“Our Emperor saw something remarkable in Otto Longius, and events have proved his judgement to be correct,” the general told them. “The facts are that Prefect Longius led Roman cavalry into a battle in which witnesses confirm he killed the enemy leader in single combat. By tradition, this merits at the very least a gold crown if not much more.”
“Why did you give him Roman cavalry in the first place?” one of them asked the Master of Horse.
“Because it was a mistake to strip Quadratus of his cavalry and he needed replacements. German Auxiliaries are more use to me in the situation in which we find ourselves than Roman cavalry so he was given command of an ala I could spare,” he replied with some irritation.
“Roman troops are the best in the world….”
“Infantry yes, cavalry no; that’s why we need the German Auxiliaries.” The Master of Horse replied with finality.
General Drusus had listened to enough bickering.
“It occurs to me that, without anyone saying so directly, we are discussing how “Roman” Prefect Otto Longius truly is. Some of you seem to doubt his commitment to Rome and the Emperor but what more could the young man do to prove himself? I am not prepared to continue this discussion. I shall write to the Emperor with my recommendation and request his confirmation. Thank you for your comments on the matter,” he told them.
Augustus had received his stepson’s letter with a copy of Quadratus’ report attached and had responded so Otto was ordered to headquarters.
Felix had brushed, cleaned and polished Otto to dazzling perfection. He stood back and admired his handiwork. “Very nice, sir, if I may say so,” he commented then added in a worried tone, “you will try not to get anything dirty walking across camp, won’t you sir?”
“Thank you, Evocati Felix,” Otto replied with a smile. “I shall be careful not to spoil all your hard work. You have done me proud. “
Standing in front of the general and his senior officers, he certainly looked the part; from his gleaming boots to the carefully brushed crest on the burnished helmet in the crook of his left arm. He came to attention and bowed.
“Greetings Prefect Otto Longius,” General Drusus said looking keenly at the young officer. He saw that something had changed; a certain naivety had gone from those pale eyes and had been replaced with a new assurance. “You are called to this assembly of the general staff in view of your recorded exploits in the service of Rome. Alone and at great personal risk, you made your way to us from your besieged camp to request assistance, killing two of the enemy on your way. You fought the leader of the Marcomanni besiegers of The Second Lucan, the so-called “King”, Helmund and bested him in single combat, stretching his lifeless body on the battlefield. By bringing down the enemy leader, you contributed to shortening the conflict and saving the lives of many of our officers and soldiers. The Emperor has been made aware of your latest services to Rome and personally approves of the awards I now make you in the presence of my general staff and others. Prefect Otto Longius, step forward and receive this Gold Military Crown I now place on your head. Accept my personal gift, this golden cup. We honour you.”
The officers bowed and hailed hm. Otto bowed to them.
“I am overwhelmed by these magnificent rewards and thank you most sincerely. I hope to continue to be worthy of the approval of my Emperor, my general and this army.”
They were simple words, well-chosen to set the required tone and spoken in faultless and barely accentless Latin. They came as a surprise to many who heard them; they had expected a stumbling reply; ungrammatical and barely comprehensible. In truth, that is what they wanted. Otto and his like were troubling to many Romans. Peace and prosperity after the recent Civil War had led to old assumptions being challenged. Commoners acquired wealth and education and showed themselves to be at least the equal of the sons of the nobility. If barbarians were to be made citizens and then succeed even excel, in the army, where did that leave the old guard? Otto did not fit in with their preconceptions, they feared what he represented in a deep, unspoken way.
“How did you manage to seek out this Helmund on the battlefield, prefect?” called an officer in a drawling, superior voice.
Drusus looked around to see who had spoken, barely able to hide his irritation. The implication of the question was that Otto was a glory hunter, less concerned with his duty than with drawing attention to himself.
“I did not seek him out, sir. I was ordered to make a charge in a certain direction. Once I had completed the manoeuvre, Helmund and I saw each other. What followed seemed inevitable,” Otto replied.
