The act of freeing a thousand slaves hadn’t been nearly as heartwarming as I’d thought it would be. I expected jubilant faces and dances of joy from those I had just freed from forced bondage, but instead, all I received were complaints, demands for work, advice on where to go, and threats on my life or certain body parts because I’d brought them here.
It all seemed like such a good idea two months ago in Judea. Had I not purchased them, they would have been sent to salt mines or forced to serve fruit while nude and painted gold to decadent Romans. I’d given them an opportunity to start over, in a land that was, for now, quite free of Roman influence. But this wasn’t their home. Amazingly, a few of the slaves had been captured right here in Britain over a year ago and dragged all the way to Caesarea, but these I could count on a single hand. While they were happy to be home, Britain was a foreign land to the rest of them, as most had been prisoners of war brought to Judea from Germany by Vespasian’s legions or recently captured in the Middle East.
In a cruel twist of irony, the only way to dissipate the irate group of former slaves had been to forcibly remove them at spear point and through the use of whips. I hadn’t wanted it to happen, but they’d grown unruly and violent, and while in all probability most of them were happy or at least content with their current situation, the vociferous minority had ruined the moment for everyone, myself included. I’d watched reluctantly as the entire cadre of former slaves had been pushed past the tree line and into the wilderness, even the ones who would have thrown themselves at my feet and kissed my toes in thanks. It had been a horrendous sight, one I no longer wished to remember, but one I knew would stick with me for the rest of my days.
Only shipmaster Gnaeus had parted ways in good spirits, quite happy with all the money I’d sent his way. He and I had concluded our business dealings amicably later that night, although he hadn’t had a single nice thing to say to me, and seemed quite eager to sail back to the Mediterranean and forget he’d ever known me.
Good riddance.
Helena had been supportive throughout the entire ordeal, but when we returned to our praetorium, I hadn’t been in the mood for much of anything. I’d laid in bed for most of the night, not sleeping or even dozing, just lying there thinking and listening to Helena’s rhythmic breathing, the kind that I knew indicated she was out cold and wouldn’t be disturbed by a giant plodding through the middle of our tent.
Instead, I’d mulled over my recent bouts with what I was beginning to suspect was insanity – simple, good-old-fashioned, loony toon craziness. I’d always wondered if those deemed clinically unstable had felt themselves slipping into psychological oblivion, wondering if they could see it coming, knowing there was nothing they could do to stop it. I still didn’t have an answer to that question, but I was fairly certain I could feel it in myself. Whether that meant they could as well, I couldn’t be sure, but the one overlying factor in all of this was the orb.
I remember looking to my footlocker a number of times that night, but once my eyes fell upon it, I forgot exactly why it was I’d looked there at all, and I’d turn away again to stare at the ceiling.
According to Varus’ note, he’d used the orb for quite some time, spending two years within the course of two months using the thing, and he hadn’t seemed psychotic in the least in his letter. He had been sane, completely unlike the Other Me, and, interestingly, the jury was still out on Agrippina and whether she was affected as well. But as for me, I was beginning to suspect the worst, just as Agrippina herself seemed to have suggested back in her villa.
Was I going down the same dark path Caligula took?
Was I following in Claudius’ exact footsteps?
I didn’t know just yet, but if I was or if I wasn’t, the legion marching beside me wouldn’t benefit at all if I wasted all my effort trying to come to grips with my situation. They needed me for leadership and guidance, and although I wasn’t certain exactly why, they’d latched onto me. The legionnaires from the XV Primigenia had heard stories over the past five years from those who had come before them, the same ones we’d fought with outside the walls of Rome. We were legends to these fresh legionnaires, and there were enough old timers still around who’d been quite familiar with us back then who continued to be in awe of us now. I, in particular, had developed even more of a reputation amongst them thanks to my relationship with Helena, something they’d all been quite jealous of.
And now I was back.
And now I was leading them.
I was their general.
To them, it was like being led by a god or something. Word had spread to the II Augusta as well, and even they too would stare slack jawed when I passed by, and while I didn’t necessarily like how attached they’d become, I had to admit there was something gratifying in their appreciation.
Beneath me, Felix neighed in what seemed like annoyance and jerked his head lightly. I was so distracted by my thoughts that I almost fell off of him, but I managed to hang on. I glanced down and saw Felix shift his neck left and then right, as though he had heard every word of my meandering internal monologue and was trying to tell me that he didn’t like it.
I smiled and patted his mane. “Don’t be so upset, Felix. If I really am turning into Caligula, you probably stand to benefit the most out of it. Remember, he was the one who tried to appoint his horse as Consul.”
Felix neighed again at the statement, almost like he was laughing at it now, only I didn’t know if his laughter was directed at the joke or at me. I chose to ignore the idea that my horse was self-aware of his master’s mental disposition and focused instead on the marching legionnaires beside and behind me.
