The Legions of the Mist Read online

  The Legions of the Mist

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Historical Note

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Place Names

  Copyright

  For John

  Wherever the Roman conquers, there he dwells.

  Seneca

  Historical Note

  Sometime during the beginning of the second century A.D., the Ninth Legion Hispana marched into the mists of Roman-occupied Britain and disappeared forever.

  Rome erased their name and number from the legionary rolls, and so far no British farmer has turned up a buried graveyard with his plow, to show where they lie.

  Perhaps they turned their backs on everything that was of their own world and melted into the native tribes. Perhaps they were ambushed and cut down. All we know for certain is that they vanished as surely as if the ground had opened to swallow them, taking with them their Eagle, the life and honor of the Legion, and leaving behind only the few men who happened to be detached from the Hispana when it marched out that last day.

  I have reconstructed these last years of the Ninth Hispana from the opinions and research of many distinguished historians, with admitted leaps of imagination in between. None of the people in this story, with the exception of the Emperors Trajan and Hadrian and certain other historical figures, exists outside these pages, although someone very like them may well have walked the paths which I have set Justin and Vortrix on, and followed the road the lost Hispana took.

  I

  Eburacum Fortress

  ‘There you are.’ The decurion of the supply train escort gestured with his riding crop where the grey dominance of Eburacum Fortress rose above the blue-green of the surrounding plain. Outside its stone and timber bulwark there was nothing for miles but the empty land and the wild, sorrowful cry of the curlews. ‘It may not look like much, but it’s all that keeps the north under wraps, I can tell you.’

  The cohort centurion beside him nodded and turned a grim gaze on the fort. He was young, and a few locks of wavy brown hair which not even a military haircut could disguise rippled under the rim of his helmet in the light breeze. His brows were sharp-angled and expressive above an almost unnecessarily Roman nose, and the irises of his eyes were a startling amber color. He regarded his destination with every evidence of distaste.

  ‘Not what you’re used to, I expect.’ The decurion of cavalry grinned at him with the friendly malice of the horseman for the foot soldier.

  ‘No,’ Justin said shortly.

  ‘Now my lads,’ the decurion went on, ‘they’re used to sleeping just about anywhere there’s fodder for the horses. Haven’t had time to get too fine in their ways. But you won’t find it too bad, I expect.’

  ‘I haven’t seen such a piss poor example of the Emperor’s service in my life,’ Justin said frankly. ‘And I’ve been around.’ They halted outside the fortress gate and he dismounted, handing his reins over to the cavalryman. ‘Thank you for the escort and the mount,’ he said. ‘I firmly hope I shan’t be here when next you pass this way, or I’d invite you to stop in.’

  The decurion of cavalry raised his crop in a friendly salute and wheeled his troop round onto the main road again. Twitching the folds of his cloak into place (it smelled vaguely of horse, he noted), Justin gave his name and business to the sentries at the gate, and they passed him through into the Via Praetoria.

  Eburacum Fortress, planted like a rock in the bend of a river, would have made ten of the quarters which Justin’s cohort had shared during his last posting at the African seaport of Hippo Regius. But compared to that Legion’s home base, the shining modern military city of Lambaesis, British Eburacum wore the gone-to-seed air of a passed-over general.

  The town, which huddled under its ramparts as close as the intervening river would allow, had been equally unimpressive, a hodgepodge of wine stalls, shops, houses, and dog kennels, cheerfully intermingled with temples to an amazing variety of gods – British, Roman, Greek, Egyptian, native gods, and those adopted by soldiers in every province in the Empire. And it was cold, as cold as his old commander had predicted, with a chill that seemed to bite into the bone.

  A detachment passed him in full marching gear, and swung south out of the main gate, Auxiliaries and native drafts mostly, with a few legionary troops thrown in, bound, he supposed, for the Emperor’s Parthian wars. He had passed several more on the road north. It was a wonder there were enough troops left to garrison this fort, he thought, as he halted outside the command quarters in the Principia and gave his name to the Optio on duty. Above him loomed the great, golden Eagle of the Legion, perched on crossed thunderbolts with its silver wings swept back, above a staff impressive with gilded wreaths of honor. Justin paused to read its number and titles: Legio IX Hispana, Triumphalis, Macedonica.

  Legions might be named for the Emperor who raised them, like the Third Augusta, or for their prowess, like the Sixth Victrix, or for their country of recruitment. The Ninth Legion Hispana had been born in Spain, a proud Legion which had seen distinguished service in Pannonia before it had come to Britain with Claudius Caesar’s invasion force.

  The cold sunlight glinted on the Eagle’s beak and talons, and it seemed to soar above its disreputable surroundings. Justin saluted it quietly, the incarnation of an ancient service, and felt the gentle tug of the safe, the familiar. The last Eagle he had saluted had cast its winged shadow on the hot sands of Africa, but the feeling had been much the same…

  ‘Centurion Corvus?’ The Optio regarded him impatiently. ‘If you are quite ready now, the Legate will see you.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry.’ Justin turned and followed him across the courtyard to the Legate’s office.

  ‘Centurion Julius Justinius Corvus reporting, sir.’ Reluctantly he handed the Legate his orders.

