Julius nodded, looking at his superior with a new-found respect.
‘Yes, sir. Crystal clear. Of course I’ll have to discuss this with my brother officers. It’s our tradition, sir.’
Scaurus smiled again, slapping the big man on the shoulder and then reaching over for the first spear’s sword, putting the weapon into Julius’s reverentially extended hands.
‘I know that your tradition says that the cohort’s first spear must be chosen by a gathering of the officers, and whilst I could override that convention I don’t really see the need to do so, since I fully expect your brother officers to be as clear-headed on the matter as I am. And until that decision is made I am ordering you to assume the duties of the role on a temporary basis. Carry on, First Spear.’
The Tungrian centurions were unusually subdued as they gathered after the parade at which they’d witnessed the crucifixion of Caninus and his cronies, despite the thoroughness with which imperial justice had been administered. Whilst a barely conscious Caninus had, as expected, succumbed to asphyxiation within minutes, unable to use his shattered legs to relieve the pressure on his chest, both Petrus and Tornach had showed every sign of facing protracted deaths, despite both having been soundly scourged before being nailed into position. In perfect silence the assembled men of the three cohorts had listened to their helpless cries for mercy as they had writhed on their crosses to either side of Caninus’s inert corpse, both men panting in pain and terror as the enormity of imperial justice bore down upon them. The chained and shackled line of freshly branded slaves, the only remnant of the bandit army, had filed past the crucified men in silence, their overseers punishing any sound from the shuffling men with swift strokes of their whips. It had been, the officers of the Tungrian cohort agreed, sound punishment swiftly delivered to men that deserved nothing less. Their acting first spear had ordered a gathering of his officers once their men were back in barracks, and he now stood in the middle of his colleagues with a neutral expression, waiting until the last of them was holding a cup of wine.
‘Brothers, our first duty is to pay our respects to First Spear Sextus Frontinius in the time-honoured manner. Raise your cups.’ He waited in silence until every man had his cup in the air. ‘To Uncle Sextus! The best damned first spear I ever served under, and taken from us before his time was due! Sextus Frontinius!’ He drained his cup, looking around him as his brother officers echoed his toast and did the same. ‘Before we leave this city I’ll have an altar to his name built into the grain store wall, to mark the place where he fell.’
He stood for a moment as the other centurions nodded their agreement. Frontinius’s body had been burned the previous evening, his funeral pyre saluted by a march past of both Tungrian cohorts and a deputation from the legion cohort led by a temporarily abashed Belletor, but an altar was the accepted way for a revered officer who fell in battle to be honoured by his men, and Julius knew there would be no shortage of donations to pay for the mason’s careful work.
‘But now, my brothers, we have important business to discuss. The matter of First Spear Fontinius’s replacement requires discussion. Whilst the tribune has nominated me, I don’t—’
A deep rumbling voice interrupted him.
‘We all know it has to be you, Julius. We don’t need to vote on the subject.’
‘Titus—’
Julius got no further with his reply, as Otho shook his head and interrupted him again.
‘It’s you, Julius. We all feel the same way. Now get on with it before I’m forced to beat some common sense into you.’
Julius saw that all seven centurions gathered around him were nodding agreement.
‘Even you, Dubnus? You’ve been heard to voice the opinion that I wasn’t fit to command a legion century, never mind one formed of real fighting men.’
Dubnus grinned back at him.
‘That was before, when I was carrying the pole and pushing soldiers around for you, before I got the chance to serve alongside you. You’ll do.’
Marcus raised a hand.
‘If I might comment, brother?’
Julius raised his eyebrows and looked up at the ceiling with a smile.
‘If only I’d seen Morban and placed money on a lecture from our only properly educated brother I might very shortly be a good deal richer. Go on, Marcus, but keep it quick.’
His friend returned the smile.
‘Your brothers are all expressing the blindingly obvious, Julius. It has to be you. Dubnus, Caelius and I are too wet behind the ears . . .’ The older centurions all nodded vigorously. ‘Otho, Milo and Clodius are too solid between the ears . . .’ He ignored the good-natured grumbling that greeted the opinion and pressed on. ‘And Titus . . .?’
