Part 15 – An Eagle and an Omen
Cassius (IV) - December 2.
Servilius Pansa moved around the headquarters lighting lanterns to counteract the setting of the sun as its outline now almost touched the bottom of the tent's west facing canvas wall. Cassius Lartius Mucianus, aged forty three and Legatus of the Legio Nona Hispana, reviewing the day's books with the Primipilus Aulus Vibius, the Armicustos Brutus Pius, and the senior Medicus Peregrinus Caelius Rufus gratefully turned toward the new light source for his eyes were no longer eagle sharp. "So your stores of pig iron and leather are low, Armicustos?" he asked, gazing down at the scrap of parchment.
"Aye, Legatus. With what stocks we took for a months long campaign against those irrumare Votadini, we weren't prepared to make all these Westerosi 'horseshoes' and 'stirrups.'" Brutus Pius answered.
"Damned ankle breakers," the Medicus muttered.
"Each one only uses a little material, but twelve hundreds adds up," the Armicustos continued.
"Ankle breakers?" interrupted the Legatus. "Care to explain, Rufus?"
The red haired physician nodded vigorously. "Going horseback is, or was, damned hard work. But as crazy as most of the Gaulic and Africanus alae are, they understood the dangers of it. Now with this new 'stirrup' toy making riding so easy, they are all happily trying tricks on their mounts, like some big Cretan mentula leaping over a charging bull. I have a score of our barbarus off duty with broken bones and thrice as many with bad sprains," he complained.
As if to emphasize the topic of horse riding, Cassius heard the sound of hoof beats over the usual hum of castra activity coming down the via preatoria toward the command tent located at the center of the encampment.
From beneath the southward facing awning outside of the headquarters, the Tribunus Angusticlavius of the day called out from behind his duty desk, "Legatus, a Westerosi 'knight' and a miles cursor."
The four men currently sharing the sizeable hide and canvas constructed structure with Cassius all snapped him expectant looks. The Legio's commander returned them an indifferent expression, but nevertheless stood up and moved out through the large tent's flap. From between the sentries standing either side the entrance, the Legatus saw on horse one of his staff's adiutores wearing lorica hamate mail under an unadorned helmet; as well as a local warrior inside a noseguard helm and a long mail shirt emblazoned with three red stags across a blue and white checkerboard design.
"Ave, Legatus," the aide saluted him.
Cassius returned a placid smile and said laconically, "Ave, Secundus Tatius. You've brought a guest from 'King's Landing.' Tell me more."
The man grinned, recognizing the veneer of indifference his commander so frequently used to hide evidence of excitement. "Yes, Legatus. I also bring a message from Tribunus Lartius and a contract from Rex Hercules. War is in the air!" he rattled quickly.
"Tsk, tsk, Secundus Tatius, manners," Cassius chided.
The young man's eyebrows for a moment turned invisible as they shot above the rim of his helmet. He cleared his throat and then spoke in formal tones. "Ser Elwood Harte, may I introduce you to the Legatus Cassius Lartius Mucianus. Legatus, may I introduce you to Ser Elwood Harte, sworn man to King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name."
The man from atop his gigantic horse bowed stiffly from the waist. The Legatus returned a salute. "Does the Ser have any Greek, Secundus Tatius?"
A bit, Legatus. A few in the escort have more, but I've picked up a fair smattering of their common tongue these past two weeks."
"Excellent. Good work. Then hand over the correspondence, and see to settling our guests and their mounts in for the night. And be sure the victualers are generous with the wine to them."
Three scrolls quickly changed hands and then Cassius sketched the knight a departing salute before returning to his tent.
"Well, Legatus?" queried the Primipilus.
Cassius chuckled, "Patience, Aulus Vibius, patience." He examined the seals on all three parchments and opened the once carrying the sigil of a stag's head. He snorted in amusement and turned the page over so all in the room could gaze at the alien symbols covering it. "One of Lucius Pomponius' claims in his earlier missive appears to be true. While some of the Westerosi do have Greek, even if they had Latin their alphabet is completely different than ours, so they can't read our written messages, whether they wanted to or not."
"But if that is the mercenary contract the barbarian Rex is offering us, how do we know what it says?" the Medicus shrewdly pointed out.
