Chapter Eighteen – On the Frontier

Spring 106 AD - The Province of Lower Pannonia

Fergus stood at the bow of the river barge, holding onto the rigging with one hand and clutching his long wooden optio staff in the other, as he peered at the barbarian shore. Here and there in the dense, impenetrable forests that covered the banks of the Danube, he could see that the winter snows had still not entirely disappeared. It was a fresh, grey overcast morning and in the spring sky, dark rain clouds were rolling in from the north. Around him the barge was packed with heavily armed troops. The silent and pensive looking legionaries, clad in their full armour, were standing in every available piece of space, whilst at their banks, the oarsmen, following the rhythmic beat of a drum, slowly and steadily dipped their oars into the dirty brown river, propelling the ship down the Danube. The steady rhythmic beat of the oarsmen’s drum, the splash of the oars and the groan and creak of the vessel were the only sounds on the placid, wide river. Up ahead the next heavily laden transport in the long, Roman-army river convoy was doing the same. The thick rope that linked each barge to the next transport slackened and tightened as it snaked through the water. On the flanks of the convoy, the naval warships of the Danube river fleet, the “Classis Pannonica,” provided a protective screen for the troop transports. The ship’s artillery, catapults and bolt-throwers were aimed at the barbarian shore, conveying the simple and unmistakable message, to anyone who may have been watching from the forest – “don’t fuck with Rome.”

Idly, Fergus tapped the wooden deck with his optio’s staff as absentmindedly he started to follow the beat of the oarsmen’s drum. His red Celtic hair had been cut short and his handsome face was clean shaven, but he seemed weary and his eyes looked sleep-deprived. He was clad in his army uniform and full armour and over the long winter along the Danube frontier, he seemed to have matured. The last vestiges of the boy who had joined the Twentieth Legion two and a half years ago, had gone and there was a new toughness and maturity about him, that had not been there when he’d left Britannia. Around his neck hung the fine-looking circular iron amulet, the Briton charm that Galena, his young wife had given him and which she had said would protect him on his long journey. Fergus sighed as he let go of the rigging and reached up to touch the amulet. It had been over nine months since he had last seen his wife. His child would have been born by now. Anxiously he bit his lip. There had been no news, no letters from Galena, nothing at all. Childbirth was as dangerous as going into battle and the lack of news worried him, but there was nothing that he could do but wait. Harshly he pushed the thoughts of his pregnant wife away and instead turned to inspect the men from the 2^nd company, 2^nd Cohort of the Twentieth Legion, who were standing packed closely together behind him. The men looked pensive and some of the replacements were giving the river nervous glances, for if they were to fall in, the weight of their armour would take them straight to the bottom. Silently Fergus studied his men. In deepest, coldest winter, with all the senior officers either dead or wounded, he had managed to lead the band of survivors from the diplomatic mission to the Vandals, back to Roman territory. It had been one hell of an achievement and now he was their Optio, second in command of the whole company of eighty-four legionaries. He had received his promotion from none other than the legate of the 1^st Legion, Hadrian, himself.

His gaze passed over the faces of his men and here and there one of the fifty veterans, the soldiers who had survived the brutal winter cold, lack of food and the fighting in Germania, acknowledged him with a grin or a wink. Upon their return from the successful diplomatic mission to the Vandals, the company had been brought back up to full strength over the winter with replacements sent from the home base of the Twentieth Legion at Deva Victrix. With them from Britannia had come Lucullus, now recovered from his wounds, to assume command of the company, as the newly promoted Centurion. The rest of winter had been spent preparing for the coming invasion of Dacia. And now the time had finally come Fergus thought. The battle group commander Hadrian had at last received orders to move the 8,000 men of his battle group to the seat of war. The long-awaited invasion of Dacia was to commence before the end of the month. It had been several days since the convoy, carrying the units of the 1^st and 20^th legions and the infantry companies of the 2^nd and 9^th cohorts of Batavians had departed Carnuntum on its river journey down the Danube to Aquincum - capital and seat of government of the province of Lower Pannonia. Hadrian himself however would not be leading his men into battle. With the new orders, Fergus had learnt that the legate was to relinquish command of the 1^st Legion and take up his post as Governor of the newly created province of Lower Pannonia. The persistent rumour going around the army camps along the Danube was that Emperor Trajan had fallen out with Hadrian and did not want him to take part in the upcoming campaign.

“Fergus, a word,” a stern voice said from close by.

Quickly Fergus turned to see Lucullus, the newly promoted centurion, his commanding officer, pushing his way towards him. Lucullus was old, in his forties and his grey, thinning hair covered his head. He looked tired, pale and unwell, as clutching his magnificent red-plumed helmet in one hand, he came up to Fergus and reached out to steady himself by grasping hold of the ship’s rigging.

“Sir,” Fergus muttered as he glanced at Lucullus.

