Lost Legio IX: The Karus Saga

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “We had one die today,” Pammon said. “The fever took him.”

  “Who?”

  “Saccus.”

  “Damn.” Karus rubbed his jaw. Saccus was a long tenure veteran. He had been due to muster out and retire just as soon as this summer’s campaign season concluded. Saccus had survived not only the legion’s harsh discipline, but many difficult campaigns. He did not deserve to go out the way he had.

  “You know, I thought that old bastard would outlive us all,” Pammon said.

  “Damn.” Karus punched a fist into his palm. “What arrangements have been made for his remains?”

  “The surgeon will be burning his body and several others who passed during the night. Second Cohort has seen to the funeral pyre.”

  “You have collected his kit?” Karus asked.

  “Yes,” Pammon said. “His armor and sword are being carried by the mules. His family is another matter.”

  “Saccus has a family?” Karus asked in surprise.

  “He took Illya as a wife earlier this winter, when her man died with the Sixth.”

  “Illya … ” Karus tried to remember the woman, but failed. Legionaries were not permitted to marry, so she would have been his unofficial wife. “I don’t know her.”

  “Ugly as a goat,” Pammon said. “But she’s really good at laundering tunics. I think that’s why old Saccus married her.”

  “For the money or for the clean tunics?” Karus laughed. Knowing Saccus, he would not have been surprised to learn that he had married her for the extra money. Like most widowed women, Illya would have looked rapidly for a replacement husband and protector. Life as a camp follower was not an easy one.

  “Extra coin to buy drink when off duty doesn’t hurt none, no matter what she looks like,” Pammon said. “Besides, when it’s dark out, what does it matter anyway?”

  “Old Saccus wasn’t a looker himself,” Karus reminded Pammon.

  “You know, I think they actually enjoyed each other’s company,” Pammon said somewhat sadly. “Gave each other what comfort they could. He was also fond of her children.”

  “Children?”

  “Four,” Pammon said. “Two boys, two girls.”

  Karus was silent as he mulled things over. On a march like this one, it was a bad time to lose a husband. Illya and her children would not be entitled to any food from the legion, unless Saccus provided it. Without him, Illya would have to fend for herself and rely upon her own resources. Karus was unwilling to let that happen.

  “See that she and her brood get fed,” Karus said. “Have someone check in on them regularly to make sure they are okay. Any problems with that, come and see me.” It wasn’t much, but it was the least he could do for old Saccus, especially after the man’s twenty-five years of good service.

  “I’ve already seen to it,” Pammon said. “Saccus’s portion of the funeral fund went to her instead of one of those money-grubbing priests that came along with us.”

  “Good.”

  “Karus.” Pammon hesitated, almost as if he was unsure. It was very unlike him.

  “What is it?”

  “There is serious discontent in the ranks,” Pammon said. “I would not speak of it were I not so concerned, but I fear it is spreading.”

  “I know,” Karus said. “Just a few more miles up the road is all.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then … hopefully the legate will see that we can’t crush these Celtic tribes by ourselves. With any luck, we march back to Eboracum and wait for the other legions to come up.”

  “You really think so?”

  Karus shrugged, not willing to lie to Pammon.

  “That’s what I thought.” Pammon let out a long breath.

  “We’ve been through worse,” Karus said, “and if I have anything to say about it, we will get back to Eboracum.”

  The two centurions were silent as they watched their cohort, having packed and stowed most of their gear, begin to form up. Pammon’s century was already in position, standing loosely in formation, heavy marching yokes resting on the ground by their feet as they waited for inspection. The night before, the men had painstakingly cleaned all the dried grime from their armor. They looked presentable to Karus’s critical eye.

  As Karus stood there watching his men, he silently fumed. Flaccus was bloody right. These were all good men. The legate was leading the Ninth to disaster. It had become more than a gut feeling. He had never been more sure of anything in his life.

  “Where is my kit?”

