The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  My mind returned to the task before us. I watched Crispus study the arrangement of his mount’s breast plate. He wiped it once more with a doeskin cloth and glanced my way. “I thought the wind blowing down the Rhenus was like a fucking razor,” he said, “but after crossing the channel, it’s like a mild summer breeze.”

  “Aye, this is a land only the damn British and their gods could love,” I said.

  “When do we get to Iping?” Crispus asked. He stood near me holding onto the reins of his horse.

  “Rufius says day after tomorrow,” I answered. “We’re due at Noviomagnus tonight.”

  “All right, quit your sniveling,” Rufius growled as he approached the troop. “Mount up and wait for my command to move out. We’ll be riding all day.”

  *

  Journeying over soggy hills and through forests to Noviomagnus, on the southern coast, we received a sympathetic welcome from the garrison of Legion Second Augusta on our arrival. I never saw a group of soldiers so grateful as ours for a chance to dry their clothing and equipment, receive a decent meal, and gain a good night’s sleep.

  The following day the troop headed northward along old native wooden trackways to Iping, the westernmost stronghold on the Roman frontier. A light snow fell late in the afternoon as we rode out of the forest of skeletal chestnut and birch trees, and onto an open plain. The base lay in the distance, across the meandering River Rother, and beyond a squalid village. It was little more than a fortified camp. A square, wooden palisade surrounded the home of First Asturum infantry cohort’s nearly one thousand men.

  After fording the shallow river, the troop crossed the wooden bridge over the defensive ditch surrounding the encampment. Hiding beneath the ditch’s murky waters were hundreds of sharpened wooden stakes, called lilies, planted in the mud. Silently, they waited from any unsuspecting enemy to cross their path. A double guard lined the stockade wall. Shivering sentries, clothed in woolen cloaks, paced back and forth along the catwalks.

  Beyond the fort lay the hilly lands of the renegade, King Caratacus, and warriors from the tribes of the Atrebates and Trinovantes. His own people, the Catuvellaunii, had betrayed him and pledged their allegiance to Rome.

  I recalled that the First Asturum had been sent to Britannia with the Roman invasion force the year before. An army of forty thousand men, under the command of General Aulus Plautius, stormed ashore near Camulodunum in the southeast. I can only smile when I think of how relieved I was that my men and I had not been part of the initial invasion, especially when we learned about the Roman losses. The fierce resistance by the Britons had resulted in casualties heavier than anticipated. About three-thousand legionaries and auxiliaries had been killed or wounded. Fortunately, the Britons lost thousands more as the campaign swept from Camulodunum down to Noviomagnus. When the Emperor Claudius came to Britannia, he received the allegiance of eleven tribal kings, but not Caratacus. My question was, how long will they remain loyal? My experience in fighting the Germans was that you never turned your back on barbarians—at any time.

  The acrid smell of smoke aroused me from my thoughts. From the back of my mount, I spotted a greenish-brown plume drifting above the stockade. From my experience in combat, I knew this was more than the usual camp fires. There had been a raid. Crispus and I turned toward one another. Both of us nodded as if coming to the same conclusion.

  Rufius led us through the main gate, offset behind a timber barricade. Riding in columns of two, we slowly trotted up the muddy Praetorian Way. Plodding hooves slopped through the sucking ooze. Crispus and I rode side by side in the lead squadron of ten, behind Rufius who was accompanied by the signifer-standard bearer. The squeaking sounds of our leather saddles and jingling of brass pendants from the horses’ breast straps echoed throughout the sullen camp like the sound of doom. My eyes followed the column of smoke coming from the far end of the camp. Laid out in grids of ten to twenty, the dark leather tents that housed the troops lined both sides of the roadway. Within each grid was an open center section with partially covered corrals for the horses and pack mules. At the far end of the post stood a large regulation log and barracks office, the headquarters of the cohort commander, the Tribune Gallus.

