Knight of Rome Part I

by Malcolm Davies

  Behind its ditch, rampart and log palisade with artillery towers at each corner, it was home to nine cohorts made up of centuries of eighty heavy infantrymen and their officers, four thousand eight-hundred men in all. The foot-soldiers were supported by three hundred and sixty auxiliary cavalrymen with four hundred horses and one hundred artillerymen with their scorpions and ballistas. Some of the men were immunes; soldiers permanently relieved of manual labour and fatigues in view of their special skills. There were engineers, farriers, clerks, medical orderlies, butchers and cooks. There were mules and oxen, carts and heavy wagons. All the necessary parts of the Roman military machine.

  The area of deforested ground the camp dominated was just above the spring flood plain of the Rhine. It boasted four wells, two granaries, other storehouses, stables, workshops, quarters for the men and officers, bathhouses, latrines and the Praetorium; the commanding officer’s quarters. It shouted out a message to the native population; here was Rome’s power, permanent and irresistible.

  It was located at one end of a bridge over the Rhine. It was not a particularly large or important bridge and it often needed to be rebuilt after the recurrent floods subsided but it could accommodate eight men or four horses crossing abreast. A small log-walled outpost had been built at the near end of the bridge. It held quarters for twenty men and had a low, central tower bearing an iron brazier in which to light a signal fire in an emergency. It had never been intended as a strongly defensible position, only to give a warning to the legion in the event of hostile activity on the far bank. The nearest thirty yards of the bridge planks could be lifted off and thrown into the water, the oil-soaked timber in the brazier lit and the legionaries back in the main camp within half an hour if they marched in double time.

  The tops of the far pines grew visible in black silhouette against a thin grey band of light that crawled across the sky. It grew paler and higher until a yellow glow announced that full sunrise was imminent. Long shadows spread inky fingers out from the base of the forest and then shrunk back as the orange ball of the sun finally showed itself. With the new day, the camp stirred to life. The smell of wood smoke wafted up to the gate as cooking fires were lit. The daily sounds of the garrison could be heard; the clop of hooves as horses were led out of stables, the clanking of metal and the usual shouting of centurions and their seconds in command, the optios. The sentry was impatient now. His empty stomach was rumbling and the weariness of the long hours on duty suddenly weighed heavy on him. But very soon the guard would be changed. An officer would lead six soldiers up the ladder to relieve the night-watch but only after the replacements had breakfasted, kitted up and then been inspected.

  Just as he heard the rhythmic thud of approaching boots on the ground below, he caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the forest. He looked harder and leaned out over the parapet, propping his javelins on the timberwork and shading his eyes with his free hand. There was definitely a small group of men and vehicles emerging from between the trees. They were too far away to be much more than shapes but that did not really matter. What mattered was that nothing friendly had ever come from that direction. The main routes were to the south and west or followed the course of the Rhine. To the east was mile upon mile of hostile wilderness and mountains as far as the Danube, where things were much worse.

  “Alarm!” he shouted and picked up his weapons. The ladder creaked behind him and an optio commanding the changeover guard was leaning over his shoulder peering out into the distance.

  “What do you see?” he demanded.

  “There, some men have come out of the forest.”

  The optio turned on his heel and shouted at one of his men still at the base of the ladder.

  “Put down your shield and run for the centurion, now.”

  The man sped away.

  “Faster you idle sod,” the optio bellowed after him and had the satisfaction of seeing the legionary try to increase his speed.

  The centurion arrived at a rapid rate just short of an undignified run.

  The legionary of the night-watch was now sandwiched between his optio and his centurion. He stiffened to quivering attention.

  “What is it, optio?” the centurion asked.

  “This man has seen something odd coming out of the forest, centurion.”

  Only when this explanation had been given did the centurion speak directly to the sentry.

  “Well lad, tell me all about it.”

  “Saw movement, shouted for the optio. He looked with me and called for you, centurion.”

  “And what have you seen worth dragging me away from my breakfast?”

  “Sir, you can see them clearer now; looks like some carts with men around them. But why are they coming from over there, sir? I mean, there’s nowhere for them to be coming from, so to speak.”

  The centurion stared at the distant figures now definitely moving towards the camp.

  “Are you one of the men who have just come on duty?”

  “No sir, been on stag all night.”

  The centurion turned to his junior officer.

  “Optio, take this man’s name...”

  “Gods, what am I supposed to have done wrong now?” the sentry thought glumly.

  “…after being on watch overnight, he was still alert enough at dawn to notice something out of the ordinary and draw an officer’s attention to it,” the centurion went on. “Commendable behaviour in any soldier; remind me make sure his action is noted in my written report to the senior centurion. Well done lad.”

  A heavy hand slapped the doubly relieved legionary on the back and he was dismissed

  Justus Cordius and his men were as surprised as the look-out had been to see them when they came out of the skirts of the forest with the camp only a mile away. They had intended to reach the river and then follow it downstream until they found it but they had strayed a little to the east. The previous night they had halted only a few hundred yards inside the forest’s edge without realising it, hence their emergence at first light.

