The Forgotten Legion - Kane Ben (читать книги онлайн полностью без сокращений txt) 📗

Olenus' words had returned to him many times since their meeting. A voyage to Lydia by ship. There two gladiators become your friends. 'You were wrong, Olenus. For once,' the Etruscan whispered wryly. 'I met them on the way. Not when I got there.'

Having sailed hundreds of miles from the heel of Italy to the shores of Asia Minor, Crassus' triremes finally entered a wide, shallow uninhabited bay, filling it from one end to another. A long beach lined the sea's edge. The ground above was a less welcoming burnt ochre. The sun hung in a bright blue windless sky, casting intense heat on sunburnt soldiers and sailors. In the crystal clear water below the Achilles, Romulus could see fish swimming round the large stone anchor.

A protective cordon of legionaries was sent ashore to ensure the force landed without danger of attack. Then organised chaos reigned for two days as the army disembarked, carrying tons of equipment and food off by hand. Only the mules, braying and angry as ever, swam to the beach of their own accord.

Bassius' irregulars had to wade in through chest-high water. Unable to swim, Romulus, Brennus and the others pushed uneasily towards the land while Tarquinius swam confidently around them, laughing. Emerging on to the sand, the Etruscan swept back his long hair, drying it with his hands. As he did, Romulus noticed a red triangular mark on the side of his neck.

Quickly Tarquinius let his blond locks fall back into place.

'What's that?'

'Just a birthmark.'

'It's an unusual shape.'

Ignoring him, Tarquinius crouched down, sorting through the items he had placed in a pig's bladder before they jumped off the Achilles' deck.

Curiosity filled Romulus, but he got no chance to ask. Bassius was already roaring at them, keen to get his men into marching order.

Crassus supervised the operation from higher ground above the shoreline. An enormous pavilion had been erected, allowing the general every comfort while the soldiers toiled in baking temperatures below. Filled with carpets, tables, beds and partitioned rooms, the leather tent would serve as his command centre for the duration of the campaign. There were even a number of prostitutes, brought by his son Publius to pleasure senior officers.

A red flag – the vexillum – hung limply from a pole embedded in the ground. It showed every soldier Crassus' position. Hand-picked legionaries stood guard day and night, while messengers and trumpeters were positioned nearby to relay orders.

Bassius commanded one cohort – six centuries – of irregulars. Ten cohorts had been formed to fight with the regulars and the old centurion's unit had been attached to the Sixth Legion. Once all the men were on dry land, Bassius bellowed and screamed to get them across the sand to their position. The Sixth was already waiting, each well drilled cohort ranked behind the next.

'Move it!' Bassius was unimpressed at the sloppiness of his four hundred and eighty recruits. He and the other centurions had been training them on board, but it was not yet enough. 'By Jupiter, the real soldiers are laughing at us!'

Trumpets sounded once the mercenaries were in place and the front ranks moved forward, following the regulars. Four legions had landed on the same beach weeks before, erecting vast temporary camps some distance inland. The Sixth had not marched for long before reaching them. The playing-card-shaped forts consisted of earthen ramparts the height of a man. Soil used in the construction came from deep trenches that ran round the perimeter. Sentries stood guard in tall wooden watchtowers on the corners. Only one entrance broke the middle of each side. Two straight roads connected the four gates, cutting the camp into equal parts. The legion's headquarters were situated at their intersection and around this every century had an allocated position which never varied.

More commands blared from the bucinae. Swiftly half the legion fanned out in a screen around the rest.

'Time for some real work,' Bassius shouted. 'Lay down all equipment except weapons and shovels.'

The senior centurion knew what he was doing. Leading them to a section of what would be the perimeter, he liaised briefly with a regular officer. Soon Bassius' men were sweating and cursing as they dug.

Romulus had seldom seen such industry as he watched the legionaries nearby digging ditches and ramparts, hundreds of figures working in unison. It seemed soldiers of the Republic were not just fighters, but labourers and engineers as well.

Romulus' pride at being Roman began to return despite the fact that both of his friends' peoples had been crushed by its might. It was hard not to be stirred by the precision and discipline shown by Crassus' army. Every single man seemed to know exactly what to do. Three hours later, line upon line of tents went up in orderly fashion inside the new ramparts' protection. Each century took its place, marked by a unique cloth standard. Bassius positioned the mercenaries beside Publius' cavalry.

On the Achilles, they had been issued with a large leather tent used by regular legionaries but it had not been needed until now. Bassius had seemed content that Romulus, Brennus and Tarquinius should serve in the same contubernium, a group of eight men who lived and cooked together. The friends had got to know their five comrades on the voyage. Varro, Genucius and Felix were dour peasants from Cisalpine Gaul, driven from their land by the Romans. Joseph and Appius were short, wily men from Egypt, exiled for crimes they would only hint at.

They had not been relaxing round their tents for long when Bassius asked permission of one of the tribunes to start training his cohort. The veteran had had enough of twiddling his thumbs. Flanked by the five other centurions, Bassius stood with hands on hips, glaring at the sweating mercenaries.

'Time to start some proper military training. You've had long enough sitting on your arses.'

Most soldiers looked unhappy but Brennus rubbed his hands with glee.

'Form up! Attention!'

The irregulars quickly shuffled into rank, staring ahead as they had been had taught.

'Stand up!' Bassius stalked between the lines, straightening backs, tapping chins with his vine cane. 'Pretend to have spines, even if you haven't!'

At last the old centurion was satisfied and, directing a number of men to carry with them heavy wooden stakes procured from the quartermaster, Bassius led the cohort out of the busy camp, on to the flat ground in front.

Other centurions had similar ideas. The area was full of irregulars running, jumping and sparring with each other. After long weeks at sea, the officers of Crassus' army knew they had to get the men quickly into shape. It would be two months before the whole host was ready to march to the east, a short time to turn farmers into trained soldiers.

'Looks like some time at the palus again!'

'Gods above!' laughed Brennus. 'As if we need that. A good run would be more like it.'

Once the stakes had been hammered into the iron-hard ground, Bassius and his comrades began to instruct groups of recruits in basic weapons training. Romulus and his friends only had to cut and thrust at the palus once or twice before Bassius judged them hugely experienced. The three stood watching as the bemused Gauls were put through their paces. The veteran had obtained training equipment, wooden swords and wicker shields twice as heavy as the real thing and he worked the sweating men hard. It was the same method taught in gladiator school.

'What do you think you're doing?' Bassius roared at the trio a few moments later. 'No standing around! Four laps of the perimeter. At the trot!'

Romulus stayed beside the grinning Gaul as they ran along the defensive trench around the camp.