doing there.
It was already late in the year when the army was sent on its recce of Britain. Two legions had been selected for this operation: mine, the VIIth, and another well-blooded legion, the Xth. I had only just joined. A free man, I had little cash, and couldn’t join one of the greater cohorts. No, I was stuck in the mob called the “
velites
” of the VIIth legion. The cohorts weren’t split into the four groups now, but the front line, the skirmishers, still got that nickname.
Velites
– men with little money and no standing. I suited them perfectly. And, my, wasn’t I glad to learn that I was to be attached to the force going over the sea to attack a land filled with hordes of particularly vicious pagans. I had hardly learned how to use my
gladius
or
pilum
when I was told I was to go.
The men of my band were a shabby lot. We all had the same woollen tunic, leather coat reinforced with bands of steel, leather caps, greaves, a cloak and all the paraphernalia of a soldier, but somehow my companions managed to make all appear filthy and worn, no matter how new it might be.
Here in the hostages’ pen at least they looked smarter because of the comparison with our prisoners.
They were an odd assortment. The king’s relations had uniformly broad shoulders, but they weren’t tall, and their rickety legs spoke of malnutrition. Two had lost a lot of teeth; I think it was the scurvy got them because of bad harvests. The way these natives tried to farm was laughable,and many starved even when the weather was kind. All were tattooed, with various black and green swirls adorning their cheeks, foreheads, arms and breasts. God knows why pagans do that. It must hurt like hell.
The dead boy’s uncle (he had a very long name – I’ll call him “Verc” because that’s the nearest I can get to it) was at his side, tears of rage dropping from his sallow cheeks. He was heavily tattooed, with the drawn features of a man who has suffered hunger and the pain of loss. Deep-set eyes met mine unflinchingly. Behind him were the cousins of the dead man, as though ordered away, so that Verc could denounce us and demand compensation without risking their lives. I felt a fleeting respect for him at the sight.
One, a lad called “Trin” by us, stood back at the wall, his black eyes restless, going from one to another of us, like a man who was about to spring an attack, and I gripped my sword more tightly as I met his gaze. The stupid arse was actually thinking of making a break for it, and I motioned with my hand to the men behind me to block the entrance. There was a sturdy gate for the stockade, and my lads pulled it across quickly, the guards remaining outside sliding the bar across to lock it. Only then did the lad seem to realize he had no escape. Like a trapped dog, he glared and walked up and down, but made no attempt on us.
There were three in there who were my own personal comrades. Pugio, named after the dagger made from a cut-down
gladius
, was well named. Short, dark, wiry, with high cheekbones and narrow features, his eyes were suspicious and sharp in a face already scarred from a hundred fights; he was as unforgiving as a whore from Syracuse. Quick to anger, it took the three of us to calm him when he felt insulted. Once, I remember all of us dragging him to the ground when he thought a man cursing a dog had referred to his own ancestry. The man had been a legionnaire, but that wouldn’thold him back, not Pugio. If he thought he’d been maligned, he would strike. But for all that, Pugio was loyal and steadfast as I had learned during the landing from the sea. If you were standing in line waiting for the enemy, you didn’t want a better man at your side.
Certainly he was better than the man we all called Consul. He was a languid, tall, well-bred man, with the ability to sneer at his superiors without their being able to respond, he was so careful in his language. His hair was a peculiar light shade, and some
It was already late in the year when the army was sent on its recce of Britain. Two legions had been selected for this operation: mine, the VIIth, and another well-blooded legion, the Xth. I had only just joined. A free man, I had little cash, and couldn’t join one of the greater cohorts. No, I was stuck in the mob called the “
velites
” of the VIIth legion. The cohorts weren’t split into the four groups now, but the front line, the skirmishers, still got that nickname.
Velites
– men with little money and no standing. I suited them perfectly. And, my, wasn’t I glad to learn that I was to be attached to the force going over the sea to attack a land filled with hordes of particularly vicious pagans. I had hardly learned how to use my
gladius
or
pilum
when I was told I was to go.
The men of my band were a shabby lot. We all had the same woollen tunic, leather coat reinforced with bands of steel, leather caps, greaves, a cloak and all the paraphernalia of a soldier, but somehow my companions managed to make all appear filthy and worn, no matter how new it might be.
Here in the hostages’ pen at least they looked smarter because of the comparison with our prisoners.
They were an odd assortment. The king’s relations had uniformly broad shoulders, but they weren’t tall, and their rickety legs spoke of malnutrition. Two had lost a lot of teeth; I think it was the scurvy got them because of bad harvests. The way these natives tried to farm was laughable,and many starved even when the weather was kind. All were tattooed, with various black and green swirls adorning their cheeks, foreheads, arms and breasts. God knows why pagans do that. It must hurt like hell.
The dead boy’s uncle (he had a very long name – I’ll call him “Verc” because that’s the nearest I can get to it) was at his side, tears of rage dropping from his sallow cheeks. He was heavily tattooed, with the drawn features of a man who has suffered hunger and the pain of loss. Deep-set eyes met mine unflinchingly. Behind him were the cousins of the dead man, as though ordered away, so that Verc could denounce us and demand compensation without risking their lives. I felt a fleeting respect for him at the sight.
One, a lad called “Trin” by us, stood back at the wall, his black eyes restless, going from one to another of us, like a man who was about to spring an attack, and I gripped my sword more tightly as I met his gaze. The stupid arse was actually thinking of making a break for it, and I motioned with my hand to the men behind me to block the entrance. There was a sturdy gate for the stockade, and my lads pulled it across quickly, the guards remaining outside sliding the bar across to lock it. Only then did the lad seem to realize he had no escape. Like a trapped dog, he glared and walked up and down, but made no attempt on us.
There were three in there who were my own personal comrades. Pugio, named after the dagger made from a cut-down
gladius
, was well named. Short, dark, wiry, with high cheekbones and narrow features, his eyes were suspicious and sharp in a face already scarred from a hundred fights; he was as unforgiving as a whore from Syracuse. Quick to anger, it took the three of us to calm him when he felt insulted. Once, I remember all of us dragging him to the ground when he thought a man cursing a dog had referred to his own ancestry. The man had been a legionnaire, but that wouldn’thold him back, not Pugio. If he thought he’d been maligned, he would strike. But for all that, Pugio was loyal and steadfast as I had learned during the landing from the sea. If you were standing in line waiting for the enemy, you didn’t want a better man at your side.
Certainly he was better than the man we all called Consul. He was a languid, tall, well-bred man, with the ability to sneer at his superiors without their being able to respond, he was so careful in his language. His hair was a peculiar light shade, and some
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