Tribune of Rome

CHAPTER XX

Those legionaries who had been lucky enough to get some sleep were woken before dawn. The men ate a frugal breakfast of dry bread, cheese and olives, before packing their kit bags and attaching them to their T-bar poles. As the sun appeared over the horizon, illuminating the high wispy clouds from underneath with a deep red glow, the bucinatores sounded the signal to strike camp. Two hundred tents came down almost as one and were strapped, by the camp servants, on to the mules that carried the baggage of each contubernium, a unit of eight men. To increase their speed Corbulo had given orders that the two larger oxen-driven carts were to be disabled and left behind. As much as possible of their cargos of replacement weapons, clothing, sacks of grain and other supplies was loaded on to the spare cavalry mounts and the smaller, mule-driven carts that carried each century’s reserve rations, as well as its centurion’s tent and other heavier baggage; the rest was destroyed. The oxen would be brought along as meat on the hoof; unencumbered by their heavy carts they wouldn’t be a drag on the speed of the column.

The mist that had clung to the steep slopes of the Rhodope foothills above them had almost completely burnt off by the end of the first hour of the day, when the light cavalry scouts, who had been sent out in the pre-dawn half-light, returned. They reported nothing moving in the vicinity and were despatched again to spring any ambushes and to keep a constant vigil throughout the march for any enemy intent on harrying or attacking the vulnerable column.

Corbulo gave the order for the column to move out. The cornicen blew a deep rumbling call on his cornu, a G-shaped instrument made of silver and horn, which curled from his mouth under his right arm and then around to the wide bell, facing forward, above his head. The standard-bearers – signiferi – dipped their phalerae-strewn poles to signal ‘Advance’. The day’s march had begun.

Four turmae, of thirty men each, of the auxiliary Gallic cavalry led the way followed by Vespasian, with Magnus trying to be as inconspicuous as possible at his side, leading the first cohort. Next rode Tribune Gallus in front of the second cohort. Following them were the engineers and then the medical orderlies with carts on which lay those too sick or wounded to march. Then came the baggage – thirty spare cavalry mounts, two hundred pack-mules of the contubernia, each led by a camp servant, twenty-four carts, one for each century of infantry and each turma of cavalry plus an additional one each for the light cavalry, the foot archers, the engineers and finally one for the officers. Bringing up the rear were the last four turmae of Gallic cavalry. The column was two-thirds of a mile long.

After an hour they had covered just over two miles in a steady northwesterly direction. The forest to the south had petered out to be replaced by scraggy, mountainous grassland broken up, here and there, by ravines and small copses of mountain pine. No sign of human habitation, either in use or deserted, could be seen. The only other signs of life were two eagles that soared above the column, riding the air currents effortlessly on their outstretched wings, as if watching over the safety of the men below who marched under banners forged in their image. They drew a hearty cheer from the nervous recruits who waved their pila at them and called them their guardian spirits. Their officers encouraged it and even joined in, knowing that the men’s morale would be bolstered by this good omen.

‘You see that, Vespasian?’ Corbulo shouted over the cheering, riding back down the column from his position at its head. ‘Perhaps the gods are with us, Jupiter and Juno protecting their children from the malice of the lesser gods of the Thracians.’

Vespasian smiled; although not a superstitious man he too was encouraged by the aerial display of these two symbols of Rome.

‘Let’s hope that they are willing to accompany us all the way to our destination, sir. The men will march willingly with them as their guides.’

‘Quite so, tribune, a lot better than a ragged band of uncouth savages, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed I do, sir.’ As Vespasian replied the deep voluminous sound of the cornu gave the signal to halt.

‘Who in the name of all the furies gave the order to halt?’ Corbulo shouted, his good humour disappearing in a trice. ‘Tribune, with me.’

Vespasian followed his commanding officer at a gallop up to the head of the column.

‘What’s the meaning of this? Who gave the order to halt?’ Corbulo raged.

