In Defence of the Walls of Rome (Book 1 of the Soldier of the Republic series)

By William Kelso

On Rome’s northern frontier amongst the fierce and hostile Gallic tribes, Flavius, father, Roman patriot and veteran of Telamon will do anything to protect his wife and children from the savage war that is soon to come to the heart of Italy. In Carthage, Gisgo, proud warrior prince of Numidia, restless and broke - joins Hannibal’s mercenary army on its epic five-month march to and across the Alps in search of a fortune to repay his crippling debts.

It is spring 218 BCE. The greatest war the ancient world has yet witnessed is about to engulf the western Mediterranean. A conflict that will pit duty to country and family against a lust for fame and wealth and decide the future course of the Western world. In Rome the senate has demanded retribution for the fall of Saguntum, an allied city, putting them on a direct collision course with the proud, merchant masters of Carthage. As war between the two Mediterranean super powers becomes inevitable, two men, Flavius and Gisgo, shaped by circumstance and tradition, will be swept into the furious battle for supremacy from which they will find that they cannot escape.

“In Defence of the Walls of Rome” is book one in the “Soldier of the Republic” series

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Kelso
• Release date: Nov 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463012024

William Kelso

Hello, my name is William Kelso.My books are all about ancient Rome, especially the early to mid-republic as this was the age of true Roman greatness. My books include, The Shield of Rome, The Fortune of Carthage, Devotio: The House of Mus, the eleven books of the Soldier of the Republic series and the nine books of the Veteran of Rome series - Caledonia (1), Hibernia (2), Britannia (3), Hyperborea (4), Germania (5), The Dacian War (6), Armenia Capta (7), Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (8) and Veterans of Rome (9). Plus the 11 books of the Soldier of the Republic Series and Rome Divided (book one of the Guardian of Empire Series). So, go on. Give them a go.

Book preview

Chapter One – Duty

Spring 225 BCE – Central Italy

It was raining heavily as the solitary, hooded figure hurried purposefully down the mountain track. In the bleak skies, the grey clouds had banished the sun and it was a cold, sombre morning. The patter of the driving rain striking his drenched and glistening poncho was incessant. Out of sight, Flavius could hear the distant but urgent ringing of a village bell. His expression was grave as his sharp, alert eyes peered through the rain, searching the broad valley ahead. Around him, the mountainous landscape stretched away to the horizon. Dense forests clung to the rocky slopes and patches of snow were still visible on the high, jagged-peaks that clawed the sky.

Pausing to check his bearings and catch his breath, Flavius pushed back his hood, allowing the rain to plaster his short blondish hair. He was a rugged handsome man, with hands that looked well used to manual labour. Long years of hard physical work had etched itself into his face, but for a thirty-seven-year-old he was in good shape. His sandals were caked in mud and he was clad in a plain woollen tradesman’s tunic, over which he was wearing a paenula - a poncho. A simple and worn-looking bronze-breast-plate hung across his chest, but it seemed barely wide enough to give him any proper protection. On his left shin, a bronze greave protected his lower leg. Squinting at the river valley through the driving rain he paused. There was no one about but he needed to stay alert for the roads were not safe.

In his right hand he was clutching a seven-foot-long, hasta-thrusting-spear that rose a foot and a half above his head. A sheathed, gladius-short-sword, a sling and a pugio-army-knife were hanging from his belt. Over his shoulder, attached to a stout wooden pole, he was carrying the rest of his belongings – an old and dented bronze-Montefortino-style army-helmet and his marching pack, containing a set of spare clothes, a blanket, bowl, wooden cup and a small ration of barley, hard cheese and dried beans which Agrippina had prepared for him. Strapped to his back, protected by a dust cover, was a large oval-scutum-shield.

