Soldier of Rome- Rise of the Flavians Read online

  In the Judean port capital of Caesarea, it was chaos along the docks as three cohorts of legionaries waited impatiently to board their ships. It was a logistical nightmare, for what amounted to little more than a symbolic gesture. Twelve hundred legionaries were but a small fraction of the Flavian Army. Still, three cohorts was better than nothing, plus the men from Legio V, Macedonia, Legio X, Fretensis, and Legio XV, Apollinaris were all hardened veterans. Their capabilities would greatly assist the readiness of some of Primus’ less-experienced legions, in particular Legio VII, Gemina.

  All weapons, with the exception of gladii, were stowed in the cargo hold below deck. Armor was broken down, chest and shoulder plates detached from the torsos, allowing them to be stacked for ease of storage. Segmentata armor had to be fitted for every legionary, so each section had a wooden tag tied to it with its owner’s name, rank, and cohort. It was inevitable that some of these would get lost or ripped off, leading to much confusion when the time came for the soldiers to reclaim their kit. Helmets were stacked in rows along a shelf, a cord running in between each stack to keep it from falling onto the floor in the event of rough waters. Each squad had a small bin in which to store all of their camping equipment. Tents were stacked on the floor of the hold beneath the rows of armor. And while officers were prohibited from taking their horses, about half of their pack animals all rode aboard a single ship, under the assumption they could acquire more once they reached Pannonia.

  “We’ll have to make extra stops along the way,” the admiral commanding the flotilla explained to Centurion Galeo and the other two cohort commanders. “With so many extra bodies on board, plus all their armor and equipment, our food and water storage space has been cut in half.”

  “I understand,” the cohort commander acknowledged. “About how long do you think it will take us to reach Tergeste?”

  “The prevailing winds do favor us this time of year,” the admiral observed. “Normally, we could make that journey in about ten days. However, as you can see, the amount of weight your soldiers and their equipment is adding has my ships dragging much lower through the water. Since we will have to stop off and restock our provisions at least once, if not twice, I would say at minimum two weeks. Of course, that’s if I can even get you all the way to Tergeste. If the Vitellian fleet spots us and thinks we’re hostile, we could all be in a world of shit. With all the extra weight we’re carrying, I cannot promise we’ll be able to outrun them.”

  “Understood,” the centurion replied.

  Work details were sent aboard the ships to store all the soldiers’ armor and equipment, while the rest remained on the beach, endlessly waiting. It took most of the day to load the vessels, and by evening it was decided to delay their departure until morning. With all of their tents buried in the hulls of the ships, the task force of legionaries would be sleeping under the stars. All of their cooking pots were also in the storage holds, leaving soldiers to improvise when preparing their suppers. Each squad sent one or two men into the city to acquire rations, while the rest laid out their traveling cloaks on the sandy beach. Some had decided to bed down too close to the water’s edge and found themselves soaked by the incoming tide.

  “Stupid twats!” a decanus shouted at the wet and complaining soldiers. “What the fuck did you think would happen?”

  “One would think they had never been near the sea,” Gaius said, with a laugh. He sat near a small fire, further up the beach where it met with the tall grasses. Julius had joined him, along with the century’s signifier, Aurelian.

  “Some of them probably haven’t,” Julius surmised. “A lad grows up in some city like Palmyra, never leaves home until he joins the army, and then spends most of his career at a fortress that’s hundreds of miles from the sea.”

  “Still, some of them just need a bit of sense beaten into them.” Aurelian remarked. He scrunched his brow in thought for a moment. “Gaius, I suspect you came to the Tenth from further afield than anyone in the whole damned legion. I mean, Nicanor was born and raised in Jerusalem, Julius came to us from Tarsus, and I grew up on Cyprus.”

  “There are very few of us,” the optio concurred. He gave a dark laugh. “Had I not taken that incentive stipend when I first joined, and instead enlisted into one of the Britannic or Gallic Legions, I might have found myself fighting on the wrong side of this little conflict.”

