Roma Victrix by Russell Whitfield Read Free Book Online Page A

after some thought. ‘You can’t trust the natives – even the supposedly loyal ones – so our maps are probably inaccurate.’ He gestured at the river to their west. ‘Following the Olt is slowing us. In the circumstances it’s still the best option, but the going is hard.’
    â€˜Your suggestion?’
    â€˜I’d call a halt now, get the lads to dig out the marching camp early. If I’m feeling the cold and miseries with my arse sat on a horse, the boys must be feeling it twice as badly. It’ll do their morale the world of good to have an easy day of it today.’
    Fuscus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good. I like that in a soldier, Valerian. Putting the lads first. Good.’ There was a pause, and Valerian steeled himself as Fuscus bellowed for his standard bearer at a level that would have put an enraged Jupiter to shame.
    The signifier was not long in coming. A huge man, he carried the honour-laden standard of the Fifth Alaudae high, his bearing as straight as the staff he bore. And he was probably warmer than everyone else in his heavy lion’s head cloak.
    â€˜Call a halt, Cilo!’ Fuscus ordered. ‘Let’s get the camp built early tonight.’
    â€˜Sir.’ Cilo saluted and made off. Shortly, the massive column shuddered to a stop as the general’s command rippled through the ranks.
    Valerian grinned, despite himself. No matter how many times he had seen this, it never ceased to amaze him. They had brought five legions – thirty thousand men – across the Danube to put paid to the Dacian incursions into Roman territory: it was a huge army by any standards, but the logistics and organisation that made Rome master of the world were demonstrated in the genius of her military routine.
    Like a giant colony of ants, each man knew his particular role.
    They had practiced this manoeuvre so often they could probably do it in their sleep. Two legions marched to the fore, taking up a defensive position as the rest of the army began to dig. The old adage was true – the most devastating weapon in the legionary’s arsenal was not the gladius but the shovel.
    With astonishing rapidity, a ditch and rampart was created and defensive stakes pounded into the wet earth. Then the marching camp itself began to take shape: it was a temporary city that would house the sleeping legions in the heart of enemy territory, a redoubt to which the army could fall back should a day go against them, and indeed it was a weapon of terror in a very real sense. To a barbarian it must seem as though some dark magic sowed these cities in their earth, fortresses that would spill out Roman soldiers bent on their destruction. Valerian always found this part of the day comforting.
    The prospect of hearty food, passable campaign wine and a decent night’s sleep in the safety of the camp was certainly reassuring. But, as much as he might want to get out of his sodden clothes and have his slaves prepare a bath, he knew he had work to do first.
    Valerian made his way to his cohort’s section of the camp. He could have found it with his eyes closed, of course; all marching camps were constructed in exactly the same way and everyone had an assigned billet. From Britannia to Africa, one could walk in any encampment and not get lost.
    Fires were now beginning to spark up all over the fortress as men settled down for their evening meal. Valerian quickened his step, anxious to see to his own needs. But Julius Caesar had made it a point personally to see to the welfare of the men under his command first, as had Gaius Marius before him. Valerian was sometimes unsure as to how effective this was as a morale-boosting exercise.
    Most of the men seemed to hold the equestrian class in deep contempt, which was hardly fair. After all, without the equestrians there would be no empire. Still, the average legionary was hardly liable to have a philosophical view on the