The massive centurion turned to face him, bending slightly to look him in the face, his eyebrow raised.
‘Yes, little brother? Are there ears involved?’
Marcus kept a commendably straight face.
‘Titus is simply too terrifying a prospect for any of us. After all, he is rumoured to collect ears . . .’
The big man nodded knowingly, while the men around him muttered their apparent disgust at his evident failure to take offence, as Marcus continued.
‘You were First Spear Frontinius’s chosen replacement were he to fall in battle, and there’s not one of us will go against his judgement in making this decision.’
Julius looked around his fellow centurions one last time, and to Marcus’s eye his face took on an expression that was almost pleading.
‘You’re all sure?’
‘For fuck’s sake, man, accept the sword so that we can have a bloody drink!’
Bowing to the ever irascible Clodius, Julius nodded.
‘Agreed, brother Badger. But before we pour the wine again and celebrate our fallen brother’s achievements in life, we have an empty slot to fill within this brotherhood. I will move to command the First Century, as is expected of me, which leaves the Fifth in need of a centurion. And in response to that need, my decision is this. Acting Centurion Qadir will assume command of the Ninth Century, and Centurion Corvus will move to command the Fifth. And look after them properly, you young pup, I’m genuinely quite fond of one or two of them.’
Heads nodded around the circle.
‘And now, I think it’s time to drink the rest of that rather tasty Gaulish wine that Petrus sold us back when he was just a merchant.’
Wine was poured, and the officers fell to talking amongst themselves. Marcus watched in silence as his new superior walked across to the barrack window and stared out at the city’s east gate, before slowly walking across to join him.
‘For a man who’s just reached the pinnacle of his career, you’re not the happiest soldier I’ve ever seen.’
Julius replied without taking his eyes off the gate’s massive timbers, his eyes shining in the daylight streaming in through the window.
‘I don’t know if I can do it, Marcus. Fifteen years I’ve wanted this, and now that I have it . . .’
Marcus patted his shoulder.
‘Your life has changed in more ways than you could have expected. You’ve seen more fighting in a year than most men see in twenty-five; you’ve had friends killed and wounded; then, just when you take on the biggest, most unforgiving job of your life, you have a woman to care for, one you thought you’d never see again.’ He waited in silence until Julius sighed, nodding his agreement. ‘In which case I’ll remind you of a conversation we had in the bathhouse a few days ago. You told me that family was my main responsibility, and I’ll turn that advice back on you. Except this cohort is your family and, like it or not, you’re now our father. Why else do you think we all deferred so readily to your taking the sword? These men will go through torture for you, they will stand and die with you when all else is lost, but they need you to lead them, and to give them the certainty that we will always come through whatever shit we’re thrown into. And if your woman doesn’t understand that then she’s not as astut
e as I make her out to be. So take a moment to get a smile back on your face and join your brothers, First Spear. To remind you of your own words, do it for them, if not for me.’
Julius smiled quietly back at him, took a deep breath and turned back to the room with his cup raised for a refill.
‘Fair advice, Centurion. Just don’t start treating me any differently. And make sure that Dubnus learns to stop stealing my . . .’ He paused, looking around the room. ‘Where is Dubnus? He was here just a minute . . .’ He looked about him again, his face hardening with sudden understanding. ‘Bugger, Dubnus! Where’s my bloody vine stick!?’
HISTORICAL NOTE
By now regular readers of the Empire series will understand why I’ve chosen this period in which to set my stories. In all honesty my first impulse to the late second century was a simple one – there was a handy revolt in Britannia which saw a Roman general dead and the north of the province in uproar, which suited my intended plot very nicely – but further reading soon opened my eyes to the possibilities in a period when the conflict was pretty much non-stop between 182 and 211 AD. Add to that:
the climactic year 193 AD, the ‘year of the five emperors’ (take that, 69 AD with your miserable four rulers);
a protracted and bloody civil war fought between three characters we’ll soon be getting to know as they start their climb up the ladder of imperial power on their way to the top;
the fabulous (unless of course you took part in it) two-day battle of Lugdunum in 197 AD;
a string of campaigns fought around the empire by Septimius Severus from then until 211 AD;
and the bitter emnity between Severus’s sons as they grow to maturity.
