Arthur Britannicus by Paul Bannister Read Free Book Online Page A

elements. He had knee breeches, toeless socks and underpants all made of wool, and a pair of ankle-high leather marching boots, closed all around, unlike the classic open-toed caligae, that had given the mad emperor ‘Little Boots’ Caligula his name when, as a child, he’d been fitted with his own miniature footwear. 
    The new boots, much prized by the troops, had soles that were nailed in D-shaped patterns that cunningly distributed the force of the footfall from the heel diagonally to the toe, making marching much less tiring.  “These,” said the sergeant proudly, “are your own LPC’s.”  He paused for the expected question, which duly arrived.   “Why?” said the old soldier innocently.
    “Leather personnel carriers.”
    Next came a metal helmet with a horsehair crest, and a heavy metal-reinforced, curved elm wood shield with outer layers of leather and linen and a great bronze boss in its centre. “On the march, you can use this for shelter against the rain, but first you put this leather cover over your shield to keep the wet off it,” instructed the sergeant. “If you don’t, it will become too heavy to be useful and you’ll be fucked. Also, when we march, we count the cadence. Every thousand paces is a mile, and we need to know where we are. By counting, we have a good idea of how far we’ve travelled at all times, and the officers keep itineraries that tell us how far it is from one place to the next. Exempli gratia, it’s 227,000 paces from Londinium to Eboracum, where the mighty Sixth Legion is encamped, bothering the local whores. So, brush up your numbers, and you’ll never get lost!
    “Now, take a look at the sharp bits.” The centurion indicated an array of weapons laid out in a display.  “This,” he said, hefting a 10lb javelin, “is your pilum. It’s called ‘Rome’s Secret Weapon.’ Four feet of wood, plus two feet of nasty pointed iron, and you’ll throw it about 20 yards. This behind the head is a lead weight to give it extra impetus, and the blade’s soft, so it bends on impact and is useless if they want to chuck it back at you. It’ll either go right through the infantryman’s protections, or at least it will stick in, and not easily be yanked loose. You have two of them, and two volleys of these are usually enough to decide any skirmish. It’s a proper wog-stopper, but this,” he said as he picked up a longer thrusting spear, “is much more use at close range.”
    The centurion put the spear aside, turned and picked up a short broadsword and its belted scabbard.  “If you lose everything else, keep this because …” he eyed the recruits, “it’s what you’re all about. This is your gladius, your very own steel sword. It has a point, see?” and he stabbed it at the nearest youth, who jumped back, “and two nasty sharp edges.” He swatted the sword, whirring it through the air. “But you usually stab with it because a stab is much more deadly. Cutting at someone, however hard you do it, doesn’t often kill because bones and armour cover the vitals. Striking also exposes your arm and side. Thrusting, on the other hand, covers the body and the adversary often gets the point stuck in him before he even sees the sword. Remember: the point always beats the edge. You thrust, you don’t cut. Now, pay attention.” 
    The old soldier looped the belt with its scabbard over his head. With a casual, practised move, he slotted the gladius in, over his right shoulder so the sword handle protruded clear, for an easy grab.  “It’s here, it’s handy, and it’s out of the way when you’re holding your shield on your left. In a scrap, you throw your pilum when I tell you, and you either level your spear or you whip out your sword. Got it?”
    Around the barrack room, the youths nodded, fascinated. One day they’d hurl the heavy javelins at barbarians. The ones the spears didn’t impale would be impeded by the heavy weapons sticking out of their shields, and