by Henry Treece
Still Marcus would not leave the matter in this way. He said, ‘You are the father of the family. She could have had one of the Tarquins for her ancestor for all I care. Very well, if you disapprove, you must stop this wedding. It is clear to me and I am not a Tribune.’
Ostorius Volusenus looked at him sternly then and said, ‘I cannot stop the wedding. It has been arranged by your grandfather, your stepmother’s father, who sits in the Senate in Rome and is a close friend of the Emperor himself.’
Marcus said, ‘You are a Tribune, sir. You are an officer who commands even the greatest of centurions.’
Ostorius passed his hand over his brow, for the weather had turned very warm, and said, ‘Yes, my son, I am a Tribune. But one day, when you too are a Tribune, you will understand that the world would go on very well without Tribunes, splendid as they may seem in their parade armour riding before the Eagles. You will understand then that even Tribunes have their masters, and I do not mean the Legates or the Generals. I mean the little bent old men who lean on staffs to get to their seats in the Senate. One of those old men in their gowns and with their watery eyes can make or break a whole Legion. If I stood out against this marriage, Marcus, you and I might find ourselves selling horses in Caledonia for a living afterwards!’
Marcus said, ‘Then for the love of Mithras, let us sell horses in Caledonia - or anywhere else you can think of. I would prefer that to seeing my sister married to an old Egyptian-Greek.’
Ostorius looked at him very sharply now and said, ‘When you have calmed down we will speak of this again. I ask only that you should consider what it is that you are so ready to throw away - our position in the Legion and possibly our status as Roman citizens. And when you are thinking this over, I beg you to remember that I have known no other trade than soldiering since I was your age. To me the Legion is almost my mother. As for the citizenship, perhaps I could do without that - though I hardly think so, my son.’
Marcus bounced out of the room in fury, but before he went through the door he turned and said, ‘Sir, I now see you in a new light. Always before I admired you, but now I fear that I have admired a weakling.’
His father did not call him back, and when Marcus reached his own quarters he felt very miserable at having spoken so to the one man he loved. He wished that his father had beaten him for these words.
Exactly one week later a garrison-rider came to Marcus in the forum of the town and saluted. He said with a straight brown face, ‘I bring bad news.’
Marcus said, ‘You have leave to speak, soldier.’
The man said, ‘The Tribune fell in the charge at Caer Caradoc. He carried ten arrows, all of them in the front. The men stayed with him until he needed them no longer. They brought all his armour and war-gear away. It will come by wagon to you in a few days.’
Marcus touched the soldier on the arm and nodded. ‘It was well done,’ he said, hoping that he would not weep until the man had saluted and turned. The legionary did this quickly and rode away. He had delivered so much bad news in his time that he knew all the signs now.
Three days later the legionary Legate in Lindum sent for Marcus and said to him gently, ‘We mourn, too, Roman. You do not mourn alone.’
Quintus Petillius Cerialis was still a young man for all his service with the Ninth, and Marcus could somehow bear these words better from him than from an old man, who would have spoken of gods and destiny and honour. Cerialis was not like that; he said almost straightway, ‘Your father’s gear, does it fit you, Marcus?’
The young man smiled sadly. ‘Yes, commander,’ he said. ‘I seem to have grown a great deal in the last few years.’
Then the Legate rose from behind the many scrolls upon his table and came to Marcus, taking his hand and holding it firmly. He said, ‘In this lovely but strange land, most of us have to grow quickly if we are to support the burdens that are laid suddenly on our shoulders. Here, at the edge of the world, far from Rome and comfort, we must all be ready at any moment to grasp the sword that is thrown to us out of the darkness.’
Marcus blinked and said, ‘I am not sure that I understand you, sir.’
Cerialis patted him on the shoulder then turned to the papers on his table and selected one of them which bore the seal of the Senate in Rome. He held it before the youth for a moment, then touched it with his other hand and said, ‘This proclamation announces that you are a Tribune of the Ninth Legion as from this date. If your father’s armour fits you, there is little more for you to worry about. You have lived here for the greater part of your life, and you know more about our military affairs than any raw Tribune sent out from Rome. I regard you as the ideal choice, my boy. What more can I say?’
