Here's something that I've been toying with. I'd be grateful for any thoughts.
Deva, Britannia, 405AD
“No! Your knees. Grip the horse with your knees!”
It had been raining earlier and he’d had to order more sawdust to be scattered on the wet surface of the training ground. A small thing, but more than the idiot who had been there before had ever thought of. Lucius Tullius Cato watched as the latest idiot on a horse cantered clumsily around the training ground and then wondered what the hell he was doing there.
He wasn’t enjoying himself, he had to admit. Of all the places that the Eagles had been blown to, Britannia was the arse end of the empire. Perhaps the border forts on the Mesopotamian frontier were more out of the way, but he doubted it. The worst thing was that he was stuck in Deva, in the huge echoing barracks that had once helped to house an entire legion. The XX Valeria Victrix were long since gone from the shores of Britannia, but their ghosts were everywhere. In the graffiti on the walls, in the pieces of equipment still in the supply rooms and in the faces of a large number of children and other people within the walls of the city.
That was a melancholy thought and he drew his attention back to the idiots on horseback. They were not, technically speaking, auxiliaries, but then was only because anything that was granted that title tended to be shipped across to Gaul to fight the latest set of barbarian invaders. Few tended to come back.
To tell the truth, he had a nasty feeling that he had been forgotten about to be honest. Everything seemed to be crumbling around him, and that included the army. He’d been posted here and there, from place to place, with the officials that were often doing the sending not entirely sure if they were still officials at all. There was a great deal of chaos in Britannia, with no-one entirely sure who was in charge. Although he had met a few people who seemed to think that they should be in charge. He’d started to avoid them. Conversations with them tended to end in raised voices and sometimes raised fists, although they did often tend to end in a cup of wine and an apology from Cato for hitting them quite so hard.
He totally avoided the people who were higher up the chain of command and seemed to think that they definitely should be in charge. They were not someone you could knock down and then buy a cup of wine to say sorry.
He’d noticed that he was starting to like the wine from Britannia. The stuff from near Calleva Atrebatum was particularly good. He was getting soft.
Turning his attention back to his charges he winced as the next idiot climbed onto a horse and started to bumble around the ground. It was Corcorix. He had a soft spot for Cocorix, the lad was death on legs with any weapon – as long as he was standing on his own two feet. Stick him on a horse and all of a sudden he was a flailing idiot who fell off a great deal.
“Your knees, lad! Grip with your bloody knees!”
Corcorix nodded solemnly and then tried to knot his toes under the belly of the horse. Ten heartbeats later and he was on the sawdust. Fair do to the lad, he then dusted himself down and got back on the horse again.
Cato took a deep breath as he watched the poor lad and the even poorer horse as they wandered about, before finally gripping his belt, closing his eyes and wishing to whichever gods that were looking over him that he could be transported back to Londinium, where he knew a very lithe little barmaid. When he opened his eyes again he was still in Deva. Bugger.
Wonder of wonders, Corcorix was still on his horse, although he was starting to lean at a rather dangerous angle. If only he could stay on the bloody thing, Cato thought despairingly. If only there was some way of keeping him upright. A different saddle perhaps? A better horse? He gripped at his belt more tightly as the lad lost his battle to stay on and then got up and got back on it again. His finger found one of the rings that attached his dagger to his belt and he fiddled with it for a moment as he watched the would-be cavalryman – sorry, unofficial auxiliary – wander around the ground once more time, this time leaning the other way. And as he did so, something tickled in the back of his head.
An hour later he was sitting in what passed for a tavern, gripping a cup of wine and wondering idly about where the hell his life was going. Technically he was still an optio, attached to no particular legion. Practically speaking he was a leaf being blown in the wind. A frustrated leaf in the wind come to that. His pseudo-would-be cavalry trainees needed a lot more training. But there was no real training structure apart from him. And who knew where the wind – or the next pseudo official – would send him?
