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Synopsis
'A master of the genre' The Times The eighth book in the Empire sequence takes Centurion Marcus Aquila and his Tungrian legion on a dangerous mission to the heart of the Parthian empire. With Rome no longer safe Marcus and the Tungrians are ordered east, to the desolate border lands where Rome and Parthia have vied for supremacy for centuries. Ordered to relieve the siege of an isolated fortress, their task is doomed to bloody failure unless they can turn the disaffected Third Legion into a fighting force capable of resisting the terrifying Parthian cataphracts. And Marcus must travel to the enemy capital Ctesiphon on a desperate mission, the only man who can persuade the King of Kings to halt a war that threatens the humiliation of the empire and the slaughter of his friends.
Release date: April 2, 2015
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Print pages: 401
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Thunder of the Gods: Empire VIII
Anthony Riches
‘You’re confident that’s our landfall, Navarchus?’
The hard-faced officer acknowledged his superior's question with a look of disbelief and a curt nod, his voice harsh from years of barking commands at his crew before his promotion from ship’s trierarchus to commander of the fleet.
‘Yes, Procurator. Completely confident.’
The equestrian official turned back to the soldier standing alongside him, his grey-flecked hair ruffled by the wind as he raised a hand and pointed out over the ship’s bow.
‘As I said, there it is, Legatus. Seleucia.’
Legatus Gaius Rutilius Scaurus stared out over the warship’s prow as it sliced through the ocean under the urging of the massive vessel’s banked oars, looking past the massive bolt thrower that dominated the vessel’s bow, raising a hand to shield his grey eyes from the winter sun’s glare. A line of mountains was just visible on the eastern horizon, seemingly rising from the sea to block their course, their bases almost invisible in the sea’s haze.
‘The gateway to the east. Well done, Cassius Ravilla, you and your men have performed your task admirably, given the circumstances.’
The fleet’s navarchus turned his bearded frown from procurator to legatus for a moment, then shook his head and walked slowly away from the two men, his face taking on the look of a man hunting for someone on whom to exercise his considerable irritation. The vessel’s trierarchus and his centurion turned and walked away towards the Victoria’s stern with the look of men earnestly discussing the finer points of ship handling, prompting a knowing smile from Scaurus.
‘He’s still not the happiest of men, is he?’
Ravilla shook his head, the wind ruffling his thick black hair.
‘He swears that if he’d not made sure we made a decent sacrifice to Neptune every time we made land safely, we’d all have been at the bottom of the ocean a month ago. Apparently the weather at this end of the Middle Sea hasn’t been this quiet in the winter closed season for all the years he’s served in the navy.’
Scaurus grinned at the grizzled sailor’s back as he stooped to berate one of the flagship’s oarsmen for some small infringement.
‘Has he considered that he might simply be terrifying the waves into submission?’
He looked back over the vessel’s stern at the line of ships following in their wake at precise four-hundred-pace intervals.
‘After all, he seems to have your fleet’s trierarchi drilled to within an inch of their collective lives.’
The procurator shook his head ruefully.
‘I know. I sometimes wonder which one of us is really in command of the fleet.’
His answer was a hollow laugh.
‘Welcome to my world. Have you ever seen your man there and my first spear talking to each other? They’re like two fighting dogs sniffing each other’s backsides and trying to work out which of them would win if it came to blows. And trust me, when Julius decides that my cohorts are to do a thing in a certain way, that’s the way in which that thing will be done, with no ifs or buts. I’m allowed the luxury of determining our strategy, and after that …’
‘You’re in the hands of the professionals?’
‘Exactly.’
Ravilla looked at him in silence for a moment.
‘You said cohorts, legatus, rather than legion. And while my father told me at great length never to pry into another man’s business when I was a child …’
He left the question hanging in the crisp sea air rather than asking it directly.
‘You’d like to know exactly how it is that a man wearing the same thin stripe as the one on your tunic ends up in command of one of the emperor’s legions.’
Ravilla shrugged.
‘You’ll admit that it is something of a curiosity? Of course I’ve heard the stories of how Marcus Aurelius sometimes gave command of his legions to legion first spears who’d been promoted to the equestrian class during the German War, but I thought that such egalitarianism had been quietly forgotten once Commodus had made peace with the tribes after his father’s death. The status quo has been restored, and to command a legion anywhere other than Egypt, a man must once again be of the senatorial class, if not already actually in possession of his father’s ring and death mask. And suddenly here you are, quite obviously an equestrian like me, and yet blessed with a legion!’
Scaurus smiled tightly.
‘And you’d like to know the secret. How does a man make that impossible leap to fame and fortune without first putting a thick stripe on his tunic?’
‘Of course.’
The legatus shook his head.
‘First you’d have to provide a man close to the throne a service that would show him how valuable you could be to him in the future. Like giving him the opportunity to take the place of the emperor’s most trusted adviser, that kind of thing.’
Ravilla raised his eyebrows.
‘You were part of that?’
Scaurus shrugged in his turn.
‘It’s not something I’ll readily admit to having participated in, but let’s say, just for the sake of the discussion, that I was.’
‘Then the man who replaced the Praetorian Prefect must owe you a huge debt.’
‘And you think that’s it? The gift of a legion as the reward for the chance to take ultimate power?’
‘Wasn’t it?’
The legatus shook his head.
‘Who could be more dangerous than a man ruthless enough to engineer the death of the man he seeks to supplant? Why would he leave anyone who was part of the act alive to tell the story?’
Ravilla nodded slowly.
‘I take your point. Unless he wanted more from the men in question?’
‘Indeed. It seems that our particular capabilities were too valuable to be discarded, once we’d served our initial purposes. See my tribune there?’
The procurator frowned at the change in conversational focus, glancing down the ship’s length at the tall, well-muscled figure of a military tribune clad in a shining bronze breast plate and bearing his usual two swords, one an infantry gladius with a magnificent eagle’s head pommel. Alongside him stood an older soldier wearing the scaled armour and cross-crested helmet of a legion centurion; the two officers engaged in the routine inspection of the centurion’s men.
‘Yes. He seems a good enough man, if a little … taciturn. The centurion with him though, now there’s a dangerous man.’
‘Cotta? He’s sudden death with any weapon you could mention, but the tribune?’
Scaurus grinned at Ravilla.
