Sword of Rome by Douglas Jackson Page A

leader, but his natural authority had set him apart and he had been driven on by other men’s flattery and zeal. Those men were now standing safe among their shipmates and he wished that Poseidon would whisk him back to them. But Milo had led boarding parties and battled pirates and he had a responsibility and he had a just cause. He produced his smartest salute.
    ‘Hail, mighty Caesar. Tiberius Milo and the first naval detachment salute and greet you.’
    He didn’t notice Galba’s twitch at the name Tiberius. The Emperor continued to look down on him as if he were some strange animalencountered on a mountain path; a rodent with two tails, or a bizarrely patterned snake. Milo took his silence as leave to continue.
    ‘We, the men of the first naval detachment, are here to seek confirmation of the rights and privileges granted to us by your predecessor, Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar.’ Another twitch, almost a flinch, and this time Milo did notice. His speech slowed and became hesitant. The words that had sounded so fine when he had memorized them seemed hollow and weak out here on the road. ‘Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar,’ he repeated nervously, ‘who called us from our barracks and our galleys at Misenum and bade us take arms and fight – for Rome.’
    His comrades sensed his nervousness and shouts of encouragement came from beyond the line of Praetorians protecting the road. ‘You tell him, Milo!’ ‘We want what we were promised!’ ‘Let us fight!’
    For the first time, Galba acknowledged the presence of the men by the road with a long look of aristocratic disdain. When his gaze returned to Milo and the five men accompanying him his expression had changed to one of curiosity. First and foremost, Servius Sulpicius Galba was a lawyer; his zeal for fairness and justice, if it had ever existed, was long gone, but he still had a zeal for the facts that would determine the outcome of any case.
    ‘And what are these right and privileges you speak of?’
    Milo swallowed, but when he spoke his voice was strong and it carried to the men he had brought here. ‘The right to march behind an eagle as a properly constituted legion of the Empire. The right to bear arms as legionaries of the Roman state. The right to Roman citizenship at the end of enlistment; that enlistment to be twenty-five years and its start date determined by the date of signing up to the recruit’s first ship. The right to the full pay, privileges and conditions of a legionary soldier at current rank held.’ Each sentence was greeted by roars of approval that swelled in volume. ‘The right to a pension and a grant of land at completion of service.’
    Galba seemed unaware of the silence that followed and it stretched out until it became almost unbearable. Slowly, the shouting began again, but as it built in power the Emperor raised his hand for quiet.
    ‘These rights you speak of are indeed the universal rights of a legionary, and it is correct that any man who fights behind an eagle standard is entitled to them …’
    ‘Aye.’ A huge shout went up and Milo grinned as he tasted the first fruits of victory. But beneath the rim of his gilded helmet Galba’s eyes contained a lawyer’s sly glint.
    ‘Yet,’ he affected puzzlement, ‘did I not hear you say “granted”?’
    ‘The Emperor Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar …’
    ‘Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar is no longer Emperor, but I will forgive you that.’
    ‘… paraded us before him and pledged that we would be a legion.’
    ‘But he did not
make
you a legion,’ Galba pointed out, his tone that of a father gently lecturing a five-year-old child. ‘I see no eagle, no cohort standards, none of the trappings of a legion. Perhaps it was
intended
that they should be granted, and if they had been granted I would confirm them, but it is clear to me that they have not. Am I to be bound by the whims of my predecessor?’ He turned his mount so he was facing the men behind the