Britannia (Veteran of Rome Book 3), page 22
"Good, good, this is good," Aidan nodded looking down at the ground.
"But we have another problem," Logan blurted out, unable to contain himself any longer. "Whilst I was down in the market guess who I happened to see?"
Corbulo shrugged and shook his head.
"Romulus," Logan snapped.
"Romulus?" Corbulo exclaimed in surprise.
"He must have escaped from the boat to which we brought him," Logan said angrily, "Anyway you know what this means?"
Corbulo groaned and shook his head in bewilderment as he turned to stare in the direction of the house in the forest.
"Fuck," he hissed, "If he warns Emogene, she and her husband will know that we are here and what we are planning to do. Where is the prick now?"
"I don't know," Logan shook his head in defeat, "I lost him in the crowd. He could be anywhere."
"Well the next time I catch up with that little shit I am going to kill him like I should have done in the first place," Aidan growled, glancing at Corbulo. "What another fine mess you have made Corbulo, what another fucking, fine mess."
Chapter Twenty Nine - The Battle Group Commander
Marcus looked grim as he rode away from the burning village. It was just after noon and behind him, the column of four hundred and fifty mounted, Batavian riders picked their way across the deserted and wasted fields. In the village behind them every house and building was on fire and towering, billowing columns of thick, black smoke rose up into the sky. Marcus did not look back at the inferno he and his men had created. The settlement had been completely deserted save for a single old man who had refused to leave. The Batavians had dragged him out of his house as they had set fire to the place, but the old man had broken free and had leapt into the flames and his dying shrieks had been heard by the entire battle group. Bewildered Marcus shook his head, as his eyes remained grimly fixed on the horizon. Such was the nature of the war he was fighting in these cursed mountains.
The Senatorial Tribune, Titus had taken over effective command of all Roman forces in the Luguvalium district and had immediately announced his strategy. If the Britons would not yield and surrender, then every one of their villages was to be destroyed, everyone of their war bands annihilated, everyone of their women and children sold into slavery. Rome would impose its will by a policy of complete and utter subjugation. There would be no negotiation, no concessions, no new freedoms. Everything was to be destroyed and turned to scorched earth, so that come winter the Britons would find they had no shelter and no food. The consequences of that would be mass starvation. It was tried and tested policy Titus had informed Marcus and it was going to work.
Marcus turned to look out across the ruined fields and for a moment, he allowed his real emotions to show. The 2nd Batavian Cohort would have to re-deployed to another province after this rebellion had been crushed. The locals would never forget or forgive him and his men for the destruction they had wrought in the past month. Marcus sighed wearily, as he led his men northwards away from the blazing houses. And then there was the matter of his court martial. Titus, the Legate had made it abundantly clear that the matter had not been forgotten, but simply postponed. It was highly probable that once the province had settled down he would be hauled in front of a disciplinary tribunal. Cotta may be dead but the prejudice against non-citizen officers, that existed in the higher echelons of the army, would be against him. Marcus's face darkened. Oh he knew how the system worked. Prefect of an auxiliary Cohort was a good job and there would be no shortage of candidates with political connections who would be enviously competing for the position. Yes he knew how the system of patronage worked, jobs for friends; I scratch your back, you scratch mine. He was an outsider in this system, a non-citizen, without wealth or connections save a single promise made by Agricola long ago. No, even if he was spared the death sentence, he would never command the 2nd Batavians again. This was as high as he would go.
"Where are we going Sir?" Fridwald asked, glancing across at him. The young bodyguard was sporting an unshaven chin and he looked dog tired.
"Home," Marcus growled, "Back to Luguvalium. The Tribune wants a report."
At the mention of Luguvalium Marcus looked away as exhaustion, depression and unhappiness conspired and threatened to overwhelm him. How would he ever be able to look his wife in the eye without knowing that he was a cheat, an adulterer? He had broken his promise to her. He had been unfaithful just like his father had been on countless occasions. He'd broken his oath. The shame made him blush.
