The Triumph of Venus - Chapter 12

Northern Italy, Just East of the Border of Gual

Aelius sat tall upon his horse, surveying the small village as his century approached. Scattered huts and simple stone buildings dotted the landscape, smoke rising lazily from a few chimneys, and people moving about the fields outside of town. There had been a lot of talk of these villages being empty as the main body of the legions passed through, but it seemed as if some of the people had returned, now that the armies had passed.

Considering the villagers’ obvious distrust of Britannians and their willingness to abandon their villages, Aelius would have bypassed it entirely if given his druthers. Unfortunately, he wasn’t given that choice. His orders were clear: stop and negotiate with any locals they encountered along the way, breaking off elements of his cohorts to keep up appearances as peacekeepers at the larger villages.

To try and lessen any fear they might cause the locals, as soon as the scouts told him they were approaching a village, he’d come ahead with a single century. Entering the village, he could feel the eyes of the people, most of whom disappeared as soon as his small column approached. Even with people hiding, word must have spread fast, because an older man, flanked by a large number of younger ones, waited in the center of the village as they approached.

Raising his fist, he signaled his men to halt. Good soldiers, they spread out into even lines, weapons held at the ready position, butts against the ground. This was a friendly visit, and they were trying to not be overly aggressive, but reports coming back through the telegraph, when it worked, spoke of ambushes and assaults on isolated groups of legionnaires. It’s why Aelius brought an entire century, instead of a handful of a single squad.

Aelius dismounted and approached the old man, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm, the dozen or so men around him tensing as Aelius approached.

“Are you the headman of this village?” Aelius asked politely with a slight bow.

The old man drew himself up, rheumy eyes peering at Aelius from beneath bushy white brows. “I am Maurus, and I speak for this village. What do you want with us, foreigner?”

The man’s voice had an edge to it, and Aelius couldn’t help but notice the use of “foreigner.” Carthaginians had continued referring to Romans as Romans, both after they were forced off the continent and when they’d voluntarily changed their own country’s name to Britannian. It was telling that someone here in Italy would hesitate using that denomination, and chose “foreigner” instead. As if to make it clear that, even if they came from here and still used the name from their homeland, they considered his people neither Italian nor Roman. Only foreign.

“I understand your hesitation, Maurus. We seek no quarrel here,” he gestured to his century of soldiers. “We’ve been tasked with establishing relationships in this region, to foster goodwill and cooperation, and to help with security from bandits and other threats.”

The headman snorted derisively at Aelius’ words. “And how do you plan to do that? By telling us where we can go? What we can do?”

“No. We have no desire to control you or your people. We only want to offer our help. Is there a well here? Is there anything Britannia can do for you?”

Maurus was unmoved by the legate’s words.

“The best thing you can do for us is leave,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. “My people don’t want you here.”

“I understand your feelings,” Aelius said, trying to keep his face and voice neutral. “Truly, I do. But right now, we can’t leave this area completely unsupervised as we push the Carthaginians further south and work towards ending this war once and for all. As soon as our war is over and the area can be left safely on its own, we plan to leave and let everyone here manage their own affairs as they see fit. Our only goal is to contain the chaos caused by removing the Carthaginians.”

A shout came from the crowd behind Maurus. “We’re Carthaginians too! This is our land!”

Maurus nodded, adding, “My people have been part of Carthage for generations now. We see ourselves as Carthaginians as much as anyone born in the city itself. To say you’re not invaders while claiming you removed the people protecting our homes, providing us security and prosperity, shows us exactly who you are.”

Aelius frowned. He hadn’t expected that. In his mind, the people of Italy were still Roman at heart after all these years under the Carthaginian yoke. The idea that some truly saw themselves as Carthaginians was troubling.

“You were not always so,” he countered. “We come from the same ancestors, citizens of a proud republic before Carthage conquered these lands by force. Given the chance, would you not wish to rule yourselves again instead of bending the knee to foreign masters?”

“You are no longer from here. Your fathers’ fathers were not from here. You are as foreign as anyone else.”

He’d hoped to de-escalate things, but the more Maurus countered him, defending the Carthaginians and calling Britannians invaders, the more it egged on the crowd, which had started to build and grow increasingly belligerent.

Cries of “Lies!” and “Invaders!” erupted from the crowd as Maurus spat at his feet.

“Leave our village and our lands, Britannian,” the headman said. “Leave us in peace.”

Peace was the last thing his people had in mind, however, as several stones and a large number of vegetables and other debris sailed his direction. Aelius threw up an arm to shield his face as he backed up to his men to put some distance between the missiles and himself.

The angry shouts from the swelling crowd grew louder as more villagers poured from the buildings and fields to join the confrontation. What had started as a few dozen was now nearly a hundred, and Aelius could see even more emerging from alleys and doorways. His men were quickly becoming outnumbered.

He held up his hands pleadingly. “Please, let’s not let this come to violence! We only wish to help provide order and security until the war is over!”