  “Well, here’s hoping your childhood friends don’t end up on the wrong end of your gladius,” Aurelian said, holding up his water bladder in a salute.

  Gaius grunted. It was a very real concern for most of the army. They might have to face friends or even family members on the opposing side. Gaius suspected for him this was highly unlikely since he was raised as a member of the equites, where a career in the army was the last thing on the minds of most of the young men. Most of his childhood friends had been groomed for political and bureaucratic careers. Only his older brother had seemed envious of his opportunity to win glory for the empire in the east.

  “If you only knew what life in the legions was really like, dear Lucius,” he said quietly.

  “What was that?” Julius asked.

  Gaius shook his head.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself is all.”

  As he lay down on his cloak that night, the young optio’s mind wandered. He gazed up at the infinite number of stars in the cloudless sky. His eyes closed. He’d started to fade when a sandaled foot nudged him in the side.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Centurion Nicanor said, kneeling next to him. “I just received orders from Galeo. We are to board the ships just before dawn so we do not miss the morning tide.”

  Gaius nodded, mumbled a few incoherent words, and let sleep take him. It would be the last full night of rest he would see for some weeks.

  The following morning, the Flavian contingent boarded the vessels bound for Pannonia. Emperor Vespasian stood on the dock with a few of his staff officers. There were no flowering speeches, just a simple handshake from the man they would soon be going into battle for. This simple act reminded them that the emperor was a soldier first, and he would always be one of their own.

  “Neptune and Mars guide you,” Vespasian said in a low voice, as he clasped Gaius’ hand.

  The optio was overwhelmed by the gesture, though he only managed to mumble, ‘Ave, Caesar’ , before moving on. He forced his way to the very back of the ship, laying his pack down against the curved stern. He knew that traveling by sea disagreed with him, and the only practical place to relieve himself was over the backside. There was a lot of grumbling and shoving. Soldiers tried to find a small amount of personal space to lay their packs down, while staying out of the mariners’ way. Within an hour of boarding the commands were shouted by the officers, oars splashed into the water, and the flotilla pushed away from the docks. Gaius watched as Caesarea slowly grew smaller in the distance. He was fine as long as he had something to fix his gaze to, but once land was out of sight his stomach would begin playing havoc.

  Trireme-class ships were among the smallest vessels in the Imperial Navy at roughly a hundred and thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. The oars required only a single rower, as opposed to the two or three men needed to heave the mighty oars on quinquereme-class vessels. While the one hundred and seventy oarsmen were divided into three decks, these were very small and could be rather claustrophobic. Contrary to many merchant vessels, the oarsmen in the Imperial Navy were not slaves but enlisted sailors. In addition to the men below decks, there were thirty sailors manning the sails, along with the ship’s commander and his officers.

  Having to transport over two hundred legionaries apiece, the number of persons aboard each ship had doubled, and conditions were very cramped. Boredom and seasickness would be the soldiers’ greatest adversaries during the rather tedious journey.

  Once out to sea the winds picked up, filling the sails, and allowing the ships to cut through the waves with surprising speed, Gaius and numerous others were now being crippled by naus
ea and vomiting. On the second day, they sailed past the island of Cyprus. Gaius found himself leaning against the rail, his stomach perpetually twisting in knots. This was partially relieved as he caught sight of the distant shore, his illness temporarily forgotten.

  “How are you managing?” Nicanor asked, joining his friend on the rail.

  “If you’re referring to my last trip to Cyprus, I am fine with it,” Gaius replied. “I have greater things to concern myself with than some bitch who ran off with my son four years ago.”

  “I was actually asking if you can make it to Pannonia without spewing your guts over the side every day,” Nicanor remarked with a forced grin.

  Gaius took a deep breath. “I should probably eat something. As long as land is in sight, I can keep it down.”

  “Make sure you drink plenty, too,” the centurion added. “I’ll not have my optio dying of dehydration before we even get to Greece.”

