The Soldier of Raetia

By Heather Domin

Rome, 10BC. Manilus Dardanus, a new soldier from the provinces, applies for a military sponsorship with Cassius Valerian, the respected general of a small legion patrolling the northern frontier. Idealistic and naive, Dardanus has a lot to learn about the life he has chosen, and at first the brusque and reticent general seems the least willing candidate to teach him; but gradually a bond begins to form between this unlikely pair that neither could ever have imagined. Over the course of a blood-soaked summer in the wild, as Dardanus struggles with coming of age and Valerian wrestles the ghosts of his past, battles and betrayals on every side will threaten to end that fragile bond — and possibly their lives.

"...a compelling portrait of a rough, complicated man gradually thawing to the idea of loving someone again" –Historical Novels Review
"...a simple, highly readable, well researched and thoughtful novel" –GLBTbookshelf.com

"Bottom line: this is a great historical fiction read!" –A Bookish Affair

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Domin
• Release date: Dec 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466174153

Heather Domin

I write queer historical fiction with a little action, a little suspense, and a lot of semicolons.

Book preview

Valerian’s Legion: The Soldier of Raetia

by Heather Domin

Smashwords Edition (Second Edition) 2013

Copyright 2009 Heather Domin

Second Edition cover by Julie K. Rose

Original cover by Catrina Horsfield

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. Support independent authors and keep eBook prices low by encouraging others to purchase their own copy. It’s good karma.

Dedicated with love to all my LJ peeps who encouraged me to keep on truckin’ over the years – this story is for you.

PART ONE

EXTRANEOUS OFFSPRING

I.

Dardanus looked through the carriage window and thought that his father was right. Manilus Atellus had spoken of Rome for as long as he could remember – the queen of cities, the jewel of the world, the source of their power – but to Dardanus it had never seemed like a real place. His sister and brother had been born here, before their mother’s death and their father’s remarriage, but Dardanus had never been east of the mountains separating Germania from Italia. Helvetia was his home and Aventicum his city; if Rome was his queen, she was a distant ruler, and Dardanus had never had much power. To him, growing up in the township and riding through the forests of his mother’s people to escape the silence of his father’s house, Rome was a vague and unknowable place. Rome was never cold. Rome was never silent. Nothing of his city, the largest in both Germanias, could compare to the urban ocean rising before his eyes.

He wondered how the horses could move in such a place. The streets teemed with traffic both human and animal, jostling through the patios of low-roofed shops or loitering in the shade of tenement blocks. The buildings were tall, at least four stories, crammed against each other in endless rows of laundry lines and curtained windows. Each of those rooms would be full of people, each apartment crowded to capacity with living, breathing Romans.

I am a Roman, Dardanus thought. I am the son of a procurator.

The carriage sped through a jumble of gate-side buildings and escaped toward the hills, out of the cramped alleys and up into quiet lanes of suburban villas. Here the roads were wide, devoid of scraps and manure, edged with tall cypress and cultivated flowers. Dardanus could sense the vastness left behind; he almost wished they could go back and see more, but after eight days on the road his exhaustion had overtaken his curiosity. The desire to reach his destination was enough to postpone his amazement – it was not, however, quite enough to still the queasy apprehension in his belly.

He let the curtain drop and sat back against the bench. In his lap lay the square of papyrus, red seal stamped with his father’s signet ring. Dardanus ran his thumb over the grooves in the hardened wax. The letter lay as stiff and crisp in his palms as it had in his father’s – a single sheet of papyrus and ink, heavy with the weight of his future.

Just be what I have taught you to be, and you cannot disappoint me.

The carriage turned, sharply enough to make him grab for balance, and pulled onto an inclined drive. From somewhere ahead a voice called out, and the driver answered the greeting. The carriage rolled onto a gravel path and swayed to a heavy stop. Dardanus slid the letter into his purse, then tugged down his cloak and ran a hand through his hair. He was brushing dust and crumbs from his tunic when footsteps crunched outside and the cabin flooded with light.

We’re here, sir. Shall I take your bag?

Dardanus cleared his throat. No, thank you, I’ll get it.

