Legatus Legionis: Book Two in the Gaius Claudius Scaevola Trilogy (15 page)

The battle was surprisingly brief but exceedingly bloody, and only a few of the northerners could even manage to flee. A huge pile of weapons were gathered and were then loaded onto the carts that carried a large amount of what was presumed to have been loot from previous raids.

As Gaius was to remark to Lucius Matius later, the slaughter of so many barbarians so quickly would ensure the loyalty of this client tribe for some time. Generosity also helped: Gaius said that the tribute for this year could be waived.

The parties then marched back to the village, where the villagers were amazed to see the volume of loot, which was all laid out on a bare area.

"We share half each," Gaius said to the chief. In response to the pleasantly surprised look on the Chief's face, he added, "We were allies, and your charge, and the noise you made were critical to the easier success."

The chief was pleased, and the next hour was spent sorting and selecting. Following that, the chief invited Gaius and the senior officers for a meal. Large fires were formed, and quite large amounts of venison were being roasted. Gaius provided wine, the Iazyges provided ale and mead. At the end of the meal, when much laughing and singing was underway, and when some of the Romans were eying the possibilities of some available women, the chief indicated that he wished to have a more private conversation with Gaius.

"The horses your cavalry are using are not very good horses," he pointed out.

"You have better ones?" Gaius asked encouragingly. He sensed what was coming, and it was important that the chief felt free to make his proposal.

"We have much better horses, and I know how to get more, but of course . . ."

"You wish to be paid," Gaius nodded. "Of course you will be paid, if we think they're good enough to buy."

"Yes, but some Romans don't. They take, and then challenge . . ."

"There's a simple answer to that," Gaius nodded. "I'll set up a trading post. You sell whatever you want there, and you'll be paid immediately. Of course, I'll have to on-sell it, so I'll take a commission, but you will know your payments are secure, and if you don't like the price, you don't have to sell."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I'll make some money out of it as well. And also, we'll put one of your son's into the business, to teach him the art of trading with Rome. He can look after your interests, and help me a bit too. What do you say? Drink on it?"

They drank on it. As Gaius noted, the fact that he would make a little on each transaction eased the Chief's mind; a deal in which the other party also made something was much easier to understand than one that did not.

* * *

The return to Lussonium was uneventful, and when Gaius reviewed the exercise, he had to admit that while it had been spectacularly successful, he had learned surprisingly little about forest battle tactics. The value of an ambush was well known, and the brutal efficiency of the killing had been achieved on the road, the one piece of non-forested land available, while the enemy had their backs to the Romans.

The captured weapons were also less informative. The large axes were valuable, if for no other reason that they could also be used for cutting down trees, and he already knew the swords would be longer than the gladius.

The drills would continue; they kept the soldiers in form, and they ensured the local population knew there was a fighting force available. However, Gaius remained less than satisfied; he had learned little during that raid, and he felt confident that in further drills, his men would simply continue to do what they were familiar with and that would merely reinforce what everyone thought was right. They were not learning anything new, and the problem of how to fight most effectively in forests remained.

He sent a letter to Claudius, outlining what had happened to the expeditionary force, how the allies had fought, then the size and amount of the loot he had gathered. Items such as axes would be retained and sold locally, but the items made of precious metal were to be despatched to Rome immediately. When he had finished arranging the transport, he realized that he had been a Legate for nearly a year. Soon it would be time once again to return to Burnum. He remembered the tension of the previous year, and smiled as he realized that Valerius Messala no longer felt the need to get so far from Rome.

Chapter 15

"You're not going to like this," Timothy said.

"I guess not," Gaius shook his head. "What is it that I'm not going to like?"

"Your cylinder," Timothy explained. "You want a piston to go up and down, and be pushed by steam?"

"So?"

"The cylinder has to be even," Timothy said. "I can cast a cylinder, but it is very difficult to get the inner surface all exactly the same diameter, and it's too big to put on a lathe."

"I see," Gaius said. He thought for a moment, then said, "But you could put something the size of a piston on a lathe?"

"Maybe," came the doubtful and somewhat unenthusiastic response.

"This cylinder? It is cast from bronze?"

"Yes. Maybe one day you might want iron, but bronze will be good enough to see if it works."

"Then try to get it as round as you can with the casting," Gaius said, "then you could put something on a lathe the size of the piston and put something very abrasive around it and wear down the cylinder evenly?"

"And what's this, 'something very abrasive' going to be?"

"The most abrasive stone you can find." Gaius paused, then added, "It also has to be fine-grained, so that it wears the bronze down, not scratches cavities."

"I suppose I could try, but I'm sure the result won't be perfect, in which case the steam will leak and won't push the piston," Timothy warned.

"Then try to get the best you can. Same with the piston. Get rings on the piston like we agreed, grind the rings to fit, and if it doesn't fit well, maybe try a bit of leather around the rings."

"That may not last very long," Timothy warned.

"No, it mightn't, but it might last long enough to see if it works. We might need to have some sort of oil drop onto the leather or the rings, we'll have to wait and see. If you can make the cylinder's errors only in whether it is round, as opposed to lumpy, you might be able to use the stone to grind down parts of the rings so that it fits the cylinder. I am afraid we just have to try something."

"It'll still leak," Timothy said doubtfully.

"It may well," Gaius shrugged, "but it depends on how badly. If it works while it is leaking a little, does it matter?"

"It would be better if it didn't," Timothy grouched.

"Yes, it would." Gaius paused, then added, "Timothy, if you don't want to do this . . ."

"I'll do it," Timothy interrupted, but without any enthusiasm.

