The sound of a throat clearing interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to see Celer standing at intente.
“Yes?”
“Pilus Prior, I was wondering if you wanted the men to wear their plumes?”
I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, why not? If we’re going to get prettied up, there’s no need in doing it halfway. We’ll let Pompey see what real Legionaries look like, right?” Celer nodded, like he was expressing his approval of my decision and I swallowed my irritation, trying to keep my voice even. “Give the order, Celer.”
“Very good, sir.”
He saluted and marched off. I knew that he would make sure the men got the impression that it was his idea, but I shrugged it off. I could only worry about so much, and by this time I was feeling fairly comfortable in my command of the Cohort. Turning back to my examination of the ground over which we would be marching in the morning, I looked for any obstacles, mentally plotting the best course over which to cross. Straining to see if I could spot the telltale bulk of artillery dotting the palisade of the hillfort that was our objective, I could not see anything suspicious, not that it meant anything at this distance. Well, I thought, we will find out one way or another in the morning.
~ ~ ~ ~
I was up before dawn, grumbling to myself about having to don my own gear and feed myself for the fiftieth time since we had landed. Pullus, I thought wryly, you have gone soft. Here you are bitching like a patrician about having to shave, dress, and feed yourself. By the light of the oil lamp in my tent, I went through my own pre-battle ritual, doing things in the exact same way that I had done them since the morning of the first battle back in Hispania those 13 years before. We soldiers are a superstitious lot, and despite being less so than most, I still was not willing to tempt the fates by altering what had worked so many times previously. Consequently, I pulled on my boots, left foot first, wrapping the thongs with the left over the right, opposite of the way most men I knew did it, but that first morning in Hispania, in my haste I had reversed the order and therefore had stuck to doing it that way ever since. Taking my armor off the stand, I dropped it over my head, the weight of it feeling like a comforting hand draped over my shoulders as I strapped on my belt, again doing things exactly the same way as always, then attached my sword, nestled in my scabbard, to the belt. I drew the Gallic blade, having spent an entire third of a watch sharpening it the night before like I always did, carefully inspecting it, despite my head knowing that nothing could have happened to it in the scant time I was asleep. Still, it was what I always did, so I did it again. Finally, I picked up my helmet, critically eying the transverse crest, making sure that it was spotless. I would not don that until I stepped out of the tent, mainly because with my height the top of the crest would brush the roof of the tent and get dirty from all the soot that collected on the roof. Picking up my vitus, I stood for a moment, letting my thoughts settle and my mind focus on what lay ahead, ignoring the churning in my stomach. Actually, that is not true; I did not ignore it, I welcomed it as an old friend, because it told me that my body was readying itself for battle. I remember wondering to myself if there would ever be a day where I did not have that feeling, and if I did, whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing. You think too much, I chided myself, stepping out and taking a deep breath of the cool air, tasting the salty tang carried by the breeze from the sea just a couple miles away.
The call to start the day had not sounded and most of the army was asleep, so I was gratified to see there was already a lot of activity in the Cohort, the men going through their own last-moment preparations. Our orders were to be in place and ready to begin the assault immediately before sunrise, with the goal of reaching the hillfort just when the sun was topping the hills behind us. This would put the sun in the eyes of the Pompeians, giving us an advantage as we made the assault. That was the hope anyway, but a part of me was aware that it would also mean that we would be sharply outlined, just like targets at the javelin range. Nothing to be done about it, I thought, filling my lungs to roar out the command to assemble. We would not be using the bucina or even the cornu, since the sounds of horns would carry too far. Before I actually bellowed out the order, I stopped myself. Most of my life I have been chided for having a voice that could be heard for miles; when I was a child Gaia was always scolding me about yelling too loudly indoors and how the neighbors could hear, something I thought was quite funny since they were a couple of miles away. Having a voice that could break rock had served me well in the army, but now I thought better of using it. While it was not likely that my voice would carry the more than a mile to the enemy lines, it was still very quiet and it did not make sense to take the risk. Instead, I walked down the line, calling in what I considered my quiet voice for the Centurions of the Cohort. Once they had all arrived, I was pleased to see that they were already dressed and ready to go, with one exception, and that exception was Celer. He was still wearing just his tunic, and I tried to hide my glee at having caught him out.