The next morning right after breakfast I went to Rufius’s tent before he left for his daily inspections of the troops and horses. He was as concerned about the condition of the horses as that of the troopers—and, well, he should be. Several of the animals had gone lame or died from colic, and we had received only half of our expected extra mounts.
I entered Rufius’s quarters. There was a time, had I been given the chance, I would have killed him.
When I joined the army, five years before, and posted to Germania for cavalry training, Rufius was my drill master. They were the worst four months of my life. Every day, from dawn until dusk, the other forty recruits and I were on the dusty parade field drilling, running, and riding our mounts to his curses and vine cane thrashings.
Sextus Rufius was the decurion in charge of training. He broke the recruits as he would a horse, and then rebuilt them. Day after day, from every imaginable angle, we circled and charged fixed targets of wooden poles and stacks of hay, throwing javelins, and slashing our spatha longswords. As we charged and passed an assigned target, we learned to hold and hurl as many as four javelins accurately, including one over our shoulders. And gods help the recruit who missed. If we didn’t get a vine cane thrown at our sides, he cursed our mothers for giving birth to something other than men.
He trained us to vault into the saddle fully armed from either side of a fast-moving horse, necessary should we fall off during battle. Every night I dropped into bed exhausted, bruised, aching, and slept like the dead.
Despite his constant humiliations and painful thrashings, I refused to show any sign of fear and incurred Rufius’s wrath all the more. From the back of my horse, I could shoot an arrow into the sky and split it with another before it struck the ground. I was a skillful rider, an excellent sword and spearman, and he knew it.
One day Rufius summoned me to his office. Although he called me a fucking maggot, he also said I was one of the best troopers he had ever trained. But the decurion said I did too much thinking, which wasn’t good for a soldier. If I wasn’t careful, I would get myself court-martialed, sacked by the army, and bring disgrace on my family. He was concerned with the last point because my father had been his drill master and the best officer he’d ever served under.
He warned me never to say a word to anyone about our conversation or he would thrash me from Germania to the Pillars of Hercules. I promised.
Thereafter, despite his harshness, he wasn’t nearly as tough on me as he had been in the beginning. Within a month after completing my basic training, Rufius was transferred to Cavalry Cohort First Hispanorum, and I was assigned to his troop of thirty. I had neither sought nor did I receive special favors from him, but the other men seemed to sense that I got along better with my ex-drill master than the rest of the unit. Word had leaked out that my father had been his drill master, which shouldn’t have mattered, and fortunately, it didn’t. I incurred no resentment from the men.
Timoleon, Rufius’s Macedonian slave, was assisting with his uniform and equipment as I entered his quarters. I saluted, and he acknowledged with an inquiring nod. I spoke about our suspicions of the Britons. They were supposedly from the local Regni tribe, but they were taller and fairer than the natives I had observed.
“Marcellus,” he said, poking his head through the tunic top, “I don’t trust the bastards any more than you.” He grimaced as he slowly sat down on a plain, wooden stool. The joints in his back must have been aching again, but he never complained. “The patrol was in places only we and the native scouts knew about.”
“They’re relaying the information of our movements to Caratacus,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Rufius mused, “but if headquarters’ reports are correct, he’s forty or fifty miles to the northwest in the territories of the Durotrigians. He would need someone whom he could trust nearby to maintain control.”
“Any ideas?”
“I’d wager a gold piece that’s where our trouble is coming from. Their temple priest, a blood-licking Druid, is behind the ambushes.”
“Why is it against orders to attack the temples when they practice human sacrifice?”
“General Vespasian has other plans for the Druids. He’ll get rid of them when it’s to his advantage.”
“But why does Gallus continue using the British scouts when we’ve lost so many men?”
“I expressed my concerns to Tribune Gallus,” Rufius continued as Timoleon kneeled and shoved on his boots. “I said that I’d rather rely on my own men. But he insists his orders come from Legion Headquarters, and he won’t disobey them.” He shrugged. “Of course, what do you expect from a fucking Imperial hack? I’ve seen his kind before.”