For a couple of minutes Flavius rested, his expression sombre and grave. Then ignoring the foul weather, he started out again, pushing on down the desolate track as fast as he could. He could not afford to waste any time. Rome was still more than fifty miles away; at least two days walk. The summons, when it had reached his village of Falacrinum, had been both urgent and chilling. War was coming. Italy was being threatened by a massive and deadly danger. The despatch from Rome, signed by the newly elected consuls, the supreme war leaders of the Roman state had described a very serious situation. A tumultus gallicus had been announced throughout Italy, a state of emergency and all regular and existing army exemptions had been suspended. The consuls were mobilising all the resources of the state. The reason was clear. The Gallic tribes to the north beyond the mountains were preparing to invade Roman and Etruscan territory. The long peace with the Gaul’s had broken down. Flavius bit his lip as he hurried onwards. The thought of hordes of barbarians pouring southwards through the mountain passes was enough to keep any family man awake at night. Rumours had already reached his village that a hundred thousand Gallic warriors were massing to the north and would soon be on the march. The barbarians would no doubt be intent on plundering, raping and murdering their way across the rich and fertile lands of Italy. The huge invasion threatened every Roman and allied town, farmstead and village. The Gaul’s would make no distinction between Etruscans, Roman citizens, Samnites, Umbrians or the other peoples of Italy. All would be fair game. Nowhere in the countryside except in the fortified towns would be safe.

A little colour shot into Flavius’s cheeks as he hastened onwards down the track and into the valley below. The summons had ordered him as a reservist to report for duty in Rome, bringing his own weapons and equipment, on the specified date. The time had come again for him, as a Roman citizen, to do his duty for his country. It would be the seventh occasion in nineteen years that he’d answered the call. Leaving Agrippina, his wife and their four children behind, in Falacrinum, had been hard, but he had to go. A state of emergency had been announced and he had a duty to protect his country. Rome needed him.

Emerging at last from the forested mountain slope Flavius stoically plodded on across the open fields with his head bowed against the wind, his poncho glistening and streaming with water. Half a mile away, a raging, chaotic stream, swollen with fresh snowmelt, cut the valley in half and, as he reached it, he turned downstream to follow the muddy track along its banks. The path was deeply rutted by wagon wheels and slippery and made his feet heavy. Cursing the treacherous mud, Flavius struggled onwards using the butt of his long hasta-spear to maintain his balance. As far back as he could remember, there had been talk of building a proper paved and drained road between Rome and Ariminum, but nothing had ever been done.

Hearing the bellow of an ox, Flavius raised his head. Coming towards him along the path was a solitary wagon, pulled along by a team of oxen. Sitting at the front holding the reins, a man, his cloak tightly wrapped around his body and his head covered by a wide-brimmed farmer’s hat, had lowered his face against the driving rain. As the wagon came rolling past, an apprehensive looking woman and two frightened young children silently turned to stare at Flavius, from where they were sitting huddled at the back of the wagon. Flavius lowered his gaze and struggled on without saying a word.

As the travellers moved away, Flavius paused and gingerly half-opened his right hand and peered at the white scar across his palm. The scar was shaped into the single letter M. Someone had given him that scar when he was still a baby. Maybe his mother or father had had second thoughts – hoping one day to recognise him again. Maybe to ask for forgiveness. It didn’t matter. He had never known his real family; father or mother. They were a mystery to him. Nor did he wish to know them. His parents meant nothing to him. As a baby he had been exposed. He had been unwanted. He didn’t know why. No one knew why. All he knew was that the people who should have cared for him; looked after him and raised him as their son; had left him to die alone in the forest. They had really meant for him to die, for he’d been abandoned naked, in a spot where it’s unlikely he’d have been found. But fortune had been on his side that day and he had been discovered by a shepherd boy and his dog. Grimly Flavius closed his hand and, gripping his spear, he resumed his journey. The family that had eventually adopted him as their son had called him the boy who would not die. They had told him that he was blessed by the protection of the goddess Fortuna. They were right. He was a survivor. A lucky bastard. And as soon as he had been old enough, he had vowed that he would never abandon his own children. He would be the good father to them - which he himself had never had.