“Inevitable? Are you saying that it was the will of the Gods?” came the mocking response.
Otto smiled. “Are not all things decided according to the will of the Gods, sir?”
His questioner laughed and changed his tone. “Well argued, prefect. I see you are a young man to be reckoned with on or off the battlefield!”
Everyone indicated their approval calling out, “Well said!” and “Hear! Hear!” or slapping their hands down on the table. Drusus smiled. He was pleased that Otto had not fallen into the verbal trap that had been set for him. Had he seen it and deliberately chosen his replies to avoid it or was he simply speaking the truth as he saw it? The general could not decide.
“You will dine with me this evening, informally, a small party. Dismissed Prefect Otto Longius,” he said.
Otto came to attention, turned on his heel and marched out to be greeted by an honour guard of the general’s praetorians and his own men who gave him three cheers as he passed through the double line they had made to receive him.
He wore his striped knight’s tunic and soft boots under his military red cloak to dinner. He had left the military crown with Felix but had brought along his gold cup.
“No crown?” Drusus asked.
“A gold crown at an informal dinner, sir?” Otto replied. “But here is the cup you kindly gave me. I thought it would be appropriate if it was filled for the first time at your table.”
Otto reclined on his left elbow on a couch while he ate. He found it a peculiar custom to eat half lying down but managed to do justice to all the dishes with the exception of the bowl of Garum.
The conversation was light at first, not dissimilar to the talk around his own table when he invited his decurions to eat with him so Otto found it no strain to take part. Gradually, it turned to the recently lifted siege and became more serious. Otto repeated his assessment of Helmund as a dangerous enemy detailing his tactical innovations, unheard of in a German warlord. At the end of the evening, the general’s steward took Otto’s cup, washed it and gave it back wrapped in a brocade napkin.
When he had gone, Drusus lay back and stared up into the darkness above the glow of the ornate, gilded oil-lamps.
“Something troubles you sir?” asked his aide-de-camp.
“I was thinking that if the Marcomanni had ten Helmunds and one hundred Ottos our position here would be untenable,” he answered.
“I think you will find that Otto Longius is almost unique, sir.”
“Let us most sincerely wish you are right,” the general said with an emphatic nod of his head.
Aldermar came to see him off the next morning.
“Congratulations Otto, I wish I could have been there to see the award ceremony,” he said warmly shaking the young prefect’s hand.
“So do I. The general was very gracious to me...”
Aldermar’s face clouded over with worry. “Listen,” he said without letting go of Otto’s right hand, “you are getting a reputation as a favourite of the Emperor, perhaps of the general as well. Be very careful.”
“Why?” Otto asked, pulling his hand free.
“Envy, simple envy. You have what many want and are not able to get; fame, rewards, promotion. I say again; be careful. There are a lot of men who cannot rise to your heights so they’ll try to pull you down to theirs. You like these wise quotations, here’s one from Aeschylus, some old Greek or
other, “Few men have the moral force to honour another without envy.” Think about that one and have a safe journey, my greetings to Publius and Titus.”
Chapter 13
“So where’s this gold crown, then?” Titus demanded on Otto’s return.
“I can hardly wander around the camp with it on my head, now can I?” Otto replied.
“Why not? I would if I had one.”
“It looks like I’m bragging if I wear it, that’s why.”
“Wouldn’t stop me. Seriously though, the men would like to see it. It’s a rare thing, a Military Crown for killing an enemy leader man to man.”
“I could show it to everyone, I suppose.”
“Good idea, we could display it outside the Praetorium. I’ll borrow two of the legate’s guards to keep an eye on it; big temptation to the lads, they’ll nick anything given the chance….”
“Surely not!”
“Oh yes. They’re very fond of you but even fonder of a dirty great lump of gold. They’d have it bashed flat and cut up before you could blink. Leave it to me. You will be giving a feast and buying wine?”
