Lost Legio IX: The Karus Saga

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “As I said, Saturninus hopes the legate is right,” Karus said with a heavy breath. “I have had multiple talks with him about this to no avail. He is no military man. He can’t see the trouble we are marching into.”

  “Then there is nothing to be done?”

  “Not until we contact the enemy in some strength,” Karus said. “Hopefully the legate will then see some sense and pull us back to Eboracum.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Felix shook his head.

  “That is why you must keep your men as ready as possible,” Karus said. “We have no idea where the main body of the enemy is. They could be on us with little, if any, warning.”

  “Surely our cavalry will spot them first,” Felix said. “Valens is out there, and if anyone can find the enemy, he can.”

  “We can only hope,” Karus said. “Be ready for anything.”

  “I will.” Felix turned his gaze down the slope at the men struggling through the mud. “My boys are already worn. A few more days of this and the legion will be blown.”

  Karus only nodded. He had figured as much himself.

  The two men were silent for a while, each lost to their own thoughts. Fourth Cohort gave way to the Fifth, who had been assigned the supply train, along with the Ninth. Long lines of mules led by weary guides came first, then the carts and wagons. After a time, a cart became stuck beneath them, the mud and mire seeming to cement it in place. No matter what the teamster did, the cart remained immovable.

  Centurion Veran Flaccus, the senior centurion of the Fifth, strode up and lent a hand, along with a dozen other legionaries working to free the cart. They heaved and pulled as the teamster vainly cracked the whip, attempting to get the mules moving. The cart stubbornly refused to budge. After several tries, the wagon abruptly lurched forward, wheels rolling only a few turns before the right wheel splashed into a large pothole and sank deeply. The mules came to a halt. The cart was once again stuck fast.

  Flaccus, screaming invectives and oaths at the driver, led the legionaries forward. Karus realized this group of legionaries had been ensuring that this particular cart kept moving. He looked back down the line and saw similar scenes. Between each cart and wagon marched a small contingent of legionaries whose job it was to provide security and ensure their charges kept moving. Karus well understood it was hard and exhausting work, but it had to be done. Behind the train, somewhere toward the end of the column, came the camp followers and the legion’s rearguard, perhaps three miles distant. Karus wondered how they were faring.

  He took a deep breath. There were women and children there, along with whores, an assortment of merchants, and skilled labor. They were a headache the legion did not need. They required protection, which strung out the line of march farther than it needed to be and, in Karus’s opinion, threatened the safety of the legion.

  The cart below them was eventually pushed and pulled out of the pothole. Incredibly, it trundled on with no more difficulty, wheels kicking up flecks of mud. Flaccus and his men rested, breathing heavily as they watched the near miracle with surprise.

  “Keep up the good work!” Felix called down to Flaccus, who looked up in surprise at the two officers.

  “Gods, I hate Britannia,” Flaccus called back, having caught his breath. “Karus, tell me how I get transferred out of this shitty province. A warmer climate would be good, I think.”

  The men with Flaccus laughed, which Karus realized was what the centurion had intended. Morale was low, and Flaccus was doing what any good centurion would—working to keep spirits up, even at his own expense.

  “Just as soon as this leisurely march north is over, I will put in your transfer to Syria,” Karus called back, getting into the spirit of things. “I understand the garrison there is always in need of good officers.”

  Instead of replying, Flaccus just looked up at Karus and Felix with a flat expression.

  Karus knew that Flaccus had served in Syria and hated it.

  “I think … ” Flaccus said after a heavy pause, with a wry look at his men, “I will stick it out with the mud and Celts, thank you very much.”

  “Very sensible of you,” Felix called down to him as Flaccus and his men started moving again. Flaccus waved a hand back in reply.

  Felix watched a moment before he turned to Karus. “If you will excuse me, I will return to my men before they get too far ahead.”

  Karus nodded. Felix bent down and picked up his marching yoke. He started down the hill, passing a legionary who was working his way up toward Karus.

