“What more can we do but our best, eh?” he asked.
The horse was so exhausted he could not raise his head. Otto looked around,. They were in a thicket of young trees. He decided to find somewhere to rest and walked at little forward. Djinn shuffled, his hooves scuffing the mud of the track. Otto could not straighten his back and felt like his knees had completely locked. They went on for a few yards and reached the edge of the copse. There before them, a mile away, was a five-legion camp; the headquarters of General Nero Claudius Drusus, stepson of Augustus and his recently appointed commander on the Rhine and Elba Rivers.
They picked their halting way down the slight slope to the nearest gate. It was just about to close as the last rays of the sun faded. There were two sentries; a stocky decanus and the other a tall thin legionary. They watched the man and horse coming towards them. Both thought Otto must be old at first with his bent back and slow pace. The horse looked equally decrepit, its head hanging as the pair wandered up to them.
“Greetings,” Otto said. “I am Senior Decurion Otto Longius…”
“’Course you are, and that old nag’s your charger, I s’pose,” the decanus said, taking charge.
“Yes, but I must see the general…”
“No chance, on your way before you get yourself into trouble.”
“You are not listening to me. I am a decurion of The Second Lucan and I demand to see your officer.”
“Second Lucan? They’re fucking miles away and you never got here from them on this lump of crowbait,” the decanus said pointing at Djinn.
“Look, I order you to let me pass and to speak to an officer…”
“That’s it mate, you’ve asked for it. You can have a night in the stockade for not pissing off when you’re told to.”
He lunged at Otto who tried to throw a punch but staggered slightly. The soldier dodged it easily and cracked him over the head with shaft of his javelin. Both of them dragged the half-conscious vagabond inside. Djinn shambled after them. Otto was thrown into a log cell. The decanus took his belt, dagger and purse.
“Here, you have these,” he said to the legionary, stripping the silver arm-rings Otto had so recently looted himself.
“No, I don’t want anything to do with this. We’re supposed to report any goings-on….”
“Report it then, in the morning. He’s just some German with beer scrambled brains.”
“He spoke good Latin…”
“So do a few of them, don’t make ‘em cavalry officers, do it? If you’re so worried, take that wreck of a horse of his over to the cavalry lines. I’ll tell the optio where you are, it’ll be alright.”
Djinn ambled dispiritedly behind the soldier to the stables.
“A bloke just came in with him….” he began but the stable-orderly cut him short.
“Where is this bloke now?”
“In the stockade.”
“Good, that’s where he belongs, the bastard; this poor fellow’s been nearly ridden to death. Come on, let’s rub you down. Bucket of warmish water with a splash of wine and a bran mash and you’ll forget all about it,” he crooned to Djinn who allowed himself to be led into a strange stall without showing any resistance.
“Officers’ assembly including Centurion Corvo,” Quadratus told Soranus who sent his runners around the camp to convey the legate’s orders. When they were gathered, the legate took Corvo outside.
“Am I correct in presuming that you are a commoner, centurion?” he asked.
Corvo hesitated. “I suppose I am.”
“You have some doubt?”
“On my father’s side, my grandfather was a provincial knight, sir but he drank…”
“I do not care if he drank half of Our Sea. That is a piece of luck and we need all we can find. Come on, back in.”
“Report First Spear Centurion Attius,” he ordered once they were sitting with the rest of the officers.
“Night attack by a force of thirty fanatics after their pals had shoved a burning wagon into the Porta Decumana. Gate undamaged, all intruders killed. We lost eleven of our good comrades. Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus was wounded and will not be able to return to full duty for a month, according to the sawbones.”
“Any comment on the action?” Quadratus asked.
“One legionary was firefighting when they broke in. He disabled one of them by using his rake to throw a bundle of burning faggots in his face. Initiative worth rewarding, sir?”
“Definitely, two gold pieces. Send him to me and I shall present them. Now, in view of the injury to Senior Tribune Fuscus, we shall have to reorganize our roles. Tribune Longius, you will take over the responsibilities of senior tribune until further notice. Centurion Corvo is appointed temporary acting prefect commanding all artillery and missile troops…” Shocked looks were furtively exchanged between the other officers. “…Centurion Corvo’s paternal grandfather was a provincial knight. He is therefore of equestrian extract and entitled to serve in this capacity. Boxer, fill Corvo in on what he might need to know about the artillery situation. Someone send the legionary with the rake to me…”
Everyone went about their duties. The fact that they were under siege did not stop drills, kit inspections and weapons training. Centurions and optios bellowed, vine-staffs bounced off helmets. Fatigue parties carried out maintenance and cooks provided sustenance for the legion. At noon, Lucius and Titus asked to speak with Quadratus.
“Sir,” Titus began, “last night they chanced their arm at the Porta Decumana. I think it will be in our interest to take down the bridge over the stream to the south. They couldn’t have got as far as they did without it.”
“Point taken.” The legate sighed. “Yet again we are reacting to the strategy of the enemy. We seem unable to make him dance to our tune.”