He climbed from the coach as gracefully as he could, grateful for the feel of solid earth beneath his sandals. The driver moved behind him, seeing to the horses; two footmen appeared and pulled his trunk from the rack. Dardanus stretched his cramped limbs, pressing his fists against the small of his back, and looked back down the driveway. The sun hung just behind the line of trees, striping the yard in gold and green all the way up to the columned entrance of the villa. A breeze stirred his cloak, the first cool air he had felt all day.

Master Manilus?

He turned to see a youngish man in a flax-colored tunic smiling at him from a round, pleasant face. You are Manilus Dardanus?

Lucius Manilus Dardanus.

Welcome to Rome, sir. I am Tacitus, head of General Cassius’ household.

It was then that Dardanus saw the bracelet around one upper arm, engraved with a mark of ownership. A slave? He looked again at the ruddy face and clipped hair, the clean tunic and oiled sandals; he thought of the downcast eyes and wool cassocks of his father’s servants, the majority of whom could not even speak Latin. A freedman, maybe? He had never known a freedman who chose to remain in the service of his former master.

If Tacitus found the staring rude, he did not acknowledge it. I hope your journey wasn’t too tiring, sir. May we take your things?

There’s just the one trunk – it isn’t heavy.

A man of few possessions, Tacitus said, and smiled. He’ll like that.

He tossed the driver a jingling pouch that made the man’s eyes go wide, and with a crack of the whip and a clatter of hooves, the coach drove away as quickly as it had arrived. Dardanus watched it grow smaller and smaller down the hill. In the distance Rome glittered with the evening’s first torches, shimmering like jewels in the cooling shadows.

The general asked to see you as soon as you arrived, Tacitus said. The servants will see to your things if you would come with me.

He wants to see me now? Dardanus looked down at himself; his clothes were wrinkled and musty, his face and hair gritty with sweat. The long hours on the road jangled in his bones.

I assure you, sir, Tacitus said, you are perfectly presentable. The general sets no mark on finery.

His first test, Dardanus thought. He smoothed down his tunic. Of course.

He followed Tacitus through the front vestibule and into the peristyle. It was the first of three atria, each one as large as the courtyard in his father’s home. The buildings of Aventicum were the same in structure but more enclosed, less airy, walled off against cold winters and encroaching feet. The procurator’s townhouse was spacious and comfortable, but it was made of whitewashed concrete – this was a house of marble and limestone, brickwork inlaid with colored glass tile. The mosaics sparkled beneath their feet.

A flash of white caught his eye, and he turned his head. Through an archway stood a little garden room, draped in ivy and alive with spring flowers. The white object was a fountain of brilliant marble – the figure of a young woman, her body curved in dance, her face turned up to the sky. Water and light spilled down her back in sheets of gold and white.

She’s beautiful, Dardanus said. Is she a goddess?

Tacitus smiled. Most certainly.

They passed the room without slowing and turned down a long corridor. Tacitus led him into a large and mostly empty anteroom just as a young man emerged from the inner doors carrying a tray and pitcher.

The slave saw Tacitus and nodded. He’s expecting you – go right in.

Thank you, Titus, Tacitus replied. Here is our new guest.

Titus dipped his head. Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Villa Cassia.

The inner office was even bigger but furnished more comfortably, the walls crisscrossed with shelves of scrolls and codices. Maps and charts lay unrolled on tables, held flat by stone figurines. The last of the sunlight angled in through large windows on two sides, and the garden doors stood open to let in the evening air. Near those doors, facing the entrance, was an enormous military desk carved from dark-polished wood. Behind it, in an oddly mismatched wicker chair, sat General Marcus Cassius Valerian.

My lord, Tacitus said, The young gentleman has arrived.

Dardanus stood up straight and held out his father’s letter. Lucius Manilus Dardanus, sir.

The general put down his stylus and sat back in his chair. He took the letter from Dardanus’ hand but did not open it.

