Douglas Jackson - Hero of Rome

Lunaris had barely completed half a circuit at the head of the unit by the time Valerius caught up with him, but sweat was already pouring down the duplicarius ’s face.

‘That must be almost pure wine. You shouldn’t waste it.’

Lunaris looked across, surprised. Most tribunes weren’t prepared to suffer with their men. But then he’d heard this one wasn’t like most tribunes. Valerius wore his full armour and carried his shield on his left arm and a pair of the heavy pila in his right hand. Normally a legionary on the march bore his shield in a leather cover on his back, and, unless there was an imminent threat of danger, a handy mule transported the majority of the unit’s spears. The shield was big and heavy and needed constant adjustment to stop it obstructing its bearer, and the two spears had a habit of crossing so that the lead weights which gave them their accuracy and power wanted to go in different directions. Added to the difficulty of jogging across uneven ground with a large pot on your head, cooking in an iron shell, it made for an interesting exercise.

‘Not wine… vinegar.’

Valerius shot him a puzzled look.

‘The bars here,’ Lunaris grunted. ‘The wine they sell is pure vinegar.’ He grinned and gradually stepped up the pace, but if he thought he would leave the tribune behind he soon found he was mistaken. Valerius’s long, powerful legs covered the ground in a loping stride that never seemed to falter. His armour had been fitted by an expert and allowed him greater ease of movement and less chafing than the segmentata worn by the rank and file. It was lighter too, but just as strong, because the armourer had chosen iron with a greater carbon content. By the second circuit, Lunaris was drawing in the warm air in prolonged, shuddering gasps, and Valerius could hear groans from the ranks behind him. He slowed imperceptibly, allowing the grateful duplicarius to drop back with him. As he ran, he studied Colonia’s walls and defensive ditch.

‘What do you think of the defences, soldier?’

Lunaris spat. ‘What defences?’

‘My feelings entirely,’ Valerius agreed. ‘I think we’ll double the guard tonight, just in case. Second century to supply the first watch.’ He moved away so he wouldn’t hear Lunaris cursing under his breath.

She was tall, was that his first impression? No, it was her eyes, he decided; he was drawn to her eyes, which were wide and curious and framed by long lashes. Irises of a deep chestnut brown contained a message which was at once challenging and mocking, and, perturbingly, left him feeling quite naked. Lustrous, shoulder-length hair which matched them was swept back from a broad forehead, leaving tendrils to highlight the perfect oval of her face. The nose perhaps a little too delicate, the mouth a little too wide for classic beauty, but in her they combined to create something more. She wore a full-length crimson dress, the design of which said Roman but something about the way she wore it said not. All this in the time it took for an arrow to leave the bow, or a shot the sling. As he stared into them the eyes changed shape and became serious and he realized the military commander Falco was talking to him.

‘… And this is Lucullus, our foremost Briton, a lord of the local tribe, the Trinovantes, and a longtime friend to Rome.’

A short, rotund man bowed and smiled ingratiatingly. Valerius would have moved on — the local Britons were of little interest to him except as potential enemies — but Lucullus stood his ground and waved the girl forward.

‘My daughter, Maeve,’ he said.

Maeve?

Valerius turned to acknowledge her but she was already walking towards the gate of the temple complex. He stared at the slender retreating figure and was rewarded with a venomous backward glance aimed, fortunately, at her father. He felt an almost unstoppable urge to follow her, but Falco took his arm and steered him round the still smiling Lucullus with a sniff of irritation.

‘Tiberius Petronius Victor, whom I understand you have already encountered.’ Valerius’s mind remained focused on the girl but he noted the hint of disapproval in Falco’s voice. ‘He is Colonia’s senior magistrate, the procurator’s personal representative here and one of our leading citizens.’ The militia commander gave a brittle smile. ‘And he has a tight grip on the town’s purse strings.’

Petronius produced a laugh equally devoid of humour. Clearly little love was lost between the two men. ‘Each of us has our priorities, Quintus. Mine is to ensure we create a Colonia worthy of the Emperor’s name it holds. We have real soldiers, like the tribune here, to keep us safe in our beds. Why should we spend a king’s ransom so that your little army can strut the streets like peacocks?’

Valerius expected the insult to provoke a violent reaction, but it seemed this was an argument so well rehearsed it had lost its power to inflame.

‘Come.’ Falco led him away from the quaestor. ‘I will introduce you to the head of the ordo, our council of one hundred leading citizens.’ When they were out of Petronius’s earshot, he explained. ‘He means why should we have shields that don’t splinter at the first blow and why must we complain when we wear the same rusty swords we carried all the way from the Rhenus to the invasion all those years ago.’

‘Every army has supply problems… even little armies,’ Valerius said. He recognized the older man’s frustration. Shortages were part of life in the legions. A soldier, even a Roman soldier, had to fight for everything he could get.

Falco looked at him sharply, wondering if he was being made fun of.

Valerius smiled. ‘Perhaps while we are here we will lose a few shields and a few spears. My men are sometimes careless.’ There would be no shortages for a unit taking part in the governor’s campaign against Mona, that was certain, and in any case he would be back in Rome before the legion’s quartermaster worked out what had happened.

The militia commander slapped his shoulder. ‘Now I understand why Julius likes you. Come, we will share some wine. You should have been with us on the Tamesa: Catuvellauni warriors seven feet tall who took a dozen cuts and still wouldn’t fall. I have nightmares about them even now…’

Still talking, he led the way into a long, narrow room with a patterned mosaic floor and walls painted with lifelike scenes of an emperor, who must be Claudius, carrying out his imperial duties as fawning courtiers looked on. Two of the paintings immediately caught Valerius’s eye. In the first, the Emperor was depicted sitting high on the back of a gold-clad ceremonial elephant as a dozen splendid barbarian figures bowed before him. He realized this must be the surrender of Britain, which had taken place close to this very spot. The second took up an entire end wall and showed Claudius standing proudly on a hill above a broad river surveying the crossing of his legions and the hazy battle beyond.

‘The Tamesa,’ Falco whispered. ‘Claudius wasn’t even there. Didn’t arrive until the next day. He was a fraud, old Claudius, but we didn’t love him any the less for it.’

Valerius looked around to see if anyone was listening. Criticizing emperors, even long-dead emperors, was not something to be done lightly. But Falco only winked.

‘If he was going to strike me down he’d have done it long ago, lad. I sweated and bled for him and now he’s taking care of me in my old age. But he’s still an old fraud.’

The room had been set for twenty-four people, with couches round the walls and a gilt table in the centre. Valerius found himself between Falco and Petronius, and opposite the Briton, Lucullus, who called for wine to be brought.