“It’s only a matter of time, sir. We’ll have the bastards soon enough,” Titus replied without hesitation.
“Permission to demonstrate something, sir?” Lucius asked.
The legate nodded. Lucius shouted and two soldiers came in carrying a thick, ten-foot pole with a blunt iron fork on one end.
“For their ladders sir. We can use these to push them over backwards.”
“Excellent idea, Boxer…”
“Something else sir, you know the enemy’s battering-ram housing…”
“Is there anything left of it?”
“Yes sir, the hurdles they used for the sides and the roof is more or less intact. It’s covered with rawhide. If we could strip it off, we might be able to nail it to the outside of our gates… fireproofing, you see…”
“Anything and everything that can give us the slightest advantage, do it. If nothing else, it keeps the men busy and shows them their officers are being active on the legion’s behalf.”
Under a heavy guard commanded by Titus, Lucius supervised the demolition of the wooden bridge over the stream while inside the camp, the rawhides were being prised loose. Lucius made his team work carefully; stopping to examine how the bridge had been constructed at each stage so as to maximise what they could salvage. Every useful piece of timber was carried into the camp. Recent events had shown him how valuable reclaimed materials could be. So far, they had contributed to the new wall and the breastwork replacing the Porta Principalis Dexter. Who knows what these beams and support timbers might be used for in the coming days?
In the Marcomanni lines, they were building a structure out of heavy logs. Helmund was not about to let the Romans enjoy any respite. The attack the previous night had not been a serious attempt to take their camp. It was an honour raid which he had sanctioned, partly to show his warriors he understood their need for revenge but mostly because it meant another disturbed night for the Roman garrison; turning the screw just a little tighter on their morale.
“Wonder where Otto is now?” Felix said that night in their quarters that night, as Lucius spooned up one of the stews he invariably cooked.
“The legate says we are not to discuss that subject,�
�� Lucius told him.
“I know but it’s only you and me.”
“Felix, to tell the truth, I don’t like to think of him out there alone…”
“Oh don’t you worry about Otto. He’s probably feasting with the general tonight…”
Chapter 10
The stable orderly looked over the half-door into Djinn’s stall. “Well, a night in the warm and some grub have done you the world of good old lad,” he said. The stallion was on his feet, head held high and looked back with bright eyes at this stranger. “Let’s get you outside and give you a bit of a clean up, eh?”
Djinn consented to being led out and tied by his headstall to a ring in the wall. The orderly fetched a sponge and a bucket of warm water and began to wash off the caked ash, mud and sweat. As he worked, whistling and talking gently to calm the animal, his hands ran over Djinn’s hide and felt the firm muscles underneath. He stepped back and looked at him from a distance.
“You’re not old at all are you? You were only filthy and tired-out. Would you let me look at your teeth, I wonder?” He quickly found out that Djinn would not. “Aright, alright, not to worry. Let’s dry you off and give you a bit of a brush, polish your hooves maybe…”
When he had finished and led him back inside. Djinn was unrecognisable as the nag that had shambled into the stall the night before. “You are something special, aren’t you? I’m going to show you to a friend of mine. He’ll know how old you are and what to do with you.”
He ambled down the cavalry lines stopping to chat a couple of times and eventually entered a forge.
“Greetings, Passer,” he said to the tall youth, all gangling limbs like a young colt, who was filing the back hoof of a charger into shape before a new shoe was fitted.” Where’s Decanus Flaccus?”
Passer grinned. “Uncle Martellus is still eating his breakfast. He’ll be along just now.”
The orderly sat down on a hay bale. “He’ll kick your backside if he hears you calling him that.”
“No, he won’t,” Passer told him. “He’s used to it.”
At the other end of the camp, a tall, thin legionary was standing to attention in front of his centurion.
“What?” the officer snapped before putting another piece of bread soaked in oil and garum into his mouth.
“Last night, sir, a German came up at sundown and asked to see the general, he said he was a cavalry officer, sir.”
“What did he look like?”
“Bit of a derelict. He walked like a duck and his horse was half-dead.”
“Drunk was he?”
“No sir. Said he was from The Second Lucan. Spoke good Latin.”
Alarm bells rang in the centurion’s head.
“Where’s he now?”
“Stockade.”
The officer crammed the last of his breakfast into his mouth, put on his helmet and stood up.
“Show me.”
Otto was sitting at the back of his cage leaning against the bars, using his cloak as padding. For all he had taken a crack to the head, the long night’s sleep and the hunk of soldier’s bread and pannikin of water shoved under the gate had revived him. He still looked a disreputable specimen.
“Stand up!” the centurion ordered.
Otto climbed stiffly to his feet.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
“I am Principal Decurion Otto Longius. I am here to see the general and ask for urgent cavalry reinforcements because The Second Lucan are under attack by a force of around fifteen thousand Marcomanni.”
“If you’re an officer, where’s your uniform and armour?”