It was a couple of hours later, when a noise made Flavius turn his head and look back the way he’d come. It had stopped raining, but across the grey sodden landscape, the sun still refused to show itself. Along the track, a horse-drawn cart with a single occupant was jolting and swaying towards him. As the cart drew closer, a man raised his hand in a friendly greeting, his eyes peering at Flavius’s weapons and equipment.

You look like you are heading to Rome for the muster, the man called out in a cheerful voice. Do you need a lift? I can take you as far as the bridge across the Tiber. Does that suit you?

Cautiously Flavius glanced up at the stranger. The driver looked old - around fifty and with a disarming grin. Shifting his gaze to the cart, Flavius saw that it was filled with small wicker cages containing a brood of noisy, cackling chicks.

Sure. Why not, Flavius replied, with a grateful look.

Throw you gear in the back and come and sit at the front, the stranger said, gesturing to the free space beside him.

Silently Flavius heaved his pack, shield and spear into the back of the wagon and clambered up onto the platform, where the man was sitting, clutching the reins. Having the weight off his shoulder and back was a welcome relief. Then they were off, rolling and jolting through the mud and puddles. To their right the river had widened and had lost some of its natural fury as it flowed towards the gentler more civilised plains of Latium.

I suppose you have heard about the tumultus, the man said, his eyes fixed on the track ahead. Fucking Gaul’s. Can’t trust them to die properly, if you ask me. They say that thousands of mercenaries are pouring across the Alps to join the Insubres and Boii, lured by the promise of taking our silver and women. You should be careful. The roads are not safe, not even for a man armed like yourself.

We will stop them, Flavius replied in a resolute voice. The consuls will drive them back. We have defeated them before and we shall do so again.

Yeah, the man growled with a resigned look. Let’s hope so. I am an Etruscan myself. We stand with Rome. It will be our land and our homes that will be ravaged first. People are worried and scared. I have sent my family south to my relatives in Capua; for safety you know. But they won’t let me go and join them. I may be too old to go on active service - like yourself, but I am still with the seniors, in the army reserve. When the invasion comes, they will no doubt put me in the city guard or something like that.

For a while the two of them rode on in silence.

What do you do when not serving Rome? the man asked at last, giving Flavius a quick, inquisitive glance.

I am a carpenter, Flavius replied.

A carpenter, the man repeated, raising his eyebrows.

Family?

Four children and a wife.

Oh boy, that must be tough, the man said with a sympathetic sigh. Four children and a wife to feed and then they call you away to war.

Flavius said nothing as he gazed at the landscape ahead. He and Agrippina and their four children were indeed only just about managing to survive. He had been a carpenter all his life, having simply followed his adopted family into the trade. It was not a high-status profession and it was not going to make him wealthy, but he loved working with wood and he was good at it.

My sons help me in my workshop, Flavius said, glancing at the man. I am training them as my apprentices.

The driver nodded.

I thought you might be a farmer, the man said. Those weapons of yours and that equipment that you are carrying look pretty impressive. Must have cost a fortune to procure. You have done well for yourself.

I am just a carpenter, Flavius replied, looking away. It’s a good, honest profession.

The man’s questions were beginning to annoy him, but the driver was right. His gear and weapons had indeed cost a small fortune, far beyond what he could afford on his meagre carpenter’s income. But he was not about to reveal that everything he had with him, apart from his sling, did not actually belong to him, but had been borrowed from his landlord. The long-standing arrangement which he’d come to years before, with his landlord in Falacrinum, from whom he rented his small home and workshop, was that he could borrow it all when called up to serve Rome. If he was to fight, it made sense to do so with the best weapons and armour. However, if he ever failed to bring the equipment and weapons back, there would be a price to pay. As a debtor, he and his family would come under the authority of his landlord until the debt had been repaid, which might be never. In practice they would become the man’s slaves. That was how it worked. Not that it would really matter, Flavius thought sourly, for if he failed to bring back the weapons, it was most likely because he was dead.

