Lost Legio IX: The Karus Saga

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Ah,” the legate said in a delighted tone. “Tribune Saturninus, I am so pleased you could join us.”

  The tribune had arrived with Julionus. He was young, in his twenties, and handsome. The tribune had a ready smile and wore an expensive, thick fur robe over his tunic. He was no different than many of the other tribunes who came to serve with the legion—rich, powerful, and well-connected. For Saturninus, serving with the Ninth was a stepping stone to public office or higher military command.

  “It is I who am pleased, sir,” Saturninus said. A clerk closed the door behind him. “Why, Karus, my favorite centurion, it is good to see you.”

  “Sir,” Karus said neutrally. Since the first moment he had met Saturninus, the tribune had been nothing but friendly to him. That worried Karus, for Saturninus was clearly a player of politics, and such games were dangerous. Roman patricians rarely played nicely with each other. When their politics became violent, bystanders frequently suffered in their stead.

  “I trust I have not missed anything?” Saturninus turned back to the legate.

  “No, no,” the legate said, waving a negligent hand. “It is nothing we did not cover last evening. I’ve just explained my plan to the centurion.”

  “And what do you think, Karus?”

  “It is a bold plan, sir,” Karus said, and Saturninus turned his gaze on Karus, regarding him curiously. He was half tempted to bring up his objections again, but common sense intervened. He remained silent.

  “Yes, well,” Julionus said, “I do have a talent for strategy.”

  The legate went to a side table, where there was a fine ceramic pitcher, and poured some wine into two cups. He then walked back and handed one to Karus and the other to Saturninus before picking his own back up from the desk.

  “A toast, to our success and victory.” The legate held up his cup and drank deeply. Karus hesitated a moment before taking a sip of the fine wine the legate had provided. He found it tasted like ash but, not being one to ever waste any type of wine, forced it down with a single gulp. The legate took back the cup with a disapproving expression.

  Saturninus sipped his own. “A very fine vintage, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Julionus said, looking down at his own cup. “Sentinum is my favorite wine. I brought it with me all the way from Rome.”

  “Sentinum, really?” Saturninus took another sip and appeared to savor it. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to spare me some? Good-quality wine is hard to come by on this miserable island.”

  The legate looked uncomfortable with the idea, and then caught Karus’s eye. He flashed another insincere smile Karus’s way.

  “Fear not, Centurion,” the legate said, returning the cup to the table with the pitcher. “I have planned everything out. We even have the benefit of local guides to show us the way. Between the legion and my overstrength auxiliary cohorts, we will have over thirteen thousand highly trained men. With such a powerful force at my command, the enemy cannot hope to stop us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Karus said. He wanted to object, but it was not his place. The legate had made up his mind. Karus, no matter how much he disagreed, was bound to support Julionus in his mad fantasy.

  “Serve me well, and when we return, the position of camp prefect will be yours,” the legate continued.

  “Thank you, sir,” Karus said, almost biting the words out. If we return, he wanted to say.

  “Very good,” the legate said, seemingly pleased with himself. “I will have orders issued within the next few hours. We march in two days.”

  Two days? Karus was rocked by this news. His mind raced over all that would need to be done. Supplies had to be drawn from the depots. The legion’s train had to be put together and packed. That alone usually took a week of careful planning, supervision, and work, especially after a long winter with little activity. Not to mention the time needed to check equipment and ensure that anything found deficient was repaired or replaced. There were a million things that needed doing, and with his new responsibilities, much of that would fall on his shoulders.

  “Now, I am sure you have a lot to do,” the legate said with another smile that Karus felt had been intended to reassure. It had the opposite effect. “You are dismissed.”

  Karus drew himself back up to a position of attention and saluted crisply. The legate did not bother to return his salute, but had turned back to his map and his fantasies. Karus eyed Julionus for a long second, then turned on his heel and left the office, remembering to close the door behind him. Before he closed the door, he saw Saturninus, cup in hand, walking over toward the fine ceramic pitcher.