‘Tribune Corvus could take Cotta to pieces, literally, in the span of a dozen heartbeats. His men call him “Two Knives”, because he fights in the style of an old-fashioned dimachaerus. He was taught by a champion gladiator of some fame, a big man who, like Corvus there, always fought with two swords. You might have seen the man’s recent and rather spectacular comeback appearance in the Flavian arena?’
‘You don’t mean …’
Ravilla whispered the gladiator’s name in an awed tone, and when Scaurus nodded in reply, his face took on a fresh expression of amazement. The legatus smiled at his colleague’s genuine astonishment.
‘Indeed. And while his pupil may lack the big man’s sheer brute power, he has a speed with the blade that you might call divine, were you to believe that the gods occasionally bestow their gifts on us mere mortals. He wears a quiet enough demeanour for the most part, but when he’s roused …’
The procurator mused for a moment.
‘So the new man behind the throne must have wanted something more from you? Something that involved your tribune?’
‘He did, and in a roundabout sort of way he got exactly what he wanted from us.’
‘And then?’
Scaurus raised his hands and gestured about him.
‘And then … here we are. Apparently we’re too valuable to be quietly murdered and forgotten about, and so instead we find ourselves sent east to deal with a problem on the empire’s frontier instead. And that feeling of envy you were expressing before?’
Ravilla looked at him for a moment.
‘Has somewhat diminished, I’ll wager, and has been replaced by one rather large question.’
The legatus smiled knowingly.
‘Which, I would imagine, is that given the rather dangerous nature of the information I’ve just shared with you, why in the name of Mithras didn’t I just fabricate some rather more anodyne story to tell you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’re right to be concerned.’
He passed the procurator a scroll, the paper still sealed into a tight tube with wax bearing the imperial mark. Ravilla took it from his hand, grimaced at the seal and then snapped it, opening the message and reading swiftly. After a moment he handed it back to the legatus with a single word.
‘Shit.’
‘Indeed.’
Word spread quickly through the port city of Seleucia, as the flagship and the fleet of warships that followed in her wake appeared over the western horizon in swift and efficient succession, each fresh sighting whipping up the collective state of excitement until the entire port was alive with the news that a fleet of twenty-five warships was approaching. The men tasked with the harbour’s defence ran for their bolt throwers, pulling off heavy waxed canvas covers and going through the motions of winding the weapons’ massive bowstrings back ready to fire, while above them in the lower city’s main tower, the port’s procurator stared out at the oncoming vessels. He looked to his chief pilot, the man who did most of the actual work involved in his role, raising an eyebrow in question. The older man, approaching his sixtieth year with no sign of any urge to retire, took another long look at the line of ships advancing towards the walls of the outer port and then turned back to him with an expression that was as much of perplexity as recognition.
‘If I didn’t know better, I could swear that’s the old Victoria leading them in. I remember her from the time she escorted the imperial flagship into harbour back at the start of the last war with the Parthians. But what would the Praetorian fleet be doing this far east at this time of year?’
His superior’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
‘The Praetorian fleet?’
‘I know, it’s not likely, is it? But I could swear that’s the old Victoria …’
The procurator goggled at him for a moment before turning to his secretary.
‘Have a messenger ready to ride to the governor’s office in Antioch at my command!’
The slave inclined his head respectfully.
‘As you order, sir. And the message?’
‘I’ll know that when I see who walks off that leading ship.’
Ravilla’s navarchus had waved away the offer of a pilot with a grim shake of his head, leaving the cutter wallowing in the quadrireme’s wake.
‘No fucking easterner’s going to scrape my flagship down a harbour wall and then tell me he hadn’t realised she answered her rudder so slowly! Trierarchus, get the sail furled!’
He took the warship out in a wide arc to the west of the port, then straightened her course and guided her towards the opening in the outer harbour’s walls where the two massive moles came within fifty paces of one another, a gap seemingly barely wide enough to admit the vessel. The deck crew had furled the massive sail with their usual practised speed, leaving the oarsmen as the Victoria’s only means of propulsion. Scaurus and his officers watched with interest as the walls of the outer harbour loomed on either side of the warship, while the navarchus called out small changes to the men controlling the steering oars and bellowed for the rowers to back water, reducing the big ship’s speed to walking pace. As the gap between the two walls that enfolded the outer harbour enveloped them, he barked out a terse order, his voice raised to carry along the ship’s entire length.
‘Raise oars!’
As one man the rowers pushed the long shafts of their oars forward and downwards, elevating their blades like the furled wings of a swan, and the Victoria eased through the gap with no more than twenty paces to either side. The stub end of the wall to their left passed with a gurgle of water racing between stone and ship, while that to their right presented a smooth, unbroken surface that curled around to form the outer harbour’s southern mole.
‘Steering oars, hard left turn! Lower oars! Left-hand side – back water!’
The rowers on the flagship’s left-hand side heaved at their shafts, pulling the Victoria round to her left in a graceful turn.
‘Both sides … back water!’
The warship slowed to an imperceptible drift with three swift strokes from the oarsmen, while the navarchus stared about him at the berths available along the northern and southern moles, half of them empty, the others occupied by a variety of vessels. Making a swift decision, he pointed to a vacant section of the northern mole to their left, returning command of the ship to its captain.
‘There! Trierarchus, put us against the wall there!’
The ship cruised slowly up to the mole, sailors on bow and stern throwing ropes to the waiting dock slaves while the rowers pulled their oars inboard to avoid them being trapped between ship and quayside. As the gangplank was dropped into place, Cassius Ravilla walked up its length and stepped onto the mole’s flat stone surface, looking about him with a calculating expression as a group of men hurried out along the wall from the lower city. A middle-aged official who appeared to be their leader bowed deeply, waving an arm at the Victoria with an ingratiating smile.
‘Greetings, and welcome to—’
Ravilla raised a hand to silence him, pointing out to the north at the next ship in his squadron, which was bearing down on the harbour’s entrance.
‘My name is Praetorian Fleet Procurator Titus Cassius Ravilla. And do you see that ship? There are another twenty-three just the same in her wake, each one carrying a century of legion infantry. I need twenty-five unloading berths, and I need them now.’
The port official bowed his head again, respectfully acknowledging Ravilla’s seniority as a member of the group of senior equestrians known as the ‘best of men’, those given the empire’s most prestigious commands.
