Consequently the winter months had brought nothing but training, hibernation and yet more training and he yearned to get back out into the fresh air on his horse and doing what he did best, scouting for information and intelligence. The repeated training although at times a chore, he knew was vitally important and believed that he was more competent with his spatha cavalry sword, than ever before. He had also practised for hours on end with heavy and light javelins and had extended his throwing distance by at least three paces. As a centurion, he could also choose other forms of training and had spent time with the archers and had now become quite proficient with the curved weapon that could kill from a distance. As a consequence he had ensured that all the men in his tent party were equally as good with a bow. He now felt better prepared for the months ahead, months that he would be spending with a relatively new scouting group.
The men that he had originally arrived in Britannia with a few years before, were all dead, they had been replaced by other members of the Second Augusta. He had mourned his comrades for some time especially Decimus, who had been killed at the hands of Brenna, a woman he had shared an intimate relationship and his heart with. He had not been able to avenge his friend’s death because of the circumstances at the time but he still felt an almost physical pain whenever his thoughts drifted to her image or that of Decimus. He had not seen anything of her since but had vowed that if the opportunity arose, he would kill her without hesitation for her betrayal.
He walked from the duty officer’s quarters and into the room where soldiers on standby rested, some were playing dice, others were talking quietly and some slept in double bunks lined against the walls. Those that were up and about wore their white tunics, their armour and weapons laid up near the door. They acknowledged him with a nod or “sir” as he went past. He fastened the chin straps on his helmet and walked out into the warm night air. Leaving the guardroom behind, he went directly to the nearest ladder to climb up onto the ramparts. At the top he felt a slight breeze and twenty paces away was legionary Marcus Pullo, standing looking out into the dark countryside. He heard Varro approach and turned saluting.
“Sir.” He said holding his pila straight as a sign of respect to his superior.
“Everything quiet?” He asked of the sentry.
“Like the grave sir, no-one has come in or out since I came on post and it’s dead out there as well.” Pullo nodded down to the gates and then looked beyond the garrison again.
“That’s good legionary Pullo believe me, better to be quiet and boring than to have a war band of hairy arsed barbarians trying to kill us eh?” He said in reply.
“Yes I suppose so sir but I wouldn’t mind a bit of excitement once in a while. I’ve been here six months now and the only Britons I’ve seen have been polite and courteous. It’s hard to believe all the stories we were told in training. Our centurion told us that he had served here since the invasion and had seen human sacrifices, Britons torturing captured soldiers, that they would throw themselves onto our shield walls without a care for their own safety and that they lived on butchered meat and milk. I haven’t seen any of that, just the opposite. They may be a little primitive but apart from that, they are no different than us in many ways.”
“Well Pullo,” Varro said, “I don’t know what you were told but I can assure you that things were different than this not too long ago and it could change just like that.” He snapped his fingers and went on. “When we first established the fort here Caratacus attacked and gave us a bloody nose. He sank a few vessels just there in the river,” he pointed to the water, “they hadn’t even been unloaded at the time and we ended up on rations for a while. If the first fort’s defences hadn’t been so good, they would have breached the walls and slaughtered us all. As it was the entire front line was virtually destroyed by fire.” He gazed out across the countryside. “Before that it was even worse, we had to fight for every piece of land, he and others like him are still there, waiting.”
Pullo raised an eyebrow, “How many of them were there then sir?” He asked.
Varro screwed up his nose thinking for a second, “That attacked Isca?”
Pullo nodded. “A few thousand,” Varro replied, “more than enough to destroy the first century that was sent out against them. The second one didn’t fare much better either, they were sent to help the first and had to retreat as they started to take arrows and were then set upon by the bastards that had wiped out the first century.”
Pullo looked down to the straight part of the water in the distance.” Hard to believe sir really, especially looking at the river now.”
Varro smiled thinking back to when he was little more than a recruit. “Don’t wish for too much excitement too soon Pullo because you may just get a bit more than you bargained for.”
Pullo looked back to his superior. “What’s it like though sir?” He cocked his head slightly. “I mean battle, when you have to kill for the first time? Did you just do it without thinking or did you hesitate?”
“It’s never easy and you can’t hesitate because if you do you’re likely to have your head removed or at best a limb. Hesitating is definitely not recommended especially when you’re so close that you can smell the stench of the enemy’s breath as they scream in your face, someone that is intending to kill you.” Varro replied.
“Tullus said that his first kill just wouldn’t die.” Pullo went on, “He said that he ended up hacking his head off just to make sure of the kill.” Pullo said.
“Tullus?” Varro replied. “That sounds Germanic.”
“It is,” said Pullo, “he’s the big German you must know him sir?”
Varro turned and began to walk away, “I don’t know every soldier in the Second. He’s probably just trying to scare the life out of you, don’t think about it.” He said.
“Remember, keep your shield tight and up high and your head low, so that you can just see through the gap between the shield and helmet. Thrust and stab out at them with your sword, don’t thrash, as you have been taught until they fall, you’ll be fine Pullo trust me.”
Pullo didn’t look convinced, “Thank you sir, I will.”
Varro smirked as he continued along the wall thinking about the first man he had killed in Gaul, it hadn’t been easy but he wasn’t going to tell Pullo that. He could remember every last detail of the encounter, the noise, the smell, the blood, even the man’s face as he had suddenly realised that he had been stabbed and was drawing his last breath. Killing was never easy, but a necessary fact of life in the legions sometimes. He checked the other sentries within his area of responsibility and began to make his way back down to the guard house located near the front gate.
“Rider’s approaching.” He heard Pullo shout from his position above. Varro didn’t think much of it and continued on his way. Visitors were always arriving at all hours, merchants, returning patrols even envoys from unknown tribes. The guards at the front would deal with whoever it was. It wasn’t unusual for people to come and go at all hours, especially at such a large garrison.
He had just removed his helmet when a soldier knocked on his bunk door. “Yes legionary,” he said turning, “what is it?” He asked.
“Sorry to disturb you sir but a group of riders have just arrived at the gate.” He reported standing to attention.
“What of it? What’s so special about them?” He asked perplexed.