by Jack Whyte
No sooner had the peace begun to settle after that exercise than the Hammers went out through all four gates simultaneously, quietly and viciously, thirty men to a group. They stirred up panic on their own, hitting hard and drawing back before any resistance could be organized.
An hour later they went out again, through the north gate, in full force.
An hour before dawn they went back out again through the same north gate.
By the third night of the siege, the enemy was trying to kill the darkness with bonfires. But there is no wood on the high moors; in order to feed the flames, they had to work hard. We hit them with only one four-group raid from all gates that night, in the dark just before dawn.
Britannicus was banking heavily on the lack of discipline within the enemy ranks. They had numbers, but they had no coordinated leadership. No general. No Britannicus. And by the end of the fourth day they were leaving by the hundreds in search of easier targets.
When dawn came on the fifth day, we were alone and victorious on the moor. Thank God we didn’t know that morning that we were the only fighting force of our size still active in the entire north of Britain.
Britannicus, however, suspected that things elsewhere had gone very badly wrong. His initial suspicion that this incursion might be a long and hard-fought affair proved to be depressingly accurate. On that first evening of the stand-off at our camp, he summoned Luscar, senior clerk of the cohort, and instructed him to keep an accurate record of everything that occurred, and to maintain the record as a daily log from that time on. That turned out to be a command that was easier for poor Luscar to accept than to observe. It took us almost a year to win back to a real Roman fort in Derventio, and we had to fight almost every step of the way. By the time we got there, we had eaten our oxen and our horses. We had one rickety handcart to hold our meagre supplies, and Luscar had used up every available scrap of papyrus in recording our odyssey. He carried hundreds of tightly rolled sheets in the pack on his back as we crossed the countryside haphazardly in a fruitless search for signs of Roman authority.
For almost a year we found nothing but ruined and abandoned villages, towns and military installations. The few local people we did see flocked to us in the beginning, thinking we could help them, but eventually, as our appearance degenerated and our condition grew more desperate, they avoided us, running into hiding as we approached.
We were assembling after breaking camp on a hillside, early on a July morning of the following year, when our look-outs sighted a squadron of Roman cavalry in the valley below us.
Of the eleven hundred-odd souls of the Second Millarian Cohort of the Twentieth Legion, three hundred and seventy-one were still alive, and forty-two of those were men we had found, survivors from different units. Besides myself and Britannicus, we had four more officers and twelve centurions.
IV
The cavalry patrol bunched up immediately as the sound of our cheering floated down to them from the hilltop. We saw the pale ovals of their faces peering up at us, and then, to our consternation, they swung their horses around and galloped away in the direction they had come from. Shouts of welcome and happy recognition changed in the men’s throats to howls of outrage and disbelief, which lasted until Britannicus had claimed everyone’s attention by climbing on to the boulder closest to him and facing them calmly. When the men had grown absolutely still, he spoke, in an almost conversational tone.
“I know you are soldiers.” His emphasis produced frowns of confusion on many faces. We waited throughout a long pause as he stared at us before going on. “And you know who you are.” He raised one arm and pointed down into the valley that was now empty of life and beginning to fill with the shadows thrown by the strengthening morning sun. “But those men have run for reinforcement. They have run to report the presence of a large band of hostiles and, depending upon how far away their camp is, they will return in strength, deployed for battle, in a matter of hours.”
He paused again, allowing his silence to register his message, and then his voice grew stronger, and he hammered his words at us as though they were nails.
“When they return, be it in one hour or ten, they will find — and they will see — the soldiers of the Second Cohort of the Twentieth Legion.”
As his meaning became clear, we began looking at one another, seeing ourselves for the first time as we had doubtless appeared to the patrol below. We saw men who bore little resemblance to Roman soldiers. What remained of our armour was dull, scarred, battered and long unpolished. Our tunics and cloaks were scabrous and tattered. Only our weapons were keen and burnished — our weapons and our Eagles.
One of the men, bolder than his fellows, raised his voice to point out to Britannicus that the riders below must have seen our Eagles, but he was cut short.
“Trooper,” Britannicus snapped, “how many dead Romans have we seen in the past year? How many Eagles do you think might, across this entire country, have been captured by the Celts?” He broadened his address to take in all of us. “What those men down there thought they saw was a rabble of Celtic heathens carrying captured Roman standards… trophies of war! That is what they firmly believe. When they come back, they will find us, and by that time we will have found ourselves. We may not have the finery, the uniforms, or the trappings expected of Roman troops, but by the Living God, we have the pride and the discipline and the dignity to appear as what we are — soldiers of the Empire!”
The men agreed with him. I could hear truculence, grievance and angry shame in their murmuring among themselves — feelings that I shared, because I, too, felt demeaned and belittled by this lack of recognition.
Britannicus issued his next orders over the murmur of voices, and we moved in response down from our hilltop at the double, and spent the next hour and more in determined ablutions by the stream in the valley. By pooling the bits and pieces of armour that remained in usable condition, we were able to equip almost a full squad of men as recognizable standard-bearers, and these formed a vanguard behind Britannicus, myself and the other officers as the rest of the men assembled in disciplined ranks to await the return of the patrol and the forces they would bring with them.
