by Jack Whyte
As those camps had grown over the years, though, becoming permanent settlements with huts and roofed buildings, then growing into forts, then fortresses and garrisoned towns, the original encampments had been rebuilt and greatly expanded, many of them multiple times, as decades turned into centuries. The basic rectangular plan had been retained, but the earthen walls and wooden buildings had gradually been replaced by stone, and the principal interior accommodations had become far more spacious and more imposing, with the praesidium now occupying as much space as was required for the garrison’s headquarters, and the quartermaster’s department, the quaestorium, located directly to the rear of that and always securely guarded and heavily protected.
The contents of the three wagons Cato’s men had brought would go directly to the quartermaster’s, but not before Cato had received an itemized notification of receipt from the senior duty cleric in the headquarters building. Another receipt would be issued by the quartermaster’s people in due course, once the delivery had been taken into inventory, but to Cato that was incidental. The cargo he had delivered was too important, and too valuable, to be entrusted to unqualified personnel, and Cato had no intention of consigning any of it into the hands of minor functionaries until he had in his possession a formal acknowledgment of delivery and receipt, signed and sealed by the praesidium secretariat.
The guards on duty in front of the headquarters building snapped to attention as the trio of wagons approached with their escort, and the mounted officer, his duty done, did not even bother to dismount as he waved to Cato, inviting him to climb down and present himself to the lead guardsman, who had already stepped forward, his hand extended to accept the documents Cato held ready to pass to him. Before Cato could complete the step towards the man, though, a different voice intervened.
“I’ll take that, since I’m here,” the darkly mellow voice announced. The speaker stepped forward into the light from a deeply shadowed area beside the main praesidium doorway. He glanced at the mounted officer. “You can leave this with me, Commander Tesla.”
The young guard commander straightened immediately—almost guiltily, Cato thought—then nodded abruptly and even seemed to come close to saluting nervously before he caught himself. He pulled his horse into a rearing turn, then trotted away in a clatter of iron-shod hooves on cobblestones.
Cato ruefully remembered the tongue-tied awe that every young officer trainee experienced at least once in his career when faced with the unexpected, overwhelming presence of a legendary veteran, and so there was no doubt in his mind about the watcher’s identity. He knew he was now in the presence of Regulus Culver, the primus pilus, or senior soldier, of the Second Legion.
There was only one primus pilus, one “first spear,” in each legion, and only three legions in all of Britain: the Twentieth, Legio XX Valeria, was based in Deva, in north Cambria; the Sixth, Legio VI Victrix, was based in Eboracum, in northeast Britain; and the Second, Legio II Augusta, formerly of Isca Silurum, in south Cambria, was now established at this more southern Isca, in the Cornua.
“Pilus Culver,” Cato said, turning towards the man and nodding courteously. “An honour to meet you in person.”
The great man showed no reaction that this unknown officer should know his name. As one of only three men of his rank in all of Britain, he expected it. He gazed at Cato indirectly, almost from the side of his eyes, his face expressionless, his lips slightly pursed, then nodded his head, the slightest fraction of an acknowledgment, and held out his hand for the documents Cato was holding.
Cato relinquished them immediately and stood watching as the pilus scanned them, wondering which aspect of Culver’s personality had been most responsible for the man’s elevation to the rank he now held.
It would never have occurred to him to doubt that Regulus Culver had earned every scintilla of the distinction he now bore, but he was sufficient of a realist to know that all men are not born equal, and that even among a far-flung field of equals there will always emerge one dominant character to stand primus inter pares, first among equals. Every group threw up an alpha leader, and invariably the difference between that leader and the others of the pack devolved upon character and personality. Above all other things, soldiers put their faith in the men they chose to lead them.