  A centurion barked orders to a detail of soldiers as they picked up and shoved burnt remnants of wooden posts and canvas tents into an oxcart. Another dozen troopers used pickaxes to break up the frozen ground beneath the mud and shovel dirt onto the dying embers in the same area.

  Part of the fortress wall and two adjacent tents still smoldered, and the hitching line for that troop’s thirty horses stood alone. A third tent had been trampled. Four barbarian bodies trailed from the hitching rope to just outside the north wall gate. One was twisted grotesquely, a raised hand jutting up like a hawk talon. His corpse, clothed in a bloody tartan tunic and pants, was dusted lightly by the fine-powdered snow. Two soldiers stepped away from the detail and went over to the bodies. Pulling one down, they dragged the dead barbarian to the cart where they lifted and heaved him on top of the ashes.

  “What happened here? Was this the work of Caratacus?” Sextus Rufius called to the centurion.

  “Aye, the bloody bastards came over the wall just before dawn. Can’t talk now.” The centurion turned to the sweating, grim-faced men, who had stopped work when seeing our troop ride past them. “What are you lazy bastards staring at?” he barked. “Get back to work!”

  We rode on.

  The centurion had confirmed my thoughts about a raiding party attacking the stockade.

  Crispus pointed with a jutting chin to four sentries on the north wall. “You figured it out, too?”

  I viewed the sentries, their backs to the camp and staring toward the forest. The three sentries at the east wall gate seemed more concerned with dancing to keep warm. From the stables came an occasional whinny of a horse. Argento whinnied in reply. I patted him on the side of his neck.

  “The way I see it,” I answered, “the raiders came in just before dawn, after cutting the sentries’ throats—two of them, judging from the size of the frozen clots of blood on the ground, where we entered the main gate, below the stockade wall.”

  “Then they dropped down,” Crispus added, “opened the gate, let the raiding party slip into camp, cut a few more throats, and then made off with their mounts.”

  “Fortunately, they settled for a string of a dozen or so nags instead of going for the corral mounts,” I concluded, not at all pleased with our theory. Sounds of shoveling dirt, hammers, and saws echoed near the sentries as partially burnt timbers along the fortress wall were being torn down and replaced.

  “That’s not all I don’t like, Marcellus,” Crispus remarked as he patted the mane of his mare’s shaking head. “Even my horse knows something’s wrong.”

  “Did you see the gate sentries?” I asked. “They’re ghosts.”

  Crispus bared his teeth like an angry dog, turned, and spat. “This place reeks of death, raid or not.” At that moment, two orderlies carried a blanket-covered body on a stretcher from the hospital tent to the rear. Rasping coughs and agonized groans came from within the canvas of death.

  “I’d wager my quarterly pay,” Crispus said, “that we lose half the troop to pneumonia by the end of winter.”

  I shook my head. “Gallus is mad,” I said in a low voice. “He’s built a tent camp in winter and a hospital next to the stable.” Earlier, Rufius had informed me that the military tribune, Gallus, was commander of the cohort detachment.

  “Anybody knows it’s against regulations,” Crispus said.

  I nodded.

  Ten infantrymen, led by their assistant centurion, the optio, slogged by us through the mud. The optio turned to us, a facetious smile curled on his big lips. “Welcome to our little bit of paradise!” He moved on.

  “Then the rumors we heard in Noviomagnus are true,” Crispus muttered.

  “Gallus is a bloody thief—selling timber meant for building winter barracks,” I said. “He’s as corrupt as hi
s father.”

  “But we just arrived. How do you know?”

  “His father, Anicius Gallus the Elder, and mine were enemies.”

  “You’ve never mentioned him. Why?”

  “No reason to air old grievances.” I explained that old Gallus hated my father because he took him to court and won. Gallus the Elder had tried to cheat my father out of our prized race horses. He took the loss as a personal affront to his reputation. “But he got revenge,” I added. “Old Gallus used his influence with Emperor Tiberius to refuse my father’s admission to the Equestrian Order.”

  “I didn’t realize your family was so rich.”

  “I’ve never said anything because the troops would resent it.”

