“Where can I find Gellius, the legionary legate,” Fergus snapped, as he came face to face with a legionary in the dimly lit corridor.
“He’s not here,” the man replied, as he brushed on past without a glance at Fergus.
“The Praefectus Castrorum then?” Fergus snapped. “Where is the Camp Prefect?” But the legionary had already disappeared around a corner.
Annoyed Fergus turned to look down the dimly lit corridor. From somewhere deeper in the maze of corridors and passageways of the old Seleucid Citadel he suddenly heard a peel of laughter. As he approached the source he heard it again and, coming around a corner, he caught sight of two legionaries standing beside the entrance to an office. They had their backs turned to him and were sniggering as they peered at something in the room beyond. Marching up to the doorway Fergus cleared his throat and, as the two soldiers turned and saw him they hastily sprung aside and resumed their guard duty on either side of the entrance. Stepping into the spacious room Fergus paused. A young semi-naked woman was slowly performing an elaborate striptease for the benefit of the four legionary tribunes who were splayed out across the comfortable looking couches. The tribunes, all of them young, barely out of their teens, were grinning from ear to ear. But as they caught sight of Fergus standing in the doorway the grins abruptly vanished. For a moment the large room became very still.
“Holy shit,” one of the young equestrian officer’s exclaimed, his cheeks blushing furiously, as he finally recognised Fergus’s uniform. A mad panicked scramble followed, as the four young staff officers leapt to their feet and saluted. Their young faces were flush with embarrassment.
“Get out,” Fergus snapped as he turned to the stripper.
“She hasn’t been paid yet,” one of the tribune’s protested.
“Get out,” Fergus roared with real fury in his voice, and as he did the woman hastily gathered up her clothes and fled from the chamber. Fergus waited until she was gone before turning his attention back to the young staff officer’s. The four tribunes stood stiffly to attention before him, staring into space, their arms pressed tightly against the sides of their bodies and they were suddenly sweating. The men looked flabby, unfit and their uniforms were in a state of disgrace.
“My name is Fergus. I am the new Tribune laticlavius,” Fergus growled, as he examined the officers. “Now can someone tell me where I can find Gellius, the legionary legate?”
“He is not here Sir,” one of the tribunes with blond hair replied swiftly. “He has left on a tour of inspection of some of our garrisons on the other side of the river. We are expecting him back tomorrow or the day after Sir.”
“And the camp prefect, where is he?” Fergus snapped.
“He should be back at nightfall Sir,” the blond tribune replied staring into space. “He has taken the first cohort on a route march across the desert. A training exercise Sir.”
“Well it’s good to see that someone in this legion is doing something worthwhile,” Fergus growled. For a moment he paused. This was not the welcome he’d expected. In the absence of the legate he was now the most senior commanding officer of the Fourth Legion.
“So,” Fergus said in a dangerous voice, as he took a step towards the four staff officers, his eyes flashing angrily. “All the senior officers are out of camp and you decide to use this opportunity to entertain yourself with a stripper. Is that how you a military Tribune, a Tribune augusticlavii are supposed to act?”
“No Sir,” came the hesitant, embarrassed replies.
“You are all a fucking disgrace,” Fergus roared. “You are supposed to be legionary officers. You are supposed to set an example to the men. This is the fucking army that you have joined. Not some privileged whorehouse. If you don’t take your work seriously then how can you expect the men to do the same. This legion only works when we have discipline and professionalism and it’s your fucking job to provide that discipline.” Fergus paused, looking furious. “If you think that you must only bear this posting for a year before you can return to your pampered, privileged lives, then you are wrong. Things are going to change. They are going to change right now and if any of you don’t like it I shall arrange for you to be sent home to your families in disgrace and you can kiss your careers goodbye. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes Sir,” the tribunes barked as the sweat ran down their faces.
“Have I made myself clear?” Fergus roared in a furious voice.
“Yes Sir,” the tribunes roared back.