"Hhhmmmn, clever point. Let's see if our good Tribunus has provided an answer." Cassius responded. He opened the smaller of the two remaining scrolls, each sealed with the emblem of the eagle. "Ah, come here, Servilius Pansa." He called to his actarius, while gently shaking the opened parchment. "Lucius Pomponius did provide a key. It appears he matched our twenty three letters, and a few letter pairings as well, to Westerosi symbols. Be a clever scribe, Servilius Pansa, and translate the contract, hmmmn?"
The actarius retrieved both the letter key and Rex Hercules' contract, and quickly sat back down at his foldable table tucked into one corner of the tent to start working.
Cassius looked at his attentive audience and waggled his eyebrows while holding up the last scroll, "And now the juicy gossip."
"Things looked dark in his other dispatch," proclaimed Aulus Vibius. "Fortuna must be shining again on Rex Hercules if we are now being presented with terms of employment."
"Or war needs to be made, like the young adiutor said," interjected the Armicustos.
"Like I said, Brutus Pius," the Primipilus came back with a cheery grin, "Fortuna must be shining again on Rex Hercules."
"Enough bantering," the Medicus said pointedly. "Let the Legatus read. Please, Legatus?"
Cassius smiled fondly at the three comrades he'd known since he campaigned in Dacia. "Ave, Legatus, in the name of Hadrianus Augustus, I blah, blah, blah. One of the scrolls is the proposed contract which 'King' Robert has already affixed his royal sign, blah, blah, blah. I have also provided a key, blah, blah, blah. Ah here now:"
To summarize the basic points of the contract, the entire Legio and all our auxiliaries will serve the Crown of the Seven Kingdoms for five years. Note the contract is with the 'Crown' and not specifically Rex Hercules. His health and disposition have not improved in the week since my last missive. With the crimes his 'Queen' committed, in Rome, mos maiorum would grant him the right as pater familias to legally punish her and her children with death for the irreparable stain she placed on his dignitas. Westerosi law may not support such honorable traditions, but as our Hercules is 'King' here, no one seems to contest the execution of his judgment. However as the whispers I hear confirm, the damage to his dignitas is vast and seems to have broken his spirit. The huge flagons of wine he drinks daily help his fat body none either. Thus, if the Rex should soon happen to meet with Dis Pater, our contract would still be assured pending the vagaries of the next dictator, 'King' Robert's brother Stannis who at least is reputed to be a stickler for the law. I seem to have digressed Cassius Lartius, let me return to a description of the contract.
After five years, those citizens and auxilia who had previously served Rome eight or more years of service will be granted a missio. A discharged soldier may, of course, voluntarily reenlist as an Evocatus. All non-discharged soldiers will be required to serve a second five years. At the end of ten years every Roman and every allied subject will receive a missio and the Legion Nona Hispana will cease to exist.
"Doesn't seem right the allied troops get the same terms as a Roman," harrumphed the Primipilus.
"And how would we stop them from cutting their own deal with the barbarians, Aulus Vibius?" Brutus Pius asked.
"Best bind them to us before they get any notions," the Medicus agreed. "Would you fight to keep them subservient? Even now? In this strange land?"
"I agree," the Legatus announced, settling the issue before continuing to read the letter aloud.
More on the benefits of the mission later; however, first the pay our lads will receive. So far as I have been able to discover, the coin the Westerosi call the 'stag' buys the same in a King's Landing market as a silver denarius. A miles will earn eight stags a week and a common auxilia will make five. A beneficiarius, due to his skills as an engineer or clerk or weapon specialist or orderly, will earn ten stags, as will the principales of the auxiliaries. The junior officers of the Legio and the senior auxilia officers will be paid fifteen stags. The Tribunus Angusticlavius will receive twenty five stags, the Pilusii fifty, the Primipilus and myself seventy five, and you, Legatus, a hundred stags a week.
Cassius looked up from the page to stare at the Primipilus, "It appears by the terms Lucius Pomponius has negotiated, he agrees somewhat with you Aulus Vibius on the proper level for the auxilia, eh?"
The commander of the First Cohors only grunted a nondistinct response.