  “My boys have it over there,” Pammon said, gesturing toward a pile of gear, including a shield in its canvas covering.

  Karus was already wearing his armor and sword. “Good, keep an eye on it. I am going to speak with the tribune.”

  “Saturninus?”

  “Yes. I will be back shortly.”

  Karus left Pammon and made for the tribune’s tent, which was located right next to the legate’s. Both tents were still standing, but a party was ready to bring them down as soon as they were no longer required. Outside of Saturninus’s tent, a slave was readying the tribune’s horse, a fine brown Numidian stallion that was worth a small fortune. The tribune had brought several horses with him, but this was the first time that Karus had seen this one being saddled. He knew it was Saturninus’s pride and joy. An animal like that attracted a lot of attention.

  At the tent entrance, which had been thrown open for light, Karus stopped. Saturninus was being dressed by his body slave, who was securing his master’s chest armor, tying off each strap. Once the armor was in place, the slave then tied a thin blue ribbon around the tribune’s chest, signifying his rank, even though the expensively ornate armor told the same story. Saturninus looked around and spotted Karus waiting patiently as the slave worked.

  “Ah, my favorite equestrian centurion,” Saturninus said, eyes lighting up at the sight of Karus. “You have brightened my otherwise gloomy morning. So good of you to pay me the courtesy of a visit.”

  “I am the only centurion of the equestrian class in this legion,” Karus said wryly and entered the tent.

  “You made my point for me,” Saturninus said. “And though you may be my favorite, you look very dour today. Tell me, my friend, what troubles you?”

  “The position of the legion,” Karus said, getting right to the point.

  “Oh, not that again.” Saturninus breathed an unhappy sigh. “Karus, the legate’s mind is set. However, you should know that your constant nagging concerned me enough that just this morning I argued against continuing forward. I recommended we turn back to Eboracum. Our dwindling supply alone is troubling enough.”

  Karus was surprised by that. Perhaps there was hope for Saturninus yet, if he now recognized the legion’s peril.

  “What did the legate say?” Though Karus already knew. His orders had arrived from headquarters earlier this morning. The march would continue.

  Saturninus made a pained face. “You have to understand at this point it is more about losing face than anything else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For someone so astute and educated you can be incredibly thick at times.” The tribune gave Karus a long look, sighed, and then shooed his slave away as he turned fully around. “Karus, look at it this way. If Julionus turns back now, the governor will surely have his balls for breakfast. He marched the legion into hostile territory without direct orders. Should he return now without a victory, there would be no gain to this venture. And that does not even begin to cover the material cost in terms of supplies expended and men lost. Are you following me so far?”

  Karus nodded, and knew acutely where the tribune was going with his line of thought.

  “Good,” Saturninus continued. “Turning back would be a political mistake, perhaps even career suicide. Though, as you have so rightly advocated and articulated on so many occasions, it is the tactically correct decision. So, you see, Julionus is caught in a trap of his own making.”

  “He mu
st continue to push forward,” Karus said, “and hope to bring the enemy to a decisive battle.”

  “Which I fear,” Saturninus said, “judging from all available evidence, is inevitable.”

  “So, if he faces the enemy in battle, and wins,” Karus said, thinking it through, “he can return to Eboracum with honor and save face?”

  “And the governor will have no choice but to honor our fine, audacious legate.” Saturninus smiled sourly. “The governor will embrace Julionus as a conquering hero, even though he will want nothing more than to sack him for foolishly putting his legion into the field and in harm’s way without orders.”

  “What if …?” Karus swallowed. He did not want to voice his concerns about a military defeat, and hesitated.

  “Now you see the matter clearly,” Saturninus said, becoming grave.

  Karus was silent, his thoughts racing. This all revolved around naked ambition and saving face. The legate was leading them into a dangerous position, and it was clear now Julionus likely knew it. Saturninus had as much as hinted at it.

