Thunder of the Gods (13 page)

Avidus nodded and turned his attention back to the tablet, his mind clearly already preoccupied with how to meet his legatus’s requirements.

‘Tribune Corvus.’

Marcus looked up.

‘Legatus.’

‘You, Tribune, have two men with key roles to play, and I have a particular task in mind for you as well. This is what I need …’

Marcus rode his horse down the hill into Seleucia the next morning at the head of a long train of empty carts, looking out across the port at the praetorian warships that had been beached on the inner harbour’s shingle. Half a dozen remained afloat within the protection of the outer harbour’s thick walls, moored stem to stern along the northern mole. The morning guard directed him to the better of the port’s official guest houses so, ordering the carts to wait for him, and tethering the horse under their watchful eye, he walked the last few hundred paces to find the fleet’s procurator taking the morning air, leaning back in a wooden chair with the look of a man at his ease. The expression fled Ravilla’s face the instant he saw the younger man approaching.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to come back down that hill, Tribune. Not with any keen sense of anticipation, mind you.’

Marcus inclined his head in recognition of the naval officer’s irritation, having fully expected his appearance to confirm the man’s worst fears. Scaurus had warned him what to expect before he’d climbed into the saddle for the short ride to the port earlier that morning: ‘He’s not going to like it, Tribune. You’ll have to find a way to make it clear to him what’s going to happen if he doesn’t cooperate.’

He bowed respectfully.

‘I completely understand, Procurator. The Legatus asked me to convey to you his regret at having to make the request …’

‘But unfortunately he has no choice in the matter?’

‘Something very much like that, yes sir.’

The procurator scratched at his beard, shaking his head unhappily as he accepted the scroll that Marcus had produced from his belt, opening it to read Scaurus’s orders.

‘So he proposes to take my marines away with him into Parthia, where he will almost certainly get them all killed? I suppose I ought to be grateful he’s not ordering me to bring him a few cohorts of sailors as well?’

The younger man shook his head.

‘In the years I’ve known him it’s been my observation that while Legatus Scaurus can at times be pragmatic to the point of ruthlessness, I’ve never found him to be a sadist. And arming your crews would be sadism of the lowest type, given the enemy we’re marching to face. He believes that your marines will suffice.’

The procurator glowered at him in silence for a moment.

‘And what’s he going to do if I refuse, eh? March his legion down here and drag my men away? Tell me that, Tribune. What’s he going to do if I send you away with the hard word?’

‘Nothing, sir. But then it’s not what the legatus will do that should be troubling you.’

Ravilla looked at him, seeing the shadow of pain cross his face.

‘I was wondering why he sent you, rather than coming down here in person. I’d put it down to his not wanting to have to face me while he stripped my fleet of its men, but that’s not the reason, is it?’

Marcus shook his head impassively.

‘No, Procurator.’

‘Then why? Why you, and not Rutilius Scaurus in person.’

‘Because the legatus has no one to lose, sir. Whereas I do.’

Ravilla nodded slowly.

‘Wife? Children? Parents?’

‘My wife and child. They assure my complete commitment to the emperor’s cause, and my eventual return to Rome. And yourself, Prefect? Do you have family in the capital?’

The prefect looked back at him for a moment before replying.

‘I have children, and a wife I still love. My father lives with my family, to keep them from harm.’

‘Could your father fight off a dozen hardened killers? Imperial justice takes as violent a form these days as it did towards the end of the civil war, Prefect. Men of substance are torn from their families and murdered on the slightest pretext, their estates and property confiscated. All the men behind the throne need is a reason to come after you …’

‘And?’

‘Prefect, my legatus is an honourable man who has been put into a corner, and under such circumstances all he knows how to do is fight. If you fail to assist him then you will leave him no alternative but to report your non-compliance with the valid and rightful order of a superior officer. As a consequence you are likely to find yourself on the wrong end of imperial justice, I’d imagine, with all that implies. But then
your
death wouldn’t really be the worst of your problems, I’d imagine.’

