by Dan Wallace
Tiberius nodded, “All right. Here are the orders. Sextus, you will take the auxiliaries to Cosa and inform Praetor Sentius that we are on our way with a full legion and will be there in one week. By that time, he shall procure 125 seaworthy ships and crews in the lagoon at Olbia, fully provisioned. You will assist him in any way you can to assemble these ships.”
He turned to Casca and the others, “You centurions will strike camp at once. We begin marching in one hour, double speed. We’ll cross over to Cosa to board the ships. From there, we will sail the coast to Pisae. If the winds favor us, we will continue around the coast. If not, we will sail directly across to Barcino. That is all.”
The ravening Sextus was in his element, prodding Sentius to produce the ships. He enjoyed racing his auxiliaries up and down the coast to collect any extra supplies that the legion might need for the journey. The provisions procured earlier from the estates of Rufus and his compatriots had disappeared among the families of the evocati, which made these raids critical to their success, and Sextus rode hard.
Praetor Sentius didn’t need much prodding, either. He was so relieved that Tiberius had found his recruits in other places rather than Cosa that he felt no compunction in bullying merchant ship captains to anchor at Olbia and offload their cargos. Sextus then would go through the freight with a fine-tooth comb. Some of the captains spit in rage when ordered to reload commandeered goods that had once been theirs. But swords were swords, and the seafarers swallowed their bile in a try at making the best out of a bad deal.
Tiberius and his centurions experienced little in the way of impediment, except for one stretch of land through a forested valley cut by a river. In this section, just east of Cosa, an elevated road over a swampy edge of the slow-moving waters had collapsed. Tiberius surveyed the mess, knowing full well that a standing obligation of any officer was to maintain or repair as necessary any part of a road that needed it. Only by keeping these arteries sound and in good staid could the life blood of Rome course between her and her provinces. But he didn’t have time to send his soldiers out to find new stone and gravel to build a proper road. Worst of all, he had no immunes, no engineers who could direct the men and measure the stone so that the road would meet the standards expected of a military reconstruction.
He frowned, looking at the swampy path in front of him. Even with immunes, reconstituting this road the proper way would take a month or more. Shaking his head, Tiberius said, “We’ll have to make do for now. Casca, round up any woodsmen in the legion, and laborers to help them. We’re going to have to put down a temporary log road for now. When the campaign is finished, we’ll return by this route and rebuild it to last.”
Casca and the other centurions jumped, knowing that Tiberius chafed at the delay, and also realizing that the longer it took, the more likely they would sail to Hispania on the open seas. The four centurions lashed together a party of woodcutters and workers in no time. These men bent to the task full-heartedly, as they possessed no more desire to chance Neptune and his denizens than the centurions. By the first night, they had cut down enough heavy timber to cover the full 100 kilometers of mire with supporting cross beams. Placing them strategically on the sunken stonework as a foundation, they then laid smaller trunks lengthwise on the cross beams, forming a series of land rafts. The finishing touch was shoveling sand over the entire structure to create a smoother surface for the legion when it crossed. The entire operation was completed in two and a half days.
As soon as the last shovel of sand hit the wood, Casca roared the order to march. When the last of the rearguard stepped onto solid stone, he called for double time as if they were already rushing to engage the Numantines.
Tiberius sat leaning over the neck of Chance, perpendicular to the rapid-paced legionaries trooping past. In the distance, he could hear the cries and shouts of the followers as they tried to keep up. Casca appeared on a high rock, swinging his twisted vitus ominously, as if ready to wither the back of any slacker who would hold them up.
“We’ll get them there, by the gods, if I have to paint all their backs red!”
“Go easy, now, Centurion,” Tiberius said wryly, “or we’ll be delivering a dead legion to Mancinus.”
“I’ll bet my monumental snout that the great number of them would choose this death rather than being dragged by sea devils down through dark water to Hades!”
“Perhaps, but it’s most likely they won’t have any choice. So, why should they die both ways?” He laughed at Casca’s glum expression and trotted off to see how the other centurions were faring.