Silence descended on the room and as it did, Fergus turned to look around. “A legion has five Tribune augusticlavii,” he said in a calmer voice. “I count only four of you. Where is your colleague?”
“There are only four of us at the moment, Sir,” the blond-haired tribune replied hastily. “They promised us a replacement, but he has not yet arrived.”
“Is the legion understrength?” Fergus said with a frown.
“Somewhat Sir,” the blond tribune replied. “There are only two cohorts and the legionary cavalry here in Zeugma. The rest of the legion is spread out across the cities of Osrhoene on garrison duties. But all cohorts are understrength. They promised us replacements, but they still haven’t arrived.”
Fergus grunted as he took in the news. “Very well,” he growled at last, as he looked up at the young tribunes. “We will get to work right away. I am going to need cohort strength reports, the disposition of our garrisons, the state of our food supplies and the most recent combat and intelligence reports. In the absence of the legate I shall take over his office. I will need your names and personnel files on my desk right away and when the camp prefect returns with the first cohort, he is to report to my office immediately. You,” Fergus said, pointing a finger at the blond Tribune. “What is your name?”
“Britannicus Sir,” the tribune replied quickly.
“Britannicus,” Fergus exclaimed raising his eyebrows in surprise. “You are from Britannia?”
“Yes. From Londinium Sir,” the staff officer said quickly. “My father is a wool merchant.”
“Then you are far from home,” Fergus replied, switching to his native Briton language. “I too am from Britannia but not from Londinium.”
For a moment Britannicus looked surprised and unsure how to proceed.
“That is good to know Sir,” he replied haltingly, in the Briton language. “And welcome to the Capricorn legion Sir. I am sorry about the stripper. Please don’t tell the legate. It won’t happen again Sir.”
“I need you to arrange for a general inspection of all legionary units that remain in Zeugma,” Fergus said, ignoring the request and switching back to Latin as he gazed at Britannicus. “I want to inspect the men. Have them ready for inspection at dawn tomorrow with all their equipment, horses and weapons. And for fucks sake, smarten yourselves up. You are officers in the Roman army.”
Chapter Thirty-Two – “Welcome back to the War”
The legate’s office in the heart of the ancient Seleucid citadel was silent, oppressive and stuffy. There were no windows and little ventilation. It was evening and Fergus sat behind the desk waiting patiently for the Praefectus Castrorum, the camp prefect and third in command of the legion, to finish reading his letter of introduction which Hadrian had given him. On the table between them, he’d placed his magnificent crested helmet and his red cape was draped over the back of the chair. The camp prefect was a short man of around fifty, with short grey hair and a hard, grizzled face. Carefully Fergus studied the man, trying to figure out how he was going to handle him. The officer had served for twenty-nine years in the Fourth Legion and was a battle-hardened, no nonsense veteran who had climbed the ranks the hard way. So Britannicus, the young Tribune, had informed him. There was not a more experienced or respected soldier to be found in the whole legion.
“Seems to be in order,” the camp prefect said at last in a gruff voice, as he handed the letter back to Fergus.
Silently Fergus placed the letter in a leather satchel. Then h
e turned his gaze back to the camp prefect.
“May I ask what happened to my predecessor?” Fergus said.
“He died of the plague,” the camp prefect replied.
Fergus raised his eyebrows. “Plague,” he exclaimed. “Where was this? In Zeugma?”
“No, not here,” the camp prefect said. “In one of the towns beyond the river. A few months ago, there was an outbreak of the plague. It killed the laticlavius and took half a company of men with it before the outbreak vanished.”
“I am told that you are the longest serving member of the Fourth Legion,” Fergus said, abruptly changing the conversation. “You must have seen many tribunes come and go. You have read my letter. You have seen my army record. How do I compare to the previous occupants of this position?”
For a moment the grizzled camp prefect hesitated and gazed at Fergus guardedly.