I nodded, knowing he was right.
“Be that as it may,” Rufius continued, “next month Vespasian and Sabinus are coming to camp.”
“Who is Sabinus, sir?”
“Vespasian’s older brother, an Imperial inspector general, a decent sort I hear.”
“That would be something different,” I said cynically. “If he is, maybe he’ll do something about improving living conditions here.” The squadron had lost two men that week to pneumonia and eight since arriving in Iping. “Two of mine are down with fever.” I thought of Crispus’s bet about losing half to sickness before winter’s end.
“One of Vespasian’s retainers is a friend of mine,” Rufius said. “He owes me a favor. I’m going to see if he can use his influence to get me a few minutes with the general. If he can, then I’ll tell him about our miserable situation.”
Timoleon laced Rufius’s leather cords slowly and methodically, pulling each row of eyelets snug. “In the meantime,” Rufius said, looking me directly in the eye, “you will continue scouting and not deviate from those orders.”
“But, sir,” I interrupted, “we’re fighting men. Our mission is to make contact with the enemy, not to slink away like dogs—”
“That’s enough, Sergeant!” he barked. “I’ll treat you worse than a fucking dog if you disobey me. You better control that tongue of yours. You’re bordering on insubordination.” A moment passed before he continued in a more fatherly tone as he put on his belt. “Marcellus, I know how you feel. With the exception of you and me, none of the men are Roman citizens and are treated like horseshit. The command staff makes it plain enough.”
I thought of how my father instilled in my brothers and me the pride and privilege of being Roman citizens.
“They’ll call you Spaniard,” he had said gravely, “for that’s what Romans call the peoples of our land, but you are a Roman citizen, and no one can take that from you, not even Caesar.”
My father had said he was fortunate to rise to the rank of decurion, the highest an alien could be promoted in the cavalry. He had been the first in our family to be awarded Roman citizenship upon retirement. This and his family fortune qualified him for a membership on the town council, and he eventually became a magistrate presiding over minor civil and criminal cases.
“But you, Son,” he said with pride, “as a citizen, can rise higher.” At the time, I thought he meant being promoted to the rank of military tribune. It had not occurred to me he was speaking of the Equestrian Order, the Knighthood.
Despite our Roman citizenship, mother instilled in us the traditions and heritage of the Turdetanian Tribe. She taught us the harsh-sounding language and worship of the god Melkart, to whom she was a high priestess. Unlike the Romans, who worship idols, Melkart is an invisible god. In generations past, he required human sacrifices. The coming of the Romans to Hispania brought an end to the hideous practice. In its place my people substituted the butchering of goats and bulls at the little hillside temple near our great farmstead, the latifundia.
Mother also taught us the gentle arts. Many nights I played the reedy twin-fluted aulos in the field, while keeping watch over our cattle. At harvest and weddings we danced the Bastetana to the strains of the twisted horned tuba and aulos. My family and I would hold hands with the other men, wome
n, and children, forming a circle around the great bonfire. Weaving in and out, swaying back and forth, we sang songs of joy to the instruments’ pulsating rhythms.
Unlike many women, Mother never followed the armies. She was too young, and Hispania too far away from the frontiers of Germania and the East, where the armies were garrisoned. She didn’t meet and marry my father until he had retired from the army and returned to Baetica Province, the land of many Iberian tribes. The marriage was arranged, as most were. He was a wealthy landowner, forty-three and graying; she was a sixteen-year-old, auburn-haired beauty. He had money and property, her parents had none, but they possessed high tribal status and titles linking them to the line of Turdetanian kings—an ideal arrangement.
“It angers me,” I said softly in a respectful tone to Rufius, “that the general staff takes the word of a lying, filthy barbarian over ours. I don’t understand.”
Timoleon handed Rufius his spatha, clutching the scabbard, after first cleaning off some invisible smudge from the longsword. Rufius glanced appreciatively, which seemed to please the slave.
