Betrayal: The Centurions I

by Riches, Anthony

  The auxiliary centurion regarded him in amazement, and after a moment’s silence Aquillius turned to look at him, flicking a glance up and down his body, as if assessing the amount of effort that would be required to deal with the man if their trial of wills became physical.

  ‘Those two words, Centurion, are “Yes, Centurion”. Your prefect here won’t have a problem with them, because he is a Roman, and will obey the orders of his superior without question. But you, you’re a different matter, aren’t you? You might be tempted to question my instructions, and that, Centurion, would be unwise, given that we’re at war and I really don’t have either the time or the patience to argue with you. So, do as I tell you, quickly and without question, and there won’t be a problem between us.’

  He turned back to the prefect, who had forgotten the scroll in his amazement at the big man’s swift and ruthless manner with his subordinate.

  ‘You’ve read my orders, Prefect?’

  ‘Yes, Centurion.’

  ‘Do you consider them to be a valid order from your superior?

  ‘The Roman looked down at the message scroll again, examining the wax seal carefully.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ll follow my instructions to the letter?’

  The prefect nodded slowly, looking up from the written order that left him absolutely no latitude for anything other than complete subordination to the man before him.

  ‘Yes, Centurion.’

  Aquillius nodded, his expression unchanged from the emotionless, professional mask that he had worn since stepping through the fort’s gate.

  ‘And you, Centurion? Will you and I have a problem?’ He turned back to his colleague, permitting a small smile to twitch his lips momentarily. ‘On this occasion only, the word “no” will be acceptable to me.’

  The other man looked at him for a moment longer and then shook his head.

  ‘There’ll be no problem, Centurion. If my prefect will follow your orders, then it’s my duty to do the same.’

  ‘You may find others who are less willing to accommodate your assumption of command.’

  Aquillius nodded at the prefect’s baldly stated opinion, his hard-eyed mask back in place.

  ‘We’ll have to hope they see sense then, won’t we, Prefect? The military code is very clear as to the punishment for failing to obey orders. And now I’m going to need a horse—’

  ‘Smoke! Smoke on the horizon!’

  All three men spun to face the source of the shout, Aquillius reacting first and sprinting for the fort’s western gate. Taking the steps up onto the wall’s parapet three at a time, he stared out over the flat landscape. On the distant mist-shrouded horizon a thin line of black smoke was rising in the dawn light.

  ‘That’s Praetorium Agrippina.’

  Aquillius turned to look at the centurion, who was staring out over the empty landscape.

  ‘You’ve already evacuated the fort, I presume?’

  ‘Evacuated it?’ The other man turned to look at his new commander in confusion. ‘Why would we have evacuated? It’s a perfectly—’

  ‘When you received the warning? Decurion Labeo’s messenger?’

  The centurion stared up at the hulking legion officer in confusion.

  ‘There’s been no messenger from anybody, Centurion.’

  Aquillius thought for a moment, then shook his head dismissively.

  ‘What strength was based there?’

  The other man grimaced.

  ‘Was? Ah, you mean … a century.’

  The centurion nodded solemnly.

  ‘Those men are already dead. Hopefully they died quickly, but that century is already lost. Where are the rest?’

  The other man thought for a moment.

  ‘Another century at Matilo, two more at White Water, two at Black Soil, one at Laurel Fort and three here in reserve.’

  The legion man nodded.

  ‘Show me a map. And get some men ready to ride with messages. You have horses?’

  Staring at the map in the fort’s small praetorium, he thought for a moment.

  ‘Your men at Matilo are also probably already as good as dead unless their centurion is astute enough to pull his men out and make a run for it before the tribesmen get there when he sees the smoke. Is he …?’

  He looked at the senior centurion, who shook his head with pursed lips.

  ‘Then we forget them.’

  He waved away the prefect’s feeble attempt to protest at the abandonment of his men.

  ‘They’ll be under attack inside the hour and dead less than an hour after that, unless they get out before the tribesmen surround their fort. As for the rest, send messengers to them as fast as they can ride, and tell them to march east, as fast as they can. We’ve got enough ships to get everyone away, but I can’t risk sending them any further downriver, so we’ll evacuate from here. My plan is to head back upriver and consolidate with the Ubian cohort that’s holding the forts further to the east, and a Tungrian cohort will be shipped downriver from the Old Camp. With your Frisians and the Batavian cavalry cohort we’re going to form a new line of defence close to the river, with the warships to provide artillery support, and then we’ll see what these rebels do next, once they’re done with burning out empty forts and find they have a real battle on their hands.’

  Batavodurum, August AD 69

  ‘Your ruse hasn’t worked, Kivilaz.’

  Hramn dropped his helmet on the desk, running a hand through his hair. He had dismounted a moment before and was sweating heavily from his exertions in the saddle. ‘You hoped they’d leave the border garrisons in place and trust you to hunt down the raiders who are burning them out, but they clearly didn’t believe you when you made the suggestion. The Romans used their fleet to pull them out, and left the forts for Brinno and his men to burn. Satisfying for him, but meaningless for us when they’ve rescued most of their strength and denied us the victory that would have drawn the tribes to join us.’