  “That’s it boys, The Second Lucan’s waiting for us to knock on the door,” Justus said.

  “What’s their proper legion number?” one of his men asked.

  Justus shrugged. “No idea, they’re just The Second Lucan.”

  “Where’s the First Lucan then?” another voice enquired.

  “All gone getting on for twenty years ago, apart from three-quarters of a century of poor bastards who crawled back from Parthia with their eagle; they went east under Marcus Antonius.”

  The men became sombre as they remembered the often-repeated stories of how the best part of an army had died of cold, starvation or under the arrows that enemy horse-archers had hailed down on them in that disastrous campaign.

  “The legion was taken off the list then reformed by Emperor Augustus. They recruited around Luca near the Tyrrhenian coast. So there they are, The Second Lucan. Let’s go and say hello.”

  By the time the three wagons had threaded around the tree stumps deliberately left by the Romans to hinder an enemy charge down the slope from the forest, there were legionaries, one optio, a centurion and a military tribune on the walkway over the eastern gate.

  To found a political career in Rome, it was desirable that young men of good families spent some time in the military. Favours were promised or called-in, patronage and votes offered, all to obtain a posting as a tribune in one of the legions. Some studied the trade of war, found the army to their liking and went on to high rank. However, the majority of them were impatient to return to Rome, learned nothing and left as soon as possible. But even the most uninterested of them had their precious few months of service to add to their curriculum vitae. Technically, a tribune outranked a senior centurion, though he may have no knowledge of strategy, tactics, or how to use his sword.

  Justus climbed down from the driving seat of the first wagon and came to a sort of relaxed attention in front of the gate.

  “Greetings to The Second Lucan; I a
m Justus Cordius and I have information which may be of value to your commanding officer.”

  The tribune stepped forward and looked down.

  “Do you operate some sort of trading outfit, Cordius?”

  “Indeed, sir, I do.”

  “Then I suggest you take your wares to the southern gate, the Porta Principa Sinistra. That’s where camp-followers and traders assemble.”

  Justus and those of his men who had been in hearing began to laugh. Up on the gate, the optio glared at the legionaries daring them to join in. The centurion fought to keep his face straight. The tribune grew red with annoyance.

  “What’s so funny eh? What’s so damn funny? I’ll have you whipped!”

  Justus calmed down and took a deep breath.

  “The Porta Principa Sinistra is the western gate of a legion camp, sir. I believe you meant to say the Porta Decumana, that’s the southern one; an easy mistake to make, sir.”

  “Are you trying to make a fool out of me?” the tribune demanded.

  “No sir, you don’t need me for that, sir,” Justus replied.

  A legionary spluttered the beginning of a suppressed guffaw but stopped abruptly when his centurion’s vine-staff of office clanged into the side of his helmet.

  “Carry on centurion,” the tribune ordered. “I’ve no more time to waste on that clown.”

  He stalked down the ladder and across the parade ground with as much dignity as he could scrape together.

  The centurion stepped forward and leaned his elbows on the top of the defensive timberwork. He had already noticed how Justus held himself and the well cared-for short sword at his side.

  “What legion, citizen?” he asked.

  “Led the fifth century of the Sixteenth,” Justus replied.

  “Oh, the Gallica eh?”

  “The very same, all the men here with me served out their time, one way or the other.”

  “Well Former Centurion Justus Cordius, you should know better than to mock a tribune in front of the men,” the centurion said with a wry grin.

  “Apologies,” Justus replied. “No disrespect meant to the finest tribune of The Second Lucan.”

  “Accepted; we’d better get you in front of the commanding officer as soon as possible. Open the gate for these sad old relics that had the misfortune to serve in a legion inferior to ours,” he shouted down.

  It was a long walk up the centre of the camp to the Praetorium for Justus and Calvus, one of his oldest comrades, who carried a heavy sack he held well away from his body and a smaller one that clinked and jingled. They were escorted by the centurion they had spoken with at the gate. Two guards in full armour with shields and javelins stopped them at the headquarters door.

  “Centurion Lentus with former centurion Justus Cordius of the Sixteenth, and one of his men seeking an interview with Legate Publius Quadratus,” Lentus told them.

  “Wait here please, sir,” one of the sentries replied and went inside.

  “Stay outside for now,” Justus told Calvus who put down his sacks.

  They heard the muffled sounds of the message being repeated, boots on wooden floorboards and a door opening and closing. The guard came back and ushered them through a room in which four scribbling clerks barely looked up from their desks as they passed and stopped at an inner door. He knocked and waited. A voice called out for them to enter and they marched into the office of the legate, his commander with the power of life and death over every man in his legion.

  The office was large enough for twenty men to sit down if a meeting of senior officers was called. Folding stools leaned against the walls, a central desk and chairs and a large charcoal brazier on a tripod against the winter chill filled the centre of the room. Behind it was an altar dedicated to Jupiter father of the gods and Mars his warlike son. A further door led into the legate’s private quarters.