But his words fell on increasingly deaf ears. The mob pressed closer, emboldened by their growing numbers. Farm implements and tools became makeshift weapons in their hands.

“Get out while you still can, invader!” Maurus yelled over the din. “You’ve worn out your welcome!”

A young man darted from the crowd, a woodcutting axe raised over his head as he charged straight for Aelius with a feral scream. Before Aelius could pull a weapon or respond, one of the men closest to him lifted his rifle with well-practiced precision and fired, knocking the boy off his feet.

For a moment, everyone froze. The villagers had probably heard of firearms by now, as word had traveled pretty far and wide, but hearing about it and seeing it in person was a very different thing.

And then the dam broke. With a collective roar, the mob surged forward, brandishing their makeshift weapons. Young men came at them wielding wood axes, scythes, and staves. Women flung stones and old men shook fists. Aelius didn’t attempt to reason with them a second time, leaping onto his horse as the wave of bodies crashed toward his now outnumbered men.

“Ready arms!” he shouted as he rode his horse down the rank and out of the line of fire.

In unison, his legionnaires hefted their rifles, the years of combat and hours at drill making the action pure muscle memory by now.

“By rank,” he commanded, a hand going up over his head.

As the legionnaires sighted along their rifles, a few villagers in the lead faltered slightly, maybe guessing what was coming next from the stories they must have heard, but fury and numbers carried the rest forward.

“Fire!” he roared, chopping his hand down.

A ripple of gunshots tore through the mob’s war cries. Villagers in the front dropped, some wounded, some dead. But the mass behind them barely slowed, trampling the fallen as they pressed toward the thin Roman line.

“Retreat by rank. Second rank. Ready! Fire!”

Row by row, his men filtered back, as the next rank in line lifted their rifles and fired. In the standard three-rank fighting formation, this would have held for only three ranks, and then required switching to bayonet without another formation to swap positions, but the village streets had been narrow, and he’d been forced to switch to a wide marching column, even after his men had fanned out.

Step by step, his men retreated and fired into the crowd, villagers falling in fives and tens. They didn’t stop coming, though. They were wild with fury, throwing stones and axes as they tried to close the gap with the Britannians.

A well-thrown axe flew from the surging crowd, catching a legionnaire, who was grabbed by the retreating rank and pulled to the rear.

“At the double step,” he called, as the villagers began to fade, their fury finally giving way to the carnage around them.

Wails and cries of dying men and widowed women were already heard above the rifles and shouting. Aelius spotted a young man clambering onto a rooftop, arming an arcubalista, maybe one of Carthaginian creation or the Roman pattern, or maybe one sold by Britannian allies. The iron bolt streaked through the air and punched through a legionnaire’s calf in a spray of blood. Before Aelius could react, two more men grabbed their comrade’s arms and hauled him away from the pressing horde.

“Watch the roofs and windows!” Aelius warned.

He had to get his men out of these cramped streets. Already, a handful of villagers had attempted to come in behind them. Not enough to overcome his rear guard, but a problematic development. If he didn’t get his men out of this village soon, they were going to be overrun.

“Skirmish retreat by line,” he commanded. “Fifty paces to the rear and prepare to receive. Double time.”

The Consul had ordered the men trained on all manners of maneuvers, some of which, it had seemed, were unlikely ever to be used. Aelius was a believer in rigorous training, as any legate was, knowing the necessity of coordination when fighting in the legions, but even he had found some of the repetition almost unnecessary. Now he was glad of it. The men had done this maneuver, and others with slight variations, hundreds of times, and knew their jobs.

The rear ranks turned and ran, still holding their line, stopping fifty paces further, where they reloaded, while the front rank released another volley. As soon as their weapons were clear, those men turned and ran past the rank that had set up fifty paces behind and continued, passing ranks of men set out at fifty-pace intervals, until they became the last line, where they themselves halted and began unloading.

Like a wave retreating from the shore, his units fell back in what the Consul had called a ‘leapfrog’ maneuver. It allowed them to retreat quickly, while still presenting a lethal front to the oncoming enemy.

A few more attempts were made to attack his men from the rear and rooftops, but aware of the threats, his men cut those villagers down before any more of his people could be injured. In a few minutes, they had fought their way out of town and were back amongst the fields, now devoid of the farmers who’d toiled in them when Aelius and his legionnaires had arrived.

“Marching column and the quick pace,” he commanded, his leapfrogging units coalescing and putting their arms back to port, over their shoulder.

The villagers did not follow them beyond the edge of their homes, but Aelius didn’t trust their safety yet. It seemed safe enough to let his men stop sprinting away, but he wanted a quick march for a mile-passes or so before he returned them to a normal march back to his cohorts.

“Runner,” he called out, bringing one of the unarmored men from the rear, or what was now the front of the column, to him. “Return to the main body and call up an ambulance wagon for the wounded.”

The man nodded and dashed off in a sprint. As he watched the man go, Aelius frowned. Now all he had to do was get to the Consul and explain his abject failure.

