‘Yes. And quickly! And remember, death before capture!’
Germania, April AD 70
‘And so we leave the empire. Never to return.’
Marius looked out over the ship’s rail at the turbulent waters, churned by the meeting of the Rhenus and its tributary the Lupia for a moment before replying, his face every bit as bleak as his legatus’s.
‘Never is a big word, Legatus.’
Lupercus’s mouth twitched in an attempt to make equally light of their predicament.
‘But appropriate. Put any thought of rescue from your mind, Marius, because Rome isn’t going to be in any position to attempt it for a good while yet.’
Bairaz leaned forward from the bench seat behind them to speak in both men’s ears.
‘Rome won’t be in any position to rescue you in your lifetime, Munius Lupercus. We’re taking you so far up the river Lupia into Bructeri territory that you’ll never be heard of again, other than whatever news Veleda chooses to share with your people. Ten legions were required to take revenge upon the tribes after Arminius triumphed over Varus, and your strength north of the mountains will never again be sufficient for anything more than holding what you have. As far as Rome is concerned, you are lost forever along with that surrendered territory. You are now no more than a name, to be consigned to the sad histories of these times.’
He sat back and left the Romans to their contemplation of the river, as the ship that was carrying them away into captivity slowly gathered speed against the river’s flow.
‘He’s right. We’ll never be heard of again other than as a distant rumour, a story for the men of my class to tell each other when they swear to take their own lives rather than submit to a coward’s fate.’
Marius bristled.
‘A coward’s fate? No man could have done more for the empire than you in the last year! You were betrayed by Vocula when he left us to rot in the Old Camp!’
Lupercus shook his head with a soft smile.
‘Dillius Vocula did exactly what I suspect I would have done, given the same circumstances. To have abandoned the Old Camp would have been to relinquish the empire’s last foothold in what had become enemy territory, and I know for a fact that it was his intention to gather more strength and come back to finish the job. If only his legions had been steadfast …’ He sighed. ‘But they weren’t. We bled them of their strength to fight a pointless civil war on behalf of an undeserving, incompetent opportunist, and then we diluted it further by recruiting the dregs of the local population to make up our numbers, and in the end we got exactly what we deserved for such rank idiocy. I may have had no part in the decisions that have resulted in you and I finding ourselves in such shameful captivity, but as the representative of my class, the men whose decisions resulted in this disaster, I find it hard to argue with the outcome. And it would have come months earlier if not for you and Aquillius.’ He raised his voice to call a question back to Bairaz. ‘There’s still no sign of Aquillius, is there Decurion?’
‘The Banô is dead.’
The Roman shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. I think that he was in the wind from the moment you let your collective guard down and gave him the one tiny opportunity he needed to make good his escape. You don’t get a second chance with a man like that, because he can vanish into the seams of the land like a louse diving into a straw mattress. If either of us were to gain our freedom we could no more live off the land around us than I suspect you could, but Aquillius is a man apart. He made a point of learning to hunt and fish years ago, with just such an eventuality in mind, and I doubt you’ll get as much as a glimpse of him until you see him facing you across a battlefield with your death in his eyes.’
‘The Banô is—’
‘Dead. Yes, you’ve told me that a dozen times since the first time your cousin Civilis tried to make the lie work on me, and trust me on this, Decurion, he’s ten times the liar you’ll ever be. Take that as a compliment if you like, because I suppose it is given the disgust I feel for the man, but be very clear that I know you’re lying. Aquillius is out there, somewhere, steadily working his way south, taking no risks of being caught. You Batavians may have missed your one chance to rid yourselves of the most dangerous man in the army, and if you thought he was bad when there was nothing personal in his way of waging war, just wait and see how bestial he can be now that you’ve given him a reason to be angry.’
