IV - Allies-4
1891 Words
Many things were to happen at once that day.
As Dagon helped Lucius to arm himself in full armour in preparation for the Sacramentum ceremony, Brencis arrived to report that a patrol had spotted a cohort from VIth Legion. Apparently, they had been sent from Coriospitum to take the Boar back to Eburacum.
“Their tribune ordered that the prisoners be made ready,” Brencis added sarcastically. “Oh, and our Praetorian messenger is with them.”
“Perfect,” Lucius worked his jaw. It was going to be a long day. He had wanted to speak further with the Boar, even though he did not know why. “Brencis, I want the prisoner fed and given a clean tunic and bracae.”
“Praefectus?”
“You heard me.”
“Yes, sir.” Brencis saluted and spun.
“One more thing!” Lucius added, his heart beating faster. “I don’t want him shackled. Just his arms tied in front. And tell him I’ll speak with him before handing him over.”
Brencis looked at Dagon, then went to carry out the orders.
“You sure that’s wise?” Dagon asked as he fastened Lucius’ crimson cloak with a blue and red enamelled brooch.
“As long as he is under my care, I’ll not see him humiliated.”
“Anguis, I never question your actions-”
“This is not the time to start.”
“I trust you. The men trust you. I just wouldn’t want them to lose faith in you.”
“Have you, Dagon?” It was not accusatory.
“Never,” Dagon answered immediately.
Lucius gripped his armoured forearm and turned to pick up his helmet. “Assemble the men and the Votadini outside the east gate for the Sacramentum.”
“I will. You’re not going back up the mountain, are you?”
Lucius smiled. “No. I’m going to see the Boar.”
“I see we had a tunic that fit you,” Lucius said as he approached the bars of the Boar’s cell.
“Why you Romans constantly cover yourselves, I will never understand.”
“It’s a long journey to the Wall without clothing.”
“Yes. So, the men of the legions have come with their chains, have they?”
Lucius nodded, then turned to the two guards. “Varkan. Akil. Leave us.”
“Yes, Praefectus,” the two Sarmatians answered before going back up to the drill hall.
“What do you want, Dragon?”
“To wish you well.” Lucius paused awkwardly. “It has been an honour to fight you…and speak with you.”
The Selgovan stood up then, looking Lucius over.
“You are strange.”
“Yes.” Lucius smiled and turned to go.
“Did the Gods speak to you?” the Boar asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Lucius stopped and turned back to him. “There will always be help,” he said. “Farewell.”
The Boar grabbed hold of the bars and watched Lucius march down the dark corridor. As the footsteps died away, he closed his eyes, thought of his own gods, and smiled hopefully.
The sun had broken through the low clouds by the time the Sarmatian and Votadini horsemen were assembled on the field to the East of the fortress. The wind howled from the gaping mouths of the Sarmatian draconaria, and the banners of the Votadini snapped sharply.
Lucius stood on a small dais before a rough stone altar, and Barta stood behind him holding the dragon vexillum in front of Dagon, Brencis, Coilus, and Afallach.
Above them all, a tall Sarmatian named Deva held the image of Emperor Severus on a double-length pole.
Hundreds of horses and riders fanned out before Lucius as he stepped before the altar with his pugio drawn. A thick sheaf of wheat had been laid upon the altar where Vaclar approached to lay a lamb. The beast did not struggle then but seemed to look into the eyes of the foremost horses who shuffled from hoof to hoof, snorted and tossed their manes.
Lucius placed his left hand on the lamb and stroked its soft wool.
Peace, he thought. I shall be swift.
The moment the wind died down, and calm washed over the assembly, Lucius brought up the beast’s neck and sliced deep and sure across its throat.
The lamb bleated and trembled momentarily, and then settled into the pool of its own warm blood.
Lucius wiped his pugio on a cloth given to him by Vaclar, and sheathed it. He pressed his hand into the blood so that it was covered. He then raised his bloody hand to the troops, Sarmatians and Votadini, and spoke.
“Before the gods of war, the mother of our camp, and mighty Jupiter himself, I swear loyalty to our Emperor, Septimius Severus, and to the eternal glory of the Roman Empire!”
At the bidding of the various optios and decurions spread out among the troops, the assembly repeated the words Lucius had spoken.
Then, he continued. “I swear to wage war for my emperor and Mars, who delights in battles. I will bleed for Rome, and for my emperor, and accept that the consequences of treason and cowardice are death, and the fury of Hades.”
Blood had begun to trickle down Lucius’ arm as he spoke but he held his arm high and turned to the image of the emperor as the troops repeated, including Dagon, Brencis, Barta, Coilus, and Afallach, the latter reluctantly.
When the echo of their voices receded and all was quiet, but for the wind, Lucius nodded to the cornicens who blew a long note signalling an end to the Sacramentum.
“We are ready to fight for Rome, Praefectus,” Coilus said as they gathered on the grass. “What are the orders?”
“Depends if we have new orders from Eburacum,” Lucius answered. “If things remain the same, we’ll ride for Camelon and engage the Caledonii and their allies from there. We need to re-establish the line of defence from there to the Tava.”
“To the Tava?” Coilus asked. “That will be no easy task.”
“None of this will be easy, I think” Lucius replied, glancing at his bloody hands.
As if in answer, another cornu sounded from the South and they all turned to see the detachment of VIth Legion approaching.
“Looks like the first cohort,” Dagon observed.
Lucius stepped forward, an ill feeling in his gut. Senatorial cursus-climbers always led the legions’ first, double-strength cohorts. He hoped this one would be a reasonable person and not the usual sort of arrogant bastard who wore a thick purple stripe.