  Karus passed the clerks, barely noting their frenetic activity, and stepped out of the headquarters and into the street. The chill snap of the wind was a shock, yet Karus paid the cold no mind. He glanced around and saw Dio waiting for him just a few feet away. The other centurion had been leaning casually against the cracked, plastered wall of the headquarters building, flipping a silver coin into the air. A brown cat nosed its way around Dio’s feet, rubbing itself on one of his legs before walking off. Clearly his friend was hoping for a scrap of news.

  “That bad?” Dio pushed himself off the wall and approached with a trace of a lopsided grin. He rolled the coin absently over his knuckles. “You look like your pay was just docked.”

  “He promoted me to ‘acting camp prefect’,” Karus said. “And we march in two days.”

  “What?” Karus could see Dio was genuinely shocked at this news. “Is there trouble to the south?”

  “No,” Karus said and gestured in the direction the legion would be going. “We march north.”

  Dio was silent as he absorbed this new information. “In two days? The entire legion?”

  “Yes,” Karus said unhappily, and began making his way back toward his quarters. Dio fell in beside him, looking as troubled as Karus felt.

  Karus’s mind raced as they walked. He had to get not only his own cohort as ready as possible, but the entire legion. Just thinking over all that needed to be accomplished in the limited amount of time available made him weary.

  “It’s going to be a nightmare,” Dio said. “The ground is far from firm. Add a few thousand sandals, carts, horses, and hooves … it will be a bloody quagmire. We won’t be moving anywhere fast.”

  “I know,” Karus said.

  “Does the legate understand that?”

  “I did my best to convey my concerns,” Karus said. He was unhappy with himself for not being more assertive. However, he also realized that had he done so, the position of camp prefect would have gone to someone else. At the very least, the position was his, even if it was only in an “acting” capacity. As camp prefect, in the days ahead he might be able to do some good. Perhaps he might even be able to mitigate some of the potential disaster that he felt was in store for the legion.

  “Are we to have any support?”

  Karus stopped and looked over at his friend. There was genuine concern in the other centurion’s eyes.

  “No,” Karus said heavily. “We will be on our own, with only our auxiliary cohorts.”

  “Madness,” Dio whispered.

  “Nevertheless,” Karus broke eye contact, turned away, and started moving again. “Those are our orders.”

  Dio did not follow.

  Karus took a deep breath of the cold bitter air as he walked. He resolved to make an appropriate sacrifice to the gods. If he did right by them, hopefully they would do right by him. A little fortune, he reasoned, might just come in handy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Very impressive,” Saturninus said amidst the solid crunch of many sandals.

  “Yes, sir,” Karus said, and in truth he agreed. They were standing just beyond the outskirts of Eboracum, alongside the main road that ran north. They were so close you could still smell the strong stench of habitation, piss, and shit mixed with smoke. The sun had just come up, and yet it was still bitterly cold.

  The legion was marching one formation at a time o
ut of the town and into the countryside. Hundreds of civilians had turned out to watch the spectacle. They cheered as each cohort, standards held proudly to the front, emerged from the tightly grouped buildings that had grown up around the garrison.

  Children scampered about in excitement. They ran along in packs or marched next to the legionaries, pretending to be small soldiers. Others, in a more wretched condition, begged shamelessly for food or coin. Most were ignored. One who got too close received a swift kick from an irritated optio, which propelled the urchin face first to the ground. Picking himself up, he quickly gave the marching column some distance. All in all, it was nothing Karus had not seen before. Still, Karus reflected as his eyes roved over the scene, it was impressive.

  First cohort had already passed them by, along with Second and Third. Fourth was coming out now, Felix at the cohort’s head. No words were exchanged, but he saluted Saturninus and Karus. Each century behind him was arranged in neat, ordered blocks, the centurions in turn offering a salute as they passed.

