Hero of Rome trt-1

by Douglas Jackson

  Gwlym studied the group around the fire. Most of them were too old or too young to be truly useful in a fight. But not too old or too young to hate or too old or too young to die. The old remembered the days before the Romans came, when any man with a shield and a spear was his own master. The young knew nothing beyond the boundaries of the little settlement but their minds were open to his subtle arguments and persuasion. He talked of life before the Romans: before the roads and the watchtowers and the cavalry patrols, and before the taxes which guaranteed that no matter how good the harvest their bellies would still be empty before winter’s end. He talked of the countless thousands marched off in chains to be worked to death in Roman mines, of the lands that had been stolen from them, and, to a growl of approval, of mighty Caratacus betrayed and brought low before being degraded for an emperor’s pleasure. By the end, their eyes blazed as bright as the flames of the council fire, and the young men — those few who could be forged into warriors fit to face a legion — clamoured for the weapons they needed to take their revenge.

  They wanted to act now, but the time was not yet right. This was the art they had taught him on Mona. How to tend the fire and keep the flame burning until the moment it was needed. He looked at the faces round the fire again, seeking the man who would continue the work when he moved on. Not the chief; too many years at the plough and too ready to sacrifice himself and his people. No, he needed someone more subtle, more obedient. The quiet, dark-haired peasant three rows back. Young, but not too young. Watchful, intelligent eyes; determined, but not over-eager. Yes. He would talk to him later, alone.

  ‘Wait,’ he ordered. ‘Have patience. Organize. There will be a sign.’

  And always they asked: what will be the sign?

  And always he told them: the wrath of Andraste.

  His mission had almost ended before it had begun, in the savage mountains of the Deceangli, for he could not risk contact with the people there lest word of his coming reach the Romans. Close to starvation, he had turned south and crossed into the country of the Cornovii just north of the Roman fortress at Viroconium, beyond the bend of the great river. There, he had forced himself to wait until he was beyond range of the daily cavalry patrols before begging food and shelter at a rough farmstead. Under the thatched roof, with the cattle lowing gently in the background, he had listened while the farmer, a man more used to conversing with his beasts, recounted news and rumour from a dozen miles around. Only when the tone and the manner had told him what he needed to know did he begin to talk.

  The first farmer had passed him to another, and another, and from there he had reached the local lord, who told him of other lords of similar persuasion, with similar complaints and similar ambitions. He would arrive at a farm or a village after nightfall, gather those he could trust, and talk until it was time to sleep. The following day he would spend at the plough or the whetstone or gathering in the harvest. He used his skills as a healer to foster trust and to bind them to him, even though it placed his life in danger. Tales of a medicine man would spread and multiply where those of an itinerant farm labourer working for bread and beer would soon be forgotten. He was always at risk, but he was never betrayed.

  By now he realized others followed the same path. Quite often he would arrive at a household to discover he had been preceded by another of his sect. No one said so aloud, but he could see it in the puzzled eyes, and in the answers they gave to his questions. All over southern Britain men like him were spreading a message: fanning the embers of an almost forgotten fire.

  IX

  Valerius spent his first few days in Colonia drawing up work schedules with Julius and directing squads of legionaries out into the network of roads around Colonia to identify the areas which required immediate attention and those which were less of a priority. Julius presented a local quarry-master with a warrant for the supply of the materials they would need and Valerius set himself the task of providing the wagons required to carry them. Which took him back to Lucullus.

  The Trinovante welcomed him effusively to his office in the centre of town, apologizing for the humbleness of his surroundings. ‘Of course, I carry out most of my business at the temple or the baths, like a true Roman,’ he said.

  When Valerius explained the reason for his visit, Lucullus was delighted to be of service. He asked for information on the quantities of material to be hauled and the distances they had to be carried and swiftly calculated the number of wagons needed and the teams of oxen to pull them. ‘You will need spare teams, of course. No point in having a wagon lying idle just because an ox needs to be rested.’ He named a price, a time and a place for delivery and Valerius presented his warrant. He noted that the figure Lucullus wrote down bore no relation to the one he had just given.

