Rome’s Fallen Eagle (15 page)

Vespasian surveyed the rows of hardened faces, crowned with burnished-iron helmets reflecting the weak sun, staring straight ahead over shields, for a few moments relishing his feeling of pride.

‘Legionaries of the Second Augusta,’ Galba thundered in a voice that Vespasian thought barely louder than at his interview the previous evening, ‘the Emperor has seen fit to appoint Titus Flavius …’ He quickly looked at a wax tablet in his hand. ‘… Vespasianus as your new legate. You will obey him in all things.’ With a curt nod of his head to the assembled legion he turned and re-presented the Emperor’s mandate to Vespasian.

Vespasian stood on the dais and raised the mandate in salute to the men now under his command; the light wind picked at his scarlet legate’s cloak and the white horsehair plume on his helmet. With a massive roar the legion hailed him as he displayed his mandate from right to left so that each man could see his symbol of authority as their rightful commander.

With a dramatic sweep he lowered his arm and the men fell silent. He took a deep breath so that his chest swelled against his muscled bronze cuirass and placed his left hand on the purple sash tied about his waist. ‘Men of the Second Augusta, I am Titus Flavius Vespasianus and I am charged by the Emperor to command this legion. You will come to know me well, as I will you. I will not make long speeches praising your courage or bravery. If you deserve praise you will get it with a word or two; and if I find you lacking then you will know with a word or two.’

‘You should flog them,’ Galba growled, sotto voce so that only half the men present could hear.

‘I will always make time to hear your grievances; bring them to me and do not take matters into your own hands. We are bound in a mutual bond of discipline and it is that bond that will ensure that we live in harmony and fight in unison; if anyone breaks that
bond then that man lets down every man in the legion and he will be punished.

‘However, I have no doubt that the words of praise that I will give you will far outweigh the words of reprimand. I know that as citizens of Rome and soldiers in her glorious Second Augusta you will do your duty with honour and diligence; I place my trust in you and I ask in return for your loyalty and obedience. I commend myself to you, legionaries of the Second Augusta!’

Primus Pilus Tatius swept his sword from its sheath and held it aloft. ‘The Second Augusta welcomes Legate Vespasian. Hail, Vespasian!’

With a thunderous cheer that sent the crows scattering from their trees, the whole legion waved their pila in the air, following their senior centurion’s lead. The cheers quickly turned into a chant of ‘Vespasian’; the legionaries punched their weapons above their heads, marking the beat.

Vespasian knew better than to let the chorus continue for too long – many a legate had been removed from his command by nervous emperors jealous of any man gaining too much acclaim; spies were everywhere. Sweeping his outstretched arms across his chest, he again signalled for silence; the effect was immediate. The legion brought their pila thumping back down to the ground, rippling from the front rank to the rear, and awaited their legate’s words.

Vespasian paused, wishing again that his father could see him and wondering how to best phrase the last part of what he needed to say. The crows, circling overhead, began to return to their nests now that peace had returned. ‘This is a short first meeting as I will be absent for the next month or so on the Emperor’s business. I will leave my senior tribune, Mucianus, in command supported by the prefect of the camp, Maximus. You will obey them as if I were in command.’

To Vespasian’s left the crows that had barely settled since their last disturbance suddenly rose in a cacophony of cawing into the air. From beneath them came the thunder of massed hoofbeats. Vespasian turned to see a unit of almost two hundred cavalry galloping, in a column, four abreast, towards
them. As they got closer he could make out the long beards and trousers favoured by the German tribes. At their head rode a young Roman officer. At fifty paces from the dais the officer let go of his reins and raised both arms in the air then extended them down to point left and right. He took up the reins again and began to slow his mount; the troopers behind him proceeded to fan out to either side, starting from the rearmost and only reducing speed once they had drawn almost level with their officer.

As he brought his horse to a walk, without looking behind the young officer raised his right hand and after a few steps brought it down; his troop halted immediately in two perfect lines of ninety. ‘Lucius Junius Caesennius Paetus, prefect of the First Batavian Cavalry Ala, reporting on Legate Vespasian’s orders.’ Paetus snapped a salute and then looked around before asking innocently with a white-toothed grin: ‘I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?’

