‘Just some,’ Macer said after waiting a long time for a fuller answer. Every unit had its unpopular officers, the tyrants, the floggers, the extortioners and the ones who preyed on the soldiers’ women, or worse yet, their children. They were rare, and it took weak or lazy superiors to let matters get out of hand. Then there were mutinies or murders, and people died, sometimes even the man or men who had caused it all in the first place. It was hard to tell, but Ferox did not strike him as that sort of officer. ‘Just some,’ he repeated.
At least the meal was nothing special. Macer was no slave to his stomach, but had come to enjoy the comforts of rank and decent wealth. However, without his even making the suggestion, his steward had provided campaign meals for his last few days with the eagles. It reminded him of when he was young, fighting those crazy, brave rebels in Judaea under Vespasian and Titus, or with the heavy scent of pine resin as they chased the Chatti through their forests.
Ferox did not seem to mind being given a bowl of thick stew, flavoured with salty bacon, along with cheap posca to drink. The fine-grained bread was a concession, but having hard tack biscuit with his meal would have been going too far. Still, they sat on camp stools on either side of a folding table in one of the side rooms – the walls were colourful, but only painted in fairly simple geometric patterns. Another luxury was the warmth. As one of the few partially stone buildings in the fort, the commander’s praetorium had its own bath suite and the rooms butting on to it were always warmed by the constantly tended furnace. That was a luxury, and one that he would never have ordered for himself. Macer had come here prostrated by fever in the last weeks before the Dacian king made peace. This had been the closest base with a big hospital, and he had spent weeks there in peril of his life and months recovering. In the meantime the legionaries had decided to build a far more comfortable house for the fort’s commander than was normal on a site like this. He took it both as a complement and a sign that they understood how the army worked. When he recovered, he was by far the most senior officer in the area, already present at a fort with such a mixed garrison, while I Minervia were scattered and there was not really a main camp for him to supervise. So the army put him in charge here, and thanks to the enthusiasm of the soldiers he had lived in as much comfort as such a bleak spot could offer. Over the months and years his health had recovered a little, and it was nice to be his own master on a day-to-day basis, rather than deferring to aristocrats, who were either lazy, stupid, or just interfered in things they did not understand. Yet the appointment also told him that there would be no offer of another post after this one. His time with the eagles was done, at least if he could bring himself in all conscience to leave, now that a replacement had arrived.
Macer tried again to get at the truth. ‘Sabinus tells me that you killed their king.’
‘Yes.’ Actually Vindex had done the killing, but they had both hunted the man down and Ferox had been in charge.
‘Youthful high spirits, I presume?’ Macer’s temper was rising and he fought it down. Instead he sighed again, took another spoonful of the stew, savoured it, and then put the spoon down. ‘You do not know me,’ he began, ‘but I spent two years as a cornicularius, then five as principalis before being raised to centurion. I did not have influential friends, but I kept on climbing, slowly, but steadily. I led my own cohort, and at long last got the step to primus pilus and now praefectus castrorum. I am an eques,’ he held up his hand to show the ring, ‘and own an estate near Lepcis Magna. I grew up there, the gap-toothed lad of a tanner, and I’m going back to lord it over them and serve on the council. Now do you know what all that means?’
‘That you are a damned good soldier,’ Ferox said, his admiration genuine.
Macer grunted at the compliment. ‘What it really means is that I have seen it all and done it all. And one thing I have done more times than I can remember is bullshit to senior officers, and I’m not about to sit here and let you do it to me. So talk. Who was this king and what happened?’
‘His name was Claudius Aviragus, from the royal line of the Brigantes, they’re the—’
‘I was three years with XX Valeria Victrix under Agricola,’ Macer cut in.
‘He was from their royal house, and he or his sister in line to rule, assuming Rome decided to let the tribe have a king or queen. He’d been educated in Gaul and Rome, served as equestrian officer…’
‘Useless bastards every one of them,’ Macer muttered.
‘Aye. … Well this one got ambitious, started talking to men plotting to overthrow the Lord Trajan, and rebelled. We beat him – in the end, that is – and Neratius Marcellus, the legatus Augusti, sent me to hunt Aviragus down and bring back his head.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘I obeyed my orders.’
Macer nodded. The emperor had already been on the Danube by the time news of the rising reached Rome. An official report was read in the Senate and then published, which merely stated that there had been disturbances in Britannia, principally the north, and that after some fighting the miscreants had been killed or arrested. No one had even suggested that Trajan be hailed as imperator for the success of his local commander, implying that it was all a minor affair, and then soon the big war with Dacia had begun and everyone forgot about some problems with brigands in a distant province.
‘The Brigantes are known for their loyalty,’ Macer said. ‘So am I right in thinking that the ones wanting to kill you served this Aviragus?’
‘There was a royal ala and cohort trained and equipped like regular auxiliaries. Aviragus commanded the cavalry, but all of them followed him when he raised an army.’ Ferox did his best to explain, deciding that Macer was sensible enough to treat with respect. So he talked about how the rebels had announced that Trajan was dead and Neratius Marcellus trying to make himself emperor, which meant that they were not revolting against Rome, only against a usurper. He even mentioned the rout of the first column sent against them, and the desperate battle to break the rebel army, only won when enough loyal Brigantes came to the Romans’ aid.
‘How many of the king’s men survived?’ Macer asked.
‘More than half were taken prisoner more or less unscathed. The wounded were sent home, others fled and were not caught. Apart from the leaders, no one was too interested to go hunting for them.’
‘How many were executed?’ Macer’s tone was matter of fact. Both men knew the fate of rebels. ‘I take it that they did not just tell the prisoners that they were conscripted into the army and place you in charge.’
Ferox gave a wry smile. ‘Not quite. At least, not straightaway. But this was not a war, you see, not a rebellion, however it looked. Too many important people were connected, more or less distantly, and with the emperor about to win glory on behalf of the res publica, public trials and executions would not have fitted with the spirit of the age. All this was just a disturbance by bandit leaders, a few good men turned bad, and nothing to threaten the peace and stability of the empire.’
Macer grunted, but was sensible enough to let Ferox tell it in his own way, now that he had started.
‘A couple of dozen died, the executions private and quick – no crucifixions or trips to the arena. About a hundred were condemned to the mines, although in the event most ended up working on the salt beds. I would guess as many more were vouched for by loyal leaders, most of all Aviragus’ sister Enica, who had been staunch throughout, and they took a fresh oath to Rome and to serve her. That left almost three hundred, all of whom were given a once in a lifetime opportunity to enlist in the army.’