  By the end of their first week at sea, the Flavian vessels sailed into the Greek port city of Hermione, located almost due south from Athens, across thirty miles of sea. Aside from the half-day it took to sail past Cyprus, Gaius’ seasickness had been horrific. The contents of his stomach had been vomited over the back of the ship within the first few hours, and he’d been scarcely able to eat or drink since. A number of soldiers were also suffering the ill effects of traveling by sea, and they had to be helped off the ship by their mates.

  “A damned awful price we pay for expediting our journey west,” Gaius grumbled, as Julius helped him down the gangplank. Once off the dock, he found a place where the sandy beach met with the grassy embankment and collapsed onto his back. His eyes were shut. And as he breathed in deeply, all he cared about was that he was off the ship.

  “Going to survive, old friend?” Nicanor asked, as he stood over him. The centurion was no worse for wear and was only a little cramped from having been confined to such a small space these past few days.

  “I would sooner walk the rest of the way to Pannonia, than get on that damned ship again,” Gaius muttered.

  “I never knew the seas disagreed with you so much,” Nicanor chuckled, sitting down in the sand next to his optio.

  “I try to forget,” Gaius replied, his eyes still shut. “I handled the crossing of the channel between Britannia and Gaul easily enough when I first joined the legions. Of course, that took just a few hours, not days on end.”

  “Yes, I always thought it strange that you came all the way from Britannia,” the centurion replied, trying to help his friend take his mind off his discomfort. “Why did you not join one of the Britannic Legions?”

  “I thought about it,” Gaius said. “But then they offered an extra thirty denarii to anyone who would volunteer for the eastern legions. Seems they can’t find enough citizen volunteers in places like Syria and Asia Minor. There were about fifty of us from Britannia and Gaul who took them up on it. We had to walk much of the way, at least as far as Pannonia. Took us two weeks by ship to reach Syria from there, and I did not fare any better than I did this time. I thought perhaps seasickness was something one could grow out of.”

  “Give yourself a day to recuperate,” Nicanor remarked. “I hear the second leg of a sea journey is never as bad as the first.”

  Gaius forced a grim smile, though he remained where he was for some time. Hermione was a bustling port city, and those legionaries not still feeling the effects of seasickness fell upon every tavern and brothel in a drunken orgy. Gaius cursed his affliction. He longed for the touch of a woman. Regrettably, he knew he was in no condition to perform. He settled for a light supper of bread and broth, along with plenty of water. He soon passed out and slept long into the next morning.

  Fortunately for Gaius and the other soldiers who fared poorly at sea, Nicanor’s prediction proved true. While the optio’s stomach felt a little uneasy as the ship lurched away from the docks, within an hour or so, he found the rest of the journey at least bearable. His thoughts now turned to what would transpire during the next phase of their lengthy trek to Rome.

  Having left Ariminum soon after his parents, Tribune Lucius Artorius Magnus made the four-day journey by horse to the auxilia fort that was to be his new command. Known as Castra Auraei , it was, in reality, little more than an oversized road station used by imperial couriers along the Via Postumia. Lucius was puzzled at how small the post was, for it appeared nowhere near large enough to house a regiment of cavalrymen and their horses.

  “Is this the headquarters for the Siliana Regiment of Horse?” he asked a pair of sentries, who stood on either side of the gatehouse.

  “Aye, that it be, sir,” one of the men said.

  Lucius nodded and rode into the small encampment. There was a blacksmith, as well as two farriers on either side, and troopers were seen walking their horses to and from the stables that lined most of the encampment. At the far end of the fort was a larger building he could only surmise was his headquarters.

  “Tribune, sir,” a trooper said, as he dismounted. “I’ll take your horse for you.”

  Lucius nodded and went inside the rickety building. The ceiling was low. The floorboards creaked as he walked over to the desk, where a decurion sat going over some reports.