Well I manage my own transport business, the driver said. I am always up and down between Ariminum, Narnia and the cities of Latium, Umbria and Etruria; that’s me. Never in the same place for very long. Wife hates it, but I like the freedom and a man must make a living, right, he added, with a sudden booming laugh.

Flavius smiled politely but said nothing.

For a while the two of them remained silent. Flavius was gazing pensively at the river when the man suddenly called out to his horse and the wagon turned and began rolling away from the water.

What are you doing? Flavius exclaimed, as he glanced at the driver. This isn’t the way to the bridge. We should keep to the river.

Shortcut, the driver replied calmly. Trust me. I know all the paths in this district. This way is quicker.

Flavius frowned but didn’t reply. They were heading back up into the hills and in the distance, across the open meadows, he could make out a large forest clinging to the steep mountain slopes. As the track started to rise, the horse pulling them along, began to slow. Sweat was streaming down the beast’s flanks, but the driver showed no sign of wanting to call a halt. Soon the winding path had reached the start of the forest, and up ahead the track disappeared around a bend into the increasingly wooded and rugged terrain. Looking unhappy, Flavius turned silently to gaze at the woods. They had gone another mile or so into the forest when one of the wagon wheels suddenly struck a large stone, violently jolting both men from their seats. With a snapping, splintering sound, the wagon swayed alarmingly and then came to a halt. Cursing, the driver leapt from the wagon and came around to inspect the damage.

Oh man, the wheel’s buckled, just my luck, the man swore in a despairing voice.

Clambering quickly down onto the ground, Flavius knelt and peered at the wheel. The stone had nearly wrenched the wheel from the axle. The wagon was going nowhere. Slowly he straightened up and glanced at the cart. There was no spare wheel.

Fucking hell, the man hissed, despair turning to anger. Those chicks need to be delivered by tomorrow. How am I going to do that now?

Flavius was about to say something, when in the forest he heard a distant bark. And as he heard the animal, he felt a sudden sense of unease. Something was wrong. Something did not feel quite right about this whole set-up. For a moment he hesitated as he turned to glance at the forest, but amongst the trees nothing moved. Then without looking at the driver, he came around the back of the wagon and reached for his spear and equipment. Calmly he slung his shield over his back, hoisted the wooden pole with his helmet and pack over his shoulder and, gripping his spear, he turned and began to walk away from the wagon, back the way they’d come.

What are you doing? the driver called out in a surprised voice. What is this? Where are you going?

Flavius paused and turned to look back at the man.

Thank you for the ride Sir, but I must be on my way, he called out.

What, the driver cried out, with sudden anger in his voice. Are you going to leave me here on my own to fix this thing? After I gave you a ride?

Flavius didn’t reply as he kept on walking. Suddenly from the forest he heard another bark and this time it sounded closer. Twisting his head around, he saw that the driver was still standing in the middle of the track. The man had not moved, but something about his posture and attitude had changed. Flavius frowned. He couldn’t explain it, but something did not feel right. Turning his attention back to the track ahead, Flavius hastened on as fast as he could. He’d however barely gone a few hundred paces before a distant and excited shout made him look round again. As he did; he gasped in shock. Standing in the track the driver was frantically beckoning to a group of armed men sprinting towards him, led by two hunting dogs on leads. Bandits! With a cry of pure fear Flavius started to run, his equipment jangling and swaying across his back. The men were after him. It had been a trap. The driver had been leading him into an ambush. Behind him the sound of running feet, excited shouts and barking dogs suddenly filled the forest with noise.

