by Ian Ross
‘She’s old but strong, the Bellona, just like me,’ he had told Castus on the first day of their voyage. ‘Carausius built her for his fleet. I daresay you’ve heard of him?’
Castus nodded. He knew the stories of Carausius, the military commander who had seized power in Britain and declared himself emperor. Twenty-five years ago, so he estimated.
‘Back then,’ the navarch said, ‘she was a sea boat, sailing the Germanic Ocean. But when Carausius, may the gods rot him, was brought down the Bellona was sent to river duties. Been on the Rhine ever since. You’ll have seen bigger boats, I’m sure, but you won’t find a better one this side of the Alps.’
True enough, Bellona was not a big ship, and had an old-fashioned look. But as a double-banked galley of fifty oars, she was certainly the biggest craft on the Rhine. Her smooth-scrubbed deck ran just over thirty paces, from the warrior-goddess figurehead standing proud above her curving cutwater right back to her upswept stern. With her hull painted blue-green, topsides lined in red and white, a pair of ballistae mounted on the stern deck and a heavier catapult at the bow, she was a fitting flagship for the river flotilla.
The other craft that sailed in her wake could match her for neither size nor elegance. Three wide flat-bottomed barges carried Castus’s baggage, horses and the remaining members of his travelling staff. Flanking them were two smaller galleys, sleek thirty-oared vessels with rakish hulls and dragon-head prows.
Braced against one of the two ballistae mounted just forward of the steersman’s position, Castus scanned the eastern bank of the river. Still no signs of life. No signs of any trouble either – he had seen no smoke rising from the Roman lands to the west, no troops moving on the riverbank road. The sun was bright off the water, and when he squinted Castus could just make out a single canoe paddling upstream near the Germanic bank, one or two figures sitting upright in the dugout hull, gazing back at him.
Movement from behind him, a flash of green and blonde, and Castus turned and looked back past the steersman and into the shade of the canopy beneath the curved stern post. Ganna appeared, clambering up the ladder and through the hatchway to the deck. The stuffy little triangular cabin below the poop had been set aside for Castus’s use, but he preferred to sleep on deck, wrapped in his cloak, with the other men. Now Ganna and Sabinus used the cabin at night, and during the heat of the day.
The crewmen at the stern assiduously ignored the slave woman as she crossed to the heap of personal baggage beside the deck rail. Squatting, Ganna opened one of the chests and brought out a bag of Sabinus’s things. Castus tried not to watch her. When he glanced back he saw her poised, head raised, staring at the barbarian riverbank across the water with a look of calm intensity in her grey eyes. They had reached the lands of her own people now, Castus realised. Those were Ganna’s own forests, her own distant hills.
‘Bructeri, am I right?’ Senecio said, once Ganna had returned below deck. ‘You can tell from the accent. She looks after your boy all right though?’
‘She does,’ Castus said, feeling a tightness in his throat.
‘Seems that way. Fiercest of the lot, the Bructeri, some say. Cruel too – they poison their arrows. Mind you, they’ve been quiet enough these last years.’
Castus swallowed thickly, then sucked his teeth. ‘What do you know of the trouble in the north?’ he asked.
The navarch gave him a guarded look. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Maybe since the last dux died there’s been some difficulties. He was trying to sort out a problem with the subsidy payments when he died, as I’m sure you know.’
Castus did not. He nodded, not wanting to probe Senecio any further. Doubtless the man knew more, but he was a good soldier, and it was not his place to tell of it.
*
An assembly of dignitaries waited on the riverbank at Colonia Agrippina. Castus studied them from the deck as the Bellona backed her oars and swung slowly with the current. The little group of figures on the timber wharf was still quite distant, and he could make out nothing of their appearance just yet.