When they arrived at Cosa, Tiberius was amazed to find a hundred ships anchored on the Bay of Olbia. Sextus and Sentius had outdone themselves. Each ship was well provisioned with food, water, vinegar, and wine. Ten vessels had been refitted with stalls for the auxilaries’s horses and stocked with plenty of hay and oats. The fastest ship of them all, a sleek bireme with two masts was designated Tiberius’s flag ship. A simple covered hutch at mid-quarters served as his cabin, while Chance was stabled in the back with Sextus’s horse to keep him company. Lysis asked if he could stay with the horses in case the ship foundered and they needed to be freed. Tiberius reminded him that his first duty was the care and needs of the quaestor. Seeing the sorrowful expression on the slender Greek’s face, however, caused Tiberius to relent. The boy beamed as he ran off to see to the horses, Tiberius thinking it wasn’t that big of a ship that the young slave couldn’t see to the needs of both horse and master. Which came first? he wondered with a laugh.
The ships were nearly full and ready to cast off when Sentius asked to see Tiberius. Grateful for the work done by the Cosan praetor in gathering and preparing the fleet, Tiberius ordered his adjunct to usher him in.
“Praetor, welcome. Allow me to offer you some wine,” Tiberius said, clasping his forearm.
Sentius said, “You are too generous, Quaestor, and I know you chafe to push on to Hispania, so I won’t delay you long.”
“By no means, Sentius, I certainly can spare some time for a true ally
and friend.”
“Nonetheless,” Sentius said, “I’ll be brief. You have been generous to Cosa, Quaestor Sempronius Gracchus. You have been reasonable when presented with reason rather than rapacious as some of your predecessors have been with their Italian allies. Cosa could ill-afford to lose any more young men to foreign wars, we barely have enough to fish and farm to feed our people. Instead, you found a way to build your legion that benefitted the people of Italia.” Seeing Tiberius’s eyebrows furrow, Sentius moved his head up and down, “Oh, yes, some of the men that you used to fill your ranks are Cosan lads, back from war and at loose ends, no value to our town now. You’ve saved them from brigandry, many a father and mother has told me. We are all grateful.”
Tiberius was beginning to wonder what this was all about. He’d acted only in his own interests, he thought, and that of Rome’s, of course. What in Hades was Sentius up to?
“So,” the Samanite praetor said, “we have brought you a gift, a donation to your success in Numantia. If I may?” he said, gesturing to the cloth that covered the entrance to the hutch. Tiberius nodded, and the cover was pulled back. In marched twelve legionaries in basic armor, older men with grey in their beards.
“Twelve veterans? I have my legion, Sentius, I’m afraid we need no more evocati.”
Sentius smiled, “These are veterans, yes, and they are volunteering for your service,” he paused, “but they are not legionaries. They are immunes.”
Immunes? Tiberius shook his head and looked at the twelve men standing front of him, older men, older than he was, and almost casual in their parade rest stances. Immunes, he realized, engineers that would have made the road repair a few days ago as simple as fixing a child’s toy. He breathed a sigh of exasperation, thinking of the time he could have saved, but also of the immeasurable value that these men meant to his legion in Hispania. Ballista, mangonels, battering rams, and siege towers, all of these
could be built under the direction of these gifted men, mechanical magicians. No wonder they were exempt from all other duties of the common foot soldier, they were priests of a practical cult.
Tiberius stepped over to one grizzled old man, his lorica an old leather vest studded with oblong metal buttons to deflect phantom blows. His helmet was the old copper pot style, worn for decorum’s sake rather than protection.
“You volunteered, is that right?” asked Tiberius quickly.
“Sure, Consul,” the old man winked, “why not?”
“I’m not a consul,” Tiberius said, “and it is dangerous in Hispania, and hard work.”
The old man pushed out his lips and the tip of his tongue, furrowing his nose. “Hard work here in this little shit-hole town is banging together tables and benches. On campaign, I don’t work, I think!”
Tiberius stepped back, grudgingly respectful. He eyed the others and raised his voice, “All of you? Volunteers?”
“Aye,” they all shouted cheerfully.
