On deck, beneath the bulge of the leather sail, the briny sting of the sea breeze could not erase the reek of bilge water, vomit and urine rising from the hold. Two of the legionaries stumbled up from their crouch in the scuppers to lean into the breeze, bracing themselves expectantly against the rail.
‘Other side!’ a heavy voice said. ‘Downwind. Unless you want it in your faces!’
One of the soldiers glanced back, too sick to speak; before either could move their centurion had seized them by their capes and hauled them back across the pitch of the deck. Staggering, they plunged against the leeward rail, just in time to blow the meagre contents of their stomachs out over the waves.
A fresh whip of wind spattered rain across the deck – it had been raining constantly, on and off, since the ship had left Rutupiae. Centurion Aurelius Castus planted his feet firmly on the slope of the deck, pushed back the hood of his cape and tipped his broad face into the rain. He felt the wind shift, and the straining cordage overhead wailed. Unlike most of his men, Castus seemed immune to the effects of seasickness. Half of his sixty-strong century had spent the first few hours of the voyage vomiting helplessly over the side. Later, after a brief meal of barley porridge and vinegar wine, it had been the turn of the other half. But Castus felt no discomfort from the motion of the waves: his men, he knew, joked between themselves that he lacked a stomach, or any internal organs. Their centurion had a solid body, to match his solid head.
This was not the first time Castus had been aboard a ship, but most of the soldiers under his command had been recruited in northern Britain, and had never before left the island. For them the ocean was a new and terrible experience. Castus himself was from distant Pannonia, born on the banks of the Danube, and his fifteen years in the army had taken him from the wilds of Caledonia to the delta of the Euphrates. The Ocean, he knew, was a powerful deity, and should be respected. But he also knew that the Gallic Strait in early summer held only a minor risk of storms, whirlpools and sea monsters.
Castus ran a hand across his cropped scalp, and rainwater dripped down his neck. He was young for a centurion, only just over thirty, but he had enlisted young too and his long career in the army had toughened him beyond his years. Squinting into the greyness of the open sea, he tried to make out the green smear of the distant shore. Would they make it to harbour before nightfall? He picked his way aft, swaying between the uprights, stepping carefully around the huddled bodies of his men and the heaps of baggage and stores secured in their rope netting. The captain, a bearded Spaniard from Gades, was perched beside the steersman on the raised stern platform.
‘You’ll see the Gallic coast soon, centurion,’ the captain called as Castus approached. ‘Unless this wind picks up, we’ll have a nice smooth crossing all the way to Bononia!’
Smooth, Castus thought; a couple of the nearer legionaries glanced up in queasy confusion.
‘How much longer?’ Castus asked.
‘Two hours, perhaps three, if Neptune and Boreas allow. Your men should look to the west – this might be the last they’ll see of Britain!’
An ill-omened comment, Castus thought, and several of the men had overheard it. Hands fluttered, making warding signs against evil, and lips spat. Even so, a knot of soldiers rose to their feet and stood at the leeward rail, gazing back at the last trace of green on the western horizon. They raised their hands in salute, crying out to their native gods: to Brigantia Dea, and Mars Cocidius. To Fortuna the Homebringer. Most were leaving behind families, wives and children. They were going to a distant war, in an unknown land. Many of them wept openly.
Castus too stared back at the retreating shore. He had no farewells to make; he was leaving little. For nearly four years Britain, and the old legionary fortress of Eboracum, had been his home. He had served there with the Sixth Legion since his promotion to centurion; he had led men into battle for the first time in that province, known victory and defeat, honour and shame. But he left now with few regrets. The last two years had been quiet, and the legion had spent its time in construction work, renovating and rebuilding the fortress, tearing down the leaking old barracks and erecting new ones, and reconstructing the headquarters building, where the emperor Constantine had first been acclaimed by the troops, on a suitably grand scale.
He would miss little of that, Castus thought. His friends in his own cohort were travelling with him, and the only person he was sorry to leave was a woman. Afrodisia was a prostitute, but he had grown fond of her over the years. It had surprised him, when they finally parted, how fond she had grown of him too.
But that was the past. The Third Cohort of the Sixth had been summoned across the sea to Gaul, to join the imperial field army on the Rhine: reinforcements for the coming campaign against the barbarians. Castus relished the prospect. He had feared, at times over these last two years, that life was done with him, that the world had turned and left him to sink into a languorous peace, old age, slow death. But away on the Rhine there was war, and war was his purpose. It was his only trade, and he knew he was good at it.
The Pegasus ploughed on across the heaving waves, and Castus gripped the backstay and gazed towards the eastern horizon. With every rise and fall of the swept-up prow the shore of Gaul drew closer. Silently, so none might see, he shaped a prayer to Sol Invictus, the Unconquered Sun. Let me not return this way too soon.
Dawn was cold and damp, and in the camp on the hillside above the port of Bononia the men of the Sixth Legion stumbled and cursed among the tent-ropes and fires as they prepared to march. They had come ashore at nightfall, salty-wet and hungry, and had had only a few hours’ sleep. To add to their grievances, they had shared the camp with a detachment from the other British legion, II Augusta. The Second had arrived before them, and cunningly positioned their latrine pits upwind of the tent lines of the Sixth.
‘Bastard Secundani,’ said legionary Aelianus. ‘And they’ll be churning up the road ahead of us, I suppose, all the way to Colonia.’ The Second had taken the first march, and had left an hour in advance.
‘That or making us eat their dust, if the rain stops,’ said legionary Erudianus, sniffing at the sky. ‘Smells to me like a dry spell coming on.’
‘Quiet!’ yelled the optio, Modestus, pacing back up the line of shuffling, red-eyed soldiers. He reached the front of the column and saluted to Castus.
‘All present, centurion.’
Castus nodded, turned to the men behind him and raised his stick. His century was leading the cohort that morning, but no word was needed, no order given. Everyone knew they had a stiff march ahead of them: at least twelve days across the flat plains of Belgica, full-step marching all the way, to Colonia Agrippina on the Rhine. They had done more than that coming down from Eboracum to the south coast of Britain, but this was an unfamiliar new country for most of them. Castus let the stick drop, turned and set off. Behind him the column of his own soldiers, then those of his friend Valens and the other centuries beyond them, creaked and stamped into motion. Nearly five hundred men, with pack mules and baggage wagons, army slaves and artillery section, and the straggle of civilian hangers-on that had already attached themselves to the rear of the column before the last files tramped out of Bononia.
Departure had been shambolic, but after a couple of hours on the road the thin grey rain had stopped, the sun had broken over the cloudy horizon, and the usual routine of marching was shaking some order into the ranks. At noon they came up with the rearguard of II Augusta, and passed them as the men of the other legion stopped for their midday meal. Jeering laughter and shouted insults from both sides; there had been bad blood between the Second and Sixth for over a hundred years. The Second were based in the southern province, in Londinium and the coastal forts, and they regarded the Sixth as semi-barbarians from the hairy north. Two years before, the invading Picts had beaten the Sixth Legion in the field and driven them back into their fortifications; the men of the Second still believed that their own detachment had defeated the marauders single-handed and saved the province.