  The prince looked up from his study of the map before him.

  ‘It was always a gamble, hoping that they would leave the border forts manned so that we could pick them off one at a time.’ He grinned at the cavalryman’s sweat-stained tunic. ‘You look as if you’ve had an interesting time of it.’

  The guardsman laughed curtly.

  ‘If you call being chased for five miles by Labeo’s cavalrymen interesting, then I suppose it was.’

  ‘And did you get close enough to see anything worth seeing?’

  The decurion shook his head.

  ‘I didn’t. They saw me and the rest of my century coming and chased us straight back down the road in force, pretty much all the way to the city gates. I thought you said our brother and his cavalry wing were with us?’

  Kivilaz looked up.

  ‘Not every plan goes as we might like, Decurion. Tiberius Claudius Labeo has clearly decided which side of the line he stands, and at least he had the decency not to make his intentions clear in the middle of a battle. I presume your century weren’t the only men we had scouting the enemy force?’

  ‘No, I sent a pair of my best men round to the west nice and quietly, and they got close enough to see what’s going on at the river. It seems we face three cohorts of auxiliary infantry and Labeo’s cavalry, that and the ships they used to transport the Tungrians here from the Old Camp so quickly, all lined up with their bolt throwers ready to shoot on the flanks.’

  Kivilaz nodded.

  ‘As I expected. The Frisians from the forts to the west, the Tungrians from the Old Camp, probably the Ubians from further down the river and our erstwhile brother in arms and his horsemen. I’d imagine they shipped the Tungrian cohort in on the way to pull the Frisians out, while more ships went to get the Ubians. On their own the infantry wouldn’t worry me, but Labeo’s decision to turn against his own people means that your guardsmen will have their work cut out keeping them honest on the battlefield, rather than being free to terrorise the auxiliaries’ fl
anks and rear.’

  ‘You plan to fight them then?’

  The older man nodded briskly.

  ‘As soon as Brinno and the allied tribes are done with burning out empty forts and get themselves across the river, yes. If we wait any longer the legion that was left behind in the Old Camp when the rest marched off to fight Otho will get their men into the field, and even raw recruits have some value in battle if they outnumber experienced soldiers by enough of a margin and are sensibly led. If we had our cohorts with us I’d be happy to wait until the legions arrive, because our boys would go through them like a sword through silk, but without them we’ll have to chew the enemy up one mouthful at a time. And speaking of the cohorts …’

  He walked to the wall map, pointing at a spot far to the southeast.

  ‘Fresh word has reached me from Scar. His original message from the Winter Camp was that they’d been sent back north by Vitellius, to stop them from bickering with the Fourteenth Gemina again. But this morning another messenger arrived with fresh news that’s not half as much to my taste. It seems that with Vespasianus having challenged him for the throne, Vitellius has thought better of having banished our men back to Germania, and has ordered them back south again. I need a man to ride and warn them what’s happening here, get them turned around and heading back north as quickly as possible. Someone I can trust to get round the enemy forces coming downriver and get the message through, because without their strength we’ll be a lot weaker than I’m comfortable with, even if the tribes do rise up and join us. So pick your best and brightest decurion and tell him to have his men ready to ride south at dawn when we march north.’

  Hramn stared at him for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was devoid of any emotion.

  ‘You want me to send a whole century of my men away, quite possibly never to be seen again if they run into serious opposition?’

  Kivilaz nodded.

  ‘Yes. This is one message I have to know will get through, so whoever takes it has to have enough strength at his back to fight his way through anything short of a full cohort. And enough men to scout the roads in front of him to avoid anything he can’t overwhelm.’

  ‘You miss my point. You’re asking me to send men on what might turn out to be nothing better than suicide?’

  Kivilaz shrugged, fixing the guardsman with his one eyed stare.

  ‘I can see your point, Hramn. Now you see mine. Without the cohorts the best we can ever be is a tribal army, a loose alliance of armed mobs capable of overrunning a single legion on its own, under the right conditions, but you were at the battle of High Hills when we tore the guts out of the Iceni, so you know what happens when a tribal army runs into even one well-led legion and its auxiliaries. Slaughter.’ He allowed the word to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. ‘We need the cohorts to give the army an iron core. Ironclad. Iron disciplined. Without them we won’t last more than a few months, but with them we’ve a chance of building an effective defence, and tying down the local garrison for long enough that Vespasianus has a better chance of winning. And if that’s not enough to convince you, consider this question. What do you think will happen when the news of this revolt reaches Vitellius?’

  He paused briefly, allowing time for Hramn to ponder the question, but continued before the other man could answer.

  ‘I don’t have to think, because I know exactly what I’d do if I were him. I’d order our cohorts to be separated into three or four groups, and marched to legion garrisons where they could be broken up and used as casualty replacements. Our men will end their days as hated traitors in a sea of enemies, always under suspicion, handed every dirty job going, and cursing our names to the day they die.’

  ‘And it has to be my men that bear this news?’

  The older man looked up at him in silence for a moment.

