by R. W. Peake
“That was close,” Balbus said after I informed them of my talk with Crassus. “We have no business fighting on the back of a horse.”
“It’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?” I agreed.
“The next time we’re going to be used as cavalry, we need to have shields,” Balbus grumbled, but his comment made sense, and I agreed that we needed to draw some from Legion stores, except I had no idea if the Legion carried them as part of their inventory.
The cavalry shield is much different than the one the Legionary carries. To begin with, it is flat instead of concave like the Legionary shield so that it can be lashed to the saddle, although it is oval instead like the shields were before their recent redesign. It also uses two loops to attach to the arm, which is passed through the loops. This is important because it leaves the hand free to grasp the reins of one’s horse, except that it does limit its use as an offensive weapon. With a handle behind the boss, the way the Legionary shield is designed, the shield becomes an extension of the hand, meaning that when a man throws a punch, he does so with devastating effect. Not so with the cavalry shield, but that could not be helped.
“What do you think Crassus is going to have us do tomorrow?”
I shrugged. “I'd imagine that he'll use us for security like today, then to serve as his bodyguard when he makes his inspection of the stronghold.”
“Why are we wasting our time on this?”
I must say that I was surprised at Scribonius’ question, his pensive expression unsettling me even more.
“What do you mean?” I made no effort to hide my surprise. “We can’t let the Moesians rise up in revolt whenever the mood strikes them, and from everything Crassus says, this Runo is a troublemaker. If we don’t stop him now, we’ll just be here some other time.”
It made sense to me, and I could see that Balbus agreed, yet Scribonius was not so easily swayed.
“Moesia isn’t even a province.”
“Yet,” I interrupted, but what he said was true. “It’s one in everything but name, and it’s just a matter of time before Octavian annexes the place, though the gods only know why he wants it.”
I had disciplined myself to refer to Octavian as Caesar in front of everyone except for my two closest friends, while in my head, he would always be Octavian. There was only one Caesar in my heart, and even now that has not changed.
“So let someone else bother with it then,” Scribonius said with some asperity. “This just seems to be a way for Crassus to win honors.”
“So what’s wrong with that?” I retorted, a bit stung because by this point I liked Crassus quite a bit.
“Do you really think that Octavian will let someone win glory after all that’s happened?” he asked quietly. I confess that had not even crossed my mind, at least until Scribonius spoke out loud. I did not answer, and he continued, “With all that's transpired, after fighting with Antonius for more than ten years to see who'd become First Man, I really don't see him letting anyone challenge that.”
“Then why would he allow Crassus to pursue such an aggressive campaign?”
“Who says that he did? We don’t know what Crassus’ orders are. For all we know, he may be expressly forbidden from going on any military adventures like this, but he’s taking the risk that if he wins a great victory that the mob will support him.”
While I could not argue that this was a possibility, it seemed to be pointless to speculate.
“Then that’s on his head, not ours. We're just following orders.”
“That didn’t help with Octavian when we were with Antonius, did it?” Scribonius pointed out. “Or have you forgotten that warning that Agrippa gave us when the Legion was retired?”
I had not forgotten it at all, and Scribonius’ words struck home, but I could not see what could be done about it.
“So what are we supposed to do? Refuse to do what Crassus orders?”
“No,” Scribonius said reluctantly, heaving a sigh. “I don’t know exactly what we should do about it, to be honest. But just know that you shouldn’t expect Octavian to welcome Crassus with open arms when he returns to Rome. Should we be successful, that is.”
“We will be,” Balbus interrupted. “The 8th may be a bit green, but they’re good boys, and they’re well led. We’ll make short work of these bastards.”
We retired for the evening, yet I found it hard to sleep. Scribonius had given me much to think about.
As expected, we reached the ridge overlooking the stronghold fairly early in the day. Despite the men being tired, Crassus wasted no time in having them make camp in the valley just across the river from the fort. We could see the parapet lined with people watching us while the camp was erected with the usual speed and efficiency of a Legion of Rome. With the men at work, Crassus and his engineering officers, escorted by the Evocati, crossed the river to perform a thorough scouting of the site, looking for weak points. The road, little more than a wide dirt track, curved around to the east and when we followed it, we saw that another, smaller river fed into the larger one so that the fort was located in the notch formed by the junction of the two.
“That complicates matters,” Crassus commented, but he did not sound disheartened about the new development.
The road ran along the banks of the large river before turning up the hill and running straight to the fort, where a large wooden gate secured the entrance. Our inspection showed that it was indeed more than a fort, and was a small town, which Crassus immediately seized on.
“We’ll cut off their access to water by diverting the river.”
I stared at him, unsure that I had heard correctly.
“With one Legion?” I asked incredulously, to which he shook his head.
“I received a message yesterday from Claudius. The rest of the army should be here in no more than three days. I’m going to send a messenger with our exact location.”