  Legate Publius Quadratus looked up from his scroll littered desk at the visitors. He wore a deep blue tunic with Greek key embroidery in silver on the cuffs of the short sleeves. His neck was strong but slender and his head almost delicate, covered with a mass of dark curls. His brown eyes were lustrous and intelligent. At first impression, he had more the look of a scholar or philosopher than a professional soldier. The man sitting opposite him who gave them a peremptory glance over his shoulder was heavily built; shaven headed and wore the armour and decorations of a first spear centurion, the highest rank in the centurionate.

  They stood to attention in front of the desk. It was Publius Quadratus who spoke first. His voice was deep and sonorous, demonstrating his early training in elocution and public speaking for which his father had paid private tutors a small fortune.

  “Greetings Centurion Lentus, who do you bring with you?”

  Cordius stood forward.

  “I am Justus Cordius, sir. I have information which may be of interest to you.”

  “Go on.”

  “Two days ago, my trading convoy was attacked on the road to Augusta Treverorum. They made off with a wagonload of goods. We are a strong party; fifteen men, before we lost one in the fighting, and me, all former soldiers. We have travelled that route several times each year for four years. Once we had made our presence known, so to speak, the bandits avoided us. There are plenty of easier targets.

  The first spear centurion spoke for the first time. His voice was harsh, raucous after years of shouting orders loud enough to be heard over the din of battle.

  “Greetings Justus Cordius; I am Titus Attius. I regret your troubles and grieve with you for the loss of your man but why d’you think this is anything to do with my legate?”

  “We were ambushed by a party of at least twenty. There may have been more concealed in the trees. Neither I nor my men recognised them as belonging to any tribe we had come across in that area. It occurred to me that they may be part of a larger raiding force or a reconnaissance in strength for an invasion.

  “Late in the year for that,” Titus Attius remarked.

  “Yes, sir, but maybe they know that many of your officers and men with passes will soon be going home on leave until the next marching season begins. What better time to mount a quick incursion across the river?”

  “He has a point, Titus,” the legate said.

  “We brought some artefacts with us and one of their heads. I thought you might be able to identify who they were…”

  “With your permission, sir?” Titus asked Publius Quadratus who nodded his assent.

  “Clerk!” the first spear centurion shouted in a voice which made the wooden walls of the Praetorium vibrate. The outer door opened and a head appeared around it. “Fetch Prefect Aldermar,” Titus growled.

  The door closed in an instant and the head was gone. Titus did not tell the man to hurry. He knew his reputation and authority made that unnecessary; the clerk would run full tilt.

  “Where are these objects you wish us to see?” the legate asked.

  “Outside with my man Calvus. In view of…”

  “In view of one of ‘em’s a smelly head cut off three days ago now and you didn’t want to stink up my commander’s office; Calvus you say?” Titus broke in.

  Justus nodded. The big centurion lumbered over to the office door and opened it.

  “Sentry! Send in the man Calvus,” he roared.

  Then he turned to Lentus who had been standing silently at attention all this time.

  “Be about your duties Centurion Lentus. You have done well in drawing this matter to the legate’s attention.

  Lentus saluted both officers, performed a smart about turn and left as Calvus arrived.

  “Put those sacks on the floor and take a stool for you and Justus Cordius,” the legate said with a reassuring smile.

  Calvus looked apprehensively at Titus Attius. He knew a tartar when he saw one.

  “You heard the commanding officer,” Titus told him.

  Calvus fetched a seat for Justus only and moved to stand against the wall.

  “Never sat in the pr
esence of a legate and a first spear; don’t seem right,” he explained.

  Aldermar burst into the office. He was a tall German wearing the armour of a senior cavalry officer. His broad shoulders almost filled the doorway and his helmeted head brushed the lintel. He swept off his headgear freeing two thick braids of golden-red hair. He bowed to his commanding officer and acknowledged Titus Attius.

  “You sent for me, gentlemen?” he enquired in almost accentless Latin.

  “Take a gander into those sacks there and tell us if you know who the bits and pieces belonged to.”

  Aldermar tipped the bronze helmet and arms rings onto the floor and stirred them with one booted foot. He bent down and picked up one ring to examine more closely before letting it fall. He opened the other sack and lifted the severed head by its hair. He looked hard at the face for a few moments then gave a moan and covered his eyes with his free hand as if to hide his tears.

  “It is…” he paused for effect, “…It is the head of my uncle,” he croaked as if overcome by emotion.

  Calvus and Cordius stared at him in horror. Publius Quadratus looked amused but Titus Attius sighed wearily.

  “How many times do you have to be told you aren’t funny?”

  Aldermar grinned and shrugged. “The helmet, the arm rings, Suevi work, all of it. The tattoos tell me the dead man was from a good way north and east of the river.”

  “The Suevi tribe…” Attius began but the big German interrupted him.

  “How many times do you have to be told that the Suevi are not one tribe but a confederation?”

  Publius Quadratus spoke and demonstrated in a few words why he held command.