Roman Boy, page 7
Was Sicarius searching for him? Lucius was sweating from the effort of marching, but that thought made him go cold all over. Then he realized Sicarius was heading towards Londinium – perhaps he was returning to avenge himself against Valerius, having gathered more men to back him in the fight. Lucius could barely contain his fear – how could he warn Valerius?
“I don’t think it’s going to rain after all,” Alexios said suddenly.
“What are you talking about?” said Lucius, turning to face him.
“Your hood,” said Alexios. “You don’t really need it up, do you?”
“No, you’re right,” muttered Lucius, and pushed it down.
Their eyes locked for an instant, then Lucius looked away and concentrated his gaze on the back of the tiro ahead of him. He sensed that Alexios had guessed something was wrong – and that meant he might start asking some awkward questions.
Lucius knew he would have to come up with some good answers.
It was dark when they arrived in Verulamium, and they saw little of the city or its people. Optio Quintus marched them through the forum and into a large building beyond it, the Basilica where the local council met. It had plenty of rooms, including a dormitory where legionaries on the march between forts in different parts of the province could break their journeys, get something to eat and rest overnight.
The tiros were exhausted, so they were quiet while they ate at a long table in the dining room, a meal of stew and bread brought to them by slaves. The floor was a fine mosaic of figures representing the four seasons, one in each corner, and the walls were covered in bright paintings of the Gods feasting. That reminded Lucius of Gaius’s house and his mother, but he pushed those thoughts from his mind.
After they’d eaten, Optio Quintus sent the tiros to the dormitory, and before long most of the tiros were sleeping deeply. But Lucius was wide awake. The room was dark, the oil lamps doused except for a small one on the floor beside Lucius’s bed, its flame casting a puddle of light. Lucius lay on his back, his feet sore and his legs aching. He stared up into the shadows, worrying about Valerius and Arwenna.
“Pssst, Didius!” Alexios hissed, keeping his voice down. “Are you asleep?”
Alexios had chosen the bed next to Lucius’s. The dormitory was small, the beds packed in closely together, so Lucius and Alexios were no more than an arm’s length apart. Lucius turned to Alexios, who was lying on his side, his face eerily lit from below by the lamp’s yellow glow. He looks just like a ghost, Lucius found himself thinking with a shiver; someone sent back from the Underworld to haunt him.
“No, but I hope to be soon,” said Lucius. “I wish you goodnight, Alexios.”
“Who was that rider?” Alexios whispered. “You seemed to know him.”
Lucius opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. Arwenna had warned him to keep things simple, and now he realized it might not be a good idea to tell Alexios too much about himself. Of course he had told Arwenna and Valerius everything, almost as soon as he’d met them, but they had saved his life and taken care of him. Alexios might turn out to be a good friend, but Lucius couldn’t know that for sure – not yet, anyway. And until he did, he thought that he had better be careful.
“Oh, just someone who had a fight with a friend of mine,” he said, shrugging. “I wasn’t expecting to see him outside Londinium. It was a nasty surprise.”
“I can understand that,” said Alexios. “There are plenty of such men in the city. I’ve always done my best to stay away from them too. Sweet dreams, Didius…”
Alexios leaned over and blew out the lamp, plunging them both into darkness. Soon Alexios was snoring, and Lucius closed his eyes, hoping Somnus, the God of sleep, would come to him as well and grant him the peace of a restful night.
Somnus did bring him sleep, but he also brought a dream that was neither sweet nor peaceful. Sicarius rode through it, but he was a hunter with a pack of terrifying dogs, chasing a deer that ran till it was caught and torn to pieces.
A deer that had the face of boy, Lucius realized.
His own face.
Nine days later, in the afternoon of a cold, rainy day, the tiros arrived at the great fort of Eburacum. It had been built fifty years before, where two rivers met and several roads crossed. As Optio Quintus said, it was the perfect place to keep an eye on what the locals might be getting up to. It had been the home of the Ninth Legion until things had gone wrong for them, but they had been replaced by the Sixth.
