by R. W. Peake
Our passage did not go unnoticed; as the river made a long sweeping bend that put the village out of view, we passed small farms on our left, while the right side of the river, Brigantes land, seemed mostly untouched. It was the same kind of marshland for the first couple of miles, but then the vegetation began changing, with small clumps of forest, some of which came all the way to the riverbank. It was nowhere near as thickly forested as Germania, but it was Motius who called my attention to something that, as we would learn fairly soon, would pose yet another challenge.
“Centurion, have you noticed anything about the difference between the Parisii lands and the Brigantes?”
As I walked over to where Motius was standing on the left side of the ship—Cador was doing the steering, which made sense given his experience with navigating on the river—I considered Motius’ question.
“Evidently not,” I answered as I joined him, leaning on the railing.
The truth was that I had not really been paying as much attention to the southern bank as the northern as the river inevitably narrowed as it moved inland. It was still about a half-mile wide, which was well out of range of any Brigantes missiles as long as we were not forced to move away from the southern bank because of a sandbar or submerged tree that would damage the hull even more. Now that Motius had asked the question, I turned my attention to the landscape sliding by, and as Fortuna would have it, we passed by a small village, even smaller than the first one, and their dock was no more than ten feet long. What was notable, however, was the children of this village had come rushing to the edge of the river and were standing there, wide-eyed, as we stroked past. At first, they were clearly frightened at the sight of my men, helmeted and wearing their armor, who I had given leave to lean on the side or settle down on the deck, but once it became apparent we had no intention of attacking, they began shouting, waving, and laughing as some of my boys made faces at them. They began running along the riverbank while I turned my attention to Motius’ question, looking out into the countryside that was completely flat. At first, I was puzzled, not really understanding what Motius wanted me to look for. Only gradually did I realize it was not anything that was present; it was what was not present that was the problem.
“I don’t see any forests,” I said slowly. “At least, nothing that isn’t scrub trees that are maybe ten feet high.”
“Exactly,” Motius confirmed, then touched me on the shoulder as he turned about to face the northern bank. “But,” he pointed to a stand of trees that were at least forty feet tall from the look of them, “there are over there.”
“Pluto’s balls,” I muttered, but I was not quite ready to surrender to the idea we would have to go across the river into Brigantes territory, so I just said, “I’m sure that there’s something on this side of the river that will supply what we need.” This did make me think of something, and I asked, “Does it matter what kind of wood the mast is?”
“Ideally,” Motius admitted, “yes. Pine is best because it is lighter and more supple. And,” he went on, “it would be better if it was seasoned and most of the sap has evaporated. But it is not absolutely necessary.”
“I doubt that they have something the length we need that will be seasoned, but it shouldn’t be hard to go out and find a tree the right size,” I said with an optimism I did not have, but a couple of my men just happened to be standing at the water barrel immediately below the upper deck, doing far more listening than drinking, so I did not want to communicate my true feelings.
“We will see,” was Motius’ reply, but a glance at his face told me more than his words, and deep down, I was fairly certain he was right.
Growing bored, I went down below and stretched out in my hammock, and fairly quickly I fell asleep.
“We’re here,” Alex’s voice brought me back to wakefulness, and I swung out of the hammock, then glanced out the window now that there was no need to keep it shuttered.
The sun was about a hand’s width above the horizon, which told me I had gotten about a watch’s worth of sleep, but I could not see the southern riverbank because the ship had started to turn towards it. Donning my armor, I took my helmet from Alex as I exited the cabin, scrambling up the ladder before tying it around my chin. I had tried to caution myself about getting my hopes up, but the instant I saw the town, and most importantly what passed for a dock and shipyard, it felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. Even worse, when I scanned the area around the town, which actually had a wooden wall on all but the river side, I could not see the tops of any trees, while farther afield, all I saw was more of the same: small clumps of scrubby brush and trees that were not suitable for our use. This was all the attention I could pay, because, as expected, Cogidubnus was already there, although his chariot was nowhere to be seen, the king standing on what was a much larger dock that extended more than ten feet out over the river, and was perhaps a hundred feet long. However, there was no structure that was a part of other docks that I had seen, even the one that was created outside Ubiorum and built by the 21st to help construct the fleet that we used against Arminius. While I do not know much about shipbuilding, or in this case ship repair, although I understand more now than I did, I was aware that a crane and winch are necessary, both to help lift a heavy ship up out of the water and to set a mast. Neither of them was there, and I believe this was the moment the idea entered my mind that we might have to build one ourselves as I also wondered if the immunes sprinkled between the two Centuries would be up to the job. Once the ship was moored, the wide plank that is used for embarking and debarking was lowered, and Ivomagus was allowed to leave the ship first, but while he and his brother embraced, it was without the emotion of their first meeting. Thankfully, Cogidubnus did not require me to salute him again, but with Saloninus, who I introduced as my second in command, I learned that Cogidubnus was a quick study, because after I did so, I saw him frown, then turn to Ivomagus and rattle off something.
