The Valentian Campaign

by Marc Jones

  Cato smiled slightly. “Just thinking about the North and what we might find up there,” he confessed. “Running through the options in my mind now before we get there. I don’t want to run into any nasty surprises – even though those tend to be a fact of military life.”

  Poplicala threw his back and laughed. “Don’t they just? My father once told me to always plan for disaster, because anything that then happens is a pleasant surprise. How right he was!” Then he sobered. “Whatever we find up there – and Gratianus will be waiting for us in Luguvalium, so we should hear the latest about the situation North of the Wall – we’ll have to deal with it as best we can. No other choice, is there?”

  “None,” Cato replied with a sigh. “In the meantime we can train the men on the march. There’s no such thing as too much training. And then there’s the experience of travelling. Oh and repairing the roads as we do along.”

  “I did wonder why my father was so happy at the creation of a unit of engineers,” Aurelianus the Younger mused thoughtfully. “Then I looked at the road and the bridges in our path and realised that he’d seen further than I had. Again.” The last word was said with a wry smile.

  “I’m afraid that you’ll find, young Marcus, that veterans tend to talk about logistics first and tactics second,” Poplicala said seriously. “Tactics aren’t much good to you if you arrive on the field of battle with half your army strung out for miles behind you.”

  “A very good point,” agreed Cato looking ahead again. “And the roads are good here in Maxima Caesariensis. In Valentia… well, we’ll see. We’ll see. When Theodosius the Elder came up here after the Great Conspiracy he did a lot of work on the roads, forts and other defences. Of course that was over 30 years ago, but the work he did in… educating the leaders of the tribes in Valentia means that hopefully we won’t discover everything ruined.

  “But if we do find that the amphora is bare to the North, we’re as ready as we can be. We’ve brought supplies and I know that Gratianus had made arrangements in Eboracum.”

  Poplicala nodded sombrely. “Good. We need to fight from the best position possible. Throw the Painted People back again and make them cringe afterwards at the very thought of crossing us. We don’t need the distraction of raids on the North. We need to guard our Eastern shores more than ever now.”

  “And keep an eye on Glevum,” Aurelianus the Younger muttered in a voice that was so low and grim that Cato barely heard him. “I wonder what the snake there is up to?”

  The bottle was worrying Belerix. It was a small glass thing, sealed with a stopper and some wax, and like all glass things it was easily breakable. He had it in a stiff leather pouch at his side, hung so that nothing would bang against it and break it. He’d have to be careful with it. The last thing he’d want would be to stick his fingers in it and then cut them on any poison-soaked shards of glass.

  He scowled internally as he rode North in the main body of the Fourth Turma. This entire bloody thing was a lot easier said than done. The Fourth was a ways down from the First, where the boy was riding, so he didn’t know if he’d even be able to carry out his mission.

  But there was the chance of a battle at the end of the long road ahead of them and if he knew one thing about battles, they tended to be utterly chaotic. All he had to do was anoint his dagger with the contents of the bottle, wait for his chance, prick the boy in the leg or arm, and then wait for the poison to do its work. He could then make his escape relatively easily and head back South to Glevum, where the Old Man would reward him well.

  Belerix looked at his horse and then patted her neck when she snorted slightly. Yes, she’d get him home.

  Chapter Nine

  Interesting, Stilicho thought as he looked down at the message. So the Painted People were restive again and threatening Northern Britannia. And Gratianus and this Great Council had assembled an army and were marching North to meet them in battle. Very interesting indeed.

  He squinted out of the nearest window. Well, there was a lot of it about these days. He could see the Alps in the distance. North of them lay Noricum and the Limes along the Danubius, which were the reason for his trip. He didn’t want to be away from Rome for too long, not with his daughter about to give birth to the Emperors child at some point in the next few weeks, but he had to inspect the defences there.

  It was a worry that he didn’t need right now. He felt like a member of the Vigiles, during a sudden outbreak of building fires, rushing from fire to fire. Pollentia, Verona, Mogontiacum… and those were just the recent battles.

