‘Yes, my lord. A fair few times.’ Turbo was a centurion, with eighteen years of service in a succession of legions before his appointment as princeps peregrinorum. ‘Soldiers are creatures of habit. Discipline may be petty, but at least you know where you are.’ Turbo wondered whether Hadrian’s clipped manner of speaking was infectious. Apart from his connections, this was clearly a man to watch. ‘A new man has a tendency to change things, usually little things, but they are the ones that can get under the skin.’
‘So I would like to learn as much about my legion as I can before I arrive, in the hope of making the transition as painless as possible. That way, the only changes I shall have to introduce will be those essential to honing the Minervia’s efficiency.’
Poor bastards, they don’t know what’s going to hit them, Turbo thought in momentary sympathy. ‘Of course, my lord, but why come to me? There must be more information kept in the Palatium. We only deal with food and other supplies. While we carry messages to and from provincial legati, no copies are kept here.’
‘It is because of that that I am here. The latest strength return they have is almost a year old. A new one is due anytime now, but they do not have it yet.’ The grin was back. ‘But if I’m any judge the men must have eaten since then, and your frumentarii are bound to have been involved in supplying any substantial detachment. In the last return there were vexillations from the legion scattered all over the place and I should like to know where they all are now.’
‘Well, as you know, sir, the depot is at Bonna in Germania Superior, and around one thousand men are there or nearby. Then there are two cohorts at Viminiacum, and the equivalent of three strong ones at Dobreta working on the bridge.’ The grin broadened at this point, although Turbo could not guess why. ‘Both in Moesia – Superior that is. Can’t quite get used to one province being split into two, begging your pardon. Then a couple of smaller vexillations.’ He handed a tablet across to the praetor.
‘Thank you.’ Hadrian scanned the list. ‘Three hundred with two centurions at the praesidium of Piroboridava?’ He frowned, but before Turbo could explain, went on. ‘That’s Dacia isn’t it? Well, on the fringes at least, and across the Ister. I’m guessing they are not the only ones in garrison?’
A few hours ago Turbo had forgotten the name if he had ever heard it, but the warning had at least served that purpose and given time for information to be gathered. ‘They’re the biggest contingent, but there is also a parcel of auxiliaries. No whole units, although a mixed contingent is on its way. Yes, here we are, Brittones sub cura Titi Flavii Ferocis, no more specific than that, but all I know for sure is that there will be a lot more horses in the garrison soon, so that they will need barley and straw as well as wheat. It may mean that some of the troops already there will be withdrawn.’
‘Two hundred and twenty at Sarmizegethusa,’ Hadrian read, ‘and one hundred and sixty at Buridava.’
‘Also beyond the Ister, my lord. The ones at Sarmizegethusa are part of the observation force, keeping an eye on the king. If you remember the thinking was that detachments from several units could do the job, without leaving men of just one legion so exposed.’
‘And do we expect trouble from Decebalus?’
‘Not my field,’ Turbo said. ‘The frumentarii carry reports of that nature, but do not read them – not if they want to keep their jobs. However, judging from the shipments we oversee, we aren’t expecting anything big this year.’ Hercules’ balls, he thought, realising that he may have been indiscreet. ‘Still early days though,’ he added, hoping to muddy the matter.
Hadrian gave a pleasant smile, not in the least triumphant. Turbo realised that he was drumming his fingers on the table and stopped.
‘Are all the detachments beyond the Danube composed of veterani?’
‘My lord?’ Turbo’s fingers twitched again, but he just managed to restrain himself from tapping the wood. He considered for a moment. ‘No idea, if I am honest. We do not get that sort of information. Could be, I suppose – well, some anyway. They’re excused fatigues of course, but still liable for garrison duty.’
‘Not to worry, it was just a thought. How many men from Minervia do you have here at the moment?’ Hadrian asked.
‘Just three. A couple set off for the Rhine a few days ago and a few may arrive by the end of the month. Journeys take longer at this time of year.’ Turbo wondered whether he saw brief annoyance at his banal explanation.
‘Quite so.’
‘One is waiting outside, in case you wanted to have a word. Name is Celer. He’s served thirteen stipendia, and this is his second as a frumentarius. Shall I call for him?’
Hadrian nodded, so Turbo rang the little bell standing on his desk. Almost immediately a slim soldier marched into the room, wearing tunic, weapons’ belt and boots and slammed to attention.
‘At ease, Celer,’ Turbo told the soldier. ‘This noble gentleman is soon to take command of the legion and wishes to talk to you.’
‘Sir!’ Celer slackened his shoulders ever so slightly, while continuing to stare over the heads of the seated men, avoiding making eye contact.
‘My apologies,’ Hadrian said affably. ‘I regret interrupting your duties or even worse taking you away from well-earned rest. I know you frumentarii have to travel hard and fast – and then be willing at a moment’s notice to set out again.’
‘Sir.’ An experienced soldier sheltered behind that short word as he did his shield.
‘And you do not need to speak in praise of I Minervia. I know their reputation from my time as tribune and from when I served in Lord Trajan’s campaigns in Dacia. … I also appreciate that your duties take you away from your comrades and the legion, but am sure that you have friends with whom you keep in touch? Or relatives?’
Celer gave what might have been a shrug. ‘A brother, sir.’
‘Older?’
If he was surprised then Celer concealed it. Turbo was wary enough of his visitor to do the same, but could still not work out what was behind this interest.
‘Yes, sir,’ Celer said. ‘Eleven years older. He’s one of the originals.’
‘The first recruits when Domitian formed the legion?’
Turbo suspected that his mouth twitched at mention of the last of the Flavians, an emperor now formally damned by the Senate, his statues cast down and name erased from monuments.
‘That’s right, sir. Done twenty-two years, all with Minervia, and awarded dona twice.’
‘Any rank?’ Turbo asked.
Celer shook his head. ‘Doesn’t have the learning for it – or the brains truth be told. But he raised me and made sure I could read and write well before I joined up.’
‘Sounds a fine soldier – and a good brother,’ Hadrian said. For the first time Celer smiled. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Out of the way hole called Piroboridava, sir. They sent a few hundred veterans to keep an eye on the Dacians after they packed it in.’
‘The legion has more than its fair share of veterans?’
‘Fifteen hundred or so, sir.’
Turbo was surprised and guessed that Celer was as well, although the soldier did not show it, but finally understood. If he lasted the course, a legionary soldiered for twenty-five years, the last five with the status of veteran, and then took honourable discharge with the emperor’s thanks, best wishes and a decent bounty – or failing that a plot of land in some benighted colony. Most legions had been around for generations, the majority since the days of the Divine Augustus more than a century ago. That tended to give them a good spread of ages in the ranks, if always weighted a little towards the young because of the toll taken by war, the ravages of disease, desertion and those accidents that always happened. A new legion was different, since apart from a few soldiers transferred in from elsewhere, you began with everyone enlisting over the course of a few months.