Battle for Rome

by Ian Ross

  ‘What about the rest?’ he asked.

  ‘The rest are new recruits and conscripts,’ Macer told him. ‘They’re a mixed lot – some are shaping up well. Couple hundred of the recruits are barbarians, sons of Germanic settlers. Can barely speak Latin, some of them. We’ve got a few Christians as well. I don’t know what you make of that sort – personally I reckon old Diocletian took the right way with them. But so long as they don’t mind fighting and don’t try to peddle their funny beliefs to the others, I turn a blind eye. There’s a Christ-temple near the south gate they go to.’

  ‘The soldiers mix with the civilians, then?’

  Macer curled his mouth sourly. ‘Can’t stop them,’ he said. ‘They’re billeted all over the city. Not like the old days, when all the legions had their own fortresses…’ He paused for a moment, with a look of intense nostalgia. ‘Soldiers were soldiers back then. Not like now – hanging around the public baths, mixing with women and the scum of the streets… That reminds me,’ he said, ‘there’s half a dozen men in the lock-up. I believe you’ve got the authority to try them, under military justice.’

  Castus suppressed a groan, nodded, and gestured that the drillmaster was dismissed. Macer saluted, then strode across the room, his hobnails cracking on the tiled floor. He paused at the doorway.

  ‘Mind if I suggest something… dominus?’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The men know you’re a soldier. Come up from the ranks. They can respect that. But if you go soft on them because of it, they’ll despise you.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Macer left, slamming the door behind him.

  *

  From the wooden balcony outside the main chamber of his quarters, Castus gazed down into the courtyard below. Rogatianus was training a half-century of his men in armatura weapons drill, and the air was filled with the smack and crack of wooden swords on wicker shields, the cries of attack and injury, the centurion’s encouraging bark. From the portico Castus could make out the rattle and click of knucklebone dice. He could smell woodsmoke from the bakery, and the yeasty stink from the brewhouse. All of it was familiar to him; he had known these sounds and scents for years, in legion fortresses and camps all across the empire. It was good to be back, surrounded by the life of the army once more after his long spell in the world of the palace.

  But the duties of a tribune, he had quickly discovered, involved a lot more than the regular army life he had known as a legionary and centurion. More than just parading around in gilded armour too. With a heavy sigh he shoved himself away from the balcony and went back into the chamber. The large central table was spread with tablets and furled scrolls, shards of pottery scratched with rows of figures, all the great backlog of paperwork and administration that Macer had ignored for months but Castus could not. There were letters from the Primicerius of the Praetorian Prefect, from the Commander of the Field Army of Gaul, from the superintendents of four different imperial arsenals, plus strength reports and inventories of arms and equipment that needed checking. Half the men needed new boots and tunics, and several hundred lacked armour.

  ‘What’s next?’ Castus asked, pacing to the table and frowning at the impenetrable mess of paperwork.

  ‘A report from the superintendent of the supply depot at Andematunnum,’ Diogenes said, peering at a waxed tablet. ‘Stating that the consignment of body armour sent by the fabrica at Augustodunum was returned as faulty…’

  Musius Diogenes was another of the former soldiers of the Sixth Legion. Castus had known him since Eboracum: he had been a schoolteacher before joining the army, and with his slight build and fuzz of thinning hair he was the least military-looking man Castus had ever encountered. But Diogenes was tougher than he appeared, and had proved himself in battle; he was also a very skilled administrator, and Castus had appointed him adiutor, to serve as his personal secretary. It was a role that suited him well.

  ‘Apparently,’ he said in a dry tone, glancing up from the tablet, ‘the prefect at Augustodunum sent the consignment twice, and both times it was returned…’

  Castus rubbed his scalp. ‘Faulty?’ he said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I suspect,’ Diogenes replied, tossing the tablet aside, ‘that the superintendent and the prefect have a ruse going on. They send a non-existent consignment of armour back and forth between them until it effectively vanishes, and split the payment.’

  Castus hissed between his teeth. The knot of frustration that had been gathering in his neck gave another twist. ‘So this pair of jokers are filling their purses while my men are expected to go into battle without proper body armour? Without even helmets?’