  As the men streamed by in ordered ranks, they shouldered their heavy marching yokes, which included a small pack filled with a few meager personal possessions, a saw and/or an entrenching tool, and haversacks stuffed with precooked rations. Most of their equipment was carried on the shoulder and tied or strapped to the yoke. This included cooking utensils and implements, canteens filled with either water or wine, a cloak, and a rolled up gray woolen blanket. Each also carried a stake intended for the fortified encampment that would be constructed at the end of the day’s march. Shields in their protective canvas covering had been strapped to their backs. Combined with their armor, it was an incredibly heavy load, and Karus could feel the vibration of their steady tramp through his sandals.

  Karus admired the discipline and precision. It was one of the reasons he loved the legion. All worked toward a common, unified goal: service to the empire. Eyes stayed fixed to the front as Felix’s legionaries moved by, dressing tight with ranks close-ordered. Yet, just a few miles into the countryside, the marching order would be relaxed, as it always was when not on parade. The spacing for each unit would stretch out, giving the men a little bit of leg room for the long miles ahead. The men would be permitted to remove their heavy helmets. These would hang by ties from their necks. Talking would also be permitted to help pass the monotony of the march.

  “The majesty of Rome is before us,” Saturninus said in a tone that was both wistful and tinged with awe. “I love it so, and am proud to be part of it.”

  Karus glanced up at the dark and menacing clouds that hovered above. “That majesty is about to get rained upon.”

  Saturninus, loosely holding the reins of his horse, turned to Karus and frowned. The tribune, in his ornate armor, cut a striking figure in the early morning light. “Your mood is rather black this morning.”

  “Is it?”

  Saturninus barked out a laugh. “Why, Karus, I do so enjoy your company. You could try a little harder at being more optimistic though. It is all about attitude, and you of all people should understand Fortuna notices such things.”

  Karus grunted and turned his gaze upon the Fourth.

  “I wonder, were you out late celebrating with the low-hanging fruits of civilization?” Saturninus shot him a wink. “I certainly hope you were, as it will be the last you see for some weeks.” Saturninus chuckled at his own joke and swung his eyes along the ramshackle buildings. “Civilization, if only Eboracum could be called that. What a shit hole.”

  “What was that about attitude, sir?”

  Saturninus chuckled again, then sobered. “Seriously, Karus, what is it? Did you drink too much last night?”

  “No,” Karus said, letting out a long breath. “I was not out drinking. There was too much that needed doing.”

  “Then what ails you this fine morning?” Saturninus actually seemed perplexed. “After a long, hard winter, I would think you would be more than eager to march out after Rome’s enemies.”

  “The ground,” Karus said.

  “What about it?” Saturninus glanced down at the dirt beneath their feet. They were standing on the edge of a farmer’s field. Behind them, the remains of last year’s crops rotted.

  “It’s wet.”

  “So?” Saturninus said. “It usually is at this time of year, especially here in the north. Gods, Karus, the snows only just melted. You should be happy we’re not marching through two to three feet of frozen white.”

  “That’s my point.” Karus used a sandal and moved some of the dirt aside at his feet. It was wet, almost muddy. He scraped some more away until he reached a semi-solid layer. “A few inches down and the soil is still partially frozen. Add a little rain, thousands of feet, and this road before us will become a gods awful mess.”

  Saturninus glanced down again and then over at the legionaries marching by. He was silent for several long moments.

  “Well,” Saturninus said, “it’s just a bit of mud. It can’t be all that bad.”

  “A few miles to the north,” Karus said, “that road becomes little more than a dirt track. I tell you, it will not hold up. If we are lucky, our advance will slow to a crawl.”

  “You think so, truly?” Saturninus turned skeptical eyes upon Karus. “Perhaps the road will surprise you.”

  “I only wish it were so,” Karus said. “I told the legate as much.”

  Saturninus turned a surprised expression on Karus and barked out a laugh. “You really don’t want to be camp prefect, do you?”

  Karus was about to respond when the crowd cheered loudly and drew their attention. The legate was riding out from the town, several of his junior tribunes—most mere boys, spoiled brats of Rome’s elite—riding just behind him. This was their first taste of military service.