Grimly he forced his horse on across the fields. Around him the colourful summer flowers poked up out of the green grass and to the east the wild, beautiful and heavily wooded mountains disappeared northwards across the horizon. Marcus bit his lip. They had given him a thankless job to do with, as a reward, a court martial at the end of it, but he would not run from what was coming. He would trust in himself and in his men and in the blessings of the gods, for if he lost his belief in himself he would be truly finished. He still commanded a highly capable and powerful strike force of first class warriors. Raising his fist in the air he pumped it up down in rapid succession as he started to pick up the pace. Behind him the Batavian riders did the same. No, he thought, he was a soldier like his father had been and if this was to be his last command; he was going to make it into one hell of a memorable one.
***
The Roman task-force command HQ, in the Principia of Luguvalium had transformed itself since Marcus had last been there. The simple, wooden table around which he, Adalberht and Lucius had once planned the defence of the fort, over a cup of sour wine, was covered in large detailed maps; dozens of military counters and wooden writing tablets. At the door to the building, the Legionary guards stood stiffly to attention as staff officers and messengers came and went in a continuous stream. In a corner, a junior Tribune, a boy of no more than eighteen, was dictating orders to a clerk who was scratching them into a wooden tablet. Wearily Marcus looked around at the soft, animal furs that covered his old bed and the dishes of fine food that had been placed on a side table. The whole command post seemed to be humming with a sense of purpose and well organised efficiency.
"Prefect," a voice said sharply speaking in Latin.
Marcus took a step towards the large, wooden table and rapped out a quick salute. Titus, the task force commander, bare-headed save for a white Focale scarf tied around his neck and clad in his splendid armour, was stooped over a map surrounded by his staff officers. The officers seemed completely absorbed in their discussion as they poured over the map. Titus had placed both his hands on the table. He blinked and straightened up as he caught sight of Marcus and for a moment Marcus thought he saw a hint of disappointment on the senior officer's face.
"Welcome back Marcus, what news do you have for us?" Titus said sharply as his eyes wandered back to the map he'd been studying.
Marcus cleared his throat as he hastily tucked his helmet under his arm. Behind Titus, the standard bearer of the Legionary vexillation stood clutching the Eagle of the task force. The man's head and neck were covered in a wolf-skin head and he seemed to be staring rigidly into space.
Speaking quietly, Marcus delivered his report and as he did so, he felt the stern and contemptuous eyes of the staff officers upon him. They did not want him here. They all knew, they all knew that he was only still in command of his Cohort because of the favour of a woman. They would not ridicule him in front of Titus, but alone in the officer's quarters, it would be a different matter. Marcus ignored the looks and when at last he fell silent, Titus snapped his fingers at one of his officer's.
"See to it that the Batavians receive rations for a further two weeks and make sure their horses are tended to right away. Give them any supplies they need. I want them ready to move by tomorrow."
Marcus frowned. "My men need a rest Sir," he protested quietly, "We've been out there for nearly a month, we have taken casualties Sir. The men deserve a few days at least Sir, please."
But Titus shook his head.
"No Marcus," he growled, "I want this rebellion crushed as soon as possible. It is not my fault that the enemy refuses to fight a pitched battle or stand their ground. We need to push the enemy hard and we are. We are winning Marcus," Titus said with a hint of triumph in his voice, "I have four battle groups like yours out there and they are doing a fine job. The Britons are getting desperate. They know that winter is not far away. We are going to crush them."
"Yes Sir," Marcus said looking down at his muddy boots.
"The rebels are like sand, constantly slipping through my fingers but they are getting desperate," Titus repeated with a bemused smile, "They cannot keep on evading us. In the next month or so I expect we shall start to see individual war-bands coming in to surrender. King Faelan's strategy has failed and his coalition will collapse as his chiefs see their homes go up in smoke and their fields ruined. Faelan thought he could keep this province in perpetual unrest, but the one thing he didn't count on was me. Rome will not tolerate rebellious scum. That is the message we are going to ram down their throats."
Marcus nodded dutifully.