‘I did, sir,’ Sextus Mauricius, the prefect of the Gallic cavalry, replied. ‘One of the scouts has reported something that I think you should see.’

‘Where is he? This had better be good.’

A nervous-looking light cavalry trooper came forward.

‘I thought it important, sir.’ The trooper’s thickly accented Latin betrayed his origins in the horse-lands of Thessaly.

‘Well, where is it?’

‘It’s down in that ravine over there, sir,’ he said, pointing to the south where, two hundred paces away, the rough grassland was split by a sharp gash, as if some Titan had cleft it with a mighty axe in the dark times before the coming of man.

‘Come on, then, lead the way.’

The trooper turned his mount and galloped off; Corbulo, Vespasian and Mauricius followed.

At the edge of the ravine they dismounted and peered over the side. It was a steep drop, but not impossible to descend on foot. An unpleasant smell emanated from within it. Vespasian gazed down its length until he saw what had first attracted the trooper’s attention. About sixty feet away, in amongst the boulders strewn on the floor of the ravine, lay a couple of bodies.

‘Let’s get down there and have a look. Prefect, you stay here. Tribune, trooper, with me.’ Corbulo started to scramble down the rough bank, loosening small rocks and dry earth in a mini landslide as he went; the others followed.

They reached the first of the bodies and almost retched at the stench. Looking around they saw that there were far more than just the two visible from the top. They seemed to be all Thracians, with their unmistakable fox-skin caps and long, soft leather boots.

‘What a stink,’ coughed Corbulo. ‘They’ve been dead for a good few days. How many are there?’

Vespasian walked around counting the bloated corpses, which had turned a ghastly pale green and were covered in dark grey blemishes. Further down the ravine he noticed that of the four bodies had been laid out neatly; someone had taken some effort with them.

‘Sixteen, sir,’ he reported.

‘All Thracians?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you make of it?’

‘I think that we’ve solved a problem.’

‘What makes you think that, tribune?’

‘There are two different tribes here: the twelve who were just dumped here have a different style of hat from those four over there. Theirs are identical to our guides’ hats. Your orders specifically stated that twelve guides from the Caeletae would meet us; I think that these are the original twelve. They must have been ambushed by a superior number of rebels, four of whom were killed, and then twelve of the rebels took the real guides’ places and waited for us to march up the Via Egnatia. We never questioned whether they were genuine or not because there was the right number of them.’

Corbulo considered this for a moment before the smell became intolerable and forced them to retreat back up to their horses. ‘I suppose that it proves at least the Caeletae are still loyal,’ he said as they mounted.

Vespasian looked at this superior, amazed that he hadn’t grasped the full implication of the ambush. ‘That may well be true, sir, but how did the rebels know when our column would be arriving and exactly where it would be met and by how many guides?’

Corbulo’s face dropped as he made the connection. ‘Neptune’s hairy sack! They must have been told. By someone in Poppaeus’ camp. Someone who knew the contents of our orders. We have a traitor in our midst, Vespasian.’

‘I’m afraid that it does seem that way, sir.’

‘So there’s a traitor in the army and the enemy knows our every move,’ Magnus grumbled, having been informed of the grisly find in the ravine.

‘Antonia and Asinius sent me here because they suspected as much, and it seems that they have been proven right.’

Magnus looked at his young friend in surprise. ‘You’ve been sent up here after a traitor?’ he snorted. ‘And what are you meant to do about it?’

‘I’m to find evidence that links him with Sejanus and take it back to Rome,’ Vespasian replied, trying not to feel out of his depth.

‘And there was me thinking that we were just going on some little jaunt to the provinces with the odd fight to keep us amused. But, no, it turns out that the young gentleman is playing high politics with the big boys, and it’ll be my place to protect him when they start to play rough.’

‘Well, I didn’t ask you to come.’ Vespasian didn’t appreciate Magnus’ patronising tone.

‘No, you didn’t, but I didn’t have a lot of choice after that incident on the bridge, did I?’