Nowhere was that more true than in the selection process that resulted in the creation of a primus pilus. In theory, every recruit held the potential to become the First Spear of a legion someday. Promotion through the ranks was a constant of military life, and each promotion in Rome’s armies was earned by merit. Ideally, therefore, the highest rankings should be achieved by those outstanding performers who worked hardest and longest in the quest for consistent, meritorious advancement in every aspect of soldiering. The process had been going on for more than a millennium, and it never seemed to fail, with the overall winner’s laurels going to the man who proved himself, over the years, to be the single most proficient soldier in his legion. He was the man who became First Spear, nominally the second but in many ways the primary, most powerful man in the entire legion.
Such was the man Cato stood before now, and he was mentally cataloguing all he’d ever heard about this paragon. Regulus Culver had become a legend not merely among the ranks of his own legion but throughout the armies of Britain, and he had done so long before he became First Spear. He had done it, in fact, before he became first anything, at the age of eighteen when he was a peach-faced acting squad commander, temporarily in charge of an eight-man contubernium. Young, ignorant, and still wet behind the ears, he had rallied his squad behind him and led them into battle, distinguishing himself against all odds, and he had done it so well, and so convincingly, that now young soldiers looked at him with starry eyes as the living embodiment of everything they might hope to achieve.
And yet looking at him now for the first time, Cato was aware that no matter how much power he wielded nominally, Regulus Culver represented only the rank and file of the empire’s legions. And that, in essence, meant the lower levels of the Roman populace. The legionary ranks were filled with conscripts, auxiliaries, and mercenaries, and many of those—the great majority, in fact—were not even Roman citizens.
Roman law demanded that every able-bodied man serve at least two decades in the legions, but since the earliest days of the Republic there had been those, particularly among the patrician class, who were entitled, through birth and privilege, to serve the state better and more efficiently—or at the very least more comfortably—in a role above that of simple-minded infantry recruit. Cato himself was dressed as one of those, aware, even as he looked at Culver’s polished splendour, that his own purple-edged tunic defined him as a man of senatorial rank and therefore head and shoulders above the common ruck of ordinary folk, even one who had achieved the pinnacle of First Spear status.
That Culver’s rank was real while his own was a mere sham failed to register with Cato, because the truth was that, as a policeman investigating military corruption, he lived so steeped in deception and subterfuge that he had lost almost all awareness of who he really was. For now, he was Marcus Licinius Cato, senatorial tribune of Legio VI Victrix, of Eboracum, and that was all he needed to be. He stood patiently, therefore, as the famous soldier’s eyes flicked over the documents.
As the senior soldier of his legion, Regulus Culver had full responsibility for its training and combat readiness, and he determined his legion’s field tactics in time of war. As well, he was responsible for the welfare—in every sense of that word—of all the soldiers in his care. His responsibilities covered the arming, provisioning, and supply of all legionary adherents and extended to their creature comforts, their financial and banking arrangements, their payment for services, their personal health and that of their extended families, and the provision of clean laundry and adequate sanitation facilities for all of them. He was also responsible for the maintenance and provisioning of all the legion’s departments, ranging from barrel making to the daily purchase an
d preparation of fresh produce, the stockpiling of fermented fish sauce—the garum that supposedly kept the legions in the field—the endless manufacture of sandalled boots, and the fabrication of nails with which to sole them. In addition to all of that, he functioned as the eyes and ears of the legionary legate, exercising virtually absolute power as the legate’s deputy, notwithstanding that commissioned officers of the legion’s general staff were officially designated second-, third-, and fourth-in-command. None of those men would ever dare challenge the First Spear’s de facto power.
Culver finished his meticulous examination of the documents and stood up straighter, still without having looked directly at Cato. He was a big man, taller and burlier than Cato, and his breadth and solidity were emphasized by the polished bulk of his glossy cuirass of embossed leather embellished with the symbols of his rank and prowess; medallions and insignia, row upon row, attesting to his worth. He sniffed and looked down one last time at the documents before turning to cast his eyes over each of the three wagons in turn. He shrugged, raised a hand to his waiting decanus, and waved in the direction of the quartermaster’s buildings farther along the street. “Take ’em over there, Thorvil,” he said. “Stores will see to them. And take our guests to processing.” He turned to his guards. “Canis, go with ’em.”