"Faelan is no fool Sir," Marcus replied quietly, "He will be adapting his tactics. We should remain cautious. These Britons are tough. They fight well. The rebels have allies to the north and they have money and they have been preparing for this fight for a long time."
Titus raised his hand in the air for silence.
"Enough," he said sternly, "between the Twentieth here in the west and the Ninth on the eastern side of the mountains, we will destroy them. But I have new instructions for you Marcus. Tomorrow you will take your battle group southwards along the road to Deva. We are expecting a supply column from the Legionary base. You will make contact and escort them back here. Once you have done that your orders are to head east into the mountains and search for enemy war bands and destroy them. I want you to wreak havoc on these rebels, slaughter them where you find them. I am not interested in prisoners, unless they have something important to say. Understood?"
"Yes Sir," Marcus replied staring wearily at the table.
Titus fell silent as he studied Marcus carefully. "There is one final matter," he said at last, "One of my officer’s will be accompanying you this time. I will have them report to your tent at dawn."
Slowly Titus came around the table towards Marcus. His handsome aristocratic face displayed a little confident smile.
"Search and destroy Marcus," he nodded, "And I want your men to cut an ear off for each rebel they kill. The task force has a competition going for which battle group can amass the most ears."
"Ears?" Marcus said raising his eyebrows, "Of course Sir."
***
As he strode away from the Principia, Marcus raised his hand and touched his ear. The taskforce had a competition going? What madness. He shook his head in disbelief and glanced around at the fort that had once been his. Everything seemed to have changed since the arrival of Titus and the vexillation from the Twentieth. The parade ground was covered in row upon row of white tents and he had to be careful not to trip over the taught, mooring ropes. Up on the ramparts Legionary sentries patrolled along the parapet and beyond the walls he could hear the rhythmic thud of pickaxes, as the newcomers repaired and extended the defences. A queue of Legionaries were waiting alongside a mobile soup kitchen and in a corner of the fort he noticed the wooden, prisoner-enclosure. A few, dejected looking Britons were sitting on the ground chained together by the ankle.
Darkly Marcus muttered something to himself. Maybe he was lucky he thought. When the vexillation from the Twentieth had first arrived, a month ago now, they had given him fresh horses and weapons and ordered him to go out and hunt down the rebel, war bands in the wild, rugged mountains. At least out there he was his own man and far away from all his troubles. With the new resources, he'd been able to form a highly mobile and powerful battle group of four hundred and fifty mounted men. He'd done this by taking men from the Batavian infantry companies, but that had been no problem for every Batavian knew how to ride a horse.
As he made his way towards the corner of the fort occupied by the 2nd Batavian Cohort, Fridwald caught up with him. The bodyguard gave Marcus a quick questioning glance as he fell in beside him.
"We're off again," Marcus grunted as he caught Fridwald's glance, "The men are not going to like it."
"When Sir?" Fridwald asked.
"Tomorrow," Marcus growled," so if you want to shag that slave girl I have seen you hanging around with, you had better do it tonight."
"That sounds like a fine idea Sir," Fridwald replied with a straight face.
The two of them fell silent as they strode through the camp.
"Well one thing is certain Sir," Fridwald said cheerfully as he glanced at Marcus, "Remember that speech you gave to the men. It's coming true. Ah shit, here come those damned Batavians again. The rebels are saying it. I am sure of it. We are becoming famous Sir."
A little smile appeared on Marcus's lips but he said nothing as he strode past a group of Batavians who, were crouching around a fire over which they were warming up some old porridge. Fridwald was trying to cheer him up. The men beside the fire nodded a respectful greeting as they recognised him. Marcus sighed as he returned the gesture. Not only had everything in his fort changed, many familiar faces had gone too. Adalberht was dead as was Lollius. Lady Claudia and her daughter, together with Urbanus the merchant and his sons, had all headed south at the first available opportunity. Only his closest officers and men remained and as Marcus caught sight of Lucius and Hedwig he felt a sudden warm affection. At least here amongst his officers and men he was amongst comrades, true friends.
"Get out of here and go and make that girl happy," Marcus said laying a hand on Fridwald's shoulder and giving him a little push.