The tiros marched down a narrow road and through the settlement south of the wider river, a cluster of round huts with thatched roofs. Lucius glimpsed a few buildings built of bricks in the Roman style, but this certainly wasn’t as civilized a place as Londinium. People came out of their huts to watch the tiros go by, most of them clearly native Britons, and not a single one was smiling.
“I don’t think they like us much,” Alexios muttered beside him.
Lucius shrugged, but didn’t say anything. He thought the people looked more worried than hostile, almost as if they were expecting something bad to happen. Optio Quintus led the tiros across a wooden bridge, the river’s murky brown waters swirling beneath, the steady tramping of their boots suddenly louder. At last they came to a flat, muddy space with the fort beyond it, waiting for them.
Now he was close to it, Lucius realized this fort was much bigger than the one in Londinium. Eburacum’s walls stood on a turf rampart, were made of huge blocks of grey stone and stretched out on each side of a massive gatehouse flanked by two tall towers. A ditch ran along in front of the walls, with another, narrower wooden bridge crossing it, taking the road right up to the gates – which were firmly closed.
Sentries stood at the top of the walls and in the towers of the gatehouse. Optio Quintus marched the tiros across the bridge and finally brought them to a halt.
“Open in the name of the Emperor!” he shouted. “I am Optio Quintus Memmius Reburrus of the Governor’s Guard with a draft of tiros here for training!”
Nothing happened for a moment, except for a couple of the sentries above leaning out to get a better look at them. Then there were loud clunking sounds, and Lucius realized that the great wooden bars behind the gates were being moved. Soon the gates slowly began to open inwards, revealing a giant of a soldier standing there, hands on hips. He was in full armour, and his helmet sported a red crest.
“Well, you’ve certainly picked your moment to arrive, Optio Quintus,” he said. “In you come, and be quick. We’re having a spot of trouble with the tribes again.”
Lucius felt his stomach turn over with fear – but he was excited as well.
THIRTEEN
KING OF BATTLES
THE TALL SOLDIER was a senior Centurion called Marcus Egnatius Ulpianus. As soon as the tiros were inside, he ordered the gates to be closed and barred once more.
“What kind of trouble are we talking about, Centurion?” said Optio Quintus, a grim expression on his face. He was standing close to Ulpianus, and spoke quietly, but Lucius moved over towards them so he could hear the Centurion’s reply.
“Just the usual,” said Ulpianus, shrugging. “The kind that starts with grumbling and ends in war. I don’t have time to explain everything, but you’ll find out more at the Principia. You’ll need to get your lads allocated to a barrack block anyway.”
Optio Quintus nodded his thanks and marched off, the tiros following. The fort was built on the same plan as the one in Londinium, although it was much bigger. It was busier too – Optios were yelling orders and soldiers were running everywhere, many of them rushing up the stairways to man the walls of the fort on each side. Lucius glanced at Alexios, who met his gaze with raised eyebrows.
At the Principia, Optio Quintus left the tiros in the courtyard and went inside. He came out with another Optio who would take them to their barrack block.
“Optio Marcellus here will help you lads get settled in,” said Optio Quintus. “I’ll see you in a while, once I’ve found out exactly what’s going on around here.”
He went back into the Principia and the tiros went in the opposite direction with Optio Marcellus – all of them except Lucius. He hurried after Optio Quintus.
“Can I come with you, sir?” he said. “I’d like to know what’s going on too.”
“Oh, would you, now?” Optio Quintus stopped and stared at him with narrowed eyes, then smiled. “There’s no holding you back, is there? Very well, come on.”
Optio Quintus led Lucius through the Principia to the fort’s shrine, which was at least three times the size of the same chamber in Londinium’s fort. There were more statues of Gods and Emperors, including Hadrian and a huge figure of Mars that was painted entirely blood-red, and the altars were also larger. At the far end of the chamber Lucius could see a dozen Eagle standards leaning against the wall.