‘He’s been nothing but disrespectful and impertinent in all the dealings that I’ve had with him,’ Corbulo informed Vespasian as they watched Paetus supervising the Batavians loading their horses up ramps and into the river transports in the pale, late afternoon sun. ‘Just because his family can boast over ten Consuls he thinks that he can treat anyone how he pleases. He’s even criticised my leadership and questioned my judgement; can you imagine it?’

‘Really? That’s disgraceful.’ Vespasian, however, found himself more than able to imagine it. Although Corbulo’s branch of the Dometii had had senatorial rank for a couple of hundred years, Corbulo had been the first to achieve the consulship. Vespasian could quite understand how Paetus, coming from a far older and more noble family, would see someone as stiff and formal as Corbulo as a bit of a jumped-up joke. He refrained from mentioning this.

‘Well, good luck with him; I hope he never crosses my path again,’ Corbulo muttered as the object of his indignation came up to them.

‘Your four horses and the spares will be loaded on last, sir,’ Paetus reported, ‘just before we go. My chaps’ mounts are used to boats so won’t mind the wait.’

‘Very good, prefect.’

Paetus looked quizzically at Corbulo. ‘I don’t seem to have a horse for you; are you planning on coming too,
ex
-legate?’

Corbulo snorted in outrage and, with a curt nod of farewell to Vespasian, turned on his heels and stormed away down the quay.

‘There will be less flamboyance and more decorum whilst you’re serving with me, Paetus,’ Vespasian informed him as they watched Corbulo go.

‘More decorum, got you, sir,’ Paetus replied, giving Vespasian the distinct impression that he had not ‘got’ him.

Vespasian decided not to pursue the matter for the present as, despite himself, he had taken a liking to his old friend’s son. With his open, amiable, round face and humorous blue eyes he was the image of his father when he and Vespasian had first met in Thracia; that, plus the guilt that Vespasian felt at not keeping his promise to take some interest in his upbringing, was enough to make him feel that he owed him some latitude in his behaviour. He could see why Corbulo, with his aristocratic reserve and prejudices, has taken a dislike to him, but he felt that he could not judge him until he had seen how he performed leading his men. Although Paetus was young to be a prefect of auxiliary cavalry it did not surprise Vespasian, as patrician families such as the Junii, with their long line of Consuls, could expect rapid promotion; his father had achieved the same rank at roughly the same age.

‘How many more to go, Ansigar?’ Paetus shouted at a fullbearded decurion – the Batavians served under their own officers.

‘Four, sir,’ was the heavily accented reply.

‘It looks like your turma is going to win.’ Paetus looked up the stone quay at the queues of horses waiting to board the other five ships. ‘That’ll be as much beer for you and your lads as you can drink when we get back to our camp.’

Ansigar grinned. ‘If the Norns who spin our fate have made our life threads long enough, but they’re devious bitches.’

Paetus slapped his subordinate on the shoulder. ‘That’s women for you.’

‘No, prefect, that’s goddesses for you.’

Paetus gave a loud laugh. ‘Female gods! Tricky beasts; nothing worse, eh?’

‘No wonder the pompous arsehole doesn’t like him,’ Magnus observed, walking up to Vespasian with Ziri who handed him an old and battered travelling cloak. ‘He can’t even bring himself to acknowledge his men let alone join in with a bit of banter.’

‘I presume you’re talking about Corbulo, the former Consul.’

‘The one with a long nose who spouts hot air whom I’ve just passed in an advanced state of outrage barging people out of the way on the quay? Yeah, that’s the one.’

Vespasian shook his head, sighing, and took off his military cloak, giving it to Ziri. He looked up at the sun; it was reddening as it fell towards the western horizon. ‘Where’s Sabinus?’

Magnus grinned. ‘He’s got a bull and is waiting for sunset to sacrifice it to Mithras for the success of our mission.’

Vespasian tied the travel cloak over his
lorica hamata
, the chain mail tunic issued to auxiliaries. ‘Well, he’d better hurry up; I want to get going as soon as it’s dark.’

‘Get going where, though?’

‘We need to get as far downstream as we can and then cross the farmland on the other side of the river with as few people as possible noticing us and be in those hills before it gets light.’

