Hannibal's Children Read Online Free PDF Page A

fortification, but this was the Roman custom. Besides, should the Germans continue to menace the district, it would form the basis for a permanent stone fort. Then a new town would form around the fort and thus would the empire of Roma Noricum be extended, with new peasant families dwelling here to breed more sons for the legions.
    He rode in through the porta praetoria, down the main street of the camp, accepting the salutes of the men on guard. He had taken only three cohorts north with him to mop up the Celtic remnant. Two cohorts remained to guard the camp, the others scattered along the river on guard duty. He rode past the camp shrine where the standards were kept, the manipular standards topped with a bronze hand, and the silver wolf that was the standard of the legion. The standard bearers stood before the shrine with wolf skins draped over their helmets and hanging down their backs, the paws knotted upon their breasts.
    He crossed the via principalis, the road that crossed the via praetoria at right angles and separated the legionary camp from the section occupied by the extraordinarii: the long-service soldiers whose special skills and duties relieved them from regular duties, the small citizen cavalry force, the medical staff, the priests and the handlers of the sacrificial animals and the scores of other supernumerary personnel required by an army. It also contained the praetorium: the commander's tent. In this case, it was Marcus's quarters. Quintus Valgus, General of the North, had divided four of his six legions among his subordinate military tribunes, and Marcus had been assigned to the Fifth Legion, the Northern Wolves. He could not have asked for better.
    Gallic mercenaries quartered among the extraordinarii guarded the big tent. In battle they ran barefoot alongside the Gallic cavalry. They were greatly favored as guards by Roman commanders, not only because of their great loyalty, but also for their exotic appearance. Their bodies and faces were painted and tattooed in bizarre patterns, their lime-washed hair standing in orange spikes, their necks encircled by twisted bronze torques, their legs encased in brightly checked trousers. Two were always on duty flanking the entrance, long, slashing swords naked in their hands.
    Gauls never saluted, but the men called out a greeting as their commander passed between them, employing the traditionally extravagant Gallic praise: "Hail to thee, darling Tribune, crusher of rebels, who single-handed swipes the heads from enemies by the thousand!" Marcus managed to keep a straight face as he entered the tent. Rufus, his body servant, came from the rear to help him out of his armor.
    "Looks like everything went well," said the old slave. His hair, once the red that had given him his name, had gone white in the service of the Scipios. He lifted the helmet from his master's head and placed it upon its stand, carefully so that the plumes would not be bent. He turned as Marcus bent over, and grasped the lower hem of his mail shirt. With some difficulty he tugged it over his master's head like an exceptionally heavy tunic, letting it turn inside out as it rolled over its wearer's arms. When it was off, he rolled it up and stowed it in its sealskin bag.
    Marcus sighed and, as always when he disarmed, felt as if he could fly. A Roman soldier was not supposed to notice the weight of his arms, but Marcus knew this to be nonsense. Even an officer's forty-odd pounds of equipment were a burden. A common legionary's sixty or more could be a man-killing load on a hard campaign. Legionaries were simply instructed to ignore it. Hardship was beneath the notice of a Roman citizen. Supposed to be, anyway.
    He was just getting comfortable, caligae off, feet propped on a table, cup of warmed, watered wine in his hand, when word was relayed from the porta praetoria: "Messenger coming! Yellow plumes!" The call was relayed down the via praetoria until it reached Marcus in his tent.
    "What now?"