‘Marcelus Flavius Aquila,’ Flavius said. ‘A year and a half ago I was Cohort Centurion of the Eighth Cohort of the Second Augustan, stationed at Magnis on the Wall.’
‘H’mm,’ said the Commander, and his heavy-lidded eyes moved to Justin.
‘Tiberius Lucius Justinianus, Surgeon to the same C-Cohort at the same time, sir.’
Asklepiodotus raised his brows. ‘So? This is all very surprising. And this past year and a half?’
Briefly and levelly, with the air of one making a formal report, Flavius accounted for the past year and a half, while the Praetorian Prefect sat and gazed at him as one lost in a gentle reverie, the radish still in his hand.
‘So the occasional intelligence and—reinforcements—that have reached us from time to time from this province were of your providing?’
‘Some of them, anyway, sir.’
‘Most interesting. And this band—how many does it number, and what is it made up of?’
‘Something over sixty. Tribesmen for the most part, with a stiffening of legionaries gone wilful-missing.’ Suddenly Flavius was grinning. ‘Another Cohort Centurion, and an ex-gladiator and Carausius’s tame Fool for good measure … Oh, it’s a thundering fine Legion, sir. But we all know how to fight, and most of us have something to fight for.’
‘So. Show it to me.’
‘If you come to the tent opening you will see it in all its glory.’
Asklepiodotus laid his half-eaten radish back in the dish of little loaves and cheese from which he had been making a belated morning meal when they arrived, laid the papyrus sheet neatly and exactly on top of another, and got up. His bulk almost completely filled the tent-opening, but Justin, peering anxiously from behind him, could catch a wedge-shaped glimpse of the band drawn up outside. Anthonius rigidly erect as any Cohort Centurion of the Empire on parade; Pandarus with his yellow rose and the desperado swagger of his old calling in every line of him; little Cullen with his Silver Branch in the girdle of his tattered motley, holding the wingless Eagle proudly upright, but standing himself on one leg like a heron, which somewhat spoiled the effect; Evicatos beside him, leaning on his great war-spear, whose collar of white swan’s feathers stirred and ruffled in the light wind. And behind them, the rest—the whole tattered, reckless, disreputable crew.
Asklepiodotus looked them over, seemed to ruminate for a few moments on the battered Eagle, and turned back to the mule-pack on which he had been sitting. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’ He took up the radish again, looked at it for a moment as though he were going on with his breakfast, and then seemed to change his mind. Suddenly he opened both eyes wide upon the two young men before him, and it was as though for an instant the bare blade glinted through the furry sheath. ‘Now, give me proof that you are what you claim to be. Give me proof that there is so much as a mustard seed of truth in this story that you have been telling me.’
Flavius said a little blankly, ‘What proof can we give you? What else could we be?’
‘For all that I know, you may be no more than a band of robbers and renegades in search of easy plunder. Or—you may even be a Trojan horse.’
Complete silence descended on the brown shadowed tent; and around it even the great camp was silent with one of those odd hushes that fall sometimes for no reason on a busy place. Justin could hear the faint, uneasy sounding of the sea, and the mocking ripple of bells beyond the tent-flap, as Cullen changed from one weary leg to the other. ‘There must be a right thing to say or do,’ he was thinking. ‘There must be some answer. But if Flavius can’t think of it, there’s not much chance for me.’
And then footsteps sounded outside, and someone loomed into the opening of the hut. A thin, brown man in the uniform of a Senior Cohort Centurion entered and saluted, laying some tablets on the table before the Commander. ‘List complete, sir. I suppose you are aware that there’s some kind of comic war-band with what looks remarkably like the remains of a Roman Eagle tied to a spear-shaft paraded in the Forum?’ Then, as his quick glance took in the two young men standing in the deeper shadows, he gave a startled exclamation. ‘Light of the Sun! Justin!’
Justin’s gaze had been fixed on the newcomer from the first instant of his appearing. ‘That makes three—’ he was thinking. ‘Cullen and Evicatos and now … Things always go in threes—things and people. Oh, but this is wonderful; most wonderful all the same!’
‘Yes, sir! ’ he said.
‘Do you know these two, Centurion Licinius?’ interposed the Commander.
Licinius had already caught Justin’s hand. ‘I know this one, anyway, though he does seem to have grown into a hairy barbarian. He was cub to my Cohort Surgeon at Beersheba. Roma Dea! Boy, are you one of that band of cut-throats outside?’