‘Yeah, I know that, sir; what I was asking was: where are we actually going?’

‘What do you mean? You said that you knew the way.’

‘Did I?’ Magnus paused as a look of understanding slowly dawned on his face. ‘Oh! I see. You expect me to get us to the Teutoburg Forest.’

‘It’s the obvious place to start looking.’

‘It may be the obvious place to start looking but if you want me to find it then this ain’t the obvious place to start from. We were based at Noviomagus up in the north. We started by going east along the coast and then headed south through the lands of
the Chauci. We got to the battle site by following a river called the Amisia.’

‘Well, that’s a start; we’ll head northeast until we find that river. Paetus has got men with him who know the country. Once we get there, you can show us the site of Arminius’ greatest victory, and we’ll send a message to Thumelicus telling him that we have something of interest to him, something of his father’s, then he’ll come; his curiosity will force him to.’

Magnus looked dubious. ‘Won’t his first reaction be to suspect a trap?’

‘Maybe; but that’s why I’m only taking six turmae with us. A man of Thumelicus’ standing will be able to muster a lot more than a hundred and eighty men; he’ll have nothing to fear from us.’

‘But we’ll have a lot to fear from him! Fucking great, we’re going to go to the site of the biggest massacre in living memory and invite a repeat performance, even if it’s on a much smaller scale.’

‘Well, you didn’t have to come.’

‘Of course I did, I always have to because I owe my life to your uncle.’

‘You’ve paid that debt off many times over by now.’

‘Perhaps,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Anyway, do you know where Thumelicus is?’

‘No.’

‘Then how are we going to get a message to him once we get there?’

Vespasian shrugged.

‘You don’t know, do you?’

‘No,’ Vespasian admitted, ‘I haven’t got that far yet.’

CHAPTER VII

‘E
ASY WITH HIM
, lads,’ Paetus hissed as one of the Batavians’ horses started to shy whilst being led up the ramp from the boat’s open hold.

Vespasian’s fingers twitched behind his back as he watched two auxiliaries fighting to control the beast, pulling down on its halter, whilst stroking its muzzle and talking soothingly to it in their strange, unmelodic language. The words seemed to calm the animal and it eventually allowed itself to be led up the ramp and then down another, over the side of the vessel and into the shallow water just a few paces from the eastern bank.

Vespasian shivered and pulled the travel cloak tighter around his shoulders. Upriver to him the five other transports were hove to, as close as their shallow hulls could get up the river’s bank. In the thin light of a quarter-moon the silhouettes of horses and men could be seen disembarking. Each whinny, muffled shout or splash caused Vespasian to tense and peer east into the gloom; but there was nothing to see.

Once Sabinus had rejoined them, having made his sacrifice, they had sailed downriver for six hours until they had found a stretch of bank devoid of any glimmers of light from farmstead windows; but that did not mean that there were no dwellings nearby. Vespasian was anxious to get his small force ashore without it coming to the attention of the local population; he did not want news of their arrival to precede them on their journey. Although the tribes along the river lived and traded in peace with the Empire, the more inland ones were not beyond butchering even the best-guarded Roman merchants’ trains.

‘I’ve sent Ansigar and eight of the lads out to scout around whilst we finish disembarking, sir,’ Paetus informed him as
another horse plunged up to its chest into the river with a worryingly loud snort.

‘Good. Can’t this be done any quieter?’

‘This is quiet; all our mounts have done this before. You’ll realise just how noisy it can be in a moment when we try and get your four horses and the spares out; they won’t like it.’

Vespasian grimaced. ‘Do it as quickly as you can, then; I’m going ashore.’

‘Probably best, sir. It won’t sound nearly so loud there, you’ll be able to relax more.’

Vespasian glared at Paetus but his back was already turned, his attention refocused on the disembarkation.

‘Coming round to Corbulo’s point of view, eh, sir?’ Magnus asked lightly, heaving his kit bag onto Ziri’s shoulder.

‘Bring mine ashore too, Ziri,’ Vespasian snapped a little more tersely than he meant to. Annoyed with himself, he walked up the ramp.

He emerged cold and wet from the river to find Sabinus already on the bank rubbing his thighs vigorously with a cloth. All around the auxiliaries were busy saddling their horses; most were now on land.