First Spear Quintinus led the Third Gallic onto the parade ground the next morning with the air of a man compelled to hand his daughter over in marriage to a bridegroom with a known taste for domestic violence. The soldiers were quiet for the most part, their half-day off having for the most part been spent in pursuit of alcohol and Antioch’s notoriously large population of whores.

‘Fucking look at them, every one of them hanging from his chinstrap like the shithouse dogs they are!’

Saratos grinned at his comrade’s disgusted opinion.

‘Not every day Legatus tell soldier he part of proud tradition that go back to blessed Julius. Is funny.’

Sanga shook his head.

‘Problem is, you dozy Dacian prick puller, they’ll be honking up all that wine before they’ve done more than a mile. And given that we’re their new Sixth Cohort, we’re going to be ankle deep in last night’s pork before you know it.’

He wisely chose to fall silent before the vine-stick-wielding wrath of their new centurion reached them, spittle flying from the newly promoted officer’s lips as he raged theatrically at his men.

‘Shut the fuck up! The legatus is about to address the legion!’

Scaurus strolled out in front of his command, his uniform as impeccably turned out as the previous day, although the more astute of the Tungrians had already noted the fact that his best boots had been exchanged for the standard-issue infantry footwear, their soles studded with hobnails.

‘Here we go again.’

Quintus spun round from his fond contemplation of the man who had so recently fulfilled his life’s only remaining ambition, by promoting him from the rank of chosen man where, he had become convinced, he was doomed to languish for the remainder of his twenty-five years of service. Legatus Scaurus had made Quintus a centurion, and in turn Quintus was determined to spend the rest of those years living up to the trust placed in him. Faced with four ranks of impassive faces, none of whom showed the slightest sign of any guilt, he drew the inevitable conclusion, swinging his vine stick to land an expert blow into the space where the standard-issue helmet was deliberately cut away to allow its wearer to hear commands in the nightmarish din of battle.

‘Shut the fuck up, Sanga! And don’t try looking innocent on me, soldier, I’m too experienced to fall for your attempts at indig—’

‘Soldiers of the Third Gallic!’

The legatus was speaking, his voice floating across the parade round and echoing faintly from the distant barracks as he repeated each sentence in Greek.

‘I hear you did yourselves proud last night. No drop of wine left unconsumed! No whore left unpleasured! No song left unsung!’

The legionaries grinned smugly, a good number of those closest to the Tungrians cheering up sufficiently to nod and make obscene gestures that they knew would leave the northern barbarians in no doubt as to the prodigious nature of their evening’s entertainment, while others pointed and mimicked the only sexual release that their new fellow legionaries would have been enjoying.

‘And now, having demonstrated that you know how to put on a decent show on the parade ground, you will now demonstrate your prowess at the most essential skill a soldier must possess!’

The Tungrians waited with broadening smiles while Scaurus repeated the statement in Greek, nodding back at the Third’s men knowingly as the easterners frowned, trying to work out what this new challenge might be.

‘Your founder, the blessed Julius Caesar, was famed for his ability to appear out of nowhere at the head of his men, this proud legion included, and to seek battle where his presence was least expected! And do you know how he used to achieve that feat?’

‘Here it comes, you smug bastards!’

Scaurus glanced down the legion’s line to where the Tungrians stood impassively for the most part, his lips twitching in a slight smile at the shouted comment. Close enough to the man to see his lack of concern at the comment, Quintus, whilst clearly aware that Sanga had once more been unable to resist the urge to express his indignation, did no more than shrug and nod his head at the outburst.

‘Your forebears of two hundred years ago were men of iron! They could march twenty-five or thirty miles in a day and then offer their enemies battle, as fresh as if they had covered half the distance at a gentle stroll! You and I, legionaries, will soon take pride in just that same ability, for we will need to cover ground at a prodigious rate once we have crossed the Euphrates!’