‘You could have gone anywhere; there was no need to come with me.’

‘No need! Your uncle would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.’

‘Why? What is he to you?’ Vespasian was now intrigued.

‘I owe him my life.’ Magnus paused.

‘Go on.’

‘When he was a praetor I was condemned to the arena for murder; but because I’d done him a few favours, if you take my meaning, he pulled some strings and got me reprieved. It cost him more than a few denarii in bribes and blood money, I can tell you. So to repay part of the debt I’m here, looking after your-’ Magnus stopped abruptly and looked away.

‘What do you mean? You were always going to come with me?’

Magnus looked sheepish. ‘Well, not with you,’ he muttered, ‘but I was to follow you. Gaius knew that you would never let me accompany you so I was just to stay close, in case you got into any nasty scrapes.’

‘For four years?’

‘Well, yes, they are four years that I wouldn’t have had if it hadn’t been for him. I owe them to him. Mind you, he didn’t tell me that you would be doing anything more than a bit of soldiering. Anyway, after Macro saw me on the bridge I had an excuse to stay with you. I knew that you wouldn’t be able to refuse, so it worked out quite well in the end, didn’t it?’

‘If you say so.’ Vespasian smiled at his friend. He was torn between feeling grateful to his uncle for cashing in a debt in order to help him and slightly humiliated because his uncle evidently thought that he couldn’t manage on his own. ‘Well, now we’ve got all that out in the open, what do you think?’

‘About what?’

‘About finding the traitor, that’s what.’

‘I would have thought that it has to be someone on Poppaeus’ staff who either discussed the orders with him, or wrote them out, or conveyed them, or perhaps the person who liaised with the Caeletae to organise the guides.’

‘That’s as far as I’ve got,’ Vespasian said, sounding disappointed.

‘Then why ask me?’

‘I was hoping for a different angle.’

‘Well, don’t be disappointed when you don’t get one from me,’ Magnus huffed; he had felt pleased with his analyses. ‘I’m here as muscle, not brain.’

‘I’m sorry, Magnus.’

Magnus grunted an acknowledgement and they rode on in silence. The pounding of hundreds of hoofs and hob-nailed sandals on the hard ground filled the air. It was the fourth hour of the day and the sun was beginning to burn; all around men and horses were starting to sweat. Vespasian loosened the red neckerchief that he wore to stop his armour chafing. He looked up to the sky. The eagles had gone. He felt a pang of dread, but then dismissed it as superstitious nonsense; of course they weren’t going to follow the column all the way to its destination, they must have far better things to do. Nevertheless he searched the cloudless sky in the hope that they were still visible. Away over his right shoulder he saw a dark blur travelling swiftly towards them. He shaded his eyes against the bright light, and tried to make out what it was. As it got closer individual shapes of large birds could be seen. Others had noticed it too and an uneasy muttering started to come from the ranks.

‘What are they, Magnus?’

Magnus spat over his shoulder and clenched his thumb in his fist to avert the evil eye. ‘Rooks coming from the east; not a good omen, that’s going to unsettle the lads.’

Sure enough as the birds flew overhead there was much spitting and clenching of thumbs; prayers to every god imaginable were offered up and the men started to look nervously behind them.

‘Keep your eyes front,’ Centurion Faustus barked. ‘Optio, take the name of anyone looking back.’

The column pressed on in glum silence. They were descending the last foothills on the north side of the Rhodope chain and coming down on to easier terrain. Ahead of them, about twelve miles away, could be made out the line of the valley through which flowed the Harpessus River. The column’s pace seemed to quicken as the men began to think of camping near cool, cleansing water in just a few hours’ time. The bad omen was soon put to the backs of their minds.

At the midday halt Vespasian and Magnus both dismounted and stretched their legs. All around men were slumped on the ground sucking gratefully at water skins or chewing on bread and dried meat. The smell of urine and faeces from over a thousand men having relieved themselves in the open was overpowering.