‘You’re carrying soldiers?’
A new voice interjected into their conversation.
‘The Praetorian fleet has been directed to deliver two cohorts of legionaries and myself to Antioch with all possible speed, Procurator. I’m taking command of the Third Gallic, and since I have urgent business with the governor I’ll need my horses unloaded as a matter of priority.’
The official turned to look at Scaurus, who had strolled up the plank behind Ravilla unnoticed, bowing even deeper as the splendour of his uniform sank in.
‘My apologies, Legatus, I didn’t see you there.’ He turned to his assistant. ‘Have the warships berth on the mole, unload their cargo and then pass them on into the inner harbour. We’ve all the facilities you’ll need there, Cassius Ravilla, the port was built for a far larger fleet than we maintain these days. You’ll be able to run your ships ashore and perform any maintenance with the assistance of the port’s carpenters. You do intend docking for the rest of the closed season, I presume?’
Ravilla shot Scaurus a resigned look.
‘It seems that we do.’
Walking up the plank that connected the ship and the mole’s stone surface, laden down by the weight of his weapons, shield and equipment, Sanga spat into the water below, stepping out onto the quay’s flat surface with a smile of satisfaction. His comrade Saratos followed him down the quayside in the long procession of men making their way along the mole under the direction of their officers, looking curiously up at the mountains that loomed over the port.
‘So, is end of voyage.’
Sanga grunted his appreciation of the sentiment.
‘Thank fuck for that.’
The Dacian behind him shook his head.
‘I happy on ship. No war to fight on ship. Now we here, war come soon.’
Sanga laughed tersely.
‘It’s what we do mate. All them ships did was get us to the scene of the next fight quicker. That and empty my guts out every now and then.’
Their century’s line ran into the back of other men disembarking from ships further down the mole, and without need to be told both men grounded their shields and leaned on them, waiting for the route to clear.
‘Is true. You not make good sailor.’
Sanga snorted derisively.
‘Is true alright. My guts wouldn’t stand for it, and nor would my arse. That lot have been too long away from women if you ask me. It ain’t healthy living like that.’
‘Not like you big tough men, eh?’
A marine standing guard on the vessel alongside which they were halted shook his head at the two men in disgust, and Sanga shrugged back at him.
‘What do you want me to say? You’re at sea half the year, without even the sight of a woman, never mind the chance to get your leg over. It’s no wonder you’re all cuddling up to each other at night, is it?’
The blue-tunicked soldier shook his head, adopting a sad expression.
‘Well now friend, that’s true enough. We do spend a lot of time at sea alright, and that’s lonely for a man that likes the company of women.’
Sanga smirked at him and opened his mouth to push home the advantage, but closed it again as the other man raised a finger, his doleful face suddenly brightening.
‘On the other hand, look at our situations now, eh? Off you go to pick a fight with whoever feels like sticking it up the empire’s arse. The next few months are going to be all marching, getting shouted at and, if you’re really lucky, having some mob of dirty eastern bastards trying you on for size as their new bed warmers. But me …’
He paused, smiling brightly.
‘We’re going to be stuck here for the rest of the winter, aren’t we? Stuck in a great big port full of taverns, with nothing better to do but drink and wait for the seas to open again. And let me tell you boys, if there’s one thing that a port like this has in large numbers, it’s whores. There’ll be whores everywhere, in the taverns, on the docks, even down by the ships once we’ve dragged them up onto the beach.’
He winked at Sanga.
‘Spare me a thought lads, while you’re slogging your way through the wind and the rain, and when the arrows are flying past your ears like hail. I’ll most likely be knocking back a cup of wine and wondering which of the girls to favour next …’
Sanga spat into the water again, lifting his shield as the line of soldiers ahead of them started moving again. Saratos followed suit, grinning at his comrade’s back.
‘He tell you, eh?’
The veteran shook his head in disgust.
‘Fucking navy. Come on then you Dacian halfwit, let’s go and find out what it is we’re doing here in the arse end of nowhere.’
An hour later, with the last of his men in the process of being chivvied ashore to form up beneath the towering walls of the upper city, and with all of the two cohorts’ centurions having made their reports, their first spear snapped a crisp salute at his legatus. Scaurus turned from his discussion with his companions, his German slave Arminius, and the Britons Martos and Lugos, originally captives of the war in Britannia but now free men who had chosen to accompany the Tungrians first to Rome and then onward to the east.
‘Yes, First Spear?’
‘First and second Tungrian cohorts ready for duty, Trib— Legatus. Fourteen hundred and thirty-seven men present and fit, seven recovering from injuries sustained at sea and two men missing. Presumed drowned.’
Scaurus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the report.
‘Thank you, First Spear. It won’t be very long before you’ll have to stop calling them Tungrians, for a time at least. These men will shortly be legionaries in the Third Gallic legion.’
His senior centurion’s face was impassive.
‘Those that survived the journey in one piece and didn’t go over the side, Legatus.’
The senior officer raised an eyebrow.
‘You may not have enjoyed the journey, Julius, but consider the alternative - if we were marching from Rome to Antioch we’d still be sailing down the Danubius, with eight hundred miles of slogging it through Thrace and Asia Minor waiting for us at the end of the voyage. My distaste for our new sponsor notwithstanding, I can’t deny that he makes things happen. Who else could have ordered the entire Praetorian fleet on the west coast to concentrate at Misenum and sail for the east at ten days’ notice? Twenty-five ships sent two thousand miles at the click of one man’s fingers – now that’s power.’ He tapped the centurion’s scale-armour shirt with a knowing smile. ‘And who else could have ordered up fourteen hundred sets of legionary equipment with the stroke of a stylus?’
The first spear, a heavily built man with a dark and brooding bearded face, smoothed back his grey-streaked hair and nodded reluctantly.
‘I won’t deny the man’s ability to make his subordinates jump. Not that I’m used to this stuff yet.’
He tapped his own chest morosely, looking down at the scaled armour that had replaced his mail shirt, lifting one of the thumbnail-sized tinned iron plates that were fixed to the linen shirt in overlapping ranks with wire fasteners.
‘Why I couldn’t just have had a shirt of that segmented armour like the men all got is beyond me. This just doesn’t feel right …’
He pulled a face, looking down at his booted feet.
‘I can’t get used to these boots that are more hole than leather either, or having my legs bare.’