The Tungrians were grinning back at their Syrian comrades now, nodding and smiling at the sick looks that were spreading across their ranks.

‘Today, soldiers, we will start gently, to allow the men who have recently sailed from Rome the chance to recover their fitness, and not to be embarrassed by your greater abilities!’

Scaurus’s grin was now open, as he laid down a challenge he knew full well would have his men straining at their collars.

‘Today we will march no more than fifteen miles! Not even a full day’s march at the standard pace!’

He turned to find Quintinus and the assembled tribunes staring at him with expressions ranging from discomfort to outright horror, while Julius stood to one side with an impassive face.

‘Ready gentlemen? Since there are nine of you, I suggest you each take a cohort. First Spear Quintinus, please lead the legion for me today. I intend to march with my Tungrians, and to ensure by my example that they don’t shame themselves too badly after such a long time on board ship.’

He strode away to the Tungrians, nodding to Julius as the Tungrian first spear shook his head in dark amusement.

‘Ready for a run, Julius?’

The older man nodded.

‘A good deal better prepared than these poor bastards.’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘War has a way of teaching bloody lessons to the unprepared. And I need soldiers who can cover ground when needed, not barrack-room slugs.’

He waved to Quintinus in his position at the head of the legion’s long column.

‘Ready, First Spear!’

The legion jerked into motion one cohort at a time, each of the divisions obeying the command of their senior centurions and striding out bravely enough while their wind was still fresh. Quintinus led them out of the fortress and onto the road to the north, setting a brisk pace in the fresh breeze that was blowing from the west.

‘Bloody winter, and it’s still warmer than most summer days back at The Hill!’

Saratos nodded at his comrade’s comment, putting his head back to gulp down the cool air.

‘Is no rain neither. I like.’

‘When we going to start running, sir?’

Sanga ignored both the muttered curses from the men around him and the hard looks that his centurion was shooting at him, grinning broadly at the legatus to indicate that his question was genuine.

‘Soon enough, soldier. I thought a gentle pace might be better for the first two miles, to give you time to stretch out those muscles before we start to speed up.’

He led them along the broad road in pursuit of the cohort ahead of them, quickly closing the hundred-pace gap that had separated the two units, until the Fifth Cohort’s rear rankers were looking over their shoulders in dismay at the grim-faced northerners hard on their heels. After a short while the legion trumpeters blew their horns at the column’s head, and, cohort by cohort, the Syrians upped their pace to the quick march. Already sweating heavily, as their exertions of the previous evening began to take their toll, the legionaries quickly began to labour as the increased pace began to punish their legs and lungs. The Fifth Cohort were soon barely managing to keep up the pace, and Scaurus exchanged a glance with Julius, who simply nodded.

‘Tungrians! Follow me!’

The legatus stepped smartly to his right and began to lengthen his stride, pulling his men along behind him, all sweating freely despite the cooling breeze, but not a single man failed to keep up.

‘Does nobody have a song to offer us?’

Sanga laughed at his legatus’s challenge, putting back his head to bellow out the first line.

‘Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!’

The whole cohort followed his cue, roaring out the verse with sufficient gusto to turn heads up and down the column.

‘Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!

Our centurion’s got a bigger stick than yours!

And he’s going to ram the bastard where the sun don’t shine!’

To the dismay of the men alongside them, the Tungrians were slowly accelerating, gradually progressing up the Fifth Cohort’s six-century length as the northerners found their stride, grinning across at the struggling legionaries as they passed despite their own pain.

‘Our centurion’s got a bigger dick than yours!’

Our centurion’s got a bigger dick than yours!

Our centurion’s got a bigger dick than yours!

And he’s going to ram the bastard where the sun don’t shine!’

As if on cue, the trumpets blared again, and the legion’s column lurched from a quick march that was slower than it could have been to a run that was no better than a shambling trot. Scaurus turned momentarily to face his men, raising his hand and then pointing it forward in a sweeping gesture.

‘Tungrians … at the run … RUN!’