Hero of Rome trt-1

by Douglas Jackson

  But was it truly civilization? His eyes strayed again to the buildings around him, and he noted that many were simply reused barrack blocks, subdivided into homes. Even those that had been rebuilt showed signs of having been thrown up in a hurry. He’d thought Colonia a true example of a Roman provincial town, but now he studied it he realized it was a caricature of one. It had none of the comfortable solidity or deep roots that could be found even in Gaul or Espana. The feeling grew as they turned left on to what had been the via principalis, past the Forum and the curia, which was simply part of the original headquarters complex, extended and with an extra storey added. Here the town’s toga-clad elders gathered on the steps, but he kept his eyes to the front and marched the cohort past with only a covert glance. A protocol must be followed. First, he would settle in his men. Then he would wait for their invitation, which would arrive in its own good time.

  Falco had been as good as his word. The tent lines were laid out with symmetrical precision and it would be the work of a few minutes to erect them. No ditches to be dug today. And here at least the defensive wall was intact, probably because the area had yet to be earmarked for development. The old soldier was right; they were as secure as they would be in the fortress at Glevum. Still, he thought, there will be a guard tonight and every night. Civilization could make a soldier soft and he would not allow that to happen. They needed to be hard for what awaited them in the spring. He would make sure they were.

  Beyond the flat, hardened earth of the camp ground was the beginnings of a semicircular structure which must be the town’s theatre. And beyond that again, something which astonished him.

  The Temple of Claudius.

  Of course, he had heard tales of its grandeur, but nothing had prepared him for the reality. It was the glory of Britain. Constructed of creamy white marble and glowing like a beacon even in the flat light of an early autumn afternoon, the temple dwarfed everything around it. Wide, fluted columns five or six times the height of a man supported an enormous triangular architrave with a decorative marble frieze showing a bull being led to the sacrifice, and another depicting the Emperor Claudius riding in a chariot. Gold statues of winged Victory rose tall at each corner of the pitched roof. The temple stood in the centre of a walled precinct perhaps a hundred and fifty paces square with the entrance in the middle of the southern wall, which was set back from the line of the main street. Building plots and vegetable gardens dotted the area around the precinct, but the isolation merely served to emphasize the structure’s immense scale. Intrigued, Valerius left his officers to set up the cohort headquarters and walked to the front of the precinct to take a closer look. Here the wall was lower and he was able to see the massive building in its entirety. He had been taught to admire the balanced symmetry and perfection of form of fine architecture, and in the Temple of Divine Claudius he found it manifested in a place he would never have expected.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ He turned to discover a tall, balding figure in a pristine white toga standing behind him. The man studied him complacently. ‘The Emperor sent an architect from Rome to supervise the building and every ounce of marble was carried here from the quarries at Carrara. It is of similar design to the temples at Nemausus and Lugdunum in Gaul, larger than the first, but slightly smaller than the second. Tiberius Petronius Victor, quaestor and adviser to the council,’ he introduced himself.

  Valerius smiled to show he was impressed, but something in the man’s voice — a certain unnecessary arrogance — irritated him. Pride was something he understood, but it was as if Petronius wanted him to believe he’d personally laid every stone.

  ‘Tribune Gaius Valerius Verrens of the Twentieth. I lead a detachment of the First cohort. We will be based here for the winter.’

  Petronius smiled in his turn, showing an array of white teeth that were so unnaturally perfect they might have belonged to another, much younger man. ‘I knew of your coming, of course. I myself served with the staff of the Second.’ The words were accompanied by a certain inflexion that made Valerius aware their status among the equestrian classes was approximately equal, but also raised an intriguing question in the younger man’s mind. Normally, a quaestor would serve on the procurator’s staff for two years, but Petronius gave the impression of being a permanent member of the city’s bureaucracy. ‘We have much to do here, as you see. Colonia should be the pride of Rome, yet we have barely started. In the beginning we were encouraged to be ambitious, perhaps overly so. Projects were begun but never properly completed, public buildings commissioned but never built. The veterans,’ his tone made it clear he didn’t care to be included among them, ‘preferred to spend their money and their time on the land. Even then, we might have succeeded, but the temple…’

  Naturally, when the Emperor had ordered the construction of the temple which would bear his name, every sestertius, every denarius and every aurius must be dedicated to it. Such funds could be diverted, of course, but there was an unspoken admission that it would take a braver man than Petronius to do it.

  ‘Yet, as you say, it is wonderful,’ Valerius said politely.

  Petronius gave a tight smile. ‘You are invited to join us tomorrow at the eighth hour, in the banqueting hall in the precinct.’ He indicated a doorway in the eastern wall.

  Valerius nodded his acceptance. ‘I will be glad to attend.’

  ‘When will your men be ready to start work? As I said, there is much to do here and the rains will begin soon.’

  Valerius realized that Petronius expected his legionaries to carry out construction work in Colonia itself, and he almost laughed. ‘I’m sorry, quaestor,’ he said, allowing his voice to take on an edge of irritation. ‘My men are soldiers, not house-builders. They carry out military projects. We have a warrant to repair the roads and bridges to the north of here.’ With a curt nod and one final look at the temple, he returned to his men.

