Those legionaries who had been lucky enough to get some sleep were woken before dawn. The men ate a frugal breakfast of dry bread, cheese and olives, before packing their kit bags and attaching them to their T-bar poles. As the sun appeared over the horizon, illuminating the high wispy clouds from underneath with a deep red glow, the bucinatores sounded the signal to strike camp. Two hundred tents came down almost as one and were strapped, by the camp servants, on to the mules that carried the baggage of each contubernium, a unit of eight men. To increase their speed Corbulo had given orders that the two larger oxen-driven carts were to be disabled and left behind. As much as possible of their cargos of replacement weapons, clothing, sacks of grain and other supplies was loaded on to the spare cavalry mounts and the smaller, mule-driven carts that carried each century’s reserve rations, as well as its centurion’s tent and other heavier baggage; the rest was destroyed. The oxen would be brought along as meat on the hoof; unencumbered by their heavy carts they wouldn’t be a drag on the speed of the column.
The mist that had clung to the steep slopes of the Rhodope foothills above them had almost completely burnt off by the end of the first hour of the day, when the light cavalry scouts, who had been sent out in the pre-dawn half-light, returned. They reported nothing moving in the vicinity and were despatched again to spring any ambushes and to keep a constant vigil throughout the march for any enemy intent on harrying or attacking the vulnerable column.
Corbulo gave the order for the column to move out. The cornicen blew a deep rumbling call on his cornu, a G-shaped instrument made of silver and horn, which curled from his mouth under his right arm and then around to the wide bell, facing forward, above his head. The standard-bearers – signiferi – dipped their phalerae-strewn poles to signal ‘Advance’. The day’s march had begun.
Four turmae, of thirty men each, of the auxiliary Gallic cavalry led the way followed by Vespasian, with Magnus trying to be as inconspicuous as possible at his side, leading the first cohort. Next rode Tribune Gallus in front of the second cohort. Following them were the engineers and then the medical orderlies with carts on which lay those too sick or wounded to march. Then came the baggage – thirty spare cavalry mounts, two hundred pack-mules of the contubernia, each led by a camp servant, twenty-four carts, one for each century of infantry and each turma of cavalry plus an additional one each for the light cavalry, the foot archers, the engineers and finally one for the officers. Bringing up the rear were the last four turmae of Gallic cavalry. The column was two-thirds of a mile long.
After an hour they had covered just over two miles in a steady northwesterly direction. The forest to the south had petered out to be replaced by scraggy, mountainous grassland broken up, here and there, by ravines and small copses of mountain pine. No sign of human habitation, either in use or deserted, could be seen. The only other signs of life were two eagles that soared above the column, riding the air currents effortlessly on their outstretched wings, as if watching over the safety of the men below who marched under banners forged in their image. They drew a hearty cheer from the nervous recruits who waved their pila at them and called them their guardian spirits. Their officers encouraged it and even joined in, knowing that the men’s morale would be bolstered by this good omen.
‘You see that, Vespasian?’ Corbulo shouted over the cheering, riding back down the column from his position at its head. ‘Perhaps the gods are with us, Jupiter and Juno protecting their children from the malice of the lesser gods of the Thracians.’
Vespasian smiled; although not a superstitious man he too was encouraged by the aerial display of these two symbols of Rome.
‘Let’s hope that they are willing to accompany us all the way to our destination, sir. The men will march willingly with them as their guides.’
‘Quite so, tribune, a lot better than a ragged band of uncouth savages, don’t you think?’
‘Indeed I do, sir.’ As Vespasian replied the deep voluminous sound of the cornu gave the signal to halt.
‘Who in the name of all the furies gave the order to halt?’ Corbulo shouted, his good humour disappearing in a trice. ‘Tribune, with me.’
Vespasian followed his commanding officer at a gallop up to the head of the column.
‘What’s the meaning of this? Who gave the order to halt?’ Corbulo raged.
‘I did, sir,’ Sextus Mauricius, the prefect of the Gallic cavalry, replied. ‘One of the scouts has reported something that I think you should see.’
‘Where is he? This had better be good.’
A nervous-looking light cavalry trooper came forward.
‘I thought it important, sir.’ The trooper’s thickly accented Latin betrayed his origins in the horse-lands of Thessaly.
‘Well, where is it?’
‘It’s down in that ravine over there, sir,’ he said, pointing to the south where, two hundred paces away, the rough grassland was split by a sharp gash, as if some Titan had cleft it with a mighty axe in the dark times before the coming of man.
‘Come on, then, lead the way.’
The trooper turned his mount and galloped off; Corbulo, Vespasian and Mauricius followed.
At the edge of the ravine they dismounted and peered over the side. It was a steep drop, but not impossible to descend on foot. An unpleasant smell emanated from within it. Vespasian gazed down its length until he saw what had first attracted the trooper’s attention. About sixty feet away, in amongst the boulders strewn on the floor of the ravine, lay a couple of bodies.
‘Let’s get down there and have a look. Prefect, you stay here. Tribune, trooper, with me.’ Corbulo started to scramble down the rough bank, loosening small rocks and dry earth in a mini landslide as he went; the others followed.
They reached the first of the bodies and almost retched at the stench. Looking around they saw that there were far more than just the two visible from the top. They seemed to be all Thracians, with their unmistakable fox- skin caps and long, soft leather boots.
‘What a stink,’ coughed Corbulo. ‘They’ve been dead for a good few days. How many are there?’
Vespasian walked around counting the bloated corpses, which had turned a ghastly pale green and were covered in dark grey blemishes. Further down the ravine he noticed that of the four bodies had been laid out neatly; someone had taken some effort with them.
‘Sixteen, sir,’ he reported.
‘All Thracians?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘I think that we’ve solved a problem.’
‘What makes you think that, tribune?’
‘There are two different tribes here: the twelve who were just dumped here have a different style of hat from those four over there. Theirs are identical to our guides’ hats. Your orders specifically stated that twelve guides from the Caeletae would meet us; I think that these are the original twelve. They must have been ambushed by a superior number of rebels, four of whom were killed, and then twelve of the rebels took the real guides’ places and waited for us to march up the Via Egnatia. We never questioned whether they were genuine or not because there was the right number of them.’
Corbulo considered this for a moment before the smell became intolerable and forced them to retreat back up to their horses. ‘I suppose that it proves at least the Caeletae are still loyal,’ he said as they mounted.
Vespasian looked at this superior, amazed that he hadn’t grasped the full implication of the ambush. ‘That may well be true, sir, but how did the rebels know when our column would be arriving and exactly where it would be met and by how many guides?’
Corbulo’s face dropped as he made the connection. ‘Neptune’s hairy sack! They must have been told. By someone in Poppaeus’ camp. Someone who knew the contents of our orders. We have a traitor in our midst, Vespasian.’
‘I’m afraid that it does seem that way, sir.’
‘So there’s a traitor in the army and the enemy knows our every move,’ Magnus grumbled, having been informed of the grisly find in the ravine.
