Enemy of Rome (17 page)

They set out as the light began to fade, joined by three ragged cohorts of Praetorian Guards disbanded by Vitellius who marched in from the swamps south of Mediolanum. But the vanguard had been on the road for less than an hour when a blare of trumpets from the head of the column announced they’d inexplicably halted.

Primus was with his staff at the centre of the second legion, the Seventh Galbiana, and Valerius heard him complain to his aides, ‘I did not order this.’ Valerius exchanged glances with Serpentius and they simultaneously checked the column’s flanks. The land around them was flat as a table top, but far to the north the mighty Alps shimmered like silver wraiths in the fading light. To the south the lamps of an occasional unsuspecting homestead shimmered beyond the river. Neither appeared to show any sign of a threat.

‘Perhaps the Twenty-first and the Fifth have decided to contest the road?’ a tribune suggested. ‘If so, it’s a decision they will come to regret. Let me send a galloper to find out.’

‘Better that I see for myself.’ Primus smiled grimly. ‘But pass word to my generals that they should prepare to deploy. If the Vitellians believe they can defy Marcus Antonius Primus with two legions and a few auxiliary cavalry it will be my pleasure to disabuse them.’

He twitched his mount to the left, down the slope, and galloped up the flank of the column accompanied by his staff and personal escort. When they reached the leading legion, Valerius saw Vipstanus Messalla questioning the commander of a cavalry patrol which had ridden up with two prisoners. The men were bearded cavalrymen from some eastern auxiliary unit, bound and bloodied, but surprisingly defiant.

‘It is impossible,’ Messalla barked, his weathered, hook-nosed features a mask of consternation. ‘Ask them again.’

‘What is impossible?’ Primus demanded.

Messalla turned in surprise and hastily saluted the general. ‘The patrol commander claims to have seen the insignia of at least five legions on the road from Cremona.’

‘Why should that be a matter of concern?’ Primus said calmly. ‘We know Twenty-first Rapax and Fifth Alaudae are supported by small detachments from another three legions.’

‘But these are not the banners of the Ninth, Second and Twentieth, lord,’ the cavalry prefect interrupted. ‘My men identified the Twenty-second Primigenia, Fourth Macedonica and First Italica.’

Primus’s aides shuffled in their saddles and Valerius could tell from the man’s voice that the information he carried frightened him. The general’s face froze. When he spoke his voice had lost its certainty. ‘A few outriders …’

‘No, lord.’ The trooper indicated the two prisoners. ‘These men confirm it. The legions at Hostilia broke camp immediately after the arrest of General Caecina Alienus. First Italica alone covered thirty miles yesterday. They marched into Cremona, resupplied and were on the road again within the hour.’

Expectation filled the air and the aides tensed, ready for the inevitable order that would send them scurrying back to their units and another night of chaos as they reversed course to retreat to Bedriacum. Valerius knew the calculations that would be going through Primus’s mind. He faced five full legions instead of only two, and those legions were just the vanguard of Vitellius’s army. If he attacked, they’d pin him in place on ground of their choosing and eventually destroy him by sheer weight of numbers. If he retreated, they’d chase him all the way out of Italy. The morale of his men might never recover, but at least his army would survive. However, for a man like Marcus Antonius Primus there could only be one answer to that dilemma, and it wasn’t the one his officers expected.

‘We fight. Vedius?’ Primus searched the ring of startled faces for the legate of the Thirteenth, but Aquila was with his legion almost two miles back up the road. The general’s face twitched with irritation until his eyes fell on Valerius. ‘Verrens? You have fought over this ground. I need a position where we can hold the enemy and hurt them.’

Valerius struggled to recall Otho’s conference and the detailed map his generals had studied. Nothing would be gained by retiring to the position where Primus had earlier stopped the Vitellian cavalry. The runnel where they’d made their stand was flanked to the north of the road by row upon row of olive trees strung with the vines which had so hampered Thirteenth Gemina in the first battle. In any case, the bulk of the army would be well past now. Every mile closer to Cremona, the better the ground became. An image entered his head – a certain set of contours; a winding stream that followed the Via Postumia before curving south across the line of march; a crossroads nearby where a slightly elevated farm track dissected the raised causeway of the main road. He hurriedly explained the position to the general.

‘How far?’