  “Ah, tribune,” the man said, looking up from his work. “We’ve been expecting you. The centurion is out with a patrol at the moment, but he should return within the next hour or so.”

  “Very good,” Lucius replied. The decurion saw his puzzled expression as he looked around the rather austere building. A set of makeshift stairs were in the corner leading up to the second floor, though they appeared to be little more than a ladder that had been laid down at angle and then nailed to the floor.

  “Probably not the type of accommodations you’re used to,” the decurion observed.

  “I admit, I was expecting something much larger,” Lucius confessed. “Both in terms of the principia, as well as the camp itself.”

  “We’re a mobile force, sir,” the officer explained. “We spend most of our time out in the field. And with our companies scattered throughout the region, it didn’t make much sense to build a grand fort. Your quarters are just up those steps, as is your office. I’ll let the centurion know you’ve arrived once he’s returned.”

  Lucius nodded and gingerly made his way up the steps. The second floor was no larger than the first, and with its sloped ceiling the tribune could only stand completely upright in the very center of the partitioned room. His bunk lay in the far corner behind a small wall. At the foot was a battered chest for his personal effects. This was certainly far different than what he’d experienced with the legions. He’d had his own house then, complete with servants.

  There was a small table in the center of the room, and he noticed a large, rough-looking map laid out. It was crudely drawn, with various pins at numerous cities and towns in the region. Each pin had a strip of parchment with a number written down, which Lucius surmised designated the various companies within his regiment.

  As he stood with his hands resting on the table, the front door opened down below, and the sound of numerous voices echoed from the small foyer. After a few moments, he heard the audible creak as someone made their way up the stairs.

  The man who stepped onto the second floor was huge. He stood a good half head taller than Lucius, arms and legs thick with corded muscle. His armor was a plain tunic of hamata chain mail. The transverse crest atop his otherwise unadorned trooper’s helmet was the only thing to denote his rank. Given his immense size, Lucius reckoned he was either a German or Gaul. As the centurion removed his helmet, the mop of blonde hair beneath seemed to confirm this.

  “Tribune Artorius,” the man said, with a nod. “I am Centurion Marcus Liberius.”

  “A pleasure,” Lucius said. He then rather awkwardly extended his hand, which the centurion hesitantly accepted. His grip was crushing, as his fingers seemed to swallow up Lucius’ entire hand.

  “I see you’ve acquainted yourself with the di
sposition of our regiment,” the centurion said, looking towards the map.

  “Yes,” Lucius replied. “That explains the rather small size of this fort.”

  Liberius grunted and walked over, placing a thick finger upon the spot marked ‘Castra Auraei’.

  “We are here with my first company,” he said. “Our regiment was originally posted along the Danube in a much nicer fort, I’ll grant you. However, after the war against the pretender, Otho, our mission has changed to that of reconnaissance throughout northeastern Italia.”

  “Yes, I heard your previous commander declared himself for Otho,” Lucius noted.

  “The last one who was here for any significant amount of time. And as you can see, the regiment did not exactly follow his lead.” Both men shared a chuckle, though Lucius was confused by the statement ‘for any significant amount of time’. Before he could ask, Liberius continued in his explanation about the dispersing of the regiment. “Second Company is split into two elements; the first is twenty miles to the west at Verona. The other is fifty miles north of there at Tridentium. Third Company is to the east at Acelum, with Fourth and Fifth Companies patrolling the roads around Aquileia, which is about fifty miles from the Pannonian border. The Flavians control everything east of the River Aesontius.”

  “Seems straightforward enough,” Lucius replied, unsure as to what he was supposed to say. Given his demeanor, it appeared that Centurion Liberius assumed his new commander was an experienced officer.

  The tribune’s hesitancy made him question this. “Just for my own satisfaction,” he said, “what previous postings have you held in the army?”

  “Six months as a staff tribune with Legio IV, Macedonia,” Lucius replied.

  “And what else?” Liberius asked, after a rather awkward pause.