Tiberius nodded, and gave Sentius a sidelong glance. The praetor smiled slightly, hardly controlling how much he was enjoying the tableau in front of him.
“All right!” shouted Tiberius. “I am Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, Quaestor to Consul―” he stared at the grizzled immune, “―Hostilius Mancinus, who is in Hispania at this very moment mounting his campaign to subdue the Numantines. I intend to join him presently to add our legion to his force before he assaults their city walls. Thus, we sail at once. I am happy to have you in our ranks and commend your safety to the gods and to Centurion Primus Lucius Casca Naso, who will add you to the rolls and put you on a ship. That is all.”
The knot of men followed Casca down the deck and off the gangplank. Tiberius watched them go, then turned to Sentius.
“I’m not sure how grateful I can be with that lot,” he said.
Sentius smiled, “They’re good at their craft, I made sure of that.”
“Then, thank you, Sentius, with all sincerity,” Tiberius said, reaching out his hand to grasp Sentius’s forearm. Sentius gripped Tiberius’s arm firmly, “You are an honest Roman, Tiberius, we respect you. May all of the gods favor you above all others.”
Sentius took his leave as Casca returned.
“You have them situated?” Tiberius asked.
“Spread out across the fleet. They griped about being separated, but we don’t have to worry about losing them all because they were on the one ship that goes bottoms up.”
“Good. Tell the ship masters to feel free to use the immunes’s skills to patch up their ships if needed. Maybe we can keep them all afloat long enough to cross over. Signal them to set sail at once.”
Casca nodded and left.
When Tiberius felt the motion of the ship as it moved out of the bay, he remembered that the sea gods were fickle and loved toying with the ambitions of silly mortals. Storms would arise, even in summer, and ships would founder, and all would drown, captives, rowers, and captains alike. Pirate ships might fly out of some hidden cove, and the ship captain would exhort his rowers to burst their hearts pulling the oars, or face death or enslavement if the marauders overtook them. And, of course, the most perverse of the gods might send monsters to torture the sailors with fearful death. Neptune sent Cetus to wreak havoc on great heroes of men such as Perseus. For puny fragile merchant ships, though, he might send an ordinary sea monster, ship-length with iron scales and serrated teeth for chewing through the thickest of beams. Men drowning in the frothing wake of the sinking vessel were soon scooped up in the creature’s cave-like maw to be cut asunder by its wicked teeth. Oh, yes, said the sailors, they had seen it themselves, bits and pieces of wood and men floating in a sickly, oily red sea after the monster had writhed away. Tiberius barked a laugh out loud at the thought.
This voyage saw no storms, pirates, or monsters. Instead, the gods seemed to admonish the fearful sailors with drumming boredom. The winds held steady and they sailed above Corsica straight across the top of the large land mass toward Barcino. After clearing Corsica, though, the wind shifted, fortuitously allowing them to take a hard, southwest tack directly toward Tarraco. Corsus blew so steadily and friendly that the rowers were told to ship their oars to keep from creating a drag.
Tiberius ordered immediate sacrifices to Neptune and Corsus. He then commanded his centurions to drill the men on deck to ready them for the march to Numantia and keep their thoughts off of tentacled ship-eaters. For those waiting their turns, or when they were off duty at night, the ship masters produced a few traders that they had hidden away. Thinking that they could try to salvage some coin at least out of this profitless, dangerous voyage, these procurers parceled out women, girls, and boys to the legionaries. The centurions, of course, were serviced for free to keep them from subsuming the entire enterprise.
Some of the legionaries passed, either for lack of money or desire. Many of them were the old evocati and young recruits who watched their wives, children, and mothers crying on the shore of the Olbia lagoon, left there literally in the wake of the departing legion. Leaning on his vitus as he stared out over the side of the ship at the wailing people, Sacerdus Quarto looked solemn, but he didn’t cry; this had always been the way with soldiering. His family would have to survive without him until he came back, if he came back. If he did not, they still would have to survive.