Like everything a legion did, its marching order was methodical and practical. Cavalry scouts led the way and acted as flankers on either side of the marching column, while infantry surveyors and the pioneer corps that worked as engineers to clear obstacles or bridges followed. The officers’ baggage train came next, then the main body of our cavalry, followed by myself, my fellow officers, and my friends. Behind us were the cargo trains that carried the legions’ siege equipment, and behind that was the legion itself, which was easily the grandest spectacle to be seen as we made our trek toward Camulodunum. In all my years in Rome, I’d never seen a legion, let alone two, march its way toward a military objective, and I was very impressed.
Marching six abreast, they carried everything from their arms and armor to their rations and camp construction tools – earning their nickname of “mules.” They were an impressive sight in their glittering lorica segmentata armor, freshly polished during the long voyage at sea. From our scouts to the camp followers behind the auxilia – which in turn marched behind the legions – our marching column may have spanned four miles. To an outside observer, it would have been a sight to behold, serving its intended purpose of telling the world: “Don’t fuck with us.”
And so far, no one had.
We hadn’t landed far from Camulodunum, so we’d expected resistance from rebellious tribes almost immediately, but we hadn’t seen much of anyone since leaving the beach. Even the landscape seemed as desolate as the local population. Open fields and rolling pastures were bordered by dense, deep forests that seemed quite spooky in their current state – their thick limbs now bare and dead-like as the winter months rolled in. The hills were also muddy and wet instead of green with grass, and an eternally overcast sky seemed to cloud us in a perpetual mist. I’d never been to England before, but it was very much as I imagined it would have been even in modern times. It all seemed very ancient, even in these already ancient times, and I was certain that once the snow came, the landscape would take on an even more mystical feel.
But it was also very peaceful, although the sounds of over twenty thousand individuals burst that serene bubble. These legions were going to war, and my friends and I would later continue on into the veritable unknown, passing into unfriendly territory without a guide or clear direction. Where we went once we reached the Isle of Mona was stil
l anyone’s guess, but I was certain it wouldn’t be much of a vacation spot.
Hours rolled on as we marched and rode in silence, and I’d grown quite bored with myself, so at one point as the sun would have sat high in the sky were I able to see it, I finally turned to Vincent and asked him a question that had been on my mind since making landfall.
“If Camulodunum is Rome’s provincial seat of power in Britain today, how come modern day Colchester isn’t the capital instead of London?”
Helena, who rode to my left, burst out laughing, interrupting Vincent’s response. We both turned to look at her, surprised at her sudden outburst. When her chuckles finally subsided, she asked, “You mean you don’t know?”
I gave her a quizzical look. “Let’s just say I forgot… but why the hell do you say it like that? Do you know?”
She gave me a smug grin. “I do actually.”
This time it was my turn to laugh, and even Vincent displayed a rare smile. I turned to Helena and reseated myself on Felix’s primitive make-shift saddle. It would have been a simple task of introducing the idea of stirrups to the Romans, but since such technology was centuries away from being invented, it seemed best just to deal with the situation and learn to ride without them.
I put on a display of making myself comfortable, settling in for a highly anticipated story.
“Oh, this I have to hear,” I said.
She held up a hand. “Hold on. Let me enjoy this moment for a little while first.”
I rolled my eyes and waited patiently. She watched me, but when it was clear I could wait all day, she let out a grumpy groan and began her story.
“In the year 60 or 61 A.D., I can’t exactly remember which, the city of Camulodunum is sacked by rebelling Britons, and Rome’s seat of governance shifts to modern day London… which I think is called… Londinium? Is that right?”
“It is,” Vincent confirmed.
I stared at her with my mouth ajar. “How could you possibly know that?? You don’t know anything about history.”
She looked mildly offended. “I didn’t know anything about Roman history, at least until I met you and your countless lectures.”
“So how did you know that?” I asked.
“I took an elective at Oxford about women warriors throughout the ages, and the person who led the natives against Camulodunum was Boudicca. Know who she is?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course I know who she is.”
“Shoot,” she said. “It would have been a good subject to lecture you on, and finally get a little payback.”
“Why would that be payback?” I asked nonplussed. “Don’t you have any idea what kind of a turn on that would be?”
It was her turn to roll her eyes at me. “Why exactly do I love you, again?”
“My cute butt?”
“Yeah, that or a lack of options, I guess.”
“Ouch, Helena, ouch.”
We grinned as we continued on our way, but then another question popped into my mind. I turned back to Vincent.
“Speaking of Boudicca, she should be an adult by now, right?”
He thought about it for a few seconds. “Late teenager, I’d say. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.”
In the original timeline, Warrior-Queen Boudicca of the Iceni tribe had led a revolt almost fifteen years from now, but only after there was some semblance of peace in Southern Britain for maybe a decade, and after she and her daughters were horribly beaten and raped by Romans. Now, as a hormonal and idealistic teenager herself, and with a year of war in the books and more easily to come, I wondered what a younger Boudicca would do with her life.
***
“Form up the lines!” Shouted Galba from atop his horse beside me. “Cavalry to the flanks, slingers to the front. Auxilia on the right. Advancing formation!”
