Thunder of the Gods (4 page)

Sanga grunted his appreciation of the sentiment.

‘Thank fuck for that.’

The Dacian behind him shook his head.

‘I happy on ship. No war to fight on ship. Now we here, war come soon.’

Sanga laughed tersely.

‘It’s what we do mate. All them ships did was get us to the scene of the next fight quicker. That and empty my guts out every now and then.’

Their century’s line ran into the back of other men disembarking from ships further down the mole, and without need to be told both men grounded their shields and leaned on them, waiting for the route to clear.

‘Is true. You not make good sailor.’

Sanga snorted derisively.

‘Is true alright. My guts wouldn’t stand for it, and nor would my arse. That lot have been too long away from women if you ask me. It ain’t healthy living like that.’

‘Not like you big tough men, eh?’

A marine standing guard on the vessel alongside which they were halted shook his head at the two men in disgust, and Sanga shrugged back at him.

‘What do you want me to say? You’re at sea half the year, without even the sight of a woman, never mind the chance to get your leg over. It’s no wonder you’re all cuddling up to each other at night, is it?’

The blue-tunicked soldier shook his head, adopting a sad expression.

‘Well now friend, that’s true enough. We do spend a lot of time at sea alright, and that’s lonely for a man that likes the company of women.’

Sanga smirked at him and opened his mouth to push home the advantage, but closed it again as the other man raised a finger, his doleful face suddenly brightening.

‘On the other hand, look at our situations now, eh? Off you go to pick a fight with whoever feels like sticking it up the empire’s arse. The next few months are going to be all marching, getting shouted at and, if you’re really lucky, having some mob of dirty eastern bastards trying you on for size as their new bed warmers. But me …’

He paused, smiling brightly.

‘We’re going to be stuck here for the rest of the winter, aren’t we? Stuck in a great big port full of taverns, with nothing better to do but drink and wait for the seas to open again. And let me tell you boys, if there’s one thing that a port like this has in large numbers, it’s whores. There’ll be whores everywhere, in the taverns, on the docks, even down by the ships once we’ve dragged them up onto the beach.’

He winked at Sanga.

‘Spare me a thought lads, while you’re slogging your way through the wind and the rain, and when the arrows are flying past your ears like hail. I’ll most likely be knocking back a cup of wine and wondering which of the girls to favour next …’

Sanga spat into the water again, lifting his shield as the line of soldiers ahead of them started moving again. Saratos followed suit, grinning at his comrade’s back.

‘He tell you, eh?’

The veteran shook his head in disgust.

‘Fucking navy. Come on then you Dacian halfwit, let’s go and find out what it is we’re doing here in the arse end of nowhere.’

An hour later, with the last of his men in the process of being chivvied ashore to form up beneath the towering walls of the upper city, and with all of the two cohorts’ centurions having made their reports, their first spear snapped a crisp salute at his legatus. Scaurus turned from his discussion with his companions, his German slave Arminius, and the Britons Martos and Lugos, originally captives of the war in Britannia but now free men who had chosen to accompany the Tungrians first to Rome and then onward to the east.

‘Yes, First Spear?’

‘First and second Tungrian cohorts ready for duty, Trib— Legatus. Fourteen hundred and thirty-seven men present and fit, seven recovering from injuries sustained at sea and two men missing. Presumed drowned.’

Scaurus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the report.

‘Thank you, First Spear. It won’t be very long before you’ll have to stop calling them Tungrians, for a time at least. These men will shortly be legionaries in the Third Gallic legion.’

His senior centurion’s face was impassive.

‘Those that survived the journey in one piece and didn’t go over the side, Legatus.’

The senior officer raised an eyebrow.

‘You may not have enjoyed the journey, Julius, but consider the alternative - if we were marching from Rome to Antioch we’d still be sailing down the Danubius, with eight hundred miles of slogging it through Thrace and Asia Minor waiting for us at the end of the voyage. My distaste for our new sponsor notwithstanding, I can’t deny that he makes things happen. Who else could have ordered the entire Praetorian fleet on the west coast to concentrate at Misenum and sail for the east at ten days’ notice? Twenty-five ships sent two thousand miles at the click of one man’s fingers – now
that’s
power.’ He tapped the centurion’s scale-armour shirt with a knowing smile. ‘And who else could have ordered up fourteen hundred sets of legionary equipment with the stroke of a stylus?’

