Part 20 – A Fishy Accommodation
Cassius (V) - December 20.
Several of the two score men crammed into the command tent snickered, breaking the hushed respectful voices they'd been carrying a half dozen conversations on with.
The change in atmosphere caused Cassius Lartius Mucianus, Legate of the Ninth Spanish Legion, to look up from the mound of papers on his folding campaign table and see the flicker of light as the tent flap slid shut. "Is that you, at last, Diviciacus?" he asked unhappily of the perpetually late Gaul.
"Aye, 'tis me Legate," came the short man's musical, Aeduin accented reply, no hint of remorse at his tardiness.
"And did you leave your mare well satisfied?" the Legion's commander asked in a biting tone.
"What?" squawked the Gallic cavalry captain in surprise while his more timely comrades of the senior staff broke out in laughter.
Cassius turned his head and gave Lucius Pomponius Bassus, his Tribune and thus second in command, a look telling him to get the meeting started.
"Find a seat Diviciacus," the Tribune snapped. "Quiet the rest of you," he commanded no less sternly. "It's time for Legion business."
The Legate watched his senior centurions, chief specialists, and auxiliary captains settle down quickly. Every Roman and Peregrinus, free provincial without citizenship, in the Legion knew who commanded the Ninth with a steady iron hand. Still, having the Tribune available to bear the brunt of disgruntlement by handling petty disciplinary issues, especially among his officers, helped keep the lot of them generally happier with his steady iron hand. "Has everyone here been knighted by Rex Hercules?"
They all nodded or murmured their assent.
"Good. This 'Ser' title is important since we're to deal often with these arrogant barbarian nobles and they take it very seriously. Now praise Fortune we've already exceeded the bounds of our sell sword contract and had all you auxiliary captains, as well as the Doctor, knighted; so if the opportunity ever comes up for any of your junior centurions or lieutenants, take it."
They nodded and muttered agreement.
"And have each of you told Brutus Pius what you've chosen for your 'coat of arms'?"
Again they nodded or murmured or in some other way expressed having notified the Legion's senior quartermaster.
The Legate turned to the man who he had campaigned many a year with in Dacia. "And?"
"I've commissioned with a trio of merchants who've set up some of the bigger stalls out in that ramshackle marketplace to make badges for every man on the rolls of a legion cohort, cavalry unit, or auxiliary cohort, Brutus Pius explained. "Once we get them, the men can sew them on themselves to their sagum cloaks."
"Why not buy us surcoats like these Westerosi bannermen wear?" asked the senior centurion of the Fourth Cohort.
"There's only so much silver to go around, Quintus Rutilius," Brutus Pius replied testily. "The Legate's arranged a discretionary fund for each cohort. Dip into your own denarii if you want your boys to look like a damned Westerosi."
The rebuke stung the centurion as well as riled up several of the other commanders.
"Let these Westerlander foe of Rex Hercules know they face stout Romans in battle by our unadorned loricas," huffed Hostus Ulpius, the senior centurion of the Eighth Cohort.
"And next you'll be wanting to fight under your own pretty banner instead of the Eagle," Volesus Caeperius of the Tenth Cohort barked in disgust.
Hot faced, Quintus Rutilius made to rise in anger.
"Sit," commanded Lucius calmly, his voice somehow filling the whole tent without being raised.
The centurion hesitated, half off his camp stool, but the ingrained discipline of the legion won out and he sat back down.
"These Westerosi seem to know a thing or two about war," Lucius Pomponius interjected with a seemingly bored tone. "Or have you forgotten the frequent thrashings Lord Stannis' men gave us?"
The Legate watched with satisfaction as the Tribune's cold dose of sarcasm brought the rapidly heating situation between his centurions down to a very low simmer. The majority of his cohorts had broken at one time or another trying to stand up against practice charges by this land's heavily armored and armed knights, but never once Quintus Rutilius' lads. And everyone in the tent jealously knew it.
The Tribune gave one last hard stare around the tent before turning back to the senior quartermaster. "Brutus Pius, how many more arm guards, thigh plates, and greaves do we yet need ."