Instead, as the ship crossed the stream of the river towards the docks, Castus stared past the waiting figures at the city beyond. It had been many years since he had seen Colonia Agrippina, and much had changed. The city itself was the same, the tiled roofs rising from behind strong walls. Further downstream, the Praetorium, the palace of the governors, stood high upon the bank with its red-pink arches, its tall towers and its central cupola facing defiantly across the river towards the barbarian shore. But the bridge that Castus had seen under construction all those years ago was complete now: massive timber girders supporting a broad roadway, spanning the river on twenty solid stone piers. An impressive bit of engineering: as Castus watched, the central span was rising like a drawbridge, to allow the ships to pass through once they had discharged their passengers. And on the far bank rose the walls and towers of the new bridgehead fortress of Divitia, a Roman foothold in barbaricum.
Oars threshed the muddy brown water as the galley manoeuvred her stern closer to the wharf. Castus stood straight, neck held stiff. An hour before, in the cramped little shelter on the poop, he had waited patiently while his orderly Eumolpius unpacked his best military garb, then arrayed him in the embroidered crimson tunic, the white linen arming doublet and gilded muscled cuirass. His heavy red cloak was pinned back from his shoulder and swept up across one arm, and he carried his plumed helmet clasped in the crook of his elbow. He was sweating slightly already; Ganna was quite right that he had gained weight over the last year, and the cuirass constricted his torso uncomfortably.
Castus peered at the assembly on the riverbank. ‘Who are they all?’ he asked Senecio through tightened lips.
‘City councillors, magistrates and priests,’ the navarch replied from the side of his mouth. ‘The curator, and the defensor. That’s Gaudiosus on the right; he’s the tribune commanding the detachment at Divitia. The short man with the nose is Tiberianus, the governor.’ The tone of his voice expressed eloquently his feelings about the dignitaries.
Castus nodded. He was remembering the prefect’s strange warning, back at Arbor Felix. Were these the people of whom he should be wary? How was he to know? He had a sudden memory of another arrival by ship, years before: the usurper Maximian’s adventus at the seaport of Massilia. He hoped the memory was not a bad portent.
Shouts from the deck officers and crew as the galley backed up to the docks, her oars sliding smartly inboard as stevedores flung cables across the last gap of churning water. As soon as the gangway was secured, Castus marched up onto the wharf, his small group of staff at his heels. Trumpets sounded a ragged fanfare.
‘His excellency Aurelius Castus, vir perfectissimus, Dux Limitis Germaniae,’ the herald cried. The line of troops drawn up behind the dignitaries raised their hands in salute. Castus lifted his own hand in acknowledgement, then turned to face the assembled civilians.
At the centre of the group was a short man, wrapped in the heavy pleated toga of high office and the insignia of senatorial rank. His hair was clipped short to hide his baldness, and he stood with his chest thrust forward and his head tipped back, so that he appeared to be staring at Castus through his flaring nostrils.
‘Claudius Basilius Tiberianus,’ the herald declared, ‘vir clarissimus, Consularis Germania Secunda.’
Tiberianus took four slow steps forward, raising his arms, and Castus moved to greet him. They met in a stiff formal embrace. Officially, Castus knew, he and this man were equals: he would have supreme command of the military forces in the province, while the governor controlled the civilian aspects of the administration. In theory their spheres would remain entirely separate, entirely complementary. In practice, things were seldom that easy.
They parted, and Tiberianus took a few steps back, still gazing at Castus down his nose. There was a short awkward pause; Castus realised with dulled surprise that he had no idea what was supposed to happen next. The rest of his staff and his baggage were coming ashore
from the barges now. Sweat ran down his back inside his cuirass, soaking into his tunic. He had not expected to feel nervous about this first meeting, but dealings with civilians always made him uneasy.
Great gods, don’t let there be speeches. But he knew that he prayed in vain. Already a flustered-looking orator was stepping out from the civilian group, clearing his throat and inflating himself to speak.
‘Truly,’ the orator began, flinging up his hands, ‘our mighty emperor, whose preservation is our salvation, has answered our fervent prayers, and shown once again the great love he bears for our western provinces...!’