Idly he traced a pattern on the dust on the table. First a circle, like the ring on his belt. As that thought tingled in the back of his head then he traced a triangle. Then he turned his attention to the girl who was serving the wine that afternoon. She had the kind of cleavage that made every male eye turn yearningly towards her and she’d favoured him with the occasional smile that might just mean that Cato’s luck was running true that day. She had a measuring jug attached to her belt via a long piece of cloth that was embroidered with a looping pattern and he admired it as she poured him another mug of win from an amphora.
And then his mind wandered briefly again. The triangle. The cloth. What if... But then the cleavage intervened - almost literally - and this time the smile was warmer and larger and more inviting.
However the next day he remembered his vague inspiration. And he paid a visit to an old friend of his.
“You want two whats?”
Cato looked at Marcus Ambiorix and suppressed a sigh. His old friend was one of the best blacksmiths that he’d ever known, being very skilled with a hammer and an anvil. Unfortunately he wasn’t the fullest amphora in the cellar. “I need two triangles, Marcus. With… hoops at the end of each one. Sorry, at the top of them.”
Marcus looked at him as if he’d gone raving mad. “You want hoops where?”
This time he didn’t have to suppress the sigh, but he instead pulled out the piece of rag that he’d sketched the design onto with a piece of charcoal. “Look. Triangles, right? One piece of metal each, with hoops on each end and then bent into the shape of a triangle.”
Taking the piece of rag Marcus looked at it carefully. “Alright, looks simple enough,” he rumbled, scratching the back of his head with a heat-pitted hand. “What do want these things for though?”
“Training,” he said. “It’s just an idea I had.”
Marcus shrugged. “You cavalrymen are a funny lot,” he said and then he ambled off to the forge.
By the time that the recruits – sorry, ‘volunteers’ – assembled for training that afternoon Cato was just giving the finishing touches to the saddle with his faithful old bone needle and some heavy thread that he’d liberated from the storeroom around the corner. The young men watched him as he completed his work before lifting the saddle and slunging it onto the nearest horse, which had been watching with total unconcern.
“Corcorix, up here now,” Cato ordered as he secured the saddle. As the young Brigante stepped up Cato nodde at the horse. “On you get lad.”
“Yes Optio,” came the reply as he climbed dutifully but laboriously onto the beast.
“Right,” Cato said as Cocorix lurched upright in the saddle. “Stick your feet in those... metal triangles.”
“Optio?”
“Your feet – put them in.” Seeing the frown on the young man’s face Cato grabbed the nearest foot and stuffed it into the triangle. “Like that – see?”
“Yes Optio,” said Corcorix, doing the same thing to the other triangle.
“Right – now try to ride around the track now. Grip with your knees and try to keep your balance with the triangles.
The frown deepened, but Corcorix was nothing if not dutiful and he encouraged the horse into a slow walk. Three times he rode around the track. Not once did he fall off.
“Well done lad!” Cato beamed.
Corcorix nodded. “These triangles help, Optio,” he said thoughtfully. He flexed his legs slightly and nodded.
The rest of the week passed quite quietly, with the saddle-triangles resulting in far fewer recruits – sorry, volunteers – falling off their horses, especially after Cato donated two amphorae of Gaullish wine to Marcus in return for a lot more iron triangles.
However, at the end of the week two things happened. The first took place when Cato was watching Corcorix urge his horse into a lethargic run (that was slightly faster than a trot) at a target. The horse was being lazy and it was a hot day for once, so the young Brigante could be excused for losing his temper. With a shout of fury he stood up in the saddle, using the triangles for support, and directed a massive swipe of his sword at the target, which fell into two pieces.
“Sorry Optio,” a chastened Corcorix said as he rode back to the flabbergasted optio. “I got a bit excited.”
Cato looked at the ravaged target for a long moment. He’d been in the cavalry for a long time, and he was used to the various tricks that a good legionary used to fight and stay on his horse. He’d never seen anything like that though.