Suddenly shouts could be heard coming from the hills above them. Vespasian looked up. Running down the slopes, almost out of control, was a unit of their light archers, who had been scouting above them. They were making straight for Corbulo at the head if the column. Another deep cornu signal blared out: ‘Senior officers to report to commander’. Vespasian hurried to the front to stand by for orders.

Corbulo stood in front of the panting infantrymen as their officer made his report.

‘Over to the east, sir, a good twenty miles away, you can see it from further up the mountain.’ The man paused to catch his breath, taking off his broad-rimmed leather sun hat and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘What? Out with it, man!’ Corbulo wasn’t the most patient of men.

‘A dust cloud, and smoke. We’ve been watching it for an hour or so, until I was certain; the dust cloud’s moving but the smoke isn’t, it looks like a war band on the move, burning as they go.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘We’ve been watching it; the dust cloud is definitely coming this way.’ His men nodded their heads and voiced their agreement.

‘Silence!’ Corbulo cried, raising a hand. ‘Dismissed, and thank you, you’ve done well.’ He turned to Mauricius. ‘Prefect, get hold of one of the light cavalry patrols and send them out there; I want to know just what we’re up against.’

‘Sir!’ Mauricius saluted and rode off to carry out his orders.

Corbulo beckoned to Vespasian. ‘Tribune, the midday break is curtailed. Slaughter the oxen and get the carcases loaded on to carts. Have the men draw five days’ rations before forming up; we may need to abandon the baggage. If it is a rebel war band we need to get across that river before they catch up with us.’

The marching pace had increased to quick time, a speed at which the mules of the baggage train could just keep up; it was imperative to keep the column together. Corbulo had given orders that any animals going lame or carts breaking down should be immediately abandoned with their loads. Vespasian calculated that at this rate they should reach the river in three hours, giving them just three hours of daylight to cross. It would be a close-run thing, especially if the Thracian commander sent his cavalry forward to skirmish without infantry support, forcing the column to mount a fighting withdrawal.

After an hour the foothills were behind them and they had started to cross the lush pastures of the plain that would lead them down to the river. Behind, clearly visible now from their lower altitude, they could see the dust cloud above the Thracian advance.

The fertile plain was dotted with farmsteads and small villages; horse breeding and sheep farming were the mainstays of this comparatively wealthy part of the country. Speed being essential, Corbulo steered a straight course towards the river, not bothering to avoid larger settlements; instead he sent units of his Gallic cavalry through them in advance as a precaution, hoping that his instinct was correct and the Caeletae were still loyal.

Vespasian could feel the tension of the men as he rode at the head of the first cohort. He wanted to ride up and down the centuries, encouraging them, but, lacking the innate aristocratic self-confidence of many of his rank, he felt inadequate to the task. He had done nothing as yet to win the men’s trust and respect, and felt that he would seem to them to be just some callow youth, much younger than many of them. He contemplated the ludicrousness of the system that put a man as young as him, with no military experience, nominally in command of 480 men just because he came from a wealthy family. But that had been the way of Rome from the beginning, it was how the Senate kept its position in society, and the size of the Empire seemed to indicate that it was a system that worked. He decided to leave the morale-boosting to the men who were really in charge: the centurions. It was a great comfort to him that Faustus marched just behind him. He could hear him calling out to the men, praising their efforts, keeping them in formation, and reprimanding slackers. Vespasian knew that when it came to their first combat, whether it was to be here or at the river or further north, it was men like Faustus who would determine whether they lived or died.

Some anxious shouts from amongst the men caused him to look to his right.

‘Silence in the ranks,’ Faustus bellowed. ‘Keep your heads forward and concentrate on not tripping over the man in front.’

Across the plain, about two miles away, a small group of horsemen could be seen galloping, hell for leather, towards them.

‘Looks like trouble,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Good news doesn’t tend to travel that fast.’

The cornu sounded out once more, its deep call carrying clearly over the noise of the marching column.

