Rome’s Fallen Eagle (29 page)

CHAPTER XIII

‘B
RACE YOURSELVES, MY
lovelies!’ Primus Pilus Tatius roared at his double-strength century of a hundred and sixty men kneeling on one knee on the wet deck of a trireme hurtling towards the shore. The men immediately leant forward, thumping their right hands and the bases of their shields down onto the planking, their pila clasped in their left along with their shield grips. ‘That’s my boys; this won’t hurt – too much.’

Vespasian nodded to himself in satisfaction at the discipline of the first century of the first cohort of the II Augusta as he watched the oncoming beach, less than a hundred paces away, blinking his eyes against the sheeting rain. Next to him, in the bow of the ship, the aquilifer of the II Augusta held its Eagle aloft; beyond him, a line of ships with no sails set but each with oars dipping in unison as their stroke-masters piped out the same beat disappeared into the downpour. Vespasian cursed the weather in these northern climes and took a firm hold of the rail as two sailors ran forward to man the ropes holding upright the two twenty-foot-long, eight-foot-wide
corvi
, the ramps by which they would disembark.

‘Oars in,’ the
trierarchus
, who captained the trireme, called through a speaking trumpet at the stern.

A shrill, long call on the stroke-master’s pipe heralded the mass rasping of wood on wood as a hundred and twenty oars were drawn in through their ports; the beach was now less than fifty paces away. Again Vespasian nodded to himself in satisfaction: that was the prescribed distance to cease rowing so that the ship would be grounded but not beached. He checked his sword was loose in its scabbard and cast a glance along the line of triremes; only one still had its oars out. ‘Who the fuck’s that, Tatius?’

The primus pilus quickly counted off the ships. ‘Third and fourth centuries, second cohort, sir!’

Vespasian grunted and braced himself solidly against the ship’s side whilst Tatius did the same with one hand and with the other took a firm grip of the aquilifer’s shoulder so that the Eagle would not fall. With a slight upwards jolt and a grating of churning shingle the hull hit the sea bed; deceleration was immediate and swift, forcing Vespasian to tense his arm and leg muscles as he was propelled forward. The grating transformed into a tooth-aching screech as the speed of the vessel was checked until, with a groan of straining timber and a sudden lurch, the trireme came to a halt, resting – but not embedded – on the beach.

‘Up!’ Tatius cried.

As one the first century got to their feet, transferring their pila into their right hands; the corvi were released to fall with a descending creak to slam into the shingle.

‘The first century will disembark at double time,’ Tatius roared as he and the aquilifer stepped on to the ramp. Vespasian leapt onto the second ramp and jogged down, feeling the wood bounce slightly beneath his feet until he hit the shingle; the men raced down to the beach in groups of four behind him.

Bawled at by Tatius and his optio, they had formed up into four lines of forty by the time the last men had disembarked.

‘Advance quick time one hundred paces!’ Tatius bellowed once he was satisfied that the lines were straight.

Pounding over the shingle, the first century doubled up the sloping beach. Behind them the fifth century moved into place from their landing point to the right and from the left the rest of the first cohort came smartly up to form up next to them.

‘Halt!’ Tatius ordered from his place just in front of the aquilifer.

The first cohort came to a crunching stop.

Vespasian looked along the beach to see the other nine cohorts of the II Augusta dressed perfectly in two lines along the strand; it had taken little more than two hundred heartbeats. The ships that had disgorged them bobbed on the shallow water
afloat once more now that their weight had been drastically reduced; except one: the third and forth centuries of the second cohort.

As Vespasian marched forward to his primus pilus a lone horseman appeared over the scraggy mounds at the top of the beach leading a spare horse; he squinted his eyes against the rain at the oncoming man.

‘Sir!’ Magnus shouted as he drove his horse down the beach.

Vespasian frowned in surprise to see his friend coming out of the rain.

‘What is it, Magnus?’

‘Aulus Plautius has called a meeting of all legates and auxiliary prefects, so I thought I’d bring you a horse. Narcissus has just arrived and my guess is something’s going on. I don’t think he’s come all this way for a cup of hot wine and a nice fireside chat, if you take my meaning?’

‘Can’t he ever stop meddling? All right, I’ll be there in a moment.’ Vespasian turned to Tatius. ‘Very good, primus pilus, apart from that arsehole trierarchus who doesn’t know when to stop rowing; go and shout at him for a while, would you?’