Marcus waited a while then answered, ‘Sir, this is a very sudden appointment. How did the Senate know of my father’s death so quickly that they could elect me in his place and also get word to you of their decision?’
Cerialis rolled up the scroll and smiled as he sat once more at the table. ‘Marcus,’ he said, ‘your grandfather is a powerful politician. It was his wish that, when the moment came, you would follow in your father’s trade. It is one of your grandfather’s wishes that always while he lives he shall have a kinsman as Tribune in one or other of the Legions.’
Marcus felt his chin quivering. He said to still it, ‘So this commission was waiting all the time for my father to die, sir?’
The Legate raised his eyebrows and said, ‘You put it bluntly, Tribune - but, yes. It was a precaution to preserve the continuity. Are you content now?’
For a mad second or two Marcus felt like reaching over and tearing the scroll into pieces; but then his senses came back. He stood upright and said, ‘Yes, sir. I am content.’ Cerialis looked down at his papers and said, ‘You will take over your father’s apartment and his command. You know all the men and the other officers. They trust you and will obey you. Have you anything to ask?’
Marcus drew back his shoulders and let his long jaw jut out. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I have nothing to ask. Nothing at all.’
Then he saluted stiffly and turned to the door. And when he had gone the Legate turned to a Greek scribe who sat behind him and said, ‘You have just seen a boy turn into a man, Lysias. It is a way we Romans have.’
The Greek bit at the end of his stylus for a while, then said with an ironic smile, ‘You are much like our old Spartans, sir. You know very well how to turn them into killers, but do you know how to change them back into gentle men of peace?’
Quintus Petillius Cerialis got up from his stool and thumped about the room. He said, smiling grimly, ‘We have only learned how to do one thing at a time, Lysias. We are not yet Greeks, my friend. But I will tell you this - the way things are going in this dark damp island, before too long we shall have need for all the hard soldiers we can get. It will be a lifetime before the gentle men of peace you speak of come into their own in Britain.’
The Greek smiled at him cynically and scratched his cheek with the point of his pen.
The Legate wagged a finger at him in mock warning and said, ‘Yes, you may smile, Greek, but when the fire crackles about your ears, do not forget what I have just said.’
[3]
Sword Drill
In the months that followed, Tigidius the centurion, the pilus prior, guided Marcus through all the hazards that might bring about the downfall of a newly appointed staff officer and, in many ways, treated the young man like a son. It was Tigidius who taught him sword drill with the long spatha, the cavalryman’s weapon, on the parade ground facing a stout post as tall as a man. ‘No, no, lad,’ the centurion said, ‘never slash! Consider, a slash-cut rarely kills, however hard you strike, out, because your enemy’s vitals will be protected by his buckler, or if you can get so close, by his bones themselves. And a wounded Celt is even worse than a whole one! Once you wound one of these tribesmen he will go mad with fury and never let you be until he lies stark - or you do. Belgae and Germans are exactly the same. Hurt them and you are b
egging for trouble. There is only one way to do it - keep the hilt well down and push out at their faces. They hate that.’
Marcus said drily, ‘That is no surprise to me, Tigidius.’
The centurion glanced at him sharply, then said, ‘Very well, if I want to hear a comedy I go to the amphitheatre when there is a play. But now we are training, and that is never a joke. As I said, a sharp thrust at the face to bring his small shield or sword up, then with the hilt still low, a withdrawal and a quick push in lower down, below the shield. Now let me see you do it at the wooden post. And have the goodness to shout with each thrust.’