  “Look here, Karus,” Saturninus said with a disarming smile. It seemed more than a little forced to Karus. “We have over thirteen thousand highly trained and disciplined men. At the very least, this venture will end up a draw. These hairy barbarians will throw themselves against our shield wall until they come to the realization they cannot break our lines. When that happens, I will strongly encourage the legate to claim ‘his’ victory, and then we can all go home.”

  Karus was silent as he thought this through.

  “Besides,” Saturninus added, “when was the last time an entire legion was lost?”

  “Sir, have you ever fought the Caledonian tribes?” Karus asked quietly, instead of listing a few of Rome’s more ignominious defeats at the hands of barbarians.

  The tribune held Karus’s gaze a moment and then looked uncomfortably away. He used the opportunity to reach for his sword, which had been lying on a table in its scabbard and harness. He slipped it on before turning back to Karus.

  “Karus, do you know what your problem is?”

  Karus shook his head.

  “You worry too much.”

  “It has kept me alive longer than most.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Saturninus said. “Now, I believe you have your own cohort to look after.”

  “Yes, sir.” Karus took the hint and saluted.

  “Do try to stay out of the grime today,” Saturninus called after him with a chuckle as Karus left the tent. “Equestrians should not wallow in it like the common people. You have to think about your future, Karus.”

  “I will try to remember that.”

  Karus stepped back out into the frigid morning air. The slave was still there preparing the tribune’s mount, which was tethered to a small wooden post. Karus walked up and laid a hand upon the horse’s neck, appreciating the fine quality of the animal. It was surely one of the fastest horses in the legion, clearly superior to those the cavalry used as mounts. Such an animal could get you both into and out of trouble swiftly.

  “One day,” Karus said softly to the horse, “perhaps I shall own an animal as fine as you.”

  “Brutus,” the slave said.

  “What?” Karus looked over.

  “His name is Brutus,” the slave said, and then went back to work.

  “The name suits you,” Karus said to the horse, admiring the powerful muscles. “The bringer-down of tyrants.”

  The horse glanced sideways at him and whinnied. He was already saddled and had a heavy load of saddlebags not only tied to the saddle, but secured around the rump. These included several tightly tied bundles of hay.

  Was Saturninus planning on going out with a cavalry patrol?

  Karus looked back toward the tent. Was that why the tribune’s horse was so well-provisioned? Karus’s orders to Valens had been clear. For a moment, he wondered if the cavalry prefect had slyly arranged an extended scouting run with Saturninus, then disregarded the thought. Even Valens would not be foolish enough to take a spoiled fop like the tribune into danger.

  The slave had just finished tying off one of the saddlebags and bent down to pick up the last one, which rested at his feet. He hefted it with some effort and placed it on the horse’s back. The bag chinked, and Karus’s head came around, his eyes narrowing.

  Saturninus was bringing his money with him.

  Karus stepped back from the horse and took a deep breath as he stole one more glance toward the tribune’s tent, then turned back toward his cohort. He shook his head, more deeply troubled than he had been just a few heartbeats before.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  With a deep sucking sound and a lurch, the wagon rolled forward, the wheels finally coming free from the mud. Karus staggered forward a step, the wagon pulling away from him. He almost fell but was able to recover at the last moment.

  Resting his hands upon his knees, he breathed deeply as a cold drizzle fell around them. He eyed the back of the heavily loaded bed with a feeling of relief. It had taken him, along with eight other legionaries, a good while to free the blasted thing.

  “Good work,” Karus said to the winded men around him. He straightened back up. Behind them, a group of legionaries was working to free another wagon. The dour-faced Centurion Pulmonus was lending a hand.

  “Right,” Karus said. “Grab yokes and keep moving. It’s the only way to stay warm.”

  There was no talking as the men moved to obey. They had stacked their yokes off to the side of the track. Karus watched them a moment. They lacked the normal spring to their step. It was a troubling sign. The march was sapping everyone’s strength, but this was somewhat different. There was a lethargy hanging over the legion that Karus had not seen for years.