The Legatus' eyes smiled in amusement before he dropped them back down to the letter.
To pay for upkeep of the men and their equipment, the Legio will monthly receive a lump sum equivalent of five thousand gold aureus. Their gold coin is called a 'Dragon,' and I believe they expect the senior officers to skim off the top of this money to augment our minimal remuneration. Regarding the common ranker's gear, Ser Barristan has pointed out, and I agree based on what I've seen here, that despite the size of our scuta the lads need arm and leg mail. The Rex's storage vaults and workshops her in King's Landing will provide it for us gratis. Though with such generosity, I wouldn't expect each miles to be so equipped for a good long while. More immediately, we are also being given a ten thousand dragon bonus to build a permanent castra on grounds just outside of King's Landing. The Second Cohors should have a start on it by the time you arrive here.
On a more personal level, to assure better cooperation with the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms, the senior officers, myself, and you, Legatus, will all be knighted once the Legio arrives in King's Landing; making us all 'Sers,' like honorable old Barristan. And even more, at the end of ten years service, the eleven of us we will all be ennobled to the lowest rank of Westerosi lordship and granted lands on which to settle the Legio. Our small fiefdoms will be spread out across three conjoining provinces called the 'Westerlands,' the 'Crownlands,'in which King's Landing resides, and the 'Stormlands.'
"Well you'll be settled better than a hayseed from Picenum could ever have expected," teased the red haired Medicus.
"Pffft that, you damned half breed from Massilia" the Primipilus hissed. "What about the missio?" he complained. "The swinging mentulae of the First Cohors must be looked after too."
"Calm yourself Aulus Vibius. I'll find it, you're not the only one cares for the men," Cassius declared. "Let's see. Blah, blah, blah. Ah, here it is."
For a praemia, every miles, beneficiaries, and auxilia will be able to choose between sixteen iugera of land within their Centurion's lordly demesne or fifteen hundred stags. I apologize for not making the coin payment the full three thousand a legionnaire has come to expect since the days of Caesar Augustus, but the wily Master of Coin working for Rex Hercules smartly pointed out, thanks to my error in having told him earlier, that the Roman praemia is given after a service longer than five or ten years. Oh, best I've been able to figure, one and a half iugera are about the size of what the Westerosi call an acre.
"Satisfied?" the Legatus asked his Primipilus.
The salt and pepper haired man crinkled his lined, weather beaten face. "Thought the silver tongued Senator could talk them out of more."
"He wasn't exactly working from an inside position at the Circus Maximus," said Brutus Pius matter of factly.
"More money up front though," Peregrinus Caelius Rufus pointed out. "We'll need to encourage the lads to save some of it then, won't we?"
Aulus Vibius made a rude noise. "When men learn to fly off the Tarpeian Rock," he scoffed.
The actarius snickered and said to the Medicus, "The Primipilus wins that debate my Greek learned friend. Did your tutor not explain how the hearts of men work when he showed you how to stitch a wound?"
The red haired physician rolled his eyes, then ignoring his loutish friends he turned to the Legatus for validation. "What are your thoughts, Cassius Lartius?"
The usual placid smile on the Legatus' face turned more feral. "Ten years is a long time, much may happen that we could never anticipate. However, so long as we keep the Legio strong and happy, we will do well no matter what boulders the gods throw in our path. I am encouraged by some of Lucius Pomponius' words I scanned over. It seems the Queen's faction was the most powerful in the capital, but with her demise their strength is shattered and the remaining blocs are as effective as a bunch of Stoics, Epicureans, Platonists, and Cynics squabbling in the Athens agora." Cassius scratched at his jaw, as he gazed at the roof of the tent. "A little luck may see us as Fortuna's favorites. Yes it may."
December 4.