Castus tightened his jaw, letting the tide of honeyed phrases wash around him. He looked from one face to the next, studying them, eager not to appear in any way overawed by this assembly of dignitaries. Tiberianus the governor angled his nose even further upwards, his nostrils aimed at the distant horizon. Castus knew how these men must see him: his scarred and brutal face, his muscular neck and heavy shoulders. An uncultured soldier, a peasant risen to high office, skilled only in violence.
‘For was it not in the west that his sun first rose, dazzling the eyes of the faithless foe? Did his divinely ordained rule not take its root in these rich and verdant lands?’
Scanning along the line of the civilian group, Castus observed the tribune, Gaudiosus. A lanky officer with a bored expression. His troops were garrisoned across the bridge at Divitia fortress and several other strongpoints around the city and along the river. They were legionaries at least, men of Legion I Minervia; the previous garrison, the Divitenses that Castus had fought alongside in the Italian campaign, had been redeployed to the field army. The soldiers that Gaudiosus had brought to form his honour guard looked smart enough, but Castus knew that many of the garrisons on the frontier were composed of raw recruits and time-served veterans, units still bearing the proud titles of their old legions but much reduced in both quality and effective strength.
‘What is it that protects our lands from the unbridled fury of the barbarian? It is not the walls of our towns and cities; neither is it this great river upon whose banks we stand. Rather it is fear! The fear of Roman arms, and the swift and mighty retribution that will follow any insult, and lay low their pride with the bodies of their warriors and the hovels of their families!’
The gathered civilians seemed to take heart from these martial words; Castus saw them stiffen and raise their heads. The governor appeared to be inhaling one enormous breath through his flared nostrils. Irritation itched along Castus’s spine; what did these comfortable-looking men know of war and bloodshed? But it pleased him to think that they would take his glowering expression as evidence of his soldierly fervour.
‘And not only has the Sacred Wisdom sent his own son to sit in his place, and bestow the light of his majesty once more upon us. He has also sent this son of Mars, this worthy soldier from the embattled plains of Illyricum, to take up the protecting shield of Roman might, and the avenging sword of Roman justice, and restore our lands to peace and security!’
Castus tried to hide his brief smirk. Funny to think of himself as a ‘son of Mars’. No doubt his own father would have been most amused. But now the speech of welcome was at an end, and a collective exhalation rose from the assembly. Castus blinked his eyes back into focus. Was something expected of him? Was he – fresh sweat broke on his back – expected to make a speech himself?
It appeared so. Even the governor had ceased his scrutiny of the horizon and was gazing at him expectantly. Castus cleared his throat, and then drew in a long breath.
‘I am only a simple soldier, and cannot hope to match your eloquence,’ he began, his tone so close to a gruff shout that the front rank of the delegation quailed slightly. ‘Our emperor has sent me here with clear instructions to restore the security of this frontier. I intend to fulfil them, and do nothing more.’
He scanned the faces of the assembly once more, judging the effect of his words. ‘Let every man do his duty, and attend promptly to my commands and those of the clarissimus Tiberianus, and with the help of the gods your lands and your fine city will be free from all danger.’
More trumpeting, more salutes, but the job was done and Castus felt relief rising through him. No doubt he had offended a few people with his lack of rhetorical nicety and compliments, and the suggestion that he might start giving them orders; well, that was fine. They only needed to look at him to see the truth of his words.
‘You must have flown here on the wings of Mercury,’ the governor said quietly as they rode together in a jogging two-horse cart. Colonia Agrippina was set back from the river, and they were following the track that crossed the foreshore between the shacks and warehouses to the city gates, the rest of the assembled dignitaries falling into procession behind them. ‘We were not expecting you until well after the ides.’
‘His eminence the Praetorian Prefect told me of an emergency. I came as fast as I could.’
‘Emergency? Hmm.’ Tiberianus rolled the words around his mouth, then smiled. ‘There was a brief... situation. But the matter is resolved, for the time being at least.’
They were seated very close on the cart’s single bench, and the governor’s perfume was strong. Castus found that he liked the man less with every passing moment.