We did not have long to wait. Only slightly more than an hour after we had taken up our positions at parade rest on the floor of the valley, before we really had time to grow uncomfortable under the strengthening July sunshine, our outposts signalled the approach of the Roman forces.
There were two full cohorts, more than a thousand men, in the battle force that came to meet us, and it took almost half an hour for their advance guard to draw close enough to make us out clearly. It quickly became evident that they were surprised by our positioning on the valley floor, and disconcerted by our obvious discipline. That they suspected some kind of elaborate entrapment was also obvious, evidenced by the protracted comings and goings of officers and messengers between the advance guard and the main body of the troops. We could not even put their minds at rest by signalling them with a trumpet, because we had lost our last surviving trumpeter and his instrument in a skirmish two months earlier. I heard Britannicus sucking air between his teeth in an almost silent expression of annoyance at the dithering we were witnessing, but he said nothing and we remained motionless.
Finally, in response to our own lack of activity, a small group of mounted officers, accompanied by a squadron of mounted bowmen, approached us hesitantly and drew up within hailing distance, whence they demanded that we identify ourselves.
Britannicus turned to me, his face fixed in an expression that masked any signs of disgust or disapproval. “Varrus,” he murmured, “oblige me by walking to our friends and telling them who we are. I have no intention of shouting like a market huckster to allay the fears of a nincompoop.”
I was grinning to myself as I walked forward, but as I drew closer to the newcomers I found myself becoming more and more conscious of the sorry figure I presented — unkempt and bearded and wearing the tattered rags that had once been m
y centurion’s uniform. I looked nothing like a Roman centurion, and, as I approached them, I could see hostility and suspicion in the stares with which they catalogued and analysed my appearance. I eventually came to a halt directly in front of them, looking up at their shining splendour and having to remind myself forcibly not to salute them. I was no supplicant junior, I was a Senior Centurion, pilus prior, of the Second Millarian Cohort, and all of these youngsters were junior to me. I drew myself to attention and spoke.
“Publius Varrus, pilus prior, Second Cohort, Twentieth Legion, under the command of Caius Britannicus, who awaits your recognition.” Their faces registered their confusion and their lack of knowledge of what to do next. I saved them the agony of deciding. “Who commands here?” I asked.
One of the young men, presumably the senior, nodded towards the rear, over his shoulder, in the direction of the advance party. “Tertius Lucca,” he said. “He is senior tribune here…. We thought you were hostiles.”
I grinned, asserting my seniority. “Don’t let our sad appearance influence your judgment. We are Roman, and we’re glad to see you. We’ve been searching for you for a long time. It’s unfortunate that we ran out of clean uniforms before you came along — about a year and a half ago, in fact — but I suggest to you that our commander can be hostile if he puts his mind to it. You had better get Tribune Lucca over here to welcome us formally back to civilization, before Britannicus decides he is being insulted. I would also suggest that it might be politic for one of you to offer my commander the use of a horse. We had to eat his some months ago, and he dislikes walking.”
The young man was still confused, blinking down at me like some kind of owl.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Placidus. Barates Placidus. Tribune, Third Cohort, Forty-first Legion.”
“How long have you been in Britain, Tribune? I didn’t know the Forty-first were here.”
“Three months.” He cleared his throat. “We landed with the consular army of Theodosius, Count of Britain by the appointment of the Emperor Valentinian.”
I made no effort to conceal my surprise. “Theodosius is here in Britain? And named Count of Britain? Why?”
The young man frowned. “Because the Emperor orders it thus.”
I shook my head. “But what about the other military governors, the Count of the Saxon Shore in the south and the Duke of Britain? What happened to them?”
He blinked at me in astonishment. “They are dead, killed in the Invasion.”
I looked backwards towards Britannicus and our men, and then returned my eyes to the young officer. “Invasion? The incursion was that big?”
“It was complete and almost totally victorious. The province was overrun by a conspiracy of Picts, Scots and Saxons. All of the northern and middle lands went down. Only the home base in Londinium was held. How could you not know this?”
I shook my head, trying to rearrange my thoughts. “We have been occupied in local fighting, trying to get back. We have had no contact with anyone since the day the Wall was overrun. So now you tell me Theodosius is here, to win back the province, obviously. He is already campaigning?”
“He is.”
“Good. Successfully?”
“Of course.”
“Of course.” I was not being ironic. I had heard much of Theodosius and knew him to be no man’s fool. I wondered what Britannicus would make of this news.
“Well, Tribune Placidus,” I said, feeling lightheaded, “you bring good news with the bad. I am going to return to Commander Britannicus and tell him that you are reporting our identity to your superior, and that he will be coming to welcome us back to the fold as soon as you have done so. Don’t forget the horses. We have six officers.” I saluted formally, and as I returned to Britannicus, I heard them wheel their mounts and gallop away behind me.