The forum in the middle of the castra had been expanded that morning after the Legio and the auxiliaries broke their fast. Enough of the eight man tents of the Contubernii nearest the edges of the open space dominated by the Legatus' command tent were struck to make room for all the men, save the four Centuriae chosen by lots to man the walls and gates. Cassius, standing among four aides and the Aquilifer, watched as each Centuria, grouped together with the other units of their particular Cohor, marched down the via praetorian or the via principalis into formation. Each eighty man unit stopped behind its own Signifer, who held aloft the pole that bore the round golden philarae that comprised their standard. And for the day's momentous ceremonies, frontage was made in the forum for all the Legio's auxilia: the Mauretanian and Gaulic horsemen, thankfully without mounts, the slingers from Rhodus and other eastern Mare Nostrum islands, the Hispana archers, the Belgicae foederatii, and the Provincia Britannia exploratores from the Brigantes and Parisi tribes. Today, the allied peoples would not be relegated to the back, but share equal station with the citizens of Roma.
At last satisfied that the mass of soldiers were sufficiently settled, the Legatus stepped on to his scutum and nodded to the four largest members of his personal staff. In unison the men bent over to each grab a corner of the large shield and heaved the improvised platform on to their broad shoulders. Cassius smiled proudly as his head now came near even with the Aquila, the proud eagle symbol of Roma, mounted atop the Legio's standard pole.
"Quirites, allies, my friends," Cassius thundered. "As you well know, Jupiter Optimus Maximus has sent us on a journey to boggle even brave Ulysses. Even the stars themselves refuse to show us the path home. This land of Westeros is strange. We may find it home to Cyclopes waiting to eat us, witches wanting to ensorcell us, Sirens trying to enchant us, and monsters seeking to destroy us. But we do not despair, we are warriors!"
The men bellowed their agreement, rhythmically beating metal on metal in approval of the words spoken them. The veteran leader grinned at their enthusiasm and let them chomp at the bit before finally raising his hands to rein them back down.
The Legatus continued, "All men one day meet Dis Pater."
Cries of "No!" broke out.
Cassius pitched his voice louder and drove on, " When we do … When we do, we shall do so with iron in our spines and cold steel in our hands no matter what foes we must battle!"
"Or a saucy wench in the sack, Cassius Lartius!" a very deep base voice thrummed through the din, getting a deafening cheer of approval for his wit.
The Legatus threw back his head and laughed heartily along with the rest. The lads knew why they were gathered and seemed content with the throw of the dice Fortuna presented them. He didn't need to harangue them long.
"Luck being with us, Neptunus washed our standards upon shores ruled by a great warrior, a generous friend, Rex Hercules!"
A chant of "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" immediately rang out from several Centuriae.
"The Rex has offered us a contract to fight for him. Your Centurions and Optios presented the terms to you yesterday and you've had most of a day to talk about them amongst yourselves. Now I am your Legatus, appointed by the Imperator Caesar Nerva Traianus Divi Nervae filius Augustus himself and reconfirmed to my post this past year by his successor Hadrianus Augustus. I hold the power of Fustuarium and Decimatio over you. Yet with Roma so far away," and here Cassius grinned, "I would hear what the voices of you damned, useless caput capiti and cunni have to say before I decide whether to accept!"
The Legatus rarely used profanity with the men, and they loved it when he slung filth at them. They roared their appreciation at him a full minute before he raised his hands again to quiet them.
"Before you puella, meretricis, and cinaedi shout 'aye' or 'nay', we must free our slaves. The Westerosi view slavery as a terrible affront to their gods. A taboo as great as a true Roman finds in fucking his dog, his sheep, or his sister."
"But she's so pretty, Cassius Lartius!" a voice howled.
"And that's just my sheep!" another cried.
"Are there many true Romans here?!" Cassius yelled in amusement.
A wave of "Nos" swept the castra.
The Legatus happily shrugged his shoulders to show his acceptance of them despite the unRoman-like content of their character. "But first we make sacrifice to Jupiter Optimus Maximus and perform an augury of his divine will." His aides, remembering their cue, started to lower the scutum and Cassius smoothly hopped to the earth when it reached their waists. Upon landing, he turned to look back at the main flap of his command tent.
Two men holding ropes led out a stringy white bull, purchased a week earlier from a merchant caravan the auxiliary scouts found traversing the Kingsroad, from the headquarters structure. Thankfully the Medicus Peregrinus Caelius Rufus had put sufficient opiate into the beast's feed to give it an amiable disposition as it unknowingly moved towards its demise. Walking directly behind the thousand odd pound bull, came a heavily muscled man from Gallia Transalpina, the leader of the Legio's Epona worshippers, carrying a sledge hammer. After the Gaul walked two stoic legionnaires, the ranking initiates of the Legio's Cult of Mithra, holding axes. And bringing up the rear of the procession strode the Optio Mettius Ninnia, scion of the equestrian ranked Ninnia Varros, baring an intricately carved chalice. All six men marched bare of chest.