  Diogenes shrugged. ‘These abuses do happen, sadly, dominus.’

  ‘Right. Take down a message to the prefect of the fabrica,’ Castus demanded, snapping his fingers. He was pacing back and forth across the room. ‘Tell him that I need two hundred and sixty mail or scale hauberks, plus one hundred and seventy helmets, delivered here by the ides of next month. If I don’t get them, I’ll write to the Praetorian Prefect himself and inform him of the, uh… the treasonous and criminal actions of him and his friend at Andematunnum!’

  ‘I should mention that we don’t have any proof, dominus…’

  ‘Exactly! We don’t have any armour either! Tell him also that if I don’t get what I need I’ll go over to his fucking fabrica and break a few of his ribs – that should teach him the advantages of body armour in a hostile situation!’

  ‘Ah ha, yes,’ Diogenes said, raising an eyebrow as he wrote.

  Castus clasped his hands behind his back and peered out of the open door to the balcony. He could still hear the sounds of the exercise yard, the crack and shout, the laughter; he needed exercise himself, some hard physical activity to burn off the aggressive tension he felt building up in his body. He had always thought that tribunes and other officers had it easy.

  ‘What’s next?’ he said.

  ‘There’s a… letter from your wife, dominus.’

  ‘Sabina?’ Castus turned quickly, surprised. He had heard nothing from her since leaving Treveris ten days before. ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Nothing of any great importance,’ Diogenes said. ‘Perhaps you’d care to look at it yourself?’

  ‘No, no…’ Castus told him, turning back to the window. ‘Just give me the sense of it.’

  Years before, Diogenes had taught Castus the basics of literacy. After spending most of his youth in the army, Castus had never learned to read and write, but with his promotion it had become necessary. It had been a hard task, and even now he could only make the slowest progress. The words seemed to dance before his eyes, letters scrambling and unscrambling, and he found it hard to concentrate on the meaning. Sometimes he wondered if his old army nickname – Knucklehead – was entirely justified after all.

  ‘The domina Valeria Domitia Sabina greets you and hopes that you are well,’ Diogenes read in a flat voice, clearly uncomfortable, ‘as she is well, and so is your son. She asks whether you might be returning to Treveris for the birthday celebrations of the Augustus… some formulaic words of farewell… that’s all.’

  Sabina, they had agreed, would remain in Treveris rather than accompanying Castus to his new command. It was a wise choice; as she put it herself, she had no wish to live in an army camp, ‘surrounded by farting soldiers’. He would return when he could, to visit her and their son, but both of them knew that Castus’s duties would allow him few opportunities to do so. They had parted warmly, affectionately, but as he had ridden the fifty miles south to Divodurum Castus had been all too aware that his wife was probably glad to be alone again. The whole household had seemed relieved; he had been an awkward presence amongst them. No, he thought, Sabina would be much happier in Treveris, with the endless round of festivals and dinner parties, and the glamorous intrigues of the court. It was the world she knew best, just as he was far more comfortable here with his legion. But still doubt gnawed at his mind
– and at his heart. He remembered all too well his sense that she was hiding something from him. And the words of the dying officer in Germania.

  ‘Write back to her, would you?’ he told Diogenes. ‘Just tell her I’m well. But I won’t be back in Treveris until at least the kalends of March.’

  Diogenes nodded and picked up a fresh writing tablet. Castus was glad of the man’s discretion. He knew he should keep his distance from his wife as long as possible, try and put her out of his mind as much as he could and concentrate on his duties. He would throw himself into the task of training his men, building their discipline, forming them into a legion to be proud of. Yes, that would be best – but the thought of her dragged at him constantly, pulling him back into unmilitary reveries.

  Before leaving Treveris he had questioned Metrodorus about the baby’s nurse. The Germanic slave was ideal for the job, the procurator had assured him; she was obedient, respectful, not at all dangerous. The child appeared to love her. Castus frowned at the thought. How could it be that a barbarian captured in war, a woman who must surely hate Romans, could be so trustworthy now? He shrugged the thought from his mind; slaves were different from free people. Their condition robbed them of genuine feelings. Or so he had been taught to believe.

