He strolled casually over to one of the tables, where two clerks were working diligently. Both were legionaries who had been assigned to the headquarters staff because they could read and write. Rarely would the legate’s staff be asked to fight, and it was a good thing, as their kind generally went soft after a few years of sedentary work. The physical requirements, though the same for every legionary, saw these men repeatedly excused from regular training and drill, something Karus despised.
He glanced down at one of the wax tablets that had just been placed aside. Reading it upside down, Karus saw it was an order to the legion’s cooks to prepare precooked rations. Interestingly, it detailed how much each man was to receive: four days’ worth of salted pork, a portion of dried beef, a measure of bacon fat, vinegar, salt, cheese, hardtack biscuits, and wine.
Hardtack biscuits were an unfortunate staple of a legionary’s life. Hardtack had the unique ability to remain unspoiled for quite some time and was the perfect wheat ration for extended marches. Despite that, Karus hated the biscuits, but had to admit when rations were short it beat starving. The biscuits were so hard that it was nearly impossible to chew without first soaking in some water or wine. A few years back, Karus accidently discovered another use for hardtack when he had once used an uncut block of the stuff to brain an enemy unconscious during a difficult moment. The incident was still the talk of the legion.
He glanced toward the closed door of the legate’s office and wondered what was going on. Had the legion received movement orders from the governor? Surely the campaign would not start so early in the year. The ground was only partially thawed, far from firm. It had only recently gone from being frozen solid to having a soft and wet top layer. This time of year, individual cohorts could easily move about if needed, but not the legion in its entirety. Any type of massed movement would prove problematic, as the local road network would hardly hold up under the strain. The only reliable roads were all legion-built, and those were far to the south.
“Can I help you, sir?” One of the clerks had looked up from his work. Karus glanced down on the clerk, who had flipped several tablets over so Karus could not read their contents.
“No,” Karus said curtly and stepped away. Something was definitely up, and it was likely the reason he had been summoned to headquarters right after the morning parade.
Well, Karus thought, he would just have to wait on the pleasure of the legate to learn more. He placed himself near one of the large braziers that had been set in the corners, providing the room its warmth. From the terrible smell, Karus recognized coal as the fuel source.
Coal was one of the truly rare commodities of value that Britannia had to offer. It provided more heat than wood, but was expensive. While the legate got coal, everyone else had to make do with peat, dried cow droppings, or wood.
Karus leaned his back against the wall and settled in to wait patiently, allowing the brazier to share some warmth. One lesson the legion taught every recruit was how to hurry up, and how to properly wait, for those seemed essential requirements for serving the emperor.
Just moments later the door to the legate’s office opened, and out stepped a Celtic noble, dressed in a rich fur cloak over a chainmail shirt. Karus blinked in surprise. He knew most of the local nobles. All of them were arrogant, though some had adopted Roman ways, including dress. This one he had never met.
The Celt, a man in his late twenties, was tall and heavily muscled. He looked every part the barbarian, complete with gold jewelry, tattoos, and long black hair tied off in a single braid. He had the way of a born fighter.
The man spared Karus a disdainful glance as he retrieved his sword from one of the guards by the door. The Celt slipped the long sword’s scabbard over a shoulder before turning away and stepping through the door, leaving the legion’s headquarters behind.
“Is Centurion Karus here yet?” The legate’s high-pitched voice reached out from his office. One of the clerks scurried from his desk to the door.
“He is, sir.” The clerk turned and hurriedly motioned for Karus.
“Well, man, just don’t stand there. Send him in.”
Karus was already moving before the clerk could say anything further. He stepped through the door into the legate’s office. It was a large room, easily five times the size of Karus’s own personal quarters. A table had been placed near the back wall and served as the legate’s desk. Several large trunks lined the walls. As the legate had his own personal quarters, these, Karus assumed, were for important papers. Another smaller table with two chairs had been placed off to Karus’s left. Two braziers, burning coal, smoked lazily at the sides of the desk, providing a modicum of heat and a mildly nauseating smell in the closed room. The small windows were shuttered to keep the cold out.
Wrapped up in a heavy blue cloak, the legate was seated behind the desk. He was a slight man, and the cloak hung awkwardly on his bony frame. Papers, scrolls, and wax tablets were scattered haphazardly across the table. The legate was bent over a small map, studying it intently.
Julionus reminded Karus of a bird. The man had a large hooked nose, similar in shape to a beak. His eating habits had only reinforced that impression. Karus and several of the other senior centurions had recently been invited to dine with Julionus. The legate had the most annoying habit of picking through his food with his index finger and thumb until he found a choice morsel that he judged worthy enough to consume. It was a delicate gesture, but oddly reminded Karus of how a crow picked at the flesh of the dead, looking for the tastiest portion.
Karus marched toward the table. He straightened into a position of attention and saluted.
“Centurion Karus reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Close the bloody door,” the legate roared around Karus at the clerks and then bent back down to his examination of the map. There was the sound of hasty footsteps behind Karus, and then the door scraped closed. Karus remained at attention. After a moment, the legate looked up and straightened.
