Vespasian: Tribune of Rome by Robert Fabbri Read Free Book Online

and legionary cooking gear and rations out the back.’
    ‘What about you?’ Vespasian asked, getting to his feet.
    ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, little brother, I’m not in training. I’ve got breakfast waiting for me in the triclinium.’ And off he went in search of it, leaving Vespasian struggling with his sandals in the dark and cursing the throbbing of his nose. It had been set on their return by Chloe, an old Greek house slave whose father had been a doctor. She was the only person on the estate with any medical knowledge; having assisted her father until his death, she had sold herself into slavery as an alternative to destitution. She had clicked the cartilage back into place, a process that had been more painful than the original injury, and then applied a poultice of wet clay mixed with herbs and honey that she secured in place with bandages.The poultice had hardened overnight and was now putting pressure on the swelling.
    When he got outside he found his supplies in a heap on the ground. He pulled his cloak close around his shoulders against the chill, pre-dawn air, and started struggling to make a fire as best he could in the gloom.
    Once he had a decent flame going he could finally see his rations: a cup of barley, a thick slice of bacon, a hard bit of cheese, a pint of water and a skin of sour wine; next to these stood a single cooking pot. Having never attempted anything more adventurous than roasting a rabbit or a chicken over an open fire, he was at a loss as to what to do. As time was short he decided to put the whole lot, except the wine, together into the pot and boil it up.
    A short while later, he had produced a stodgy mess that looked very unappealing but was just about edible. He was halfway through his porridge, made slightly more palatable by the wine, when Sabinus arrived on his horse. The first light of the sun bathed the rugged ochre hills with its soft red glow, and the cicadas, alerted to the arrival of the new day, had started their relentless rattle.
    ‘Get that fire out and bury all the traces,’ he shouted. ‘And get your cooking gear in this.’ He threw down a sturdy pole with a Tbar at one end to which was attached a large pack.
    ‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.
    ‘That, my hardy little brother, is the difference between a pleasant country stroll and a legionary route march. It is about the same weight as a legionary’s pack, give or take; I have a hazy recollection of these things, so I’ve erred on the generous side.’ Sabinus smiled innocently.
    ‘I’ll bet you have,’ Vespasian grumbled as he emptied the remains of his breakfast on to the fire and covered it with soil. He tied his cooking gear to the side of the pack and then shouldered the pole, so that the pack hung behind him. He grimaced at the weight.
    Sabinus looked down at his brother. ‘Now you know why legionaries are known as “Marius’ Mules”. Considering your fondness for the creatures you should be very pleased to have the opportunity to be one. Giddy up, little brother!’ Laughing at his own joke he rode off, leaving Vespasian to follow.
    ‘Why aren’t you marching?’ Vespasian called after him.
    Sabinus looked round with another wry grin. ‘As I said: I’m not in training.’
    They had gone about a mile before Sabinus slowed his horse and let his brother catch up with him. He took short reed whistle from his pack and blew it, paused briefly, and then blew it again.
    ‘That’s a standard army beat; a steady three paces a beat for five hours with two brief stops for water will take you twenty miles.’ Sabinus paused, took a swig from his goatskin of water for added effect, and then carried on the lecture. ‘That is the speed a legion, or smaller detachment, travels if it is unencumbered by the siege and baggage trains. If they need to go faster the pace is increased to quick time, which is just over three and a half paces per beat – twenty-four miles in five hours. If, however, the