milestone from Eboracum the sun rose, lighting the brown moors to either side and throwing their long shadows out over the gravel ahead of them.
Castus marched at the head of the column. Behind him came Evagrius, carrying a banner with the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth Legion, and after him the remaining fifty-seven men of the century. Each carried a full load – mail armour and helmet, shield and spear, sword, two light javelins and a sheaf of darts, plus a full canteen and hard rations for five days. Another twelve days’ food per man was carried on the pack mules, together with the tents, cooking utensils, entrenching tools and fodder, and a sealed package of diplomatic gifts to present to the Picts. It was a heavy burden, but men and animals moved easily now, falling into the rhythm of the march. Castus had done his planning well.
It had been a different picture two hours before, when he had mustered his men in the pre-dawn twilight, just inside the river gate of the fortress. All of them bone-tired and aching from broken sleep, unwashed and unfed, none knowing where they were going or why. They had marched out in a ragged column, across the bridge and through the silent civilian settlement with their boots crunching loud on the cobbles. Castus had decided not to tell his men of the nature of the mission until they had a day’s march behind them. He knew so little himself about what lay ahead.
But a winter of route marches had toughened the men up, and with the sun on their backs they soon picked up a good pace. The country to either side was open moorland, then at the seventh milestone they crossed a brook and moved into rolling cultivated hills. It was familiar territory to them all. Castus hung back every few miles and let the men pass him, swatting at his thigh with his staff as he checked them off.
‘Atrectus! Get your spear up off the dirt – it’s not a walking stick! Shoulder! ’
‘Sorry, centurion.’
Valerius Atrectus was a red-haired joker, and had often been on punishment back at Eboracum. Beside him marched Genialis, a slow, simple soldier who generally did whatever his friend told him. The worst men in the century for discipline, but Castus regarded them now with a contented smile. All of them were his brothers, his men, his command. He looked towards Evagrius, swinging along in the lead now with the standard over his shoulder, the hornblower Volusius marching behind him, Timotheus bringing up the rear with his easy stride. He checked his section leaders, each in charge of a group of eight: Culchianus, Attius, Januarius… All of them looked keen, disciplined and strong. Ready for whatever he might order. If Castus himself felt the tremor of uncertainty about what lay ahead, he was determined not to let it show.
Flavius Strabo, the governor’s secretary, rode his pony along the verge of the road, remaining apart from the soldiers. Castus had hardly been aware of him when they had left the fort, and the man had said nothing to anyone since. Now, as he moved back up the line, Castus regarded him carefully, sizing him up. He was a smallish, fattish man, and sat badly on his pony, seeming to bounce up and down in the saddle as he rode. He probably only had a year or two on Castus, but with his shining bald forehead and trimmed beard he looked much older. Plainly dressed, but he wore an expensive-looking gold brooch securing his cloak. Castus had little experience of civilians, and little desire to expand on it – they were generally a nuisance anyway, interfering with the work of the professionals. Fine for selling beer or cattle, good at running inns, but little use for much else.
But as he dropped back into the rhythm of the march, Castus was aware that the secretary surely knew much more about the task ahead of them than he did. Stepping down off the roadway, he paced up alongside the man on the pony, trying to appear casual.
‘So how far is this villa we’re heading for then?’ He
Castus marched at the head of the column. Behind him came Evagrius, carrying a banner with the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth Legion, and after him the remaining fifty-seven men of the century. Each carried a full load – mail armour and helmet, shield and spear, sword, two light javelins and a sheaf of darts, plus a full canteen and hard rations for five days. Another twelve days’ food per man was carried on the pack mules, together with the tents, cooking utensils, entrenching tools and fodder, and a sealed package of diplomatic gifts to present to the Picts. It was a heavy burden, but men and animals moved easily now, falling into the rhythm of the march. Castus had done his planning well.
It had been a different picture two hours before, when he had mustered his men in the pre-dawn twilight, just inside the river gate of the fortress. All of them bone-tired and aching from broken sleep, unwashed and unfed, none knowing where they were going or why. They had marched out in a ragged column, across the bridge and through the silent civilian settlement with their boots crunching loud on the cobbles. Castus had decided not to tell his men of the nature of the mission until they had a day’s march behind them. He knew so little himself about what lay ahead.
But a winter of route marches had toughened the men up, and with the sun on their backs they soon picked up a good pace. The country to either side was open moorland, then at the seventh milestone they crossed a brook and moved into rolling cultivated hills. It was familiar territory to them all. Castus hung back every few miles and let the men pass him, swatting at his thigh with his staff as he checked them off.
‘Atrectus! Get your spear up off the dirt – it’s not a walking stick! Shoulder! ’
‘Sorry, centurion.’
Valerius Atrectus was a red-haired joker, and had often been on punishment back at Eboracum. Beside him marched Genialis, a slow, simple soldier who generally did whatever his friend told him. The worst men in the century for discipline, but Castus regarded them now with a contented smile. All of them were his brothers, his men, his command. He looked towards Evagrius, swinging along in the lead now with the standard over his shoulder, the hornblower Volusius marching behind him, Timotheus bringing up the rear with his easy stride. He checked his section leaders, each in charge of a group of eight: Culchianus, Attius, Januarius… All of them looked keen, disciplined and strong. Ready for whatever he might order. If Castus himself felt the tremor of uncertainty about what lay ahead, he was determined not to let it show.
Flavius Strabo, the governor’s secretary, rode his pony along the verge of the road, remaining apart from the soldiers. Castus had hardly been aware of him when they had left the fort, and the man had said nothing to anyone since. Now, as he moved back up the line, Castus regarded him carefully, sizing him up. He was a smallish, fattish man, and sat badly on his pony, seeming to bounce up and down in the saddle as he rode. He probably only had a year or two on Castus, but with his shining bald forehead and trimmed beard he looked much older. Plainly dressed, but he wore an expensive-looking gold brooch securing his cloak. Castus had little experience of civilians, and little desire to expand on it – they were generally a nuisance anyway, interfering with the work of the professionals. Fine for selling beer or cattle, good at running inns, but little use for much else.
But as he dropped back into the rhythm of the march, Castus was aware that the secretary surely knew much more about the task ahead of them than he did. Stepping down off the roadway, he paced up alongside the man on the pony, trying to appear casual.
‘So how far is this villa we’re heading for then?’ He
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