CHAPTER ONE - NEW BLOOD
Isca Dumnoniorum barracks
16 months later
The sun lingered at full midday height when the new soldiers lined the parade square in their new equipment and armour. Marcus stood a full head higher above the other soldiers in the column. They had just been issued with their legionary issue equipment and tools from the armoury. Another hour in this heat will finish me off at this rate he thought sourly as sweat seeped down his back and sides. It had been sixteen months since the attack back home. Marcus had taken a risk by joining up with the legion, a good idea at the time he had thought; no home or family and no money. What other way was their? Become a gladiator? That was when he had realised the only way to seek vengeance against the barbarians was to become a legionary, become the sword and shield of Rome. He estimated at least two hundred men of varying ages from every corner of the empire all standing here in this torturous heat, waiting for some stuck up roman noble to welcome them to the best time of their lives no doubt.
The soldier next to him leaned discreetly towards him.
‘Where ya from lad’ he asked in a strong Brittani accent
Marcus looked at him blankly; the man was a short thin native with a narrow rough face and piercing green blue eyes.
‘Gaul, Portus Namnetum...why?’ he replied trying to hide the nervous tone in his voice. The rake thin soldier chuckled in self amusement,
‘Talk to the centurion like that and you’ll be up on the walls in chains. Otho, Crixtus Otho’
‘Marcus Octavian, where are you – ‘Marcus was stopped short by a loud shout from the front rank. The column spontaneously snapped to attention.
A short, heavy built man in immaculate fish scale looking armour with a red plumbed helmet stood on the head parade pedestal at the fore of the column. The officer in the fancy armour stared into the neat column, his dark rimmed pale green eyes searching the lines of silver capped heads; he drew a deep breath filling his top heavy chest.
‘I am Augustus Airalies, Son of Tursius Airalies.’ he paused ‘So help me Emperor I will be the first and last face you thick shits will see in this life.’ He let the words settle for a long moment
‘this is the end of the empire, the farthest border, the last road. Defend it well and you will be my pride and fucking joy...but...if you even think of running from the battle...’ He raised a tight clenched fist with barred teeth. ‘You run... I will make you wish that screaming bitch that is your mother kept it closed.’
The older soldiers laughed or grinned at the middle aged centurion, the younger of them either exchanged concerned looks or stared silently at the officer. Augustus raised his palm for silence, panning his vision slowly left and right.
‘I will be the end of you, the fucker that executes you.’ He finished
Marcus looked to Otho with a raised eye brow
‘Told ya so’ Otho remarked with a slight smile ‘Tough old bastard our Airalies...’
‘YOU, SOLDIER!’ Airalies stood pointing a thick finger right at Otho.’ Got something you want to fucking share half wit?’ he snarled with a look of fire in his dark rimmed pale green eyes. Airalies jumped down into the column, barging and shoving his way to Otho. Marcus could not help but imagine a boar charging its prey.
‘No sir, sorry sir.’ Otho strained even further to attention. Airalies stood toe to toe glaring up at the haggard mans eyes; the smell of nervous sweat pulsing from Otho was overwhelming Marcus. Airalies lowered his tone to a near mumble.
‘Speak out of line again Otho... and I will –‘
‘It was my fault sir’ came a quiet whisper, Airalies tore his head to address the new voice, it was Marcus.
‘You fucking what new blood!?’ he bellowed with a face red with freshly induced rage. Marcus felt his weight begin to buckle under the intense gaze of the centurion. ‘Does the new meat want to join my delightful moment does he?!’
‘I-I-I’ he hopelessly muttered
‘Shut it! Now’ snapped Airalies
‘Yes sir’ Marcus felt utterly embarrassed by the encounter. No doubt I will be on shit scrubbing duty for the rest of my life he reflected.
Airalies half turned – holding his stare towards Otho then Marcus for a very long moment before walking back to the head of the column.
‘Back to the barracks! Rest, service your equipment...and have a fucking shave you barbarian pricks!’ he shouted hoarsely over his broad metal clad shoulder.
In near perfect unison the column salute then dismissed.
Vespasian, the old aged medical Optio was waiting in the doorway of the officer block as the column dispersed and Augustus Airalies approached. Leaning on the door frame, the snow haired officer mockingly smiled with raised brows.
‘You’re getting soft’ he mused
Airalies stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Vespasian with pursed lips. ‘And you’re in the fucking way as usual’ he spat back.
‘The reports for the new recruits and inventories are on your desk sir!’ Vespasian called after Airalies as he marched off into the gloomy hallway towards his office. Vespasian watched on as the last of the recruits moved off into the barracks block on the other side of the parade grounds before following his superior. Airalies was sitting in a high backed chair unbuckling his bulky helmet with evident relief, placing the helmet next to the ever growing piles of paperwork he could not help but think his job was turning into the work of a scholar, not a soldier of Rome.
In the main barracks Marcus and Otho had taken a table in the back corner of the room to polish and break in their new equipment. The room was a large open bunk house and galley in one, bunks on the right and the tables on the left with one singe hearth in the centre. A spacious area built more for processing new soldiers before their new postings than permanent living. The white wash walls had a smell of fresh lime plaster but the many tables, chairs and bunks were well worn.
‘Pass that block of fat will ya lad’ asked Otho, furiously scouring at his new chainmail jerkin with a cloth. All around the room men were either sewing tunics with comical expressions of concentration, grunting with the tedious task of scouring fat coating into their armour or just sitting idly buffing their swords and helmets.
