Secundus & the Soldiers

This story takes place in the Roman Empire, in the land called Provincia Syria. Seen through the eyes of a young scribe, members of a Roman Legion are forced to choose between their firmly valued probus - what is upright and appropriate for the Empire - and what is true.

70's AD

Scriba Secundus sighed at the layer of light yellow dust settling on his arms, his legs, his sandals, and his leather pack. He knew it was in his hair too. As they approached the Antilibanus mountain range, and beyond that the Phoencian coast, the haze had become a part of his daily life traveling with the military. Every mule in the supply train walking behind the soldiers was coated with the chalky dust.

He adjusted the wet cloth he kept over his mouth to make sure he didn’t breathe in too much, and checked to ensure his satchel was still well-sealed. His tools within - the wax tablets, his bone stylus and the harder iron one, a few rolls of thin tin sheets, along with some parchment and ink - were his first set, and he didn’t want to ruin them before getting to write something official.

He glanced at his father, the head scribe. Pater kept up the pace, face forward, mouth covered in his own wet cloth. Just ahead of them, the medics marched next to creaking wooden carts of tonics, salves, bandages, and tools. Behind, the cooks and blacksmiths plodded along the wide road in the blurred sunset. Secundus couldn’t even see the soldiers, but the clank of their armor and beating of their march was the background sound of this daylight hours.

Soon, they would stop for the night and he would help Pater set up the tribune’s official tent. Tribune Ipatius, as senior military officer, was one of the most impressive men Secundus had ever seen. His crimson cloak swooped in an arc when he dismounted his horse. Since the dust wasn’t as bad at the front of the march, the plume of feathers still flashed purple, running across the top of his helmet from ear to ear, like rays of sun.

Inside the praetorium, Secundus unpacked the wax tablet and bone stylus, and began to file the pointed end, sharpening the tip. Soon the commanders would arrive, and if he was lucky, he would be asked to write down the official orders for the night, but probably he would just be sent back to the supply train to inventory grain. 

Running his thumb over the point of his stylus and satisfied with the result, he pulled out a wax tablet and labeled the top with the day’s date. He looked around and didn’t see the tribune, but he did find Pater, who had just entered the tent.

His father, forehead furrowed, jerked his head for Secundus to join him outside. "Tribune Ipatius is ill and will not be holding meetings here tonight. I will oversee the recordkeeping of the troops. You wait outside of the small medic tent.” He nodded to a smaller tent about fifty paces away. "If he calls for a scribe, go in and do what you can until I arrive.”

“Yes, Pater.”

In the shade of the medic tent, Secundus set his supply satchel on the dirt and sat down. He watched the cooks in the distance, who were preparing the evening meal. There were only three cooks, because the core of the legionnaires and supply chain had continued with the new governor, Adrian. This smaller detachment had been sent to Tripoli on a specific mission. Secundus did not know what it was but had heard it resulted from a secret report.

As he wondered about their mysterious mission, he took the bone stylus out of his satchel and used the flat, dull end to practice letters in the dirt. He doubted he would get to officially scribe anything at all if Tribune Ipatius was ill.

Two lower ranked officers walked by talking, not noticing the boy in the shadow of the tent. Secundus stopped writing, the stylus still touching the ground. He remained as a statue and listened.

“I have no problem with our mission, but–”

“To hunt down and kill the Christians?”

“Right. But–”

“How could you have a problem?”

“Just listen.”

Secundus smirked to himself, hearing the impatience in the soldier’s voice at being interrupted repeatedly.

“My cousin lives in Tripoli. The military chief we seek to arrest–”

“Leonitius?”

“Yes, Leonitius.”

The interruptor’s response was very business-like. “We are to torture him until he worships our Roman gods. What’s the problem?”

Secudus raised his eyebrows. So that was the secret - they were hunting a military chief?

“My cousin says the whole city admires him. He is brave and has good sense.”

“If he had good sense, he would offer the sacrifice to the Roman gods.”

Secudus nodded in silent agreement.

“Of course, of course.” The soldier exhaled in exasperation. “My concern is the inhabitants of the city. With Leonitius, are we marching to Tripoli to arrest one man, or are we heading into a conflict with a whole city?”

Their voices faded as they walked towards the cooking area.

Secudus cleaned his stylus on the inner fabric of his tunic and tucked it back into his satchel. He leaned in towards the medic tent until his ear rested against the canvas. Would Tribune Ipatius recover enough to face conflict in Tripoli?

In answer to his question, a man’s voice bellowed in pain.

Secundus scrambled up and ran to the front flap, pausing.

“You there, come help me!” The medic was motioning to Secundus, so he ducked into the tent.

Tribune Ipatius was standing, arms flung in the air, body shaking.