Vindonissa, April AD 70
‘Greetings, First Spear Antonius. You have arrived on the eve of our advance to confront the forces of this so-called Gallic empire. Your timing is perfect for my own needs but perhaps somewhat less than perfect from your own perspective. Your cohort will make a welcome addition to my own forces.’
Legatus Augusti Cerialis smiled to indicate that he spoke with some measure of understanding of the blow that this news would represent to Antonius’s men given their long march south into the mountains to reach Vindonissa, only to find themselves ordered to march north again the next morning, but the man standing to attention before him shook his head in swift denial of any such emotion.
‘Thank you, Legatus Augusti. Our only concern is to avenge the death of your colleague, Legatus Augusti Vocula. If marching back into the war will bring that revenge closer, I and my men will embrace that opportunity with both hands.’
‘Ah. Dillius Vocula. Yes …’ The senior officer’s smile vanished abruptly with the blunt reminder of his colleague’s fate. ‘Tell me, First Spear, you were there when it happened, how did our colleague die?’
Every man in the room hung on Antonius’s words, torn between horror at the murder of a respected senator by his own men and the urge to know what had happened to provoke such an act of infamy.
‘Yes, Legatus Augusti. I disguised myself as a common soldier and returned to the camp, after the legatus had ordered me to leave and save my men’s lives. I hoped to save him from the dogs who had gathered around him. But I failed.’
Cerialis nodded, his expression sympathetic.
‘I am aware, First Spear, from Dillius Vocula’s dispatch to Rome at the start of the year, that you had already saved him from one mutiny, on the night that Legatus Augusti Flaccus was murdered by his own men, but on this occasion I presume there were simply too many of them?’
‘Not really, Legatus Augusti, their numbers were made meaningless by their lack of resolve in the matter. Indeed, for a time I wondered if their diffidence would provide me with an opportunity to rescue him, but the Gauls had recruited a deserter by the name of Aemelius Longinus, and he showed the legatus no mercy. One man murdered Legatus Vocula, and when this war is over I will hunt him to the ends of the earth, if that’s what is required to find him and put him to my sword. I have sworn this.’
Cerialis nodded, exchanging glances with his senior officers.
‘And I will provide you with any and all assistance you require to do so, First Spear, when, as you say, the small matter of the Gauls and the Batavians is concluded to my satisfaction. You will march with the Twenty-first Legion under the command of Legatus Longus, and I am sure that his first spear will assist you in ensuring that your men are ready to march in the morning.’
He glanced across the room at Pugno, who stepped forward and saluted with his usual vigour, then extended a hand to the office’s door. Antonius saluted wearily and followed him from the room.
‘Let me guess, your men need hot food, socks, a dozen or so pack pole replacements for those which broke on your march here, and hobnails, of course? A lot of hobnails.’
Antonius nodded, and the Twenty-first’s senior centurion clicked his fingers at his waiting chosen man.
‘Get the stores opened up and invite First Spear Antonius’s centurions to take whatever they need to get their men back on the road. Tell that slug Lucius to take it up with me if he doesn’t like the idea, but warn him that the men in question now serve the Twenty-first, so he’d better have a good reason for even considering asking
the question. I’ll be with the Blood Drinkers. Oh, and send a runner to the duty cohort commander to join me in the mess.’
Antonius smiled inwardly as the junior officer turned away with an expression every bit as forbidding as that which, he was swiftly coming to realise, was Pugno’s customary outlook on the world.
‘Let’s get something understood.’ He turned back to find Pugno standing close to him, his voice lowered for privacy and, he suspected, a hint of menace. ‘Like I told my man there, you serve the Twenty-first now, which means you serve me. My legatus tells me that your legion saw combat.’
Antonius shrugged.
‘Some. Although none of it went all that well except by good fortune.’
The other man nodded, his lips tightly pursed as he grimaced at his own memories of battle.
‘As is often the way. I couldn’t say that the Twenty-first has been covered in glory in the last year either, and you’d better be clear that I intend to rectify that state of affairs very shortly. You and your men don’t belong to Legatus Augusti Cerialis, nor to Legatus Longus – you belong to me. And I am not an easy-going master at the best of times.’