Swerving from the track Flavius plunged into the forest. The weight on his back and his long hasta spear were going to slow him down. But maybe he could lose his pursuers in the woods. There was no way he was going to outrun these bandits, not with all his stuff on his back. It was a desperate plan, but he couldn’t think of anything better. Forcing the sickening panic from his mind, he darted through the forest, struggling to keep his spear from getting caught on the branches. The bandits were after his weapons and equipment. That was why the driver had been so interested in his gear. That was why he’d offered him a lift. His gear was worth a small fortune and if it hadn’t been for that lucky stone which had broken the wheel he would have ridden straight into the trap. Fool. Fool. Fool. A frantic voice was screaming in his head. Travelling was a dangerous business and Gallic raiding parties were not the only threat. The bandits that infested the roads and the countryside didn’t care about war. They would just rob him and leave him for dead. How had he not seen this coming. How had he allowed himself to be surprised like this?

Behind him the shouts of his pursuers and the barking of the dogs sounded horribly close. They were gaining on him. Gasping for breath, Flavius burst into a clearing and nearly tripped over a rock. Up ahead, through the trees, he could hear the crash of what sounded like a waterfall. Frantically he raced towards the noise. Plunging back into the forest, the branches and the undergrowth conspired to prevent his passage, clawing at his face, legs, equipment and arms, scratching and tearing at his skin. But fear lent Flavius strength and abruptly he emerged out onto a high rocky ridge. Beyond it, a deep yawning gorge, several yards wide, had torn the land in two and far below, along its narrow rocky base, a mountain stream was thundering and cascading down the gorge. Desperately, Flavius turned to look for a way out, and as he spotted the fallen pine spanning the gorge, he hissed in delight. But it was too late. Through the trees Flavius caught a glimpse of movement. The bandits had released their dogs from their leashes and the beasts had seen him. Dropping his spear and pack onto the ground he just had enough time to yank his pugio knife from his belt before the first dog came leaping at him. With a startled cry, Flavius went tumbling backwards onto the ground as he caught hold of the beast. The dog was growling, its snapping jaws were trying to sink its teeth into him, but instead of flesh, the animal’s sharp teeth raked the bronze breast-plate. For a moment man and beast remained locked in a frantic, vicious struggle. Then Flavius, with an outraged bellow, managed to roll sideways and drive his knife into the dog, killing it with one blow. Flinging aside the dead dog, Flavius tried to rise to his feet but before he could he shrieked in pain, as the second dog sank its teeth into the exposed calf of his right leg.

Ignoring the hot searing pain, Flavius struggled to his feet and, with a furious venomous snarl, kicked the second dog with his left foot, catching it square in its stomach and sending the beast flying into the deep chasm. There was no time to see what had become of the animal. Through the trees the men’s excited shouts were rapidly drawing closer.

Cursing at the pain in his leg, Flavius hastily stuffed his knife back into his belt. Then he stooped, grabbed his spear and pack and started limping down the ridge towards the spot where the fallen tree bridged the narrow gorge. The pine looked sturdy enough but there was no way of knowing wherever it was rotten and would break. With a cry Flavius threw his spear and pack across the gap and then began to clamber out onto the tree on all fours. Far below him he could hear the roar of the white cascading water. Forcing himself onwards, he crawled across the tree, praying that it would not snap. The pain in his calf was growing. Blood was welling up from the wound and he could feel his leg starting to stiffen. As he made it to the other side he turned and tried to lift the trunk and fling it down into the gorge, but the tree was too heavy and would not budge. Abandoning his efforts Flavius staggered to his feet, gasping for breath, his chest heaving and hastily picked up his spear and pack. The pain in his leg was getting worse. On the other side of the narrow gorge he suddenly caught sight of men moving towards him through the forest.