The orders were shouted at breakneck speed, almost too quickly for me to follow. Around us, however, centurions and runners were nodding their understanding of Galba’s orders. The former went moving off and shouting their own more specific directions while the runners had taken off to find appropriate recipients of Galba’s orders. I sat atop Felix and waited patiently while those who knew what they were doing did what they needed to do, and looked out over the city of Camulodunum and the fort constructed beside it that held the Legio XX Valeria Victrix along with its legate, Aulus Plautius.
It was dusk now, the sun just beginning to set off to my left, nightfall just a few brief minutes away. As the legions formed up around me into crisp battle lines and the enemy combatants swirled around the legion fort like water through a drain, I couldn’t ask for a more stunning and epic set piece for the battle to come. The clouds had parted about an hour ago, and the moon was full and the coming night air cold and tiresome, offsetting the warmth and light coming from the countless torches held by legionaries and the brush fires scattered around the fort.
Felix once again fidgeted beneath me, and I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of nervousness as well.
I let Galba and the professionals do what they needed to do without interference as I studied the battlefield before us, and watched as the unprofessional, but warrior-like Britons, ran amok as they battered against the fort, flung arrows and stone over its walls ineffectively, and circled in their chariots like vultures over a dying man in the desert.
While I’d seen chariots during the time Helena, Santino, and I had toured the empire, this was the first time I’d seen them actively used on the battlefield. The ones I’d seen in Gaul had been little more than relics owned by old war chieftain who’d fought the Romans decades ago, and had hung onto them for old time’s sake. However, while the sight of hundreds of chariots circling the fort was an impressive one now, through the lens of academic study I’d cultivated over the years, I already knew why they were an impractical weapon of war against a professional army like a Roman legion.
Chariots were more than pimped out rides for wealthy barbarians, but tools of terror used to incite fear in those opposing them. Dramatic and intimidating, they carried armed men on a mobile platform drawn by a pair of large horses. That’s scary. But like elephants, they were only useful in certain situations and easily ignored in other instances, especially now when it seemed as if these chariots were used for little more than rapid troop deployment and mobile artillery platforms, rather than bulldozers.
Through my binoculars I could see how a driver would make loops around the fort or go back forth along one particular wall while the warrior hurled spears. When the warrior depleted his ammunition, he’d hop off and run toward the wall, doing little more than bellow a war cry and thump his shield against his chest as the Romans waited patiently behind their fortifications. The charioteer might return later with fresh spears or just to pick up the warrior so they could continue their games.
Against fortified Romans, their siege strategy was a joke.
Perhaps the Britons had no understanding of siege war craft, although I had noted siege equipment off in the distance – onagers, catapults, and the like – but they were just now moving into position. In time, it was possible they’d do enough damage to knock down a few walls or entice the Romans to sally forth to counterattack, but now that we’d arrived, I didn’t think it would do them much good.
I grimaced as I looked through my binoculars, realizing that the display before me was more like a Broadway musical version of a battle than an actual one. There weren’t many bodies on the ground outside the fort, and I had to imagine there would be even fewer on the inside, and so far, little of consequence had happened. The Romans were waiting behind their walls and the Britons were riling themselves up on the outside for an assault. That was about it, but with our arrival, which had basically gone unnoticed by the Britons, things were about to heat up.
I turned to Galba. “So what’s going to happen here?”.
His eyes continued to study the battlefield before him, unflinching and analytical. “With all luck, hopefully very little. I will order the legion to marc
h forward at a steady pace, conserving their energy while our Batavian and Germanic auxilia march on the right. However, as it often is when utilizing barbarian auxilia, they will be less calculated and reserved, and the sight of them alone should rattle the Britons into inaction, but the legion itself will most likely frighten them into retreat. Which I hope to be case here, as I desire no blood to be shed, because if they fight, we will route them. I count no more than four thousand men, more a mob than an army, and they will be dispersed as such.”
“You don’t want a fight?” I asked.
“Of course not, Hunter,” he replied sternly, still without looking at me. “You yourself may be a glutton for blood and death, but I certainly am not. I have no desire to slaughter those who cannot possibly stand against the overwhelming might I so often bring against them. Everything I do is for Rome’s protection and nothing more.”
I pointed a finger at the Britons. “And invading Britain constitutes protecting Rome?”
With that question, Galba finally turned to face me. “Rome has many enemies, Hunter. That is a reality I cannot control. Were we to rest on our borders and do nothing, it would only be a matter of time before we were overrun.”
Galba’s prescience was impressive because he was totally right. Rome’s stagnation and inevitable downfall was due in large part to their lack of expansion a few hundred years from now. Whether they even had the ability to expand wasn’t the point. Their strategy then had been to do little more than hold the line, which in large part led, as Galba so astutely pointed out, to them being overrun.
But I didn’t tell him that.
There was no need since Rome had to fall eventually.
Just not yet.
Instead, I nodded in silent agreement and returned my attention to the legion, which had just begun to march forward in a steady rhythm of choreographed footfalls. I watched them move forward for just a second before giving Felix a slight kick into his flanks to nudge him forward, but Galba stopped me with a word.
Praetorian Series [3] A Hunter and His Legion Page 18