‘Perhaps a thousand paces ahead,’ Valerius estimated. ‘If we push on now we can form a defensive line before the enemy reach it.’

True to his nature, Primus didn’t hesitate. ‘Messalla? You will force-march Seventh Claudia and wheel to form our left flank on the banks of the stream. Galbiana will follow. Verrens will command in my absence.’ He read Valerius’s disbelieving glance. ‘I will conduct the battle from the centre, with the Thirteenth, but you will be responsible for the tactical dispositions of your legion. Do you think yourself incapable?’

Valerius drew himself up to his full height in the saddle. ‘No, general, but—’

‘Then carry on. Your warrant will follow.’ Valerius was forgotten as Primus turned back to the aides frantically scratching out his orders on the wax tablets strapped to their saddles. ‘Third Gallica will form the right flank, with Eighth Augusta defending the boundary of the track …’

When Valerius rode back to where the eagle of the Seventh glittered above the column, auxiliary cavalry units were already streaming to the front and flanks. He prayed they would carry enough threat to make the advancing Vitellians pause, because if the enemy caught Primus’s legions on the march the inevitable result would be carnage, chaos and defeat. Valerius Verrens didn’t intend to allow that to happen.

Because a man who wanted him dead had given him the Seventh Galbiana. The Seventh was his legion and Gaius Valerius Verrens’ legion would fight and it would win.

‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, appointed commander of Legio VII Galbiana on the orders of Marcus Antonius Primus.’ Valerius struggled to keep the raw edge from his voice. ‘And with the full authority of Titus Flavius Vespasian.’

He saw the conflicting emotions flicker across the face of the fresh-faced military tribune who was the Seventh’s second in command. First disappointment, because the young man had his pride and his bloodline. That bloodline dictated he was born to command and his pride told him he should want it. But it was swiftly replaced by relief, because a battle was imminent and he was as inexperienced in battle as the young Spaniards who made up the legion’s ranks. The Seventh had been formed less than a year before by the prospective Emperor Servius Sulpicius Galba. Its ranks were filled by Roman citizens, mainly farmers, from his province of Hispania Tarraconensis, stiffened with a backbone of centurions from other legions. The legion had escorted Galba to Italia and taken part in his blood-spattered entry to Rome. They’d stayed only long enough to see him formally proclaimed Emperor before being dispatched to the Danuvius frontier to learn their trade under Marcus Antonius Primus. Since then, they’d trained and they’d patrolled, but they’d never had to fight. Only a handful of the men now under Valerius’s command had ever stood in a shield line or hurled a
pilum
in anger. What he needed to know was their mettle and their temper. He waited patiently as the tribune twitched under the unforgiving dark eyes and took in the white scar that disfigured his new commander’s face from eyelid to lip. Valerius flicked back his cloak to reveal the carved wooden fist on his right arm and the young man’s eyes widened.

‘C-Claudius Julius Ferox, at your service, sir.’

Valerius nodded. ‘I don’t have time for pleasantries, tribune,’ he said. ‘We leave the instant the legion is formed up, so you may introduce me to your officers on the march. For the moment I need to know our supply situation and ration strength.’

‘We resupplied at Bedriacum with rations for three days.’

‘Water?’

‘Skins filled during the halt.’

‘Numbers?’

Ferox frowned. ‘We have the usual sicknesses and men on furlough. The only major loss has been a few dozen men from the fifth cohort we had to leave with the heavy weapons.’

A nervous smiled flickered across his face as he sought some acknowledgement. Valerius turned to look over the ranks forming up behind them. ‘I didn’t ask you for an estimate, tribune.’ He kept his voice audible only to the young man, but it took on a force that pinned the smile in place. ‘I asked you for numbers. If you don’t have them find out from someone who does.’

The tribune rode off, shouting for his camp prefect. As he waited, Valerius found himself the focus of a grinning face peering out from beneath the savage mask of the bear’s pelt that hung over its owner’s wide shoulders. Big, worker’s hands clutched the pole of the legion’s eagle standard. It came to him that the last time he’d seen that face he was being marched to his execution on a dusty field in Moesia, found guilty of cowardice and deserting his comrades. Somehow he managed to keep his face straight.

‘The Seventh must have been short of proper soldiers if they made you
aquilifer
, Atilius Verus. You probably need an assistant just to carry that shiny new bauble.’