The tribune’s German servant smirked at him, tilting his head back to emphasise his height advantage over the senior centurion.
‘I think the problem is that you’ve had your delicate little cucumber hidden away in leggings for so long that when it’s exposed to cold air it shrivels up to the size of a mushroom.’
Scaurus pursed his lips, darting a glance at the long-haired barbarian standing alongside him as he fought the desire to laugh at his subordinate’s gloomy disdain for his new equipment. Julius’s scowl set harder. The two Tungrian cohorts had been processed through the Misenum armoury with impressive speed, a succession of counter staff issuing each man with replacement armour, helmet, sword, dagger, tunics and boots to replace equipment long past its best days. Having already asked in an aggrieved tone why there were no leggings being provided, Julius had raised his hands in disbelief on seeing his replacement armour.
‘I’m not wearing that!’
Scaurus, having expected the protest, had carefully positioned himself alongside his senior centurion, waiting for the moment when his new equipment hit the counter’s scarred wooden surface.
‘First Spear, whether we like it or not, we are, for the time being at least, a legion cohort. Two cohorts, if we include the Second Tungrians. And in the legions, let me assure you, centurions simply do not wear the same armour as their men unless in absolute extremis. You’re gaining membership of a proud elite, Julius, there are less than two thousand men like you in the whole army, and your new colleagues will be expecting you to look the part. Come on, let’s try it all on, shall we?’
In truth, the big man still looked as ill at ease in his finery a month and a half later, as if he’d been dressed in equipment that, whilst it all fitted perfectly, still had the appearance of having been borrowed for the day.
Ignoring the German’s witticism, Julius turned to look out over the docked ships again.
‘Forced to wear armour that makes me look like the emperor’s favourite bum boy, with my woman held as a hostage in Rome while I sail thousands of miles to a place I’ve never even heard of …’
His look of disgust deepened, and Scaurus nodded his agreement.
‘And why us, eh Julius? After all, there are plenty of other troops who could have been sent to Syria? Dozens of eager men of the senatorial class who would have jumped at the chance of the legion command that I’ve been granted, all of whom would be spitting blood to know that an equestrian like me has been chosen over them. You know the answer as well as I do …’
‘Cleander.’
Julius spat the name out, shaking his head in combined disgust and anger, and Scaurus nodded, his eyes fixed on the ship behind them.
‘Indeed. Marcus Aurelius Cleander, former slave, arch schemer and, in consequence, the current imperial chamberlain. The man who controls the empire on behalf of a man with much better things to be doing, and therefore the man with absolute power of life and death over me, you, my man Arminius here, your woman, and anyone else that either of us hold dear. When Cleander invites the most exalted men in the empire to jump, those of them with any sense, which is to say just about all of them, will only pause to enquire as to the height he expects them to achieve. And we’ve no one to blame but ourselves, Julius, you know that just as well as I do.’
The first spear shrugged.
‘What were we to do, wrap the man in chains to stop him going after the bastards who killed his father, slaughtered his family and forced him to abandon the name he was born with?’
Scaurus looked across the parade ground’s wide open space, to where the man in question was making his rounds of the troops waiting to march, in the company of Cotta and a hulking centurion carrying a pioneer’s axe over his shoulder.
‘I doubt that would have worked too well. Tribune Corvus isn’t the type to take no for an answer, is he?’
All three men contemplated their comrade for a moment, Scaurus’s lips creasing in a quiet smile.
‘And unfortunately for us, he was rather too effective in his quest for justice. The chamberlain now sees us as a means to an end, dangerous men whose obedience must be guaranteed by a simple and direct threat to those we love.’
His eyes hardened with the words, the line of his jaw tautening with anger.
‘And he’s right.’
Legatus and first spear fell silent, both reflecting on the overt threats Cleander had made to the former on the day that their transports had sailed from the Praetorian fleet’s base at Misenum. Staring out over the huge harbour’s glittering waters at the assembled Praetorian fleet, waiting to carry the two cohorts away to the east in defiance of the lateness of the season and the imminence of the seas’ closure for the winter, he had spoken with his usual amused candour.
‘You have your orders, Rutilius Scaurus, you simply have to carry them out to the letter. Succeed, and your status as a legion legatus may last longer than the time required for this simple task. Not to mention the equestrian status I’ve granted to your man Corvus, or rather Marcus Valerius Aquila, the son of a disgraced and executed traitor, as the events of the last few days have so conclusively proven to be his true identity. Fail, on the other hand, and you’ll find the welcome on your return more than a little chilly …’
The object of their discussion of a moment before walked steadily back across the wide open square towards them, the centurions strolling half a pace behind their tribune. Scaurus looked at the three of them for a moment, resisting the temptation to smile at the fact that while his newly promoted tribune wore his usual thoughtful expression, and his friend Dubnus was pulling at the collar of his armour with the frown of a man unaccustomed to such warmth in the middle of winter, Centurion Cotta’s demeanour was more that of a man enjoying an extended and leisurely holiday.
‘Your men will be pleased to have their feet back on solid land for more than a night, I presume, gentlemen?’
Cotta shook his head briskly.
‘On the contrary, Legatus, I think I’ve adapted to the ocean-going life, especially seeing as we had the biggest ship in the whole of the ocean for a private yacht. Now we’re ashore again it’ll be back to shouting at idiots and trying to get the sand out of my arse crack again.’
Julius raised an eyebrow at Scaurus.
‘I’ve said it before—’
The veteran centurion nodded with a soft snort of laughter, seemingly unconcerned by the big man’s superior rank.
‘And you’ll say it again, First Spear?’
‘And I’ll say it again. Bringing this insolent, worn out and retired officer along for the ride might have seemed like a bright idea back in Rome, when all he had to do was walk around behind the women and tell his men when to carry their shopping, but—’
A rare smile creased Marcus’s face, and the first spear turned a hard stare on his former centurion.
‘Is there something amusing you, Tribune?’
The younger man shook his head, bowing slightly in recognition of both Julius’s irritation and his own temporary status as superior officer to the man from whom he’d been taking orders only two months before.
‘Nothing, First Spear. Please do continue.’
‘Thank you, sir. Where was I …?’
‘Carrying the shopping.’