Despite the stories he had been told, Dardanus had never actually seen a likeness of General Cassius. Over time an image had formed in his mind, an imposing hulk of a man with fire in his eyes and battle lines carved on his face – the general’s face bore its share of lines, but he looked not much taller than Dardanus himself, and not particularly hulking. Nor was he dressed in full battle garb, spear strapped to his back and plumed helmet bristling on his head; he wore a plain tunic trimmed in senatorial purple, cloakless and bare-armed, not a weapon to be seen. Sun and scowl had weathered his face, but he had an unbroken nose and thick brown hair curling gray at the temples; a smallish mouth, with a jaw more pointed than square, gave him a look of perpetual concentration. His eyes had a greenish tint; they flashed no fire or lightning but took Dardanus in with a kind of bland registration. He looked somehow both older and younger than Dardanus had expected – a plain-faced man of forty instead of the glowering immortal of a boy’s imagination.

I knew your father, he said. He was at the Forum when I served there.

Served there. As one of the Princep’s own Praetorian guards. That broke the spell; Dardanus remembered himself then, and the words he had been nurturing in his head since the day he left his father’s house.

My father, Lucius Manilus Atellus, sends you his respect, my lord, and his appreciation for this invitation. It is an honor to meet you, sir.

Is it?

Yes, sir. You honor me by offering this opportunity. My father sends a—

How old are you, boy?

I turned twenty at Lupercalia.

Twenty? And you have yet to seek adoption? I was a Praetorian at your age.

Dardanus swallowed. My father has been busy with his procuratorship and my sister’s marriage. He preferred to wait until he— until a suitable situation arose.

I see. The tone was inscrutable. And you want me to teach you to be a soldier?

It would be a privilege, sir. I’ve followed your campaigns for many years.

One eyebrow rose. You knew my name in Aventicum?

My father told me of your victories against the Raetii and Vindelici. He said you were a true Roman and a skilled commander.

Did he also tell you I’m rich?

He was being surmised; he could feel it in that even gaze. His careful poise slipped a notch. Just how well did this man know his father?

No, sir. Well, yes, he told me the Princeps rewarded you for your bravery.

Is that what he said. Amusement touched the general’s voice; he rubbed his jaw with one knuckle and the hint of humor disappeared.

I am very wealthy, young Manilus, and I have no heir. You know why your father chose me to solicit as your sponsor? You know what kinship in my house would bring?

Of course he knew; since Saturnalia his father had spoken of little else. Dardanus was not the first to stand before this desk, nor the second, nor the third. Many young men had sought Cassius Valerian’s sponsorship, and all of them had been refused. For the first time, Dardanus feared he would follow them before the Germanian dust had fallen from his traveling cloak. To face his father after that would be unthinkable.

Just be what I have taught you to be, and you cannot disappoint me.

Yes, sir, I do. A place in your household would provide training no paid commission could give. That is what brings me here – the desire to learn from a man of honor.

The general’s eyes changed slightly; a crack in the ice, or a spark of lightning.

You’re not the first to say these things to me, and I think you know that. So tell me, boy – why should I feel any different for you? He shifted against the back of his chair. Why do you want to be a soldier?

Dardanus licked his dry lips. Eight days and nights seemed to rush upon him all at once, and his knees locked to keep him from swaying on his feet. Only one answer would form in his tired mind; if the truth was unseemly, so be it. Those eyes would brook no lie, even if he were capable of one. Standing there, after all this time, Dardanus found he could not deliver the flatteries his father had prepared for him. This was his only chance. These words must be his own.

I want to fight for Rome, sir. I want to fight for my country and bring honor to my family, my commander, and my legion. I know I’m starting late, but I’ve trained for this life since the first day I could hold a sword. It’s the only thing I have ever wanted. If you give me a chance to prove myself, I promise you I will do all I can to be worthy of the association. I want to learn, General. From you.

There was silence for a long time. The general looked down at the letter in his hands; he snapped the seal of Manilus Atellus and unfolded the fine papyrus. Dardanus saw his father’s handwriting through the thin tissue, large and fastidious. The general read the letter slowly; and then he read it again. He looked at Dardanus, then at the letter, and when he looked at Dardanus again the knife’s edge in his eyes had sheathed.

What I want, he said, Is my dinner.

