‘Why then we’ll find out just how good soldiers the Ninth really are,’ Agricola said in an indifferent tone that irritated Valerius. ‘Because you’ll have to hold on until we’ve fought our way through to you.’
Valerius looked at the hills again. The narrow valleys and flanking heights. So many opportunities for ambush. By the time the Twentieth had extricated themselves Valerius and all his men were likely to be dead and they both knew it.
But he was a soldier again. He commanded a legion. And that was enough.
It was only then he remembered Domitia Longina Corbulo’s letter. Fronto had been one of the four potential candidates for Domitian’s high-level contact in Britannia. If he’d been murdered, as Agricola seemed to suspect, had that been the reason? Or were there other, more sinister, forces at work?
XXXII
‘Crescens!’ Valerius called. ‘To me!’
Julius Crescens trotted up from his position a few ranks behind in the long column of riders. He wore a worried frown because he still wasn’t certain why Valerius had detached him from the escort. They were at the centre of the First Ala Indiana, a five hundred strong unit of Gallic cavalrymen normally stationed at Isca, to the south. Agricola had grudgingly agreed to transfer the unit to the Ninth after Valerius pointed out he would need as much mobility as he could get in the mountains.
‘Yes, lord?’ the young cavalryman said with a deference that would have surprised his comrades.
‘What can you tell me about Legate Fronto?’
Valerius was watching his face when he asked the question and he saw the instant Crescens’s eyes took on that look of blank incomprehension so often the trooper’s first line of defence.
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t come the old soldier with me, Julius,’ Valerius said without rancour. ‘Whatever he’s done in the past can’t harm him in the grave. And he certainly can’t harm you. I need to know what’s been going on so I can put it right.’ Crescens stared at him, the implications of Valerius’s words taking time to register. It was common knowledge the Ninth’s legate had met an unhappy accident, but Agricola had left it to Valerius when to announce his appointment. ‘That’s right. The governor has given me temporary command of the legion.’
‘Then may Fortuna aid you, if you don’t mind my saying so, lord, because you’ll need all the help you can get.’
‘Let’s start with Fronto.’
‘Am I to be perfectly frank, lord?’
‘Yes.’
‘A proper bastard, lord. One of the worst.’
‘And what makes him the worst? I need details.’
Crescens looked thoughtful. ‘My father told me that in every legion centurions use their position to squeeze money from the men under their authority.’
‘That’s true enough.’ Valerius knew a unit’s senior centurions would often demand bribes from the legionaries in their century to award them leave they’d earned by right. If a man lost a piece of equipment in battle he was entitled to have it replaced, but often a superior required a little encouragement before he authorized the transaction.
‘The Ninth’s centurions were up to all the usual tricks. Letting it be known that men could buy their way out of fatigues, that type of thing. Only this was organized.’
‘Organized?’
‘Yes, lord. The senior centurion of every cohort was up to his neck in it, and they put pressure on the more junior ones. It was common knowledge that all the money went upwards. The legate was milking his legion dry. If anyone complained or refused to pay they’d have their backs stripped by the centurions’ vine sticks.’
‘Thank you, Crescens.’ Valerius’s throat felt ragged with the force of his anger. Corruption he understood, and sometimes a wise legate only saw what he needed to see, but this? ‘I think we can safely say it will stop.’
‘There’s more, lord. Much more.’
Valerius sighed. ‘Tell me.’
‘At Lindum he’d get drunk and call for the best-looking boys to be sent to his rooms and the primus pilus would organize it, putting the fear of death into some recruit. I’ve seen lads who would single-handedly charge a Celtic battle line crying like babies when they got back to the barracks. One fellow Fronto took a shine to couldn’t take it and cut his own throat. Blood everywhere.’
Valerius felt the bile rise in his chest. This explained why the legion was falling apart. The only real wonder was that there hadn’t been a mutiny. ‘Didn’t the senior officers do anything about it?’