  VI

  Three hours later Julius lurched into the cohort’s administrative tent to find Valerius sitting in the lamplight at his collapsible desk with a writing block in front of him and a stylus in his hand.

  ‘My apologies, tribune, I understood you were staying in the town. If I’d known…’

  Valerius looked up. ‘No apologies required, Julius. That’s exactly what I intended to do, but I wanted to see the men settled in, and I rode out to visit the cavalry ala at the auxiliary camp to the south-east. They’re Thracians who’ve been here since just after the invasion and their prefect is a very conscientious young man — Bela, son of one of their tribal chieftains. His troopers showed me some tricks on horseback that would make your hair stand on end. Tomorrow will be time enough to seek out my billet. I’ll be happy in a tent tonight.’

  ‘Falco…’

  ‘Falco is an unusual officer.’

  ‘A good officer. The best.’

  Valerius accepted the unspoken reproach. ‘They tell me he has three thousand men under his command?’

  Julius shook his head. ‘Perhaps nominally, but he gives the figure as less, nearer two thousand. But two thousand veterans who were once the cream of the legions. The Colonia militia. They don’t look like proper soldiers, I’ll grant you. But that doesn’t make them bad soldiers. I served with many of them. As long as they can walk and carry a sword they can still fight.’

  ‘As long as you don’t ask them to walk far.’

  Julius laughed. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t like to march them much more than a mile. But I’d venture they’re still good, and they’ll stand. You’ll see.’

  ‘I’ll see?’

  ‘He — Falco — requests that you inspect them. He’ll have them on parade on Saturday, on the old cavalry exercise ground by the river. Will you agree, sir?’ There was a hint of appeal in Julius’s voice and Valerius realized that Falco was seeking a chance to prove himself and his men. Saturday was five days away: plenty of time to polish armour and sharpen swords.

  ‘Of course. What was he like… as an officer?’

  �
�A complete bastard.’ Julius laughed again. ‘But the toughest, hardest-fighting bastard in the entire Roman army. You’d have liked him.’

  ‘I think I do like him.’

  ‘Now he’s a wine merchant. Rich. He imports Faustianum wines from Falernia and sells them to the British aristocrats and legionary messes across the south. A good man to know.’ The words came out a little slurred and it was clear Julius had sampled his old friend’s wares while they’d been reminiscing about old times.

  ‘You should sleep, Julius. I want the men ready for a full inspection at dawn as usual. Then we’ll put them through their paces. No reason why we shouldn’t give old Falco and his militia something to think about over the next few days. It’ll do them good to see real soldiers sweat.’

  Julius yawned. ‘You’re right, sir. Perhaps a little too much of the good vintage.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. You are invited to a dinner at the temple tomorrow. Apparently the council is eager to meet you.’

  ‘I know. Just what I need: four hours of boring provincial gossip and a sore head the next morning. I’d rather storm another hill fort.’

  The centurion smiled. ‘For once I’m glad I don’t have your social advantages. Good night, sir.’

  Valerius rose before dawn. He detected an unfamiliar chill in the air that hinted at more than autumn, and he shivered as he washed and dressed. By the time he left the tent the men were already turned out in their sections and centuries on the parade ground. Eight hundred legionaries, five double-strength centuries rather than six normal ones because this was the First cohort, twenty eight-man sections to each century, the elite of the legion; the shock troops who would go where the danger was greatest and the fighting hottest.

  He gave them a long look. Marius’s Mules they called themselves. Lean and tough: mostly men of only medium height, but strong and hardy. If necessary they could march twenty miles in a day, carrying the sixty-pound loads of their gear, rations and weapons, and be ready to fight a battle within the hour.

  But on closer inspection the First was not quite the perfect fighting machine it appeared. He walked along the ranks with Julius at his side, pulling at straps to ensure the armour was tight and pointing out an occasional imperfection on a weapon or a piece of equipment. Not that there was much to point out. As usual, the turnout was exemplary. He knew how difficult it was to keep armour bright in the damp British air and the constant attention required to stop leather from rotting. No, it was the legionaries themselves who were out of condition. The eyes that stared through him as he walked along the lines were red-rimmed and buried deep, like slingshot pellets fired at a mud bank. The rank smell of stale wine assailed his nostrils. He heard the sound of vomiting from one of the rear centuries, but decided not to notice.

  ‘Your name and rank, soldier?’ he barked at a bleary-eyed specimen who stood out because he was taller than any man in his unit.

  ‘Decimus Lunaris, duplicarius, front rank, second century, sir.’ The answer was equally brisk. A duplicarius was a double-pay man, a senior legionary with a trade.

  ‘So, Lunaris. My orders were to return to the camp before sunset. Were those orders obeyed?’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘They were, sir. I counted them in myself,’ Julius said helpfully. Valerius stared at him, but Julius had been as helpful as he was going to be.

  ‘You don’t look like a man who returned to camp before dark, Lunaris. You look very much like a man who spent the entire night drinking. How do you account for that?’

  Lunaris opened his mouth, then hesitated.

