by David Black
Leaving the line of tethered mules with a contented spring in his step he turned and began to walk through the back of the 1st cohort’s empty lines, towards his own.
The 1st cohort had begun their preparations the previous day. Now, they were formed up for a final spit and polish inspection by the First Spear centurion before mounting the pay parade’s guard of honour. Held rigidly by the standard bearer, the 18th’s Eagle would be proudly displayed behind the pay tables. Each member of the Legion was required to salute both the paying officer and their Eagle before returning to the ranks.
Rufus had nearly reached his men when a voice called out behind him.
‘Centurion Rufus!’
Rufus stopped in midstride and turned. To his dismay, it was Tribune Crastus who had called his name. Rufus saluted and said.
‘Sir?’
Crastus walked up to the centurion and lazily returned the salute.
Rufus silently ground his teeth. The boy couldn’t even salute properly.
‘Ah Rufus, good, I wanted to see you before the Legion marches.’
Eyeing him suspiciously, Rufus remained at attention and replied.
‘Yes sir?’
Crastus smiled. Rufus felt no warmth in it, but the little bastard looked triumphant.
‘I have just come from the Camp Prefect. I formally requested that you take full responsibility for the return of my father’s slave known as Severus to winter quarters. Under the circumstances, I thought it only fitting that you should hear it from me I’ve arranged for you, to personally see the slave arrive safely back.’
Rufus stared coldly as the smile faded on the young Tribune’s face. Bad enough the poor lad should be dragged back in chains and disgrace, but to make his own commander act as jailor? It was petty spite, nothing else. A muscle twitched dangerously in the corner of Rufus’ eye as he fought to hold his temper. The little bastard was intent on rubbing salt into the wound, and was clearly enjoying every passing moment of it. As he couldn’t have Rufus arrested for complicity, Crastus had made sure the centurion would take personal responsibility for seeing Severus back to await his inevitable public execution.
The smug and triumphal smile returned to the Tribune’s face as he added.
‘Of course Centurion, if the slave escapes, I’ll personally see to it that you take his place.’
With that, the meeting was over. Rufus remained still and stared in silence at Crastus until the Tribune’s grin faded. Crastus said with growing irritation in his voice.
‘I believe it is customary to salute a superior officer Centurion?’
The twitch returned. Rufus thrust his right arm forward with fingers extended but keeping his jaws clamped firmly shut, he said nothing.
With a disdainful and patronising nod, Crastus turned and headed back towards what little remained of the 18th’s tented Headquarters.
His cheerful start to the day ruined, fighting an almost overwhelming desire to gut the little maggot, through clenched teeth Rufus hissed at the rapidly disappearing Tribune’s back.
‘You snide little bastard!’
* * * * *
Like the infantry cohorts, that Legion’s artillery was busy packing up for the long march too. The throwing arms of the great wooden ballista catapults had been firmly secured by the legionaries who served them, and the heavy contraptions’ wheels had been liberally greased, ready for the many miles they would have to trundle on their way to the distant Rhine. Teams of oxen were being brought into position to haul the artillery pieces at the head of the long baggage train which would follow the marching Legions. Smaller dart throwing pieces were also being loaded by grunting sweating artillerymen onto their own transit carts in preparation for when it finally came for the signal to move out.
In the cavalry compound all was ready. They would provide both a forward and rear-guard to the massive convoy, and a screen to protect the long vulnerable flanks of the column which would stretch for many miles, and take hours to pass a single point along the route.
In one corner of their mounted compound, Arminius and Rolf stood making final adjustments to their horses tack. His mouth dry, Rolf listened wide-eyed as Arminius finished recounting the events of the feast to his cousin.
Rolf’s face darkened.
‘Are you sure he truly believes you still loyal and faithful Herman?’
Patting his horse’s neck Arminius smiled.
‘I’m absolutely convinced of it Rolf. Believe me, after what happened last night I’d already be dead, or be in chains facing the torturers hot irons if the old fool didn’t have complete faith in me.’ He shrugged. With a half smile he added. ‘And still considers me almost a bastard son.’
Rolf raised an eyebrow and grinned back.
‘Who plans to take his father’s head...Hmm. Some son, eh cousin?’
Secure in the knowledge that their secret remained safe and the deadly trap was set and ready, both men laughed as they climbed into their waiting saddles.
* * * * *
Even marching six abreast, it would take the entire 17th Legion more than an hour to cross the start line and begin their long march towards winter quarters. The 18th would follow immediately afterwards, with the baggage train close behind. At the head of each Legion, their Eagle was carried before them by the Aquilifer, resplendent in his flowing lion’s mane headdress. Only the bravest and most dedicated legionaries ever held the respected and much revered rank of Aquilifer. He was the Legion’s standard bearer who had made the most solemn blood vow to protect his precious burden, and gladly sacrifice his own life if necessary, to defend it.
The 19th Legion would be the main marching rear-guard, followed closely by a ragtag stream of several thousand civilians, merchants, illegal but quietly ignored families, prostitutes and slaves, who were the last part of the long column, which when fully extended and moving would stretch from start to finish for well over ten miles.