‘The way I heard it the legate had his hooks in the officers too, sir. He’d ask them for a loan and if they didn’t come up with the gold they’d end up patrolling the mud flats and the swamps in a thunderstorm on a lame horse and with a couple of the primus pilus’s thugs for company.’
‘Tribunes don’t lead patrols.’
‘They do in the Ninth, lord.’
‘Very well,’ Valerius said. ‘You’ve given me much to think on.’ A thought struck him. ‘Do you remember which century the boy who killed himself was with?’
Crescens gave him an odd look. ‘No, lord.’
‘And Crescens?’
‘Lord?’
‘This conversation never took place.’
As they twisted through the mountain valley Valerius began to understand the true scale of the task facing him. He knew these hills of old from his time with the Twentieth legion a lifetime ago, but his memory had dulled the gloomy, claustrophobic depths and the dangerous tree-choked gullies, any of which could hide a band of Ordovice warriors. Riding two abreast the column of riders and their baggage animals took up almost two miles of the rutted native track that split the hills. That could have made them vulnerable, but the prefect in command of the cavalry wing knew his business. Scouts ranged ahead, always within sight of each other and the column. Strong flank guards waited, ready to cut down any sortie. A full squadron guarded the rear.
The column reached the Ninth’s temporary camp on a height overlooking a large lake just as darkness began to fall. The beasts of the quartermaster’s cattle herd bellowed annoyance as the riders forced their way through the grazing animals and past stockades filled with the thousands of mules that would make up the legion’s baggage train. Valerius had sent a courier ahead to announce his arrival and an honour guard of a full century turned out, armour glittering and swords unsheathed to welcome him with proper ceremony. The legion’s camp prefect, its second in command, a taciturn, silver-haired veteran with a look of grim foreboding, slammed his fist into his chest armour in salute.
‘Gaius Quintus Naso, praefectus castrorum, welcomes you and places himself at your service. I only wish the circumstances were different. The tragic death of our—’
Valerius silenced him brusquely. ‘This isn’t the time for speeches, prefect. It’s been a long day. A little food, a cup of well-watered wine and a brief report of your situation and readiness will suffice.’
Naso flinched at the implied rebuke and his cheeks coloured, but he bowed his head. ‘If you will follow me, lord, I will direct you to your quarters.’ He led the way to the praetorium, the tented pavilion that doubled as the legate’s home and office on campaign. ‘We have left it precisely as it was when Legate Fronto had it.’ The words held a note of apology and Naso watched Valerius’s expression as the new legate’s eyes wandered over the erotic wall hangings of golden-skinned youths performing acrobatic sex acts. Four padded couches surrounded a low table with a silver gilt top. The only other furniture was a battered campaign table Valerius suspected Fronto had inherited from his predecessor. A sweet, musky scent hung in the air and the whole atmosphere felt unwholesome. Valerius pulled back the curtain that led to his sleeping quarters. Here the smell was even stronger. The room held an intricately carved wooden bed the breadth of a Tiber barge and piled high with quilted trappings. ‘Have that chopped up for firewood and get the carpenter to knock me up a simple double cot that can be constructed and dismantled in a few moments. Burn the bedding.’<
br />
‘Now, sir?’
‘Do you expect me to sleep on the floor?’
When they returned to the main room a slave was setting a jug of wine and a plate of food at the campaign table. Valerius suddenly remembered that all he’d eaten since he broke his fast was a piece of dried bread and a handful of olives. He dragged a bench across to the table, poured a cup of wine and picked up a whole chicken. ‘The dirty pictures can go, too,’ he told Naso, ripping off one of the bird’s legs.
The camp prefect bowed and left the tent. A few moments later six legionaries entered, led by a duplicarius and casting wary glances at Valerius. He waved them through to the bedroom and a muttered conversation followed before the duplicarius reappeared with a look of perplexed bemusement.
‘Firewood, lord?’
‘Yes and burn the bedding. And those.’ He waved the chicken’s thigh bone at the wall hangings. ‘Unless you’d like to keep them for yourself.’