“Forgive me, Centurion,” Ivomagus addressed me, “but my brother is confused. He,” he indicated Saloninus, who looked like he would rather be somewhere else, “is a Centurion, yes?”
“Yes,” I affirmed. “He is the Quartus Pilus Posterior, while I am the Quartus Pilus Prior, which makes him my second in command.”
“Then,” Ivomagus pointed to Saloninus’ helmet first, then to his armor, “why is he attired differently? Cogidubnus has noticed that you Romans are normally very strict about your uniforms, but he is not wearing the same helmet or the same armor as you are.”
I was surprised at his keen eye, but I answered honestly, “Because I just appointed Centurion Saloninus into that position while we were sailing home, and we don’t have the proper devices for him right now, which is why he’s still wearing the uniform of an Optio.”
His brow furrowed, and I realized what the confusion was, so in as few words as possible, I explained the Roman rank structure, yet even as I did so, in the back of my mind, I was wondering if I was doing the right thing. Not that it mattered, and once this was explained to Cogidubnus, he nodded in understanding.
“Now, you told me that you would like a place for your men to set up camp, yes?”
We had indeed discussed that very thing, and I confirmed to Ivomagus this was the case. My motives were mixed; certainly, I wanted to get the boys off the ship, but I also wanted to have them set up what we call a marching camp in the face of the enemy, which means ditches, turf walls, and rampart. The idea of towers and a wooden gate I had already discarded, given what I had seen from the countryside, and the fact that, if large pieces of lumber were going to be used, they needed to be used to build a crane and winch. Since Petuar was much larger than the village, it took longer for us to walk down the main street, although it was nothing more than churned up mud just like the first village. I was just thankful that we did not jump into the chariot, but it did not take long to get beyond the last of the huts just outside the wall that marked the outer limit of what I estimated was a town of
about four or five thousand inhabitants. With an unobstructed view, I surveyed the area, seeing that my choice was essentially limited to what appeared to be a pasture, where cattle were grazing since the rest of the land surrounding Petuar were cultivated fields which, given that it was late summer, had what appeared to be some sort of crop that was close to ripening. This essentially made my choice for me, and I pointed out to the pasture.
“This will be suitable. If,” I congratulated myself for my diplomacy, “it’s acceptable to King Cogidubnus.”
Ivomagus translated this, and Cogidubnus gave a nod and grunted something that I assumed was permission; frankly, he did not seem all that interested, although that would change. Returning back to the ship, I gave the orders to begin the disembarkation process, which included the portion of the baggage that we carried on our ship, which included the rankers’ tents, but not the tent for myself, what had been Structus’ but was now Saloninus’ tent, along with the tents for the Optios, Signiferi, Tesseraurii, and Corniceni. Those were loaded on the ship that carried our Cohort mules, which had presumably made it safely to Ubiorum. As Pilus Prior, my job was to stand on the deck, growling and looking displeased as I tapped my vitus into my palm, while Saloninus and the Optios went down below to supervise. Without mules, it took two rankers per section to carry their tent, as their comrades carried their own packs and the packs of the two men down the plank, while the Immune who was part of the Cohort surveying crew in the First Century fortunately had the groma with him. This is the device that, frankly, I do not understand how it works, just that it is with this instrument we can construct our camps with such precision. The townspeople had given up any pretense of doing their daily work, although it was now late enough in the day that they may have finished, but Cogidubnus’ bodyguards kept them out of the way as we marched down the main street, heading for the pasture, while I ordered a section from each Century kept aboard.
“I agreed to release half of the Parisii once our camp is constructed,” I told Cador and Motius. “The rest stay aboard until we receive our supplies and the repairs have been made.”
“How did they take that?” Cador asked, and I understood why he was anxious about it.
“Not well,” I admitted. “But when I asked them for another way we could be sure they would live up to their end of the agreement, they couldn’t think of anything.”
It was about then that I noticed that the crowd of Parisii townspeople was noticeably thinned, and as I watched from the ship, I could see they were moving in the general direction of the main road through the town that my men had just used. I had appointed Mus as the commander of the guard on the ship, which I could see he did not like, but I had dropped hints that I was trying him out as Optio with an eye to making his promotion permanent. Now, this was true, and I was leaning heavily towards doing that very thing, but I also suspected that, when we finally made it back to Ubiorum and Sacrovir learned that I had promoted Saloninus, the Primus Pilus would insist on making the choice for my Optio as a sort of revenge. First, however, we had to get there, and I hurried down the plank, heading for the camp.
My intention was to check on the progress of the men, but I was still two hundred paces away when I saw that I could not see anything because, to my eye, it appeared as if at least half the entire population of the town was standing there, gawking at the sight of these strange Romans constructing a camp. Cogidubnus was there, as was Ivomagus, and I made my way through the crowd, which was not difficult, given how people almost leapt out of my path as if I was some sort of burning object. I suppose that with my height and added to the crest of my helmet, I was easy to spot, because before I had reached the ragged innermost row of civilians, who were standing about fifty paces away from where my men were digging, Ivomagus hurried up, a look of alarm on his face.
