Swords Around the Throne Read Free Page B

Centurion Aurelius Castus planted his feet firmly on the slope of the deck, pushed back the hood of his cape and tipped his broad face into the rain. He felt the wind shift, and the straining cordage overhead wailed. Unlike most of his men, Castus seemed immune to the effects of seasickness. Half of his sixty-strong century had spent the first few hours of the voyage vomiting helplessly over the side. Later, after a brief meal of barley porridge and vinegar wine, it had been the turn of the other half. But Castus felt no discomfort from the motion of the waves: his men, he knew, joked between themselves that he lacked a stomach, or any internal organs. Their centurion had a solid body, to match his solid head.
    This was not the first time Castus had been aboard a ship, but most of the soldiers under his command had been recruited in northern Britain, and had never before left the island. For them the ocean was a new and terrible experience. Castus himself was from distant Pannonia, born on the banks of the Danube, and his fifteen years in the army had taken him from the wilds of Caledonia to the delta of the Euphrates. The Ocean, he knew, was a powerful deity, and should be respected. But he also knew that the Gallic Strait in early summer held only a minor risk of storms, whirlpools and sea monsters.
    Castus ran a hand across his cropped scalp, and rainwater dripped down his neck. He was young for a centurion, only just over thirty, but he had enlisted young too and his long career in the army had toughened him beyond his years. Squinting into the greyness of the open sea, he tried to make out the green smear of the distant shore. Would they make it to harbour before nightfall? He picked his way aft, swaying between the uprights, stepping carefully around the huddled bodies of his men and the heaps of baggage and stores secured in their rope netting. The captain, a bearded Spaniard from Gades, was perched beside the steersman on the raised stern platform.
    â€˜You’ll see the Gallic coast soon, centurion,’ the captain called as Castus approached. ‘Unless this wind picks up, we’ll have a nice smooth crossing all the way to Bononia!’
    Smooth , Castus thought; a couple of the nearer legionaries glanced up in queasy confusion.
    â€˜How much longer?’ Castus asked.
    â€˜Two hours, perhaps three, if Neptune and Boreas allow. Your men should look to the west – this might be the last they’ll see of Britain!’
    An ill-omened comment, Castus thought, and several of the men had overheard it. Hands fluttered, making warding signs against evil, and lips spat. Even so, a knot of soldiers rose to their feet and stood at the leeward rail, gazing back at the last trace of green on the western horizon. They raised their hands in salute, crying out to their native gods: to Brigantia Dea, and Mars Cocidius. To Fortuna the Homebringer. Most were leaving behind families, wives and children. They were going to a distant war, in an unknown land. Many of them wept openly.
    Castus too stared back at the retreating shore. He had no farewells to make; he was leaving little. For nearly four years Britain, and the old legionary fortress of Eboracum, had been his home. He had served there with the Sixth Legion since his promotion to centurion; he had led men into battle for the first time in that province, known victory and defeat, honour and shame. But he left now with few regrets. The last two years had been quiet, and the legion had spent its time in construction work, renovating and rebuilding the fortress, tearing down the leaking old barracks and erecting new ones, and reconstructing the headquarters building, where the emperor Constantine had first been acclaimed by the troops, on a suitably grand scale.
    He would miss little of that, Castus thought. His friends in his own cohort were travelling with him, and the only person he was sorry to leave was a woman. Afrodisia was a prostitute, but he had