The ropes pulled tight and the drugged bull placidly halted, stupidly chewing its cud. The acolyte of the horse and fertility goddess stepped around to its front and the twin Mithraic axemen placed themselves to either side of the beast's neck. The bull's head drooped down. A flock of crows or ravens erupted from the woods beyond the walls of the castra. The sledge hammer swung far back. The bull began to raise its thick head. The stunning hammer whipped forward in a blur and two loud concussions reverberated; the crack of the hammer on the skull and the collapsing legs and chest of the beast hitting the blood greedy earth.
Two axes lashed out, slicing open the gaunt, wrinkled neck. Despite being a less than spectacular example of its breed, plenty of life still surged through the bull and great spouts of blood sprayed out of the horrible matching wounds in its throat. The beast briefly croaked a pitiful moan. The crows or ravens darted this way, then that, and finally aimed themselves toward the castra. Mettius Ninnia watched the vibrant display in red a moment, deciding which gusher offered more favorable omens, then he rushed forward holding out the cup. Crimsom splattered across his bare torso and pants, he thrust the chalice into the stream of blood erupting from the cruel gash on the beast's left. One spout, a second spout, and a third; the Optio then withdrew; intently staring into the fresh plasma, waiting for the first signs of coagulation. A blur of dark dropped from the sky into the disjointed mass of birds frantically flying over the encampment's forum. A puff of feathers exploded as accelerating talons wrenched into a black bird, snapping its neck and back.
Mettius Ninnia read the signs and raised the chalice over his head, proclaiming in a proud, loud voice, "Jupiter Optimus Maximus blesses us! The portents are good!"
Not a sound greeted his announcement. He looked stupidly at the men, they all gazed dumbfounded over the top of his head. The Optio slowly turned around, arms still held high. His eyes looked up and spotted an eagle, a living Aquila perched atop the peak of the command tent. Suddenly the sharp beak of the Legio's totem stabbed into and rendered flesh out of the black bird held tight in its talons. The powerful bird swallowed the pink, wet meat. Its huge eyes blinked. The beak opened again, emitting a high pitched whistle.
The Legatus' lungs swelled to bursting as he inhaled mightily. In his loudest battle voice, Cassius cried, "A portent, a portent! Fortuna pledges herself to us!"
Pandemonium erupted inside the castra.
December 5.
Grey clouds and only brief glimpses of blue hovered over the Kingswood. The threatening weather didn't seem to worry the legion. As the Fourth Cohort exited the right principle gate of the fortress in a long, snake like line, the men were already cheerfully singing a bawdy marching ditty:
"Citizens keep an eye on your wives, the cocks of the Ninth are marching home.
We've swivied the whores and there ain't no more, so now we want the sweet holes of Rome."
Cassius, ensconced on horseback amongst his staff half way between fort and woods, fondly watch the lads pass by. Every one of the tough bastards toted a full kit. The high dirt bank of the fortress no longer gleamed with five foot sharpened oak stakes, because each legionnaire carried one to use it again for the evening's encampment.
The tail of the cohort comprised some seventy some odd mules, six carts, and nearly a hundred noncombatants, many of whom had been made freedmen just the previous day. The carts carried each century's extra allotments of food, clothing, tools, and spare weapons. Each mule hauled an eight man unit's tent, food, and sixteen spears. The cooks, servants, dogsbodies, and ex-slaves, who the Tribune Lucius had cleverly gotten all rated for pay purposes as auxiliaries in Rex Hercules' contract, all seemed to share the legionnaires' enthusiasm for the day's and the future's prospects.
Watching the lower than the Head Count walk by, the Legate pivoted his horse to look for his longtime companion, the body-slave given to him by his father when as a teen he left to perform his cadet service. "Hermann," he called out.
