’re making it slowly, via evaporation. As for the few flies, if you dug down about a foot you would find a mass of maggots, feasting on shit. But they will never get out to be an annoyance.
“In this temperature, about weekly, we cover them with a foot or so of dirt. That buries them before they can hatch into flies.
“This isn’t a bit of arcane materia medica, by the way. This is all centurion knowledge, gained and passed on over centuries of campaigning. For the Jews, we have religious instruction for the disposal of human waste, but it’s entirely for individuals and completely impossible with the kinds of camps you Romans generally put up. This may explain why you are ruling us rather than us ruling you, despite our having the one and only true God on our side.”
Josephus continued, “We Jews might not like the Empire, and most of us don’t, but we’ve got to admit we owe you Romans a lot for the clean, flowing water, the sewer systems, roads for commerce, even if you didn’t intend them for that. Plus, of course, irrigation, which is only possible because of the aqueduct. Oh, and public order and public baths.”
“Don’t forget the wine,” Gaius added. “And peace.”
* * *
Gaius decided to hit the veterinary before the walls. He’d never really thought about how many animals there were accompanying the legion and its attachments. He was shocked to discover literally thousands of them, for the most part, barring the food animals, penned in and munching grass that had been cut outside and brought to them.
These ranged from the legion’s own cavalry horses to those of the Gallic auxilia, the Palmyrene horse archers, and the legate’s own string, now the inherited property of one Gaius Pompeius. At that, they were short horses because of the fall when they’d first arrived here.
Beyond that was the mule and donkey train, numbering over a thousand, plus oxen for the wagons and carts.
Beyond those, outside the wall and under guard by foot, horse, and canine, were the sheep and some goats for food. Gaius wasn’t sure how many of those there were, only that Marcus Caelius never stopped worrying about the inadequate numbers of them.
From behind a row of tents came a steady sound of hammering iron. Above the tents thin smoke billowed upward.
A wagon passed through the lines of the animal area. Details of state slaves carefully and thoroughly shoveled crap by the wagonload, slinging it onto the wagon for transport to the latrines. They didn’t seem especially upset with their lot, which made Gaius wonder a bit about their treatment. It was probably better than most would have to endure, across the Empire. He wondered, once again, as Marcus Caelius had subtly suggested, if they should be manumitted and enlisted as legionaries. It was not, after all, unheard of. Rome had purchased and then enlisted four full legions of slaves after the disaster at Cannae, a couple of hundred years prior, promising them freedom and citizenship upon discharge.
Maybe I should, mused Gaius Pompeius, but I don’t know if I should, nor how the legionaries will take it to have to share a tent with slaves. Maybe if I make an offer to a few select ones and see how the troops react to that…maybe. Maybe some could come to staff, releasing Romans to fight.
Gaius asked one of the slaves, the one who seemed to be in charge, from the manure detail, “Where can I find the chief veterinarius?”
The slave took one look at the tunic’s broad purple stripe, another at the ornate belt, and said, “Just wait one little second, sir, I’ll fetch him for you. The legate, ain’t you, sir? Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
The hammering suddenly ceased. Moments later, the veterinarius, a grizzled old soldier, perhaps a centurion who had shown talent and interest, came out from behind the row of tents, rubbing dirty hands on his leather apron.
“I was just making some soleae ferreae for the horses, sir. Decimus Vitelius at your service, sir. How can I help you?”
“Just show me around…ummm…Centurion?”
“Yes, sir, centurion of the fabricators, doing double duty at the veterinary, since we lost our regular one back in Germany. I dabble a bit in blacksmithing, too, since my dad was a blacksmith.
“So, this way, sir.”
“Before we walk through, tell me, Centurion,” Gaius asked. “If you were inspecting, say, the veterinary service and animal train for, say, the Seventeenth Legion, what would you be looking for?”
Vitelius repressed a smile. “Well, sir, if it were the Seventeenth Legion, I’d be looking for a way out of Hades. But let’s say some other legion? The Eighteenth, say?”
“Yes, some other legion,” agreed Gaius, figuratively kicking himself over his poor choice.