Justin’s wide mouth was curling up at the corners, and his deplorable ears were bright pink with pleasure. ‘I am, sir. And this my k-kinsman also.’
‘So?’ Licinius looked Flavius over, and nodded brusquely as he saluted.
‘When you have finished your reunion,’ said Asklepiodotus, ‘tell me this, Primus Pilus: would you trust these two?’
The lean brown Centurion looked down at his Commander with a faint smile in his eyes. ‘The one I know, I would trust anywhere, and in any circumstances. If he vouched for the other, as seems to be the case, then I would trust him too.’
‘So be it, then,’ said Asklepiodotus. ‘We could do with scouts who know the countryside; also with more cavalry. Was there ever a time when the Legions could not do with more cavalry?’ He drew tablets and stylus toward him, and scratched a few words on the soft wax. ‘March this cut-throat band of yours down to the horse-lines, and take over the mounts and equipment of the two squadrons of Dacian horse that came in last night from the Portus Adurni garrison; here is your authorization. Then hold yourselves ready for orders.’
‘Sir.’ Flavius took the tablets, but stood his ground.
‘Something more?’
‘Leave to lodge our Eagle in the Via Principia with the rest, sir.’
‘Ah yes, this Eagle,’ said Asklepiodotus reflectively. ‘How did you come by it?’
‘It was found in a hiding-place beneath the shrine of my family’s house in Calleva.’
‘So? You know, of course, what it is?’
‘It is what remains of a Legionary Eagle, sir.’
Asklepiodotus picked up the list which his Senior Centurion had laid on the table. ‘Only one such Eagle has ever been lost in this province.’
‘That also I know. One of my line was lost with it. I—think the Senate knew about its coming back, at the time.’
They looked at each other steadily. Then Asklepiodotus nodded. ‘The sudden reappearance of a lost Eagle is a serious matter, so serious that I propose to know nothing about it … Permission granted, on condition that the thing is—shall we say “missing” again when all be over.’
‘Agreed, and thank you, sir,’ Flavius said, saluting.
They had turned to the opening of the tent when the Commander halted them again. ‘Oh, and Centurion Aquila, I have called a Council to meet here at noon. As men who know the country, and as—er—leaders of an allied force, I shall expect you both to attend.’
‘At noon, sir,’ Flavius said.
They found the Decurian in charge at the horse-lines, showed him the Commander’s authorization, and duly took over the fine little part-arab cavalry mounts of the Dacian Horse. The bow-legged Auxiliary who was told off to show them the equipment stores and fodder stacks was a friendly soul, fortunately more interested in talking himself than in asking questions. In common with about half the camp, he was not yet over the rough crossing.
‘My head !’ said the bow-legged Auxiliary. ‘Like an armourer’s shop. Bang—bang—bang! And the ground heaving almost as bad as the deck of that cursed transport. It would be my luck to be in the Western force, with the long crossing all up from the Sequana—and me the worst sailor in the Empire!’
Flavius, more interested in tro
op movements than in the bow-legged Auxiliary’s sufferings, said, ‘I suppose the Caesar Constantius and the Eastern force sailed direct from Gesoriacum?’
‘Aye—Constantius sailed before we did, so they say; and the galleys with him to scout ahead and cover the transports coming on after; so I do suppose he’ll have been at sea as long as us or longer—but his transports will have had maybe only a few hours of it, and it’s transports I’m interested in … ’
Altogether, Justin and Flavius were a good deal wiser as to the general situation when, at noon, they found themselves in the exalted company of half a dozen staff Tribunes, several Senior Centurions, and the Legate of the Ulpia Victrix, gathered round the makeshift table before the Commander’s tent.
Asklepiodotus opened the proceedings sitting with his hands clasped peacefully on his stomach. ‘I believe you know, all of you, that Constantius’s sails were seen off Tanatis several days ago. You will not, I believe, know that in all probability Allectus has already been warned of our landing by beacon chain. You will agree that this makes it imperative that we march on Londinium without delay.’ He turned to the Senior Centurion. ‘Primus Pilus, how soon can you have us in marching order?’
‘You must give us two days, sir,’ said Licinius. ‘We’ve had a foul crossing and both men and horses are in poor shape.’
‘I had a feeling you were going to say that,’ said Asklepiodotus plaintively. ‘I can’t think why people will be seasick.’ (Here the Legate of the Ulpia Victrix, still faintly green, shuddered visibly.) ‘I never am.’