Marcus wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, ‘Centurion, this thrusting business I can understand well, and I will do my best to follow your instructions. But this shouting seems ridiculous in a grown man. I have heard the legionaries doing it and…’
Tigidius said grimly, ‘And you think it undignified? Yes, yes, I know, lad. I have tried to train more young Tribunes than I have had warm dinners. Now let me tell you this - dignitas is a splendid thing for officers to have after the fighting is over, when they go forward to browbeat the defeated chieftain who, more often than not, poor devil, is half-dead on his feet. But dignitas goes unnoticed in the thick of the affray itself. What is needed then is a bit of play-acting. No, do not shake your head like that; if I had a bag of gold coin for every affair I’ve stood up in, I should own a gladiatorial school on the Tiber now, not be beating my brains out with a young pup like you! Mark my words, there are very few heroes in this world - among Romans or Germans or Celts or Greeks. Especially among Greeks, who say that it is Zeus who makes men what they are! Most men are timid at heart. Oh yes, they look brave enough once the game starts, but that’s because of many things - perhaps they are angry because their homes have been burned and their children hurt; perhaps they do not want their comrades to think they are cowards; or perhaps they have been at the wine-jar before the advance started. You can never tell. There is only one thing you can tell, and that is that most of the men in the battle would far rather be sitting quiet by the fireside. This applies to these British most of all. They are family men, farmers, great talkers, and so on. So, when you come against them, your first task is to make them think that you live only for the sword, only for fighting. Make them think that, and you’ve half-won the battle. So shout, you young hound, shout! Shout as though you are first cousin to Mars himself, as though you have wolf’s blood in your veins, and as though you cut your first tooth on an enemy’s shield-rim. Have you got that?’
Marcus smiled a little sadly, then said, ‘Yes, Tigidius. But I still think…’
The centurion seemed to swell to twice his size. His eyes began to push out of their lids. The rough bristles on his cheeks rose. His colour changed from a gentle brown to something almost like purple. He choked a little then said, ‘Think? Think? By the Twelve Altars of Mithras, but when did the Senate employ a young Tribune for thinking? Do you know what Tribunes are? Do you know what the legionaries call them when they have ridden by? Do you? Well, do you?’
Marcus had never seen Tigidius like this before. He did not wait to hear what Tribunes were called; he dropped the hilt of his spatha, poked it out sharply at the post then, with lowered head, drew back the blade and dug it a thumb’s length into the seasoned oak.
Tigidius came behind him, smiling, and said, ‘Here, let me draw it out for you, son. It’s often easier to put them in than get them out.’
He struggled a while, withdrawing the keen blade without bending it, then he said, ‘I have not seen one go in that far before, I must say. Old Ostorius would have liked that. Yes, he would have been proud.’
After that Tigidius never mentioned Marcus’s father again. Nor did he ever taunt the young Tribune in training him. They would march with the men in the dust for twelve hours a day, chanting the old cadence: ‘Sky-earth-road-stone! Sharp-steel-cuts-to-bone!’ Then they would eat a supper of oat porridge or barley meal - but never meat - washed down with a watered wine as tart as vinegar.
Marcus once said, ‘I have never understood the men’s taste for this sort of wine, Tigidius. I would rather drink water itself.’
The centurion said quietly, ‘You wouldn’t if you had ever campaigned in the deserts, lad. Take my word for it, an enemy on the run can do more damage with a poisoned water-well than he ever could with spear and sword. Be-sides, when you get the taste of it you will find this thin wine very thirst-quenching. Why, if you drank a cup of the rich vintage that Cerialis keeps locked up in his cellar your tongue would be hanging down onto your chest after you’d marched ten miles.’
Tigidius also insisted that Marcus should always go out in the usual leather gear of the infantryman. ‘Yes, yes,’ the centurion said, ‘I know that armour is heavier and more dignified, and so on; but when you march with the men you will get kitted out like the men. Heavy boots and all. I have known Tribunes who got their throats slit by their own legion behind haystacks in hard territory for not knowing that simple thing. If you want to lead men, then suffer with them. Caligula knew that; old Cato knew It too. They weren’t good men, but, by Mithras, they were good soldiers. And that is what we are out to make of you. If you want to be a good man as well, then no doubt the Greek Lysias has some formula for that. He has for most things.’