The weary first spear shrugged, unblinkingly returning Pugno’s direct stare.
‘And these are far from the best of times. I understand, First Spear. And I know that there can only be one first spear in any legion, so from now until the day we part company I’m expecting you to treat me like one of your cohort commanders. And I’ll make you two hard promises. We’ll be as good as the best of your cohorts, as good on the march, as good in the fight and as good in camp. I guarantee it.’
Pugno nodded.
‘I expect nothing less. And?’
‘If I ever suspect that you’re favouring your own men over mine, in any way, I’ll be in your face just as fast as you’d be in mine.’
The other man raised an eyebrow, confident in his position and yet intrigued at his new officer’s pugnacity.
‘Do you think you can live up to that promise?’
Antonius leaned back slightly as if sizing up his new superior, putting both hands on his hips, evidently unconcerned as to whether the man facing him was convinced or not.
‘Let’s both hope we never have to find out, shall we?’
A slow, lopsided smile creased Pugno’s face.
‘You’ll do.’ He turned away, waving a hand to beckon his newest officer to follow him. ‘Come on then, let’s get you introduced to your brother officers.’
The air in the centurion’s mess was thick with the smell of beer and cooked meat, every officer without duty seemingly intent on eating and drinking as much as possible in the time remaining before their march north, and Pugno acknowledged drunken salutes and the occasional good-natured insult from those men who were sufficiently long in the tooth not to stand on ceremony with him, steering Antonius towards a round table in the room’s corner around which eight men were sitting in various states of inebriation. Seeing Pugno approach they stood, raising their cups in greeting, tensing to reply as he barked out a toast.
‘Blood Drinkers!’
The response to his challenge was instantaneous.
‘Blood and glory!’
They drank to a man, and a steward came forward with a beaker for Pugno, who passed it to Antonius and signalled for another as his officers retook their seats.
‘This is the good stuff.’
They drank, and Antonius nodded appreciatively at his first taste of beer for weeks, sinking into the indicated seat as the men around the table eyed him curiously.
‘This is our new brother Antonius. From this moment he is one of us, serving the Twenty-first with his cohort.’ Pugno paused and looked around them. ‘And in case any of you make the mistake of thinking that he’s any less of a man than any of us, this is the man who saw off the Batavians at Gelduba, the only senior centurion to have given those barbarian cunts a taste of what they’ve been dishing up for us since this whole fucking mess started. He’s one of us now, so treat him as such or we’ll be discussing the matter in private.’
The assembled officers nodded, one or two of them exchanging wry grins at happily distant memories of private discussions with their leader, others nodding at the newcomer and raising their cups in salute.
‘Ah, here’s Malleus.’
The duty centurion strode through the mess, heavily bearded, dark of face and bigger than any other officer present, slapping his vine stick down on the table and reaching for a beer, which he threw down his throat seemingly without noticing, holding out the beaker for a refill. Pugno waved him into a seat and signalled to the steward who, forewarned, came forward with a tray of small wooden cups, prompting knowing glances among the men at the table. Pugno turned to his newest officer and grinned broadly.
‘We men who command the Twenty-first call ourselves the “Blood Drinkers”, brother Antonius, and with good reason. This is the most ferocious legion in the empire, always has been and always will be. We’re not kept here on our own in this outpost in the mountains rather than being tucked up nice and warm in one of the comfortable double legion fortresses on the great river without good reason. We have a reputation for starting fights, and for finishing them, and that sort of reputation doesn’t come about by accident. These nine men and me, we guard a sacred tradition of selecting men to command centuries and cohorts who we know can live up to the name “Rapax”. Men whose only worry is that they might be judged to have fallen short of what the legion requires of them. We are only one legion, but in a fight we’re worth any two others you care to name, because we’re faster, harder and nastier than any other two legions put together. Spilling blood for the empire or just fighting among ourselves, we never step back and we never give in, and if we die then we go down fighting to the last breath. Any of the men around this table would give their lives for the legion like that …’ he clicked his fingers and his comrades nodded their agreement. ‘And they’d do the same for any of their brothers. In joining the Rapax, you join the Blood Drinkers, and to join the Blood Drinkers …’ He grinned at Antonius. ‘You can probably work it out for yourself.’