‘Mars’ arse, no, sir.’ The man straightened. ‘Begging your lordship’s pardon. They’re not to my taste at all.’
He disappeared into the room again, reappearing a moment later whispering instructions to his men as they manoeuvred the big bed through the narrow doorway.
‘And duplicarius?’
‘Lord?’
Valerius nodded at the soldiers, who wore simple short-sleeved tunics. ‘Pass the word that while we’re on campaign I expect every man to wear his sword belt and pugio unless he’s sleeping or on the latrine.’
A moment of stunned silence followed before they marched the bed across to the entrance and pushed and pulled until they got it through. Naso returned as soon as the room was cleared. Valerius told him what he’d ordered. Naso looked uncertain.
‘Corbulo insisted on it,’ Valerius told him. ‘And if it was good enough for Corbulo, it’s good enough for me. Just because we’re in camp behind defensive walls doesn’t mean they won’t attack us. Now, tell me our status.’
‘Six cohorts of the Ninth,’ the camp prefect rapped out the figures, ‘nominally two thousand eight hundred and eighty heavy infantry, but with twelve men in hospital suffering ailments that keep them off duty, eight on leave, and twenty detached to guard the supply convoy that’s due in two days. It will bring us up to a twelve-day ration strength. Fifteen hundred auxiliary infantry and fifteen hundred cavalry, counting the ala you brought in tonight, but we’re short of remounts.’
‘I’ll try to change that. Did Legate Fronto brief you on the detail of our mission?’
‘The legate was of the opinion that not knowing what lay ahead kept you alert and wary, sir. I gathered that we were marching into the interior, presumably to pay the Celts back for wiping out the garrison at Canovium, but I was a bit surprised we didn’t have the Twentieth for company.’
Valerius shook his head. How could officers prepare a legion if they didn’t know what they were preparing it for? ‘You’re right. We march at dawn in four days, so spread the word and make sure every unit is prepared. I’ll give you the details tomorrow before I meet the officers. Join me to break fast at dawn. And arrange an interview with the primus pilus afterwards. What’s his name?’
‘Tertius.’ Naso almost spat the word. He hesitated. ‘As it happens he has already petitioned the new legate for a meeting. Legate Fronto …’
‘We have much to discuss tomorrow, prefect,’ Valerius confirmed with a grim smile. ‘It can wait till then. You can tell me when we inspect the defences at dawn. I’ll also want to see where the legate was found. And I’ll look over the legion’s accounts. Perhaps we should bring in my clerk to organize it all.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Naso’s relief was written plain on his stolid face. He’d clearly expected to be relieved of his position or demoted.
‘I have a question. Normally the legate would leave his praefectus castrorum in charge of the main camp. Why did he bring you with him?’
Naso hesitated before he replied. ‘Because he wanted me where he could keep an eye on me.’
Valerius nodded thoughtfully. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Have we any idea what happened to the money? Over the years Fronto must have stolen a small fortune.’
‘We don’t know for certain, sir, but we found those.’ He pointed to a pair of stout chests behind one of the couches. ‘They were hidden under his bed, but I thought it best not to open them until word came back from the governor.’
‘You did right, Naso.’ Valerius smiled. ‘That will be all.’
He watched the camp prefect go and took another sip of wine. A divided legion, a dead legate. And they weren’t even his biggest problem. Tabitha would arrive tomorrow.
Valerius began working through the sheets of parchment on his desk. Ration returns, supply dockets, they were short of at least a hundred mules, signatures were required for the pay lists. All written by clerks and centurions, but all the legate’s ultimate responsibility. A request to set up a temple to Mithras when they returned to Lindum, which Fronto, the fool, had turned down. The chief medicus was demanding another hundred water skins that didn’t exist. He sighed. Perhaps Tabitha wasn’t his biggest problem after all.
XXXIII
‘Tiberius Gabinius Tertius?’ Valerius kept his voice so cold it might have emerged from an open grave and Tertius, for all his twenty years’ service experience, had to clench his hands to stop them shaking.