It was usual practice during transit to send detachments of engineers several miles ahead, in advance of the first legion to quickly chop up and clear any obstacles like fallen trees along the route or make hasty repair to pre-built bridges along the established supply route, should they require maintenance. The engineer’s key role was to keep the long winding column moving.
General Varus and his staff officers rode at the head of the great procession. Where they led, the slow moving column would follow.
Varus’s freshly plumed helmet shone in the bright morning sunlight. He was riding a magnificent Arabian stallion; a prized gift from King Herod’s eventual successor when Varus had been provincial Governor of Syria. As both Governor and Roman General he considered it important to look resplendent in front of the men on such an important campaign occasion. He rode adorned in his full dress uniform, wearing a white purple edged cloak and his armour’s detail picked out in glittering gold. He was their General; he had led his three proud Legions into the wild heart of Germania months before, and now, satisfied that all was well in his province, he was finishing the mission by personally leading them safely home for a well-earned rest.
With years of campaigning experience behind him, General Varus knew the long journey back would be tough on his men. They would be travelling through safe and long since pacified areas, so he had decided the previous day that his legionaries, much to their collective relief should move in relatively casual marching order, rather than be at constant high alert dressed in full fighting kit. Even with the aid of the section mule, each man was carrying in excess of sixty pounds of his own body armour and weapons. Personal equipment was bundled and carried securely tied to a wooden yoke pole slung across one shoulder. Even the men’s pair of throwing javelins were fastened onto the yoke, as they wouldn’t be needed during the long march to the Rhine. Armour was worn, but buckles were loose. With shields strapped to their backs, to aid balance under their heavy load, helmets hung around the legionaries’ necks and rested comfortably and easily against their chests.
As
the last of the 17th’s marched across the start line, the 18th Legion prepared to move. With an order barked by its first centurion, the 1st cohort protecting the Eagle came to attention with a thunderous crash of hundreds of hobnailed sandals, on the iron hard parade ground beneath their feet.
Rufus was watching closely. Taking his cue from the leading cohort, he turned to face his men. He roared.
‘CENTURY...SHUN!’
As they stood rigidly to attention before him, Rufus eyed them with his usual scowl, waiting for even one of them to make the fatal mistake of moving before he bellowed their next order. Not one of them did except disgraced legionary Severus who shuffled uncomfortably behind them. He was tied behind the only mule with a long rope tether bound tightly around his wrists. The mule, led by one of Rufus’s men was carrying marching rations and would accompany the century. The other section mules were mixed in somewhere amongst the huge baggage train that would follow the 18th in the procession of the column.
‘Century will move to the right and form six man marching file....RIGHT...TURN!’
In one smooth practiced drill movement, despite being hampered by their heavy load, the eighty men quickly slid into a six abreast marching column.
Rufus waited patiently until the last of the 1st cohort marched passed him. With a snapped order his men followed in step with their comrades, out of what was left of the Legion’s dismantled summer camp, and began the long march home.
Chapter 23
Riding behind their General at the head of the column, two Prefects were engaged in a heated conversation concerning the events from the night before.
‘But what if Arminius is a traitor?’ asked one.
The other rubbed his chin. Staring absently at the long straight road ahead he replied.
‘Doesn’t matter what we think does it? The General has made up his mind and that’s all that counts.’
The first Prefect shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right. There’s not much one man can do anyway, against twenty thousand men.’
Unconvinced, his companion nodded anyway. He had sat close to Varus at the feast the night before and remained troubled by Segestes’ ominous warning.
‘Don’t forget we’ve lost the best part of half a Legion guarding those new damned forts in the interior.’
With a grin, the other replied dismissively.
‘Yes, but even so?’
Their conversation was interrupted by the pounding of horses’ hooves behind them. Arminius and a full squadron of mounted auxiliaries thundered past, making their way towards General Varus and his attending staff officers.
As he came close to the General, Arminius eased the pressure on his reins until he was beside the old man dressed in his finery.
With a smart salute, Arminius said.
‘Sir, I have ordered a mobile screen of cavalry to protect the column’s flanks, but after last night, I want to make absolutely sure that there are no nasty surprises in front of us. With your permission I will take my squadron and scout ahead.’
Varus nodded. ‘Yes, that’s an excellent idea Arminius.’
With a curt nod, Arminius spurred his horse forward, followed in file and a cloud of dust by his entire squadron. He had business elsewhere, and needed an excuse not to be tied to the slow moving column as it ground onwards. It would make slow progress as it circumnavigated the great forests towards the first waypoint a week’s march away at the bridge of boats at Casta Vetera, which spanned the wide River Wasser. From there, the column’s planned route would take it on towards the next distant checkpoint on the River Lippe.
High above, clouds from the east drifted lazily across the blue sky. The weather remained fine, but the most experienced legionaries debated as they marched, on what might happen over the next few days.
‘You’re wrong you know. Doesn’t look like rain to me.’