‘The rest of us have not your strength of mind, sir,’ said Licinius, with a quirk of laughter in his hard face. ‘We need two days.’
‘Every hour’s delay adds to the danger, amongst other things, of our being attacked while still in camp. I’ll give you one day.’
There was a moment’s silence, and then Licinius said, ‘Very good, sir.’
The Council went on, following the usual way of such Councils, while the short noontide shadow of the Ulpia Victrix’s Eagle crept slowly across the group before the Commander’s tent. And Justin and Flavius had no part in it until Asklepiodotus brought up the question of routes. ‘There are two roads possible for our advance; and the choice of them we have left until now, since it is a matter depending on circumstances. Now it is time that we considered the matter; but before we make choice of either road, I feel that we should hear what one who knows the country well has to say,’ and he crooked a plump finger at Flavius, who with Justin stood silent on the outskirts of the group.
Flavius’s head went up with a jerk. ‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes, you. Come here and give us your counsel.’
Flavius moved forward into the circle, to stand beside the makeshift table; suddenly very much the Cohort Centurion under his barbarian outer-seeming, suddenly very sober and rather white as he looked round him at the grave-faced men in the bronze and crimson of the higher command. It was one thing to lead the kind of outlaw band that he had brought in that day to serve in the ranks of Rome; quite another to be called on suddenly to give advice which, if it were taken and proved wrong, might lead an army to destruction.
‘There are, as the Prefect says, two roads from here to Londinium,’ Flavius said, after that one moment’s pause. ‘One from Regnum about two miles east of here, one through Venta and Calleva. I would choose the Venta and Calleva road, though it may be a few miles longer.’
Licinius nodded. ‘Why?’
‘For this reason, sir: that after the first day’s march, over the Chalk, the road from Regnum runs into the Forest of Anderida. Dense wild country, ideal for ambush, especially for such as Allectus’s mercenaries, used to forest warfare in their own land. And you’ll have that with you right up to where the scarp of the North Chalk rises like a rampart only a day’s march before Londinium. The Venta road, on the other hand, runs into wooded downland almost at once, and the chief danger of ambush lies in the first forty miles—the part farthest from Allectus’s main force, and therefore least open to attack.’
‘And after that first forty miles?’ asked Asklepiodotus.
‘Calleva,’ Flavius said. ‘And once half a march past Calleva, you are well down into the Thamesis Valley. That is forest too, in part, but open forest; big trees, not damp-oak scrub—and open cornland. And you will be in the very heart of the province, where it will be hard indeed for any defence to stand against you.’
‘Yes, you have a good eye for country,’ Asklepiodotus said, and there was silence. One or two of the men about the table nodded as though in agreement. Then the Commander spoke again. ‘Thank you, Centurion; that is all for now. If we have further need of you, I will send for you again.’
And there the thing rested.
But when the Western Force marched out for Londinium next morning, it was by the Venta and Calleva road.
Flavius, knowing the country as he did, had been sent for to ride with Asklepiodotus, leaving Justin and Anthonius to command the two squadrons of ragged cavalry that the band had now become; and looking round at them, Justin felt that, all things considered, tattered and disreputable as they were, they made a good showing, finely mounted, properly armed now with long cavalry swords—all save Evicatos, who had refused any weapon but his beloved spear, and little Cullen, who was their Eagle-bearer. His glance rested for a moment on the Fool riding in the forefront of their company, managing his mount one-handed with surprising ease, while with the other he steadied aloft the wingless Eagle, its spear-shaft now adorned with a wreath of yellow broom hung there by Pandarus in a mood of reckless mockery, to imitate the gold wreaths and medallions of the Ulpia Victrix.
Gradually the ground began to rise, and they were clear of the marsh when an exclamation from Anthonius, riding knee to knee with him, made Justin glance back over his shoulder toward the deserted camp behind them. Fire met his gaze; red, hungry fire leaping heavenward from the stranded transports, and dark smoke drifting aside on the sea-wind.
It was as though the Prefect Asklepiodotus said to his Legions, ‘Forward now, to victory. Victory it must be, for there’s no sounding the Retreat in this campaign.’
XVI
‘CARAUSIUS! CARAUSIUS!’