“All right, sir. Well, first thing, I’d look for a heavy saturation of flies. That would mean nobody was policing up the manure, which is bad for us all, man and beast both. As you can see, sir…”
“Yes, I see the detail at work and I see very damned few flies. All right, what next?”
“Next, sir, I’d demand to see the number of animals, sick and injured, and the types of sickness or injury. That can tell you a lot, sir, not just about the animals but also about the discipline of the legion. Lots of the men don’t know, for example, how to take care of their donkeys and mules—not feeding them the right grasses, not currycombing their hides, then overloading them until their hooves split and their backs give out. Even if it doesn’t get that bad, saddle sores are a distinct problem. Why? Because if you let them, the men will put their personal equipment on the donkeys. Those sores can get infected, too. And since every donkey and mule is assigned to a specific contubernium by number, you can find out which centurions need their butts chewed, so they can go chew out some legionaries.
“Now, let me save you a spot of trouble, sir.… Felix!”
“Yes, master,” answered the slave on crap detail.
“Fetch us the tablets for the animals.”
“Yes, master. Immediately, master.”
While the slave was running, Gaius asked, “Felix?”
“Sure, sir, just go ask him if he’s happy. He was on his way to a lead mine when the legion bought him. I assure you, sir, he is very happy not to be in a lead mine.”
“Yes, one imagines. And imagine that, being sentenced to a short life at hard labor, underground, for a crime you never committed.”
“We didn’t make the world, sir.”
“No, I suppose…”
“Here are the tablets, master,” said a breathless Felix, “all thirty-seven of them.” He departed immediately back to his manure detail.
“He can count?” asked Gaius Pompeius, tactfully waiting until the slave was out of earshot.
“Yes, sir,” replied Decimus. “Reads, too. Won’t say how he learned and I’m not curious enough to beat him over it. I suspect he was a house slave who annoyed the master…or mistress. That would also tend to explain the lead-mine gambit.”
“I see. All right, explain to me what these tablets mean.”
“Right, sir,” Decimus’ finger ran along the top of the first one. “These are the animals by cohort. They show the number for full strength, by type. So, for a regular cohort of infantry, you can see that full strength is seventy donkeys. That’s one per contubernium, plus one per junior centurion, another two per senior centurion, and another three for the centurion of the cohort. Plus there are five spares kept by us that can be loaned out if one of the donkeys comes up lame or ill through no fault of the contubernium.”
Gaius had to ask, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer, “And if it is the fault of the contubernium?”
Decimus smiled wickedly, “Then they can carry all their shit—tents, cookpots, and everything else—on their backs. Or, if that’s impossible because of the difficulty of the march, they turn in their tent, which is carried on a spare, and they do without a tent.”
“I see,” said the legate. “What if the cohorts are understrength?”
“Makes no real difference, sir, since the equipment is still going to be on the legion’s rolls and has to be moved with the legion. Now, we do require more state slaves to guide and care for the spare animals, but we don’t have to pay them.
“So, sir, you can go over each cohort’s tablet pretty much the same way. Number understrength tells you what has to be requisitioned from depot or locally purchased. Whether the cost of that is taken from legion funds or from the pay of the troops depends on whether you find that the loss of the animal is the legionaries’ fault. It isn’t, always; the enemy will have his say, of course.”
Decimus shuffled the wax tablets, settling on the injury and sickness report. “Now, here, sir, you can see the numbers of ill and injured animals. It used to be a lot higher, just after we came here, but most of the difference died or was slaughtered for food and leather. Wouldn’t have been so bad but we’d already loaded them up for a march. That extra weight broke a lot of legs. And we haven’t been marching since getting here, so none of them have come up with saddle sores or hoof issues.”
Marching? Marching? thought Gaius. We don’t have enough animals to move the entire legion in one group to the new camp. Let’s hope the first spear has a solution to this, when he briefs me—which is to say, tells me what I really ought to do.
“Sir? Sir?”
“Oh, sorry, Centurion, I was musing on just how in Hades we move from here.”
“It will be a toughie, sir, I agree. Now, if the sir will follow along, these last tablets are individual animals under care, their problems, and the treatment.”