‘So how did a Gaul come to join the legion in this province?’ asked Otho with a grunted effort of scouring.
‘My home was burned and pillaged, my family slaughtered and...’ his voice trailed off into a self induced dream state.
‘Octavian....and?’ Otho stopped his scouring, Marcus became aware of three others near had also stopped to listen.
‘And so I escaped, I came here on a merchant ship... to find my brother’ Marcus smiled
‘What makes you so sure he is here? Or even alive?’ asked a soldier on the far side of the room
‘Gallic tribes don’t kill captives; they sell them to the sea people. My home was on the coast of Portus Namnetum. Other tribes won’t buy them, and the Romans wont ransom them... So here is the only place they could have come’
One of the three men suddenly sat bolt upright, gazing darkly at Marcus and Otho, Commodus – or “Commodus the butcher” as he was known, a brute of a man with sky blue eyes, a shaven head, muscles like sandbags and scars like river beds.
‘There is a Gallic slave in the officer block; I only met him only once... he say he was taken in west Gaul city.’ His voice was as heavy as iron and as deep as thunder, thick with a Germanic accent.
‘What... Where?’ Marcus felt his heart jump into his mouth ‘what is his name?’ he asked
The German ran a huge hand over his stubble covered head and jaw.
‘I think they call him “pet...” no wait... “Pirthinax”... little bald ugly bastard.’
Otho sat almost awe struck by the rare revelation of a soldier with a story, one by one men returned to their own business. Marcus stared into the hearth as it made slick shadows dance on the wall. How can I get close to the slave?’ he asked aloud. Otho and Commodus looked regretfully at him ‘you don’t’ they chorused.
One by one, they returned to the various labours of the barracks, all but Marcus who continued to gaze into the hearth.
Vespasian placed two challises on the table in front of the hearth. The first starts started to pop into life outside the window. The officers’ block was a considerable upgrade to the regular barracks, high back chairs, smooth tables and slaves to run your errands, but most of all was the privacy that came with it. The walls in this building depicted murals of roman mythology and history; of all the rooms in the officer barracks this one was Vespasian’s favourite, all that occupied it was one table and two chairs.
‘Pirthinax, go fetch a log or two for the fire.... and close the window shutters’ he called into the dark corridor behind him
‘Yes master’ came the distant reply
The old Optio slumped lazily into the chair; Airalies entered the room from the bath house next door, sporting a local style fur robe to keep warm in the evening chill. For the whole afternoon he had been doing paperwork in preparation for his shiny new soldiers’ assignments to active service.
The slave returned with a bundle of logs piled up to his eyes, Airalies pointed for the slave to leave them next to the fire, ever since childhood he had enjoyed placing logs onto the fire and watching them being consumed by flame. It brought a strange sense of relaxation.
‘When can I expect a full inventory of names and trades for the new unit Vesp?’
‘Four days, I’m half done with the equipment and stocks list’ replied the old Optio sipping on his wine.
Airalies sat swirling the contents of his cup deep in thought before he began chuckling uncontrollably to himself.
‘Something funny Gus?’ Vespasian looked quizzical; this only made Airalies laugh all the more.
‘You remember that moment this afternoon with Legionary Otho?’ Airalies chuckled at the memory before taking a gulp of wine
‘Yes, I remember...’ Vespasian’s face creased into the familiar comforting look Airalies remembered from his early years
‘I forgot to punish the prick’ Airalies could not contain his laughter any longer
‘I can have him flogged at first light....?’ goaded the Optio
‘No... I have a better idea.... have him and that other loud mouth shit placed on extra duties for a few days’ the two men sat enjoying the silent company for a while longer, the gentle cracking of the fire soothed Airalies into a deep relaxation.
Marcus finished sharpening his sword, placed the wet stone down on the table then sighed heavily. Otho had already moved onto painting his sons name onto the back of his shield for good luck. Commodus squatted near a wall playing dice with some of his countrymen, chattering away in their own harsh tongue.
‘How the fuck did ya get your armour lookin so pretty’ exclaimed Otho
‘Son of a blacksmith, I helped my father make the equipment for the armoury’ Not that it helped them he thought dryly
‘Does the Administrator know that?’
‘no, why would they?’
‘ya dumb fuck, they pay good coin for men like you...’ Otho poked him in the arm sarcastically
‘Should I tell the centurion tomorrow?
‘yea sure’ laughed Otho ‘ If you want a good hard slap from him...for wasting his time.’
Commodus watched on from the barracks window as the “fresh fodder” as his countrymen called them swore loyalty to Rome and its emperor. An ever changing mix of thoughts and feelings washed over him, memories of long past years filled his battle ravaged head; oaths long since expired or forgotten in the name of dead emperors. He ran a thick finger fondly over the brand marking on his chest. In his native lands an oath sworn in the name of your master would be considered a matter of honor or death, no matter how insulting it was. He smiled ironically as the armour clad fresh fodder unenthusiastically chanted the sacramentum;
‘By the blood of my ancestors, I serve the emperor; by the honor of my ancestors I give my life in his name’ with that each man drew his sword to his chest ‘long life to the emperor, long life to Rome.’
Not so different to the many oaths he had dealt with personally, always the same words with a new name for soldiers, slaves, gladiators and even peasants. In the grand scheme of things it made little difference he concluded. Your born, you dance with the destiny then you die, Words made little difference to it all.
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