"Yes Sir," Fridwald nodded giving his commander a concerned look.
Hedwig was the first to catch sight of him. The officer looked pensive as he came towards Marcus.
"So what did Titus say?" the Batavian officer asked eying Marcus.
"He said that we are winning," Marcus replied gruffly.
"He said that," Hedwig muttered, turning to glance in the direction of the Principia.
"Yes and we’re moving out again tomorrow," Marcus growled, "So see to it that the men are told. I want every soldier to get a good night's rest. Titus has promised us all the supplies that we need and we’re going to have two Roman guests with us this time."
"Yes of course Sir," Hedwig said immediately.
Marcus nodded and glanced at the Batavian. He'd made the right decision with Hedwig. After Adalberht's death he'd promoted him to take overall command of the Cohort's cavalry squadrons and although Hedwig was a rather serious and unimaginative officer, he obeyed his orders instantly and to the letter and he was a good soldier who was widely respected by his men.
"What's wrong with Lucius?" Marcus said with a sudden frown. "He looks like someone has taken a shit and spread it all over his bed."
Hedwig turned and followed Marcus's gaze. Lucius, the Senior Centurion of the 2nd Batavian Cohort was sitting around a camp fire with a few of his fellow officers. He looked pale and moody.
"Shit," Hedwig muttered turning back to look at Marcus as he rubbed his hand across his forehead, "He hasn't had a chance to tell you yet has he." Hedwig sighed. "You know how he is always asking people whether they have heard anything about his brother, Bestia? Well whilst you were away at HQ, he found out that his brother is dead. One of the newcomers, a Roman, heard that Lucius was making inquiries and came and told him what had happened. Turns out that someone murdered Bestia. They stuck a knife into him. Can you believe that? I mean, Bestia knew how to handle himself, right."
Marcus stiffened and a little colour shot into his cheeks as he stared at Lucius sitting beside the camp fire.
"Where did it happen?" he muttered.
"In a tavern in Viroconium apparently, seems Bestia got into some kind of fight."
"Do they know who did it?" Marcus asked.
Hedwig shook his head. "All they have is a name, Corbulo. The man who brought Lucius the news was with Bestia when it happened. They were on some job in Viroconium, a couple of years ago. Lucius has already vowed to take revenge. He has sworn it before the gods. I know Bestia was a bullying prick but he was still his brother. I wouldn't want to be the murderer when Lucius eventually catches up with him. He's really pissed. I mean really angry."
"Is that right," Marcus muttered looking away.
A sudden delighted squeal made him turn round and there, running towards him, was his three year old son. The boy was clutching his toy sword and behind him striding to catch up, came Marcus's wife.
Marcus took a deep breath and forced a grin onto his face.
Chapter Thirty - Into the Mountains
Marcus raised his fist in the air and the horsemen behind him came to a clattering halt along the side of the Roman road. It was noon and up ahead, obscured by the trees, smoke was billowing up into the sky. Marcus peered at the smoke in the distance and then turned to Lucius who was riding beside him.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Lucius looked sullen and ill at ease as he leaned forwards on his horse and stared at the smoke. The Senior Centurion's armour was immaculate and in his right hand he held a spear, whilst his cavalry shield was slung over his back.
"It won't have been caused by one of our battle groups," he replied, "We're the only ones operating in this area. Must be enemy action, but if it's an ambush why alert us by creating smoke."
"Let's go and find out. Prefect, what are we waiting for?" Gaius the eighteen year-old Roman Tribune exclaimed impatiently, as he glared questioningly at Marcus. The boy and his private bodyguard, an experienced ex-soldier, had been attached to the battle group on Titus's orders and the boy had already managed to infuriate Marcus with his recklessness and arrogance. But there was nothing Marcus could do about it. Gaius was not his to command. The young Tribune hailed from an old and wealthy Roman family and had already been marked out for a career in politics. Titus had been keen to give the boy the battlefield experience he so desperately craved for without that, a political career in Rome was not likely to succeed. That was the only reason the boy was here. To gain some experience of war.