  “Sir.” The legionary saluted. “Beg to report Centurion Frontinus has another cart with a broken axle. He says there is no repairing it.”

  Karus closed his eyes and shook his head. That was the third cart they had lost today.

  “Have him transfer the supplies as best he can to his men, the other carts, and any mules that can stand to handle additional weight. Anything that can’t be taken with us is to be destroyed. Nothing of value is to be left behind. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” The legionary saluted and made off back down the hill. Frontinus led Ninth Cohort, whose place in the march was just behind Flaccus’s Fifth.

  Movement caught Karus’s attention. In the distance to the east, he could once again see the enemy’s mounted scouts. This time they were on a large round hilltop about a mile and a half away. With no sign of any of the legion’s cavalry, the Celts were simply watching the legion slowly snake its way north.

  Karus wondered for a moment where Valens’s cavalry was, and then realized it mattered little. They knew this land far better than the Romans. With ease, the enemy scouts had been evading most of the patrols. Karus glanced to the north where the head of the column was out of view, having wended its way around yet another hill.

  “How will you get out of this one, old boy?” Karus asked himself, and then started back down the hill to rejoin the column of march.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Karus glanced around at the senior centurions of the legion and the prefects from the auxiliary cohorts gathered around him in a rough semicircle. The sun had yet to rise, and an early morning frost lay heavily on the ground. The camp where the legion had spent the night was rapidly being broken down in preparation for the day’s march. Within the next hour, the Ninth would be on the move once again, leaving the remnants of the night’s fortified marching encampment behind as the mark of their passing.

  “Eighth Cohort will lead today,” Karus announced, his breath steaming in the bone-numbing cold. His leg ached abominably, and he massaged it as he talked. “The Ninth will have the rearguard.”

  Frontinus groaned in an exaggerated manner. “Karus, we will be up to our waists before noon.”

  “It’s just your turn to play in the mud, that’s all,” Karus told him.

  “If you can call it that.”

  The trek had been so difficult that Karus had begun rotating the order of march after the first few days. The lucky cohort at the head had it the easiest, as the ground had yet to become churned up into a sucking, glutinous quagmire. Those at the rear were not so lucky. Since the legate had delegated this duty to him, Karus felt it was only fair that all the cohorts shared in the misery, and so the rotation had begun.

  “The Eighth thanks you,” Centurion Fadenus Artunus said with a wink over to Frontinus.

  “Second in line will be the Seventh, Sixth, Fifth, and so forth,” Karus continued. “First will guard the supply train, along with the Second.”

  Dio nodded his understanding.

  “Tenth will provide security for the camp followers. Any questions on that?”

  He waited a few moments for questions. There were none.

  Karus looked around at the centurions. All of them were battle-hardened veterans he had known for years. They were solid men whom Karus felt could be relied upon to do their duty under the most trying circumstances. In the early morning gloom, he could easily read the wea
riness and the strain etched upon their faces. The march, two weeks in, was wearing everyone down, including the officers, who worked the hardest.

  “The First Nervorium and Second Vasconum Cohorts will provide skirmishers along the left flank of the line of march; the Fourth Delmatarum and Raetorum Cohorts will handle the right.”

  Karus looked up at the prefects in question. All four allied cohorts were light infantry, perfectly suited to the task that Karus had assigned them. More importantly, they were all veteran formations.

  “As usual, the cavalry will provide a screen beyond our skirmishers. Unfortunately, due to increasing contact with the enemy, we will not risk sending them farther afield than a mile from our lines.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Prefect Valens drawled. “Those barbarians audacious enough to hop onto a horse are no match for my boys. We’ve not been licked yet.”

  Though he was bone weary, Karus shot an amused look at Valens. The prefect and his cavalry seemed to be the only ones enjoying themselves. Then again, Valens only enjoyed himself when the opportunity to kill Celts presented itself.