‘Thank you, Martos …’
The first spear attempted to skewer the one-eyed barbarian warrior who had joined the discussion with the same glare he’d used on Marcus, but the Briton simply raised a knowing eyebrow until Julius turned back to the object of his ire.
‘Do you really think you’ll be able to keep up on the march? At your age?’
Cotta shrugged.
‘We’ll know soon enough, won’t we First Spear? After all, given that I joined up at fourteen, I’m still younger than a good few of your old sweats.’
Julius opened his
The hard-faced officer acknowledged his superior's question with a look of disbelief and a curt nod, his voice harsh from years of barking commands at his crew before his promotion from ship’s trierarchus to commander of the fleet.
‘Yes, Procurator. Completely confident.’
The equestrian official turned back to the soldier standing alongside him, his grey-flecked hair ruffled by the wind as he raised a hand and pointed out over the ship’s bow.
‘As I said, there it is, Legatus. Seleucia.’
Legatus Gaius Rutilius Scaurus stared out over the warship’s prow as it sliced through the ocean under the urging of the massive vessel’s banked oars, looking past the massive bolt thrower that dominated the vessel’s bow, raising a hand to shield his grey eyes from the winter sun’s glare. A line of mountains was just visible on the eastern horizon, seemingly rising from the sea to block their course, their bases almost invisible in the sea’s haze.
‘The gateway to the east. Well done, Cassius Ravilla, you and your men have performed your task admirably, given the circumstances.’
The fleet’s navarchus turned his bearded frown from procurator to legatus for a moment, then shook his head and walked slowly away from the two men, his face taking on the look of a man hunting for someone on whom to exercise his considerable irritation. The vessel’s trierarchus and his centurion turned and walked away towards the Victoria’s stern with the look of men earnestly discussing the finer points of ship handling, prompting a knowing smile from Scaurus.
‘He’s still not the happiest of men, is he?’
Ravilla shook his head, the wind ruffling his thick black hair.
‘He swears that if he’d not made sure we made a decent sacrifice to Neptune every time we made land safely, we’d all have been at the bottom of the ocean a month ago. Apparently the weather at this end of the Middle Sea hasn’t been this quiet in the winter closed season for all the years he’s served in the navy.’
Scaurus grinned at the grizzled sailor’s back as he stooped to berate one of the flagship’s oarsmen for some small infringement.
‘Has he considered that he might simply be terrifying the waves into submission?’
He looked back over the vessel’s stern at the line of ships following in their wake at precise four-hundred-pace intervals.
‘After all, he seems to have your fleet’s trierarchi drilled to within an inch of their collective lives.’
The procurator shook his head ruefully.
‘I know. I sometimes wonder which one of us is really in command of the fleet.’
His answer was a hollow laugh.
‘Welcome to my world. Have you ever seen your man there and my first spear talking to each other? They’re like two fighting dogs sniffing each other’s backsides and trying to work out which of them would win if it came to blows. And trust me, when Julius decides that my cohorts are to do a thing in a certain way, that’s the way in which that thing will be done, with no ifs or buts. I’m allowed the luxury of determining our strategy, and after that …’
‘You’re in the hands of the professionals?’
‘Exactly.’
Ravilla looked at him in silence for a moment.
‘You said cohorts, legatus, rather than legion. And while my father told me at great length never to pry into another man’s business when I was a child …’
He left the question hanging in the crisp sea air rather than asking it directly.
‘You’d like to know exactly how it is that a man wearing the same thin stripe as the one on your tunic ends up in command of one of the emperor’s legions.’
Ravilla shrugged.
‘You’ll admit that it is something of a curiosity? Of course I’ve heard the stories of how Marcus Aurelius sometimes gave command of his legions to legion first spears who’d been promoted to the equestrian class during the German War, but I thought that such egalitarianism had been quietly forgotten once Commodus had made peace with the tribes after his father’s death. The status quo has been restored, and to command a legion anywhere other than Egypt, a man must once again be of the senatorial class, if not already actually in possession of his father’s ring and death mask. And suddenly here you are, quite obviously an equestrian like me, and yet blessed with a legion!’
Scaurus smiled tightly.
‘And you’d like to know the secret. How does a man make that impossible leap to fame and fortune without first putting a thick stripe on his tunic?’
‘Of course.’
The legatus shook his head.
‘First you’d have to provide a man close to the throne a service that would show him how valuable you could be to him in the future. Like giving him the opportunity to take the place of the emperor’s most trusted adviser, that kind of thing.’
Ravilla raised his eyebrows.
‘You were part of that?’
Scaurus shrugged in his turn.
‘It’s not something I’ll readily admit to having participated in, but let’s say, just for the sake of the discussion, that I was.’
‘Then the man who replaced the Praetorian Prefect must owe you a huge debt.’
‘And you think that’s it? The gift of a legion as the reward for the chance to take ultimate power?’
‘Wasn’t it?’
The legatus shook his head.
‘Who could be more dangerous than a man ruthless enough to engineer the death of the man he seeks to supplant? Why would he leave anyone who was part of the act alive to tell the story?’
Ravilla nodded slowly.
‘I take your point. Unless he wanted more from the men in question?’
‘Indeed. It seems that our particular capabilities were too valuable to be discarded, once we’d served our initial purposes. See my tribune there?’
The procurator frowned at the change in conversational focus, glancing down the ship’s length at the tall, well-muscled figure of a military tribune clad in a shining bronze breast plate and bearing his usual two swords, one an infantry gladius with a magnificent eagle’s head pommel. Alongside him stood an older soldier wearing the scaled armour and cross-crested helmet of a legion centurion; the two officers engaged in the routine inspection of the centurion’s men.
‘Yes. He seems a good enough man, if a little … taciturn. The centurion with him though, now there’s a dangerous man.’
‘Cotta? He’s sudden death with any weapon you could mention, but the tribune?’
Scaurus grinned at Ravilla.
‘Tribune Corvus could take Cotta to pieces, literally, in the span of a dozen heartbeats. His men call him “Two Knives”, because he fights in the style of an old-fashioned dimachaerus. He was taught by a champion gladiator of some fame, a big man who, like Corvus there, always fought with two swords. You might have seen the man’s recent and rather spectacular comeback appearance in the Flavian arena?’
‘You don’t mean …’
Ravilla whispered the gladiator’s name in an awed tone, and when Scaurus nodded in reply, his face took on a fresh expression of amazement. The legatus smiled at his colleague’s genuine astonishment.