‘Primus Pilus Tiberius …’
‘Just confirm your name, Tertius,’ Naso growled. ‘We will discuss your rank later.’
Valerius had chosen to deny Tertius the dignity of an interview in the headquarters pavilion. Instead Naso had summoned the senior centurion to a tent normally occupied by the legion’s ration clerks, close to the pig pens where the butchers were slaughtering hogs to be smoked or salted for the expedition. Tertius winced as the scream of another dying pig punctuated the conversation.
‘You are Tiberius Gabinius Tertius?’ Valerius repeated.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘I’m told you sought an interview with me. Why?’
‘I’d like to apply for a transfer, lord.’
Valerius picked up a stylus. ‘And your reasons?’
‘I’d rather not say, sir.’
‘Don’t waste my time, soldier,’ Valerius snapped. ‘Let me answer for you. Because if you stay here some legionary you’ve fleeced or beaten will cut out your liver one dark night.’
‘I only did—’
‘You’ll speak when I tell you to.’ Tertius’s mouth shut like a trap. ‘Do you want me to read the list of charges we already have against you? Extortion, bribery, fraud, assault, misuse of office, illegal disposal of military property …’
‘And we haven’t really got into our stride,’ Naso assured him.
‘By rights I should drag you before a military court and have you run the gauntlet of your comrades,’ Valerius continued. Tertius quailed at what was a certain death sentence. ‘But I don’t have time for that. Instead, you will provide me with a full account of your criminal activities in collusion with the late Legate Caristanius Fronto. I want the names of your accomplices and how much they were paid. Any man who was singled out for particular treatment and why. If you do so I will reluctantly put you on a horse back to Viroconium with a letter to Governor Agricola advising him to transfer you to the most remote legionary outpost he can think of. The Dacian frontier should do nicely.’
‘Not a name out of place,’ Naso added the warning. ‘Remember, we have most of it already. Begin.’
It came out in all its sordid detail, every little rotten trick in the corrupt centurions’ manual, and a few more besides: men fleeced for the slightest infraction, beaten if they complained, destroyed in mind or body by the men of the legate’s personal bodyguard if they persisted. The young soldiers dragged terrified to share the legate’s bed, sobbing like children when they emerged. As he spoke Tertius’s voice became increasingly brittle, as if he could feel the noose tightening around his neck. Valerius l
istened to the systematic destruction of his legion’s morale and would cheerfully have strangled Tertius with it.
‘I have two questions,’ Valerius said when the litany of shame ended. ‘Were any other senior officers involved in this dishonour?’
Tertius shot a desperate glance at Naso and a nerve in his cheek twitched. ‘No, lord.’
‘And I need the name, cohort and century of the boy who killed himself at Lindum.’
‘He was from the fourth century, Second cohort. His name was Julius something … Julius Noricus.’
‘All right.’ Valerius glanced at Naso, who nodded. ‘Wait outside, but don’t think of leaving the camp until you have my warrant for the governor.’
‘Well?’ he said when the centurion was gone.
‘I think he was telling the truth. What he said fits with what I know and what I’ve heard whispered. I’d like to see the bastard at the end of a rope.’
‘So would I, but I don’t want my command of this legion to begin with an execution.’
‘What will you do?’
‘About replacing him?’ Valerius tapped the table with the stylus. ‘I can’t promote any of the other cohort commanders; they’re up to their necks in it. I’ll ask Agricola to send us an experienced centurion. Fronto’s bodyguard I’ll transfer to the Twentieth with instructions to put them back in the ranks and in the front line when we cross to Mona. I’d like to get rid of the cohort commanders too, but I don’t see how we can do without them.’ He saw a shadow pass across the prefect’s face. ‘You disagree?’
‘I would advise you to cut out the rot completely, legate. Fronto may have been the instigator, but these are the officers who did the damage among the men. To the legionaries they are the physical manifestation of their troubles. Leave them where they are and they will think it’s business as usual.’
‘What would you advise?’
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