Sword of Rome(26)

‘We have no officers.’ The speaker was the man whose nose Serpentius had broken. ‘The cowards would not come. They do not deserve to lead men like us. We’ll elect our own officers when we have our eagle.’

This laughable concept made Valerius blink. ‘What makes you think the Emperor will even speak to you? Why should he do anything for men who volunteered to fight against him?’ He turned to Juva. ‘You would be doing them a service if you took these men back to the city. Better to wait until the Emperor has been acclaimed and had a chance to address the Senate.’

Juva shook his head. ‘Lucca is right. There are better men here than the officers they assigned us. Florus there,’ he indicated a grinning, buffalo-shouldered youth in the blue tunic of the marines, ‘has killed five men in single combat and is not yet nineteen. Glico,’ a stern-faced older man with lank grey hair and dead eyes nodded, ‘took command when we burned out a pirates’ nest on the Carthaginian coast, after the marine centurion was killed.’ Juva’s words confirmed Valerius’s initial evaluation. These men were born fighters who had survived and prospered in a hard service. Yet they all deferred to the Nubian, who continued: ‘We did not volunteer to fight against Galba. We volunteered to fight for Rome. In any case, it is too late to turn back now. It would look as if we were running away and this legion does not retreat.’

‘Then you are a fool and no soldier,’ Valerius told him. ‘Or you would know that a tactical retreat can sometimes be the making of a victory.’ The big man’s eyes smouldered, but he seemed to see sense in the advice. Valerius continued: ‘If you have no officers, who does lead you?’

‘Come with me,’ the Nubian said.



‘Gaius Valerius Verrens.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ The man sitting on a stool in front of one of the tents wore a blue tunic and the insignia that identified him as a centurion of marines. He waited for an answer, but Valerius was happy to let his obvious status and natural authority answer for him. Eventually, the disease-pocked face creased in a thin smile. ‘Tiberius Milo, third century first naval detachment.’

‘Juva tells me you lead these men?’

The marine shot the big Nubian a wary glance. ‘Someone has to. We’ve been waiting for months for this, scavenging what rations we could, more vagabonds than soldiers.’ He drew himself up and pride swelled his voice, which was that of an educated man and came as a surprise, emerging as it did from a mouth with a single blackened tooth. ‘We were promised we would be constituted a legion not just by Nero, the man, but by the Emperor of Rome. All we want is for the new Emperor to honour that promise and give us the rights and privileges any legion can expect. We want a legion’s pay and a legion’s weapons and when we’re not on campaign we want to sleep in a legion’s barracks, not on the streets.’

‘Then I suggest you start acting like a legion.’

The brutal certainty in Valerius’s voice made Milo flinch as if he had been struck a blow. ‘Do you speak for the Emperor?’

Valerius stepped closer, keeping his voice low and ignoring the threatening presence of the men who had appointed themselves the marine’s bodyguard. ‘No, but I speak as a soldier who knows this Emperor.’ He repeated the argument he’d already used to sway Juva. ‘If he negotiates at all, he will not negotiate with a rabble. Line your men up in their centuries and their cohorts, get rid of the drunks and the camp followers. If you have the opportunity, tell him what you were promised and ask him to consider it. If you issue ultimatums, he will not even look at you. Treat him with courtesy, because he is an old-fashioned man who demands it. If you do, he will treat you in the same way. He may ask for time to consider his decision, but that is his right and you would do well not to question it.’

Milo’s eyes drifted from the scarred face to the artificial hand. Eventually, he nodded. ‘Very well—’ His eyes widened as a distant roar cut him off in mid-sentence. Without another word, he charged into the nearest clumps of men, dragging them into some kind of formation and shouting garbled orders. ‘Form up. Get the men into their sections. Come on, you bastards. If you want to be a legion, start looking like one.’

Valerius shook his head at the chaos around him. He found Juva staring at him.

‘Will he accept us?’

The answer was no. Servius Sulpicius Galba would look at these men and see them as what they were, an untrained mob, a hindrance in his procession towards the Empire’s greatest honour. And that was how he would treat them. If they were fortunate, he would consider their case – at his convenience, not theirs. It could take months. But that wasn’t what Juva wanted to hear. ‘If the gods are with you.’