‘Indeed. And while his pupil may lack the big man’s sheer brute power, he has a speed with the blade that you might call divine, were you to believe that the gods occasionally bestow their gifts on us mere mortals. He wears a quiet enough demeanour for the most part, but when he’s roused …’
The procurator mused for a moment.
‘So the new man behind the throne must have wanted something more from you? Something that involved your tribune?’
‘He did, and in a roundabout sort of way he got exactly what he wanted from us.’
‘And then?’
Scaurus raised his hands and gestured about him.
‘And then … here we are. Apparently we’re too valuable to be quietly murdered and forgotten about, and so instead we find ourselves sent east to deal with a problem on the empire’s frontier instead. And that feeling of envy you were expressing before?’
Ravilla looked at him for a moment.
‘Has somewhat diminished, I’ll wager, and has been replaced by one rather large question.’
The legatus smiled knowingly.
‘Which, I would imagine, is that given the rather dangerous nature of the information I’ve just shared with you, why in the name of Mithras didn’t I just fabricate some rather more anodyne story to tell you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’re right to be concerned.’
He passed the procurator a scroll, the paper still sealed into a tight tube with wax bearing the imperial mark. Ravilla took it from his hand, grimaced at the seal and then snapped it, opening the message and reading swiftly. After a moment he handed it back to the legatus with a single word.
‘Shit.’
‘Indeed.’
Word spread quickly through the port city of Seleucia, as the flagship and the fleet of warships that followed in her wake appeared over the western horizon in swift and efficient succession, each fresh sighting whipping up the collective state of excitement until the entire port was alive with the news that a fleet of twenty-five warships was approaching. The men tasked with the harbour’s defence ran for their bolt throwers, pulling off heavy waxed canvas covers and going through the motions of winding the weapons’ massive bowstrings back ready to fire, while above them in the lower city’s main tower, the port’s procurator stared out at the oncoming vessels. He looked to his chief pilot, the man who did most of the actual work involved in his role, raising an eyebrow in question. The older man, approaching his sixtieth year with no sign of any urge to retire, took another long look at the line of ships advancing towards the walls of the outer port and then turned back to him with an expression that was as much of perplexity as recognition.
‘If I didn’t know better, I could swear that’s the old Victoria leading them in. I remember her from the time she escorted the imperial flagship into harbour back at the start of the last war with the Parthians. But what would the Praetorian fleet be doing this far east at this time of year?’
His superior’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
‘The Praetorian fleet?’
‘I know, it’s not likely, is it? But I could swear that’s the old Victoria …’
The procurator goggled at him for a moment before turning to his secretary.
‘Have a messenger ready to ride to the governor’s office in Antioch at my command!’
The slave inclined his head respectfully.
‘As you order, sir. And the message?’
‘I’ll know that when I see who walks off that leading ship.’
Ravilla’s navarchus had waved away the offer of a pilot with a grim shake of his head, leaving the cutter wallowing in the quadrireme’s wake.
‘No fucking easterner’s going to scrape my flagship down a harbour wall and then tell me he hadn’t realised she answered her rudder so slowly! Trierarchus, get the sail furled!’
He took the warship out in a wide arc to the west of the port, then straightened her course and guided her towards the opening in the outer harbour’s walls where the two massive moles came within fifty paces of one another, a gap seemingly barely wide enough to admit the vessel. The deck crew had furled the massive sail with their usual practised speed, leaving the oarsmen as the Victoria’s only means of propulsion. Scaurus and his officers watched with interest as the walls of the outer harbour loomed on either side of the warship, while the navarchus called out small changes to the men controlling the steering oars and bellowed for the rowers to back water, reducing the big ship’s speed to walking pace. As the gap between the two walls that enfolded the outer harbour enveloped them, he barked out a terse order, his voice raised to carry along the ship’s entire length.
‘Raise oars!’
As one man the rowers pushed the long shafts of their oars forward and downwards, elevating their blades like the furled wings of a swan, and the Victoria eased through the gap with no more than twenty paces to either side. The stub end of the wall to their left passed with a gurgle of water racing between stone and ship, while that to their right presented a smooth, unbroken surface that curled around to form the outer harbour’s southern mole.
‘Steering oars, hard left turn! Lower oars! Left-hand side – back water!’
The rowers on the flagship’s left-hand side heaved at their shafts, pulling the Victoria round to her left in a graceful turn.
‘Both sides … back water!’
The warship slowed to an imperceptible drift with three swift strokes from the oarsmen, while the navarchus stared about him at the berths available along the northern and southern moles, half of them empty, the others occupied by a variety of vessels. Making a swift decision, he pointed to a vacant section of the northern mole to their left, returning command of the ship to its captain.
‘There! Trierarchus, put us against the wall there!’
The ship cruised slowly up to the mole, sailors on bow and stern throwing ropes to the waiting dock slaves while the rowers pulled their oars inboard to avoid them being trapped between ship and quayside. As the gangplank was dropped into place, Cassius Ravilla walked up its length and stepped onto the mole’s flat stone surface, looking about him with a calculating expression as a group of men hurried out along the wall from the lower city. A middle-aged official who appeared to be their leader bowed deeply, waving an arm at the Victoria with an ingratiating smile.
‘Greetings, and welcome to—’
Ravilla raised a hand to silence him, pointing out to the north at the next ship in his squadron, which was bearing down on the harbour’s entrance.
‘My name is Praetorian Fleet Procurator Titus Cassius Ravilla. And do you see that ship? There are another twenty-three just the same in her wake, each one carrying a century of legion infantry. I need twenty-five unloading berths, and I need them now.’
The port official bowed his head again, respectfully acknowledging Ravilla’s seniority as a member of the group of senior equestrians known as the ‘best of men’, those given the empire’s most prestigious commands.
‘You’re carrying soldiers?’
A new voice interjected into their conversation.
‘The Praetorian fleet has been directed to deliver two cohorts of legionaries and myself to Antioch with all possible speed, Procurator. I’m taking command of the Third Gallic, and since I have urgent business with the governor I’ll need my horses unloaded as a matter of priority.’
The official turned to look at Scaurus, who had strolled up the plank behind Ravilla unnoticed, bowing even deeper as the splendour of his uniform sank in.