‘The legate must have felt sorry for me, I reckon, sir.’ The grin broadened. ‘Glad you’ve overcome your, er, difficulties, if you don’t mind me venturing.’

Valerius laughed. ‘Who’s your
primus pilus
?’

‘Our first file would be Gaius Brocchus, sir. Twenty-year man and a proper … soldier.’

‘Proper bastard, you mean?’

‘Proper clever, ugly bastard.’

‘Up to any little tricks, is he? Naughty games with the rations or the leave tickets?’

Verus’s face went blank. ‘I wouldn’t know about anything like that, sir.’

‘No.’ Valerius raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I think I’ll have a little chat with him anyway.’ His face split into a smile. ‘Glad you’re with us,
aquila
.’

‘You too, sir. They’re young, but keen, sir,’ the standard-bearer blurted. ‘A bit raw, but you can depend on them in a fight, especially now they’re well led. The Seventh won’t let you down, sir.’

Valerius nodded, but for a moment the breath caught in his chest. He remembered another young legion, raw, but keen, who’d torn the heart out of a force of German veterans, taken their eagle, and then been ground to bloody ruin. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Serpentius had kept well back from the conversation. Valerius called him forward and together they walked their mounts towards the head of the column where the First cohort had pride of place. ‘Did you want me for something specific?’ the Spaniard asked. ‘Or am I just along for local colour?’

Valerius kept his face straight. ‘Just do what you do best.’

The cohort was the tactical fighting unit of a legion, and each normal cohort consisted of six centuries containing eighty men each. The First were the elite of the legion, shock troops who would be called upon to break the enemy line. Each of their five centuries was double the size of a regular unit, giving the cohort a total of eight hundred men. Officers apart, the rank and file of the Seventh Galbiana contained no veterans, so the First cohort was where Marcus Antonius Primus had placed his biggest and toughest troops. Brocchus, the cohort’s commander, was the exception. He was short enough to be dwarfed by the soldiers around him, but appeared as broad in the shoulders as he was tall. The scars of old battles criss-crossed his sour features like lines on a gaming board and someone had chopped off the end of his nose. But it was his mouth that made him truly fearsome. As Valerius approached, the centurion’s lips parted in a gruesome smile of welcome. The centre teeth in his upper and lower jaws had been knocked out, and the remainder filed to sharp points to give him the ferocious gaping maw of a monster from Hades. Valerius had seen Iceni warriors snapping at Roman throats with their teeth and he had a feeling Gaius Brocchus would know the taste of another man’s flesh.

‘And you thought I was handsome,’ Serpentius muttered under his breath.

Brocchus looked from Valerius to the Spaniard and back again, the smile never leaving his face. Word had evidently filtered down the column faster than the mounted men, and belatedly the centurion slammed his fist into his armoured chest in salute. ‘Sir.’

Valerius acknowledged the perfectly timed not-quite-insolence and studied the ranks of bright-helmeted legionaries standing behind their painted shields. ‘Your men look good, First, but how good are they?’

The compliment brought a murmur of pride from the massed ranks. Brocchus whipped round with his vine stick and rammed it into the chest of the nearest man. ‘Quiet, you noisy bastards. The officer was talking to me.’ His deep-set black eyes searched the front files for any sign of dissent before he turned back to Valerius. ‘They’re Spaniards, so their brains are between their legs,’ he leered. ‘But the only things they like better than fighting are wine and women and we don’t mind that in a soldier, do we, sir?’

Serpentius went very still and Valerius knew he was trying to work out whether the centurion had been complimenting or insulting his race. Before he could decide Valerius slipped from the saddle and threw him his reins. He walked along the ranks, inspecting the men and their equipment. Brocchus had no option but to escort him, barking minor complaints to the men. Clearly he regarded this as his domain and Valerius – legionary commander or not – as a temporary inconvenience.

The whispered words that accompanied the inspection confirmed that view. ‘No need to bring your pet killer with you, sir.’ The centurion darted a contemptuous glance at Serpentius. ‘Old Brocchus is too long in the tooth to be frightened by a broken-down sword juggler.’ He looked down at Valerius’s wooden hand and grinned. ‘I’ve heard all about you and from what I hear that’s not all you’re missing. But it doesn’t matter to me whether you ran from the rebels or not. We should be friends, you and I. All you have to do is mind your business and leave the dirty work to me and we’ll get along just fine.’