“We’re only Spaniards,” Rufius said in a sardonic voice, “and not their stinking Legionaries, that’s why. But they respect us. Remember, our ancestors fought the Romans for two hundred years, defeating army after army before they were subdued. Why do you think Julius Caesar recruited Spaniards exclusively for his personal legion, the Fighting Tenth?”
“I have no idea.”
“Because we’re the best. The Romans need us, and we’re their eyes and ears. They’ll find no better cavalrymen or infantrymen than us!” He stared at his weapon.
“That sword looks like it has seen much service,” I said.
“Aye, that’s true. It belonged to my great-grandfather. Like you, my family has a long tradition with the army. He rode with Julius Caesar against Pompey at Pharsalus.” He took a deep breath and went on. “But so long as we are soldiers, we will do as ordered. Is that clear?”
I held my lips tightly together, controlled myself, and nodded. He dismissed me, I saluted and left his quarters.
But I was determined, more than ever, to prove that the British scouts could not be trusted.
Chapter 4 - Late March, 44 AD
Weeks of drudgery rolled into the second month of continuous patrolling. Rains and muddy quagmires had replaced the severe cold. Drizzle turned into heavy rains, chilling and saturating us to the bone. Again, headquarters received word from the Regni that a small marauding force of Britons was cited on the move twenty miles to the west. I led my squadron of ten riders on the search. Our orders were to report their position to Gallus, but we were forbidden to engage the enemy in combat. So far, Caratacus and his demons had eluded us like ghosts.
The foul weather made patrolling extremely hazardous. Again, the rain turned trails into rivers of slimy ooze, treacherous to the footing and maneuvering of the horses. Under constant prodding they struggled through the muck. We hunkered within our protective, oil-based cloaks. But rain dripped off the edges of helmets, down the sides of necks and faces, and seeped into tunics underneath, soaking our exposed breeches, chilling us all.
Our patrol trekked along the rugged countryside, up and down green, rolling hills, dotted with overflowing streams and ponds, and by newly planted fields of wheat and barley.
A bleak village lay ahead, and the troops quieted. At our approach, the peasants scurried into wattle and daub-thatched roof huts, taking their goats and chickens with them. A shallow, muddy ditch served as a moat, and a rotting half-missing palisade surrounded the wretched little hovels, each with a soggy pile of manure by the door. Villagers peeked at us suspiciously through moving flaps of bark and animal skins.
“They see us no differently than the bandits who’ve robbed them before, do they?” Crispus asked as we rode by.
“Can you blame them? We’re all the same in their eyes. At least this time their fears are groundless.” We had standing orders to leave the peasants alone. This was a wise policy, because the army needed their cooperation.
“It’s too small anyway to be a real village,” Crispus continued, “probably only a big family and outside relatives live here.” He spotted a woman’s vacant face peeking from the door. “And by the looks of that one, in-breeding must be a favorite pastime.”
The rain stopped. About a half hour after passing the village, I ordered a halt of the squadron at the edge of a large tree-lined pond where the thick underbrush concealed our presence. After posting a sentry, I ordered the troops to dismount. A loud sigh of relief came from the ranks as they stretched their legs and watered their animals. As usual, the men muttered among themselves, complaining about their lots in life.
Slowly and stiffly I got off Argento. I removed my iron helmet, with its bronze molding mimicking short, curling hair, and shook out my close, stringy locks. The rest did the same. We looked like a pack of drenched hounds shaking our coats.
I trudged a little ways from the rest along the calm water’s edge, leading Argento behind me to where a giant tree sheltered the pond’s bank with a canopy of outstretched limbs. The thick trunk provided sanctuary to a clump of snow from the heavy rains. A gentle breeze rippled by. I stood scanning the water, clearer than I expected. As Argento dipped his head and took a well-deserved drink, minnows and fingerlings darted about chasing one another past pebbles, dead leaves, and the submerged roots of stumps within the foot of the banks. The soft reflection of billowing white and gray clouds passed by on the pond’s surface in shapes of bizarre animals from mythical legends.