‘That’s “Senior officers to report to commander” again,’ Magnus said. ‘Let’s hope the arsehole keeps his cool.’

‘An arsehole he may be,’ Vespasian said, swinging his horse out of the column, ‘but it seems to me that so far he’s made all the right decisions.’

‘There are still five miles to go and a river to cross; plenty of time to fuck it up.’

At the head of the column Vespasian pulled up beside Corbulo and Mauricius; Gallus and Quintus Caepio, prefect of the rearguard Gallic cavalry, were soon assembled.

‘News of the Thracians’ advance, I expect,’ Corbulo said, grimfaced. ‘Our scouts must have sighted them by now.’

They rode on in silence watching the small party of light cavalry closing in. Vespasian counted six of them and two riderless horses, and felt a chill go down his spine and start to gnaw away at him deep within his bowels: men had started to die. He steeled himself for what he knew would be the most testing day of his short life so far, more so than ambushing runaway slaves or rescuing Caenis, for this time he was on the defending side: all the initiative lay with the Thracians.

The scouts drew level and, with prodigious skill, wheeled their exhausted horses around, bringing them to the trot next to the group of officers.

‘Sir!’ Their leader, a powerful-looking man with a sunburnt face in his mid-thirties, saluted Corbulo. ‘Alkaios, Thessalian auxiliary light cavalry.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it.’ Corbulo was anxious to get to the point.

‘We sighted the main body of Thracians half an hour ago about ten miles east. They’re mainly infantry, about three thousand of them. They’re moving quickly and with purpose; they’ve stopped burning as they go. We ran into one of their cavalry patrols but fought them off at the cost of two of my men, one of whom was only wounded and taken prisoner. May the gods ease his suffering.’

‘Indeed.’ Corbulo could guess as well as anyone else what was in store for the unfortunate man. ‘You say you saw no large amount of cavalry?’

‘No, sir, just patrols.’

‘Minerva’s tits, they must have guessed that we’re heading for the river and have sent their cavalry around us to the north to hold it against us. Mauricius, take your four turmae and delay them; they must not be allowed to prevent our crossing. We should reach the river in just over an hour.’

‘Yes, sir, we shall do all that is necessary.’ The cavalry prefect barked an order at his decurion and the 120 Gauls peeled away from the column and raced towards the river.

Corbulo turned to Quintus Caepio. ‘Caepio, take your turmae and keep pace with us half a mile out to the east to shield us from any cavalry threatening our flank.’

Caepio saluted and raced back down the column.

‘Gallus, get some horses for the engineers, I want them to get as many ropes as possible secured across that river. If they don’t have enough men who can swim get volunteers from the ranks.’ Gallus looked pleased with the task allotted him and galloped off to find his temporary command.

Vespasian was impressed at the calm forward thinking of his young superior; it steadied his nerves, feeling that all eventualities were being accounted for. Corbulo turned to him.

‘Vespasian, get the baggage and bring it level with the head of the column fifty paces to the west. With the rearguard gone we can’t leave it unprotected. Tell the handlers to do whatever they must to speed those mules up. I don’t want to abandon it unless absolutely necessary.’

Vespasian smiled inwardly as he saluted and made his way back down the column; it seemed that he was destined to always be around mules, one way or another.

There were less than two miles to go to the river. The baggage train had drawn level with the two cohorts, the mules having been beaten into more speed; very few had refused or bolted. Vespasian took his place next to Corbulo, who was now at the head of the first cohort; Magnus retreated a respectful distance to the left of the column.

‘The men are getting tired, Vespasian,’ Corbulo said quietly, glancing nervously at the Thracian dust cloud, now considerably closer. ‘They’ll be in sight soon. We won’t be able to stop after we’ve crossed the river, we’ll need to keep going and hope that the crossing delays the savages longer than it delays us. But what then? They will always move faster than us; they’ll catch us in a day.’

‘Perhaps we should just stand and fight, take our chances,’ Vespasian replied, instantly not liking the idea.