Gaius read the first of these, then the second. One thing caught his eye. “Centurion, I see vermes. Do some of our animals have an infection of maggots?”
“Ummmm…no, sir, not exactly. Best you see, for yourself, sir. This way, if you will, Legate.”
Decimus led Gaius Pompeius down the lines of animals to a gap, then through the gap to a separate corral. There, several dray animals stood separate from the others, with bandages covering them in places. One slave was feeding them one at a time, some from freshly cut grass and others from a barley mush. On the ground, by one of the stakes, were two bronze urns with close-fitting tops on them, one large and one fairly small.
Leading Gaius into the corral, Decimus gently lifted one of the bandages off a dray ox. Gaius took one look and almost gagged for there, in an open and deep wound, were a fair mass of maggots squirming amidst blood and pus.
“That’s disgusting!” the legate exclaimed. “Get those vile things cleaned them out of the poor beast at once.”
“Hold on, sir,” said the veterinarius, wagging a scolding finger. “This is a trick the previous veterinary taught me when I was filling in, doing some blacksmithing. Those maggots are doing nothing but good, no harm at all. They’re eating all the dead and diseased flesh and leaving only healthy flesh behind. May be leaving something else behind, too, that fights infection. Don’t know for sure, but I suspect so. Animals with open wounds that get treated this way are much more likely to heal and get fully well than from any other treatment we have.”
“But…gods, flies lay their eggs in filth, rotten flesh, and shit. How can those maggots be clean enough to let into an open wound?”
“We don’t ‘let’ them; we place them. Works like this: You need, in the first place, either the blue or the green bottle fly, in some numbers; never hard to find a few around a stable. Blue’s a little better. You can usually scrounge up one or the other, but we keep our own supply. Anyway, you keep a sealed jar with a goodly helping of rotten meat with maybe some shit mixed in. That’s jar one, the big one, and in it you keep the flies. Matter of fact jar one is that big bronze thing over there. The flies lay their eggs in the meat and shit and, in no very long time, maggots appear. Then, and this part is tricky, you cover the top of the jar with a cloth mesh with one hole in it to keep the flies in—don’t want the nasty little bastards getting loose in camp, after all—and use forceps through a narrow hole in the mesh to grab the maggots, take them out through the hole, and drop them into a jar about a quarter to the third full of wine and vinegar, mixed. Then you cover that jar again, give it several dozen vigorous shakes, and extract the maggots, again, one at a time. You put those maggots on the wound, cover it up, and let them get to work.
“Finally, when they’ve done their work—and you can tell they’ve done it because the wound doesn’t stink anymore—you pick the maggots out and put them back in the big jar to metamorphize, mate, lay some eggs, and ultimately die.”
Decimus gave a wry smile. “Is it, as you say, disgusting? Sure. But is it as disgusting as a poor animal dying slowly, by inches, over weeks? I’d say not, not nearly.”
* * *
After seeing the maggot circus, Gaius Pompeius felt a desperate need for fresh air. To that end, he walked to and mounted the agger on the northern side, where the westerly winds didn’t blow the stink from the latrines; limited lye could only do so much. From there, he began to walk to the northwest corner, where the latrines’ stench couldn’t reach him at all. As he did, he stopped every few steps to grab and shake the sudes to confirm they were well-placed and still solid. The sudes were also bound together, so he tugged at those ropes to make sure they were tight and not fraying or rotting. Looking through and over the palisade, he saw over a thousand of the legionary food animals grazing contentedly.
Looking up, Gaius saw a cloud to the northwest, huge, dark, and thick. Briefly, he considered racing for his tent for his sagum, then decided that, in the second place, he was unlikely to melt while, in the first place, the first spear would think he was acting like a girl.
And then he noticed two things. One was that the drivers and guards of the food animals had begun to frantically urge their charges back to the safety of the camp. The other was that, Wind from the west…cloud to the northwest getting closer…clouds don’t go against the wind…Fuck.
“To arms! To arms!”
Word passed quickly, accelerated by the brass musical instruments. In what seemed like mere moments, the agger was thick with men, fully armed but some still tugging on armor, their scuta resting on the sudes and effectively making the defensive wall almost as high as a man’s head and much stronger than the palisade alone.