“Of course; you’ve told me, “It is the custom”, often enough.”
The crown and its owner were a sensation for a few days then everything returned to normal. Drills, patrols, fatigues, arms-training; the hard routine of the legion. They paraded in front of their legate in a biting cold wind reddening cheeks and producing dewdrops on the end of noses.
“Evocati Felix stand forward,” Titus bellowed.
Felix hobbled up and was presented with a bronze medal and ten gold pieces in recognition of his contribution to the defence of the eastern breastwork. He had his medal welded onto his armour and placed his money in the legion bank. Corvo was called up and similarly rewarded but received twenty gold pieces. Tertius Fuscus was called to the front of the rostrum and cheered by the men as Quadratus read out his citation for outstanding conduct. The parade was dismissed, formally closing the episode of the siege and the pitched battle following it.
Once more a champion was put up to contest the javelin-throwing prize with Otto. Yet again, he lost; like all the others before him. This pleased Titus Attius who capitalized on it mercilessly.
“Call yourselves legionaries? Call yourselves heavy infantry? You lot can’t even chuck a javelin as far as a fucking cavalryman can. We’ll have to do better than that; double practice every day this week…”
At the beginning of November, an unexpected event occurred that threw the legion into a cauldron of gossip. An Imperial Messenger arrived at the start of that season when only the most important despatches would normally be carried. He brought a summons for Publius Quadratus to return with him to Rome where the Emperor awaited him as soon as matters could be arranged. He left the day after with his praetorians and a turma of cavalry led by the most senior of Otto’s decurions. It began to snow feathery, wet flakes before the party cleared the camp gate.
Augustus was wearing two tunics under his toga, thick socks, soft boots and fingerless, woollen mittens, yet still he complained of the cold to Publius Quadratus who sat opposite him at a small table in the room where he had received Otto and Lucius. They sipped hot spiced wine, very heavily watered, and broke off pieces of bread and cheese to eat as they talked.
“Cold all the time. Unbearable. How do you manage Publius? Used to it in Germany no doubt. How are you, old friend? You look tired and drawn. Bad journey?” the Emperor asked.
“Not too severe for the time of year, sir. The weather improved once we arrived in Gaul.”
“Glad to hear it. Now then, Second Lucan. Badly mauled. How many men have you lost?”
“Over sixteen hundred. I expect the figure to be nearer seventeen hundred by springtime. Some of the wounded will never leave the infirmary, some will recover but be unfit for service and we always lose a few to disease in the cold, wet months.”
“How long have you been a soldier?
“Twenty-three years sir, twelve of them in Belgic lands or on the Rhine, ten as one of your legates.”
“Never understood the military mind” Augustus told him. “There was Alexander the Great and then there was the Divine Julius. No-one will ever be a finer general than either of them. So why do it, eh? Why do it?”
“To serve Rome, sir.”
“Well yes there is that, but it’s mostly because it gets into a lot of young men’s blood. They despise civilians, don’t deny it…” Quadratus had no intention of doing so. “...I’m bringing your legion back to Italy. Two reasons. First, that complete shit Marcus Antonius lost the first Lucan and I’m not joining his company by losing the second. Do you know why Pompey the Great was beaten by Caesar? Shouldn’t have been. He had more legions. But they were not the battle-hardened men that my adoptive father led. Not going to repeat Pompey’s error of judgement. Big mistake. Easy to always look at far-off borders and forget what’s next door. I want good, experienced troops in Italy. The Second Lucan can provide me with over three thousand of them. Map, Menities,” he called to his secretary who spread out a parchment roll on the table, holding down the edges with wine cups. Augustus placed his forefinger on it. “I am establishing a permanent garrison here, inland of the rough line made by Spedia, Luca and Pisae. You will take over an existing fortress in disrepair and make it fit for purpose. It will be fifteen years before the last of your legion’s veterans is given honourable discharge. So I can call on them for some years yet to protect the approaches to Cisalpine Gaul, the coast or indeed Rome, if need be.”
