Sword of Rome(89)

Today, on the eve of its first campaign, the First Adiutrix was to be formally recognized. Only his height and colour made Juva stand out from the near five thousand men waiting at attention behind their century and cohort standards. He squared his great shoulders as Marcus Salvius Otho walked to the central reviewing platform accompanied by three men in military uniform and a cloud of senators in purple-striped togas. Tall and confident, Otho looked every inch an Emperor as he took his place in front of them. It had been his decision to honour Rome’s newest legion by formally bestowing their eagle standard in a public ceremony. Thousands of spectators had gathered around the great open square of soldiers. It was to those thousands he spoke, with the help of several dozen orators Onomastus had placed strategically to broadcast his message to those beyond the reach of his master’s voice.

‘Soldiers of Rome.’ Juva’s fingers tightened on the shield and his spine tingled as he heard the words. ‘Soldiers of Rome, tomorrow you march north in a campaign for the very soul of the Empire. Believe me when I tell you the thoughts of all here will march with you, including those of your Emperor, who will soon follow in your footsteps. I did not want war; I have done everything to avoid it. Yet the usurper has contemptuously cast aside every offer of a peaceful solution. I will not say his name here, but you know him. He is celebrated for his greed. It is his greed for a power that is not his to wield that drives him. That same greed will be his downfall.’ The added emphasis he gave to the last sentence produced a roar of applause from the crowd, and he allowed it to subside before he continued. ‘The soldiers you will face have yet to set foot on the soil of Italia. When they do, you will defeat them. They have been deceived by soft words and false promises and they do not know what they fight for. You are fighting for the rightful Emperor, solemnly appointed by the Senate and the people of Rome. You will go into battle alongside the elite Balkan legions who are already marching to meet you – the Seventh, the Eleventh Claudia, the Thirteenth Gemina and the Fourteenth Gemina Martia Victrix – but even if you did not, victory would still be assured. For when we fight, great Mars and mighty Jupiter will fight at our shoulders. I have sacrificed a white bull in your honour and the signs are auspicious. Orfidius Benignus, a soldier of proven valour, will command you. Step forward, aquilifer, take up your sacred charge and make the oath on behalf of your comrades.’

Florus, once a lowly marine, but now attired in the magnificent war gear which marked the legion’s standard-bearer, with a full lion’s pelt draped across his shoulders and back, marched tall and proud from the ranks. As he approached the platform, Otho took the eagle standard from the centurion who held it and with Orfidius Benignus at his side descended to meet the aquilifer.

‘I hand this eagle into your keeping; bear it with honour and guard it with your life. For Rome.’

Florus’s hands shook slightly as he accepted the wooden pole, but they stilled as his fingers grasped the polished wood. His eyes lifted reverently to the eagle, its golden wings spread wide, the great hooked beak gaping and lightning rods grasped in its talons. With tears clouding his vision, he turned to face his comrades and his deep voice rang out across the square.

‘In the name of Jupiter Optimus Maximus I accept this eagle, this sacred symbol of my Emperor’s faith, into my keeping and that of Legio I Adiutrix, and I pledge on behalf of my comrades that we will defend it to our last spear and our last breath, or may the god strike us down. For Rome!’

Five thousand throats echoed those final roared words. In the hush that followed, Juva felt a prickle behind his eyes and he gritted his teeth so no man would see his weakness. He was a Roman legionary and tomorrow he would march to bring retribution on Rome’s enemies.

‘For Rome,’ he whispered.





XXXIV


‘Two men, well mounted and trailing a pack horse as you said they would, lord.’

Claudius Victor nodded absently and the tracker trotted off down the muddy path, his eyes scanning the ground for any deviation in the sign. It was almost eight months since the Batavian’s brother had died at the hands of Gaius Valerius Verrens but not a day had passed when he had not thought of the one-handed Roman and vengeance. Now, at last, the fates had brought his enemy almost within Victor’s grasp.

The men he sought had left the river road as soon as they were out of sight of Colonia’s smoke. In the empty coldness of his heart the Batavian felt the minutest stirring of the blood. Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus had made him aware of the quality of the man he hunted. Even with the fat Emperor’s sanction, Valerius Verrens was wary of the patrols he would meet on the road. But in the end it would not matter. Revenge would be his.