  Metius Lupus glanced at the tablet. ‘From Africa, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I trust you had a satisfactory crossing. What was your transport?’

  ‘The Nausicaä. She wallowed like a pig, sir,’ he added frankly. ‘I came north from Londinium with a supply train.’

  ‘I can’t say that I blame you,’ the Legate said. ‘That channel crossing always turns one’s stomach inside out. Well, well, you’ll find it very different here, I imagine.’ He nodded his dismissal. ‘You can report to duty in the morning, Centurion. The Optio will show you where to find your quarters.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Justin gave a crashing salute and followed the Optio to the door.

  ‘Straight down there, sir. You’ll see the officers’ block on the right.’

  Justin thanked him politely. The Optios, attached to headquarters staff and other departments, saw to the myriad inner workings of a Roman camp, and could assure an officer’s comfort or outright misery in a new post.

  Justin went where the Optio had pointed, past blocks of barracks, storerooms, and workshops. Eburacum was immense, a fully self-contained fortress sprawled over some fifty acres, with great stone walls at either end and ramparts of timber and earth. At the river dock, supply ships put in to unload sacks of meal from the corn country to the south, and everywhere legionaries and auxiliary troops bustled back and forth, their cloaks whipping about them
in the stiff breeze. A troop of cavalry clattered by on their way to drill, and a group of ‘on report’ miscreants with mops in hand turned reluctantly into the latrine under the eagle eye of a centurion. The armorer’s hammer rang against the shouting from the parade ground, and the bugler shrilled ‘Change of Sentries.’ To anyone not used to the din that 5,000 soldiers could make, it would have been unbearable, but to Justin that much, at least, was the sound of home.

  Another centurion, a slim young man with curling dark hair like a faun’s and the uniform of a cohort commander, met him at the door of the officers’ quarters.

  ‘You’ll be the one come to take over the Eighth,’ he said. ‘I’m Favonius, Third Cohort. You’re in 15, I think. You’ve just time for a splash before dinner.’ He eyed Justin’s grimy uniform. ‘Expect you’d like to soak off the march. Hai, Martius, wait!’ he called after another centurion just disappearing around the corner. ‘Bathhouse is that way,’ he added, sprinting to catch up to his friend.

  Justin wandered down the row of small limewashed, identical rooms until he found number 15. He dropped his kit thankfully on the bed, followed by the vine staff of his rank, a dagger and short sword in leather scabbards banded with bronze, an iron helmet crested fanwise with red, and a rectangular shield overlaid with wings and jagged bolts of iron barbed like arrows at the ends. On a lower corner, it bore his name and rank, and now the number of the Ninth Hispana. He struggled out of his breastplate and harness tunic and added them to the pile of gear on the bed. Then, catching up his cloak, scarlet for a cohort centurion, he went in search of a bath.

  The bathhouse was crowded with laughing, naked figures who greeted him amiably and returned to their pursuits, soaking out the day’s work in the steam chamber, splashing happily in the main pool, or braving the invigorating rigors of the cold bath. Justin was filthy from the long march and his muscles ached. He rinsed and scraped himself clean, and then slipped gratefully into the hot pool. He lay aloof, soaking and searching vainly for the golden words that might have swayed the commander and kept him in Hippo Regius, until he realized that the bathhouse had grown empty, and he was going to miss dinner. Pulling himself up on the side of the pool, he applied a hasty towel and slipped damply into the folds of his uniform tunic.

  ‘Wait, friend!’ he called to the last occupant of the baths, a man fastening his sandals on the far side of the pool.

  The man slipped the buckle home and stood up. He was older than Justin by a few years, with a tanned complexion and a very slight limp in his stride. ‘In a hurry?’ he inquired mildly.

  ‘Just lost,’ Justin said. ‘And I want my dinner.’ He came round to the other man’s side. ‘I’m Justin – Justinius Corvus. I’m to command the Eighth Cohort.’

  The dark-haired man held out a hand. ‘I’m Gaius Licinius. Senior surgeon. Come along then, and I’ll put you on the right road. I was heading that way myself.’

  ‘My thanks. I met one of the other cohort officers, Favonius I think he said his name was, and he showed me the baths, but I forgot to ask about the mess hall.’ Justin fell into step beside Licinius.

  ‘Young idiot!’ the surgeon said irritably, apparently referring to Favonius. ‘I had one of his men on sick parade this morning, said he’d slipped down the stairs from the North Rampart. Not a mark on him, but he ‘felt awful peculiar, sir.’ If I was his centurion, I’d have made him feel more peculiar yet.’

  They reached the mess hall, and Licinius took Justin off to sit with him, introducing him to some of the other officers, and to the Legion’s junior surgeon, Flavius, a brown-haired boy with a cheerful face. It was a mixed bag of men, many of them young, as junior officers were apt to be, career men, following the Eagles as their fathers and grandfathers had. Most were Roman by citizenship only, offspring of Army families born in the four corners of the Empire.