A group of men stood on one side of a table in the centre of the room, perhaps fifteen altogether. They were a mix of Optios, Centurions and Tribunes, all in full armour, their helmets tucked under their arms. Facing them across the table were two more men. One wore a rough brown tunic and a dark cloak, and had long black hair and a drooping moustache. Swirling blue tattoos covered both his cheeks.
The other could not have been more different, or more Roman. He was tall, had short grey hair and a craggy, bony face with deep-set eyes. Lucius could not stop staring at his armour – he was wearing a solid breast-plate, a single piece of hammered bronze covering him from neck to waist. It bore a terrifying image of the snake-haired gorgon Medusa, who could turn you to stone with a glance.
“That’s the Legate of the Sixth, Publius Tullius Varro,” Optio Quintus whispered to Lucius, nodding at the grey-haired man as they slipped into a space at the end of the table. “He’s a very good soldier; he has seen many battles. The other is a native scout, a Briton who works for us.” Lucius knew that the Legate was the commanding officer of the Legion, the man who would lead them into battle when the time came.
“So where are the war-bands gathering, Kunos?” Varro was saying, staring down at a large map that had been unrolled across most of the table. “We need to have some idea if we’re to come up with a plan. We can’t just sit and wait for them to strike. That’s what the Ninth did, and we all know what happened to them.”
“Hard to be sure,” said Kunos the scout. “Perhaps in the hills a day’s ride from here, and perhaps not. There is a new chieftain who is more cunning than a fox. He has told all the war-bands to leave their tracks in some places and hide them in others.”
“A new chieftain?” said Varro, looking up. “What do you know of him?”
“Only that he is of the Votadini tribe, and hates Romans,” said Kunos. “The tale is that his brother was captured in battle two years ago and sold into slavery.”
Kunos’s words suddenly made Lucius think of the flame-haired gladiator from Britannia who had fought so well that day at the Flavian Amphitheatre in Rome. Could he have been the brother of this new chieftain? It would be very strange if it were so, thought Lucius, putting a hand inside his tunic to touch his bulla. Suddenly he had a sense of things coming together, of the Gods directing his life.
“Such is the fate of those who rise against us and lose,” said Varro. “And hatred is the price we pay for being masters of the world. What is this warrior’s name?”
“One that befits a great war-chief,” said Kunos. “He is called Caturigos.”
“Does that mean something?” said Varro. “I don’t speak your tongue.”
“It means King of Battles,” said Lucius, remembering Arwenna’s lessons, the words falling out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Every man in the chamber turned to stare at him, the Legate in particular fixing him with a steely gaze. Lucius felt his cheeks burning and wished he had stayed silent, sure now that he had ruined his Army career before it had even started. But the Legate simply nodded.
“Thank you, soldier, that’s very useful,” said Varro. “Well, we’ll have to find out if this new chieftain lives up to his name. My orders for you are as follows…”
Moments later, the Optios, Centurions and Tribunes were hurrying off to put the Legate’s orders into action. Optio Quintus and Lucius left as well, making their way to the barrack block where the rest of the tiros were waiting for them.
“You’re certainly bold for a young lad,” said Optio Quintus. “I don’t know many Optios with the guts to speak to a Legate like that, let alone a lowly tiro.”
“I’m sorry, Optio Quintus, I should not have spoken out,” murmured Lucius.
“No need to apologize,” said Quintus with a grin. “I like a bit of boldness. In fact, that’s why I’m making you a Decanus, the leader of the recruits in your contubernium.”
Lucius was stunned – then he grinned too. This was the kind of change in luck that could only come from the Gods. He offered silent thanks to Jupiter and Fortuna, then turned his thoughts to his new duties.
Lucius and the other tiros quickly settled in at the fort. It was made easier because Optio Quintus volunteered to stay on and help with their training. He had served with the Sixth himself before he had been transferred to the Governor’s Guard, so he knew most of the Optios and Centurions already, and many of the older legionaries.