The steward placed the tray in the table’s centre, and every man leaned forward and took a cup, the burly newcomer passing his to Antonius with a hard-faced nod.
‘Brothers …’ Pugno raised his cup. ‘Blood Drinkers!’
‘Blood and glory!’
Watched by a suddenly quiet mess, the assembled officers observing their seniors’ ritual with ill-disguised envy, every man stood and raised his own cup, saluting one another with hard stares and then drinking. Antonius made to raise his own cup, but Pugno shook his head, looking around the mess in challenge.
‘All in good time. Brother officers of the Twenty-first, welcome our new brother Antonius to the legion in the customary manner!’
The chant started immediately, the gathered centurions hammering their empty cups on the tables in a din of perfectly synchronised salute.
‘Ra-pax! Ra-pax! Ra-pax!’
Pugno nodded at Antonius, who grinned back at him and tipped his own cup back, swallowing the contents in one gulp, then placed it back on the table and licked his bloody lips appreciatively. Pugno clapped him on the shoulder and raised his left arm as if saluting the victor in a boxing match.
‘Our new brother Antonius! He serves the Twenty-first!’
The mess erupted into frenzied cheers, the men around the table slapping their new brother officer on the back and offering their drunken congratulations. Pugno took his hand and stared into his eyes for a moment, then leaned in close.
‘You realise there’s no way back from this? The Twenty-first owns you now.’
6
Atuatuca Tungrorum, April AD 70
‘Their new wall doesn’t seem to have done them very much good, does it?’
Alcaeus shook his head in reply to Hramn’s gleeful question, as both men watched the tribesmen who had accompanied their cohorts west from Mosa Ford pouring in through
the gap they had torn in the Tungrian city’s defences. Those Tungrians who had not been put to the sword by the victorious Marsaci and Cananefates at Mosa Ford, once the terrible reality of their surrender to a mob of vengeful tribesmen had sunk in, had been pressed into service to carry a pair of battering rams into the attack on their own capital, and the hastily built defensive wall around Atuataca had been of scant value in obstructing the Germans, eager to inflict plunder and rape on the tribe whose loyalists had proven to be such a thorn in their side. The Batavi cohorts were drawn up in line of battle to the city’s east, but their weight had not been added to a brief and one-sided siege that had resulted in the abject collapse of the Tungrian defence, the remaining men of the city quickly working out that any attempt to resist thousands of angry Germans could only result in their deaths.
‘Will there be a slaughter?’
The long-haired prefect shook his head.
‘Kivilaz has agreed with Brinno and the other leaders that their men will respect life unless resistance is offered, and that no fires will be set in the city. Although I expect that there’ll be a fine crop of newborns nine months from now.’
‘Perhaps if the men defending the bridge across the Mosa had known that this would be the outcome of their surrender they’d have fought a little longer.’
Hramn turned to look at his deputy through narrow eyes.
‘And perhaps, Priest, had you managed to lay hands on our former brother-in-arms Claudius Labeo when you had the opportunity, this lesson would not have been required. Kiv could simply have made an example of him in front of these walls and the city would have opened its gates within the hour, with no need for them to be punished for their resistance.’
The priest raised an eyebrow.
‘I doubt that Brinno would have resisted the opportunity to reward his men with a day’s sport whether the city had surrendered or not. As for Labeo, he came out to talk under a flag of truce, and chose to run when the prince persuaded his men to surrender.’
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