Optio: Ancient Rome meets Ancient Germania... (Quintus Roman Thrillers Book 3) by Neil Denby

Author:Neil Denby [Denby, Neil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2024-01-26T00:00:00+00:00

XXII: Rufus Tiberius Junii

The centurions, seeing the situation under control, looked across at their own lines, where men were moving from their positions like bees buzzing from a hive. They shouted to force the breaking tide back into formation. Furius Lentulus had the foresight to shoot an urgent command to a cornicen.

‘Blow the assembly, now!’

The cornicen complied and repeated the three short notes and one long twice. He was about to blow again when the centurion raised his hand. ‘Enough.’

The men had settled. Like leaves in a forest disturbed by a sudden wind, they had broken rank, then, as the breeze passed, fallen back into their proper places. A murmur of conversation still hung in the air until Centurion Marius yelled, ‘Silence! All of you, silence!’

‘Do not strike,’ Flavius ordered firmly and loud enough for the men to hear. ‘He has drawn no weapon. Let him speak.’

The points of the spears and swords withdrew, but not far. Rufus dared to raise his head to look at his commander, the height of the horse meaning that he was towered over, and needed to bend his neck painfully. He did not let go of Flavius’ foot. Quintus, and the others holding the weapons, could hear, but not the men in the centuries — Rufus spoke too quietly.

‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I am sorry for my foolishness, but I mean you no harm.’

‘Your plea, soldier, and quickly.’

Rufus did not hesitate. ‘The standard, sir. The symbol of the First.’

‘What of it?’ Flavius turned and looked at the insignificant pole in its mounting.

‘Without its gods, the century is cursed, sir.’

‘Shamed, but not cursed, soldier. The standard is still with the cohort. It was not lost.’

‘The shame, sir, I could lift it. I could carry it, sir.’

‘A signifer? You?’ Flavius spoke to Galba. ‘What do you think, Centurion? A knave or a fool?’

‘Or neither, sir.’ Galba knew the risk that the legionary had taken; he could easily have been dead. ‘A brave legionary, perhaps.’

‘A true Roman, you think?’

Galba did not know which of the alternatives the commander would favour, so stayed silent, pursing his lips as if in thought.

‘You look German,’ Flavius said to Rufus, with disdain. ‘That moustache, that topknot — are you German?’

‘I am not, sir. I saw such a moustache on one of the prisoners of divine Julius.’ Rufus spoke quickly. ‘I was but a boy when the Gaul’s great chieftain was strangled. It was my first execution. I admired his moustache —’ he took a deep breath and steadied himself — ‘though it would be many years before I could grow one.’

Quintus knew the story. Rufus was taken to Rome when he was just five or six years old, and saw the slow death of the chieftain Vercingetorix, and the quicker deaths of many other Germani forced to fight each other for entertainment. Flavius’ brows knotted, perhaps accepting the story, perhaps not. ‘How long have you served?’

‘Sixteen years, sir. I signed on again.’

‘You have seen action?’

‘I have, sir. A small part in the civil war.

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