The middle aged man scratched his salt and pepper beard. "Aye, that's the bottomless hole for Rex Hercules first payment in gold to us. His master at arms, Ser Santagar was happy enough at first to freely pass off the Red Keep's old, unused ring and scale stuff, even some rusty plate armor; just as the contract you negotiated said they would, Tribune. But then word of war in that Riverlands place hit and he's become as stingy as a patrician owning only his fancy family name and a clay pot to shit in. With several armies to worry about outfitting, even with the Rex's paper meeting our needs come far behind those of any little lord or obscure personal connection to Ser Aron."
Cassius frowned. Though he preferred to advance through sheer competence, he knew how to play the game of 'personal connections,' since there were limits to how far mere competence would carry one in Rome. And he had played well enough to make Legate. Based on what he'd seen of the Westerosi nobility so far, the game was not that different; he just needed to learn all the players and their house rules before he began turning one against the other for the benefit of the Legion.
Lucius Pompius cleared his throat. "So we're being forced to pay for it?"
"Aye, Tribune," Brutus Pius continued. "With that Lord Stannis gone with most of the Crownland mounted levies, we're the biggest bunch of cocks Rex Hercules has left; who knows when he might order us to march. I didn't want to wait till we were already dead to get the gear, so I've been forced to go to the Street of Steel," he spat in disgust.
"And they charge the proverbial arm and a leg for arm and leg mail?" the Tribune asked drolly.
The quartermaster snorted. "Only when they don't sneer at me for wanting such simple pieces in bulk or claim they can't fill the order for six months."
"Pay them we must then," Cassius stated. "I won't have our better trained men fighting any less armored than the dullest Westerosi man-at-arms. And to the Tribune's original question, how many cohorts and centuries have been armored?"
"Apologies Legate, Tribune. I meant to say about half the cohorts are now fully armored and we might reach two thirds, with plenty of silver and a little luck, in a month."
"Begging the Legate's pardon," piped in Verica, the captain of his seven hundred odd Belgican peregrini infantry. "My tribe wants the extra armor too."
This set off a round of concurrence from all the other auxiliary captains: Diviciacus, Bogud of the Mauretanian horse archers, Agesander of the Rhodusian slingers, Vellocatus of the Brittanian scouts, and Viriatus Baelius of the Hispanian archers.
And that brought on loud disagreement from his Roman centurions, but whether from fear their own men would be shorted or simple bigotry towards the non-Romans, the non-Italians, that had been conquered by the legions over the last century and a half ago, the Legate couldn't tell. And frankly he didn't care, for he'd come to a decision during the last week. His knuckles rapped his campaign table until the sound of it gathered everyone's attention and they quieted. "As your tribesman can fight in formation like a cohort, Verica, I'll grant your request for the extra armor. The rest of you are light troops, you're not meant to melee; you hit and run away or fire missiles from behind the cohorts. Bogud, Viriatus Baelius, do your bows penetrate Westerosi plate?"
"The bodkin points help," the dusky north African Bogud said with just a hint of hesitation.
"But?" asked Lucius Pomponius having noticed the Numidian's qualm in answering.
"Too close, we must ride too close," he said bitterly.
"Viriatus Baelius?" Cassius probed the blond haired Celt from the mountains of northern Hispania.
He nodded grimly. "Is bad."
"Are you working on getting stronger bows?" the Tribune asked dangerously.
"Yes," they both answered quickly.
"Work harder," Cassius commanded.
"Parthia," Brutus Pius said loudly. "These Westerosi knights love their horses as much as those damned cataphracts. Ignore the man, shoot the beast."
"Smart," Aulus Vibius, the senior centurion of the First Cohort and thus of the whole Legion, agreed.
"But they armor them too," protested Opiter Sempronius of the Fourth.
"But not so thick," Hostus Ulpius pointed out.
"Cruel men you are," Bogud said sadly, who almost learned how to ride before he could walk.
"Practical," laughed grizzled Titus Sidonius of the Second, clapping the Numidian tribesman on the shoulder. "Deadly practical."