  He chalked it up to short rations and the fatigue of the march. The legate had ordered that rations be cut by a third this morning, the second such reduction so far. It was a sign of the legion’s deteriorating supply situation.

  Karus’s kit, which he had taken to carrying, was piled with the other yokes. All available space on the wagons and carts had been allocated to the sick or injured. There was an increasing number of the latter as isolated small unit encounters with the enemy increased the deeper the legion marched into Caledonian territory. It was clear they were nearing their destination, where the enemy’s main body surely waited.

  Karus hefted his shield and yoke, the men doing the same. Within moments, all were back on the muddy road, trudging along behind the wagon they had just freed. Karus shifted the yoke into a comfortable position and then shivered as a stream of rain iced its way down his back. Moving would keep them somewhat warm, but the cold drizzle seemed to counteract the effort. The reality was that there was no warmth to be had, even by marching.

  Not only were his feet numb, but his hands ached terribly. With one hand, Karus adjusted his helmet strap, tightening it. Instead of carrying the incredibly heavy thing from a tie about his neck, he wore it to keep his head dry. It was scant protection against the elements, but it was better than nothing. Unfortunately, the rest of his body was either damp or downright wet, the water having inevitably worked its way through his armor.

  It was one thing to be muddy, but another to be thoroughly soaked through, especially on such a cold day. He was as miserable as the men, but worked to keep it from them. Such examples gave them strength of will and helped them continue onward where others might give up.

  Karus glanced up at the sky. The cloud cover hung low and seemed to cling to the small, narrow valley the legion was marching through. The last few days had seen weather just like this. Not only was the effort of the march taking a toll, but the wretched weather and now the short rations were adding to the misery. Karus blinked as a drop of water fell directly into his right eye, and then scowled. He wished the gods would send them some fortune, for nothing seemed to be going right.

  To his right there was a large hill with a slope that began with a gradual grade, but within ten feet became quite
steep. He followed the slope upward, to where it disappeared into grayness of the low-hanging cloud cover. Something about the hill captured his attention, and he stopped to study it further.

  Karus chewed his lip as his eyes raked its slopes. He had passed a number just like it—tall, craggy, and forbidding. Winter-browned vegetation, rocks, and boulders littered its slopes. But despite his weary condition, he felt drawn to climb it, as if something were tugging him upward toward its hidden crest.

  Karus almost took a step in the direction of the hill, but a crack of the whip snapped his attention away. He was in the path of a mule-pulled wagon. He stepped out of the way. A dozen legionaries were closely following the wagon, including Centurion Pulmonus. The supplies had been unloaded to make room for the sick and injured.

  The wounded groaned with every bounce and jolt. The wagons were torturous for them, but there was no alternative. They could not be left behind for the enemy. The mules slogged onward, heads bowed by the effort, thoroughly ignorant of the suffering behind them as they sloshed and slipped their way sullenly along, occasionally requiring a crack from the whip.

  “This cannot go on for much longer,” Karus said quietly to himself as he watched the wagon and the legionaries assigned to it trudge by. Their heads were down, and they looked thoroughly beaten. It was almost as if the legion were retreating from the enemy instead of advancing to contact.

  Karus shifted his yoke to a more comfortable position again. With each step forward, even he was beginning to feel its weight. His stomach rumbled with hunger. “What happens when we finally meet the enemy?”

  The column, with men interspersed between the supply carts and wagons, stretched out for as far as he could see. The line of march continued forward for at least a mile, perhaps more. The supply train was moving slowly, and it was quite possible the cohorts leading the way had pulled ahead somewhat, creating a gap between formations.

  Over the last few days, Karus had received complaints from the legate concerning the lagging train. But there really was nothing Karus could do to speed things up. The mud was proving a difficult obstacle. Worse, both the men and the animals were beginning to flag.