Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

In the entrance hall he paused again before the statues of the emperors. Those mighty figures, rulers of his life, seemed different to him now. Sad, somehow, and lost, for all the strength of their mutual embrace. He touched his brow once more in quiet salute, then he marched out into the darkness and the rain.

A month later, on the first day of May, Legion VI Victrix assembled in full strength on the broad expanse of the parade ground outside the western wall of the fortress. Under a slate-grey sky, every man stared forward at the distant tribunal and the rising smoke from the sacrificial altars. They all knew what was happening now; there were no more secrets. But the promise of four gold pieces and a pound of silver per man had dulled the initial shock, and only the excitement of novelty stirred their ranks.

From his place in the Third Cohort, Castus watched the tribunes mount the tribunal, reverently removing the portrait images of Diocletian and Maximian from the legion standards and raising those of Constantius and Galerius in their places. Two new busts, two new Caesars, now filled the lower places. But all the busts looked similar, and from a distance it was hard to see any difference anyway.

Now the representatives of each cohort filed forward to take the oath of allegiance, the rest all following their words. It was a familiar ceremony, repeated every year. A festive mood spread through the legion: soon there would be fresh meat from the sacrifices in their bellies, and newly minted gold in their hands. The world might have tilted slightly, but only briefly, and now order was restored.

Castus tried to share their feelings. Still, as he stared at the standards, he felt a prickle of doubt. Why, he could not say.

But then the cheers of acclamation rang out, the troops throwing up their arms and yelling out the traditional cries, and the noise drowned out all further questions.

‘Constantius and Galerius, invincible Augusti! Severus and Maximinus, most noble Caesars! Emperors! Masters of the World!’

Everything had changed, Castus thought. But everything had stayed the same.

‘Shield… wall !’

Fifty-six shields clashed together in a rapid percussion, locking like tiles on a sloping roof. Fifty-six armoured bodies in four ranks, crouched and standing with spears levelled through the gaps. Each midnight-blue shield was painted with the emblem of the Sixth Legion: a winged figure of the goddess Victory with gold palm and laurel wreath. Castus waited for three heartbeats then yelled again.

‘Half-step… ad- vance !’

The block jolted forward, the men moving together with shields tight. One step then pause, another step then pause, the low collective chant: ‘Vic- trix , Vic- trix …’ From the rear ranks Timotheus, who looked far too young to be an optio, kept the formation steady.

‘Halt! By the right – open ranks !’

The block of men shuffled and then spread, the wall of shields opening into a skirmishing line with the second and third ranks moving up to cover the gaps. It was a difficult man shy;oeuvre, and the century managed it well. Castus felt a brief warm glow of satisfaction. From the margins of the drill field, men and officers from other units had gathered to watch.

‘From the rear – ready wasps !’

A hollow rattle as the rear-rank men plucked the darts from behind their shields. The legion had not made much use of the weighted throwing dart before Castus had joined them. A hundred yards away across the drill field stood the row of straw-stuffed practice targets.

‘Loose!’

With a combined grunt, the rear-rankers hurled their darts. Then, in practised sequence, came more darts from the forward ranks, each volley arcing against the dull sky and raining down. Castus flicked his eyes between his men and the targets – most of the darts had fallen short or gone wide, but a few thudded home into the straw.

Now a volley of javelins followed the darts, the century advancing steadily by half-steps, kicking up the gravel of the drill field. Then swords rattled from scabbards along the line and the men halted, waiting for the order to charge. They could see the straw targets bristling with darts and javelins.

Castus felt his chest swell with fierce joy. These were his men; he had trained them and formed them, and he could sense the pride they took in their abilities now, their collective strength. He threw back his head to cry out the order that would send the wedge of armoured men into a charge. Would it be like this, he thought, in a real battle? Would they be so determined then, so disciplined? And would he have the nerve to command them effectively?

‘You’re showing me up, young man!’

Castus turned on his heel. Ursicinus, the legion’s senior drill instructor, stood with fists on hips. He was a wiry man, and looked like an old grey rat. Castus was a head taller and a foot broader, but the habit of deference was hard to break; he straightened at once and touched his brow in rapid salute.

‘Oh, don’t let me stop you,’ Ursicinus said, smiling sourly. His own drills usually involved marching practice, and leaving the men standing at attention for hours in the rain – the best way, he claimed, to instil a habit of patient obedience.

‘Probably enough for today,’ Castus muttered. He was tempted to continue anyway – order his men to charge, yelling, at the practice stumps with levelled blades. But Ursicinus was one of the highest-ranking veterans in the legion, and Castus knew enough not to try and antagonise him.

‘Optio! Fall the men out.’

Timotheus raised his staff, then he barked the order and the formation broke apart.

‘Impressive, I suppose,’ the drill instructor said. He tapped Castus’s mailed chest with his staff. ‘Just don’t think you’re going to turn them into one of those crack Danube legions! There’s not much call for them out here, y’know.’

‘What would you know about that?’ Castus said under his breath as the older man stalked away. Months of training his century whenever he got the chance – whenever they were spared from mending roads or walls or digging out latrines, or being sent off to guard the supply convoys – had turned what had been a shambolic set of men into something approaching soldiers. They had hated him for it at first, Castus knew that; he had beaten them hard, and managed to discharge some of the worst idlers into other centuries. But now he liked to think that they appreciated the distinction. Now it was only the disdain of the other officers he had to contend with: men like Ursicinus, forty years in the legion and never fought in battle, ground smooth by the routines of camp life and resentful of any suggestion that he might be wrong.

Pfft! Castus said to himself, and twitched an obscene gesture at the departing instructor. Optio Timotheus caught his eyes and grinned – the younger soldiers had picked up his enthusiasm much more quickly.

‘Shall I take them back to barracks, centurion?’

Castus nodded. Young Timotheus was tough on the men, bit too much vinegar in his blood, but would make a good officer one day. As a deputy, he was perfect. His harsh yells drifted away over the gravel of the drill field as he formed up the men and set them marching back towards the fortress gates. He even got them singing as they left the field.

‘You rile him up and he’ll find some way to get back at you,’ Evagrius said. ‘Or make things hard for the rest of us.’

‘I know,’ Castus said. They were in the office room of his quarters, a whitewashed cell set aside for the routine administration that fell to every centurion’s duty. Like most of the leaking old barrack block, it smelled strongly of damp plaster and mould. Julius Evagrius, standard-bearer and clerk, sat on a stool on the other side of the desk with a heap of wax tablets before him. Castus, leaning by the door, tried not to stare too dubiously at the documents.