  The spectating crowd erupted again in a great cheer at the sight of Julionus, as they had the legion’s Eagle some time before. The Eagle had already marched past with the First and was now out of view and likely some miles ahead.

  Julionus was clearly enjoying the moment and waved back as he rode the length of the crowd, which shouted even louder. He slowed his horse and seemed to be savoring the moment, almost as if he were riding at the head of a triumph back in Rome. These days, only the emperor and his close family were permitted triumphs. Successful military commanders were instead awarded ovations, a lesser, more humbler form of a triumph.

  Having reached the end of the crowd, Julionus spotted Karus and Saturninus along the roadside. He nudged his horse into a speedier gait and steered the animal in their direction. Karus stiffened to attention and gave a salute. Saturninus offered a lazy salute that the legate did not seem to mind.

  “Ah, Saturninus,” Julionus said in a pleased tone, “and Karus. A glorious sendoff, don’t you think? A perfect start to my campaign.”

  “Quite,” Saturninus said. “Only what you deserve, sir.”

  “True, true,” the legate said absently, his horse sidestepping nervously as the crowd cheered again, at what Karus could not tell. Julionus glanced around at the men marching by. “We shall earn it though. There will be hard going ahead, including, I fear, bitter fighting. Still, we will shatter those uneducated barbarians to the north and win a great victory for Rome.”

  “The senate and emperor,” Saturninus said, “surely will honor your tactical acumen with an ovation.”

  That brought a smile to Julionus’s lips. “Ride with me, would you, Tribune? I would value your counsel on the coming campaign.”

  Saturninus mounted up as the legate turned his horse and nudged the animal ahead with his heels. He spared a curt nod to Karus. Julionus’s party followed, like dogs after their master before the hunt.

  “Cheer up, Karus,” Saturninus said in a confident tone as he nudged his horse into a walk. “Even if it does rain on us and we have to fight through a little mud, the legate knows what he’s doing.”

  “Aye, sir,” Karus said with mixed feelings. “I am sure he does.”

  Saturninus frowned
at that, but said nothing further as he turned away and followed after the legate.

  Hands curling into fists, Karus watched the tribune ride off. His anger flared at the legate’s recklessness. This entire expedition was a mistake, and yet there was absolutely nothing that could be done to stop it. The only thing Karus could do was do his duty and be ready for whatever came his way. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Karus relaxed his hands.

  The last centuries of the Fourth had exited the town. A party of locals rode by next, working their way around the Fourth’s trailing century and out into the field. One spared Karus a look as they clopped close by. These were the local guides the legate had spoken about. He was sure of it.

  Karus recognized the noble he had seen in headquarters. The man looked just as disdainful, hostile even, but Karus got the impression he was being studied intently. Karus returned the other’s gaze with equanimity and held it. After a few moments, the Celtic noble’s eyes softened and he gave a nod that was almost respectful. Then the party was past.

  Idly wondering what that was about, Karus glanced back at Eboracum. Shortly the Fifth would exit the town and then the newly reconstituted Sixth, whose job it was to escort the supply and baggage train. After these would come the camp followers and then the remainder of the legion’s cohorts. The auxiliaries would come last. Karus took a deep breath of the cold air and let it out in a long stream that steamed. He then started forward after the Fourth, picking up his pace to catch up with the line of march and Felix. There were long miles ahead and he felt it would be good to start them with an old friend.

  Karus glanced once again up at the low hanging clouds and then at the first of the misty hills in the distance. He wondered what was in store for his beloved Ninth, other than a miserable and difficult muddy march.

  Karus scratched an itch on his chin as he drew a foot out of the sucking morass of mud that had once been a dirt track. Both of his legs were thoroughly caked up to the knees. The Celts called this a road, but having had a hand in the construction of a fair number over his long career, Karus knew better. It was little more than a dirt trail that cut through the stunted grass and scrub.