So, you can see that Marcus Valerius Aquila (no reference to The Eagle of the Ninth intended) is going to see a lot of action over the next twenty-five years of history, and not all of it on the winning side.
So, how do we find the empire in early 183 AD? In a pretty ropey state, all things considered. Many commentators put the start of the rot firmly on the shoulders of the young emperor Commodus, whose accession to power on the death of his father Marcus Aurelius in 180 AD and prompt abandonment of the wars with the northern German tribes set the scene for a slump in Roman fortunes, as so vividly portrayed in the film Gladiator. This was the point at which the era of the ‘five wise emperors’ (Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius) came to an end, and the principle of nominating the best man to take the throne was replaced by the hereditary principle which, as so often proves to be the case, was doomed to fail. And yet in truth the seeds of disaster had been sown fifteen years before, when soldiers returning from a campaign in the east mounted by Marcus Aurelius’s co-emperor Lucius Verus brought what is believed to have been smallpox back into the empire.
The Antonine Plague ravaged the empire, killing one in every four people infected and as many as a third of the population in some parts of the empire. It also took a heavy toll on the army. Fast forward to 183 AD, and we find the army on the Rhenus (Rhine) not only still weak from the plague and the long Marcomannic wars, fought by Marcus Aurelius to keep the German tribes from occupying the northern provinces that bordered the barrier rivers of the Rhine and the Danube, but additionally weakened by another event. Earlier in the decade, as related in the first book in this series, Wounds of Honour, serious losses had been suffered in Britannia as the result of a native uprising. If the island province was to be held it would have to be reinforced with men from the Rhine, further weakening the army on the northern frontier. Men were sent west to Britannia, and the Rhine legions were forced to soldier on with even fewer men.
Throw in a growing number of latrones – soldiers, escaped slaves and simple men on the make who were turning in ever greater numbers to banditry across northern Europe as their only means of survival – and it can be seen that the empire’s northern frontier was in a state of flux. This is the stage on which the fictional events depicted in The Leopard Sword play out, the invented story strongly based on documented historical fact.
THE CULT OF MITHRAS
The Raven was the lowest grade, and would have served as doorman of the temple. St Augustine tells us that at the ritual feast he wore a raven head-mask and wings, and in the Santa Prisca murals he also wears a dark red tunic. His symbols were a caduceus and a cup, and he was under the protection of Mercury.
The Bridegroom was the second grade. He was the initiate vowed to the cult. A damaged Ostian fresco shows a bridegroom wearing a short yellow tunic with red bands and carrying a red cloth in his hands. The Santa Prisca Bridegroom, also damaged, wears a yellow veil and carries a lamp in his veiled hands. The grade was under the protection of the goddess Venus and its symbols were a lamp and a veil.
The third grade was the Soldier of Mithras, and we know a little of his initiation. The initiate had to kneel, naked and blindfolded, and was offered a crown on the point of a sword. He was crowned, but was immediately ordered to remove the object and place it on his shoulder, saying that Mithras was his divine crown. By this act he became a Soldier of Mithras and in memory of his vow he could never again receive coronation. His symbols were a quiver of arrows and a kit-bag, and he was under the protection of Mars.
These three grades comprised the lower orders of the cult.
The Lion was the first of the senior grades. Initiates are described as growling like Lions, and the Konjic relief shows one wearing a leonine head-dress. The Lion had his hands washed and his tongue anointed with honey and after this (in Mithraic ritual at least) he could not touch water, for he had entered the grade which symbolised the element of fire. The grade was under the protection of Jupiter and at least one of its duties was to attend the sacred altar-flame. Its symbols were a thunderbolt, a fire-shovel and a sistrum, or Egyptian metal rattle much used in the Mystery cults.