“In which case, sir. I ask you to accept my resignation.”
“Offended Publius? Surely not?”
“By no means, sir and if you need me at any time, I am yours. But, as we previously discussed, twenty- three years a soldier, twelve…”
“...up north and ten a legate. Very well. At least bring them home for me in the spring.”
“That will be my honour sir.”
“Replacement?”
“Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus. You sent him to me as an able military administrator. He wanted to see border service. He has avoided an ambush in the field and turned the tables on the enemy, he has withstood a siege and taken part in a pitched battle. I doubt if he will complain at garrison duty near the Adriatic sir.”
“Don’t suppose he will. What about you?”
“I should like to retire to my estates, with your permission. I have a fancy to live out my days as a private citizen or perhaps as a minor provincial official. I have been too long away from Rome to enter politics…”
“Very wise. Dirty and dangerous business. Rome is a bear-pit of ambitious and double-dealing backstabbers. No place for an honest soldier. Stay in with us until all preparations are made then you can tell your legion the good news.”
Twice when Otto was on patrol with his men, they were ambushed. On both occasions, the attackers went straight for him. He fought them off and killed two more warriors who were renowned fighters judging by the arm-rings he stripped off their bodies.
“It is clear that they want to defeat the man who killed Helmund. Perhaps you should avoid patrolling with the cavalry,” Tertius Fuscus suggested.
“If I did that, wouldn’t it be giving in to the enemies of Rome? “
“Yes, but are they your enemies or Rome’s?”
“I am a Roman officer, there is no difference.”
“Of course but you are putting Roman lives at risk, your men’s lives each time you lead them….”
“And there it is,” Otto thought, remembering Aldermar’s words. “The worm of resentment working away without its host even realising he has been infected.”
“If you order me not to leave the camp, I shall obey, Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus,” he said coldly.
Tertius looked embarrassed but quickly composed his features. “I do not believe we need go to that extreme…”
“Thank you, sir,” Otto told him, turned on his heel and walked briskly away.
It gr
ew colder, the snow deepened so the issue did not come up again. Otto was always perfectly correct in his dealing with Tertius but their relationship, never that friendly, had been soured. Saturnalia came around, a subdued affair that year in the absence of the camp-followers’ wine-shops and brothels. Otto shut himself away in his quarters emerging only when it was over. That pushed him a little further out of the circle of his brother officers with the exception of Titus Attius who was a great believer in the saying, “Once bitten, twice shy,” and understood Otto’s reason for keeping out of the way.
It was a dreary time. Too many familiar faces were missing from the ranks for the old esprit de corps to be re-established. The legate was away and no-one knew why. If any officer speculated about the possible reasons, Tertius Fuscus slapped them down.
But time inevitably passed, February came and then March bringing Publius Quadratus back but accompanied only by his escort; no new recruits and no supply wagons. He called an immediate general assembly of all legionaries and officers, no exceptions even for the walking wounded, of whom there were still twenty or so. Travel-stained he mounted the rostrum. He looked over his legion for a full minute with a half-smile on his face. They did not know it but he wanted to fix their image in his mind for the last time he would call them together in this place.
“Men of The Second Lucan, you are aware that I was called to Rome. Emperor Augustus knows of your sacrifices and courage during your long tour of duty on the Rhine. He commends you. He has decided that The Second Lucan is to return to Italy. I am informed that your replacement legion is one week away. As we march out of the Porta Decumana for the last time, they will enter through the Porta Praetoria…..”
The legion erupted into a frenzy of cheering, men slapped their comrades on the back, helmets were taken off and waved in the air, swords beat against shields in a spontaneous display of joy. It took a full five minutes to restore sufficient order for the legate to continue. He stood patiently waiting during this time; he had expected this demonstration.
Knight of Rome Part II Page 19