One of the 18th Legion’s veterans, marching beside the other men of his infantry section muttered something unintelligible. His friend tramping beside him looked up and sniffed the air knowingly.
‘Five sesterces say I’m right mate. I reckon with luck we won’t see rain for at least another week.’
Shifting the weight of his equipment into a more comfortable position across his back the other legionary looked up into the sky, then replied.
‘All right, you’re on. I reckon it’s going to piss down!’
They marched on in silence for a while before one picked up the conversation again and asked
‘Reckon we’ll get a break soon?’
His companion shook his head. With a grunt he said.
‘No chance mate. You know the score Lesterous. We march a standard sixteen miles until mid-afternoon then stop and build the marching camp for the night. The old General wants to sleep safe in his tent and as usual has got it all worked out with his officers who’s going to do the hard work. Let’s face it; they don’t have much else to do.’
His mate grinned as he absently felt for the entrenching tool strapped behind him on his wooden yoke.
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Bet we don’t see any of them digging the bloody ditch around camp when we stop later on.’
His mate sniffed. ‘I’m not putting any money down on that.’ With a sigh he whispered from the corner of his mouth. ‘That’s one wager you’d definitely win old son.’
Somewhere ahead in the first cohort a deep baritone voice began to sing a favourite marching song. Morale was high and the men of the second cohort quickly joined in singing the familiar words.
‘We are the men of the eighteenth legion
Be off with you, get out of our way
When the orders come and the infantry advance
Only victory ends our day
Our javelins fly at the enemies of Rome
Our pride is in the legion
The Emperor commands and we will die
In every blood-soaked shit filled region
We follow the standards, and heed the trumpet’s call
From the barbaric forests of Germany, to the distant shores of Gaul
Across the deserts of Judea, we’ll fight them big and small
We are the fighting infantry....THE EIGHTEENTH CONQUERS ALL !
As the Legion sang, deep in the forests ahead, hunting trails and ancient pathways were filled with bands of barbarian warriors making their way towards the rendezvous Arminius had set them. Most were little more than savages; uneducated and unwashed wild men of the forest, they were hardened by years of battling the elements and their unforgiving surroundings. They were tempered by the harsh life the forest forced both them to lead. All carried what sharp weapons they had. Everywhere, freshly ground edges glinted on axes, knives and recently sharpened spear heads.
Among them several groups were dressed in the chainmail and helmets of German auxiliary light infantry, who until the previous day had served in the Legion’s ranks as mercenaries. Paid off and not required during the coming winter months, the Romans had discharged them until the following spring. Usually, the men of the auxiliary would re-join their families and live out the harsh winter months in their own native settlements, but not this time. Now things were different.
In the utmost secrecy, Arminius had spoken passionately to the men of the native auxiliary cohorts. With his brave words of victory and freedom, he had won them over to the rebellion. Now when the signal came, their swords and spears would be willingly used against their former Roman paymasters.
Shortly before the sun dipped on the grey horizon, the great marching camp was finished. Vertical walls of felled trees surrounded it, and outside the constructed defences a deep ditch protected by sharpened stakes became the tired legionary’s home for the rapidly approaching night. Work details allocated by their centurions’ had returned from gathering firewood and fresh water. As the men pitched their tents safely inside the palisade and began cooking their evening meal, sentries patrolled on the elevated platform of the newly built walls, sharp eyed and ready to raise
the alarm if attack came.
Within the Eighteenth Legion’s lines, the men of the second cohort were making the most of their opportunity to relax. Hungry after the day’s long march and the labours that always followed, they attacked the day’s soup and bread ration enthusiastically, as they sat in small groups around smoking cooking fires chatting to each other. One of the legionaries had removed a sandal and by the light of the fire was picking at a corn which had been giving him trouble during the day’s march. Wincing at the pain in his inflamed toe, absently he said to his mate beside him.
‘It’s a shame about Sextus getting caught like that. I’ve known him for years and he’s always struck me as being a good soldier.’
His mate spat into the fire. The gobbet hissed in the embers.
‘Yeah, I know.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Look, he might be a good bloke, but he’s still a bloody slave. I didn’t sign up to soldier with the likes of him. You know the rules.... I reckon he’s for the chop; they’ve got him bang to rights.’
Still working studiously on his corn, the other legionary sniffed.
‘You’re right I suppose. I’m guessing they’ll give him short shrift when we get back...Still think it’s a rotten shame though, all the same.’
High on a nearby hill, hidden by the darkness under the dark canopy of the forest Arminius and Rolf lay watching the vast spread of twinkling camp fires below.
‘There are so many Herman.’ Rolf whispered softly in awe. ‘Can we really defeat that many?’
Arminius’s stare narrowed. His eyes stayed focused on the great sprawl of the three Legion’s temporary camp.
‘Yes Rolf, I’m sure we can.’
His confidence was tempered with concern however. Turning his head towards his cousin he enquired.
‘Which tribes have arrived at the rendezvous so far?’
Rolf stiffened. He had spent the afternoon waiting at the arranged glade deep in the forest beside the confluence of two woodland streams, welcoming and counting the tribesmen as they arrived.