Meanwhile, teams of legionaries were closing the gates with wagons, one side of each of which likewise had a wooden wall, facing to the outside. Men, armored or armoring up, clambered into the beds of the wagons and faced out.
And still the menacing cloud—dust, Gaius now saw—grew closer.
From somewhere off to his right, Gaius heard the steadying, stentorious voice of Marcus Caelius. “Stand firm…don’t loose your pila without the command…fight until your arm starts to get tired, then tell the man behind you to relieve you for a bit…stand firm…”
With about five heartbeat’s worth of reflection, Gaius Pompeius decided that’s what he should be doing, too. So, trying his best to copy the tone of the first spear’s command voice, he walked counterclockwise, speaking with a calm he hadn’t really known he could possess. “We’re the Eighteenth Legion and nobody can beat us…we’re the favored of all the gods, who saved us from a bad spot in Germany…stand firm…fear nothing…We’re the bloody Eighteenth…the gods stand with us…”
He was pleased to hear, after he’d passed, some of the centurions taking up the same themes he had been addressing, often with a good deal of cursing interwoven.
And then came the real shocker: three men, flanked by a score or so of Palmyrene horse archers, rode out of the cloud. Then one of the legionaries, with better eyesight than most, apparently, exclaimed, “Bloody hell, it’s the legate’s secretary, Gisco, and the two new centurions we sent out!”
Gaius Pompeius, having only normal eyesight, had to wait several minutes to ensure that this was true. By that time, the cloud, unreinforced by further dust, had blown to his right, revealing what looked to be a couple of hundred horsemen and an ungodly number of animals, some of them cattle so big, compared to the horses, as to beggar belief.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Marcus Caelius, still loud enough to hear across half a camp. “It’s our long-lost centurions, Pullo and Vorenus, along with Gisco. And they’ve come bearing gifts.” Caelius paused, probably to draw in enough air to burst eardrums, then belted out, “Cheer, boys, cheer! No short rations for us for a while!”
* * *
Gaius Pompeius, Marcus Caelius, Gisco, Vorenus and Pullo, and Bat-Erdene sat on stools around the collapsible banquet table in the legate’s tent. Servants poured wine mixed with water into silver cups.
“Yes, sir,” said Gisco, “I spent nearly all of the sixty thousand denarii you sent me out with.” He passed over three wax tablets. “Here’s the accounting.”
Gaius looked down the tablets at the lists of what had been bought for what price and whistled. He turned the tablets over to the first spear, who did likewise. “Just wait until the chief medicus sees how much opos you’ve brought back…Josephus…Josephus? Now what was it? And Vitelius! Damn me for an idiot!”
Gaius turned to one of the messengers who stood by the Praetorium, and said, “Run and get me the chief surgeon, Samuel Josephus.”
“You’ve solved just about every logistic problem we had,” Marcus Caelius congratulated the Phoenician, “at least for a while. How the hell did you manage all this with only sixty thousand denarii?”
“I’d like to be able to say that it’s because my ancestors were the greatest traders in human history, but the fact is that Bat-Erdene’s people, the Argippaeans, are animal and grain rich and silver poor. If we got a good deal, by our lights, I’m not sure that they aren’t laughing their butts off over cheating the yokel Romans.”
A quick glance at Bat-Erdene showed him nodding enthusiastically. “They figure you dumber than dirt, give up so much silver for just so few animals.”
“So few?” Marcus Caelius said. “There are thousands of them, and the kind we need, too.”
“Yep,” said Bat-Erdene, continuing to nod vigorously, “so few. You just yokels. Rubes. Not just Romans, gullible Romans. From now on my people have new word: say ‘roman’ when mean ‘gullible.’”
“And that,” Gisco said, “is the essence of fair trading: everyone involved being certain he cheated the others.”
“Sir,” said the first spear, “everything I was going to brief you on concerning a move to the new camp? All obsolete now. I was going to tell you we’d need to move in two separate parties, with all the insecurity that means with regards to building a new camp. No more; we can march in one group, with only an advanced party—I’ll command that—and flankers out, and build our camp the proper way.”