‘With two cohorts of veterans and the cavalry that we have, that would be the sensible course to take, but with this lot of rookies we wouldn’t stand a chance out here in the open. We need to cross that river, and then find some way to frustrate the enemy.’

With a mile to go the ground had started to fall away gently down into the shallow river valley. Copses of beech and alder populated its sides, breaking up the smooth carpet of grass, which would normally be speckled with small flocks of sheep; but today it was empty. News of the arrival of the Roman column in this peaceful vale had gone before it and the shepherds, anxious not to have their charges requisitioned for the soldiers’ cooking fires, had already hurried them to safety.

At the base of the valley flowed the swift Harpessus. Its icy water, recently released from the snowfields high in the mountains to the west, was channelled over a hard bed of shingle and bounded on either side by broken rocks. Hardy trees clung to the banks; the fast-flowing river had whittled away at the soil beneath them, forming strange archways from their exposed roots.

Ahead of them Vespasian could see the advance guard of engineers struggling chest deep in the water to secure the ropes that would aid the column across the hundred-foot width of the river. Two were already in place and a third was attached to a tree on the near bank and extended to its full length along the bank upstream. Vespasian watched as an engineer tied the loose end around his waist and then launched himself, with a strong breaststroke, against the current, keeping the rope taut. The river pushed him further away from the bank. The tension of the rope swung him across until eventually he reached the slower water near the far bank and was able to strike out for the shore, where a comrade helped him out.

As they neared the crossing point the sun sank behind the high massif of the Rhodope range, and the valley darkened as their shadow ate its way along its length.

The proximity of both the Thracian war band to their rear and a means to escape them, if only for a while, to their front caused a few of the less steady of the recruits to try to break ranks and run for the ropes. They were mercilessly beaten back into place by the vine canes of their centurions and shamed into remaining there by the reproachful glares of their comrades.

Corbulo called back to Faustus: ‘Any man who tries to push himself forward will be left on this side of the river. Pass that on, centurion, and pass the word for Gallus to report to me.’

As Corbulo’s warning was relayed down the column other shouts and cries could be heard coming from a wood half a mile further down the river to the east.

‘Mauricius has found their cavalry,’ Corbulo guessed. ‘Let us hope that he can hold them for long enough.’

‘How will he get across?’ Vespasian asked. Corbulo didn’t answer.

They were a hundred paces from the river. The third rope had now been secured and the engineers had started work on a fourth. Two hundred paces to their right Caepio had formed up his Gallic auxiliaries to cover any flank attack should the Thracians break through Mauricius’ cavalry.

Gallus brought his horse to the trot next to his commanding officer and saluted. ‘Sir, the river is between four and five feet deep and the current is very strong. We have lost one man swept away already.’ His face betrayed a mixture of nerves and excitement at the promise of his first action.

‘Thank you, tribune. Gentlemen, speed and efficiency are the keys,’ Corbulo said to his two young subordinates. ‘Gallus, the second cohort will cross first with the mule train and then form up on the far bank facing the enemy. Vespasian, your cohort will form up, two centuries deep, here, to cover their crossing and that of the auxiliaries, if there are any left. Have your men pile their packs by the ropes before forming up.’ Corbulo looked towards the wooded area downstream whence the clash of weapons and the screams of wounded still came. ‘If we are attacked we shall make a fighting withdrawal century by century; Faustus’ century will be the last to cross. Call in the scouts, they’re no use to us out there now, we know what’s coming; then get your freedman to lead the carts into the water upstream of the ropes and keep them there, just the carts, not the pack-mules. Hopefully they’ll slow the speed of the water and fewer men will be swept away.’

‘Yes, sir!’ They both saluted.

‘And, Gallus,’ Corbulo continued, ‘if we are attacked and I don’t make it over, cut the ropes, stay formed up on that side and oppose their crossing, that’s the best chance that you’ll have. If you try to run they’ll catch you and cut you to pieces.’