‘My apologies, Legatus, I didn’t see you there.’ He turned to his assistant. ‘Have the warships berth on the mole, unload their cargo and then pass them on into the inner harbour. We’ve all the facilities you’ll need there, Cassius Ravilla, the port was built for a far larger fleet than we maintain these days. You’ll be able to run your ships ashore and perform any maintenance with the assistance of the port’s carpenters. You do intend docking for the rest of the closed season, I presume?’
Ravilla shot Scaurus a resigned look.
‘It seems that we do.’
Walking up the plank that connected the ship and the mole’s stone surface, laden down by the weight of his weapons, shield and equipment, Sanga spat into the water below, stepping out onto the quay’s flat surface with a smile of satisfaction. His comrade Saratos followed him down the quayside in the long procession of men making their way along the mole under the direction of their officers, looking curiously up at the mountains that loomed over the port.
‘So, is end of voyage.’
Sanga grunted his appreciation of the sentiment.
‘Thank fuck for that.’
The Dacian behind him shook his head.
‘I happy on ship. No war to fight on ship. Now we here, war come soon.’
Sanga laughed tersely.
‘It’s what we do mate. All them ships did was get us to the scene of the next fight quicker. That and empty my guts out every now and then.’
Their century’s line ran into the back of other men disembarking from ships further down the mole, and without need to be told both men grounded their shields and leaned on them, waiting for the route to clear.
‘Is true. You not make good sailor.’
Sanga snorted derisively.
‘Is true alright. My guts wouldn’t stand for it, and nor would my arse. That lot have been too long away from women if you ask me. It ain’t healthy living like that.’
‘Not like you big tough men, eh?’
A marine standing guard on the vessel alongside which they were halted shook his head at the two men in disgust, and Sanga shrugged back at him.
‘What do you want me to say? You’re at sea half the year, without even the sight of a woman, never mind the chance to get your leg over. It’s no wonder you’re all cuddling up to each other at night, is it?’
The blue-tunicked soldier shook his head, adopting a sad expression.
‘Well now friend, that’s true enough. We do spend a lot of time at sea alright, and that’s lonely for a man that likes the company of women.’
Sanga smirked at him and opened his mouth to push home the advantage, but closed it again as the other man raised a finger, his doleful face suddenly brightening.
‘On the other hand, look at our situations now, eh? Off you go to pick a fight with whoever feels like sticking it up the empire’s arse. The next few months are going to be all marching, getting shouted at and, if you’re really lucky, having some mob of dirty eastern bastards trying you on for size as their new bed warmers. But me …’
He paused, smiling brightly.
‘We’re going to be stuck here for the rest of the winter, aren’t we? Stuck in a great big port full of taverns, with nothing better to do but drink and wait for the seas to open again. And let me tell you boys, if there’s one thing that a port like this has in large numbers, it’s whores. There’ll be whores everywhere, in the taverns, on the docks, even down by the ships once we’ve dragged them up onto the beach.’
He winked at Sanga.
‘Spare me a thought lads, while you’re slogging your way through the wind and the rain, and when the arrows are flying past your ears like hail. I’ll most likely be knocking back a cup of wine and wondering which of the girls to favour next …’
Sanga spat into the water again, lifting his shield as the line of soldiers ahead of them started moving again. Saratos followed suit, grinning at his comrade’s back.
‘He tell you, eh?’
The veteran shook his head in disgust.
‘Fucking navy. Come on then you Dacian halfwit, let’s go and find out what it is we’re doing here in the arse end of nowhere.’
An hour later, with the last of his men in the process of being chivvied ashore to form up beneath the towering walls of the upper city, and with all of the two cohorts’ centurions having made their reports, their first spear snapped a crisp salute at his legatus. Scaurus turned from his discussion with his companions, his German slave Arminius, and the Britons Martos and Lugos, originally captives of the war in Britannia but now free men who had chosen to accompany the Tungrians first to Rome and then onward to the east.
‘Yes, First Spear?’
‘First and second Tungrian cohorts ready for duty, Trib— Legatus. Fourteen hundred and thirty-seven men present and fit, seven recovering from injuries sustained at sea and two men missing. Presumed drowned.’
Scaurus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the report.
‘Thank you, First Spear. It won’t be very long before you’ll have to stop calling them Tungrians, for a time at least. These men will shortly be legionaries in the Third Gallic legion.’
His senior centurion’s face was impassive.
‘Those that survived the journey in one piece and didn’t go over the side, Legatus.’
The senior officer raised an eyebrow.
‘You may not have enjoyed the journey, Julius, but consider the alternative - if we were marching from Rome to Antioch we’d still be sailing down the Danubius, with eight hundred miles of slogging it through Thrace and Asia Minor waiting for us at the end of the voyage. My distaste for our new sponsor notwithstanding, I can’t deny that he makes things happen. Who else could have ordered the entire Praetorian fleet on the west coast to concentrate at Misenum and sail for the east at ten days’ notice? Twenty-five ships sent two thousand miles at the click of one man’s fingers – now that’s power.’ He tapped the centurion’s scale-armour shirt with a knowing smile. ‘And who else could have ordered up fourteen hundred sets of legionary equipment with the stroke of a stylus?’
The first spear, a heavily built man with a dark and brooding bearded face, smoothed back his grey-streaked hair and nodded reluctantly.
‘I won’t deny the man’s ability to make his subordinates jump. Not that I’m used to this stuff yet.’
He tapped his own chest morosely, looking down at the scaled armour that had replaced his mail shirt, lifting one of the thumbnail-sized tinned iron plates that were fixed to the linen shirt in overlapping ranks with wire fasteners.
‘Why I couldn’t just have had a shirt of that segmented armour like the men all got is beyond me. This just doesn’t feel right …’
He pulled a face, looking down at his booted feet.
‘I can’t get used to these boots that are more hole than leather either, or having my legs bare.’
The tribune’s German servant smirked at him, tilting his head back to emphasise his height advantage over the senior centurion.
‘I think the problem is that you’ve had your delicate little cucumber hidden away in leggings for so long that when it’s exposed to cold air it shrivels up to the size of a mushroom.’