That made me feel better; however, it was still a very ambitious endeavor, reminding me of Scribonius’ warning the night before. How would Octavian react to a feat like the reduction of a town, especially in such spectacular fashion? Continuing our inspection, we saw that while the slopes of the hill were steep, they were not exceptionally high, meaning that the spoil that we dug to divert the river could be used to make a ramp. The nearby hills had sufficient timber to make several siege towers, although we would only need two or perhaps three. Once we came a little too close, and immediately arrows started flying through the air from the ramparts.
Fortunately, the Evocati had been keeping their eyes open for such a move, enabling us to trot out of range before they could do any damage. Otherwise, the Moesians made no attempt to harass us in any way. Our inspection done, we returned to find the camp completed and retired immediately to the Praetorium to discuss the plan in detail. Using the drawings made by the engineers, we sketched out our plan of attack. It would be straightforward, and after discussing it further, it was decided that we would not divert the river except as a last resort if our assault was repulsed, but Crassus, Macrinus, and I were confident, especially with the reinforcements from the rest of the army, that would not be necessary.
“Once the rest of the army is here, it shouldn’t take more than a week to build the ramps we need,” the chief engineer, Galerius Paperius, told us after making some calculations on how much timber we would need and how much earth needed to be moved. That meant a week of hard, brutal work for the men, but it was not anything I had not done myself, thinking back to those times in Gaul when we would end the day filthy and exhausted from shoveling and hacking all day. With our initial plans in place, there was nothing more to be done in the Praetorium, and I went to retrieve my mail shirt, which had been repaired with new links before going to check on Novanus. The moment I arrived in the hospital tent, I knew that things had not gone well with him, since the medici on duty, seeing me, hurried to intercept me before I reached him.
“The doctor wants to speak with you before you see your fri
end,” he said, which is never a good sign, and I waited for the orderly to fetch him.
A few moments later, Crassus’ physician, Philipos, appeared, his face grim as he approached me.
“How are the ribs?” he asked, surprising me a bit.
“A bit sore, but they’re fine. What’s going on?”
He hesitated a moment, evidently trying to gather his thoughts. “His wound is suppurating,” he began.
“Isn’t that good?” I interrupted, but if he were offended, he made no sign.
“Not this early it’s not,” he replied, shaking his head. “We tried for some time to probe the wound and make sure that we removed all foreign debris. We retrieved some links of mail, and a bit of cloth from his tunic, but apparently we missed something.”
“Then go back in and get the rest of it out.” I did not understand why it was so difficult.
“If we do, we will probably do more harm than good.”
“How? If you say his wound is going to corrupt, then he’s a dead man. What is there to lose?”
“First, men do not always die, and Novanus is a strong man. Second, probing into the wound will probably drive the foreign matter deeper into his body, and the surgery alone will probably kill him.”
“How many men survive their wounds turning corrupt?”
He hesitated, then said softly, “Perhaps one in ten.”
“How about we ask Novanus what he wants? It’s his life, after all.”
“Very well.” He turned to walk over to where Novanus was lying, in a far corner of the tent.
It was not in Charon’s Boat, but if Philipos was unable to get whatever was still in his body out, that would be his next stop, and his last. I followed Philipos, and the moment I saw him, I knew that it was serious. His eyes were bright with fever, two red spots on his cheeks showing the fire raging in his body. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and he watched us approach with a look mixed of equal parts hope and desperation.
“One in ten isn't very good odds,” he said, causing both of us to stop and exchange a glance. “You can’t whisper to save your life, Pullus,” he explained, “and this Greek fake isn't any better. I heard everything you said.”
“Then you know what we want to ask you,” Philipos replied. “Do you want to think about it? But I must warn you, every moment that passes, the infection is spreading.”
“I don’t need to think about it.” Novanus’ jaw was set. “Do what you need to do to get whatever is in me out.”
“Very well.” The physician turned to an orderly, telling him to bring his instruments, along with a jar of wine.
“Can’t you give him poppy syrup?” I asked.
“No, it would disrupt his breathing too much. It would likely kill him.”
The orderly held Novanus’ head while he let him gulp down as much wine as he could. Not wanting to watch, I turned to leave, but Novanus grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
“Pullus, don’t leave,” he begged. “Stay here and help me through this.”
I did not know Novanus that well, yet I knew how ashamed I would feel if I left him, so I agreed. The physician gently removed the dressing from Novanus’ side, causing Novanus to gasp in pain when he did so. The wound, despite not being that old, had already turned a bright red around the edges, with a mixture of blood and pus oozing from the gaping hole in his side. I did not remember it being that wide when we first examined it.
Seeing my gaze, the physician explained, “We had to widen the wound in order to get to the foreign matter.”
“So are you going to have to cut me open even more?” Novanus asked, and it was easy to hear the fear in his voice.
“Yes, I am afraid so.”
“Pluto’s cock,” Novanus swore bitterly, then drank another cup of wine.
Handing it to the orderly, he took the leather-wrapped stick that was scarred from the gods only knew how many sets of jaws clamping down on it, putting it in his own mouth.
“Ready.” His voice was muffled by the bit.