The first spear, a heavily built man with a dark and brooding bearded face, smoothed back his grey-streaked hair and nodded reluctantly.

‘I won’t deny the man’s ability to make his subordinates jump. Not that I’m used to this stuff yet.’

He tapped his own chest morosely, looking down at the scaled armour that had replaced his mail shirt, lifting one of the thumbnail-sized tinned iron plates that were fixed to the linen shirt in overlapping ranks with wire fasteners.

‘Why I couldn’t just have had a shirt of that segmented armour like the men all got is beyond me. This just doesn’t
feel
right …’

He pulled a face, looking down at his booted feet.

‘I can’t get used to these boots that are more hole than leather either, or having my legs bare.’

The tribune’s German servant smirked at him, tilting his head back to emphasise his height advantage over the senior centurion.

‘I think the problem is that you’ve had your delicate little cucumber hidden away in leggings for so long that when it’s exposed to cold air it shrivels up to the size of a mushroom.’

Scaurus pursed his lips, darting a glance at the long-haired barbarian standing alongside him as he fought the desire to laugh at his subordinate’s gloomy disdain for his new equipment. Julius’s scowl set harder. The two Tungrian cohorts had been processed through the Misenum armoury with impressive speed, a succession of counter staff issuing each man with replacement armour, helmet, sword, dagger, tunics and boots to replace equipment long past its best days. Having already asked in an aggrieved tone why there were no leggings being provided, Julius had raised his hands in disbelief on seeing his replacement armour.

‘I’m not wearing that!’

Scaurus, having expected the protest, had carefully positioned himself alongside his senior centurion, waiting for the moment when his new equipment hit the counter’s scarred wooden surface.

‘First Spear, whether we like it or not, we are, for the time being at least, a legion cohort. Two cohorts, if we include the Second Tungrians. And in the legions, let me assure you, centurions simply do not wear the same armour as their men unless in absolute extremis. You’re gaining membership of a proud elite, Julius, there are less than two thousand men like you in the whole army, and your new colleagues will be expecting you to look the part. Come on, let’s try it all on, shall we?’

In truth, the big man still looked as ill at ease in his finery a month and a half later, as if he’d been dressed in equipment that, whilst it all fitted perfectly, still had the appearance of having been borrowed for the day.

Ignoring the German’s witticism, Julius turned to look out over the docked ships again.

‘Forced to wear armour that makes me look like the emperor’s favourite bum boy, with my woman held as a hostage in Rome while I sail thousands of miles to a place I’ve never even heard of …’

His look of disgust deepened, and Scaurus nodded his agreement.

‘And why us, eh Julius? After all, there are plenty of other troops who could have been sent to Syria? Dozens of eager men of the senatorial class who would have jumped at the chance of the legion command that I’ve been granted, all of whom would be spitting blood to know that an equestrian like me has been chosen over them. You know the answer as well as I do …’

‘Cleander.’

Julius spat the name out, shaking his head in combined disgust and anger, and Scaurus nodded, his eyes fixed on the ship behind them.

‘Indeed. Marcus Aurelius Cleander, former slave, arch schemer and, in consequence, the current imperial chamberlain. The man who controls the empire on behalf of a man with much better things to be doing, and therefore the man with absolute power of life and death over me, you, my man Arminius here, your woman, and anyone else that either of us hold dear. When Cleander invites the most exalted men in the empire to jump, those of them with any sense, which is to say just about all of them, will only pause to enquire as to the height he expects them to achieve. And we’ve no one to blame but ourselves, Julius, you know that just as well as I do.’

The first spear shrugged.

‘What were we to do, wrap the man in chains to stop him going after the bastards who killed his father, slaughtered his family and forced him to abandon the name he was born with?’