“Stand at ease.”
Karus relaxed a fraction. The legate was still relatively new to the legion. Karus did not know the man well enough to take any liberties, lest he offend his new boss. Vellius Rufus Julionus commanded the legion in the emperor’s name. His word was law.
Karus’s eyes took in the map, which detailed the region north of the Ninth’s garrison. No matter what official maps claimed, just a handful of miles farther to the north, imperial authority, and civilization as Rome knew it, came to an abrupt end. And whether they desired it or not, the legions were here to pacify the tribes and bring civilization to the island the Celts here called home.
“You want the job of camp prefect?”
Karus blinked, considered his reply for a fraction of a second, and then gave a mental shrug. Honesty was in order.
“I do, sir.”
“You feel you have earned it?” There was a scheming look in the legate’s eyes.
“I do, sir.” Karus wondered where this line of questioning was going. He kept his face a mask.
The legate considered Karus for a long moment, saying nothing further. Julionus had access to his military record. There was no need to recount his battle honors and justify his fitness for the position. Besides, he was primus pilus of First Cohort. Only one who had repeatedly distinguished himself could ever hope to attain such a prestigious and coveted position.
“We don’t fully know each other yet,” the legate said. “I have read over your service history, but it tells me little about the man himself.”
Karus refrained from frowning. The service record, in his opinion, told much.
“What would you like to know, sir?”
“I would not dream of putting you on the spot.” The legate studied him for another long moment. Karus was becoming irritated. Julionus was playing a game with him. For what purpose Karus could not fathom, so he waited.
“Your service to me will tell me everything I wish to know,” the legate finally said. “Effective immediat
ely, you are promoted to ‘acting camp prefect.’ You will handle this additional duty along with your current responsibilities, those of leading First Cohort. This will continue at least long enough for me to determine a suitable replacement for the First.”
Karus blinked, at first unsure he had heard the legate clearly. He almost asked for clarification, but bit his tongue as he struggled to contain his rage. There should be nothing “acting” about the position. By rights it should be his. He swallowed and cleared his throat.
“Thank you, sir,” Karus said, doing his best to keep the anger from his tone.
“Good, good. I see you are moved by my magnanimous gesture.” The legate gave him a smile that smacked of insincerity. “In a month’s time, after we have worked together under some trying conditions, I hope to make your appointment permanent.”
“Yes, sir.” Then what the legate said registered. The fighting season was at least two months off. Something was definitely up, and he was about to find out what. Despite his rage, Karus leaned forward slightly, eager to learn more.
“Karus, an opportunity has presented itself.” The legate’s eyes fairly shone with excitement. “The Caledonian tribes are gathering just to the north of us, here in this valley.” The legate pointed to the map on the table.
Karus leaned over to examine the spot where the legate was pointing. The location was uncomfortably close to Eboracum. The terrain in that area was extremely rugged, with rolling, misty hills. Karus had led a few patrols through those same hills. There were two large villages in that valley and another just beyond.
Though not yet imperial territory, the previous legate had found it was best to show Roman strength by marching a cohort or two through the valley on a regular basis. In fact, that very same valley had claimed the entirety of Sixth Cohort over the winter. The legion had learned of the Sixth’s fate when they found the heads of the officers mounted on wooden stakes before the gates of the garrison.
Tarbo’s death, coupled with the loss of an entire cohort, had been a body blow to the men of the legion. Morale had been low ever since, and it had not picked up with the arrival of the new legate. Karus knew in time it would recover, but he found he was increasingly tempted to submit his retirement request despite his desire to achieve the most coveted position a ranker could reach, that of camp prefect. He sensed the day fast approaching when he would finally put the life of the army behind him.
Karus looked back up at the legate. He had lost more than a few friends in that ambush and wanted some payback.
“They intend to launch an attack against us here, before the campaign season begins. I understand they hope to catch us before the might of the governor’s army can assemble,” the legate said.
“I would be shocked if they could overcome the walls of the garrison,” Karus said matter-of-factly. “Our enemy fights better in the field than against fortified positions. Courage is no substitute for technical knowhow and discipline.”
“Agreed,” the legate said with a nod. “That is my thinking as well.”
“Besides,” Karus continued, “attacking us here won’t help them.”
“What do you mean?” A frown line creased the legate’s brow, and he cocked his head to the side.
“Well, sir, they could easily enough besiege us,” Karus said, thinking it obvious but working carefully to keep it from his tone. “There is plenty of loot to be had in the town outside the walls. However, our supply depots would allow us to hold out for some time. Once the ground hardens, the governor will bring up the rest of the army to lift the siege. They won’t stand a chance and will ultimately be forced to flee back to their mountains with little gain to show for their efforts.”
“Yes, exactly,” the legate said with a snap of his fingers. “That is why we must strike first.”
Karus blinked in surprise.
“Strike them first, sir?”