‘Your precipitous arrival has left us in a stir, I’m afraid – we have no official banquet or meetings prepared. A wing of the Praetorium is available for you and your staff, however. And perhaps you would care to dine with me at my house this evening? A small gathering – only the most important of men. I’m sure they can appraise you of all current matters.’
‘It would be an honour,’ Castus said, and tightened his lips into a smile.
CHAPTER VI
‘Excellency,’ Diogenes said, sliding in through the door with a stack of tablets and documents in his arms.
Castus turned from the window. ‘Call me that again,’ he said, ‘and I’ll have you sent back to the ranks!’
Diogenes gave an apologetic wince, then set the documents down on the table. They were in one of the reception rooms of the Praetorium on the riverbank, a tall gloomy chamber decorated in a style fashionable about fifty years before. Most of the building was empty, the dusty halls closed and shuttered; Tiberianus preferred his own sumptuous residence in the north-east quarter of the city.
‘I’ve compiled the most recent strength reports for the troops currently stationed on the frontier, dominus,’ Diogenes said. ‘If you’ve time, perhaps...?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Castus told him with a curt wave. It had been a trying day, a day of meetings and negotiations, audiences and administration. Already it was growing dark, the slaves wandering the halls with tapers and lighting the lamps. Castus still had a lingering headache from the night before at the governor’s house. He may as well hear the bad news now.
‘You have, as you know, three legionary formations under your direct command,’ Diogenes said. He consulted one of the tablets. ‘These being the remaining men of the Thirtieth at Tricensima and First Minervia here and at Bonna, together with the naval detachment of the Twenty-Second Primigenia. The first two total 4,368 men present with the standards, while the Twenty-Second has 323 men, engaged in river duties...’
Castus listened, nodding, as the secretary went on with his figures. The strength reports were months out of date, and there had been no recent large-scale enlistment. Most likely the force under his command was more depleted still.
‘Then there is the Numerus Ursariensis, 216 men, the Numerus Batavorum Exploratorum, 373 men, the Fifth Cohort Valeria Thracum, 239...’
The list continued, but Castus was only paying partial attention. He thought back to the night before, and the dinner at the governor’s house. A small gathering indeed, and many of them were not city or provincial officials but landowners, even local merchants. Castus did not believe for a moment the story of his unexpected arrival: clearly Tiberianus had arranged things so that the new dux could be surrounded by his own
cronies as soon as possible. He was displeased to note that Gaudiosus, the tribune of the Divitia garrison, was among them. Apparently the governor had already brought him on board.
‘Your predecessor,’ Tiberianus had said, head tipped well back as the main course was cleared, ‘may the gods honour his shade, was not the most active of commanders, I’m afraid to say.’
‘Is that so?’ Castus had asked, picking his teeth. He was drinking too much, and the wine was going to his head. ‘I had heard that his excellency Valerius Leontius died while on an expedition against the Franks. That sounds quite active.’
‘Hardly an expedition,’ said the man beside him on the dining couch. ‘He was paying them a subsidy – a bribe, one might say. No, for all their provocation he refused to take proper action against them!’
The governor had introduced this man as Magnius Rufus, one of the wealthiest landowners in the provinces of Germania and Belgica, and former patronus of the city of Colonia. He was a big man in late middle age, fleshy but vigorous-looking, with a ready smile and very white teeth. Castus tried to hide his reaction: civilians, he thought, should never dare question the actions of soldiers.
‘Forgive me!’ Rufus cried, clasping Castus by the shoulder. ‘I’m just a plain-speaking Gaul! But I was born in this country, and I know the ways of our barbarian neighbours too well. It’s a vain policy, I’ve always said, to try and appease them, pay them subsidies and expect them to hold to their treaties. They are savages, and they respect only prompt and overwhelming force!’
Castus nodded, narrowing his eyes. He had guessed very early in the evening that this Magnius Rufus was the true host of the dinner, not the governor at all. Rufus had dominated proceedings from the start, often talking over the others at the table. His loud good humour had a slightly threatening air, and even Tiberianus seemed beaten down by it.