Yes, Gaius thought to himself, because if he did not, he would have to earn his living some other way. Still, he had to try to give Timothy a little more confidence. "I'm sure you'll manage something sooner or later, and remember, you can get all the help you need. As for the longer term future, if it works but has flaws, remember that one of the problems we have now is we can't turn anything on a lathe that is very big because we can't power the lathe. If we can get a small engine to work it might power a bigger lathe, which would make all this easier. I don't know how to do it, but let's try something."

Gaius watched Timothy saunter off. Timothy was obviously getting tired of this engine that was still more an abstraction than a tangible thing. This cylinder was proving to be quite a problem, and he rather fancied that the piston would prove to be an equal one. The good news was that Timothy had in principle worked out a way to fit a ring onto the piston by sweating it on, which meant that the engineering there did not need to be so accurate, and as he had pointed out to Timothy, the cylinder would probably wear the ring into a desirable shape. One thing he knew was that this would leak some steam, but if he could make it big enough to do something that could be useful, and if it worked for long enough for the principle to be established, then it would be merely a matter of improving it. As yet, it was unclear whether this would work at all. However, at least it was giving him something to do over the winter.

He longed to be back in Rome, with Vipsania, but the practicalities were that he could not go. He was an army commander, and he had to be with his legion. Then there was the small matter of the prophecy: he was not to return to Rome until it was in ruins. That was simply impossible; Rome could not fall into ruins in his lifetime.

As the winter deepened, very little happened at Burnum. The possible size of his engine was becoming smaller, simply because there was a limit to how big a cylinder could be ground with the available lathes. A smith suggested that he was going about it the wrong way, and it might be better to get the piston round, and use that to make the mould to cast the cylinder. Gaius shrugged, handed over yet more sesterces, and told him to get on with it. This was not an extreme problem; if the machine worked, something bigger could easily be made. If nothing else, a small engine could power whatever was required to make bigger cylinders.

The legion did little in the cold. Gaius did request occasional winter drills, for ultimately it might be required to fight in the winter, but he was only too well aware that the available clothing was not really adequate. It would be one thing to lose soldiers to valiant enemy, and another to have them die of cold and exposure. Perhaps someone should work on better boots and better clothing, but that was something to work on some other time.

* * *

The feast of the Saturnalia was a family affair, and by definition, soldiers in the field do not have families. That, however, was no reason not to feast. Gaius decided that this year he would invite the Legate of the seventh, and the Tribunes of both legions to a joint feast, which left the question of where to have it. The official camp was one option, but Gaius realized that he was still renting the villa where the Valerii had been living the previous year. That would be a better place; to start with, it was not a military camp, and the facilities would be very suitable. He was about to write the formal invitations when the thought struck him that he should check to make certain the condition was still suitable. A ride in the snow would be as good a way as any of filling in the morning, so he grabbed his cloak.

The sun was bright, the air crisp, and all seemed well with the world. Truly a day to lift the spirits, to . . . It was as he turned off onto the track towards his villa his goodwill began to subside for instead of good clean crisp snow there were clear signs of heavy horse traffic. This track did not go anywhere else, so who had been up here? As he approached the villa, he could see smoke coming from the chimney. Someone was using his villa. He rode up towards the front door, dismounted, secured his horse, and looked around. There were wheel-marks going around to the back of the villa, and he assumed any horses would be there as well. He checked his gladius, then strode to the door. He put his key in the lock, but then found it was open.

He strode in and quietly closed the door, then began walking through the villa. He could hear sounds from the kitchen area, so he crept there and flung open the door. Two men, who he recognized from the previous year as Valerius Messala's slaves were cleaning the floor. One of them looked up and cheerfully waved at him.

Gaius thought for a moment, then asked, "Where's your master?"

"They've all gone back to Rome," came the cheerful response. "We're just cleaning up before we go back too."

"They?"

"Yes, there were about half a dozen of them, all the Master's acquaintances. Except for the governor, that is."

"The Governor?"

"Yes, Governor Scribonianus was here too. There was some sort of a meeting. Didn't you know?"

"As it happens, no," Gaius replied.

"I'm sorry . . . I . . ."

"It's not your fault," Gaius said. "What are your instructions now?"

"To clean up, and take the next ship back to Italy. The steward is just going to arrange it."

"Then perhaps I should have a word with him," Gaius nodded. "Where is he?"

"He just went out the back door. You should be able to catch him."

Gaius nodded, and went quickly to back door. This situation was puzzling. Why had Messala and a number of other Romans come all this way? The obvious answer was that they wanted to see Governor Scribonianus, but what for? And why in this villa? Why not at the Governor's villa? If they wanted to entertain the Governor, why not in Burnum itself? It was possible that there was nowhere better that was available, and it was possible that when the meeting was arranged, this was the one place Messala could count on, but . . . Could he count on it? He had no idea whether Gaius was still renting it. It appeared that he had just assumed that would be the case, probably on no better grounds than Vipsania had not been told of any change.

But if he was relying on Vipsania, why hadn't he brought her with him? Had he done so, that would at least guarantee access. And more to the point, why hadn't Messala asked him if he could have the villa? He would always have said yes, although he might have added that Vipsania should come. Did he want to keep Vipsania away from him? If so, why?

Perhaps he wanted the villa because it was out of the way, but why did he need to be out of the way? The only reason would appear to be because they did not want anyone to know they were there. So, what was the secret? Then there was the question of why Messala did not wish to see his son in law? He had not even brought a message from Vipsania!

He soon found the steward about to mount a horse, so Gaius suggested they ride together to Burnum. The conversation was rather stilted, and the steward claimed that he had no idea why Messala had come. That could be true, Gaius realized. If Messala did not even wish to let his daughter's husband know why he was there, it would not be overly surprising if he also kept the information from his steward, who might well talk over wine when he was left behind.