It was ten days’ ride by horse, and as the contingent from the Twentieth Legion crested a small hill just to the east, the port city came into view. It was not very large, with the majority of buildings lining a series of docks and boardwalks along the water’s edge. The roads leading down the slope were lined with thick groves of trees, making their way down to the beach. A large inlet from the sea cut into the coastline, creating an ideal natural harbor. In addition to the constant flow of merchant vessels, a pair of Roman warships was anchored in the bay. Just off the sandy beach, in an open field near a long row of trees, was where Plautius had erected his camp. A massive tent, dyed in deep red, sat in the center. It was surrounded by the tents of a vexilation cohort from the Second Legion, Augusta. Along with the legionaries was encamped an ala of cavalry. The typical trench, lined with palisade stakes, encompassed the camp; not so much because of perceived threats, but rather to the keep curious and disruptive civilians at bay. A squad of legionaries guarded the east entrance; the decanus calling the men to attention and saluting as Artorius and his companions rode into the camp.
“Check on our accommodations,” Chief Tribune Sempronius ordered, “I will report to General Plautius.”
“Yes, sir,” Artorius replied. The men dismounted and left their horses with a pair of groomsmen.
“A heavy burden he bears,” Magnus noted as they watched Sempronius walk towards the principia tent. “With our commanding legate an incapacitated wreck, the onus of command falls on him and by extension, to you.”
“We talked extensively about that over the past few months,” Artorius remarked as the two centurions made their way through the camp. “Like all chief tribunes, he is young with little to no experience, but he is surprisingly pragmatic and eager. He listens well, has a grasp of how cohorts operate in battle, and has a natural talent for logistics.”
“Well, I do hope he’s a quick study,” Magnus said.
“The coming conquest will make or break him,” Artorius observed. “I think if he survives the invasion, he just might make a fine legate someday. We owe it to both our men, and to Rome, to make certain that he does. Though, at least from Glabrio, he has learned how not to be!”
As they walked through the camp, they soon found the centurion pilus prior in command of the vexilation from the Second Legion, who pointed them towards a row of tents just behind the principia.
“Each legate and chief tribune has their own tent,” he explained. “However, as your legate did not make the journey, then I suppose one of those tents is yours, master centurion.” He then addressed Magnus. “I apologize, sir, that we don’t have suitable quarters for one of your rank.”
“I’m fine sharing a tent with the men,” the Norseman replied. “I’ll sleep under the stars if necessary.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the centurion chuckled, relieved that Magnus was not one of the insufferable types who demanded that subordinates go out of their way to accommodate him. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see what we can arrange.” Artorius gave the Norseman a friendly smack on the shoulder and made his way over to his tent. He was rather impressed by the quarters given to him. Senatorial officers certainly lived to an exponentially higher standard than men in the ranks, even in a marching camp. The tent was about twice the size of that shared by an eight-man squad, with a large camp bed, writing desk, a standing wardrobe, as well as several small decorative columns. A chest-high pillar by the desk was topped with a recently sculpted bust of Emperor Claudius. A small bunk for his manservant lay next to the large opening to the tent. Nathaniel had just finished helping him out of his armor when the flap was pulled open, and he was joined by Sempronius.
“I see you’re getting settled in,” the chief tribune observed. “Not bad accommodations, eh?”
“Feels kind of wasteful to me,” Artorius remarked. “You could house sixteen legionaries in this one tent.”
“At this stage in your career, I would say you’ve earned it,” the chief tribune replied. He then addressed his reason for calling. “The command groups from the Fourteenth and Ninth Legions are expected to arrive this evening. We are to meet with Plautius tomorrow after first watch.”
“Understood.”
That evening he joined Magnus for a stroll down towards the water. Both men stood with their arms folded across their chests, feeling the sea breeze blowing through their hair while the waves lapped endlessly against the sand. Ships continued to sail to and from the harbor, with the port carrying about its business almost as if it were oblivious to the large presence of Roman soldiers at its doorstep.
“I suspect that by this time next year we will be standing on those distant shores,” Artorius speculated.
“New adventures and new challenges,” his Nordic friend added. “This will not be like our campaigns of retribution or suppression of rebellions.”
“Agreed. And whether we rule through temperance or intimidation will be determined by those people across the water.”
“It is a strange feeling,” Magnus noted. “The emperor may tell us that we invade to restore an allied king, yet the reality is we go to conquer a province. Rome will bring many things to Britannia, and the people will have a chance to rise up out of the squalor of their existence. And yet, we don’t really do this for them, do we?”
“No,” Artorius said, shaking his head. “We do this for Rome, not the barbarians. Personally, I could care less if those unwashed hordes wish to live in squalid shit and continue to destroy each other. However, if the emperor says we must conquer and Romanize them, then that is what we will do. It is a harsh reality, my friend, in that all great empires and civilizations are wrought through brutality and subjugation. It is simply the way the world is.”
For having never ridden a horse in his life, Alaric had proven a quick learner. He had taken the time given to him by Cartimandua to mourn for his mother and then fully committed himself to his duties. Landon was the primary equestrian trainer for the queen’s guard, and he spent the winter months training his friend to ride. Protection of the queen was but one of their duties, for they also served as her messengers both within the kingdom and throughout the lands. Another tasking involved watching the main roads leading into the kingdom, as Landon had been the day he reunited with Alaric.
“We’re the only full-time soldiers the queen has,” he explained one spring morning when Alaric noted how busy and scattered they usually were. “While everyone, including women, is expected to take up arms as necessary to defend Brigantes, the people are mostly farmers, miners, fishermen, and laborers. Even a kingdom as large as ours cannot afford to employ and equip a permanent standing army. You’ve seen how humble my dwelling is, and yet I am more fortunate than most of our people. At least the queen was gracious enough to give you a small room within her great hall.”
“For that I am grateful,” Alaric confessed. “It’s very small and barely has enough room for a bunk and a chest for my personal belongings. But then, how much room do I really need? That I am often invited to sit at her table is an even greater honor. As a member of her guard, as well as one she regards as a brother, no one questions my presence. Still, I find her husband to be rather boorish and insufferable.”
“Landon!” The two men looked behind them to see a rider from the guard galloping up the road from the southwest.
“What news?” the guards’ commander asked as he turned his horse about.
“Caratacus of Catuvellauni comes,” the rider explained. “He rides from Atrebates and seeks an audience with the queen and consort. He’ll arrive in Isurium Brigantum in two days.”
“Very well,” Landon replied. “Ride on and inform the queen and see if she has any instructions for us.”
“Why is Caratacus coming here?” Alaric asked as the messenger rode away, clots of mud from the damp path kicking up in his wake.