  “Nevertheless, you shall wander no farther than a mile,” Karus said firmly. “The legate left strict orders for you to stay close and within easy contact. He also said to tell you he will likely have orders for you around midday, consolidating your cohort. I have no idea what he has in mind, so be ready for that.”

  “What of my scouts?” Valens asked.

  Karus sensed that if he gave too much, the prefect would take advantage of the situation. Karus was in no mood to play games.

  “Send out no more than ten scouts,” Karus said. “I want no reconnaissance in force, if you understand my meaning. You do, don’t you?”

  “I do.” Valens actually looked crestfallen.

  “And you are not to personally join the scouts,” Karus added as an afterthought.

  Valens had the grace to frown in disappointment. “I wish the legate would free me and my boys,” he said. “We’ve been held too close to the column to do much, if any, good. Free us, and we will sweep those hills of the enemy’s eyes.”

  “I have no doubt you would,” Karus said. However, in truth he did harbor doubts. From all indications, the enemy was preparing something. The last thing the legion needed was for the entire cavalry wing to go haring off after a group of enemy horsemen on a fool’s errand.

  “Karus,” Flaccus spoke up. “My boys were roughly handled yesterday.”

  Karus nodded. The legate had dispatched the Fifth after a small body of enemy infantry that had come near enough to be spotted by the cavalry scouts. Expecting to outnumber the enemy, Flaccus had run into a well-executed ambush, sprung by a superior force.

  Valens had pulled Flaccus’s bacon out of the fire by concentrating much of his cavalry and rescuing the Fifth, turning the tables on the enemy. Karus was confident Flaccus’s cohort would have been annihilated had the cavalry not relieved them. As it was, Valens had arrived none too soon, and it had been a close thing at that.

  “We will move your wounded back to Eboracum when the opportunity presents itself,” Karus said, hoping to sidestep Flaccus. He well knew the senior centurion of the Fifth was hopping mad. Last evening, Flaccus had unloaded on him about it. Karus had hoped Flaccus had just needed to vent, but from the man’s thunderous expression …

  “That’s not going to happen,” Flaccus snapped, and everyone present straightened up. “The last two resupply runs meant to refill our train never arrived. Without them, we can’t send our wounded back now, can we?”

  “Calm yourself, Flaccus,” Varno, the senior centurion of the Seventh, said. “They are likely fighting their way through the mud, just as we have done. Sooner or later they will catch up.”

  Karus caught Valens’s eye. Three days ago, the legate had ordered two cavalry squadrons to go and find the missing resupply trains. The squadrons had returned with the news that both trains had been ambushed, and destroyed. The legate had subsequently ordered Karus, Valens, and the men of the squadrons not to breathe a word of the misfortune.

  “I will not remain silent,” Flaccus said with heat. He glared at the other centurions. “This country is crawling with enemy. Any chance of surprising the bastards has passed us by. I tell you, we are marching toward disaster.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence as several of the centurions shifted uncomfortably. Though many had expressed their concerns in private to Karus, none had dared say so publicly. Such things, amongst a legion’s senior officers, just did not happen. Flaccus was straying onto dangerous ground, and everyone present knew it.

  “Flaccus,” Dio said carefully, “we have our orders.”

  “Our orders?” Flaccus spat. “When was the last time we went over to the offensive before the ground was firm? Or, for that matter, marched off to campaign early, and without support?”

  An uncomfortable silence greeted those words.

  “I wonder,” Flaccus hissed, “if the governor even blessed this ill-conceived expedition.”

  “Flaccus,” Karus said firmly. The salty old centurion turned his angry gaze back to Karus. No matter how much Karus agreed with him, he was well out of line. It was not his place to question the legate. “That is enough.”

  Flaccus took a deep breath, and for just a moment Karus was concerned he might press the issue, but then conceded and bowed his head. Thankfully Flaccus remained silent, his hands clenching and unclenching.