  And now another wave of Goths was coming, and behind them yet more shadowy barbarians, including the mysterious Hunnoi. He needed more information about them. A lot more information, as what he had on them so far was disturbingly sketchy. They sounded formidable and that was something that he didn’t need at the moment. Rome needed peace, quiet, time to rebuild and above all time to refill its empty coffers. Rome didn’t need more damn enemies riding over the horizon, especially if they were as adept at fighting at the Goths. That was what worried him. The Goths were moving Westwards away from their enemies, which meant that they’d been unable to beat them.

  Worried? He had a very bad feeling about the future that went far beyond a simple word like ‘worry’.

  Luguvalium was not a pretty city. But then few were this far North. And even this it was a stretch to describe it as a city – it was a large town really. But it was the only place on the Western side of the Wall where large numbers of men could be concentrated and then sent through to Valentia. Above all it had a barracks, stabling for cavalry and above all that it had a Basilica where senior officers could plan and pontificate.

  Cato frowned slightly as he rode past the fountain in front of the Basilica. Unfortunately he now had to include himself in such illustrious company. He prayed almost every day that the plumes on his helmet didn’t squash all the sense out of his head. Stupid thing anyway. When he went into battle he’d be wearing his old and beloved helmet, which fitted well from years of use and which didn’t act as a target for any enemy with a lick of sense.

  The sentries saluted stiffly as he walked into the Basilica and then looked around. Aha, he could see Poplicala gesturing him over by a doorway and the figures of other men in the room on the other side.

  “Cato. Is all well at the barracks?”

  “Just fine sir,” Cato said as he unhooked his cloak and then looked curiously around the room. He knew Gratianus and also his second in command Gerontius, but the other three men were unfamiliar to him. The five were all standing around a table studying a map and talking in low but urgent voices.

  “Cato, join us please,” Gratianus ordered as he caught sight of the cavalry commander. “There are things that you need to know. People to meet as well. Gentlemen this is Lucius Tullius Cato, the commander of the First Cavalry Legion and the man whose nimble mind invented the stapeda that has changed our cavalry so much. Cato, this is Marcus Constantinus, of the Votadini, Lucius Valentinus of the Selgovae and Gaius Cornifix of the Novantae.”

  Cato nodded at the three men who were looking back at him with great interest. “Honoured to meet you,” he muttered, looking each of them in the eye. They all looked interesting. Constantinus looked as if he’d stepped away from the parade ground at Deva, but the other two looked a little more rough around the edges, as if they were more Britannian than Roman. Which was fair enough at the far edge of the Empire.

  He thought for a brief moment about if they were strictly speaking still even within the Empire and had to suppress a shudder. Well, he’d let the higher-ups worry about that point. Then he blinked slightly as Gratianus turned back to the map.

  “Now, this is the latest information that we have. The Painted People are indeed moving South in great numbers – war bands of 500 or so. They’re led, if you can call it that, by a man called Erip. He’s one of their holy men. He never washed much apparently, and he always raved a lot about death and destruction. And then for once
when the storms struck he was right. And people listened to him. So he sent them South. Riding the storm he’d provoked I suspect.

  “According to the Damnonii, whose territory spans both sides of the Antonine, the Venicones have already seen their lands ravaged. Ravaged hard enough that they’ve been sending us messages about how to repair the old forts North of the Antonine on their land. And apparently the ships of the Epidii have been seen fleeing South-West, towards Hibernia.”

  A groan went through the room and Cato found himself sighing as well. They’d been hoping that the Hibernians would quiet down and stop raiding, especially after their raids had not just been beaten off but crushed. If the Epidii were running then chaos was about to descend on Northern Hibernia.

  “Is there no-one from the Damnonii here sir?” Cato asked.