Cassius spotted the Greek among them being very quiet and looking very uncomfortable. 'Yes, he would be.' "Agesander," he called. "We will likely not be fighting half naked savages or lightly armored barbarians, will we?"
"No, Legate."
"How do your fellow islanders feel about fighting?"
"There is unhappy talk, Legate. They fear even leaden bullets will be nothing more than a nuisance to all but the lightest foe; though we are gladdened to hear that much of Westerosi armies are made up of their so called smallfolk pulled out of the fields and handed weapons. We could do much harm to them," he said fiercely.
'Not enough,' the Legate thought. "Brutus Pius, the manuballista please."
The quartermaster stood up and walked over to the writing desk at which the Legate's scribe sat, taking notes. He pulled something off the top of the row of shelves at it's side. "The Westerosi call this a crossbow."
Necks craned to get a better look; they'd all caught glimpses of them before, but mostly only from guards on duty atop walls.
"For loading, see it has a foot clasp at the front and dual cranks to pull the string back and then the bolt nocked into place," Brutus Pius pointed out. "Through the Tribune's good graces, a hundred of them bound for the gold cloaks has gone misplaced," he snickered.
"Take your least skilled slingers and have them practice only with these the next week, Agesander," Cassius commanded.
"Yes, Legate."
"And how goes making more ballista?" he asked next.
"Tullus Memmius, can answer for that, Legate," Brutus Pius responded.
"Slowly, Legate," the Legion's chief engineer stated. "Building the castra as well as training with sword and shield and the new long spears takes must of the hours of the day."
"And don't forget eating, drinking, pissing, and fucking," quipped one of the centurions.
"Well you won't get to do much of that if we don't have more ballista to break up their damn lance charges before they drive in to your men," snapped old Titus Sidonius irritably.
"If we get caught in battle without a wall and stakes to fight from behind, we will need every ballista we can muster, Tullus Memmius," the Legate said with deadly seriousness.
"Aye. I've made five in our two weeks here, but have twenty more in various stages."
Lucius Pomponius raised his eyebrows.
"More closer to started than done," the engineer added before hastily moving to another topic. "I've, uh, been ordering more nails from the local blacksmiths than we really need for the immediate number of buildings we're erecting inside the castra, Legate, Tribune."
"Oh, you'll like this, Legate," Brutus Pius chortled. "Show him, Tullus Memmius."
The engineer reach into a pouch dangling from his leather belt and held up several dull, twisted objects. "Caltrops," he announced.
"Bloody brilliant," gushed Aulus Vibius.
"They'll wish their pretty horses had hobnailed boots for hooves," laughed Sertor Fulvius of the Third.
"How many?" Cassius asked with an evil grin.
"Ten barrels, Legate."
"Can you make a barrel full a day?"
The engineer shook his head no, "Maybe a half barrel, but I'll need to order more nails."
"Do it. I want every little trick available to us when we march."
"So we're fighting soon?" Mettius Antonius of the Seventh asked eagerly.
"Perhaps," Cassius announced. "Rex Hercules' Hand has asked to see me tonight. Something may be a foot."
The seemingly endless circle of stairs hardly bothered Cassius Lartius; he was a mule, practically raised from a pup in the Legion, marching was as ubiquitous to a Legionnaire's identity as his gladius, scuta, sagum, and lorica. On the other hand, he felt reassured with each step up that his feet were shod in the traditional open faced boots with the heavy duty hobnailed souls. A slip and tumble here would take the unwary a very long and painful way down. And while at the moment the greatest challenge to the Legate might be to not get dizzy as he and his aide cum interpreter for the evening, Secundus Tatius, went round and round and up and up, he did have time to marvel at the construction of the Tower of the Hand. The narrow edifice soared as high as and probably higher still than the top of Flavian Amphitheatre. Barbarians these Westerosi may be, but not without talents.
The stairs at last came to an end at a landing before a door. The grey clad house guard who had escorted them knocked firmly on the thick oak. "The Romans, milord," he called out.
"Enter," the dour voice answered.