  ‘You tell me, Hramn. Tell me who’s cleverer than your men, tougher than your men, more bloody-minded than your men? Tell me their names, and look me in the eye as you’re doing it, and I’ll send them instead. But in the absence of anyone else who can demonstrate those qualities then yes, it has to be your men. The future of this tribe depends on those cohorts marching in from the east before the Romans can muster some real legions to come and knock on our doors, which means we only get one chance at this.’

  Hramn nodded tiredly.

  ‘Very well. I’ll brief your cousin Bairaz tonight and have him ready to march at daybreak. But if he ends up on a cross you can expect your eventual arrival in Hades to be greeted with a fair amount of derision.’

  Kivilaz snorted.

  ‘My arrival in Hades is going to be noisy enough, with or without your being there to greet me. This war is going to claim a good few spirits before we get done.’

  River Rhenus, August AD 69

  ‘They’re ready, Kivilaz.’

  The prince nodded, accepting Hramn’s assessment of what he could see with his own eyes as he scanned the line of his makeshift rebel army. Drawn up on the right wing in an impeccable formation were his horse guards, the former imperial bodyguards who were gimlet-eyed in the presence of the enemy, eager for the opportunity to avenge the injustice that had been done to them. Next to them, and in boisterous good spirits after their rout of the Roman border forces, were the Cananefates, hundreds of newly blooded warriors eager to fight again. He smiled, knowing that men who had not yet tasted defeat would always clamour for another opportunity to drink the heady wine of victory, never believing that the taste might prove unexpectedly bitter. And there, on the army’s left, were his own people, the two five-hundred-man strong Batavi militia cohorts that had been trained by Hramn’s men to the point where, whilst they lacked the Roman troops’ lavish equipment, they were likely to prove the auxiliaries’ match in discipline. More would come from the German tribes across the Rhenus by the thousand, always eager to strike out at their hated oppressor given the chance to do so, but only if he managed to beat the enemy waiting for them along the river’s southern bank.

  ‘They knew we were coming.’

  Kivilaz nodded, looking out from the vantage point of his horse’s saddle across the half-mile of open ground that separated the Batavi and their allies from the Roman force waiting for them close to the Rhenus. The river’s bank to either side of the compact enemy formation was lined with moored warships, clearly positioned to give clear arcs for their bolt throwers and doubtless ready to unleash a murderous storm of iron-tipped bolts as soon as his men advanced into their effective range.

  ‘Of course they knew we were coming. They have some of the most experienced cavalry scouts in the empire in their service, thanks to our former brother Labeo. And besides, he was careful to make sure he knew our plans, before he took his men east to join Vitellius’s general. Which means that they know we plan to defeat them here, before the legions from the Old Camp can intervene, and that we have to take the initiative to do so. While they can win simply by holding their positions and resisting us.’

  Hramn shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Labeo. Of all the men I would have expected to desert the tribe in its hour of need, I would never have picked him.’

  The prince smiled wryly.

  ‘If it’s of any consolation, Decurion, neither would I. Why else would I have made him privy to our designs for throwing the Romans out of our territory? Not that he knows everything.’

  The guardsman turned in his saddle to look at him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘You kept something back from him that you intend to use to our advantage today?’

  ‘It’s not so much that I didn’t tell him, more something that only ripened in the last few hours.’

  ‘And do you intend to share this with the rest of us?’

  Kivilaz returned his stare.

  ‘Not for the time being, Decurion. Let’s see what our opponent chooses to do first, shall we? Although I’d say his choices are limited. He can bring his three cohorts forward, of course, and take us on at close quarters,
but I’m not sure his Frisians will be up to the job, not after having been pulled out of their frontier forts having abandoned their comrades to their fate.’

  ‘They might be raving for revenge.’

  The prince shook his head.

  ‘Do they look like they’re raving for revenge? They look sullen, pissed off, scared, but raving? Not from where I’m sitting. The man leading on the other side knows they’re brittle, so he’s put his Tungrian cohort on their left flank and his Ubians on the right, to make sure they don’t shuffle off in either direction when the blood starts flying.’

  He stared across the gap between the two armies, seeing the armoured figure of a big man on horseback with a centurion’s crest riding along the Roman army’s rear.

  ‘Novel of them to have given command to a centurion. Whoever he is, he doesn’t look like the soft touch I was hoping for. I wonder who he is?’

  River Rhenus, August AD 69

  Aquillius climbed down from his horse, his back and legs already aching from the unfamiliar posture, walking briskly across to Labeo’s Batavian cavalry on his small army’s left wing and looking up at their commander with a stare which was, if not overtly hostile, then certainly sceptical as to the man’s trustworthiness. Labeo dismounted, a move clearly intended to placate the rugged centurion’s concerns, and saluted neatly.

  ‘Centurion Aquillius. My men are ready for action.’

  The big man looked past him at his horsemen, well equipped, stern-faced and waiting for the battle with the look of men ready to do their duty.

  ‘I believe they are. I still wonder on which side though.’

  The Batavi officer’s face didn’t change from its grave professional expression.