The fifth grade was that of the Persian, who was also purified with honey. The symbols of the grade were ears of corn and a sickle, and it was under the protection of the Moon.
The second highest grade was that of Runner of the Sun. The initiates of this grade imitated the Sun at the ritual banquet, sitting next to Mithras himself (the Father). The patron god of the grade was the Sun.
The highest grade of all was that of Father (Pater). He was Mithras’ earthly counterpart and responsible for the teaching, discipline and ordering of the congregation which he led. His symbols were a Persian cap, a patera or libation dish, a sickle-like sword and his staff of office. He was under the protection of Saturn.
If you want to know more about Mithraism I would recommend Mithras and his Temples on the Wall by Charles Daniels, one of the books I consulted in the process of researching Mithraism, and perhaps the most accessible.
THE ROMAN ARMY IN 182 AD
By the late second century, the point at which the Empire series begins, the Imperial Roman Army had long since evolved into a stable organization with a stable modus operandi. Thirty or so legions (there’s still some debate about the 9th Legion’s fate), each with an official strength of 5,500 legionaries, formed the army’s 165,000-man heavy infantry backbone, while 360 or so auxiliary cohorts (each of them the equivalent of a 600-man infantry battalion) provided another 217,000 soldiers for the empire’s defence.
Positioned mainly in the empire’s border provinces, these forces performed two main tasks. Whilst ostensibly providing a strong means of defence against external attack, their role was just as much about maintaining Roman rule in the most challenging of the empire’s subject territories. It was no coincidence that the troublesome provinces of Britain and Dacia were deemed to require 60 and 44 auxiliary cohorts respectively, almost a quarter of the total available. It should be noted, however, that whilst their overall strategic task was the same, the terms under the two halves of the army served were quite different.
The legions, the primary Roman military unit for conducting warfare at the operational or theatre level, had been in existence since early in the Republic, hundreds o
f years before. They were composed mainly of close-order heavy infantry, well-drilled and highly motivated, recruited on a professional basis and, critically to an understanding of their place in Roman society, manned by soldiers who were Roman citizens. The jobless poor were thus provided with a route to both citizenship and a valuable trade, since service with the legions was as much about construction – fortresses, roads, and even major defensive works such as Hadrian’s Wall – as destruction. Vitally for the maintenance of the empire’s borders, this attractiveness of service made a large standing field army a possibility, and allowed for both the control and defence of the conquered territories.
By this point in the Britannia’s history three legions were positioned to control the restive peoples both beyond and behind the province’s borders. These were the 2nd, based in South Wales, the 20th, watching North Wales, and the 6th, positioned to the east of the Pennine range and ready to respond to any trouble on the northern frontier. Each of these legions was commanded by a legatus, an experienced man of senatorial rank deemed worthy of the responsibility and appointed by the emperor. The command structure beneath the legatus was a delicate balance, combining the requirement for training and advancing Rome’s young aristocrats for their future roles with the necessity for the legion to be led into battle by experienced and hardened officers.
Directly beneath the legatus were a half dozen or so military tribunes, one of them a young man of the senatorial class called the broad stripe tribune after the broad senatorial stripe on his tunic. This relatively inexperienced man – it would have been his first official position – acted as the legion’s second-in-command, despite being a relatively tender age when compared with the men around him. The remainder of the military tribunes were narrow stripes, men of the equestrian class who usually already had some command experience under their belts from leading an auxiliary cohort. Intriguingly, since the more experienced narrow-stripe tribunes effectively reported to the broad stripe, such a reversal of the usual military conventions around fitness for command must have made for some interesting man-management situations. The legion’s third in command was the camp prefect, an older and more experienced soldier, usually a former centurion deemed worthy of one last role in the legion’s service before retirement, usually for one year. He would by necessity have been a steady hand, operating as the voice of experience in advising the legion’s senior officers as to the realities of warfare and the management of the legion’s soldiers.
The Leopard Sword Page 40