The guard released the latch and pushed the door slowly open revealing a richly decorated, but not overly so, solar with upholstered chairs, a table for eating, a writing desk, and tapestries showing hunts and battles hanging from the walls. The Legate spied a door on the opposite side that likely led to a sleeping chamber and perhaps a garderobe or stairs that led to the roof. A pleasant fire blazed away in a hearth, keeping the chill late autumn night air at bay. On the ride over to the Red Keep from the castra, he had judged the city's climate to be very similar to that of the province of Gallia Narbonensis. In fact with the sea so close, when he'd shut his eyes, he'd almost imagined himself in Massilia; except of course for the metropolis' stench and utter lack of Latin voices.
He gathered his straying thoughts as he strode into the room and drew himself into a parade ground worthy salute before Lord Stark, Rex Hercules' great and suspicious friend. Secundus Tatius followed behind and echoed the Legate's performance.
"Ser Cassius, Secundus," Lord Stark replied from where he sat reading beside a bright lamp. The scroll went down. "Please, sit," he directed them, the slightest of smiles breaking through the wintry gaze on his long face.
The Legate took the chair directly opposite his host, and his aide slightly off to the side.
"That will be all Wyly," the Hand said, dismissing his man. "You may stand at post outside."
"Milord," the guard answered, pulling the door close toward himself and leaving the Romans alone with his liege.
Wine?" the dark haired man asked, a glass carafe and several glass vessels sat on the side of his desk.
'Not without talents,' he thought yet again. The Legate had certainly drunk from glassware many, many times. But wine was usually stored and served from ceramic amphorae or oak barrels or metal flagons, not glass blown bottles. In fact the window behind the Hand of the King had shapes and colors in it, somehow held into place by narrow bands of metal, 'lead,' he wondered. Cassius had seen such windows before in the city and within the Keep, but never before so close up. "Please," he responded with a hearty smile. "You wine … different … interesting more … my … people," he replied haltingly. The Legion was a polyglot creature. He could speak three languages with moderate fluency in addition to his native Latin, and swear up Neptune's storm in a half dozen more. Learning yet another would be difficult for the over forty year old man, but a necessary challenge to survive in this new place. He couldn't rely on interpreters forever.
The smile on the Hand's face widened wryly. "'Tis only a sour red; all I find I can stomach here in the South." And then the man stood up, poured two cups full and passed them over to his guests.
The Legate waited for Lord Stark to fill his own goblet and sit back down.
"Not know … habit? Ah, custom. To Rex Hercules." Cassius proposed and lifted his wrist.
"Rex Hercules" Secundus chimed in quietly, raising his own.
The Hand paused, then recognition flit briefly across his face, to be replaced by a rueful look. "To King Robert," he replied.
All three took small sips of their wine.
Cassius now waited. The Hand had called for him. The first time as far as he was aware, and he like to think he had a very long ear where Legion business was concerned, that Lord Stark had ever wished to speak in private to any of Rex Hercules' new 'sellswords.' The Legate was very interested in what the man had to say, but by all the rules he knew, the Hand had to bring up business first.
"Your Publius Postumius is a good man," Lord Stark commented. "I have not seen the King," and here the dark haired man with grey speckled in his beard paused to smile briefly, "your Rex Hercules, so fit in a long time. Should true war come, I think the Rex will be able to it. For his sake, I thank you."
Cassius slowly bobbed his head as he followed along with the Hand's words well enough. 'And what of yours?' "Publius Postumius best of Legion. Leader, teacher, warrior." The Legate pointed with his cup towards the Hand. "Leg good? You ride war with Rex Hercules?"
Lord Stark waggled his leg a little. The cast had at last come off a week ago after a month and half of slow, itchy healing. "Ride yes. March like I hear you Romans can?" He shook his head no bemusedly.
"Ask Publius Postumius. He make leg strong."
"I've already learned much from Publius Postumius. He's told me the legends of your Hercules. Powerful tales. Deeds worth of the Age of Heroes. But filled with hardships and a dark end," the Hand finished ominously.
The parallels between the strong men, if taken too far, could be troubling to the too literally minded, Cassius. "Secundus, translate," he commanded. "Ruling a Kingdom is difficult even in the easiest of years. And the blest of the Gods are oft given more troubles than mere normal mortals. Yet most stories are just that, stories; meant to entertain or teach a moral, but the best fables reveal a truth within one's self."