His staff politely shuffled their horses to the side and there emerged the dour, large, middle-aged German astride a somewhat too small for his length mule. "Yes, Legate?" the man answered in his heavily accented Latin.
"How are you finding your first full day as a freed-man?"
The semi-civilized man blinked a few times, gathering his thoughts, at last speaking in a soft monotone, "Yesterday, lazy Roman wakes late from easy bed and calls 'food.' I, Hermann, awake since very early, finishes stirring porridge by spitting in pot before serving to indulgent master. Then walk all over camp running errands for slothful Roman who owns I."
Though all on the Legate's staff were very familiar with the German, many eyes bugged out and faces scowled at the former slave's words. Cassius, though also surprised at the rare public display by Herman, nevertheless kept his face well schooled and serious. "But today, you stupid barbarian. How about today?"
Herman scrunched up his nose a moment. "Lazy Roman wakes late and calls 'food.' I spit on pig grease baked bread and bring to feeble civilized man, then finish packing and loading every little comfort of too soft Roman. But then, instead of walk as always, given mule to ride." The big man patted the head of his small mount with some affection. "Like mule. Never have mule before. Maybe freedman not bad thing. Can marry mule, no?"
Cassius broke out laughing. The edges of the dour German's lips turned up into the smallest glimmer of a smirk. The command staff, not fully comprehending the purpose of the wordplay between their leader and his servant, still produced a few, artificial chuckles simply because the Legate found amusement in the situation.
"Let this be a lesson," Cassius happily called out. "Sometimes it's the smallest of things that will make your men happy and loyal to you." And with those words, the Legate put spurs to his horse and trotted down the now near mile long line of men and beasts stretching from the fort into the woods.
December 6.
The Seventh Cohort had been given the privilege of leading the day's march and Cassius, in company with Ser Elwood Harte, a few other Westerosi lordlings, and their keeper Secundus Tatius, kept pace with the cohort's Front File Centurion at the head of the column tromping down the Kingsroad. After a few hours labored translation between the two sides describing for each other the tactics of knights and legionnaires, the Legate politely excused himself in order to go inspect the troops. He pulled his horse out of line and slowly walked it back down the columns while the first three of the cohort's six centuries marched inexorably past him in their steady, miles eating pace.
"Tighten up and march straight you limp dicks," snarled the Watch Commander of the Fourth Century. "Here comes the Legate. Don't want him to think we're a bunch of big girl's blouses do you!? Show some pride."
Cassius tugged the reins to reverse his mount's direction to come even with and keep a pace of the century's third ranking officer. "The men don't look half bad, Tiberius Gellius," the Legate commented.
The ugly hardboiled man sneered and declared in a loud, scornfully voice, "Their blades're dull, body armor rusted, hobnailed sandals full of dirt, and guts full of wind. A one legged pimp in a brothel could run'em off scared after picking the coins from their giant, gaping anuses." He hawked and spat a large wad of phlegm. "Still, Legate," he continued, "they're the best bunch this sad excuse of a slattern filled cohort has. Jove's hairy balls save us should we need to fight."
Cassius sagely nodded his head in agreement and intently scanned the ranks of soldiers marching nearest him. They all wore overlong mail or scaled hauberks rolled up to just above their waists and slung their shields covered in protective leather over their backs. Most of their personal gear hung wrapped up together in their sleeping blanket and all weather cloak from a large Y-shaped stick they carried across a shoulder, from which also dangled their mess kits, water bags, cooking pots each full of several days rations, and their helmets. Alongside the Y-shaped stick on their shoulders rode an entrenching tool and the almost man length sharpened stake used in the wall of each night's field fortification. Their belts held the deadly short swords renowned by untold hordes of Rome's dead enemies and a dagger.
A few of the men looked glumly at him, never suspecting anything good to come from being under the gaze of a Legion officer, let alone the Legion Officer. Several happily grinned as they kept the steady space, perhaps already anticipating their destination and an end to the monotony of being in the field. Finally done with his 'inspection,' Cassius gravely said, "It's an army full of cunts all right, Tiberius Gellius. I fear for their virginity once we reach Rex Hercules' capital."
Most of the men in hearing distance snickered appreciatively at his slander.
December 7.