As I stood, nearly mesmerized by the pond’s beauty, Crispus’s reflection slowly appeared on the water’s surface as he approached from behind. Then I took a second look and saw the reflection of one whom I had not really faced in a long time—myself.
What mirrored back at me was not the smiling and haughty youth of eighteen, raised on a ranch. Instead, I saw an older-than-his-years, broad-shouldered, six-foot cavalry squad leader.
Crispus, who stepped to my side, was half a head shorter. His smooth, copper face belied the fact that he was six years older than me.
My yellow-flecked, brown eyes were lined with dark circles. A straight nose and a wind-chafed, olive face with high cheekbones and an angular chin and jaw stared at me. Crispus had black, deep-set eyes above a long aquiline nose. The lines at the edge of my lips seemed molded into a permanent frown. My reddish-brown hair did not conceal the lined forehead, or the slash of a scar left on my cheek from a German’s sword. Curse you Melkart, how you’ve aged me in only five years.
“Hey, you Baetican bastard! This is no time to admire yourself.” Crispus’s deep resonance seemed to send ripples through the small inlet, blurring the images.
I grinned as I turned and gazed upon his stubbly face. “Why not, you Punic shit eater?” I’m better looking than the native mares who pass themselves off as women—come to think of it, better looking than you, too!” Crispus was from the Bastuli-Phoeni Tribe, an Iberian people who had intermarried with Phoenician colonists many centuries ago. Because of their Semitic features, the Bastuli were regarded more Punic than Iberian.
“The trouble with you, Marcellus,” Crispus said, “is you’re too damned picky about where you stick your spear. Why can’t you be like the rest of us and get it where you can?” His cheerfulness could not mask the fatigue revealed by his drooping eyelids. Turning his back to me, he walked a couple of paces away unlacing his trousers. Spreading his feet, he urinated into a path of slushy snow, which steamed in protest.
“I like mine to take baths before I plow them,” I answered, playing along with his game. “You never know what you could get, otherwise I might as well straddle a horse like you do.”
“That’s what you farm lads start with anyway, or is it goats?” he asked, and flashed a big, toothy grin. He shook himself and relaced his breeches slowly.
I gazed about the surrounding area. Except for Crispus, no one else stood nearby. I lowered my voice and told him
of how the meeting the previous month with Rufius still ate at me.
When I finished, Crispus frowned and shook his head. “I was wondering why you were so quiet. It’s not like you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got a plan that might work. We could be executed if it fails.”
Crispus’s mouth hardened as he looked over his shoulder towards the bushes. “Oh, we could be executed? Then, by Jupiter’s balls, I don’t want any part of it!”
“You don’t have a choice. I’m thinking about the men we’ve lost on patrol. We’ve been fortunate that we haven’t been attacked lately.”
“May Castor and Pollux stay with us.”
I hoped he had the favor of the gods of luck. “I know a Druid temple is somewhere up there.” I nodded toward the scrubby, brush-covered hills, half hidden by lowering gray clouds that had snagged on them.
“Wait, you don’t mean what I think you mean?” Crispus’s eyes narrowed.
I raised my hand. “Hold on. We don’t even know if it exists.”
“What if it does? I don’t like the look in your eyes.”
“Don’t kill a lion before you hunt it,” I snapped. “And if it does exist, what’s the harm in taking a look?”
“What if we run into a bloody Druid and his savages?”
“Hear me out!” I revealed my plan.
“You crazy bastard!” he whispered. “Is this some fucking scheme to advance yourself at our expense?”
“You know me better than that, Crispus. I’m thinking of the men.”
Crispus kicked at the muddy embankment, spewing dirt into the pond. “Horse shit, it’ll never work. No worry about being executed, the British will save our Roman lords the expense.”
The Broken Lance Page 4