Secundus repeated his words in the Hand's standard tongue and the great lord slowly nodded his head in understanding, if not outright agreement.
"And you Romans are great believers in the truth? In honor?" Lord Stark queried.
Cassius Lartius Mucianus, grandson of the great Gaius Licinius Mucianus: senator, consul, right hand of the Emperor Vespasian lacked the time and the words to describe to his host what dignitas meant to a Roman of Rome. And what's more he was unsure if the Hand would care or understand; yet there seemed to be some deeper question underlying the query. "Secundus. No more or less than any other man, Lord Hand, we are after all only flesh and blood. However, we do face the truth better than most, especially when it reveals what we do not wish to see. And as the uncovered truth exposes the stain on a man's honor, a Roman has the courage to take the hard course and do whatever is necessary to expunge the taint on his house's name."
Again his aide translated his words.
And Lord Stark seemed to accept them, for her turned the conversation. "Your men are very busy. Building your fortress. Always training. With so many of the King's banners gathering, and still to gather, it must be difficult to find everything you need. Is there something I can help you get?"
'Everything,' leapt to mind. Having apparently passed the test laid before him, the Hand was now offering a favor. 'But what is the cost of everything?' he wondered. Best not find out. "Garum," he at last replied.
Secundus Tatius failed to completely stifle a laugh.
"Garum?" the Hand asked perplexedly.
"Secundus, explain garum to the Lord Hand," he commanded.
Then haltingly, for even his aide's better grasp of the Westerosi language lacked the vocabulary to describe the maceration in salt of the blood and guts of bogues fish and the subsequent fermentation and skimming off of the resulting liquid, the concept of a Roman's favorite fish sauce, the ubiquitous garnish to every legionnaires meal, was explained to the Hand.
"T'would give a Dornishman indigestion," Lord Stark proclaimed once Secundus Tatius rambling description of the addictive condiment. "No such paste is known to me. Though I am a Northerner, I doubt the like of it exists in King's Landing. But if it would make your men happy and your supplies of this garum are low, perhaps your cooks can meet up with some merchants in the Fish Market. I would provide the silver for half the cost of a factory."
"Lord Hand generous."
The long faced man's nostrils flared. "You say the fish must sit out for several months fermenting?"
His aide practically licked his lips as he salivated at the idea. "Yes, my lord."
"And, uh, it carries a strong aroma?"
"Yes, my lord."
'Cease your foolish smile Secundus, 'tis only a small move in the little game we play tonight,' Cassius thought.
"Perhaps the factory might be built on the other side of the Blackwater Rush?"
'And now my turn.' "May help Lord Hand for great favor?" the Legate asked with almost exaggerated innocence.
Lord Stark smiled politely in response. "The bastard Joffrey Waters is to leave for the Wall by boat in three days. My own children were attacked making the journey from keep to harbor," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I worry that another such incident might occur, someone with Lannister sympathies would pay the boy's weight in gold to free him; and I have very few Winterfell guardsmen left to me."
Cassius as he slowly translated in his head the Hand's words, quickly saw the implication of the words. 'He has never shown a trust of us before. Yet clearly he mistrusts the Gold Cloaks; Lucius Pomponius must be correct and they are all bought by Lord Mushroom. There must be no other lords present he trusts either. Interesting.' "One century? Two century? Three century" he asked.
The Hand frowned, obviously not enamored by the Legate's readiness to bargain favors; even if he had been the one to start the dance. "Two by the gate at dawn?"
"Publius Postumius …" he turned for a moment to whisper in Latin with Secundus Tatius. "… commanding," he finished.
Lord Stark's frown quickly flipped to a vicious smile. "Yes," he agreed.
"And two century harbor," Cassius added; if he was gaining the Hand's favor and trust, no point in chancing things. "Boat name?"
The long faced man chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, as if this last piece of information was too much to give should the Roman sellswords wish to use it for their own gain. "The Merry Maester," he begrudgingly divulged.