“Don’t worry,” he said thickly. Then he swallowed and looked sharply at the lad. “Do that again.”
“You want me to break another target?” Corcorix said, disbelievingly.
“Yes,” Cato said impatiently, slapping the horses’ right hindquarter and making it move away from him. “That’s an order legionary!”
This earned him an odd look from Corcorix, followed by a bashful smile as he tried the word ‘legionary’ around in his head to see how it sounded. The young Brigante then trotted his horse to the end of the practice line and then urged it into a slightly faster trot than before. Just before he got to the next target he awkwardly rose up on the triangles with a bellow and sliced the straw target in two with one blow.
“Mithras protect us,” Cato muttered under his breath as he traced the shape of the raven on his forehead quickly. Mithraism was frowned on these days, but he was operating on reflex.
“Interesting,” said a voice to one side softly and Cato looked over quickly at the tall man dressed in a rich tunic who was watching the training to one side. He’d vaguely noticed the man before, but hadn’t taken much notice of him. “Very, very interesting. Whose idea was the triangles.”
“Mine,” Cato said. “Are you part of the garrison?”
“What garrison?” the man asked wearily. Then he squinted at Corcorix, who was half-torn between triumph and worry. “How did that feel legionary?”
“A bit tricky sir, but I’ll get used to it,” he replied hesitantly.
“Are you supposed to be here sir,” Cato asked, getting impatient. “This is a training ground.”
The man grinned impishly at him for a moment, looking very young for a moment. “I was a legionary here once, optio. I remember the XXth quite well.” He fingered a ring on the index finger of his right hand, and Cato could see that it was a signet ring. “Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus.”
Oh bugger, Cato thought despairingly, it’s the head bloke-who-thinks-he-should-be-in-charge for the region. Related to one of the former governors of Britannia Secunda. He was in trouble. Original thoughts always led to bloody trouble for him. “Optio Lucius Tullius Cato sir.”
“Congratulations, Centurion Cato,” Aurelianus said, “I’ve got a little job for you.”
Deva, Britannia, 405AD
“No! Your knees. Grip the horse with your knees!”
It had been raining earlier and he’d had to order more sawdust to be scattered on the wet surface of the training ground. A small thing, but more than the idiot who had been there before had ever thought of. Lucius Tullius Cato watched as the latest idiot on a horse cantered clumsily around the training ground and then wondered what the hell he was doing there.
He wasn’t enjoying himself, he had to admit. Of all the places that the Eagles had been blown to, Britannia was the arse end of the empire. Perhaps the border forts on the Mesopotamian frontier were more out of the way, but he doubted it. The worst thing was that he was stuck in Deva, in the huge echoing barracks that had once helped to house an entire legion. The XX Valeria Victrix were long since gone from the shores of Britannia, but their ghosts were everywhere. In the graffiti on the walls, in the pieces of equipment still in the supply rooms and in the faces of a large number of children and other people within the walls of the city.
That was a melancholy thought and he drew his attention back to the idiots on horseback. They were not, technically speaking, auxiliaries, but then was only because anything that was granted that title tended to be shipped across to Gaul to fight the latest set of barbarian invaders. Few tended to come back.
To tell the truth, he had a nasty feeling that he had been forgotten about to be honest. Everything seemed to be crumbling around him, and that included the army. He’d been posted here and there, from place to place, with the officials that were often doing the sending not entirely sure if they were still officials at all. There was a great deal of chaos in Britannia, with no-one entirely sure who was in charge. Although he had met a few people who seemed to think that they should be in charge. He’d started to avoid them. Conversations with them tended to end in raised voices and sometimes raised fists, although they did often tend to end in a cup of wine and an apology from Cato for hitting them quite so hard.
He totally avoided the people who were higher up the chain of command and seemed to think that they definitely should be in charge. They were not someone you could knock down and then buy a cup of wine to say sorry.
He’d noticed that he was starting to like the wine from Britannia. The stuff from near Calleva Atrebatum was particularly good. He was getting soft.