So Marcus sweated out his months of training in leather helmet, tunic and breeches. His feet grew callouses from the thick-soled marching boots that Tigidius made him put on.
And in the end he was not only a staff-officer; he was a soldier. And what was best, every man of the Ninth knew it, and every one of them called him by his name when they met privately - but never on the parade ground.
[4]
First Mission
Soon after Marcus had completed his basic training and now wore his Tribune’s high-crested helmet with authority as he cantered about the strong garrison on the hill, a letter came to him from a vessel that had put into the river Abus to collect a cargo of hides and jet from Whitby in the north. It was from his sister Livia and its message was a short one: ‘Trade calls my respected husband to Palmyra in Syria. There we shall set up house. Our baby girl, Drusilla, resembles you much and daily reminds me of you. May fame and fortune visit you. May we meet again, the gods willing.’
At first Marcus felt hurt that he had not heard of the baby earlier; his next feeling was one of loneliness again, for Palmyra was half a world away. But then he shrugged off his self-pity and wondered if there was any gift he might, send the child by the ship that still lay in the Abus, being loaded for the return journey.
Tigidius was with him when Marcus opened his loot-coffer and rummaged in it. There were the usual odds and ends - a cracked gorget of twisted gold, a vicious old bronze skinning-knife, a handful of tarnished Celtic coins, some pieces of rough amber, and the brooch which the queen had given him when he was a boy.
He said, ‘It seems that I have nothing that would amuse a baby-girl, centurion. Unless I send her the brooch to wear when she grows up.’
Tigidius pulled his lips in tightly together and said, ‘If you sent that, a sailor might steal it. Or if it got to its destination, no doubt your rich brother-in-law would despise it as rude native work, and throw it away. No, I think its place is in your box, Marcus. It might turn out to be useful to you in the end. Perhaps one day, when you travel on duty up north, you might get a village craftsman to make the child a lucky necklace of garnets and jet beads. ‘But in the meantime there is something else that must occupy us. The Legate wishes to speak to you about it now.’
Quintus Petillius Cerialis was looking worried, pacing up and down his office. He did not ask Marcus to sit down but said straightway, ‘Tribune, I am a little disturbed. Things are not very well among the tribes.’
Marcus wished to show his knowledge and said, ‘I don’t know, sir. We had a man of the Cornovii in the garrison only yesterday, arranging for our corn supplies. He told us how contented his people were out there in the midlands
under Roman rule.’
Cerialis regarded him bleakly then said: ‘The Cornovii will say anything when they are bargaining, Tribune. I am not concerned about them, they let the wind wag their tongues about as it suits them. I am worried about the Coritani to our south and the Iceni to the east. Something is happening among them and I can’t put my finger on it. They seem to be humming like a swarm of bees - but the moment they see a Roman they go silent again. I don’t like it, but until I can get a reliable spy or two on to the problem, there is nothing I can do.’
Marcus put on a very stiff look and said, ‘You are not asking me to become a spy are you, Legate?’
Cerialis smiled and shook his head. ‘No, my boy,’ he said, ‘not that. But, make no mistake, if I found it necessary for you to go spying on behalf of Rome, I should send you - and you would go. There are not many officers here in Lindum who can look as British, and sound as British, as you can, young man.’
Marcus could not decide whether the Legate meant this as a compliment or not, so he said nothing but just stood to attention with his helmet under his left arm.
Then Cerialis said, ‘In the past three months we have lost a score of trained battle horses from the pastures outside the west wall. They are taken at night, it seems, although I have trebled the guard on the grazing sector.’ Marcus said, ‘That seems ridiculous, Legate. They are all branded with the legion’s mark, and couldn’t be sold again in the cattle fairs.’
The commander nodded. ‘That is the whole point, Tribune,’ he answered. ‘If they are not being stolen for the market, then why would the British want them? Our horses are useless for any other purpose than the fast charge. Show them a wagon or a chariot and they would kick it to pieces. What is your guess, man?’