“I thought you should know,” Lucullus said as he turned to gaze at the endless forests that lined the eastern bank of the great river, “when we reach Aquincum, the Legate Hadrian has requested that it is our company that escorts him into the city. He has granted us this honour, so make sure that the men are presentable and ready to go once we reach the town.”

“Yes Sir,” Fergus nodded, then for a moment, he hesitated. Lucullus was an old-school officer, an aloof, strict disciplinarian who did not mingle with his men or seek their friendship and the relationship between him as commander and his second in command, was still new and rather awkward.

Lucullus nodded and for a while he remained silent as he stood beside Fergus.

“Titus should have been in command of the company,” Lucullus muttered at last. “He was the finest soldier that I have ever known. He and I were friends. His death is a blow, a heavy blow, Fergus. He is going to be a hard act to follow.”

“I know Sir,” Fergus replied looking away. “He was a good man. We shall honour him when we go into battle against the Dacians. This was his company, he made us who we are Sir, but I am also glad to see you have recovered from your wounds. What with Titus dead and Furius honourably discharged, there are not too many familiar faces around here anymore.”

Standing beside Fergus, Lucullus nodded gratefully.

“I was an optio for nearly eight years,” Lucullus said quietly, “and I would probably have remained an optio for the rest of my time in the army if Titus had not been killed. So, now they have promoted me to centurion, in charge of the whole company. The army,” Lucullus said carefully glancing at Fergus, “does not promote men to the rank of centurion until they have served a very considerable time; many years at least. I have served nineteen years Fergus, and my retirement is not far away. There was a time when I scoffed at the idea of retiring but now, now it somehow doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

“I understand, Sir,” Fergus said in a stoical, neutral voice.

“When we reach Aquincum,” Lucullus replied quietly, “we will be joined by the cavalry squadrons of the 2^nd and 9^th Batavian auxiliary cohorts; a cohort of Syrian archers and several units of civilian pioneers and engineers. We will be forming the western flank of the main invasion and it’s going to be tough. The Dacian’s know the land and they are formidable fighters. They are going to put up a ferocious fight in defence of their freedom, families and homes. Who wouldn’t.”

“The company will be ready for anything,” Fergus replied stiffly. “I know the men, they are a bunch of professionally-trained killers and thugs Sir. They would scare the shit out of me if I was the one facing them. Titus trained us well.”

“I know he did,” Lucullus muttered. “But I am going to need your help Fergus in commanding them.”

Surprised Fergus glanced across at his commanding officer but Lucullus just shrugged and tried to smile.

“You were there when Titus died and I was not,” the centurion said simply. “In Germania, in the mountains, you took command when all the officers were either dead or incapacitated and you successfully led the company back to safety. The men, all of them, they owe their lives to you as does Hadrian but that is a different matter. You are a good man, you are a leader, Fergus, and I know that the men respect you. I think they respect you more than they respect me. But you are my second in command. That’s why I need your help. The coming war is going to be hard and the performance of our company is going to be all important.” Lucullus turned once more to look at Fergus. “I want to survive this war and I want my men to survive this war. So, can we agree on this. The fate and honour of the company and our men is paramount and to keep them alive we, you and I, must work closely together. We must trust each other, Fergus. Any mistakes or misunderstandings between us will get people killed.”

“Strict discipline and sensible orders Sir,” Fergus said quickly. “That’s what we need. And I agree, the performance of the company is our responsibility. I will not let you down. The Dacian’s will not know what has hit them.”

“Good man,” Lucullus murmured, laying a hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “Good man,” he repeated.

As the Centurion made his way back to where the rest of the company’s officers and NCO’s were gathered together, Fergus sighed and looked down at the deck of the ship. Lucullus was a good officer, Fergus thought, but ever since the man had arrived to assume command of the company, he had worried that the new centurion did not have the energy or ambition to carry out his duties properly. Then with another weary sigh and a little dismissive gesture, he stooped and reached for something in his marching pack that lay at his feet. Holding up the small wooden letter to the morning light, he turned to gaze fondly at the small, neat and distinctive handwriting. He had read the contents of the letter so often that he could repeat them from memory, but there was something reassuring about staring at his mother Kyna’s hand writing. The letter had been handed to him by a Batavian just before the battle group had started out down the Danube and from the date scratched into the soft wood, he could see that it had taken over six months to reach him. As he silently re-read the contents of the letter he grunted. His mother’s letter was dated to late summer of the previous year and it told him of the most welcome news that Marcus, his father, had finally returned, alive and well, from his year-long journey to Hyperborea. It was good news, Fergus thought, lowering the letter and clenching the wood in his hand, and good news was to be cherished, always, always, always. But Kyna, his mother had also written that the land dispute was far from settled and that there was a very real possibility that their farm on Vectis, their home, would be taken from them. That thought, the knowledge that his family were in trouble combined with the lack of news from Galena, his wife, had started to keep him up at night and deprive him of sleep.