Douglas Jackson - Sword of Rome

‘I’d like to borrow your eagle and a few of your men,’ Valerius said, and explained what he had in mind.

Benignus had noticed the gap between the leading cohorts and the gladiators. ‘Of course, as long as you bring them back.’

Valerius laughed. ‘If I don’t I will find you another.’

Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to Serpentius. He called to Florus, the aquilifer , marching at the head of the legion’s headquarters staff in his lion headdress and polished breastplate with the gleaming symbol of office he had vowed to fight and die for. Together, they dropped back through the column until Valerius saw the man he was looking for.

‘Juva, I need you and your best singers. I seem to remember the crew of the Waverider had good voices.’

The big Nubian grinned and chose four men to join them. They strode back to where the gladiators loitered, and Valerius told him what they intended. Juva snorted dismissively. ‘If they do not want to fight, send them home. The Adiutrix does not need them, the crew of the Waverider does not need them and Juva does not need them.’

Valerius leaned close and said softly: ‘You may have been in bar brawls, my friend, and you have withstood siege behind strong walls, but you have never been in battle. Believe me, when the time comes you will welcome any man who stands beside you as the enemy comes, and dies, and dies again, and keeps coming, and be pleased to call him brother.’

Juva’s nostrils flared, but the dark eyes softened and he nodded solemnly. Soon they were among the gladiators, with their odd weapons and ludicrous, antiquated armour: secutores , with their short swords; provocatores with their long, thin blades; a giant murmillo in full war gear and a fish tail helmet; a dark-skinned Scythian with a pair of throwing axes at his belt of the type Serpentius, who had once been one of these men, favoured; fighters dressed as griffin-crested Thracians, and Celts with bare chests and checked trews; even a few men without armour carrying the three-pronged spear of the retiarius . They had only two things in common: Valerius had insisted that every man should be issued with a scutum , the big curve-edged shield every legionary carried that was as much an offensive weapon as a defensive one, and their reluctance to be part of the army of Otho.

He had arranged for Marcus’s century to lead the cohort and he fell in step beside the lanista , greeting him as a friend and talking to him as an equal in a voice loud enough for twenty or thirty men around him to hear. ‘They tell me the gladiator cohort isn’t prepared to fight?’

‘No!’ a veteran of the arena shouted. ‘We’re just fussy about who we fight and what we fight for.’

‘You’re fighting for your Emperor.’

‘Then why isn’t he here to fight with us?’ This voice came from further back in the ranks.

‘Because he has better things to do.’ A laugh rippled through the column. ‘And because he’s not as stupid as we are.’ The laughter gained intensity. Valerius continued. ‘You took an oath. You’re fighting for your lives …’

‘And money.’

‘… and money. But before you live, you have to be prepared to die.’

‘I don’t want to die for some rich bastard who’s sitting back in Brixellum drinking wine and screwing somebody else’s woman.’

‘Neither do I.’ This time Valerius joined in the laughter and he felt himself warming to these men.

He gestured to Florus to raise the eagle and the former marine flourished the standard high, turning the gilt pole so that every man could see the spread wings, gaping beak and fierce, glinting eyes. ‘ This is what you’re fighting for. This piece of brass covered in gold. But it’s not just brass and gold. It’s an eagle. It is your eagle and it contains the spirit of your legion.’ The laughter died away and the murmurs of dissent faded. Every man’s eye was on the eagle and the only sound was the metallic crunch of hundreds of marching sandals. Valerius allowed his voice to grow in strength, remembering a speech Suetonius Paulinus had made more than eight years earlier on a slope that soon after was slick with blood. ‘You’re not just a mob now. You’re not just a rabble of ex-slaves trained to kill each other. You are the Tenth cohort of the Legio I Adiutrix. You don’t fight for a man. You don’t even fight for an Emperor. You fight and die for this, and you fight and die for each other. Forget everything that’s gone before. You are part of a legion now, and some time tomorrow or the day after you will meet other legions. Good legions. Veteran legions. Who will do their best to kill you.’ A murmur ran through the listening men and he thought he’d gone too far, but, from somewhere, he found a moment of inspiration. ‘And while they’re doing their best to kill you, you’ll be killing them, because you’re better than them. Those legions will have an eagle and if you take away a legion’s eagle, you take away its soul. You take away its courage. If you take its eagle, it means you’ve won.’ He sensed them rising to him, the heat of battle joy swelling inside them. ‘So tomorrow or the next day you will bring me an eagle, and together we will present it to Emperor Marcus Salvius Otho Augustus, and I promise you that Marcus Salvius Otho Augustus will not just give you your freedom, and your money, he will give you land, so much land that you will live like kings for the rest of your lives.’ The message was passed along the lines of marching men and they roared their approval. He had another message, the message he had intended to send, but now that message stuck in his throat as he heard the chant. ‘ Valerius! Valerius! Valerius! ’ He found Marcus grinning at him and a smile split Juva’s dark face. ‘Sing, you bastards,’ he somehow found his voice, ‘and pick your feet up, because tomorrow we will fight and tomorrow we will win and tomorrow the Emperor will have his eagle.’

Juva’s deep, resonant tones roared out the first verse of the pornographic marching song that had driven the legions of Rome from the snow-capped mountains of west Britannia to the deserts of Africa from the super-heated sands of Syria to the cool blue seas off Lusitania. The March of Marius.

There was a mule, he was no fool,

He had a girl in every fort,

Another one in every port.

In Allifae she was not shy …

They didn’t know the words, and in truth it was not Homer, but they joined in with a will and Valerius felt them surging behind him, their legs automatically taking the rhythm of the song. Up ahead he knew the men of the First Adiutrix would have heard it too and would push on harder still. He grinned, because this was what he lived for. Hardship, yes. But comradeship, too. These men would stand together and die together, and that was all he needed. And, perhaps, they just might bring the Emperor his eagle.

Away in the mist another man listened to the song with a semblance of a smile on his pale features. He did not smile because of the song, but because of the name that had preceded it. Something primeval gripped the very centre of Claudius Victor’s being. If the gods of battle were kind, his brother would have his revenge. He wrapped the wolfskin cloak tighter around him and led his patrol back towards Cremona.

The rhythm of the march dulled a man’s senses, but Valerius was so attuned to the distinctive sounds that formed an army’s heartbeat that he came instantly alert as a troop of Pannonian cavalry galloped up to rein in opposite the army’s commanders. His racing mind took in the agitation of the Pannonian commander and the moment of confusion and consternation as Titianus, Paulinus, Proculus and Celsus digested the information they had been given.