Stifling his pain Flavius fled into the forest, limping on down the slope with the noisy gorge to his right. Biting his lip, he pushed on as fast as he could, but he was tiring, and he was losing blood. He was not going to be able to keep this up for much longer. But the bandits must not get his weapons and gear. That would be a disaster with consequences not only for himself. Ahead of him, the wooded, mountain slope seemed to be flattening out and suddenly, through the trees, he caught sight of a small lake. The edge of the water was bristling with tall, thick reeds. Crying out with sudden hope, Flavius veered towards the lake and boldly splashed into the water. Gasping at the numbing cold, he waded out into the lake, lowered his spear and the pole with his pack into the water before forcing his way into the mass of tall and thick reeds, until he was hidden from sight. When he’d gone as far as he could, he stopped and sank into the still water until only his head was showing. Clamping his teeth over his arm to stop himself from making a noise he cocked his head. Would the bandits suspect he’d gone into the lake? The dogs would have been able to smell him, but he’d taken care of the dogs. Or were there more of them? A few moments later he heard a shout. It had come from the forest, no more than twenty yards away. The cry was swiftly answered by another. Holding his head just above the water and hidden by the thick reeds, Flavius grimaced with pain, struggling to stop himself from crying out and revealing his hiding place. Clutching his spear and pack in his left hand, he closed his eyes and waited. All his personal belongings and food were well and truly soaked but he dared not move. From close by, there was another shout. This time it had come from closer by. Then he heard voices.

He killed the dogs, a voice snarled, no more than five or six paces away. We saw your cart leave the track by the river. We were waiting. Why didn’t you bring him to us like you were supposed to?

The wheel broke, the driver replied in an annoyed voice. I would have served him up to you on a plate if that hadn’t happened. I swear.

Well he is one lucky son of a bitch, the first voice growled. Come let’s see if we can find him lower down the hill before it gets dark.

And with that the voices receded. In his hiding place amongst the reeds, Flavius slowly closed his eyes in relief and muttered a silent prayer of gratitude. The goddess Fortuna was still looking out for him.

Chapter Two – The Dilectus

Squashed into the flood plain just beyond the walls of the city of Rome and the meandering banks of the Tiber to the west, a vast temporary encampment of tents, stalls and wagons had sprung up across the Fields of Mars. Well over twenty-five thousand men had converged on the plain, most of them citizens who had arrived to enlist in the legions. It was a bright sunny afternoon as Flavius, clutching his spear and belongings. pushed his way through the dense crowds. The noise and smells around him were incredible. Amongst the congested, chaotic maze of tents and stalls, merchants and craftsmen were busy catering to every need. Their loud advertising cries merged with the mooing of cattle, barking dogs, the metallic hammering of blacksmith’s and the chatter of thousands of voices. Columns of smoke were rising into the air from a dozen or more bakeries and the scent of freshly baked bread, roasting meat, leather, charcoal and the distinctive stench of garum, fermented fish sauce, hung heavy in the air. Keeping a careful hand on his money pouch, Flavius pushed onwards in the direction of the villa Publica, the only permanent complex of buildings on the Fields of Mars. The villa Publica was where the censors had their HQ and where the public records were kept. He was familiar with the place, for every five years he’d had to travel to Rome to take part in the census, which would record his wealth and determine his place in society.

At a congested intersection, Flavius paused and turned to look around him with a curious, searching gaze. Agrippina, his wife had some distant relatives whom he’d never met, who lived in Rome, but apart from that he knew no one. Not that he was bothered. From experience he knew that the muster was a lonely business. It had been thirteen years since he’d last come to the dilectus. Thirteen years since he’d last served in the army. His status as a married man had won him an exemption from the annual muster but now that the tumultus had been called, the normal rules had been suspended.

Friend, I am looking for the men from the Quirinia tribe, Flavius said, as he caught hold of a passing man’s arm. Do you know where I can find them?

Quirinia, the man growled, shrugging off Flavius’s hand. Haven’t got a clue.

Disappointed Flavius turned to gaze around at the crowds. The Quirinia were one of the thirty-five rural and urban voting tribes into which the Roman citizenry was divided. The Quirinia were his tribe. When the people’s legislative assembly was called to vote on the election of magistrates, religious officials and important matters of state, he could vote as part of the Quirinia. Voting however was not as simple as it sounded, for it meant a considerable expense and a long journey on foot all the way to Rome. Flavius sighed. The ancients had gotten things mixed up when they’d designed Rome’s voting system. Agrippina was far more interested in politics than he was, but she couldn’t vote because she was a woman.