‘Sir!’

‘Get the men and ships back to Gesoriacum, give them something to eat and then do the whole thing again this afternoon with the tide out; and this time I want no mistakes. I’ll join you if I can.’

‘Sir!’ Tatius bellowed, snapping to attention.

Vespasian nodded, mounting the spare horse that Magnus had brought. ‘Right, let’s go and see what plans that oily Greek’s got to make our lives even harder.’

The rain whipped in relentlessly as Vespasian and Magnus made their way the ten miles to Aulus Plautius’ headquarters; these were based in the villa that Caligula had had constructed for himself on the coast just outside the walls of the port of Gesoriacum when he had come north to attempt the conquest of Britannia four years earlier. All the land around the port on the Gallic Straits, opposite the island of Britannia, had been either
ploughed and sown with wheat or barley or had been fenced off into fields containing more pigs and mules than Vespasian had ever seen. They were riding through what was essentially a huge farm stretching, even on a clear day, as far as the eye could see and then further; much further.

The business of supplying the invasion force of four legions and a similar number of auxiliaries, a total of almost forty thousand men in all, plus all the ancillary personnel – cart drivers, muleteers, slaves and sailors crewing the thousand-strong fleet – had not shocked Vespasian with its magnitude when he had first approached Gesoriacum at the head of the II Augusta six months before; it had, rather, inspired him. The idea that every stomach, whether human or animal, had to be filled every day was a logistical problem of such vast mathematical proportions that it made his head spin just to think of the amount of fodder required to feed enough pigs to provide the entire force with a meat ration for one day, or of how many square miles of pasture the army’s five thousand mules would get through in a month. It made his problems of supply for the II Augusta seem trivial and petty in comparison, but they had been problems that he had thoroughly enjoyed tackling once he had returned to Argentoratum.

He and Sabinus had returned to the Empire with Gabinius’ fleet – much to Sabinus’ discomfort over the two-day voyage – and then made their way down the Rhenus back to their new legions; Paetus and his Batavians had accompanied them on their journey south. The voyage had been on calm seas, thanks, as Magnus had often commented, to Ansigar’s timely sacrifice to Nehalennia, the goddess of the Northern Sea.

Upon their arrival at Mogontiacum, news had reached them of their father’s death, but this was tempered by the news of the birth of Vespasian’s daughter, Domitilla. Flavia had written herself and it was with both relief and joy that he had read the letter; a mother and child’s chances of survival in childbirth were about the same as a soldier’s on the battlefield.

Having left his brother to his new command and arriving back with his own legion in mid-June, Vespasian had spent the rest of the year and all of the following training the II Augusta in
embarking on and disembarking from ships until they could do it as efficiently as he thought possible; this had proved a long task as he only had one trireme available to him, the rest having been commandeered – rather short-sightedly, he thought – for the invasion fleet. Whilst the centuries had been taking it in turns to run on and off the only ship, Vespasian had got to grips with the minutiae of commanding a legion and keeping it supplied with equipment, clothing, rations and livestock. He had revelled in it as now it seemed to him that he had the best of both worlds: he was managing a very large estate and at the same time serving Rome under one of her Eagles.

What Publius Gabinius had done with the Eagle of the Seventeenth, however, Vespasian and Sabinus neither knew nor cared. It had seemed simply to disappear – certainly no official mention had been made of it. However, they were just pleased to have survived and returned to evident favour. Sabinus had kept the Nineteenth Legion’s Capricorn from Gabinius and had sent it on to Pallas in Rome in the hope that it would help him in his power struggle with Callistus and also in recognition of his appointment as legate of the XIIII Gemina, the reason for which still mystified the two brothers. Sabinus had written to tell Vespasian that he had received no acknowledgement of the gift but neither had he received any indication that his life was still in danger, so he felt that he could assume now that his part in the assassination of Caligula had been forgotten by the very few people who knew about it. Vespasian, for his part, had been pleased that his family now seemed to be on even terms with Claudius’ three freedmen, on a personal level at least. Fom a professional point of view, however, the freedmen’s constant infighting had meant that the preparations for the invasion had not been straightforward. Each used his own sphere of influence to affect the planning in a way that would reflect well on themselves and badly on their two colleagues. Orders of artillery pieces had been doubled and then abruptly cancelled, before being reordered but at only half the original amount of engines. Gold and silver coin had been despatched from the mint at Lugdunum in the south of the province only for it to have been recalled after
travelling almost half the distance north. Ships had disappeared and then reappeared a few days later but with half the complement of crewmen. But most disruptively, conflicting orders as to the timing, speed and objectives of the invasion had come on a regular basis sending Aulus Plautius into fits of rage at the civilian interference in what was, quite obviously, an exclusively military endeavour.