“Brencis,” Lucius said to the young officer. “Assemble the Selgovan prisoners so that they are ready to go. Keep the Boar separate, until last.”
“Yes, Praefectus!” Brencis saluted and rode off with two decurions.
Lucius watched the approaching bull banners of the VIth Victrix. At their head he could see a tribune with a high horse-hair crest. He rode straight, with one hand on his reins, and was flanked by a centurion, his vexillarius, and a rider dressed in black that could only have been the Praetorian messenger, Crato.
“Let’s go and meet them” Lucius turned to Dagon, Coilus, and Afallach. “One turmae for each of us.”
Dagon and Coilus mounted up, but before Afallach could mount his own horse with the Votadini banner, Lucius grabbed his elbow, Barta watching alertly.
“Stay alert, Afallach. Anything could happen.”
“What do you mean?” The young Celt stared at Lucius.
“I gave you an order,” Lucius said quietly. “Did you understand?”
“Yes, but-”
“Good. Now, let’s go see who leads the sixth legion.”
The five of them joined the sixty four men who had been assembled and cantered across the field to meet the newly-arrived legionaries and their tribune.
“Is that him?” the tribune asked the Praetorian, Crato, who rode beside him.
“Yes, Tribune. That’s him, beneath the dragon banner.”
The tribune of the sixth legion’s first cohort looked up at the vexillum behind him with the charging bull upon it, and stared back at the approaching horsemen.
“He seems sure of himself, this dragon praefectus,” the tribune said.
“Oh, he is,” the Praetorian sneered.
“We’ll break him of that. He’s already had his glory.”
He kneed his horse into a canter and the others followed. The nine-hundred plus legionaries behind them quickening their pace.
Lucius reined in Lunaris and watched the rows of crimson-cloaked troops approach.
“Do you know him?” Dagon asked.
“Not likely,” Lucius answered. “Coilus?”
“So many new commanders have been brought to Britannia for this campaign…it’s doubtful.”
When the tribune finally stopped before Lucius, he said nothing. He looked over Lucius and the others, and yawned.
“You are all so heavily armoured, I do not know whom I should be addressing.”
Lucius saw Crato staring at him.
“You ride quickly, Praetorian,” he said before turning to the tribune. “Are you leading sixth legion?”
“No,” the man replied. “That would be our legate.”
“What’s your name and rank, then?”
“Not sure I like your tone, Praefectus. I’m tribunus of the first cohort. My name is Marcus Claudius Picus. And you are?”
“Lucius Metellus Anguis, Praefectus of Cohort III Britannorum, Quingenaria Sarmatiana-”
“And so on and so forth… All very impressive.” Claudius threw his cloak back over his shoulders.
Lucius noticed the new armour and pteruges without so much as a scratch upon them. Pompous ass! he thought. “Well Tribune Claudius, we have the Selgovan prisoners ready for you and your men to take back to Eburacum.”
“Good. I don’t want to waste time. The emperor and Caesar Caracalla are on the march.”
Lucius glanced at Dagon who shrugged.
Claudius smiled. “Of course. You don’t know. The army will be fully assembled soon.”
“You have dispatches for me?”
“Of course.” Claudius kneed his mount and pressed on toward the base, forcing Lucius and the others to get out of the way of the marching legionaries behind them. “I’ve heard of your many deeds, Metellus,” Claudius said as they rode.
Lucius noticed he had completely ignored the Votadini. “Here in Britannia, of course, but also in Africa and, well, elsewhere.”
When they arrived at the east gate, Lucius and Claudius dismounted while the remaining horsemen stood in orderly rows for the prisoner transfer.
Claudius accepted a cup of wine and turned to his primus pilus.
“Centurion, order the men to ready the chains and have their weapons out. We’ll need to whip these dogs back to the wall.”
“Yes, sir!” The centurion saluted and began mustering the troops.
“You’re welcome to camp here tonight if you wish,” Lucius offered.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Claudius looked about at the Sarmatians, at Coilus, Afallach, and the Votadini. “I prefer the company of my own troops.”
“I meant that you could camp together outside the walls, Tribune. The base is full.”
Claudius ignored him and stared at Coilus and Afallach.
“Are these our Votadini allies then?”
“Yes, Tribune.” Coilus stepped forward and saluted. “I am their chief, Coilus, and this is my son and princeps, Afallach.”
“I won’t even try to pronounce those names. So long as you have taken the Sacramentum. That is all we need.”
“We have sworn to help Rome and the emperor,” Coilus said sternly.
“I should hope so.”
Afallach stepped forward, but Lucius’ arm was out before he could take a second step.
Claudius removed his embossed helmet and watched as the Selgovae were marched out of the gates at the tips of Sarmatian cavalry spears.
“Ugly brutes, aren’t they Crato?” he said to the Praetorian whose hands were hidden beneath his cloak.”
“Animals, Tribune.” They laughed, making disgusted faces as the prisoners passed by.
Lucius hated the man instantly. Claudius was trying to build a name for himself, that much was sure, but there was something else. Everything the man said was intended to insult and degrade. Lucius looked him over, assessing his strength as had become his habit.
Claudius was of about the same height as Lucius, with shortly-cropped, carefully placed, black hair. He had an arrogant, aquiline nose and his build was, from what Lucius could tell, carefully tailored in the gymnasium. He was not from the battlefield, and yet, his obvious wealth meant he would have had access to training that others might not have.
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