Eight cohorts and near thirty two hundred auxiliaries came to a crashing stop on the Kingsroad two furlongs from the start of the suburb on the south shore of the river opposite King's Landing. A couple hundred militia wearing gold cloaks and simple black helms, sporting spears and cudgels, populated the boundary of the unwalled jumble of huts, buildings, and warehouses. At the Legate's gesture, two trumpeters stepped forward blared the greeting of the Legion.
In answer, three horses trotted out briskly past the dilapidated gatehouse arching over the Kingsroad at the entrance to the working class slum. One wore a gold cloak, another a bright green tunic baring the antlered insignia of Rex Hercules, and the last the red plumed helmet of a Roman officer.
"Hail, Legate," called the Tribune Lucius Pomponius Bassus, a wide smile on his face. "Welcome to King's Landing. May I present to you again, Lord Renly, the King's brother. And this stout fellow is Ser Jacelyn Bywater, an officer of the City Watch and captain over yonder of the city's River Gate."
Warm greetings were exchanged and translated into the proper language as necessary. Lord Renly soon detached himself to speak with Ser Elwood Harte, who had led the several score worth of guides accompanying the Legion. Once satisfied through the Tribune that the situation with the newcomers seemed organized enough for them to proceed onward, Ser Jacelyn returned to his gold garbed men to ready them for the procession of soldiers soon to come for transport the Blackwater Rush.
"You did well Lucius Pomponius," the Legate congratulated him. "The men approved of the contract you negotiated."
The Tribune's eyes widened in surprise, "Did you have our simple soldiers vote on it, Cassius Lartius?" When the Legate nodded yes, Lucius broke into a smile and said in an amazed tone, "How Republican of you."
"Strange times, strange lands. It seemed … prudent," the commander of the Legion replied.
"And with your natural affinity to their plebian hearts, I'm sure you didn't ask them anything you didn't already know how they'd answer," the patrician continued with an approving look at the Legate.
Cassius had known the Tribune long enough to take Lucius' words as compliment, and not upper class Roman snobbery. The Legate stared across the water at the high walls of King's Landing and the city's large size. "A pity the king's advisors wouldn't let us station men inside their metropolis," he sighed. "How goes the permanent camp?"
"Titus Sidonius has had the Second Cohort working like mules the past six days. A preliminary trench and wall surround the site and five buildings have already been erected."
"Excellent. Latrines and mess hall?"
"Of course."
"Water?"
"There are wells. Thankfully there is a nearby stream we can divert by only a half mile long aqueduct to meet our daily needs. I've made some preliminary sketches already. The flow should even be strong enough to keep the sanitary channels swept fairly clean; we can probably cover the tops of them and reduce the camp's stench."
"Outstanding, Lucius Pomponius, outstanding; but," Cassius chuckled, "the lieutenants and watch commanders will have to get creative with their punishments if they can't assign 'mucking the shit' for minor infractions."
The Tribune shared a grin, until the Legate turned serious again.
"How's Rex Hercules. Your missive did not sound promising."
"He rallies a bit, thankfully. His brother, and now heir, Stannis arrived three days ago. That one is as cold and brutally honest as the King's Hand, Lord Stark. But he seems to have a talent for irritating our Greek demi-god in a way that spurs him into churlish action. A much better state than the wine fueled stupors he'd been drinking himself into. When we left the Red Keep to come here, this Stannis was chastising our Hercules about how pathetic his efforts were in sparring against our own inestimable Publius Postumius."
"Even better yet. And what words of war? Are these Lannisters going to give battle to the King?" Cassius probed.
"It remains to be seen yet. There is raiding by Lannister allies in the place called the Riverlands. Some knights sent by Lord Stark to stop the pillaging were ambushed by a Lord Clegane and nearly killed to a man. Just this morning a force of two thousand horse departed here for that region under the command of a Lord Yohn Royce," the Tribune explained.
"Agh," scowled the Legate, "too many outlandish names and unknown places to remember. I fear you will suffer many a late night this next week Lucius Pomponius, relaying to me all you've learned and what snares you've laid for these barbarians."
The pair of trumpeters blew a call again and the First Cohort, at the head of the mile long column of Romans, moved out to be the first to cross over the Blackwater Rush.