The physician selected an extremely sharp-looking blade, Novanus’ eyes following every movement.
“Maybe you shouldn’t look,” I suggested.
Novanus said something unintelligible, then grabbed my hand, but I did not pull away. Bending over Novanus, Philipos first pressed around the edges of the wound, forcing a groan from the injured man. More fluid leaked out of the hole, which the physician had the orderly swab away before making a small cut at the edge of the wound. Novanus’ grip on my hand tightened, which was beginning to get uncomfortable, but I did not complain, knowing that what I was feeling was nothing compared to him. Philipos then took a long slender probe with a hooked end, inserting it into the wound, while an orderly held a lamp just above his head to allow the Greek to peer into the gaping hole in Novanus’ side. Novanus gave a sudden jerk, which in turn caused the probe to go more deeply into his side, and he let out a choked scream, almost breaking my knuckles in the process.
“Strap him down,” the physician snapped.
The medici quickly had him secured before the operation continued. Resuming his probing, Philipos, sweat now running freely from his forehead to drip down onto Novanus’ body, made delicate motions with the probe, staring intently into the cavity. Suddenly, I felt Novanus’ grip go limp; when I glanced down, I saw that he had finally fainted, which was a blessing for everyone. I do not know how long the Greek worked, but it seemed like a full watch before I heard him mutter something.
“What? Did you find it?”
He nodded, slowly removing the probe. Hanging on the hook was a single link of mail, dripping blood. Dropping it into a bowl, he stepped back to take a deep breath.
“Is that everything?”
He did not answer at first; instead, he busily checked Novanus’ pulse and breathing, putting his ear to the man’s chest.
Finally, he said, “I hope so. Because I do not believe he can take much more. Now we will wait and see.”
Novanus was still out cold, which was good for him, since the medici were not very gentle as they swabbed up the oozing matter before redressing the wound. Seeing that there was nothing left for me to do, I thanked the physician, offering him a gold denarius as a token of appreciation.
He refused it, saying stiffly, “Prefect, I do not need to be paid to do a job for which I am already rewarded.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, though I was secretly impressed. “Then take it as a retainer for future services that I may be needing.”
He gave a laugh, yet took the coin, a bit reluctantly perhaps.
“Very well. I will keep this as a deposit for supplies I might need the next time you show up battered and bruised.”
His words reminded me of Prixus and the debt I owed him. I just hoped that taking this stronghold would give me the opportunity to even the score between us.
Chapter 3- Naissus
Work began the next morning, first with the digging of a ditch that provided a covered approach to the foot of the hill that the town was perched on. The ditch then turned so that it ran parallel to the walls, curving around until it came within 50 paces of the second river. The other end did the same, except it terminated the same distance from the first river, effectively cutting the town off from reinforcements on three sides. While half the men worked on this project, the other half worked to fell trees to use for the various pieces that would be used for the siege. There were two siege towers to be built, along with protective turrets to house our artillery within range of the town walls. At first, the Moesians lined the walls to watch us work and to jeer at the men, firing an occasional arrow or sling bullet when they thought someone came close enough to strike. However, conducting a siege is boring work, not only to perform but to watch, and before the end of the first day, the only Moesians left on the rampart were those on guard duty. In all reality, there was nothing much for me or the Evocati to do, although Scribonius and Balbus went with me to inspect the men at work. This was just a
n excuse to go find the Seventh to check on Gaius, who seemed to be happy to see me. His depression at leaving Iras behind appeared to have been lifted, but it could have been he was just acting that way in front of me. His men were working well, and I could see that they responded to him without the use of the vitus. Stopping to talk to Pilus Posterior Vettus, I asked him how Gaius was doing in his duties. I was happy to see that he did not hesitate.
“He’s doing well. Much better than I thought he would,” he admitted.
I said nothing, just lifting an eyebrow in response because I was fairly sure I knew why he felt that way. Seeing my face, he turned red, but did not shrink from what he wanted to say, for which I respected him.
“You know how it is, Prefect. Most of the time when someone is thrust on us, it’s a bad fit. But Porcinus is a good leader, although he’s a bit soft for my tastes. The men seem to respond, though, and that’s the important thing.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Vettus,” I told him. “And yes, I do know how it is. But I also assure you that I'll never put a man in the position to lead Legionaries who isn't qualified to do so, no matter who he’s connected to.”
“Thank you, Prefect, that’s good to know.”
Our business with the Seventh concluded, we continued our inspection and I was pleased to see that there was very little shirking going on. Some is inevitable; men lifting less than a spadeful of dirt, for example, or carrying wicker baskets that are not completely full. Or men who did more leaning on their axe or turfcutter than actually using it, although the few times I saw that happening, it was only a matter of a few heartbeats before a Centurion or Optio descended on the hapless man with their vitus swinging. Even with one Legion, the work was progressing rapidly. Then, with the arrival of the rest of the army three days later, just as Crassus had predicted, it was only a matter of a full watch before the Moesians sent a delegation under a flag of truce.