He dropped the letter on the desk and rubbed his jaw. Tacitus, take the boy where he can wash and change his clothes. Have a room made up for him, and get him something to eat. To Dardanus he said, You do your family credit, Manilus. Get some rest now; you’ve had a long journey. We’ll talk again tomorrow.

It took all his effort, but Dardanus mastered his countenance.

Thank you, sir, he said.

II.

I do not like this idea of fostering schoolboys. This is a legion of Rome, not a Spartan crèche.

It isn’t like that, and you know it. These are recruits like any others.

Not quite.

Valerian frowned at the committee memo, then dropped it on the growing pile atop his desk. It was a pompous monstrosity imported from Egypt, a housewarming gift from a distant relative; over the years he had grown used to it, and now the polished surface was perpetually hidden beneath stacks of scrolls and tablets. The matching chair, however, had gone straight into storage in favor of his well-worn wicker camp seat. It creaked beneath his weight as he reached for his wine, still frowning down at the memo. Its request was plain, its implications clear. The red seal of the Senate glared back at him, and in a staring contest with the Senate, there could be only one winner.

On the other side of the desk, lounging in the red upholstered guest chair, his legion prefect smiled at his assessment of the situation. The scar on Pertinax’ cheek kept the corner of his mouth twitched up in the hint of a smirk, a hint usually followed by the real thing.

Alright, point taken. But these boys are patricians, so at least they’ll have the basics. That’s more than we can say for most recruits. They know a commendation from you will get them a good transfer. They’ll work hard for you. He sipped his wine. You might even find a few you want to keep around.

Doubtful. Valerian frowned again, but mostly from habit. He supposed it would not be too difficult to shunt the group into one cohort under a decent group of centurions. Aristocracy did usually imply education, so at least they would know their way around a spear and sword. Good thing, too, for he had no intention of sparing them a single drill or fatigue. If it was experience they wanted, then experience they would get.

A slave entered through the open anteroom doors bearing a tray of fruit and a pitcher. She set the tray on a side table and exchanged the full pitcher for the empty, then gave silent courtesy and exited through the garden door. Pertinax watched the girl glide into the sunlight, and the corner of his mouth curled a bit higher. He pulled himself from his chair and walked over to refill his cup, picking through the fruit selection.

How many are we talking about? he asked.

About a dozen.

Anyone I know?

Valerian looked over the roster. Marcus Quintus’ boy?

Doesn’t sound familiar.

Another name caught Valerian’s eye, and he made a noise of displeasure.

What?

Oppius Varro’s son.

Pertinax laughed around a mouthful of grapes. Varro’s giving you his boy? I didn’t know he had another one.

Neither did I. Valerian swore again and rubbed his jaw. This is getting worse by the minute.

Well, he knows better than to expect any special treatment. They all do. Pertinax plucked a pear from the tray and finished refilling his cup. Take this for the honor it is, he said. These parents could have just bought their sons’ commissions like everyone else, but they wanted their boys’ careers started under the command of Cassius Valerian. That’s quite a compliment.

Just what I need – more extraneous offspring.

Pertinax grinned. Can I take that cheerful tone to mean you are considering Atellus’ proposal?

I gave him no guarantee.

Snacks in hand, Pertinax took his seat again and stretched his long legs before him, crossed at the ankles. You agreed to meet the boy, though, right?

Valerian sighed. He had hoped to postpone the subject a little longer, but he should have known that would be impossible where Tertius Pertinax was concerned. He arrived yesterday.

"He’s here? You spoke with him?"

For a moment. He’d just come from the road; he looked ready to fall over where he stood.

Pertinax took a bite of his pear, eyes gleaming with interest. And?

And what?

I hate it when you do that. How did it go? Will he do?

I’m not sure exactly what you mean, but he was polite enough, if a little…effusive.

One split eyebrow arched. Effusive?

He said he’d been brought up on stories of my campaigns.

Aha, he idolizes the defender of Augustus! I told you you’re a celebrity.

Please. Valerian returned his attention to the tablets on his desk. I’m sure he’d been coached from here to Hibernia on what to say to make a good impression. I’ve heard it all before.

Yes, I know. But you let this one stay, so he must have possessed some small redeeming quality to mask his unbearable effusiveness. So what of him, then? What’s he like? How does he look?