“Centurion Pullus! Why are your men digging?”
This caught me by surprise, and I answered honestly, “They’re making camp.”
“But why are they digging?” Ivomagus repeated, and I realized the cause for the confusion.
“This is how we make our marching camp, Ivomagus,” I explained.
Then, before saying anything else, I walked over to where Cogidubnus was standing, and for the first time, he had some of his warriors with him. One of them was about my size in both height and build, but with a full beard that was just a shade lighter black than the hair on his head, which was pulled tight and bound with a leather thong. Our eyes met, and I instantly knew that this man was eager to show his king who the better warrior was between us, and I made a mental note to give him a wide berth.
“We use the dirt,” I pointed, pausing for Ivomagus to translate for Cogidubnus and the others gathered within earshot, “to build a dirt wall, and we take the squares of turf that we cut before we begin digging the wall and use them as the top layer of the rampart.”
I could see the Parisii king was intensely interested in this. After watching for a moment, he turned to Ivomagus.
“My brother compliments you, Centurion. He says your men are very organized.” Ivomagus chuckled, and I do not know whether this came from Cogidubnus or from himself. “I can tell you that we would never be able to get our warriors to work in this manner.”
“You’re not alone,” I told him honestly, not seeing any point in hiding the truth. “None of the tribes we fought in Germania did either.”
I sensed his face turning sharply in my direction, and I learned why when he said, “We had heard that one reason Arminius was able to defeat your General Varus was because they built fortifications that hemmed your Legions in on bad ground.”
It took an effort to stifle a groan, but I took this as a reminder that, just because we knew relatively little about Britannia, that did not mean they did not know much about Rome.
“Yes,” I admitted, albeit grudgingly. “But that’s the only time I’m aware of them doing that.” I thought of the wall built by the Angrivarian tribe that served as the site for what we fervently hope is the final defeat of Arminius, but I decided to keep that to myself. Instead, I changed the subject by saying, “This is the kind of marching camp we make when we stop for the day.”
This caused even more of a stir, and Ivomagus rattled off this information to his brother, who looked at me in what I took to be wide-eyed astonishment…before bursting into laughter, whereupon he was immediately joined by his warriors, including the black-haired Parisii who kept eyeing me.
Ignoring the flare of anger, I tried to sound at least partly jovial as I asked Ivomagus, “Why does your brother find this so humorous?”
It was his turn to look surprised.
“Because of your jest, Centurion,” he explained, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
“My jest?” Only then did it occur to me. “Are you talking about how we make a camp like this every day when we’re marching on campaign?”
“Yes.” Ivomagus nodded, and looked relieved that I had guessed correctly. But as he held his gaze on me, the smile faded. “Wait,” he gasped, “you are not making a joke?”
He swiveled his head to watch as wicker baskets full of dirt came flying up out of the ditch, which was now deep enough that none of the men doing the work could be seen, and only their comrades who were dumping the dirt and packing it down were visible. When he pivoted to face his brother, who was standing on the opposite side of him, I could only watch Cogidubnus’ face as Ivomagus relayed that I had not been joking. I have no idea why, but this seemed to shake Cogidubnus, and like his brother, he turned and watched as my men worked.
“Honestly,” I decided to break the silence that felt awkward to me, “we’re going to be making camp more slowly than we normally do.”
“Why is that?”
I explained to Ivomagus, again waiting for him to translate, about how our slaves play a small but pivotal role, because they are the ones who erect the tent for each section, then usually start the fires or light the charcoal. The slaves for the First and Second Centu
ries had been on the ship with the animals, which meant they shared whatever fate had befallen them, and what it meant to us was that the men had to play an unfamiliar role in erecting their own tents. Before the wall was fully completed, most of the townspeople had drifted off, and the sun was close to setting, and I debated about whether I should let the Britons into the camp now that the view was obscured. I decided to do so, thinking that this gesture, however small, would help establish more of a sense of trust between us. It turned out to be a mistake, although not for a reason that I could have possibly fathomed.
“Since we don’t have enough timber,” I explained as I led them through the serpentine gateway made of dirt, “we use this so that an enemy can’t just rush through into the camp.” The moment the words left my lips, I knew I had erred.
Fortunately, Ivomagus saved any awkwardness by saying lightly, “I assume that you Romans do this as a standard practice, and not just because you think we Parisii might attack?”
I appreciated him phrasing it as a question so that I could answer, “Yes, you’re correct, Ivomagus. We do this no matter where we are.” For the first time, I actually thought about why this was so, and I did not feel I was divulging any secret when I said with a grin, “We Romans usually do things because that’s how they’ve been done for decades, or even centuries. So,” I finished as we entered into the camp, “I have no idea why we do that.”