  “But four hundred thousand sesterces ain’t anything to ignore.” That was the required income for qualification to the knighthood.

  I shrugged.

  Riding by the corral where extra mounts were quartered, a couple of troopers, probably on punishment detail, mucked out the acrid manure with wooden pitch forks, and into a small push cart.

  I explained that my father’s ambitions were squelched, but now that he was dead, I was expected to finish what he had begun.

  “You mean—”

  “My mother expects me to make every effort to advance to the Equestrian Order as a matter of family honor,” I said. “I never expected this to happen. I was planning to be a cavalry officer like my father and our ancestors. But I honor my father’s memory too much, and now I must try.”

  Crispus exhaled. “I don’t envy you. Families have a way of fouling up a man’s life.”

  “Whatever happens, Crispus, you’re not to say a word about our conversation. No one is to know of my obligations—I’ll make enough enemies along the way.”

  “You can count on me, old friend,” he answered and looked about. “I don’t see how the son-of-a-bitch expects the men to defend this shithole while they’re freezing. He ought to be court-martialed.”

  “Like his father, young Gallus has nothing but contempt for provincials. As auxiliaries, we’re at the bottom of the dung heap.”

  “Even so, by selling the wood that the men cut, and sticking the money in his tunic, Gallus is asking for mutiny.”

  *

  The troop arrived, halted in front of headquarters, and dismounted. Rufius, the other sergeants, and I entered the cohort commander’s office, illuminated by ten small olive oil lamps fashioned in the shape of gilded stallions. We came into the presence of the tribune and commanding officer, Anicius Gallus. Sitting on a folding chair, he shuffled through some parchments from behind a walnut table. To his back, imprinted upon an animal skin and stretched tightly between two poles, stood a map of the British tribal territories. To his left sat a young, dark-haired Greek slave feverishly copying reports. Four braziers warmed the room enough to turn the snow on our fur-lined sandals to slush and stung our eyes with smoke.

  The young commander’s slender face had a weathered handsomeness to it. His short, curled, blond hair accentuated a smooth forehead, light eyebrows, and a thin nose sat between small, dark-blue eyes. A small mouth drawn into a smirk marred an otherwise flawless face. He was of slight build and wore a gilded cuirass over a perfumed, white, and embroidered tunic trimmed in purple. Every finger of his manicured hands held a gold ring inlaid with jewels.

  Barely acknowledging our presence, Gallus slowly raised his head and glared at Rufius. “It’s about time you arrived.”

  “Sir, we were shipwrecked,” Rufius answered. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  “Yes, so I heard,” he said. “Why didn’t you come directly to camp?”

  “Our losses were heavy. Men, horses—”

  “That isn’t my concern,” the tribune snapped. “Your orders were to report directly to me, not the legion base in Noviomagnus. You could have been here in one day and out on patrol.”

  “But, Tribune, the men and animals were in terrible condition and exhausted and—”

  Gallus cut him off with an icy stare. “That’s enough, Decurion! We, too, lost men and horses because you failed to report promptly.” He stood and glared into the veteran’s bloodshot eyes. “I was told you were an exceptional scouting force, the best in the army. Indeed!” Gallus twisted his mouth into a sneer. “You stink like your nags, and your uniforms are filthy. Someone lied to General Vespasian, didn’t they?”

  “No, sir.”

  “For your sake, his informants better be right. We are the most critical outpost on the frontier. Our task is to gather information and keep General Vespasian informed on the movements of Caratacus. I will not fail him under any circumstances. Is that clear?” He glanced at our feet and scowled at the mud and slush we’d tracked in.

  Rufius bit his lip and glowered at the tribune. But Gallus ignored his look of contempt. It was enough that he had tried to humiliate Rufius in front of his three squad leaders.

  “Yes, sir,” the decurion answered, in a slow and even voice.

  “Good, I’m pleased that you see things my way,” Gallus said crisply and sat down. “You know the penalty for those who don’t. Your men are to be assigned to scouting duties, as of now. You will receive your orders shortly.”