“I have seen twenty-three men occupy your position in my time with the legion,” the camp prefect said sharply. “A few of them were all right but most were not much more than boys, amateurs with no real interest in the fortunes of the Fourth or the men under their command. The restoration of the pride and reputation of the Fourth is my only concern. And as regards to you,” the camp prefect said as he hesitated again, his watchful eyes examining Fergus. “I would say you were either Hadrian’s cocksucker or a genius or just damn lucky to have got your position.”
In his chair Fergus grinned as he gazed at the camp prefect. Silence descended on the stuffy office as Fergus turned to look down at the desk.
“I am the second in command of this legion,” Fergus said at last in a calm, measured voice as he looked up. “You are third in command. Together our job is to advise the legate. The old grizzled veteran legionary who climbed the ranks and the young son of a senator, a political appointee. We are the legate’s senior team. That’s how it’s supposed to work isn’t it? Gellius will depend on us and it’s vital for the effectiveness of this legion that we work well together.”
Fergus paused as he gazed at the camp prefect.
“Now I called you here because I believe it is important that we make a good, effective team. Division and rivalry at the top will filter down into the ranks and I do not want that to happen, nor I am sure, do you. Like you I want the Fourth to be the best. I mean that. So,” Fergus said with a sigh. “I thought we could take this opportunity to mark out how we are going to work together. So, tell me your thoughts, your concerns.”
Across the desk the camp prefect remained silent as he gazed at Fergus and Fergus could see that the officer had been taken by surprise by his comments. At last the old warrior cleared his throat.
“I am the most experienced soldier,” the camp prefect said gruffly. “I know this legion, its officers and men inside out. This is my legion. I may come from a humble, ordinary family Sir, but I do not leave after a year like you do. I will continue to advise the legate on the day to day management of the cohorts, all training issues, discipline, promotions and logistics,” the camp prefect snapped. “You,” the prefect hesitated. “You with your connections to Hadrian however seem better suited to advise him on politics, diplomacy, deployment and intelligence issues. If the legate asks your opinion, then you will back me up and I shall do the same with you. If we have a dispute we discuss it separately. Like I said the reputation and the pride of the Fourth is my only concern.”
“As it is mine,” Fergus said quickly. “All right, agreed,” Fergus added. “But if there is a need for an independent battlegroup or vexillation, I shall be given its command and you will defer to me.”
“Eager for battle, are you Sir?” the camp prefect replied sharply.
“I am,” Fergus replied, lowering his gaze. “And I have taken command of such formations before. It was my troops who broke through the Bitlis pass last year and it was I who killed the Armenian king. I am not here to admire the scenery. I have come here to fight and make a name for myself.”
“Then welcome back to the war,” the camp prefect said in his gruff voice.
***
The fifteen hundred or so legionaries of the First and Second Cohorts of the Fourth Legion stood stiffly to attention on the dusty parade ground of the legionary fortress on the outskirts of Zeugma. On their right flank, the hundred and twenty legionary cavalrymen, clad in their full gear, ceremonial facemasks and mounted on their horses, stood drawn up in four turmae, squadrons, waiting patiently for the inspection to begin. It was dawn and the infantry, wearing their army uniforms, belts, hobnailed boots, gleaming body armour and legionary helmets with wide cheek guards, stood arrayed according to their individual company and cohort formations. The men were clutching their pila, spears. Their large, oval legionary shields, emblazoned with lightning bolts, were resting and leaning against their legs on the yellow sandy ground. Standing proudly to attention in front and behind each century were the company officers, the centurions, optio’s, company second in commands, cornicen, trumpeters and the signifer’s, clutching their proud unit’s standards. Across the parade ground not a sound could be heard except the gentle moan of the warm morning breeze.