“Not yet, Magister Culver,” Cato said, punctiliously correct in using the correct form of address. “I can’t permit these wagons to leave my possession until I have spoken to your legate.”
He watched the barely perceptible stiffening, admiring the fellow’s coolness as he incorporated all the lessons of his military life into not yielding an inch while he scrupulously avoided saying, doing, or even intimating anything that might be construed as insolence to an imperial, political officer. They both knew better, after all, than to imagine that a strict observance of propriety would offer a defence against political influence. The pilus merely squared his shoulders, pulled himself a little more severely erect, and tucked his elbows in close to his sides, a burnished model of military correctness and precise decorum.
“Certainly, Tribune,” he said tonelessly. “If you will wait here for me, I’ll try to find the adjutant. I’ll inform him that an officer from—where was it? Eboracum? Yes, that’s it. A tribune with three wagons from Eboracum is asking to speak to the imperial legate. Please wait here. I’ll be right back.” He started to swing away, full of purpose, but hesitated. “I ought to warn you, Tribune, it might take some time. Legates can be…difficult. You know how it is. I’ve seen men grow long beards waiting out here.”
“I’m sure you must have,” Cato replied, trying not to smile. The adjutant Culver had mentioned would almost certainly be a tribunus laticlavius, a senatorial tribune, and probably second in overall command to Strabo, the legion’s legate. And his purple-edged tunic would be appropriately wide-striped, outranking Cato’s thin-striped one.
“Ludo,” he said. “Go with Decanus Thorvil and Trooper Canis. Unload my personal effects and your own kit bags, then see to the delivery and documentation of the wagons and their cargo, but don’t let anyone unload anything until you receive clearance from me. When I send word, you can finish the delivery and then have the horses cared for. I’ll send for you once I know where you’re to be fed and billeted.”
He turned back to face the stone-faced primus pilus, acutely aware that no single person nearby had moved, let alone blinked an eye, since he had contradicted Regulus Culver.
“I promise you, Magister Culver,” he said quietly, allowing his voice to soften to confidentiality, “your legate will see me. He’s married to my sister. Just let him know that Rufus Cato’s at his door, cold and wet and hungry.”
The other man’s eyes went wide with surprise, and then all the hostility vanished from them and he raised his clenched right fist to his left breast in salute. “Rufus? That Cato? Come with me, sir. You should have told me who you are.”
THREE
Despite the brightness of the headquarters reception area, there were few people in there at that time of night, and fewer still paid any attention as Culver guided Cato to a spot by a long, low counter. He signed to Cato to wait while he raised a hinged flap and passed through to vanish behind the maze of screens masking the activities at the rear from public view.
Moments later, a set of high, ornate doors swung slowly open and a tall, aristocratic-looking man stepped into view and looked across the reception area. He was fully but informally armoured, in the style that denoted working headquarters staff—more for effect than for efficiency—and his eyes crinkled into an incredulous smile. He swept out, arms stretching in welcome, and enfolded Cato in a bear hug.
“Rufus,” he said, squeezing almost hard enough to buckle Cato’s armour. “I can’t believe it. I thought Regulus must be mistaken. What in the name of the new god are you doing here? Are you alone? Come in, come in, man.”
