Cato's Cavalry Read online

  Cato’s Cavalry

  Volume One

  A novel of Alternate History

  By Marc Hywel Jones

  Kindle Edition

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  Copyright 2013 Marc H Jones

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  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Preface

  For Kathleen. Who has never doubted the fact that I can write. I love you so much.

  Foreword

  This will be the first of two books. The first will cover the invention of the stirrup in Britannia and the Western Roman Empire and the second will cover the events that will unfold after that. There will be some who accuse me of being pro-Roman. I do not deny that. Yes, Rome could be brutal, violent and heavy handed. It could also be organised, constructive and lawful.

  This book is also written with a specific episode in my life in mind. When I was 15 years old I read Rosemary Sutcliffe’s The Lanternbearers. Cato’s Cavalry is my attempt to write a different version of what could have happened after the Legions left Britain. I hope that you enjoy it.

  Dramatis Personae

  Lucius Tullius Cato – a Roman soldier who has a bright idea

  Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus – a Roman administrator who knows a good idea when he sees it

  Marcus Valerius Poplicala – a Roman soldier who is sharper than he looks

  Valeria Messalina – a barmaid with brains

  Corcorix – a Brigante Legionary who falls off his horse a lot at the beginning

  Honorius – Emperor of Rome and the man who thinks that he should be in charge

  Flavius Stilicho – half Roman, half Vandal, the man who is actually in charge

  Lucius Vitalis – a man who thinks that he should be in charge, at least of Britannia

  Vitalinus – his son, who hopefully will never be known as Vortigern

  Flavius Claudius Constantinus – an idiot whose death is more significant than his life

  Quintus Gratianus – friend to the above, who takes a trip which educates him a lot

  Gaius Marcus Belgicus – another friend to the above, but who remains an idiot

  Alaric – King of the Visigoths and a man who meets a messy end

  Telorix – a man on Hadrian’s Wall who doesn’t want to be in charge

  Honorius – a man on Hadrian’s Wall who’s too stubborn to die

  Ulfgar – an Angle with ambition

  Hengist – a Saxon with a lot of hate

  Flavius Constantius – a Roman in Gaul who seems to be perpetually bad-tempered

  Place names

  Augusta Treverorum – Trier

  Bononia – Boulogne

  Calleva Atrebatum – Silchester Roman Town

  Cambodunum – Slack, West Yorkshire

  Colonia Agrippinensium – Cologne

  Condate – Northwich

  Conovium – Abergwyngregyn

  Corinium – Cirencester

  Danubius – Danube

  Deva – Chester

  Dubris – Dover

  Eboracum – York

  Glevum – Gloucester

  Isca Augusta – Caerleon

  Letocetum – Wall, Staffordshire

  Lindum - Lincoln

  Londinium – London

  Lutetia – Paris

  Magna Germania – Germany East of the Rhine

  Mogontiacum – Mainz

  Portus Adurni – Portchester

  Portus Itius – Roman port, possibly between Wissant and Boulogne

  Rhenus - Rhine

  Segontium – Caernarfon

  Tricensimae - Xanten

  Valentia – Southern Scotland, between Hadrian’s Wall and the Antonine Wall

  Venonae - High Cross, Leicestershire

  Viroconium - Wroxeter

  Chapter One

  Deva, Britannia, 405 AD

  “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 bumbling recruit 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. Magister Militum Flavius Stilicho, the half-Roman, half-Vandal man who was the power behind the throne of Honorius, the boy sitting on the throne of the Western Roman Empire, was doing his best to defend the borders, but the situation was not looking good to say the least.

  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 off 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, whe
re 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 slinging 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 nodded 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 whilst also staying 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.”

  Chapter Two

  Being a centurion was, he had to admit as he watched the expanded group of volunteers trot grimly around the practice ground, so far not very different from being an optio, although Cato had to admit that he was at least being paid more regularly. He’d always aspired to being a centurion, but over the years the chances had slipped by, sometimes due to bad luck and sometimes due to his ability to say things without first thinking about them.

  On the other hand, although he could call himself a centurion he wasn’t sure if he was any part of a military unit in the Roman Army. Instead he seemed to be in charge of a volunteer unit of auxiliaries, training them under the auspices of a former soldier who was positioning himself for a run at becoming governor of Britannia Secunda, one of the main sub-divisions of the island. Strictly speaking the position was vacant as no-one really knew who the hell was in charge. Aurelianus certainly thought that he should be.

  Cato wasn’t quite sure what to make of Aurelianus. Over the past few decades he’d seen enough would-be war leaders to know that any politician should never be allowed anywhere near soldiering, and vice versa, because they always made such a balls-up of it. The biggest balls-up of recent years had to be Magnus Maximus, gods rot the man. But Aurelianus... he had a certain something, charisma without arrogance. There was a... driven quality about him, as if he’d seen something just beyond Cato’s sight.