  ‘Now,’ the Briton said. ‘Do not think I have forgotten my invitation. I am holding a gathering a week today. Just a few people whose company I enjoy. I think you would find it interesting and perhaps illuminating. Would the fourth hour after noon be acceptable?’

  Valerius agreed that it would, then asked the question that had been on his mind since he entered the room. ‘And is your family well?’

  Lucullus’s face darkened. ‘Families are like taxes, a trial to be tolerated. A son, perhaps, I could have guided. His father’s success would have provided him with a path to follow. But I have no son. A daughter?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Of course, you have no children yourself?’

  Valerius smiled at the unlikely thought. ‘I am not married.’

  ‘Then you are doubly welcome.’

  When he returned to the cohort headquarters, Julius reminded him that the following day was Saturday, when he had agreed to watch the Colonia militia being exercised by Falco. Valerius grimaced. It had seemed a reasonable request at the time, but now there were so many other things requiring his attention. Still, it was a duty he couldn’t avoid, not least out of respect for Falco.

  They gathered on the flat ground between the broken remnants of the city walls and the river to practise close-order drill and arms. Two thousand men, once the elite core of the legions of Rome, with battle honours that stretched from Scythia to the Silurian mountains.

  ‘Jupiter save us, will you look at them,’ grunted Lunaris, who had accompanied Valerius as part of his twelve-man escort. ‘Not one of them is under fifty. I’m surprised they could find their weapons, never mind use them.’

  It was true there were few who appeared to own a full set of armour. Most had lost some piece of equipment since they last took the field almost a decade earlier: a breastplate, a helmet, a set of greaves. In those years they had grown used to the life of the farmer, the trader and the small-town politician, and nothing could disguise it. They were a mixture of the pot-bellied and the scrawny, the snowy-haired and the bald. Some of them hung heavy with the fat of success, others were bent by years of labour. They had one thing in common. They were old men.

  But as Valerius watched from the top of the slope he realized his first impression had been flawed. There were other things that united them. What armour they did have and the weapons they carried were well cared for, no matter their antiquity. And although they were old, they were still legionaries: the barked commands were as familiar to Valerius and his men as the call to break fast, and it was apparent in every manoeuvre the veterans carried out. They moved from line to square to wedge, and from defence to attack, with the practised ease of a lifetime’s experience. Every man knew his place, every shield and every sword was positioned exactly where it should be, and Valerius felt the pride rise in him as it always did when he witnessed professional soldiers at work.

  He saw Falco, who he guessed wore the same ancient uniform as his men out of choice not necessity, watching him, and the wine merchant gave an order to the officer at his side. The legionaries came together smoothly into their centuries and in a single swift movement each of the eighty-man formations transformed into the unbreakable armoured carapace that was familiar to every Roman soldier
.

  ‘They’d give you a run for your money forming testudo, Lunaris.’

  The big man grinned. ‘I doubt they’d want to run for anything these days, sir.’

  Valerius grinned back, but a warning in the legionary’s eyes told him Falco was approaching. He turned and saluted the militia’s Primus Pilus. ‘I congratulate you on a fine display of arms, sir. Your militia does you great credit.’

  Falco smiled his thanks. ‘Only two afternoons a week, but we work hard — those of us who attend regularly, at least — and there are some things you never forget. It becomes more difficult with every passing year, and we grow fewer, but most regard it as a sacred trust. Claudius gave us a home and a living and we will serve him to the grave.’ The words would have been falsely sentimental coming from another man, but from Falco they were a simple statement of fact. ‘Come, take a closer look at them.’ He lowered his voice, so that Lunaris and the escort wouldn’t hear. ‘I confess they have made an extra effort for you. We do not normally shine quite so brightly.’

