Soldiers Forget Themselves
Iron never makes a good mattress. Especially when you awaken to a lovely October morning with the sun rising over the plains on your left to gouge your sleepy eyes as you’re forced from your tent by a screeching decarius who seems to hold dearest in his officer’s heart the desire to bury a gladius up to the hilt in your rectum at all times.
The sky shone a lovely blue, but as we dragged ourselves into a loose formation, it couldn’t stop the hastati from twitching as they tried to constantly stand at attention while the rest of us lounged. Among these fresh-faced, low-in-gold but high-in-expendability recruits, Aramus seemed to demonstrate the highest possible level of stress. He couldn’t stop re-tying the straps on his breastplate, polishing his gladius, or subsequently dropping either his shield or javelin as his hands sweat in the midst of his anxiety. Portho plopped down next to me, a cloud of wine permeating every inch of air and ground around his massive frame.
“Hey Aramus, you should relax! There’ll be plenty of time to be nervous when our Carthaginian friends arrive!” Aramus flinched in front of us at the mirth in Portho’s voice. About-facing a perfect circle without his scutum shield scraping the ground, his face had begun the process of assuming a crimson hue.
“Some of us have yet to face the mighty onslaught of the war-elephants of Hannibal Barca!” The quiver in his voice made it all the more comical. Portho could only laugh harder.
“When are you going to come and join the rest of the world outside the womb? As long as you can dodge the tusks and trunk, the feet, and the arrows and spears being flung from the men on top…everything will be fine!” Portho was rolling at this point. I chuckled.
“Hey Portho, try not to cause too many desertions before we see what our beloved recruits can do!”
“Oh Athocus, you don’t seem to realize my purpose in life! Keeping the hastati shaking in their sandals, and seeking out women throughout the empire whose hearts are heavily unbroken, and relieving them of their burdens!” Aramus’ blush increased, even as his hands stopped shaking. Something like drums echoed faint beats in the back of my mind.
“I can’t understand how either of you layabouts could survive long enough to call yourselves principe. How could you possibly live long enough to earn the rank? How can you laugh or just lay there when you’ve seen friends die?” Porthocus’ right hand crushed into Aramus’ throat before his feet could hold his body up.
“How DARE you talk of death, you little maggot?! You’ve only seen the ‘death’ that comes from the slow dreary wastage of years, which appears to a man after he’s forgotten all honor and glory on the battlefield, all laughter of drinking with his brothers, all joy and warmth of women! I would rather be turned into a shattered husk of blood and flesh by a spear of Carthage, which many men greater than YOU have become, than die such a worthless death!” The high-pitched whinnies of several thousand horses and the foreign cries of their African riders filtered through the random chatter around us.
I had to wrap both arms around Porthocus’ arm just to loosen his grip. Fortunately a few of our fellow principe appeared at either side to restrain him, whispering calming words into his ear as Aramus collapsed in a sputtering, coughing heap. A swig of wine and a minute’s time later, Portho once again lay in the grass, laughing about some girl in Syracuse who broke ten taboos every night at his whim, much to Aramus’ chagrin. He attempted a subject change, as another set of drums, strange in their beat and in their sound, skipped through my hearing.
“So Athocus, how is your wife?” The question took me by surprise, having watched Portho’s nigh-drunken stupor a bit too long.
“Er, she’s fine. A rider came in yesterday with a message from her. My son Paulus finally shoved his way out of her belly!” I pushed a laugh from my throat, as strange, trumpet-like sounds and the shuffling of feet shook my ears. Aramus’ shocked face almost made me laugh harder.
“How can you be so calm?” Whistling to the soldiers around us, he shouted “Brothers! As of yesterday my friend Athocus’s loins have produced a son!” Cheers went up from the few who actually knew us and many slaps on my shoulders and back followed, Portho’s last. Drums beat louder and louder, as the smell of mansweat and beastsweat permeated the area.
“Wehl ma freend,” his voice sloshed back and forth, “locks lack yuer luked een foor laife!” I would gamble the life of my son that Portho keeps wine bottles in places I don’t want to know about. My initially forced smile soon became genuine as men around me whose faces I might never see again lifted water and wine to my and my son’s health. It took me away from that plain, out of my armor, away from weapons and war, to a little house, where my beautiful Lucilla held a wrapped bundle of strong Paulus, his eyes alert and contemplative, surrounded by love and strength and happiness.
A piercing command rang out across man and beast.
“FORM RANKS! CARTHAGE APPROACHES!
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