When Britannicus heard what I had to say, he frowned and bit the inside of his lip. I assumed he was thinking about the scope of the invasion, but I was wrong.
“The Forty-first Legion? Are you sure about that, Varrus?”
“Yes, Commander,” I answered. “I didn’t think they had been in Britain before the invasion, so I asked him, and he verified that they have only been here three months, as part of Theodosius’ consular army.”
“Aye, I hear you. A consular army of four, perhaps six legions, and we are rescued by the Forty-first. That is enough to make a man doubt the existence of God.”
I blinked at that but said nothing, knowing from long experience that if Britannicus chose to explain himself, he would.
He glanced around him, checking quite obviously to see who was within hearing distance. Nobody was, but he inclined his head, indicating that I should walk with him. When we were far enough removed from casual hearing, he remarked, “Varrus, do you recall the night we first met?”
“In the desert. Aye, Commander, I do.”
“We spoke of Senecas. Do you remember?”
“I remember. My old legate.”
“Yes, your old legate. Well, unless things have changed in the past two years, the legate of the Forty-first Legion is a Seneca, too. The eldest brother of your former legate. His name is Titus Probus Seneca, and he is the senior of a brood of six brothers, so everyone calls him Primus.”
He stopped and I waited, trying to make sense of what he had told me. I knew that there was no love lost between the families of Seneca and Britannicus, but I failed to see any traumatic importance in the identity of the legate commanding the legion that had found us. Britannicus, meanwhile, had fallen into a reverie and had forgotten that I existed. I coughed politely.
“I beg your pardon, Commander, but the significance of this is unclear to me.”
“Significance? It has a vast significance, Varrus — to me, but far more seriously to you and to all our men. Primus Seneca is one of the two men in this whole world whom I can accurately call a deadly enemy. He hates me and mine, but the essence of his hatred is for me, in person. You know me well by now; I do not exaggerate. I have tried to kill him, and he has tried to kill me, and to have me killed, several times in years past. Only the benevolent interference of the Fates has frustrated both of us. We detest each other. It confounds me that it must be to him that I report today, in view of the fact that we have been absent from duties for so long. I have no fear of the man, but neither do I have an iota of trust in his humanity. I promise you, if there is a way for Primus Seneca to make trouble for me, and for anyone connected with me, he will not neglect it.”
I could feel the confused frown etched into my forehead. “So,” I ventured, examining my words carefully before bringing them out, “you think that this Primus Seneca will cause trouble for us? Now? How can he do that, Tribune?”
Britannicus smiled at me — a pitying, almost condescending smile — and gave his head a little jerk.
“Varrus,” he whispered, “you are almost too innocent to be alive. Think of our situation. We have been absent, without leave or notice or communication with the army for more than a year. Missing, believed dead. Or perhaps, to some who are less charitable than you, missing, believed deserted.” He brought his hand up quickly to forestall my shocked reaction. “No, wait. I am not saying we shall encounter anything like that, but it is a possibility, and I want you, at least, to be aware of it as such. What I am saying is that you should hold yourself prepared for anything, any kind of unpleasantness, and be equally prepared to inform our men as to what is happening, and why. That is all. I hope my suspicions are unfounded, and I know I am at fault in confiding them to you — that could be prejudicial to good discipline. I also know, however, the animal with whom I am shortly going to have to deal, and I want you to be aware of the political and the personal implications of what we are about to undergo. Do you understand me now?”
I shook my head, still unable to believe what I was being told. He raised an eyebrow at me, a half-smile on his face. “Come now,” he said. “I speak only of possibilities, not of c
ertainties.”
I finally found my tongue, and my understanding. “I hear you, Commander, and I understand what you are saying, but…”
“But what, Varrus?”
“Nothing, Commander. We can but hope you are wrong, and that the command of the Forty-first has changed hands.”
“Exactly. Then we are in agreement.”
“Yes, Commander. But… what if you are correct? What if this man is still in charge? And if he does decide to use this situation to personal advantage? What then?”
He looked hard at me for a long moment, chewing on his inner lip, before answering.
“Then, Centurion Varrus, we must hope that he is accompanied by others who can sway him to behave as a Roman legate and not as a vindictive Seneca.”
“Is that likely, Commander?”
“I have no idea. But I suspect we will not have long to wait to find out. Here comes our rescuer.” I turned to see the officers of the Forty-first returning, accompanied this time by their senior tribune, Tertius Lucca. We returned to the head of our command as they approached, and I had to bellow at our men to keep them properly silent in the ranks as their natural relief and excitement threatened to overflow.
Tertius Lucca rode ahead of his officers as they came towards us, and in response to some signal unseen by us, they reined in and held their position just over a hundred paces short of where we stood, leaving Lucca to advance in company with one other, the junior tribune, Barates Placidus, to whom I had spoken earlier. When these two had come half of the remaining distance towards us, they stopped and dismounted. I glanced sideways at Britannicus, but he gave no reaction.
“I think they are waiting for you to go to them, Commander.”