He’s a boy. Tall enough – didn’t seem puny. Mother was Helvetii; I suppose he takes after her. He’s not got much of Atellus’ look about him, that’s for sure. He said his part, kept to his manners. Valerian shrugged. He’ll be in the barracks soon enough; what does it matter? Humoring Atellus was your idea, not mine.

Since when has that meant anything? No idea of mine could sway your decisions. There’s a reason you let this one stay. Pertinax sipped his wine. So?

Valerian considered the question. He would not have sent any guest packing after five minutes of introduction, and he was not about to make a judgment based on a single conversation when the boy was shaking in his sandals and swaying with the weariness of a week on mountain roads. But night had come and gone, as had morning, and the carriage stood idle in the stable yard while its former occupant slept late under the watchful eye of Tacitus and his staff. The butler had only nodded when given his instructions, but the faces of the slaves behind him told Valerian they felt some kind of precedent had been broken. He had scowled and left without further comment; but then, it was easy to walk away from slaves. Pertinax was a different matter. Valerian shook his head.

He was so eager. We see so many like that, you know, all those fervent fools yearning to do great deeds. The sarcasm tasted bad; he washed it down with his wine. This one…he’s no fool, but he is fervent. He’s going to join someone’s army or die trying. I figured it might as well be mine, and spare another young life wasted to please ambition.

You think Manilus is using him?

I’ve known Manilus Atellus since we were in the Forum. He was a boot licker then, and he’s a boot licker now. He’ll pawn that boy off on the richest man he can find and reap whatever recognition he can get from it.

Now both eyebrows rose. You feel protective of him.

Hardly. But Atellus waited too long – the boy’s got nowhere else to go this year. If I send him back now, Atellus is likely to ship him off in a marriage somewhere just to get rid of him. There’s no sense in that. I’ll give him a place with the others, and then he can choose his own way.

And what if his choice is to stay with you?

Valerian rubbed his left temple. I don’t want a ward, Pertinax.

I know you don’t. But think how convenient – you’ll hardly have to think on him once we’re in Raetia. You can concentrate on those border rumors instead of these requests, and you’ll make a friend of Manilus Atellus in the bargain.

So you want me to use him? Take him in under false pretenses?

How is it false? When the summer is over he’ll get a commission somewhere, and you can set him free without guilt. Tell Atellus you’d prefer an heir outside the military. Once his son is wearing the helmet of a tribune in somebody’s legion, he’ll forget all about your supposed connections. Where’s the harm?

And what if I’m wrong, and he turns out to be a bad soldier after all? What if he’s another lazy, shiftless aristocrat who only cares about groveling his way up the ranks?

Really, General, you’re too young to be this cynical. Pertinax grinned over his wine cup. It would do you good to take on a student. You never know, you might like him. His face brightened. You could make him your laticlavius! You haven’t had a page in years.

There’s a reason for that. It’s a pointless post. I want officers, not toadies.

It’s not pointless. It’s an apprenticeship. You’re always complaining about officers with no experience – how is having someone behind you pointless? You need a second in the field as much as at home.

And now you sound like the Forum gossips. Why is it so mandatory that I name an heir this instant? Do I look ill? I’m forty, not eighty.

Forgive me, Pertinax said, and his smirk had disappeared. I say this as your friend, not your second in command. You know I don’t care about your money or property or what happens to either when you’re gone. You’ll outlive every one of us, stubborn as you are. You don’t want to marry – that much is clear. If you want to stop the matrons fobbing their daughters off on you, you’ll have to go another route. And now that you’ve found someone who sparks some interest in you, you can stop the fathers fobbing their sons off on you as well. No more extraneous offspring. A careful pause. If you adopted an heir, he could bring a wife and children here, and there would be life in this place again.

Evenly, Valerian said, My life is no place for a family.

Pertinax ate his pear.