  Gratianus shook his head. “They were supposed to send the second son of their king. He never arrived – they need every man they can get in the North. The Antonine is in great disrepair, but enough of it exists to act as a bulwark. When the Painted People reach it they’ll have to fight to get over it. That’s not what they’re after. They’re after food. They need a cheap way to get it. So – they’ll be heading for the largest population centres South of the Antonine. And anywhere else South of that.”

  “Do you have anywhere in particular in mind sir?” Cato asked, frowning slightly as he thought about what he knew about Valentia. Truth be told that wasn’t a lot.

  “Two places come to mind. Both are fortresses. But both are also population centres. They have farmland in the area, food – and loot. That’s the other thing the Painted People are coming South for. One is Alauna, in the lands of the Votadini. East of the Antonine. The other is at the Western end. It’s called Alt Clud.”

  Chapter Ten

  Aurelianus scowled down at the report in front of him. Then he looked up at the man in front of him. “You’re certain about this?”

  “I’m afraid so.” The man was dressed in rough riding garb and looked as if he had ridden a long way. Which he had. “He’s spreading his tentacles quite widely amongst the tribes of the West. The silver helps. And he’s a good talker. There’s also the fact that he can point to weakness in Londinium.”

  “Weakness?”

  “Well – the weakness of Rome. People know that no more legions will come from Gaul, or Rome for that matter, for some time. They’re worried. They talk about the need for strength. For… support, shall we say, from someone who understands them. Who speaks their language. And I mean that literally.”

  A light went off in Aurelianus’s head. “Ah. He’s positioning himself as one of the Old Ones. One of those who look back at life before Rome first came here.” He snorted. “Ridiculous. You can’t put spilled oil back in an amphora. We are Roman and Britannian all at once. Rome has left its impression on all of us, just as Britannia is our bedrock here.”

  “I agree,” said the other man quietly. “But that hasn’t stopped him from whispering his poison into various ears. And now he’s telling people that the Council in Londinium is looking at the North to the detriment of the South – and the West. What if the raids from Hibernia start again? What if the army that went North never returns? Why is the Council so concerned with events beyond their area of control?” He smiled coldly. “Vitalis is very good at such whispers. He’s risen because of the songs he’s sung.”

  Aurelianus leant back slightly and stared at the ceiling. “Then we must sing some songs of our own.” He looked at the other man. “And prepare some traps of our own. No-one knew that you’re here I take it?”

  The other man smiled thinly. “I’m on a pilgrimage to the grave of my grandfather. Or so my sons think.”

  “You trust your sons?”

  “I do. But not for something like this.”

  “Then you must do as you see fit. I’ll arrange for you to leave Deva as unobtrusively as you entered it.”

  “Ah. Then I’ll need to practise my limp and look like a crippled soldier again. As I expected.”

  They both stood before Aurelianus walked forwards and clasped hands with his guest. “Strength and honour.”

  “Strength and honour.” The thin smile flashed over his face. “And guile.”

  There was something ineffably sad about the fort as the sun set behind it. Well – the remains of the fort. The gateway was partly ruined, with the gates themselves open and sagging from neglect, and there was a hole in one of the roofs to one side. Cato scowled at it. He had a work party swarming over it at the moment – luckily the last people in the place had hidden some roof tiles under the stairwell leading up to the ramparts.

  He sighed and turned back to his saddle. Strictly speaking, as Legatus Legionis of the Legion, he should have had some flunkey dealing with it, but some things were inviolable and his damn saddle was one of those things. Some of the stitching was getting a little frayed here and there and he needed to get it fixed before the next day’s march. They’d made good time today – almost 50 miles. But they needed to march faster. And further. The reports from the North were getting worse.

  Hearing low voices to one side he looked up. Corcorix was approaching, talking to a very grizzled older man whose uniform and general bearing told Cato that he was a Roman veteran. A younger man was following them, who had a worried look on his face and who had something else wrapped in a blanket.

  “Sir,” Corcorix said formally, with a salute that would have drawn an approving nod from an Imperial Bodyguard in either Rome or Constantinople, “I present Decurion Honorius, commander of an auxiliary unit from the Wall. He knows Dux Gratianus. And he wishes to talk to you about saddles and the stapeda.”

