Douglas Jackson - Enemy of Rome

‘Then you may be of some use after all,’ Primus sniffed. ‘Varus is enthusiastic, but inexperienced for a command of this size. You will accompany him to assess the enemy’s capabilities, and probe beyond Aquileia to discover if the country is clear. Varus will remain in nominal command, but I give you leave to act at your own discretion.’ He smiled for the first time since Valerius had met him, but it was a shark’s smile. ‘Who knows, perhaps you will get yourself killed and give me peace of mind.’

He turned back to the map and Valerius knew he was dismissed, but he delayed as he heard the legate talking softly to himself. ‘Valens or Caecina, which will it be?’

‘You should hope it’s Caecina,’ Valerius dared answer the question he hadn’t been asked.

Primus didn’t turn round. ‘And if it is Caecina, what will he do?’

Valerius remembered the countless dead and the desperate, ultimately futile attacks on the walls of Placentia. ‘Whatever it is, right or wrong, the only certainty is that it will be what you least expect.’

Valerius swatted at the black flies that swarmed around his head and heard Serpentius laugh at the futility of the gesture. It had been like this for the last five days: endless mountain trails hemmed in by scree-scattered slope and sweaty airless forest, and always accompanied by the maddening, relentless buzz of a million insects. But rank had its compensations and at least they’d been in the van of the column and spared the choking dust that coated the eight regiments of Varus’s cavalry who followed. In the lead rode the Syrian archers of the First Augusta Ituraeorum: small, black-bearded men on light, sure-footed ponies, their green tunics and iron helmets now a uniform toneless brown. Behind them came two one-thousand-strong wings of wild, long-haired mounted spearmen from Germania of a type Valerius knew only too well from his adventures on the Rhenus a year earlier. Units from Hispania, Thrace and Gaul made up the rest. A strong force, but vulnerable until they were free of the mountain passes.

Valerius and Serpentius travelled with Varus’s headquarters staff and the Roman quickly discovered he’d misjudged the young auxiliary commander’s character. Varus might have been nervous when faced with four legionary generals, but in the field he proved the opposite: arrogant and opinionated, with seldom a good word to say about anyone but himself. He knew his business, though, sending out scouts ahead and on the flanking hillsides, with the column on constant alert and weapons always to hand. The reason for his professionalism became clear when Varus told the older man that he’d served with Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo in Armenia for three years.

‘A fine general and a man with a reputation for discipline.’ Valerius decided it was wiser not to reveal that he had led Corbulo’s cavalry.

‘I thought he was rather overrated as a commander,’ Varus shrugged. ‘Look at his record. Twelve years in the East and thousands of casualties and what did he have to show for it? Tiridates still on his throne in Artaxata, albeit with his wings clipped and his beard singed, and his brother with a mighty army at his disposal that still remains a threat to Syria and Judaea.’

‘I thought his first campaign in Armenia had been hailed as a strategic triumph?’

Varus looked back irritably as the sound of a trumpet blared out over the rhythmic thud of hooves and clatter of metal equipment, urging a lagging squadron to close up. He rapped out an order to an aide before turning back to his companion. ‘Oh, I’m not saying he wasn’t a competent general.’ A short laugh signalled the opposite. ‘But sieges were more in his line than great battles. He was no Caesar, you see. Much too cautious. Not a man to take an opportunity in both hands, like our General Primus.’

Valerius had listened to the impugning of his late commander’s reputation and record without reacting, but this fulsome praise for a man who had never witnessed a battle, never mind fought one, made him blink. He changed the subject, pointing to the flank guards on top of a nearby hill. ‘It is wise to prepare for trouble, but do you think we will meet the enemy this far east?’

Varus shrugged. ‘Not regular troops, but Vitellius’s agents have been active among the local natives. The tribes of Pannonia are more or less civilized,’ he said dismissively. ‘They might steal a few horses or rob a single supply wagon, but normally they’d never risk attacking a column of this strength. Our greatest threat is from the Marcomanni and the Quadi, who may sniff an opportunity and decide to cross the river.’ Valerius knew the Marcomanni were a tribe who ruled the endless pasturelands north of Noricum and the Danuvius, but he’d never heard of the Quadi. ‘Their Sarmatian cousins,’ the auxiliary explained. ‘Newly arrived from the East and one of the reasons they need to expand their territory. I doubt it will happen, though. The Roxolani tried it in Moesia six months ago. Nine thousand warriors crossed the river, but the Third and the Eighth made sure not a single one got back. Word of that kind of defeat spreads.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yes, we’re in good company with the Third and the Eighth. They know how to fight.’

‘They know how to fight barbarians,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘But do they know how to fight another legion?’

Varus frowned as if the thought had never occurred to him.

They broke free of the mountains next morning and reached the outskirts of Aquileia as the heat of the day reached its peak. Beyond the city the sapphire blue waters of the lagoons of the Mare Adriaticum had never appeared so welcoming, after a week sweating in the hills. Varus sent two regiments of his Syrian horse archers in a wide arc on the landward side to block any escape and advanced his remaining cavalry over the surrounding fields. As they approached, Valerius saw it was an extensive, thriving place filled with rich buildings, marble temples and terracotta-roofed tenements that shimmered in the afternoon heat. By the time Varus reached the scatter of houses on the outskirts a delegation of elders and merchants was already waiting behind a figure carrying the green branch that signalled his wish to discuss terms.

‘Tribune, will you join me?’ Varus slid from his horse, and Valerius did likewise, beating the dust from his clothes as they walked along the gravel road towards the group. ‘What do you think?’ Varus said quietly.

‘If they wanted trouble, we’d already know about it.’

As they reached the group, the man with the green branch stepped forward and bowed, while the others stood back fidgeting nervously and trying not to look threatening.

‘Marcus Annidius Ponticus, decurion of Aquileia’s council of leading citizens, and local magistrate, greets you and welcomes you.’ The magistrate’s toga hung on his narrow frame like a tent and he must have been eighty, with a wrinkled child’s face and a shining dome of a head. His voice was strong enough, with the power of a man accustomed to speaking in public, but it held a brittle edge of fear. ‘We have food and drink, and can provide entertainment for your men before … before they continue on their mission. If you wish to water your horses we have a fine stream on the far side of town, with a lush meadow for grazing close by.’

Varus stepped forward and knocked the branch from the decurion’s hand, eliciting a gasp from the men behind and a frown of distaste from Valerius. ‘I am Arrius Varus, prefect of cavalry, and I claim Aquileia for Titus Flavius Vespasian, rightful Emperor of Rome. Does any man here dispute that right?’ His words sent a stir of unease through the gathering and Ponticus darted a desperate glance back towards the others. ‘Do you deny me, old man?’ Varus filled his voice with the promise of bloody swords and rampaging licentious soldiery. ‘You will surrender this city or I will burn it to the ground and slaughter every living thing in it.’