Slowly and steadily Fergus made his way along the massed, silent and motionless ranks, examining the officers and men as he did. The legionaries were staring rigidly into space and not a word was said as Fergus took in the state of their weapons, uniforms, equipment and the bearing of the men. He was closely followed by the camp prefect, the four tribune augusticlavii and the primus pilus, the legions most senior centurion and commander of the First cohort. They were followed in turn by the standard bearer of the legion, clad in a magnificent lion’s head that was drawn over his helmet and proudly holding aloft the gleaming aquila, the sacred and precious eagle banner of the Fourth Scythica.
Fergus said nothing as he moved on down the ranks, his quick alert eyes passing across the faces of the legionaries. There had been no news from Gellius, the legate and no one at HQ seemed to know when exactly to expect him back, for he’d been given contradictory reports on that issue. So, he would just have to get on with the job without his boss, Fergus thought, and the first task was to see for himself the state of the men and their equipment, for his initial impression had not been positive. As he reached the cavalry squadrons, Fergus paused and turned to the camp prefect and the primus pilus. Both men were old enough to be his father and both had served in the army far longer than he had, but they lacked the senatorial rank and social standing to rise any higher. Fergus took a deep dissatisfied breath as he fixed his eyes on the two senior officers.
“Listen, this is not good enough,” he said, lowering his voice so that the cavalrymen could not hear him. “These units are a disgrace. Some of the men look fat and unfit. Many are missing vital pieces of equipment and armour. I counted several men without their pugio knives. Helmets are dirty, uniforms look shabby and unwashed. Do the men not take pride in their companies? Do we have a shortage of equipment? Some of the shields that I saw looked like they were falling apart and since when do we tolerate beards in the army. If we were on campaign, I would understand but we are at our home base now. There is no excuse for this shit.”
“Hadrian has a beard,” the primus pilus replied in a sour voice. “And I can assure you Sir that the First cohort are fit and battle ready. The camp prefect took them on a route march through the desert only yesterday.”
“The overall standard is not good enough,” Fergus snapped. “Maybe some of the men are up for battle but many others look they couldn’t handle a mob of outraged geese. It is not acceptable. I want every single man up to standard. That means turning out with all the proper gear and equipment. And if that means additional training exercises then so be it. There is a fucking war going on gentlemen and we are not going to win it looking like this.”
“Maybe we should wait until the legate returns before making hasty decisions,” the camp prefect said, as he gave Fergus a perplexed look.
“No,” Fergus growled in an annoyed voice. “In the legate
’s absence I am in command of this legion and my orders will stand. We are going to repeat the whole inspection again at dawn tomorrow and this time I want to see an improvement. And if tomorrow I see the same load of shit, that I have just witnessed, then all leave will be cancelled, and as an example I shall have one man from each company flogged in front of all his comrades. We are either a proper fighting-fit legion in the imperial Roman army or we are nothing. Discipline starts with how a man maintains himself and his equipment. See to it that your officers and men get the fucking message.”
***
Gellius, the legate was a tall handsome aristocratic man of around thirty-five. A white focale, neck scarf was tied around his neck to mop up body sweat, and he was wearing a scarlet paludamentum, cloak, fastened to one shoulder. Fergus stood before his commanding officer waiting for Gellius to finish reading his letter of introduction. At his side the camp prefect was looking down at the ground with a dour look. The legate’s office was quiet except for the rustle of the papyrus scrolls and the creak of the chair in which one of the junior tribunes was sitting. Several days had passed since Fergus had ordered the troop inspections and, despite considerable improvements on the second inspection, he was still not entirely happy. Titus, his old centurion back in Twentieth would have made both the First and Second Cohorts run around the walls of Zeugma as punishment for the neglect the men had shown.
“Good, welcome to the Fourth Legion Fergus,” the legate said at last, looking up at Fergus as he handed Hadrian’s scroll to a tribune. “I am glad you are here. We have been rather short staffed since your predecessor died.” Gellius frowned as he took his time examining Fergus. “So, what news from Antioch? I expect you will be happy when Hadrian is finally appointed as the emperor’s deputy and commander in chief of Rome’s eastern legions? I hear the appointment is imminent.”
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 31