Looking for something, honey, a prostitute said suddenly as she came up to Flavius and allowed him a glimpse of her saggy breasts. The woman was old and ugly, her face covered in thick, cheap make-up.

The Quirinia, Flavius replied. Do you know where I can find them?

With a weary sigh the prostitute looked away. Try the entrance gates at the villa Publica, she replied. They have posted the schedules up on the wall. So, want to fuck? It will cost you four asses.

No thank you, Flavius replied, as he turned away and began to make his way through the crowds towards the villa Publica.

If you change your mind come and find me, the woman cried out with a cackling laugh.

Flavius pushed on through the crowd. Ahead, the villa Publica loomed up over the mass of tents and stalls. It was a famous building, the place where foreign ambassadors to Rome were first greeted. As he reached the walls that surrounded the complex, Flavius turned and made his way towards the entrance gates. A crowd of men clutching their shields, spears and belongings, were clustering around an official-looking proclamation that had been daubed onto the walls in red paint. As he pushed his way to the front, Flavius peered anxiously at the writing.

Friend, can you tell me what it says, Flavius said as he tapped a man on his shoulder and pointed at the writing.

What do you want to know? the man beside him replied with a frown.

The Quirinia. Where can I find them and when will they be called forwards, Flavius replied. Sorry, I cannot read.

The man grunted and turned to peer at the proclamation.

It says that the Popillia and the Quirinia will be called forwards for the dilectus tomorrow starting at dawn, the man called out.

Thank you, Sir, Flavius replied with a grateful nod.

Are you looking for the Quirinia, another man exclaimed in a helpful voice. A group of them are camped out on the banks of the Tiber. Keep an eye open for Talio’s amulet shop. You will find them there.

***

The large group of men said nothing, nor did anyone acknowledge him, as Flavius wearily lowered his spear, shield and pack to the ground and sat down amongst them. It was clear that no one knew each other. A dozen or so paces away were the green peaceful waters of the Tiber and out on the water a river barge was slowly making its way downstream. Grateful to be off his feet, Flavius turned to inspect the dog’s bite on his right calf. There was a possibility that the wound would disqualify him from being chosen for active service. He’d managed to clean and disinfect the wound with vinegar and bind it with a fresh white bandage. After that, nature would have to do its work for he did not have the money to pay a visit to a doctor. Gingerly peeling away part of the bandage, he peered at the wound. It seemed to be healing well although the stiffness persisted. Carefully replacing the bandage, he turned to look around him at the men sitting on the grass, hoping to recognise a face, but the men were all complete strangers.

With a sigh he stretched out onto the ground so that his head was resting on his pack, his eyes gazing up at the sky. There was nothing else to do now but wait until the start of the dilectus, the process by which the military tribunes would choose and assign him to his unit. From experience he knew the men around him were just like himself. This was no professional army. The Roman militia, who were called up every year to defend their country, were amateur part-time soldiers, ordinary men, smiths, clerks, farmers, carpenters, bakers and labourers. The men’s place in the army would be determined by a strict hierarchy, based on a man’s wealth and their status according to the census. For it was the wealthier citizens, those with the greatest stake in society, who were expected to do the bulk of the fighting. Five classes of citizens had been created out of those eligible to serve in the legions and vote in the legislative assembly. Each class was based on wealth, with classes I and II providing the cavalry, the senior officers and the best equipped heavy infantrymen. Flavius belonged in class V, the lowest and poorest class eligible to serve and made up of those men with at least 11,000 asses worth of wealth. The proletarii, the men poorer than himself, were not allowed to serve in the legions but were instead assigned to the navy. Whilst vagrants, elders, criminals, slaves and freedmen were not even considered worthy of that honour.

