dug, using the earth to form a rampart, thus doubling the height of the defensive perimeter.
Quintus’s legions were in no danger as they marched north through Italy, but he desired that they should be thoroughly efficient long before they encountered any opposition. The camps they constructed often resembled those they would throw up near an enemy position, with deeper ditches, higher ramparts, and stakes driven into the top of the rampart to add to the protective wall. While they constructed the first wall, half the army and all the cavalry would deploy, in battle order, to protect the working parties. Once completed, the others would withdraw in sections to finish it off. Only when the camp was complete, the oath sworn, and the guards set for the night, could those not on duty relax. That is, unless one of their officers wanted them to undertake weapons drill.
It did not take long for the experienced legionaries, who undertook the training, to see that Aquila was already adept in the use of weapons. His thrown spear travelled further, and straighter, than the others. When they progressedfrom slicing at posts to fighting each other, his swordplay was far superior to the accepted norm. All the men in his maniple were visibly impressed except, of course, his ‘nephew’.
‘Danger!’ Fabius exclaimed, stirring the pot vigorously. ‘How can I be in any danger? All I have to do is hide behind Aquila. I suggest we all do the same, since he likes fighting so much.’
The other men in his section smiled, and not just at this oft-repeated joke. The smell from the pot was a lot more interesting in Fabius’s section than in the others; how he had managed to find the time to filch a chicken baffled them. As soon as the rampart had been raised, he had also dug up some vegetables and picked a selection of herbs from just outside the ramparts.
‘Does that mean my back is safe?’ asked Aquila.
‘My shield will be tight against it, “Uncle”, with the boss up your arse. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting pleasure on two fronts.’
They heard the crunch of feet on the earth and looked up. Labenius, accompanying a tribune called Ampronius on his rounds, tried to lead the officer past them without stopping, but the odour from the pot was too enticing and the tribune stopped, his nostrils twitching. He was young, his face thin, with large eyes and a fine-boned nose,giving him a haughty expression.
‘What’s in there?’ he demanded.
Fabius was on his feet in a flash, prepared to give an honest, if vague answer. ‘Our food, sir.’
The others were pulling themselves upright when the tribune responded, his lips pursed and his voice a hiss. ‘Don’t be insolent, Soldier.’
Fabius had a look of purity on his face, a bland expression devoid of meaning, which is the most insolent expression a man can adopt in the face of a superior’s stupidity. The tribune stepped forward and stuck his vine sapling into the pot and a large thigh rose to the surface, unmistakable in its shape.
‘Chicken?’
‘No, sir!’ barked Fabius. He could see the expression of distaste on the tribune’s face, see him working up to issuing some form of punishment for this blatant denial of the obvious truth. Fabius could live with that, but the bastard might confiscate his supper.
‘It’s not a chicken, it’s a pigeon. I ain’t never seen one like the bugger. It fell out of a tree, your honour, right onto the tip of my spear. Committed suicide, so to speak. Probably couldn’t fly because it was so fat.’
The tribune’s jaw dropped, seemingly fooled for a second by the utter sincerity of Fabius’sreply. The others around the fire had to look away from him, struggling not to laugh and Labenius cut in quickly, his own weather-beaten face showing the strain of containing his mirth.
‘Why, that’s a good omen, Soldier. We must tell the general about this, sir.’
The mention of Quintus Cornelius halted whatever Ampronius was about to
Quintus’s legions were in no danger as they marched north through Italy, but he desired that they should be thoroughly efficient long before they encountered any opposition. The camps they constructed often resembled those they would throw up near an enemy position, with deeper ditches, higher ramparts, and stakes driven into the top of the rampart to add to the protective wall. While they constructed the first wall, half the army and all the cavalry would deploy, in battle order, to protect the working parties. Once completed, the others would withdraw in sections to finish it off. Only when the camp was complete, the oath sworn, and the guards set for the night, could those not on duty relax. That is, unless one of their officers wanted them to undertake weapons drill.
It did not take long for the experienced legionaries, who undertook the training, to see that Aquila was already adept in the use of weapons. His thrown spear travelled further, and straighter, than the others. When they progressedfrom slicing at posts to fighting each other, his swordplay was far superior to the accepted norm. All the men in his maniple were visibly impressed except, of course, his ‘nephew’.
‘Danger!’ Fabius exclaimed, stirring the pot vigorously. ‘How can I be in any danger? All I have to do is hide behind Aquila. I suggest we all do the same, since he likes fighting so much.’
The other men in his section smiled, and not just at this oft-repeated joke. The smell from the pot was a lot more interesting in Fabius’s section than in the others; how he had managed to find the time to filch a chicken baffled them. As soon as the rampart had been raised, he had also dug up some vegetables and picked a selection of herbs from just outside the ramparts.
‘Does that mean my back is safe?’ asked Aquila.
‘My shield will be tight against it, “Uncle”, with the boss up your arse. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting pleasure on two fronts.’
They heard the crunch of feet on the earth and looked up. Labenius, accompanying a tribune called Ampronius on his rounds, tried to lead the officer past them without stopping, but the odour from the pot was too enticing and the tribune stopped, his nostrils twitching. He was young, his face thin, with large eyes and a fine-boned nose,giving him a haughty expression.
‘What’s in there?’ he demanded.
Fabius was on his feet in a flash, prepared to give an honest, if vague answer. ‘Our food, sir.’
The others were pulling themselves upright when the tribune responded, his lips pursed and his voice a hiss. ‘Don’t be insolent, Soldier.’
Fabius had a look of purity on his face, a bland expression devoid of meaning, which is the most insolent expression a man can adopt in the face of a superior’s stupidity. The tribune stepped forward and stuck his vine sapling into the pot and a large thigh rose to the surface, unmistakable in its shape.
‘Chicken?’
‘No, sir!’ barked Fabius. He could see the expression of distaste on the tribune’s face, see him working up to issuing some form of punishment for this blatant denial of the obvious truth. Fabius could live with that, but the bastard might confiscate his supper.
‘It’s not a chicken, it’s a pigeon. I ain’t never seen one like the bugger. It fell out of a tree, your honour, right onto the tip of my spear. Committed suicide, so to speak. Probably couldn’t fly because it was so fat.’
The tribune’s jaw dropped, seemingly fooled for a second by the utter sincerity of Fabius’sreply. The others around the fire had to look away from him, struggling not to laugh and Labenius cut in quickly, his own weather-beaten face showing the strain of containing his mirth.
‘Why, that’s a good omen, Soldier. We must tell the general about this, sir.’
The mention of Quintus Cornelius halted whatever Ampronius was about to
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