  They marched down to where the militia now waited in their silent lines facing the fortress. The exercise ground stretched away behind them, broad and flat, to the riverbank where Colonia’s main bridge carried the north road across to the long slope on the far side.

  A single shout brought the militia to attention and Valerius followed Falco along the ranks. The lined faces beneath the helmets were pink-cheeked and sweat-slick and shoulders heaved from the earlier exertions, but the veterans straightened their backs and sucked in their bellies behind their shields and Valerius’s stare was met by a hard-eyed confidence he hadn’t expected to see. They might be farmers and shopkeepers now, but they would never forget what they had been.

  It took an hour to complete the inspection, Valerius murmuring compliments where they were due and Falco following behind tutting at some minor fault only he could see. When they were done, to Valerius’s surprise, the militia commander called out twelve of his men by name to line up in front of the formation.

  ‘Would you like to try them out?’ Falco invited. ‘A dozen of yours against a dozen of mine?’

  Valerius opened his mouth to refuse, for these were old men and his escort was the pick of the Twentieth legion, but there was a challenge in Falco’s eyes and in his voice and Valerius — though it had occasionally cost him dearly — had never turned down a challenge. Only now did he notice that the men Falco had chosen were among the biggest and fittest on parade, and that they included Corvinus, the goldsmith, who was attempting to stifle a grin. Perhaps it wasn’t the mismatch he’d thought.

  ‘What do you think, Lunaris? A gentle workout?’

  ‘Wouldn’t like to hurt these old gentlemen, sir,’ the duplicarius said.

  ‘Chicken more likely.’ It was an old soldier’s trick to talk without moving the lips but Valerius thought the stage whisper probably came from Corvinus.

  Lunaris’s eyes narrowed and he grinned and ran his eye along the line of older men. ‘Maybe just a gentle workout, then. But I’m not carrying them up the hill when we’re done.’ He drew his sword and tested it ostentatiously with his thumb.

  ‘Oh, no swords,’ Falco said hurriedly. ‘We don’t want your fellows being hurt. A simple exercise of shield against shield.’ He heard Lunaris’s snort of derision. ‘Well, perhaps practice swords, then.’ A practice sword was a replica gladius made of hardwood. It had no edge or point, but it weighed twice the real thing and was perfectly capable of cracking bone or denting skull.

  Lunaris and the men of the escort accepted shields from the closest century and practice swords were issued to each of the twelve men in the two lines, who stood directly opposite each other. The younger legionaries bristled with confidence and joked to one another, while the veterans waited calmly, conserving their energy. Cries of encouragement rang out from the rear ranks of the massed militia formation. Valerius cast a warning glance at Lunaris; he had a feeling this contest might not be as straightforward as it appeared.

  ‘An amphora of my best wine on the outcome, tribune?’ Falco suggested innocently. Now Valerius was certain he’d been lured into a trap. But Lunaris and the escort were veterans in their own right; surely they had nothing to fear from these pensioners. Falco saw him hesitate. ‘At cost price, of course.’

  Valerius nodded. ‘Of course.’ Something told him he was unlikely to get a chance to taste Falco’s finest tonight.

  Falco positioned himself at the end of the gap between the two lines. ‘When you are ready… attack.’

  It should have been so simple. Lunaris kept his shield hard against his neighbour’s and could feel the pressure as the man to his left did the same to his own. He kept his head low and his left shoulder tight to the rear of the shield boss, the sword ready in his right hand to dart between the shields when the chance came. He knew it wouldn’t come at once, because this wasn’t a fight against barbarians who could be depended on to expose themselves to the sting of the gladius, but he was sure it would come eventually. The twelve legionaries were younger, stronger and fitter than the men facing them. It would be a shoving match, but a shoving match they would win. And when they won he intended to take his revenge against the old bastard who had called him a chicken. ‘Keep the line tight,’ he shouted as the two walls of shields were about to meet. ‘ Now. ’

  The younger men rammed their shields forward, square on to the enemy, using brute strength to hammer the veterans backwards with the almighty crash of two galleys colliding. Except the veterans didn’t go backwards. The wall of shields rippled as they absorbed the power of the attack, but the line held, and no matter how hard Lunaris pushed he couldn’t budge the man in front of him. After a minute of intense effort he allowed himself to relax just a fraction.