Unable to find any peace, Flavius sat up and began to inspect his weapons and shield. His landlord’s equipment was in good condition although it was old and had seen extensive use. Since he had started using it, Flavius had however made sure that the weapons were well maintained. Pulling his gladius, short sword, from its sheath he lifted it up and examined the blade. Then retrieving a small stone from a tunic pocket, he began to sharpen the steel. Across from him some of the older men who seemed to have served before, were also examining their weapons and, as he made eye contact, a few of them acknowledged him with a little nod.

It was getting late. On the banks of the Tiber a group of men had gathered around the large camp fire. Darkness had covered the land, but out on the quiet waters of the Tiber, the glow of numerous camp fires was reflected in the water and in the direction of the Janiculum, a solitary light could be seen on the crest of the hill. Flavius sat a little way back from the crackling, hissing fire, his blanket wrapped around him against the cool night air. He was munching on a piece of hard cheese as he quietly listened to the conversation around the fire. The talk was being led by the older men who were boasting and sharing past experiences with the younger, more inexperienced recruits. Each speaker was trying to outdo the others. One of the wealthier men in the group had brought along some wine and the flask was being eagerly passed around the camp fire.

In my first campaign I was cursed, one of the men called out. I was a second rank man in the Hastati then. We were a good unit, but the centurion in command of my maniple was a complete dick. The arsehole hadn’t got a clue about leadership or how to fight. A total amateur and a coward too. He only got his position because he knew someone high up. Anyway, they shipped us off to Sardinia and through his ineptitude that officer managed to get half of my unit killed. Pray that you end up with a competent commanding officer, boys. If you end up with a fool like I did, you will suffer, make no mistake. You will suffer.

You boys, you should listen to me, another veteran spoke up, demanding attention as he wagged his finger in the air and gestured at a group of tense and silent young men in their late teens. You think the enemy are the Gaul’s. The enemy comes in many forms and shapes. I have seen a whole legion laid low by disease. I have seen men in armour go straight to the bottom of the ocean. And if you think you are safe in the camp, think again. I was told this story by a friend who witnessed it a few years ago. One of the centurions came to this man’s tent one night and tried to rape him. That is the god sworn truth and if you want to complain about your ill treatment it will be your word against that of an officer.

That’s a load of shit, old man, one of the younger men retorted.

Ah you think so, do you, the older man replied in a mocking voice.

Listen, another man in his forties suddenly interrupted and, as he spoke the men around the fire fell silent, for there was authority in this man’s voice. I have served fifteen years, the veteran growled, as he glanced around at the faces around the fire. This is my last campaign and my advice to you, new boys, is this. Do your duty for Rome and trust in your comrades and your officers. Do your job, learn and survive. The hardest part is at the beginning when you first sign up. Once you join the army you give up all your rights and privileges as a citizen. You come under strict military discipline and trust me the army can be harsh when it wants to be. But the discipline is enforced for a purpose. We only win if we all fight as one. We don’t want cowards in this army. They will be the first to die and they will die many times over. Don’t be a fucking coward. Look to the veterans and do as they do.

Flavius lowered his head and finished off the last of his cheese. He’d heard the speech before. At each muster there was always a veteran ready to pass on his knowledge to the younger generation. The man was right though. A newly raised army was at its weakest just after it had been formed. For at this point no one knew each other. No one had fought or trained together, the officers and commanders had not been tested, nor had they had a chance to take the measure of the enemy. It was only after several months of being on campaign, that the effectiveness of the army started to improve. Taking a gulp of water from his water pouch, Flavius allowed himself a little nostalgic smile. The talk around the fire had reminded him of his own previous service. From the age of eighteen to when he got married at twenty-four, he’d spent six nearly continuous years in the army, only going home to Falacrinum for the winter. Six years in the Hastati. It had been the time of his life. So different to the sleepy village in which he’d grown up. A time of youthful adventure, excitement, comradeship. He’d seen the world. They had shipped him off to Sardinia, newly acquired territory that had belonged to Carthage. It had been the first time he’d been on the sea and the experience still haunted him. The journey had been marred by storms, that had left him with a deep dislike and suspicion of the ocean. For two years afterwards, he been posted to