“Well,” said Pullo, “as to marching to a new camp, we’ve got some news that might change that some. We know where we are, and it’s not as far as we might have thought.”
“Explain that one,” said the first spear.
Gisco let them in on the information they’d gained from the Argippaeans. “The short version is that we are east of the Empire, west of the Land of Silk, and north of the Scythians, who are north of some related tribes who are north of the Parthians. My best guess is that we’re somewhere between fifteen hundred and two thousand miles east of home. Could be a little more; Persia is a big place.”
“On the plus side at least we’re not at the bottom of Africa,” said the first spear.
“No shit,” replied the legate.
“So do the calculations, Top,” said Gaius. “With the food we had, the food these men brought us, can we make it to home in…what, five months?”
“Not a chance, sir,” Marcus Caelius said. “No roads. No telling what obstacles we’ll face. Five months of food might get us halfway there, but then we’d be gods know where, no food, and no certainty of finding any. No, we’re going to have to march the distance we can and still leave a growing season for the barley. Maybe march about eight hundred miles, in two or, more likely, three months. Plant barley. Let it grow for two months. Harvest it and move on. Except winter’s going to hit us…Wait a minute, sir; remember what I was saying about this being spring?”
“Sure.” The legate nodded. “And you’re right, the gods not only moved us in space but in time. Scary thought, that they can do this.”
“Very,” Caelius agreed. “We’re going to have to do it like this, sir. Plant now; plant a lot, at the new camp. Harvest in two months. Harvest again two months after that. Then spend a winter in the new camp. I’d say plant rye over the winter, but we don’t have any.”
“We’ve brought back a good deal of rye, First Spear,” said Gisco.
“No joke? Well, excellent, then. So it’s two growing seasons of barley and some wheat, then one winter growing season for rye. And only then do we start the march home.
“Then march for two months, stop, plant again, and harvest another crop. And again. Then we build a more permanent camp for the winter, eat up one of those two harvests, and march another two months. You get the idea.”
“And,” added Vorenus, still a bit pale from his injuries, “at the end of it we’re going to have to fight our way through Germania, to get home.”
“Maybe not,” said Pullo. “I know I’d rather not. Might be able to find enough wood near that sea north of the Germans to go to Gaul, by water, then south.”
“We can consider making the last legs by sea, when we get to the area and see the feasibility,” said the legate. “In the interim, let it be as you say, Top. But I think we ought still to move to the new campsite. It’s got wood and water, both of which are in pretty short supply here.”
“Yes, sir; no argument. When we’re done here I’ll start preparing the move.”
Gaius turned to Bat-Erdene and said, “And, so, young man, I understand you are now in charge of some of your people who have signed on with us as scouts.”
“Two hundred and forty-three,” said Gisco, “each with his own horse and two spares. But, sir, there is an issue.”
“What’s that?”
“They can’t fight; it’s a prohibition among them amounting to the religious.”
“Long story,” said Bat-Erdene, in a tone that said he was not interested in telling that long story. “Can scout for you. Hunt animals. Watch over and guard new and old flocks. Cannot make war. Just cannot.”
Gaius saw that the first spear was about to explode at both the apparent cowardice and the sheer affrontery of men being unwilling to fight. He showed a restraining palm and said, “Top, at two denarii a month we’re not really paying them enough to fight, either.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” agreed Marcus Caelius, grudgingly. “Are you at least willing to help build our camps when we stop for the night.”
“Even eager help and learn build,” said Bat-Erdene.
“Well…that’s something, then. Now what about the remaining four ‘guests’ from your people, Bat-Erdene?”
“I ask later if want join. Think they want go to tribe, see families, first.”
“One other thing, Legate,” said Gisco. “Life is hard on the plains and harder on men than women. The Argippaeans have a surplus of girls. They do what other peoples do when there are too many women and not enough men. Some become second wives or priestesses or nuns. Others become meretrices. We’ve brought along six wagonloads of the latter, seventy-two redundant girls. Most of them—maybe all, taste depending—rather pretty and reasonably well built.”