  Cato stood and exchanged salutes with the old man, who looked rather older than he had initially thought. “Good day Decurion. So – what do you have to tell me?”

  The old man tilted his head, cleared his throat roughly and then squinted at him. “Firstly sir, that the stapeda are a brilliant idea. But – I think that their creation means that the saddle needs to be changed more. I have a few ideas that might help.”

  Oh. This was interesting. “Such as?”

  Honorius gestured at the man behind him, who walked forwards as he unwrapped what he held. Cato blinked slightly. It was indeed a saddle. It looked rather… interesting. For one thing the supports that a normal saddle on the front and the back had been radically pared down. They were still there, but they weren’t as pronounced. The result was a saddle that looked a lot lighter and less bulky.

  “I see,” he said after a moment’s inspection. “Fascinating. Reduced weight – by how much?”

  “Around a quarter sir,” Honorius said with a professional air about him. He had obviously noticed Cato’s appraisal and approved of the speed with which he’d seen the value of the changes.

  Cato sighed slightly. “I should have thought through the impact that the stapeda had on the saddle. Congratulations Decurion. I’ll have others work on this and also have you credited with the innovation.”

  Honorius looked rather startled for a moment and then nodded in a slightly bemused manner. “Thank you sir, but the credit is something I’m not worried about. It’s the need to make something that saves lives that I’m concerned about. I’ve fought up here before, against the Painted People. There are times when every libra – no, every bes – of weight counts when you’re fighting in the mud up here.”

  This was interesting and Cato sharpened his gaze a little. “You’ve campaigned in Valentia? When and with who?”

  The old man smiled bleakly. “I was here with Theodosius the Elder, the father of the Emperor Theodosius, when he came here to restore order after the Great Conspiracy. And believe me sir we fought from Londinium to Luguvalium and then beyond the wall. I was a young man then sir. A different man. But I remember it all. And I remember how to win against the Painted People. Hit them hard and hit them fast, before they can get their legs under them and start to charge. And don’t underestimate them.” He paled sli
ghtly. “I was there when we discovered what remained of Fullofaudes.”

  Cato stared at the Decurion for a long moment and then waved a hand at a camp stool nearby. “Sit down Decurion. We need to talk.”

  “Thank you sir,” the old man said as he stiffly sat. Then he looked about cautiously. “Um - you wouldn’t have any garum sauce about would you?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The North had a certain bleak attraction, thought Cato as the long line of men and horses wound their way North. It was quite like the territory South of the Wall. Rolling hills, covered in heather. The farms were a bit odd though. In many cases the buildings were round, rather than square and had thatch rather than tiles. He’d heard that some of the farms in the more remote areas of the South were similar, but it still looked… odd.

  The harvest had been a bad one up here. He could tell that by looking at the fields that they’d passed. At the flocks of rather thin sheep and the cattle whose shagginess did not quite conceal the fact that they should have been bigger.

  He looked down at the road and grimaced. The old military road was just as bad as he’d feared. Almost totally unmaintained, although he could see a few places where someone had poured gravel into the potholes. Not a good way of repairing a road if several thousand men were about to march over it. He sighed. So far Valentia had been right up there with the predictions that he’d heard from various people.

  However, one thing hadn’t been predicted and that was the reaction of the locals. Everywhere they went crowds of the local people watched them with wide eyes and hesitant smiles. And in many cases with tears as local men kissed goodbye to their families, shouldered packs, tied battered old helmets to their spears in the Roman style and then joined the less disciplined cloud of auxiliaries from the local tribes that were also marching North.

  “Messenger coming sir,” Corcorix called and Cato refocused his gaze. There was indeed a rider coming down the column, on a tired and dirty horse. The man was as muddy as his horse and was probably a local tribesman himself, because he was wearing an old-style Roman helmet that no legionary had worn since the times of Constantine the Great. Interesting.