‘Perhaps Narcissus’ arrival might be a good thing after all,’ Vespasian mused as they rode past the first of the four vast legionary and auxiliary camps surrounding Gesoriacum.

Magnus wiped his eyes; despite his sporting of a widerimmed, leather hat, the rain still streamed down his face. ‘In that now he’s here he can change his mind as many times a day as he likes, rather than just when the courier leaves?’

‘I mean that perhaps if he’s here to see for himself the massive exercise in logistics that’s being undertaken then he might refrain from interfering.’

‘And the Emperor will no doubt start going through the day without drooling.’

‘Thank you, prefect. I’m attaching you to the Second Augusta, you will report to Legate Vespasian after this briefing,’ Aulus Plautius said as the prefect of I Cohort Hamiorum sat back down having given his report on the state of readiness of his newly arrived eastern archers. ‘That concludes all your reports, gentlemen.’ He cast his eyes around the four legates and thirty-three auxiliary prefects sitting on folding stools in the large chamber that he used as a briefing room in his headquarters; the walls had been whitewashed, covering, Vespasian assumed, some very unmilitary frescoes. Through the two open windows the rain beat down mercilessly onto the grey, unsettled sea. ‘I think, as we can all see, there is still a great deal more work to be done in terms of filling all the quartermasters’ stores. We have enough boots, for example, for every man on the force to land in Britannia decently shod; but what happens after a month of tough campaigning in that damp climate? I will not lose infantry because of a shortage of footwear nor will I lose cavalry because
of a shortage of remounts. I’ve no doubt that you have all got your quartermasters doing everything possible to redress the shortages of reserves but I feel that this is a problem that will benefit from an overall perspective.’ Plautius indicated to the almost obese man sitting next to him in a ludicrously extravagant military uniform. ‘As you know, Gnaeus Sentius Saturninus will be administering the conquered tribes and keeping an eye on the client kings as the army moves forward; it therefore makes sense if I appoint him in overall command of re-provisioning as all the supply routes will naturally run through territory administered by him.’

Sentius smiled the smile of a man who had just smelt profit.

‘That’s made it very unlikely that I shall see my entire consignment of reserve tents before we go,’ Vespasian whispered to Sabinus next to him as Plautius praised his second-incommand’s administrative abilities and integrity.

Sabinus suppressed a grin. ‘And I’ll give up looking forward to my delivery of shovels, cooking pots and grain mills arriving on time and being complete.’

‘I still don’t understand how he managed to wheedle his way into this command after suggesting a return to the Republic when Claudius became emperor.’

Sabinus shrugged. ‘Why am I legate of the Fourteenth?’

‘… and therefore, if we are to be ready by mid-June,’ Plautius was continuing, ‘so as to take advantage of the forthcoming harvest in Britannia, I expect every one of you to take your provisioning requests to Sentius.’ There was a mumble from the officers present that could have either been construed as consent to a very workable plan or resignation as to the way that resupplying the army worked; Plautius chose to believe the former. ‘Good. Tomorrow is the calends of April, which means we have seventy-five days left. Prefects, you are dismissed; legates, you will come with me to report to the imperial secretary.’

Narcissus had taken up residence on the first floor of Caligula’s villa and Vespasian was not surprised by the gaudy artwork and statuary that littered the staircase and corridors on the way to his
quarters, vestiges of the brash young Emperor’s taste in interior decoration. What did surprise him, though, was the presence of Praetorian Guards on duty outside Narcissus’ suite of rooms. ‘Claudius’ freedman is taking on all the trappings of an emperor, it would seem,’ he muttered to Sabinus as a centurion left a visibly insulted Aulus Plautius standing outside the door whilst he went to enquire of the ex-slave whether he was ready to receive the general of the invasion army.