The tiros from Londinium had arrived in Eburacum just as the winter was coming to an end, the days growing longer, although not much warmer. As Optio Quintus said, they were in the far north, and it never got as warm up there as it did in Rome. For Lucius and the others, the weather was very important – Optio Quintus had them training in the open air every day, from early in the morning until late at night.
They ran constantly, often in full armour, but they also trained with weapons, learning how to use sword, spear and the big, rectangular shield legionaries carried in battle. Other Optios and Centurions came to observe, or to instruct them on battle tactics, especially the importance of everyone working together.
Soon the days merged into one for Lucius. Every night he fell into bed numb with exhaustion and seemed to sleep without dreaming, or even worrying if Sicarius was still searching for him.
“I know we’re pushing you hard,” Optio Quintus said to them one morning. “And I’ll admit that usually we’d give you a bit more time for your training. But time is the one thing we don’t have now the tribes have gone on the war trail.”
Lucius could see that for himself. The fort was on permanent high alert, patrols heading off into the countryside around Eburacum at regular intervals, riders always coming and going with messages from units stationed elsewhere. The walls were manned day and night, and after the first few weeks of their training, the tiros were considered good enough to take their turn standing watch on the walls too.
One afternoon Lucius and Alexios were doing sentry duty on the northern wall. It was a bright, windless day, the sun shining and only a few clouds in the sky. Optio Quintus was a little further along the wall, talking to some of the other sentries.
“What’s that?” said Alexios, pointing at a dark line rising into the sky.
“A column of smoke…” said Lucius, peering. “Something is burning.”
“You’re right,” said Optio Quintus, coming over to stand beside them. He squinted into the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “It looks like a village has been put to the torch. That only happens when things are getting serious.”
Lucius stared at the smoke, and thought of the people beneath it.
FOURTEEN
DEADLY ARROWHEADS
SPRING HAD COME and gone by the time Optio Quintus told the tiros they had finished their training. One sunny day in early summer, Lucius, Alexios and the rest were summoned to the Principia. There they were assigned to the Sixth, which meant they were no longer lowly tiros but full legionaries. It also meant they had to swear another oath in the shrine, this time to the Legion and its commander.
Afterwards, they returned to the barrack block to celebrate, laughing and slapping each other on the back. Yet Lucius stood apart with Optio Quintus, watching them have fun. It was different for him now he was in charge of a contubernium. He wasn’t just one of them any more – they were his responsibility. He had to make sure they were properly looked after, and that they did what they were supposed to.
“They’ll probably be a little hard to control for a few days,” Optio Quintus said quietly. “They think they know everything, but they still have a lot to learn.”
“But I don’t understand … the training seemed to cover all we need to know.”
“We do our best for you, but we can’t teach you everything. There are some things you just have to learn for yourself in the heat of battle… You had better make sure your lads get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be making an early start tomorrow.”
They set off at dawn, in a column of reinforcements Legate Varro was sending even further north – all the way to Hadrian’s Wall itself. The column was nearly a thousand men strong – two cohorts of the Sixth, a small detachment of cavalry, and pack-horses loaded with their tents and rations for the march. Two Aquilifers carried the Eagles, one for each cohort. Both men wore wolf-skin cloaks, the snarling heads covering their helmets. Lucius felt pride and excitement ripple through him – he really was following the Eagles now.
It took a week to get from Eburacum to the Wall, but at least the weather stayed warm and sunny. The column stopped each night to make camp, putting up tents and building a turf rampart around them with the small spades all legionaries carried in their packs. They weren’t attacked, although they knew they were being followed by Caturigos’s warriors. Every so often someone spotted a couple of native riders on a distant hill, but they were always gone by the time the cavalry got there.
On the third day, they passed through the village that had been destroyed when they’d seen smoke from the fort. The huts were blackened ruins, and the bodies of the dead villagers – men, women and children – lay scattered everywhere. Most of the soldiers stared at them wide-eyed, muttering prayers to their Gods, making hand signs to ward off bad luck or any restless evil spirits. Lucius could hardly bear to look. The acrid smell of charred wood and the coppery reek of blood filled his nostrils and made him feel sick.
