Ravilla shot Scaurus a resigned look.
‘It seems that we do.’
Walking up the plank that connected the ship and the mole’s stone surface, laden down by the weight of his weapons, shield and equipment, Sanga spat into the water below, stepping out onto the quay’s flat surface with a smile of satisfaction. His comrade Saratos followed him down the quayside in the long procession of men making their way along the mole under the direction of their officers, looking curiously up at the mountains that loomed over the port.
‘So, is end of voyage.’
Sanga grunted his appreciation of the sentiment.
‘Thank fuck for that.’
The Dacian behind him shook his head.
‘I happy on ship. No war to fight on ship. Now we here, war come soon.’
Sanga laughed tersely.
‘It’s what we do mate. All them ships did was get us to the scene of the next fight quicker. That and empty my guts out every now and then.’
Their century’s line ran into the back of other men disembarking from ships further down the mole, and without need to be told both men grounded their shields and leaned on them, waiting for the route to clear.
‘Is true. You not make good sailor.’
Sanga snorted derisively.
‘Is true alright. My guts wouldn’t stand for it, and nor would my arse. That lot have been too long away from women if you ask me. It ain’t healthy living like that.’
‘Not like you big tough men, eh?’
A marine standing guard on the vessel alongside which they were halted shook his head at the two men in disgust, and Sanga shrugged back at him.
‘What do you want me to say? You’re at sea half the year, without even the sight of a woman, never mind the chance to get your leg over. It’s no wonder you’re all cuddling up to each other at night, is it?’
The blue-tunicked soldier shook his head, adopting a sad expression.
‘Well now friend, that’s true enough. We do spend a lot of time at sea alright, and that’s lonely for a man that likes the company of women.’
Sanga smirked at him and opened his mouth to push home the advantage, but closed it again as the other man raised a finger, his doleful face suddenly brightening.
‘On the other hand, look at our situations now, eh? Off you go to pick a fight with whoever feels like sticking it up the empire’s arse. The next few months are going to be all marching, getting shouted at and, if you’re really lucky, having some mob of dirty eastern bastards trying you on for size as their new bed warmers. But me …’
He paused, smiling brightly.
‘We’re going to be stuck here for the rest of the winter, aren’t we? Stuck in a great big port full of taverns, with nothing better to do but drink and wait for the seas to open again. And let me tell you boys, if there’s one thing that a port like this has in large numbers, it’s whores. There’ll be whores everywhere, in the taverns, on the docks, even down by the ships once we’ve dragged them up onto the beach.’
He winked at Sanga.
‘Spare me a thought lads, while you’re slogging your way through the wind and the rain, and when the arrows are flying past your ears like hail. I’ll most likely be knocking back a cup of wine and wondering which of the girls to favour next …’
Sanga spat into the water again, lifting his shield as the line of soldiers ahead of them started moving again. Saratos followed suit, grinning at his comrade’s back.
‘He tell you, eh?’
The veteran shook his head in disgust.
‘Fucking navy. Come on then you Dacian halfwit, let’s go and find out what it is we’re doing here in the arse end of nowhere.’
An hour later, with the last of his men in the process of being chivvied ashore to form up beneath the towering walls of the upper city, and with all of the two cohorts’ centurions having made their reports, their first spear snapped a crisp salute at his legatus. Scaurus turned from his discussion with his companions, his German slave Arminius, and the Britons Martos and Lugos, originally captives of the war in Britannia but now free men who had chosen to accompany the Tungrians first to Rome and then onward to the east.
‘Yes, First Spear?’
‘First and second Tungrian cohorts ready for duty, Trib- Legatus. Fourteen hundred and thirty-seven men present and fit, seven recovering from injuries sustained at sea and two men missing. Presumed drowned.’
Scaurus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the report.
‘Thank you, First Spear. It won’t be very long before you’ll have to stop calling them Tungrians, for a time at least. These men will shortly be legionaries in the Third Gallic legion.’
His senior centurion’s face was impassive.
‘Those that survived the journey in one piece and didn’t go over the side, Legatus.’
The senior officer raised an eyebrow.
‘You may not have enjoyed the journey, Julius, but consider the alternative – if we were marching from Rome to Antioch we’d still be sailing down the Danubius, with eight hundred miles of slogging it through Thrace and Asia Minor waiting for us at the end of the voyage. My distaste for our new sponsor notwithstanding, I can’t deny that he makes things happen. Who else could have ordered the entire Praetorian fleet on the west coast to concentrate at Misenum and sail for the east at ten days’ notice? Twenty-five ships sent two thousand miles at the click of one man’s fingers – now that’s power.’ He tapped the centurion’s scale-armour shirt with a knowing smile. ‘And who else could have ordered up fourteen hundred sets of legionary equipment with the stroke of a stylus?’
The first spear, a heavily built man with a dark and brooding bearded face, smoothed back his grey-streaked hair and nodded reluctantly.
‘I won’t deny the man’s ability to make his subordinates jump. Not that I’m used to this stuff yet.’
He tapped his own chest morosely, looking down at the scaled armour that had replaced his mail shirt, lifting one of the thumbnail-sized tinned iron plates that were fixed to the linen shirt in overlapping ranks with wire fasteners.
‘Why I couldn’t just have had a shirt of that segmented armour like the men all got is beyond me. This just doesn’t feel right …’
He pulled a face, looking down at his booted feet.
‘I can’t get used to these boots that are more hole than leather either, or having my legs bare.’
The tribune’s German servant smirked at him, tilting his head back to emphasise his height advantage over the senior centurion.
‘I think the problem is that you’ve had your delicate little cucumber hidden away in leggings for so long that when it’s exposed to cold air it shrivels up to the size of a mushroom.’
Scaurus pursed his lips, darting a glance at the long-haired barbarian standing alongside him as he fought the desire to laugh at his subordinate’s gloomy disdain for his new equipment. Julius’s scowl set harder. The two Tungrian cohorts had been processed through the Misenum armoury with impressive speed, a succession of counter staff issuing each man with replacement armour, helmet, sword, dagger, tunics and boots to replace equipment long past its best days. Having already asked in an aggrieved tone why there were no leggings being provided, Julius had raised his hands in disbelief on seeing his replacement armour.
‘I’m not wearing that!’
Scaurus, having expected the protest, had carefully positioned himself alongside his senior centurion, waiting for the moment when his new equipment hit the counter’s scarred wooden surface.
‘First Spear, whether we like it or not, we are, for the time being at least, a legion cohort. Two cohorts, if we include the Second Tungrians. And in the legions, let me assure you, centurions simply do not wear the same armour as their men unless in absolute extremis. You’re gaining membership of a proud elite, Julius, there are less than two thousand men like you in the whole army, and your new colleagues will be expecting you to look the part. Come on, let’s try it all on, shall we?’