Turning his attention back to his charges he winced as the next idiot climbed onto a horse and started to bumble around the ground. It was Corcorix. He had a soft spot for Cocorix, the lad was death on legs with any weapon – as long as he was standing on his own two feet. Stick him on a horse and all of a sudden he was a flailing idiot who fell off a great deal.
“Your knees, lad! Grip with your bloody knees!”
Corcorix nodded solemnly and then tried to knot his toes under the belly of the horse. Ten heartbeats later and he was on the sawdust. Fair do to the lad, he then dusted himself down and got back on the horse again.
Cato took a deep breath as he watched the poor lad and the even poorer horse as they wandered about, before finally gripping his belt, closing his eyes and wishing to whichever gods that were looking over him that he could be transported back to Londinium, where he knew a very lithe little barmaid. When he opened his eyes again he was still in Deva. Bugger.
Wonder of wonders, Corcorix was still on his horse, although he was starting to lean at a rather dangerous angle. If only he could stay on the bloody thing, Cato thought despairingly. If only there was some way of keeping him upright. A different saddle perhaps? A better horse? He gripped at his belt more tightly as the lad lost his battle to stay on and then got up and got back on it again. His finger found one of the rings that attached his dagger to his belt and he fiddled with it for a moment as he watched the would-be cavalryman – sorry, unofficial auxiliary – wander around the ground once more time, this time leaning the other way. And as he did so, something tickled in the back of his head.
An hour later he was sitting in what passed for a tavern, gripping a cup of wine and wondering idly about where the hell his life was going. Technically he was still an optio, attached to no particular legion. Practically speaking he was a leaf being blown in the wind. A frustrated leaf in the wind come to that. His pseudo-would-be cavalry trainees needed a lot more training. But there was no real training structure apart from him. And who knew where the wind – or the next pseudo official – would send him?
Idly he traced a pattern on the dust on the table. First a circle, like the ring on his belt. As that thought tingled in the back of his head then he traced a triangle. Then he turned his attention to the girl who was serving the wine that afternoon. She had the kind of cleavage that made every male eye turn yearningly towards her and she’d favoured him with the occasional smile that might just mean that Cato’s luck was running true that day. She had a measuring jug attached to her belt via a long piece of cloth that was embroidered with a looping pattern and he admired it as she poured him another mug of win from an amphora.
And then his mind wandered briefly again. The triangle. The cloth. What if... But then the cleavage intervened - almost literally - and this time the smile was warmer and larger and more inviting.
However the next day he remembered his vague inspiration. And he paid a visit to an old friend of his.
“You want two whats?”
Cato looked at Marcus Ambiorix and suppressed a sigh. His old friend was one of the best blacksmiths that he’d ever known, being very skilled with a hammer and an anvil. Unfortunately he wasn’t the fullest amphora in the cellar. “I need two triangles, Marcus. With… hoops at the end of each one. Sorry, at the top of them.”
Marcus looked at him as if he’d gone raving mad. “You want hoops where?”
This time he didn’t have to suppress the sigh, but he instead pulled out the piece of rag that he’d sketched the design onto with a piece of charcoal. “Look. Triangles, right? One piece of metal each, with hoops on each end and then bent into the shape of a triangle.”
Taking the piece of rag Marcus looked at it carefully. “Alright, looks simple enough,” he rumbled, scratching the back of his head with a heat-pitted hand. “What do want these things for though?”
“Training,” he said. “It’s just an idea I had.”
Marcus shrugged. “You cavalrymen are a funny lot,” he said and then he ambled off to the forge.
By the time that the recruits – sorry, ‘volunteers’ – assembled for training that afternoon Cato was just giving the finishing touches to the saddle with his faithful old bone needle and some heavy thread that he’d liberated from the storeroom around the corner. The young men watched him as he completed his work before lifting the saddle and slunging it onto the nearest horse, which had been watching with total unconcern.