  ‘Speak freely, legionary. You’re among friends here,’ Valerius said smoothly, allowing a note of sympathy to coat his voice. Lunaris grinned. He was among officers here, and he knew an invitation to walk into a trap when he heard one.

  ‘I look like a man who’s had an entire night’s worth of drink, sir.’

  Valerius raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You specified the time, sir, but not the volume. The second century likes a challenge, sir.’

  Valerius stifled a laugh. ‘Six merit points to the second century for enterprise, centurion.’ He watched Julius note the award on his writing tablet. ‘So, Lunaris, the second century likes a challenge?’ The legionary studied him warily. ‘I want the second century to be ready in full battle order in five minutes; scutum and a pair of pila, do you think, Julius? Then the second century will lead the cohort on three full circuits of the outer walls… at double pace.’ He looked up at the sky, which was now a deep, cloudless blue. ‘That should be enough of a challenge before noon.’

  Lunaris had barely completed half a circuit at the head of the unit by the time Valerius caught up with him, but sweat was already pouring down the duplicarius ’s face.

  ‘That must be almost pure wine. You shouldn’t waste it.’

  Lunaris looked across, surprised. Most tribunes weren’t prepared to suffer with their men. But then he’d heard this one wasn’t like most tribunes. Valerius wore his full armour and carried his shield on his left arm and a pair of the heavy pila in his right hand. Normally a legionary on the march bore his shield in a leather cover on his back, and, unless there was an imminent threat of danger, a handy mule transported the majority of the unit’s spears. The shield was big and heavy and needed constant adjustment to stop it obstructing its bearer, and the two spears had a habit of crossing so that the lead weights which gave them their accuracy and power wanted to go in different directions. Added to the difficulty of jogging across uneven ground with a large pot on your head, cooking in an iron shell, it made for an interesting exercise.

  ‘Not wine… vinegar.’

  Valerius shot him a puzzled look.

  ‘The bars here,’ Lunaris grunted. ‘The wine they sell is pure vinegar.’ He grinned and gradually stepped up the pace, but if he thought he would leave the tribune behind he soon found he was mistaken. Valerius’s long, powerful legs covered the ground in a loping stride that never seemed to falter. His armour had been fitted by an expert and allowed him greater ease of movement and less chafing than the segmentata worn by the rank and file. It was lighter too, but just as strong, because the armourer had chosen iron with a greater carbon content. By the second circuit, Lunaris was drawing in the warm air in prolonged, shuddering gasps, and Valerius could hear groans from the ranks behind him. He slowed imperceptibly, allowing the grateful duplicarius to drop back with him. As he ran, he studied Colonia’s walls and defensive ditch.

  ‘What do you think of the defences, soldier?’

  Lunaris spat. ‘What defences?’

  ‘My feelings entirely,’ Valerius agreed. ‘I think we’ll double the guard tonight, just in case. Second century to supply the first watch.’ He moved away so he wouldn’t hear Lunaris cursing under his breath.

  VII

  She was tall, was that his first impression? No, it was her eyes, he decided; he was drawn to her eyes, which were wide and curious and framed by long lashes. Irises of a deep chestnut brown contained a message which was at once challenging and mocking, and, perturbingly, left him feeling quite naked. Lustrous, shoulder-length hair which matched them was swept back from a broad forehead, leaving tendrils to highlight the perfect oval of her face. The nose perhaps a little too delicate, the mouth a little too wide for classic beauty, but in her they combined to create something more. She wore a full-length crimson dress, the design of which said Roman but something about the way she wore it said not. All this in the time it took for an arrow to leave the bow, or a shot the sling. As he stared into them the eyes changed shape and became serious and he realized the military commander Falco was talking to him.

  ‘… And this is Lucullus, our foremost Briton, a lord of the local tribe, the Trinovantes, and a longtime friend to Rome.’

  A short, rotund man bowed and smiled ingratiatingly. Valerius would have moved on — the local Britons were of little interest to him except as potential enemies — but Lucullus stood his ground and waved the girl forw
ard.

  ‘My daughter, Maeve,’ he said.

  Maeve?

  Valerius turned to acknowledge her but she was already walking towards the gate of the temple complex. He stared at the slender retreating figure and was rewarded with a venomous backward glance aimed, fortunately, at her father. He felt an almost unstoppable urge to follow her, but Falco took his arm and steered him round the still smiling Lucullus with a sniff of irritation.

  ‘Tiberius Petronius Victor, whom I understand you have already encountered.’ Valerius’s mind remained focused on the girl but he noted the hint of disapproval in Falco’s voice. ‘He is Colonia’s senior magistrate, the procurator’s personal representative here and one of our leading citizens.’ The militia commander gave a brittle smile. ‘And he has a tight grip on the town’s purse strings.’

  Petronius produced a laugh equally devoid of humour. Clearly little love was lost between the two men. ‘Each of us has our priorities, Quintus. Mine is to ensure we create a Colonia worthy of the Emperor’s name it holds. We have real soldiers, like the tribune here, to keep us safe in our beds. Why should we spend a king’s ransom so that your little army can strut the streets like peacocks?’