“I discarded them to reduce the weight my horse had to carry. Where is he by the way?”
“Being looked after. Let this man out,” the centurion told the legionary and gestured for both of them to follow him.. He repeated the story in front of his of his First Spear Centurion who took him to the Camp Prefect.
“Need to report this to the general’s aide de camp,” he said, “Follow me.”
The two senior officers, with Otto, the centurion and the lanky legionary in tow, marched into the Praetorium.
“Wait there,” the Camp Prefect ordered and walked through an inner door, closing it after him.
Ten minutes later it was re-opened. Otto and the others were beckoned inside. They stood in a line, Otto in the centre, in front of an ornate desk behind which a young man in exquisite armour was seated. He had large, expressive eyes, a long, straight nose and a well-shaped head with close-cropped hair. The others came to attention and bowed. Otto realised he must be the general and followed suit.
“What business do you have with the Noble Nero Claudius Drusus, Commander of the Army of Upper Germany?” an officer wearing a magnificently sculpted breastplate called out.
“This man has arrived in camp claiming to have a message from the Noble Legate Publius Quadratus of The Second Lucan, sir.” The Camp Prefect responded and bowed again.
“Let him speak,” the general said pleasantly.
“Sir, my legion is under attack by a force of fifteen thousand Marcomanni and requests urgent cavalry support,” Otto told him.
“And you are?”
“I am Principal Decurion Otto Longius, sir.”
The general studied Otto for a full minute.
“I am inclined to believe you Otto Longius. If you could provide us with some proofs of your story…”
“Sir, if my property was returned, I could show you my knight’s ring…”
“Your what?” the Camp Prefect blurted out in astonishment.
“My knight’s ring. The Emperor enrolled me in the Equestrian Order during my audience with him.”
“You were made a knight on the express orders of my father?” the general asked, equally surprised at this turn of events.
“No sir, by the Emperor. He was very gracious to me. We had lunch together; he showed me his orchard.”
“Did we not second Prefect Aldermar from The Second Lucan?” General Drusus asked.
“We did, sir,” answered the Camp Prefect.
“Very well.” Drusus continued. “Otto Longius, bathe, refresh yourself and report back to me in one hour, my orderly will find you some clean clothes..” Otto saluted and turned stiffly to leave. “What is wrong with your legs?”
“I have ridden or run beside my horse for four days sir.”
“My masseur will attend you in the officer’s bathhouse.”
Uncle Martellus sauntered into the forge with a cup in one hand and a cold sausage wrapped in bread in the other. He handed them to Passer.
“Here’s your second breakfast. The amount you eat you should be the size of a house.”
“I stay thin because I work so hard,” Passer answered with a grin and took the food.
Martellus grunted and noticed his visitor. “Greetings, to what do we owe the honour?”
“Greeting, Decanus Flaccus. There’s a horse I want to show you. He was brought into me last night and looked ready for the knackers but this morning, what a recovery! I would like your opinion of him.”
“If Passer hasn’t made too much of a mess of this one’s hoof,” he said, slapping the charger on his rump, “I’ll get his shoe on and take a look.”
Twenty minutes later, all three walked over to the stables. Martellus looked into the stall and his jaw dropped open.
“Where’s the man who brought him in?”
“A legionary told me he’s in the stockade. Best place for him, riding a fine horse like that half to death…”
Martellus turned to Passer. “Find Prefect Aldermar and bring him to the forge now. Tell him it is urgent, vitally urgent.”
Passer flew off without saying a word. He saw by the look on Martellus’ face this was no time for questions.
“I know this horse,” Martellus told the orderly. “I was there when he was bought with the Emperor’s own gold. His name is Djinn and he belongs to Decurion Otto Longius. Don’t tell me he’s the one i
n the stockade?”
“I don’t know but this sounds like big trouble.”
“Let’s get Djinn over to my forge to start with.”
Martellus watched how the stallion was moving. He could detect a little stiffness, one of his shoes seemed loose, otherwise he appeared to be in good condition.
“What did you give him when he came in?” he asked the orderly.
“Bucket of warm water with a cup of wine and a bran mash. Hay bag in the stall. Cleaned him up this morning. Can’t get over the difference in him.”
By the time Aldermar strode in with Passer, Martellus had checked and tightened Djinns shoes, and was massaging his legs with liniment. Aldermar was astonished.
“Yes,” Martellus told him. “It’s Djinn alright and I think Otto is in the stockade.”
Aldermar turned on his heel and marched rapidly away towards the guardhouse.
“Where’s the prisoner who came in last night?”
“My centurion took him over to the First Spear Centurion’s office. What’s going on with that scarecrow, who the fuck is he?” the duty optio told him.
But the prefect had gone without replying. He retraced Otto’s upward passage through the ranks of the legion until he found himself at the Praetorium where he asked for and was granted entry. He stood to attention and bowed to the general.
“Ah, Prefect Aldermar, how timely; can you confirm that this man is one of your officers?”
Knight of Rome Part II Page 14