***

Devnum

Lucilla strolled through the palace gardens, the sweet floral scents and vibrant colors a welcome break from being inside the stuffy confines of the palace. Rounding a corner, she smiled as she spotted her spymaster waiting beneath a flowering trellis, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was stoic as always, though she detected a hint of a smile in return.

They both knew her office was as private, if not more so, than conversations in the gardens, and that what they needed to discuss wasn’t so secret that they really needed to go sneaking off to meet about it in a secluded location like a couple of cutpurses. They both knew the real reason she liked having their ‘meetings’ in the gardens was because it gave her a break from stone walls and marble floors.

She was just happy he was so good about humoring her.

“Thank you for coming, Ramirus,” Lucilla said.

He inclined his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. How may I be of service?”

Lucilla gestured to a stone bench nestled amidst lush shrubbery.

“I wanted to check in on how Medb is faring with her new responsibilities,” she said as she sat down.

“Surprisingly well, Your Majesty. I know you gave her the position to keep her busy and under watch, but it seems she has a real talent for administration, beneath all of the scheming.”

“Truly? I expected her to chafe and make things more difficult. She certainly was vocal when I dared to suggest she put her ‘immense abilities’ to something so mundane.”

“I thought the same when you told me about it, but the opposite has proven to be true. More surprisingly, at least to me, was that there have been few opportunities for graft, admittedly some I placed in front of her on purpose, to see what she would do. Suppliers offering kickbacks for preference, merchants offering to line her pocket to give her gossip or access. The lesser ones, with people she might have to continue dealing with, the suppliers for example, she rebuffed tactfully, making it clear she would not take the bribe, but without casting judgment or engendering hard feelings. Considering how I saw her act in the council meetings, she did it with a level of subtlety that I honestly didn’t expect her to possess. The ones that, potentially, had the greater long-term benefit to her, but weren’t needed to continue efficient operations of the palace, she actually reported. Like I said, surprising.”

“Well now, that is promising,” Lucilla mused.

“Beyond the tests I have thrown at her, she’s actually done amazing with her actual tasks. Kitchen costs are down twelve percent thanks to her scrutinizing waste, and several inefficiencies in the scullery operations were corrected when she took over. The Palatinus has received numerous compliments from staff over the way things are being handled. From what the people I placed in the palace tell me, the staff finds her uncompromising and a harsh taskmistress, but uncompromisingly fair. She doesn’t speak down to them, treats each member of the staff as they’re important, and publicly praises good works. Seeing her activity over the last year, I’d questioned how she’d managed to amass such a loyal populace in her former kingdom, but now it seems much more reasonable. She is an exceptional leader, in her own blunt way.”

“That you should have been less surprised about. She didn’t earn her kingdom through inheritance; she won it, and we saw firsthand proof of how vehemently her people defended her. It’s difficult to get that kind of support when you have an inherited claim on the throne, let alone one taken through force. We knew she was capable. It’s why we wanted to take her not only out of her homeland but off the island as a whole.”

“This is true, but most of the people she is overseeing are Roman and Caledonian. They are predisposed to the opposite inclination. It goes beyond that, however. Beyond just doing good work in the job itself and turning down opportunities for graft, she actually uncovered some already in place. Graft that I, admittedly, have missed. There was a girl serving as a Cubicularii, that was the daughter of a well-placed merchant here in the city. That would have been fine, but she discovered the girl taking things, not valuables, but information. She would steal documents, linger near places she shouldn’t, apparently passing information back to her father, which he could use when conducting business with the empire. Within two days of starting her duties, Medb identified her and removed her from the staff.”

“And her father?” Lucilla asked.

“I’m dealing with him. Rest assured, he will find it difficult to do business with the empire going forward.”

“Good. I’m pleased to hear Medb is performing her duties so capably. Still, a woman of Medb’s ambition, I have concerns that she will chafe at her new position, no matter her talent for it. I cannot imagine she is content simply ordering servants and scrutinizing ledgers.”

“It seems unlikely,” Ramirus agreed.

“How likely, do you think, that this is all a ruse?” Lucilla asked. “That she’s just biding her time, waiting until something worth taking a risk on comes her way?”

“It’s impossible to say. For all appearances, it seems legitimate, and I’ve been watching her closely, but it’s impossible to see into her mind.”

“Actually, I might have a thought,” Ramirus said, pausing and looking off, thinking. Lucilla, familiar with his methods, waited while he worked the thought through. “I do have some potential work that I think would suit her well and give her the challenge she wants.”

“Do I want to know specifics?”

“It’s probably better if you didn’t. At least, not yet. Sometimes these things are easier to deal with without official attention. It would mean giving the Palatinus some of his duties back again.”

“That’s fine. This was never intended to be a permanent assignment for her. Although, if you are giving him his full duties back, I believe it might be helpful to apply some additional pressure to him. It seems Medb has identified several spots where his performance could use improvements.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Your Majesty.”