  He paced back across the room again, then went and peered over the secretary’s shoulder.

  ‘How can you write so fast?’ he said, squinting down at the tablet.

  ‘Shorthand,’ Diogenes told him. ‘I can teach you, dominus, if you like.’

  ‘No, no…’ Castus said. He took a step away, then paused. ‘But, listen,’ he went on in a lower voice. ‘I need to practise. Reading and writing, I mean.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t had much chance, and it’s hard… Can you get me something simple to read? Something easy to follow…?’

  Diogenes glanced up quizzically for a moment. ‘I understand, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  Castus gave a curt nod. ‘And not a word to anyone!’ he growled.

  Leaving the secretary to his work, he paced back to the open door of the balcony. How many months did he have? Two, perhaps, or maybe three. And then the order would come from the imperial staff, and Castus would lead his men on the road to war. He felt a tightness in his belly at the thought, a dry flutter of anxiety. Could he give them all the training they needed in that short time? From the courtyard below the balcony he heard Rogatianus’s voice once more; yes, he thought, there would be time enough to prepare the men, he had only to trust his officers for that.

  But as for trusting himself, he was less certain.

  Chapter IV

  The rain was easing as the legion marched into the town of Vidubia, but the road was churned clay and every man was muddied to the knees. They marched four abreast, dressed alike in hooded rain capes, with leather-covered shields and cloth-bound spears slung over their shoulders. Castus stood at the verge of the road and watched them as they passed him in the lowering light. He had marched beside them, on foot, setting the pace with his own mile-eating stride, and now he checked each unit, calling out to the centurions by name, judging the condition of the men. Eight days on the road, and they still looked strong. Only four soldiers so far had dropped out of the line, sprained or footsore, to ride in the baggage carts at the rear of the column.

  Vidubia was barely a town, more a straggle of timber buildings bunched along the road, with an imperial posting station and an inn. The mensores had ridden ahead of the marching column, and already chalked their marks on the doorframes, allocating billets for the men. The luckier centuries were quartered in the stables of the inn yard, or in warehouses and dwelling huts; the others were left to put up their damp leather tents in the walled enclosure behind the posting station.

  Castus had been given a pair of rooms on the upper floor of the station, large chambers with crude colourful paintings on the walls, probably the best accommodation in town. From the wooden balcony outside he gazed down at the lines of tents, the soldiers gathering around their smoking cook fires. He hear the curses and the corse laughter, breathed in the scents of smoke, damp wool and leather. He stretched his arms above his head, feeling the pleasant flex of weary muscles, the satisfying fatigue of a long day’s march. As he walked back inside he stripped off his sweat-stained tunic and threw it over a chair. His orderly, Eumolpius, was busy scraping the mud from his boots.

  A rap at the door, and before Eumolpius could get to his feet it opened and Macer walked in. The drillmaster raised his stick in a brief salute.

  ‘Dominus. All the men are settled. They’re too tired to cause trouble tonight, I reckon.’

  Castus nodded, pouring himself a cup of watered vinegar-wine and gulping it back. ‘They did well,’ he said. ‘If we keep up this pace we can break a day at Lugdunum. Then they can enjoy themselves.’

  Macer gave a curt shrug. He had a new briskness to him since the legion had marched from Divodurum, although he seemed no more good-natured. The prospect of battle had clearly fired his spirits. Like Castus himself, Macer wore the gold torque around his neck, the reward of valour. He was a fighting man, but until a few months before all he had had to look forward to was a fat discharge bonus and retirement with the honorary rank of Protector. Now things were different. But he surely knew, Castus thought, that this campaign would be his last.

  ‘There’s still those four shirkers on the baggage carts,’ Macer said. ‘Can I suggest we sent Attalus and Blaesus to rouse a bit of life into them before tomorrow?’

  ‘No,’ Castus said. ‘Force them to march now and they’ll cripple themselves and be good for nothing.’

