Venutius bowed and backed out of the hall, though his face was twisted in a defiant sneer. As soon as he left, Cartimandua found herself sweating, and she had difficulty breathing. She was startled when the outer door was opened and Alaric walked in.
“My queen,” he said, quickly noting her disturbed demeanor. “I apologize if I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Not at all,” she replied, wiping a hand over her face and quickly composing herself.
“I just came to tell you that Caratacus and his escort have been put up in a guest house, although they looked more than a little put out.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” the queen grumbled. “And I suppose most of this evening’s intended feast will go unconsumed. Those impudent bastards would lead my people to destruction and death!” She then paused and looked down momentarily. “Forgive me, brother. I know these times will not be easy for you, given your history with the Romans.”
“I finally told Landon about my past,” Alaric remarked. “He was fascinated, though I cannot say he was surprised. And as much as it pains me to say this, I think mother’s passing was in some ways a blessing. I fear what she would have done if she witnessed legionaries marching across our lands.”
“You know I have an entire kingdom to concern myself with,” Cartimandua replied. “I shall need you to be my eyes in the southeast. You and Landon will take a handful of men and ascertain the intentions of the Cantiaci. It is their kingdom where the Romans will most likely land, if and when they come.”
“Yes, my queen.”
Chapter Endnotes:
1 — Boulogne-sur-Mer, France
2 — Southern Wales
3 — Strasbourg, France
4 — Vienna, Austria
5 — Between Vienna and Bratislava, Austria
Chapter X: Final Preparations
Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Cologne, Germania
February, 43 A.D.
***
For Sempronius and Artorius, and indeed for the entire Twentieth Legion, the announcement that they would be operationally falling under Vespasian during the coming campaign came as a huge relief. Though Legate Glabrio remained at the fortress, he became involved ever less and less in the daily operations of the legion and seemed to be all the gladder for it. Sempronius had given him a daily summary of the legion’s activities and orders from Plautius, yet he hardly paid them any mind. By February, the chief tribune had ceased in even doing this, with nothing ever being said. Camillus continued to work many of the daily administrative tasks, though per Artorius’ directive, he always cleared any correspondence with him before he pressed the legate’s seal into the wax. Four of the six equite tribunes had also voluntarily extended their tours, so as to take part in the invasion.
There had been great emphasis the previous summer on water training and seeing who the best swimmers within each cohort were. Over the winter months, the legion redoubled its efforts on the essential basics of close combat warfare. Artorius had also added extensive training on countering guerrilla warfare. Because the Britons were lightly equipped, faster on their feet than legionaries, and familiar with the terrain, the best the Romans could do was employ defensive measures to minimize the effects of their enemies’ attacks. This was maddeningly frustrating to the soldiers, who hated the idea of being able to do little more than hide behind their shield walls while the Britons attacked them at will with missile weapons.
“You cannot outrun them,” Centurion Metellus admonished his men during one such training session. “If you try, the formation collapses and we’re all fucking dead!”
His response was in rebuke of one of his men’s remarks about not wishing to ‘just stand here, taking it’. Soldiers were cursing under their breath as they marched in testudo formation, where legionaries in the center would hold their shields overhead, covering those in the front and sides. It required the men to get in very close and their movement slowed to a virtual crawl, but it was the best way to protect against arrows, throwing spears, and sling stones. Metellus had tasked a number of men from another century to pelt his soldiers with blunted stakes and training javelins in an attempt to get them used to facing such tactics. He quietly admitted to himself that he hated this as much as his men, especially when a training javelin skipped off the top of his shield and cracked him on the helm.
“Stay with it!” he shouted as his century continued to get pummeled; the soldiers simulating the marauding Britons laughing and shouting insults at the formation.
Artorius watched from a distance as those pelting the slowly advancing formation laughed amongst themselves. Once the century reached a point towards the end of the snow-covered drill field, Metellus barked a series of commands, his legionaries forming into battle lines in a matter of seconds. He halted the formation, addressed his men briefly, and then dismissed them. He was chuckling to himself as he walked over to his father, removing his helmet and rubbing the sore spot where the blunt training javelin had struck him.
“Hateful type of training,” Artorius observed.
“Hateful but necessary,” Metellus replied. He then looked at his helmet, which had a noticeable dent in it. His forehead was bruised, which he rubbed once more while looking at the mark on his helm. “Bugger me, they got me good out there! Had that been a real javelin, I’d probably be dead…”
“Possibly,” Artorius remarked. “At least you didn’t take one in the throat, like I did last week. Lost my voice for a few days after that.”
“Yes, and I’ll bet the soldier who threw it was shitting himself after,” Metellus laughed.
“Undoubtedly,” Artorius grinned. “Not every day, though, that a ranker can strike his master centurion and get away with it. I saved the admonishment for myself and recommended to his centurion that he give him a day pass for such an impressive throw.”
The duty day had ended with Metellus’ century being the last on the drill field. The sun was already setting, and the two men walked across the fortress towards Artorius’ house. The streets were congested with carts and various covered pallets of supplies that would be needed once they made their final march to the coast. Since the Twentieth Legion would not be returning to Cologne, their half of the fortress would be renovated into a supply depot. For the men of the First Legion there was a sense of jealousy that they were not the ones headed for Britannia.
“Another month and we will start for the coast,” Metellus stated.
“How is Marcia taking it?” Artorius asked. While preparing his men for a lengthy campaign, not to mention permanent move, his son was also adjusting to life as a husband and father. He now had a one-year old son, Titus, and Marcia was pregnant with their second child. Though Marcia hoped for a daughter, they both felt that two children were more than enough, especially as they came very early in their marriage.
“Her greatest fear is our children having to grow up without their father, as I did,” Metellus replied. “In our profession, death in battle or any other number of nefarious ways, is always a possibility. And this is the first time I have gone to war since I’ve known Marcia. She was not in my life when we fought at Braduhenna or during our years in Judea. She also has apprehensions about coming to Britannia, should we be successful in establishing a province there.”
“It won’t be easy,” Artorius noted. “Some will welcome our presence, many will be indifferent, and still there will be others who will fight us to the death. They have the advantage of knowing the terrain, and their warriors will undoubtedly outnumber us. And as you saw, they have the ability to hit us at will with skirmishers while then fading away into the forests.”