Scaurus looked across the parade ground’s wide open space, to where the man in question was making his rounds of the troops waiting to march, in the company of Cotta and a hulking centurion carrying a pioneer’s axe over his shoulder.

‘I doubt that would have worked too well. Tribune
Corvus
isn’t the type to take no for an answer, is he?’

All three men contemplated their comrade for a moment, Scaurus’s lips creasing in a quiet smile.

‘And unfortunately for us, he was rather too effective in his quest for justice. The chamberlain now sees us as a means to an end, dangerous men whose obedience must be guaranteed by a simple and direct threat to those we love.’

His eyes hardened with the words, the line of his jaw tautening with anger.

‘And he’s right.’

Legatus and first spear fell silent, both reflecting on the overt threats Cleander had made to the former on the day that their transports had sailed from the Praetorian fleet’s base at Misenum. Staring out over the huge harbour’s glittering waters at the assembled Praetorian fleet, waiting to carry the two cohorts away to the east in defiance of the lateness of the season and the imminence of the seas’ closure for the winter, he had spoken with his usual amused candour.

‘You have your orders, Rutilius Scaurus, you simply have to carry them out to the letter. Succeed, and your status as a legion legatus may last longer than the time required for this simple task. Not to mention the equestrian status I’ve granted to your man Corvus, or rather Marcus Valerius Aquila, the son of a disgraced and executed traitor, as the events of the last few days have so conclusively proven to be his true identity. Fail, on the other hand, and you’ll find the welcome on your return more than a little chilly …’

The object of their discussion of a moment before walked steadily back across the wide open square towards them, the centurions strolling half a pace behind their tribune. Scaurus looked at the three of them for a moment, resisting the temptation to smile at the fact that while his newly promoted tribune wore his usual thoughtful expression, and his friend Dubnus was pulling at the collar of his armour with the frown of a man unaccustomed to such warmth in the middle of winter, Centurion Cotta’s demeanour was more that of a man enjoying an extended and leisurely holiday.

‘Your men will be pleased to have their feet back on solid land for more than a night, I presume, gentlemen?’

Cotta shook his head briskly.

‘On the contrary, Legatus, I think I’ve adapted to the ocean-going life, especially seeing as we had the biggest ship in the whole of the ocean for a private yacht. Now we’re ashore again it’ll be back to shouting at idiots and trying to get the sand out of my arse crack again.’

Julius raised an eyebrow at Scaurus.

‘I’ve said it before—’

The veteran centurion nodded with a soft snort of laughter, seemingly unconcerned by the big man’s superior rank.

‘And you’ll say it again, First Spear?’

‘And I’ll say it
again.
Bringing this insolent, worn out and
retired
officer along for the ride might have seemed like a bright idea back in Rome, when all he had to do was walk around behind the women and tell his men when to carry their shopping, but—’

A rare smile creased Marcus’s face, and the first spear turned a hard stare on his former centurion.

‘Is there something amusing you,
Tribune
?’

The younger man shook his head, bowing slightly in recognition of both Julius’s irritation and his own temporary status as superior officer to the man from whom he’d been taking orders only two months before.

‘Nothing, First Spear. Please do continue.’

‘Thank you,
sir
. Where was I …?’

‘Carrying the shopping.’

‘Thank you, Martos …’

The first spear attempted to skewer the one-eyed barbarian warrior who had joined the discussion with the same glare he’d used on Marcus, but the Briton simply raised a knowing eyebrow until Julius turned back to the object of his ire.

‘Do you
really
think you’ll be able to keep up on the march? At your age?’

Cotta shrugged.

‘We’ll know soon enough, won’t we First Spear? After all, given that I joined up at fourteen, I’m still younger than a good few of
your
old sweats.’

Julius opened his mouth to retort, but Scaurus raised a hand, his face set in the expression that every man in the group had learned to recognise as meaning the discussion was over.

‘The main reason that Centurion Cotta has been recruited to our ranks is obvious enough. I have been directed to take control of the Third Gallic, and the centurion here ended his service as a centurion with the very same legion.’

He opened his mouth to continue, only to close it again as Cotta beat him to it, his tone suddenly deadly earnest.