  For the most part they seemed eager enough, but there was also an air of carelessness and an underlying tinge of depression that Justin had not encountered before. Listening to Favonius and Centurion Martius chatting happily about a wager on a cockfight, he wondered just what was behind the surgeon’s animosity toward Favonius. Then he shrugged and applied himself to a plate of bread, eggs, and fish, washed down with routine-issue wine. He was hungry, and although Army food was never more than serviceable, there was at least plenty of it.

  * * *

  Lying on his back on the cot bed in his quarters that night and staring wakefully out the one high window, Justin turned the day over in his mind. The Legate, a heavy pink and grey man with a harassed expression, had stopped him after dinner and asked him how he liked Eburacum so far, and Justin had lied in his teeth and said that he liked it very much, sir, privately deciding to put in for transfer the minute he could decently do so.

  Exploring the great fort, he had discovered that it was indeed as unkempt as it had appeared on first impression, and a number of the men were sloppily dressed as well. Even the walls were in bad shape, although he noticed signs of recent repair in some places. It was none of it bad enough to be outstanding, but compared to Lambaesis, Eburacum was a mess. To make matters worse, most of the officers, although they looked fine, seemed indifferent to any problems. Except perhaps for Licinius. The surgeon had a military acumen more usually found in the Centuriate than the Army Medical Corps, and Justin suspected that there was a good deal Licinius could tell him about Eburacum, most probably none of it good…

  So here he was, proud commander of 480 bad examples… There was a thin line of moonlight coming through the window, and Justin wiggled one foot idly, watching the patterns it made on the heavy blanket. He remembered the commander saying that the Ninth would provide him with enough work to keep him out of trouble. So he had known, Typhon take him. Suddenly he laughed and rolled over, drawing the blanket up around his ears and thinking regretfully of the soft African nights. Before he slept, he said several short prayers that the commander found his next post in Britain.

  The next morning Justin encountered more evidence of the general state of affairs in Eburacum when he received his orders and found his cohort assigned to repair duty on the northwest wall, which most certainly needed it.

  The five young centurions under him were good men, if a trifle carefree, but that couldn’t be said of the men. They were lazy and bad tempered and sloppy, the greater part of them. And what was worse, it appeared that his predecessor had been letting them get away with it. They were clearly surprised when he set them to re-doing yesterday’s work, most of which looked as if it would have come down again at the slightest pressure.

  Justin spent a frustrating day trying to impress a sense of discipline on men who, apparently judging him by their previous commander, showed a regrettable tendency to think that the centurion was only being funny. After having sent one man to the guardhouse for the rest of the day to reflect on his sins, applied the vine staff to the shoulders of another, and told a third that if he did not take the time to mix the mortar properly, he, Justin, would personally cement him into it, the work went better, but Justin knew that any time he turned his back it still stopped, and it was still being done sloppily for all his orders. Nor, he thought, doing a quick count, did the cohort seem to be up to its paper strength.

  By the time he came off duty, covered with a fine white dust, he was tired and thoroughly irritable, a mood which remained with him as he stalked into the mess hall, his hair still damp from the bath. He met Licinius at the door. The surgeon took one look at his expression and took Justin off to sit with him.

  ‘You look mad enough to chew a sword in half,’ Licinius said placidly, drawing out a bench at the far table. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Incompetent… lazy… underdisciplined…’ Justin ticked his grievances off on one hand.

  ‘I see,’ Licinius said, cracking open an egg.

  ‘And falling apart. Even Hippo Regius was better kept up.’

  ‘Is that where you were before?’

  ‘I had the Sixth Cohort of t
he Third Augusta out of Lambaesis. We drew garrison duty there for a while. If I had any brains, I’d be there now.’

  ‘The Sixth.’ Licinius studied his plate.

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with my command,’ Justin said hastily. ‘I took on a rather silly sort of bet and got booted down two cohorts for it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Well, Posides, who had the cavalry command there, was going on about what strict training the gladiators go through,’ Justin said, feeling, in retrospect, a little foolish, ‘and I said that that might be true in Rome, but that in a place like Hippo Regius a man with ordinary military training could easily hold his own. Of course the end of it was that he bet me I couldn’t, so I took the net-and-trident’s place in the Volcanalia games to prove my point. Made Posides put up the bribe for the arena master, though,’ he added, and Licinius choked on his egg.

  ‘If the Legate hadn’t come out from Lambaesis that week, I mightn’t have got anything but a few days confined to quarters, but as it was, the commander was having heart failure for fear he’d see me.’

  ‘So I should think,’ Licinius said when he had recovered.

  ‘That and the fact that he’d put a week’s pay on the sword-and-buckler man before he found out the other one was me.’

  Licinius gave an undignified whoop of laughter that made several men near them turn and stare. ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Yes. They say the net-and-trident man has the advantage, and the arena master assured me that his men rarely got killed, but along about halfway through it dawned on me that arena masters have been known to lie. I didn’t kill the other fellow, of course.’

  ‘And the commander packed you off to Britain for your sins.’

  ‘He’d have sent me farther, I think, if the Empire had gone any farther.’

  ‘We are rather at the end of the world. Britain grows on you after a while, though.’

  Justin looked about him with distaste. ‘It hasn’t so far.’