He stepped back and ushered Cato into the room beyond the ornate doors, and as Cato entered his noble brother-in-law’s formal quarters, his command centre, he stopped on the threshold, abashed, as his eyes scanned the trappings of imperial power and wealth that awed him even though he had known he would find them there. This was the first time he had seen his sister’s husband in his official capacity, and the initial impressions that threatened to overwhelm him sat ill with his memories of this man whom he had known for years but saw now in a new light. Cato had been in garrison headquarters buildings before, on many occasions, but he had never seen anything on a scale like this. This was one of the great permanent garrisons of imperial Britain, and it took his breath away for a spell. The furnishings were opulent, the floors of priceless mosaic, and the marble-panelled walls were hung with enormous draperies and formally set displays of pageantry. The legate’s desk, a massive thing of richly polished wood, was at least three full paces wide, he saw, and two-thirds as deep, and the curule chair behind it was flanked at the rear on either side by busts representing the ruling masters of the western empire, Maxentius, the Augustus or supreme ruler, on the right, and Constantine, his Caesar or deputy ruler, on the left.
Behind both of those, centred upon the rose-coloured marble panel directly behind the legate’s chair, a white marble bust of Diocletian, the former emperor during whose reign Strabo had joined the legions, took pride of place despite being smaller and less imposing than the two newer busts.
There were three men in the large room when Cato entered, one of them being Regulus Culver. The other two were looking at Cato with curiosity, and Cato correctly identified one of them as the adjutant before Strabo spoke, recognizing the wide-striped toga of a senior senatorial tribune.
“Gentlemen,” Strabo said. “Say hello to my wife’s brother and a former close colleague, Marcus Licinius Cato, known to all his friends—and he has no shortage of them—as Rufus. I’m sure you will have heard me speak of him in the past, but here he is now, and no doubt bringing urgent matters to our attention.” He smiled at Cato and waved towards the others. “These are my stalwarts. Regulus Culver, our First Spear, you’ve met already. The dandyish fellow is my adjutant and deputy, Gaius Valerius, and the other there is my factotum and personal secretary, Thaddeus Galban, the man who keeps me organized and isolated, thereby earning the gratitude and admiration of everyone else in Isca.”
Cato cradled his helmet in the crook of his left elbow and exchanged greetings cordially with all of them, and when he was finished he stood at ease, one thumb hooked behind the hilt of the gladius at his right side as he waited for Strabo, who was already ticking items off on his fingers and detailing them to Galban. “The tribune will stay here, in my quarters, and he’ll need lodgings for his men.” He glanced at Cato. “How many with you?”
“Five.”
Strabo’s eyebrow rose slightly. “Five! You came all the way from Eboracum at this time of the year with only five men?”
Cato shrugged. “More would have been too many. Is the road different at other times of the year?”
Strabo grinned, a brief flash of white teeth. “In the snow, sometimes. Where are they now, these five?”
“At your quartermaster’s stores, waiting with the wagons we brought.” Cato suddenly felt the ache in his cold, wet legs and unobtrusively leaned his backside against the edge of Strabo’s huge desk, then bent to place his helmet on the rug at his feet. “I told them to stay there until I sent for them,” he continued as he straightened up again, glancing at Regulus Culver and raising a hand as though in apology. “And I told them not to allow anything to be unloaded until I sent them clearance to do so.”
He looked back towards the First Spear. “That was before you knew who I was, Magister Culver, seeing me purely as an upstart nuisance. But please believe me when I say I had very good reasons for what must have seemed an insulting disregard for protocol.” He folded his arms across his breast, then spoke again to his brother-in-law. “Two of the wagons with us were the pre-chosen target of robbers. We had joined them by chance when we encountered them on the road to Isca, looking for mutual support as we travelled through the worst storm I’ve encountered in years. The robbers thought there were only two of us—my other four men were serving as outriders, shadowing us. When my outriders saw what was happening, they moved in against the thieves and killed them—or all but one of them—but not before the thieves had killed the crews of the other two wagons. As it transpired, their cargo proved to be very valuable. Each wagon carried thirty-six loaf ingots of solid iron weighing fifty to sixty pounds apiece. We knew no more than that they had been bound for Isca, so when we saw the ingots it seemed safe to assume they would have been bound for your stores. Our own wagon, though, has a very different kind of cargo, and I didn’t want anyone knowing what it was before I had a chance to talk to you.”
“I see. So what would you have me do with it, exactly?”