  ‘Don’t get too comfortable there, sonny. We don’t want to be here all day.’ It was the same voice that had insulted him earlier, infuriatingly calm and unflustered from behind the shield in front of him. He grunted and put all his strength into pushing again.

  ‘Don’t worry, Granddad. You’ll soon get all the rest you want. A long, long rest.’

  Similar confrontations were taking place along the entire shield line, and Lunaris could feel the puzzlement in the younger men. He heard Messor, so slim that his tent-mates had nicknamed him ‘Pipefish’, but with a wiry strength that belied his slight frame, cursing under his breath, and Paulus, the First’s signifer, handing out useless advice. Still, it would be all over soon. They were trained to keep this up all day and these old men would soon tire.

  But something strange was happening. The angle of the shield facing him kept subtly changing and it became difficult to maintain the force against it. First to the left, then to the right, top and bottom, but to no set pattern and never for long enough for him to take advantage of it. He tried to analyse what was happening but instinct and training told him to hold his ground and maintain the pressure where he could.

  ‘Heave, lads, we’ll soon have them.’ His shout was echoed by grunts as the legionaries used all their frustration to increase the pressure on the men in front of them. Lunaris felt a slight change, and he knew he’d won. Only he hadn’t. The shield in front of him disappeared and he found himself sprawled on his back at the far side of the veterans’ shield wall with a wooden sword at his throat and a grinning, swarthy face in his. ‘Soon have who, sonny?’ Corvinus asked conversationally.

  The veterans’ ploy had been repeated by every second man along the line, and the contest collapsed in disarray with men struggling and wrestling with each other.

  ‘Enough!’ Falco shouted. He turned, grinning, to Valerius. ‘An honourable tie, I think.’

  Valerius nodded and watched as Corvinus helped Lunaris to his feet.

  ‘You wouldn’t have got away with that in a proper fight,’ the duplicarius said evenly. He knew he’d been tricked, but better to be tricked on the training ground than on some heathen battlefield.

  ‘That’s right. We wouldn’t,’ Cor
vinus agreed. ‘But it wasn’t a proper fight. You fashion your tactics to beat whatever’s facing you.’

  ‘You’re good,’ Lunaris admitted. ‘For your age.’ He held out his hand.

  Corvinus studied him suspiciously before gripping Lunaris by the forearm. ‘If we weren’t good we wouldn’t be here. Every man you see survived twenty-five years in the legion. Twenty-five years means as many battles and twice as many pointless skirmishes that are even more likely to kill you. Twenty-five years of blood and sweat and seeing your tent-mate dying by inches with his liver in his lap, and twenty-five years of dozy patrician officers like him who don’t know what they’re doing.’

  Lunaris followed his gaze towards Valerius. ‘Oh, no. Not like him. Not like him at all.’

  X

  Two days before the dinner at Lucullus’s villa, Valerius visited the daily market beside Colonia’s Forum. It was here the local farmers brought their surplus and the craftsmen who plied their trade in the workshops on the hill to the west of the town came to sell their wares. Out of curiosity he had walked up the hill and found a bustling place of sparks and smoke, curious metallic smells and the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers. Among them he found Corvinus, which surprised him, for this was a place of artisans and the goldsmith now counted among Colonia’s elite. But the Twentieth’s former armourer explained: ‘I have my shop in Colonia, but our charter doesn’t allow manufacture within the walls.’ He pointed to a nearby smith’s glowing forge. ‘Too much risk of fire. The things I sell have to be made somewhere, so I set up my workshop here. I have slaves, of course, but I keep my hand in, and I do the special commissions myself.’