“Possibly, possibly,” admitted Rubrius. “It’s a long time since I remembered to take a look at the men’s quarters. Society in Corinth takes its toll of a not-so-young man like myself. Fortunately I have a very reliable senior centurion. He’s responsible for everything. Ask him what you want to know. From a formal point of view, you should be my right-hand man, but he would be offended if I went over his head. Perhaps you could work together with a kind of equal status, as long as you don’t trouble me with complaints about each other. I’ve had enough quarreling in my life and want to serve out my time in peace. I’ve not many years to go.”
He gave me a surprisingly sharp look and added with feigned absent-mindedness, “Did you by any chance know that my sister Rubria is the eldest of the Vestal Virgins in Rome?”
Then he went on to give me some cautionary advice.
“Remember always,” he said, “that Corinth is a Greek city, even if the people who live here come from many other countries. Military honors do not count for much here. The art of social life is more important. Look about to start with and then make out a service program yourself, but don’t overwork my soldiers excessively.”
With these instructions I had to leave. The centurion was standing outside and gave me a cold look.
“Did you get your information?” he asked.
I looked at two legionaries lumbering through the entrance with their shields on their backs and their lances on their shoulders. I was astounded to hear the centurion calmly explain that this was the changing of the guard.
“They’ve not even mustered!” I cried. “Are they to be allowed to go like that, with filthy legs, long hair and without an under-officer or escort?”
“We don’t hold guard parades here in Corinth,” the centurion said calmly. “It’d be better if you hung up your plumed helmet somewhere and got used to the customs of the country.”
But he did not interfere when I ordered the under-officers to see that the barracks were cleaned, the weapons polished, that the men shaved, cut their hair, and in general tried to look like Romans. I promised to return the following morning for an inspection at sunrise, for which I also had the prison scrubbed and fresh switches prepared. The veterans looked alternately in surprise at me and at the furiously grimacing centurion, but they thought it best to say nothing. I remembered the advice I had been given and hung up my parade uniform in the equipment store and instead put on a simple leather tunic and a round exercise helmet when I went back to the inn.
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Hierex had had cabbage and beans cooked for me. I drank water with my food and went to my room so depressed that I felt no desire whatsoever to make the acquaintance of the sights of Corinth.
When I returned at dawn to the barracks, something had indeed been happening in my absence. The guards on duty at the entrance stood to attention with raised lances and gave me a rousing greeting.
The senior centurion was dressed for exercises. He did his best to make the sleepy men wash at the water troughs, barking at them in a hoarse voicc. The barber was fully occupied and on the sooty altar a crackling fire was burning and the yard smelled of clean soldiers rather than of a pigsty.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the signal blown when you arrived,” said the centurion sarcastically, “but Commantler Rubrius is particular about his morning sleep. Now you’d better take over. I’ll watch. The men are eagerly awaiting a sacrifice. A couple of pigs would do if an oxen is too expensive.”
Because of my training and upbringing, I’d had little experience of sacrifices and under no circumstances was I going to make a fool of myself by spearing squealing pigs to death.
“It’s not yet time for sacrifices,” I snapped. “I must first see whether it’s worth staying here or whether I’ll give up the whole assignment.”
As I walked around, I soon noticed that the small number of men there knew the drill and could march properly if they wanted to. They did get rather breathless after marching at the double, but in the group batde-drill they could all throw their lances at least somewhere near the sacks of straw. During the sword exercises with blunt weapons, I noticed that there were several really skilled swordsmen. When they were all finally panting and sweating, the centurion made a suggestion.
“What about standing them at ease,” he said, “and showing us how you can fence? I’m a bit old and fat of course, but I’d be glad to show you how we used to use a sword in Pannonia. It was there, in Carnuntum, that I got my centurion’s stave.”
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