  “In the meantime,” he gestured to Rufius, “you can cremate those guards you allowed to be killed by your absence. All of you can leave except—” He studied me closely. “Except you. You’re Marcellus Tiberius Reburrus of Gades, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered as Rufius and the other two sergeants departed.

  “Of course, I sensed you were. Your name is on the roster of replacements. Stay here, I want a word with you.”

  Chapter 3

  Gallus examined the documents on the table while I stood waiting. What did he want from me?

  Gallus raised his head. “You are aware that my father hated yours?”

  “I’d heard rumors, sir.”

  “It’s not a rumor,” he answered sharply. “Those horses rightfully belonged to us.”

  “I was too young to know any of the circumstances, sir.”

  Gallus sniffed. “I suppose that is true. We are about the same age, twenty-three. And how is your father?”

  “Dead.”

  The young tribune remained silent, lost in thought. Then a sneer crossed his mouth. “For your sake, I’m sorry to hear about his death. But that leaves you free to follow in his footsteps, doesn’t it?”

  “My intention is to be a good soldier like my father, sir,” I answered cautiously. Although we had only met, I suspected Gallus would attempt to make my life miserable.

  “Come now, I think your intentions are much greater than that.” He gestured, as if brushing aside the answer. “When the time is right, I have no doubt you will apply for admission to the Equestrian Order.”

  I wasn’t about to reveal my plans. But I didn’t understand his hostility. My father was gone, and his father was elderly, although still active in the Senate.

  “My aim is to serve Rome,” I said.

  “Better as a knight than a common soldier,” he retorted. “Don’t you agree? You may speak Latin, and although your father became a town magistrate when he retired, you are not Roman in my eyes. You southern Spaniards have grown too powerful for your own good. Unlike the Asturians, you haven’t learned your place. At least they have had the decency to keep their own foul tongue.”

  “But southern Hispania has been a Roman Province for more than two hundred fifty years.”

  “So has Greece, but they are no more Roman than you! Like my father, I will do everything in my power to block your admission to the Equestrians.”

  “But the dispute was between our fathers,” I countered. “We were boys. Why should we be involved?”

  “That’s enough of your insolence, Spaniard!” His thin lips twisted into a snarl. He swept the documents from his desk onto the floor, startling his clerk nearby who left his chair to pick them up. “I agree with all true Romans that knighthood and the Senate belongs t
o Italian-born Romans. There are enough of your kind filtering our ranks. You have polluted the Senate.”

  “As a Roman citizen, I have the same rights as one born in Italy.” My rage grew with each passing moment as I stared into his hate-filled eyes. But I held my tongue, fearing I would say too much.

  Gallus rose halfway from his chair, leaned on both fists, and glared. “I don’t argue with enlisted men about Roman rights,” he rasped. “One more insubordinate word, and I will have you court-martialed! Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He collapsed into his seat and in an instant appeared bored with the situation. He turned and glanced at the young clerk, who had returned to his chair and was reorganizing the spilled documents. Gallus’s eyes quickly moving over his muscular frame. He flicked his hand in my direction. “You are dismissed.”

  *

  During the following five weeks, our troop was ambushed three times. The attacks occurred when returning from patrol in the purple twilight. Tall, screaming savages sprang from the underbrush in the dark confines of pine and birch forests, only a couple miles from the garrison of Iping. Armed with iron-shod spears, axes, and longswords, they furiously hacked at men and beasts alike as if in blind rage. But their fighting was never coordinated and soon deteriorated into a series of isolated combats. Despite our men’s stiff resistance and superior combat skills, we lost five. Fortune smiled upon my squadron—I didn’t lose a man.

  After the last incident, the other two squadron leaders, Corribilo and Edecon, and I were convinced that the Britons’ scouts assigned to our camp were spies. We decided that our suspicions should be brought to Rufius’s attention. I was selected to represent the two senior sergeants, because, although I was a sesquiplicarius, a junior sergeant, I was on the best terms with the fifty-seven-year-old veteran.