“Help me get him back down, in case he passes out. I don’t want him to hit his head, dropping from full height.” The medic was middle-aged and his stomach swelled in a paunch under his tunic, but he seemed as strong as the soldiers he served.

Secundus wondered how he himself - an unathletic youth that probably stood no higher than the tribune’s chest - was going to manhandle a full grown professional soldier. He tried to mirror the medic and put his own shoulder under one of the now sagging tribune’s arms.

The man’s body was so sweaty from his high fever that Secundus had trouble keeping a hold of him. And though he was cleaned, the feverish sweats and the small enclosed tent intensified the sick officer’s odor.

Somehow, they managed to get him back in a supine position. Secundus was about to back away when the feverish man grabbed his tunic and wouldn’t let go.

The medic tried to soothe him. “What can I get you, Tribune?”

Ipatius answered with a hoarse, imploring voice. “Truth. Tell me. Is this sickness unto death? How desperate is–” he gagged as if breathing in water and couldn’t go on.

The medic waited for the sick man to regain himself before responding. “We should have stopped a week ago, before the fever dominated your internal systems.” He paused before delivering the verdict. “Desperate, Tribune. Desperate.”

“Dream…” coughed the sick man. “I had a dream.” He was still gripping Secudus’s tunic, so the boy felt the spittle every time Tribune Ipatius coughed. The junior scribe had never been this close to the head of their company and feared he might do something wrong.

Ipatius crunched his shoulders up as much as he could and whispered, “I saw a spirit warrior holding a sword.”

Secundus quit breathing, waiting for the rest.

“He told me that if I want to be healed, then I must gather my soldiers and say together three times: ‘God of Leonitius, help me.’ Then he turned to go and I saw… he had… wings.”

Tribune Ipatius closed his eyes, as if the Roman gods might strike him down then and there for uttering blasphemy. Secundus gasped, looking down at the sweaty, traitorous hand still holding his tunic.

The medic sighed long and deep, as if using the breath to make a decision. “Without a miracle, you will die. Therefore, you might as well call for the foreign god to help you.”

Tribune Ipatius released Secudus and rested his head back. He closed his eyes, but when he spoke his voice was commanding. “Order the troops to assemble in ranks.”

Half an hour later, Secundus stood by his father with the rest of the supply train behind the lines of soldiers. The air was tight with concern. Secundus knew the soldiers would obey their orders, as long it was just a matter of shouting a phrase. Soon they would hear the call of the straight brass horn, signaling the group into action. When Secundus heard it, he took a quick breath before shouting with everyone else.

God of Leonitius, help me!

God of Leonitius, help me!

God of Leonitius, help me!

The phrase had been a triple roar, followed by a silent pause. Then a storm of cheers thundered from the soldiers. Men beat their shields with their fists and swords and shouted “Io triumphus!” and “vitat!”

In that cloud of sound, Secundus lost his mind.

He whispered to Pater, “I’ll be back,” and took off. It was disobedience - to not remain in his place. Even though it pushed hard against every bit of value he placed on the Roman virtue of what was proper, he had to see what happened to Tribune Ipatius.

When he rounded the front line of soldiers, he expected to see the tribune laying on a cot. Instead, he saw him newly seated on his horse, a ring of laurels on his head, his chin steady and eyes clear.

A lower officer shouted, “Exi!” and the brass horn signaled once more. This time, the triumphant soldiers dismissed, returning to their fires to eat and celebrate the victory.

Secundus did not move, could not move. Near him, another officer remained in place, pondering the dark yellow dirt at his feet.

Secundus heard the snort of a horse and looked up to see Tribune Ipatius guiding the reins towards them. The noble leader dismounted as if he had never been ill and nodded to Secundus, recognizing the boy. Then he focused on the soldier, who didn’t seem to realize that his commanding officer waited.

“Theodolus, my second-in-command.”

The officer looked up at hearing his name. “Yes, Tribune.”

“What are you thinking? Do you doubt we should continue our journey to Tripoli to find Leonitius?”

“On the contrary, Tribune.” Theodolus’ face lit up. “We should hurry there, at a pace twice as fast, and find this Leonitius.”

Tribune Ipatius inclined his head in assent. He gestured with two fingers, and his servants took off to inform the other officers of the plan.

Secundus shuddered with both terror and thrill, realizing that Tribune Ipatius and Officer Theodolus were not planning on torturing and killing their fellow officer when they found him in Tripoli. More likely, they would fall on their knees and ask him to teach them about his god.

Secundus thought to himself that he would make sure he was nearby when that happened.

Dangerous or not, he had witnessed this god snatch Tribune Ipatius from death’s mouth. He needed to meet him.

Leonitius, Ipatius, and Theodolus

Lagniappe

There is much, much more to the real-life story of Leonitius, Ipatius, and Theodolus. I imagined the character Scriba Secundus, but if you read the full historical account, the ending will reveal what inspired that character.