“Hmmm,” mused the first spear, “that’s enough for each man to get a piece of ass about three times a month, without wearing out the girls. But what the hell should they be paid? A denarius? That would pay a lupa back home for a full day’s work, ten or fifteen clients, and out of which she’d have to give some to her pimp or owner, some for food, and some for shelter. She’d be lucky to save an as a day.”
Gaius Pompeius, who, like most free young men of the city, had made some use of prostitutes from the age of fifteen on, was not unsympathetic. “All right, put them on the strength as far as rations go; they’ll have deducted from their pay one half of what the men pay, and will be issued rations accordingly. They’ve already got their own shelter, apparently, so we can deduct that from their normal price.”
“There are not all that many asses in the legion’s chests,” said Gisco. “Surely not enough to keep this commerce going.”
“You have any suggestions?”
“As mentioned,” said Gisco, “these people are cattle rich and silver poor. Bat-Erdene?”
“Yes, friend Gisco.”
“Your women who turn to this kind of work, what’s their aim?”
“Make enough money and other goods attract decent mate.”
“And this doesn’t bother those mates?”
“No. Usually end up as second or even third wife, but no.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this, thought Gaius Pompeius, setting a whore’s rightful wages. But we’ve got to be careful that, in the first place, we don’t insult the scouts Gisco’s brought us, and, in the second, that the men aren’t fleeced of all their pay.
“Bat-Erdene,” the legate asked, “how much money, how many silver coins, would it take for the girls to attract good mates?”
The Argippaean flashed all the fingers of both hands twice, and then on his right hand once.
“So they need to earn twenty-five denarii over six months, if you and they are going to be with us for six months. Okay, fine. If every girl—my father would not believe what I am using my mathematics for—services ten legionaries and auxiliaries per day, for six months, then each servicing must be worth about one seventh of an as. Call it a fifth so they have money for food.”
“Wait,” said Bat-Erdene, “we have pay for food from pay.”
“No,” said Marcus Caelius. “Auxiliaries, although paid less, are also issued their rations for free. But legionaries and camp followers must pay out of pocket, unless we get lucky and can loot some. Looted food is free.”
“Whew, that good thing.”
“Anyway, the coinage just won’t support that at all,” said Gisco. “There is no such coin.”
“Right,” agreed the legate, “so maybe we do it on paper. Or wax tablets. With chits. The men buy fifty chits with one denarius withheld from their pay. They buy the services of a girl with one chit. The girl brings her chits, once she has fifty of them, and is given a credit of one denarius in the legionary bank. When we’re about home and their tour is up, they get paid in silver and can leave with all of our blessings.”
“I think,” said Marcus Caelius, “that we’d better start figuring out how to make spintriae for the legionaries to show the girls what they want.”
“No need, Top,” said Pullo. “Just put up signs showing all the variations that the men can point to.”
Pullo was thinking longingly of seeing Zaya once more. She suited him.
“Easier than making detailed tokens, sure. Good thought, Pullo. But sir, I don’t think the fifty chits at a time will work. The girls can only do so much in a day. Some of these horny dogs would try to knock off all fifty…well, all right, ten of the fifty, in a day. And that means fights and worn-out girls and blood in the streets.”
“Then what do you suggest, Top?”
“A get-laid roster by unit, sir. Two cohorts a day, balancing the numbers as evenly as possible, and withholding of a fifth of an as from each man in a cohort every time the cohorts number comes up. The centurions can keep order. No fights. Especially no cross-unit fights as everyone tries to crowd into the same holes, so to speak. Very much simpler, sir.”
“All right, we’ll do it your way,” agreed the legate. “Now let’s get the word out: orders to march tomorrow morning, break camp and march out the next day.”
Josephus appeared at the Praetorium door. “You sent for me, Legate?”
“Yes. Tell me, have you taken off that boy’s leg yet?”
“No. I was going to, but he got ahold of a sword and swears he’ll kill anyone who comes near him.”
“Great!” exclaimed the legate. “Let’s you and I walk over to the veterinarius and have a little chat with Decimus Vitelius.”