“Yes,” the legate said, full of the excitement of the moment. “That is the brilliance of my plan. You see, we strike them before they are ready and have fully assembled. By doing so, and smashing what forces they have gathered, we can scatter them to the winds before they can move against us. That way, when the governor brings up the army, the summer campaign will have a much easier time of it, courtesy of the Ninth, of course.”
Karus thought it through, and was silent as he did so. After a moment, he noticed the legate looking at him with an odd expression and realized he had been frowning.
Karus, like most of the legion, wanted payback for the Sixth. The only problem was that Karus felt anything but excitement at Julionus’s plan. In fact, he felt dread at the thought of taking the field so early, and without any ready support. The Celts knew those misty hills and mountains far better than the Romans.
“Sorry, sir,” Karus said neutrally. “I was just thinking it through.”
“Yes, well,” the legate said, looking down at the map again, before glancing back up. “It is a rather bold and audacious plan, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Karus said, and then a thought occurred to him. The legate was new to the legion. He was the authority in the region. He determined when, and where, the legion moved. However, surely even he would not act without the governor’s direct orders. Had he even consulted the governor? Karus considered how best to approach the matter.
After a moment, Karus continued. “Sir, I am sure the governor will bless your plan.”
“He will,” Julionus said, glancing back down at the map. “Once I have won my victory.”
“You have not informed the governor?” Karus was so surprised that the words spilled from his mouth before his brain could catch up.
“There is no time for that,” the legate snapped, clearly irritated that Karus had questioned him.
Karus said nothing. Julionus was new to Britannia and was clearly looking to make a name for himself back in Rome. It was an old story, and a dangerous combination.
“If we don’t march immediately,” the legate said, visibly calming himself, “the opportunity will be lost. Waiting for word from the governor will take too long. Karus, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Even Tribune Saturninus recognizes it. Surely you can see that we must do this?”
“Sir,” Karus said, and gestured at the map. “I feel it only prudent to point out the ground is not yet firm enough for the entire legion to march. The roads to the north are poor and in short order will be reduced to mud. We will be unable to cover ground quickly. At best, we will be moving at a snail’s pace. If that occurs, and I expect it to, the element of surprise will be lost. We know the enemy has spies in the town. They will get wind of our intentions the moment we march through the gates, if not before. Once we get into those hills, that ground up there is rugged, hard, and difficult. It is their ground, sir, not ours. They will be waiting. They will have the advantage.”
“I have intelligence that they have only managed to gather a few thousand warriors so far,” Julionus said. “Regardless of whether they know we are coming or not, we should easily outnumber them.”
“What if the intelligence is wrong, sir?”
“They are barbarians,” the legate countered with a heavy breath.
“Who wiped out Sixth Cohort this winter, in that very same valley. They may be undisciplined barbarians who wouldn’t know how to use a latrine if instructed in advance, but that does not make them any less dangerous. And, sir, they are incredibly dangerous.”
The legate’s look hardened. Karus realized that he had gone too far.
“Do you fear the enemy?” Julionus asked, a contemptuous expression crossing his face.
Karus resented the implication. “No, sir. But I do have a healthy respect for them.”
“They are nothing but uneducated and illiterate barbarians,” the legate said. “I have studied them extensively and met with their representatives, including their nobles. My intelligence sources are unimpeachable. We are prepared, and they are not. All it will take is one quick lightning strike to
the north. They will not expect such a bold move, before the traditional coming of the campaign season. There is no way they can stand against the might of this legion, especially with me in command.” Julionus paused for a breath. “You may not know it, but back in Rome I am considered something of a tactician.”
Karus could not believe what he was hearing. The legate had no military experience that he was aware of. The man had not even served as a junior tribune. Rumor had it Julionus’s connections, and a hefty bribe, had secured him his current post. Thoughts of Sicily came to mind. Karus considered for a moment submitting his resignation.
Would the legate even accept it?
His thoughts hardened. Karus loved the Ninth. The legion was his home, and she was going into danger—mortal danger, if Karus was correct. How could he abandon her now?
“Did you know that the emperor is on his way to the island?” the legate said.
“Hadrian is coming here, sir?”
“It is not widely known yet, but indeed he is.” The legate picked a cup off of the table and sloshed the contents around a moment before taking a liberal sip. “Before I left Rome, barely three months ago, he told me himself.” The legate paused. “I fully intend to present him with a victory. You, Centurion Karus, will help me deliver that victory.”
“Yes, sir,” Karus said stiffly. The legate saw only the glory of a victory, the adoration of Rome, and further advancement waiting within his grasp; perhaps that even included the purple toga. Julionus would not be the first legate to crave the emperor’s chair. He was gambling with the legion and their lives on a fool’s errand, and Karus did not know how to stop it.
“I have no doubt we will bring the enemy to battle,” Julionus said, a fervent look in his eyes. “I have had the omens read. They are auspicious for a victory. The gods are on our side.”
Karus said nothing.
“Have no fear. We shall prevail.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door opened, and both men turned.
Lost Legio IX: The Karus Saga Page 4