  “Right,” Karus said. “I think it is fairly obvious we are in hostile country and that the enemy has something planned for us. I need all of you to stay ready and sharp.” Karus paused, allowing that to sink in. He then clapped both hands together. “Very good. Now, let’s get the legion moving.”

  The officers broke up. Karus watched them go, and then noticed that Flaccus had hung back. The other centurion drew nearer.

  “Karus,” Flaccus said. “I bet—”

  “It is not our place to question the legate,” Karus interrupted in a hard tone.

  However, Flaccus was too enraged to take heed of the warning. “This entire expedition has been ill-conceived, ill-planned, and poorly executed from the very start.”

  “We have our orders.”

  “Even if it leads us to defeat and disaster?”

  “Even then.”

  “I lost over a hundred men yesterday with another thirty-two wounded,” Flaccus said, his voice catching slightly. The tough old veteran’s shoulders sagged, and a heavy breath escaped that almost sounded part sob.

  “I know.” Karus had read the casualty reports the night before. The Fifth was lucky they had returned at all.

  “Good boys.” Flaccus glanced down before looking back up, an intense look in his eyes. “They should not be used in such a way.”

  Karus sympathized deeply with the other centurion. If Karus’s own cohort had been so callously dispatched into a hostile wilderness, he would be just as bitter. But there was nothing he could do.

  “My boys should not have been used in such a way,” Flaccus said again, shaking his head slightly.

  “What are you saying?”

  Flaccus locked eyes with Karus.

  “The legate is a fool. We should do something before it is too late. Before he gets us all killed.”

  Karus sucked in a startled breath, wishing he had never asked the question.

  “You are talking … ” Karus stopped, cleared his throat uncomfortably, and then began again. “You are talking mutiny.”

  Flaccus said nothing and stared intently at his immediate superior. Both had served together for a number of years, and though they were not the best of friends, each respected the other.

  “Karus, it would be crim—”

  “I will pretend I did not hear that,” Karus interrupted him, his own voice sounding harsh.

  “Mark my words, Karus, this will not end well.”

  “For our years of shared service, I will also pretend I did not hear that,” Karus said. “Say any m
ore and you will force my hand.”

  Flaccus stiffened and held Karus’s gaze, anger burning in his eyes.

  “I need to see to my men,” Flaccus said finally. He glared at Karus for another long moment, then turned away and stomped angrily off.

  Karus watched him go and then, with a heavy feeling in his chest, made for his own cohort to check on their progress. As he was the acting camp prefect, his responsibilities had multiplied, especially since he had not been relieved of the command of First Cohort. It was time he checked in on his own.

  When he arrived at the spot allotted to the First, Karus was pleased to find that the tents had been broken down. They had been loaded onto the mules assigned to his cohort. The men were now gathering their gear and kit. A few centuries had already begun to fall in.

  “Pammon,” Karus greeted the centurion of Second Century. Next to Karus, Pammon was the most senior centurion in the legion.

  “Karus,” Pammon said, turning to see his boss striding over to him. “About time you joined us. If I did not know better, I would think you had been loafing.”

  Pammon was a small, muscular man with a confident manner that bespoke a tough, no-nonsense attitude. He had sharp brown eyes that seemed to miss nothing. His hair, cropped short, had long ago turned prematurely gray. Pammon’s nose had been broken several times, and it showed the damage.

  Whenever duty called him elsewhere, Karus leaned heavily on the centurion of Second Century to fill in for him and command the cohort. So far, Pammon had done an excellent job of it. If the legate ever got around to making Karus’s position as camp prefect permanent, Pammon would most likely replace him as senior centurion of the First. He was a good man, and Karus liked the tough old salt.

  “How many on the sick list today?”

  “Thirty-two new,” Pammon said, checking a small wax tablet in his hand. “That makes sixty now.”

  “Not good,” Karus said. The cold and wet conditions were taking their toll on his men. Across the entire legion, the number of sick was now in the hundreds. It had become so acute that supplies had to be abandoned and destroyed to make room on the wagons and carts for those too ill to march.