The War at the Edge of the World Read Online Free PDF Page B

May, Legion VI Victrix assembled in full strength on the broad expanse of the parade ground outside the western wall of the fortress. Under a slate-grey sky, every man stared forward at the distant tribunal and the rising smoke from the sacrificial altars. They all knew what was happening now; there were no more secrets. But the promise of four gold pieces and a pound of silver per man had dulled the initial shock, and only the excitement of novelty stirred their ranks.
    From his place in the Third Cohort, Castus watched the tribunes mount the tribunal, reverently removing the portrait images of Diocletian and Maximian from the legion standards and raising those of Constantius and Galerius in their places. Two new busts, two new Caesars, now filled the lower places. But all the busts looked similar, and from a distance it was hard to see any difference anyway.
    Now the representatives of each cohort filed forward to take the oath of allegiance, the rest all following their words. It was a familiar ceremony, repeated every year. A festive mood spread through the legion: soon there would be fresh meat from the sacrifices in their bellies, and newly minted gold in their hands. The world might have tilted slightly, but only briefly, and now order was restored.
    Castus tried to share their feelings. Still, as he stared at the standards, he felt a prickle of doubt. Why, he could not say.
    But then the cheers of acclamation rang out, the troops throwing up their arms and yelling out the traditional cries, and the noise drowned out all further questions.
    ‘Constantius and Galerius, invincible Augusti! Severus and Maximinus, most noble Caesars! Emperors! Masters of the World!’
    Everything had changed, Castus thought. But everything had stayed the same.

2
    ‘Shield… wall !’
    Fifty-six shields clashed together in a rapid percussion, locking like tiles on a sloping roof. Fifty-six armoured bodies in four ranks, crouched and standing with spears levelled through the gaps. Each midnight-blue shield was painted with the emblem of the Sixth Legion: a winged figure of the goddess Victory with gold palm and laurel wreath. Castus waited for three heartbeats then yelled again.
    ‘Half-step… ad- vance !’
    The block jolted forward, the men moving together with shields tight. One step then pause, another step then pause, the low collective chant: ‘Vic- trix , Vic- trix …’ From the rear ranks Timotheus, who looked far too young to be an optio, kept the formation steady.
    ‘Halt! By the right – open ranks !’
    The block of men shuffled and then spread, the wall of shields opening into a skirmishing line with the second and third ranks moving up to cover the gaps. It was a difficult man­oeuvre, and the century managed it well. Castus felt a brief warm glow of satisfaction. From the margins of the drill field, men and officers from other units had gathered to watch.
    ‘From the rear – ready wasps !’
    A hollow rattle as the rear-rank men plucked the darts from behind their shields. The legion had not made much use of the weighted throwing dart before Castus had joined them. A hundred yards away across the drill field stood the row of straw-stuffed practice targets.
    ‘Loose!’
    With a combined grunt, the rear-rankers hurled their darts. Then, in practised sequence, came more darts from the forward ranks, each volley arcing against the dull sky and raining down. Castus flicked his eyes between his men and the targets – most of the darts had fallen short or gone wide, but a few thudded home into the straw.
    Now a volley of javelins followed the darts, the century advancing steadily by half-steps, kicking up the gravel of the drill field. Then swords rattled from scabbards along the line and the men halted, waiting for the order to charge. They could see the straw targets bristling with darts and javelins.
    Castus felt his chest swell with fierce joy. These were his men; he had trained them and formed them, and he could