Scaurus pursed his lips, darting a glance at the long-haired barbarian standing alongside him as he fought the desire to laugh at his subordinate’s gloomy disdain for his new equipment. Julius’s scowl set harder. The two Tungrian cohorts had been processed through the Misenum armoury with impressive speed, a succession of counter staff issuing each man with replacement armour, helmet, sword, dagger, tunics and boots to replace equipment long past its best days. Having already asked in an aggrieved tone why there were no leggings being provided, Julius had raised his hands in disbelief on seeing his replacement armour.
‘I’m not wearing that!’
Scaurus, having expected the protest, had carefully positioned himself alongside his senior centurion, waiting for the moment when his new equipment hit the counter’s scarred wooden surface.
‘First Spear, whether we like it or not, we are, for the time being at least, a legion cohort. Two cohorts, if we include the Second Tungrians. And in the legions, let me assure you, centurions simply do not wear the same armour as their men unless in absolute extremis. You’re gaining membership of a proud elite, Julius, there are less than two thousand men like you in the whole army, and your new colleagues will be expecting you to look the part. Come on, let’s try it all on, shall we?’
In truth, the big man still looked as ill at ease in his finery a month and a half later, as if he’d been dressed in equipment that, whilst it all fitted perfectly, still had the appearance of having been borrowed for the day.
Ignoring the German’s witticism, Julius turned to look out over the docked ships again.
‘Forced to wear armour that makes me look like the emperor’s favourite bum boy, with my woman held as a hostage in Rome while I sail thousands of miles to a place I’ve never even heard of …’
His look of disgust deepened, and Scaurus nodded his agreement.
‘And why us, eh Julius? After all, there are plenty of other troops who could have been sent to Syria? Dozens of eager men of the senatorial class who would have jumped at the chance of the legion command that I’ve been granted, all of whom would be spitting blood to know that an equestrian like me has been chosen over them. You know the answer as well as I do …’
‘Cleander.’
Julius spat the name out, shaking his head in combined disgust and anger, and Scaurus nodded, his eyes fixed on the ship behind them.
‘Indeed. Marcus Aurelius Cleander, former slave, arch schemer and, in consequence, the current imperial chamberlain. The man who controls the empire on behalf of a man with much better things to be doing, and therefore the man with absolute power of life and death over me, you, my man Arminius here, your woman, and anyone else that either of us hold dear. When Cleander invites the most exalted men in the empire to jump, those of them with any sense, which is to say just about all of them, will only pause to enquire as to the height he expects them to achieve. And we’ve no one to blame but ourselves, Julius, you know that just as well as I do.’
The first spear shrugged.
‘What were we to do, wrap the man in chains to stop him going after the bastards who killed his father, slaughtered his family and forced him to abandon the name he was born with?’
Scaurus looked across the parade ground’s wide open space, to where the man in question was making his rounds of the troops waiting to march, in the company of Cotta and a hulking centurion carrying a pioneer’s axe over his shoulder.
‘I doubt that would have worked too well. Tribune Corvus isn’t the type to take no for an answer, is he?’
All three men contemplated their comrade for a moment, Scaurus’s lips creasing in a quiet smile.
‘And unfortunately for us, he was rather too effective in his quest for justice. The chamberlain now sees us as a means to an end, dangerous men whose obedience must be guaranteed by a simple and direct threat to those we love.’
His eyes hardened with the words, the line of his jaw tautening with anger.
‘And he’s right.’
Legatus and first spear fell silent, both reflecting on the overt threats Cleander had made to the former on the day that their transports had sailed from the Praetorian fleet’s base at Misenum. Staring out over the huge harbour’s glittering waters at the assembled Praetorian fleet, waiting to carry the two cohorts away to the east in defiance of the lateness of the season and the imminence of the seas’ closure for the winter, he had spoken with his usual amused candour.
‘You have your orders, Rutilius Scaurus, you simply have to carry them out to the letter. Succeed, and your status as a legion legatus may last longer than the time required for this simple task. Not to mention the equestrian status I’ve granted to your man Corvus, or rather Marcus Valerius Aquila, the son of a disgraced and executed traitor, as the events of the last few days have so conclusively proven to be his true identity. Fail, on the other hand, and you’ll find the welcome on your return more than a little chilly …’
The object of their discussion of a moment before walked steadily back across the wide open square towards them, the centurions strolling half a pace behind their tribune. Scaurus looked at the three of them for a moment, resisting the temptation to smile at the fact that while his newly promoted tribune wore his usual thoughtful expression, and his friend Dubnus was pulling at the collar of his armour with the frown of a man unaccustomed to such warmth in the middle of winter, Centurion Cotta’s demeanour was more that of a man enjoying an extended and leisurely holiday.
‘Your men will be pleased to have their feet back on solid land for more than a night, I presume, gentlemen?’
Cotta shook his head briskly.
‘On the contrary, Legatus, I think I’ve adapted to the ocean-going life, especially seeing as we had the biggest ship in the whole of the ocean for a private yacht. Now we’re ashore again it’ll be back to shouting at idiots and trying to get the sand out of my arse crack again.’
Julius raised an eyebrow at Scaurus.
‘I’ve said it before—’
The veteran centurion nodded with a soft snort of laughter, seemingly unconcerned by the big man’s superior rank.
‘And you’ll say it again, First Spear?’
‘And I’ll say it again. Bringing this insolent, worn out and retired officer along for the ride might have seemed like a bright idea back in Rome, when all he had to do was walk around behind the women and tell his men when to carry their shopping, but—’
A rare smile creased Marcus’s face, and the first spear turned a hard stare on his former centurion.
‘Is there something amusing you, Tribune?’
The younger man shook his head, bowing slightly in recognition of both Julius’s irritation and his own temporary status as superior officer to the man from whom he’d been taking orders only two months before.
‘Nothing, First Spear. Please do continue.’
‘Thank you, sir. Where was I …?’
‘Carrying the shopping.’
‘Thank you, Martos …’
The first spear attempted to skewer the one-eyed barbarian warrior who had joined the discussion with the same glare he’d used on Marcus, but the Briton simply raised a knowing eyebrow until Julius turned back to the object of his ire.
‘Do you really think you’ll be able to keep up on the march? At your age?’
Cotta shrugged.
‘We’ll know soon enough, won’t we First Spear? After all, given that I joined up at fourteen, I’m still younger than a good few of your old sweats.’
Julius opened his
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Thunder of the Gods: Empire VIII
Anthony Riches
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