  Macer’s ruddy face flushed even deeper as he inhaled. ‘If you say so… dominus. Sets a bad example, though, in my opinion. One of them’s a Christian, it turns out,’ he said, drawing his thin lips back tight against his teeth. ‘You know what I reckon to that sort. Just saying what I think. Dominus.’

  Or not, Castus thought. He gave a nod of dismissal, and Macer saluted tightly and stamped out of the room. Eumolpius raised his eyebrow. ‘Back to work,’ Castus told him, then leaned back against the table, sighing deeply.

  The last three months had been hard. Macer had his own following among a few of the centurions, men like Blaesus and Attalus, who admired his methods and sought to emulate them. Castus knew that these men would never fully trust him. The rigours of training at Divodurum, the route marches and weapons drills, all those days of hard physical exercise, had welded the legion together. But they could not heal the rifts among the officers of Castus’s command. He only hoped that the experience of battle would pull them together, and not drive them further apart.

  There was another knock at the chamber door, and this time Eumolpius was quick enough to answer it. Diogenes came in, bearing his armful of tablets and scrolls, nodding a casual greeting.

  ‘Reports are all in, dominus,’ he said, spreading his documents on the table. ‘A despatch too, by the courier from Arelate. All centurions report their men fit and well. Aside from the four you already know about.’

  ‘Good,’ Castus said, shoving himself upright. ‘What does the despatch say?’

  Diogenes glanced up briefly. Castus signalled his permission, and the secretary broke the seal on the tablet.

  ‘Orders from the office of Aurelius Evander, comes rei militaris, Commander of the Field Army of southern Gaul,’ Diogenes read. ‘All units proceeding to Cularo are to leave their heavy carts and wagons at Lugdunum or Arausio and transfer their loads to mules or other baggage animals.’

  ‘Other baggage animals?’

  ‘That’s what it says, dominus.’ Diogenes shrugged. ‘Can they mean oxen, do you think?’

  ‘Not without carts, surely. What do you make of it?’

  ‘Presumably,’ Diogenes said, setting the tablet aside, ‘they believe that wheeled transport would be unsuitable for the mountain crossing, and they don’t want a huge wagon park assembling at Cularo.’

  Castus grunted. ‘Makes se
nse.’ He was still perplexed about the other baggage animals though. The army always used mules and ox carts.

  ‘Elephants, maybe?’ said Eumolpius, glancing up from his cleaning. For such a young man, he had a very deep and mournful voice. ‘Did Hannibal not cross the Alps with elephants?’

  ‘To strike fear into the Romans, I should think,’ Diogenes said in a dry tone. ‘Not to carry his baggage.’

  ‘I have always dearly wished to see an elephant,’ Eumolpius said wistfully.

  Castus frowned at the orderly, who dropped his head and got on with his work.

  ‘There is, of course, the account by Livius of Hannibal’s crossing,’ Diogenes went on, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it would be instructive to read it again? I might find a copy at Lugdunum, perhaps…’

  Castus slopped more wine into his cup. He had crossed mountains before. He had marched vast distances, seen and fought barbarians on three frontiers. But he had never been to Italy, never seen that great city at the heart of the empire, or expected he ever would. At least now there was no doubt about the final destination of their march.

  ‘How far is it?’ he asked. ‘To Rome?’

  ‘About a thousand miles.’ Diogenes was smiling to himself as he gathered up his reports. ‘I’ve always wanted to see the place for myself,’ he said. ‘Rome is the greatest city on earth. The eternal city, mistress of nations… Over a thousand years since the foundation, and there are one million inhabitants, so they say…’

  Castus whistled through his teeth. The huge numbers loomed in his mind. A thousand miles, a thousand years. One million people… and how many of them had Maxentius conscripted into his new legions?

  ‘Funnily enough,’ Diogenes said, pausing by the door, ‘there’s a man in Rogatianus’s century who claims to come from Rome. His name is Valerius Felix.’

  ‘The one they call “Slops”?’

  ‘Yes. Although I don’t know if there’s any truth in it. He seems a rather low sort of Roman, if he really is one…’