NEWS met them on the march, news brought in by the scouts, by native hunters, by deserters from the usurper’s army; and some of it was not good. The transports of the Eastern Force had failed to make contact with Constantius in the foul weather; and knowing that the young Caesar could not force a landing without his troops, Allectus was staking everything on a wild attempt to finish with Asklepiodotus before the moment came to turn at bay against the other. He was hurrying westward along the ancient track from Durovernum under the scarp of the North Chalk, straining every nerve to reach the pass in the downs before the avenging forces of Rome could do so, and with him every fighting man that he could lay hands on. Twelve thousand men or more, said the reports: mercenaries and marines for the most part. Not more than six or seven Cohorts of the regular Legions. The Cohorts of the Wall had not reached him yet, and even if they did so in time, there was so much disaffection among the Legions that it seemed very doubtful if he would dare to use them.
That was to the good, anyway, Justin was thinking, casting up good and bad as he sat two nights later looking out over the camp-fires of the army massed in the shallow downland pass where the old track came up to cross the Calleva road. He did not really doubt the outcome of tomorrow’s battle, he had faith in Asklepiodotus and the power of the Legions. But the fact remained that since Constantius had failed to land, they were going to have only half their forces tomorrow, to handle everything that Allectus could bring against them; and he realized soberly that they would have no easy victory.
The army had come up at full pace, covering the fifteen miles from Venta in three hours, a gruelling business in June, for men in heavy marching order. But they had done it, and now they waited—a long flat waiting—around their bivouac fires, while Allectus, beaten in that desperate r
ace for the strategic pass, had made camp also, a couple of miles away, to rest his weary host, and maybe also in the hope of tempting the forces of Rome from their strong position.
Asklepiodotus, not finding himself tempted, had used the time to make strong defence works of felled thorn-trees across the mouth of the pass from which to base tomorrow’s operations. And now the camp was complete; the bivouac fires glowed red in the moon-washed darkness, and around them the men took their ease, each with his sword buckled on and his shield and pilum to his hand, waiting for tomorrow. From where he sat with the rest of the Lost Legion round their own fire a little above the main camp, Justin could look out to the silver snail-trail that was the moon on the metalled road to Calleva, six miles away. But that other, more ancient way, coming up from the lower ground, was hidden by the rising mist—mist which already lay like the ghost of a forgotten sea over the low ground of the Thamesis Valley; over the great camp where Allectus waited with his host.
Figures came and went like shadows between him and the fires, low voices exchanged a password. The horses stamped and shifted from time to time, and once he heard the scream of an angry mule. But the night itself was very still, behind the sounds of the camp. A wonderful night, up here above the mist; the bracken of the hillside frozen into silver stillness below the dark fleece of thorn-scrub that covered the higher slopes on either side, the moon still low in a glimmering sky that seemed brushed over with a kind of moth-wing dust of gold. Somewhere far down the widening valley a vixen called to her mate, and somehow the sound left the silence empty.
Justin thought, ‘If we are killed tomorrow, the vixen will still call across the valley to her mate. Maybe she has cubs somewhere among the root-tangle of the woods. Life goes on.’ And the thought was somehow comforting. Flavius had gone down to the Praetorium to get the new watchword and tomorrow’s battle-cry; and the rest of the band sprawled about their fire, waiting for his return. Cullen sat beneath the battered Eagle, which they had driven upright into the turf, his face absorbed and happy as he touched almost soundlessly the apples of his beloved Silver Branch; and beside him—an unlikely couple, but drawn together by the bond of their Hibernian blood, as fellow countrymen in a strange land—Evicatos sat with his hands round one updrawn knee, his face turned to the North and West of North, as though he looked away to his own lost hills. Kyndylan and one of the legionaries were playing knuckle-bones. Pandarus, with the dried wisp of yesterday’s yellow rose in his cloak-pin, had found a suitable stone and was sharpening his dagger, smiling to himself a small, grimly joyous smile. ‘The bread and onions you ate this morning tasted better than any feast to a man who expects to eat again, and the sun through the grills overhead is brighter for you than for any man who thinks to see it rise tomorrow,’ Pandarus had said once. For himself, Justin found that the knowledge that he was quite likely going to be killed tomorrow was rather a heavy price to pay for his own sudden and piercing awareness of the moonlit world and the faint scent of honeysuckle on the night air, and the vixen calling to her mate. ‘But then I suppose I’ve always been a coward—maybe that was the real reason I never wanted to be a soldier. It really isn’t any wonder father was so disappointed in me,’ thought poor Justin.
The Silver Branch Page 18