Tiberius finally had rid himself of the legion’s impedimenta, but at a cost. He knew that old spears like Quarto would swallow their bitterness and take it out on the enemy, but the new young recruits would hate him for his heartlessness. It was up to the centurions to whip these young wolves into shape, to concentrate their misery and hatred on the rebellious barbarians that had forced this campaign. By the time they sailed into Tarraco, they would be visiting the whores and would own a keen-edged desire to cut into a Numantine.
Chapter 11. Post
Aprilis was drawing to a close, the crops were in the fields and growing, and the weather in Rome turned toward warmth, leaving only the shadows of the buildings chilled before Apollo, passing in his chariot, kissed them with his light. Claudia loved this time of year, loved coaxing her new babies in her garden to blossom as early as possible, then sitting back to watch the bees embrace them with their busy flight. She would bring the children out to see them, explaining how wonderful the world was, the goddesses Ceres, and Diana and her two sisters, blessing us all with nature and their ways. Philea would watch, and even her ever-solemn features softened at the pure joy of her mistress in spring.
Mother Cornelia never celebrated the rites of spring, sighed Claudia. She loved her grandchildren, but kept them distant, as though that might protect her from their loss, should that occur. Claudia knew better, that nothing could protect a mother from losing a child, like a knife to the heart everyday she lived after that terrible day. Like losing a husband would be, she thought, a husband a wife loved and who loved her, duty or not.
Philea could see the flicker of pain in her mistress’s expression, a slight, fleeting disturbance to a countenance so stunning, perfect, that anyone viewing it would rush to restore it to its former image of pure joy. Before the old house slave could move, however, Claudia arose from the flower beds surrounding the pool and motioned the children toward her.
“Please, Philea, have them eat their breakfast, then get them on their way. Polydius should be here soon to give Tiberius his lessons, and I’m sure little Cornelia is ready to practice her stitching.”
“I am not!” Cornelia shouted. “I hate stitches!”
Claudia turned and, hands on her hips, stared at her daughter in mock surprise. “Why Cornelia Sempronia, you love your stitching. And, you’re so good at it!”
“Not today. Today I am much better at digging up truffles. I’m a big pig, today, and I want to snuffle up some truffles.”
Claudia gazed at her daughter, glanced at Philea, then threw her head back and howled laughter. At age three, Cornelia Sempronia was tall and dark, like her fath
er, but had more the temperament of her uncle Gaius, feisty and fiery. Claudia felt ashamed sometimes when she thought that she loved her black-haired, wild child the best of her children. But then, son Tiberius would tell her something in his serious way, and she knew that she loved them both to death.
They had been to one of the farms for a few days to see how the planting had taken hold. All of the fields looked robust, a relief with Tiberius away in Hispania. Generally surly for having to answer to Claudia, a mere woman, Buccio the hefty farm manager, had fallen in love immediately with little Cornelia Sempronia. As a treat, he brought out his favorite pig and led her on a rope to the nearby woods with the little girl and her mother in tow. Soon, the pig snorted and sniffed until she began to push at the earth near a tree with her snout. Buccio pulled her away and tied her to another tree. While the pig squealed her anguish, causing Cornelia Sempronia and young Tiberius to stick their fingers in their ears, Buccio dug into the ground where the pig had burrowed with her nose. He exposed what looked like three oval, black clods of dirt. The farm manager lifted one up for Cornelia Sempronia to smell, which caused her to wrinkle her nose. But she knew that when they were washed and readied to eat that they were delicious. She smiled and said, “Lunch! I want them for lunch!”
“Oh, no, Cornelia,” her mother said, “they are treasures, these truffles. We eat them only on occasion, as a special treat when we have enough. Today, we must send as many as we can to market. Right now, truffles are scarce and dear.”
Philea glanced at Buccio, and said to Claudia, “I’m surprised we found these. Our good manager has told us that the main season is much later.”
Claudia shrugged, “Who knows, the way our calendar works.”
Buccio spoke up hurriedly, “These might be a few missed from last year, Mistress, a rare find, I’m sure.”
“Really?” said Philea in just a slightly skeptical tone, “the pig seemed to find them fast enough.”