“Corcorix, up here now,” Cato ordered as he secured the saddle. As the young Brigante stepped up Cato nodde at the horse. “On you get lad.”
“Yes Optio,” came the reply as he climbed dutifully but laboriously onto the beast.
“Right,” Cato said as Cocorix lurched upright in the saddle. “Stick your feet in those... metal triangles.”
“Optio?”
“Your feet – put them in.” Seeing the frown on the young man’s face Cato grabbed the nearest foot and stuffed it into the triangle. “Like that – see?”
“Yes Optio,” said Corcorix, doing the same thing to the other triangle.
“Right – now try to ride around the track now. Grip with your knees and try to keep your balance with the triangles.
The frown deepened, but Corcorix was nothing if not dutiful and he encouraged the horse into a slow walk. Three times he rode around the track. Not once did he fall off.
“Well done lad!” Cato beamed.
Corcorix nodded. “These triangles help, Optio,” he said thoughtfully. He flexed his legs slightly and nodded.
The rest of the week passed quite quietly, with the saddle-triangles resulting in far fewer recruits – sorry, volunteers – falling off their horses, especially after Cato donated two amphorae of Gaullish wine to Marcus in return for a lot more iron triangles.
However, at the end of the week two things happened. The first took place when Cato was watching Corcorix urge his horse into a lethargic run (that was slightly faster than a trot) at a target. The horse was being lazy and it was a hot day for once, so the young Brigante could be excused for losing his temper. With a shout of fury he stood up in the saddle, using the triangles for support, and directed a massive swipe of his sword at the target, which fell into two pieces.
“Sorry Optio,” a chastened Corcorix said as he rode back to the flabbergasted optio. “I got a bit excited.”
Cato looked at the ravaged target for a long moment. He’d been in the cavalry for a long time, and he was used to the various tricks that a good legionary used to fight and stay on his horse. He’d never seen anything like that though.
“Don’t worry,” he said thickly. Then he swallowed and looked sharply at the lad. “Do that again.”
“You want me to break another target?” Corcorix said, disbelievingly.
“Yes,” Cato said impatiently, slapping the horses’ right hindquarter and making it move away from him. “That’s an order legionary!”
This earned him an odd look from Corcorix, followed by a bashful smile as he tried the word ‘legionary’ around in his head to see how it sounded. The young Brigante then trotted his horse to the end of the practice line and then urged it into a slightly faster trot than before. Just before he got to the next target he awkwardly rose up on the triangles with a bellow and sliced the straw target in two with one blow.
“Mithras protect us,” Cato muttered under his breath as he traced the shape of the raven on his forehead quickly. Mithraism was frowned on these days, but he was operating on reflex.
“Interesting,” said a voice to one side softly and Cato looked over quickly at the tall man dressed in a rich tunic who was watching the training to one side. He’d vaguely noticed the man before, but hadn’t taken much notice of him. “Very, very interesting. Whose idea was the triangles.”
“Mine,” Cato said. “Are you part of the garrison?”
“What garrison?” the man asked wearily. Then he squinted at Corcorix, who was half-torn between triumph and worry. “How did that feel legionary?”
“A bit tricky sir, but I’ll get used to it,” he replied hesitantly.
“Are you supposed to be here sir,” Cato asked, getting impatient. “This is a training ground.”
The man grinned impishly at him for a moment, looking very young for a moment. “I was a legionary here once, optio. I remember the XXth quite well.” He fingered a ring on the index finger of his right hand, and Cato could see that it was a signet ring. “Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus.”
Oh bugger, Cato thought despairingly, it’s the head bloke-who-thinks-he-should-be-in-charge for the region. Related to one of the former governors of Britannia Secunda. He was in trouble. Original thoughts always led to bloody trouble for him. “Optio Lucius Tullius Cato sir.”
“Congratulations, Centurion Cato,” Aurelianus said, “I’ve got a little job for you.”
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