A headache uncurled behind Valerian’s eyes; he put his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and pressed until the throbbing eased. Amid the scatter of wax tablets and wooden notepads on his desk lay the papyrus envelope bearing the seal of the fiscal procurator of Aventicum. Valerian opened the letter and read it again. He thought of Manilus Atellus in the Forum all those years ago, a junior senator whispering intrigues in perfumed robes – and now here was his son, one month out of his teens, standing before Valerian’s desk with desperation in his freckled face and hope in his Helvetic eyes. He placed the letter on his desk next to the Senate memo and looked at them side by side.

We’ll put Arminius in charge of the new unit, he said. They’ll train with the others, and then we’ll put them in one century when we get back to Raetia. Come autumn we’ll commission them, and they can go where they like. That ought to satisfy everyone.

You’ll take the boy on, then?

I will fulfill my end of the agreement. But I’m not a liar, Pertinax. My priority is my duty at the border. All I want is some peace.

Pertinax smiled. It’s a good decision, Valerian. For both of you.

Valerian did not. We’ll see.

III.

Dardanus shifted against the cushions; the red silk rustled as he moved. The dining room was about the same size as the one in his father’s house, but without a myriad of place settings and wall hangings and fire pots and furniture crowding the room it seemed larger, every sound magnified in the empty space. With only two people eating and one slave in attendance, the chamber felt cavernous compared to the nightly gatherings of Manilus Atellus and his friends. Dardanus had spent many evenings at those drawn-out dinner parties, a silent witness to hours of braying laughter and clattering goblets, sweating in the oily heat while he picked at his bread, his head aching from the torch smoke. The only smells in this room were the fragrance of the food, and no part of him could ache while lounging against cushions as fine as these.

His eyes returned to the fresco glittering on the ceiling, the three Graces welcoming Venus from the sea. The goddess glowed pale in the brazier light; the Graces’ arms encircled her, drawing her from the dark depths into the land of the living. It seemed an unlikely image for the house of a general – Dardanus would have imagined a scene of Aeneas standing over Turnus, or Romulus praying before the walls of Rome, or Caesar crossing the Rubicon. Instead the goddess of love looked down at him with her sea foam eyes, her white breasts glowing in the flickering light. Dardanus looked away.

The general’s attention was fixed on his plate, where he was busy cutting his meat into manageable chunks. Beside his bread sat a bowl like the one next to Dardanus’ own plate – a ring of pinkish curling tails with spindly legs attached. Dardanus watched the general pluck one from the bowl and shove it into his mouth, crunching it whole. They would be sea creatures of some type; Dardanus knew southerners ate all kinds of strange things from the ocean. He himself loved the fish brought up from the lakes below Aventicum, and he looked forward to trying coastal delicacies – he just needed to get used to them first. He was not accustomed to his food having tiny legs.

They had eaten in silence since the soup course. Conversation before that had consisted of an exchange of polite greetings and an instruction that Dardanus should eat as much as he wished. He was always ravenous by this time of day, but he paced himself over the appetizers and watched the general at main course, following his rate of consumption. It would not do to out-eat his host at their first meal together. The little pink creatures were the only unexpected items on the table; the rest of the meal was as familiar as it was delicious. The bread in particular was good, with plenty of seasoned oil for dipping. It kept his hands busy.

A few times he thought about attempting conversation, but no topics presented themselves; as the minutes passed in silence, he began to feel more and more uncomfortable. His hunger disappeared, his belly too full of queasy nerves and oily bread. The general cut a slice from his meat and speared it with his knife, eating the dripping chunk from the blade’s point. Dardanus wiped the crumbs from his mouth. Say something, he thought.

Your home is very beautiful, sir.

I had no part in designing it.

Dardanus swallowed. He reached for another piece of bread, but his plate was empty; his choices now were the dish of olives and cheese, the platter of boiled pork, or the bowl full of little pink tails. He sliced off some pork, then picked up his pitcher of garum. The garum was even better than the bread, a fresh ferment instead of a long-traveled import, and it smelled fantastic. Dardanus drizzled it carefully over the meat, careful not to waste a drop.

You don’t care for shrimp?

Dardanus looked up. I’ve never had them.

Mm. You probably don’t get much good ocean food up in Helvetia.

Dardanus glanced at the insect legs curling over the edge of his bowl. Tentatively, he reached for one of the smaller specimens.

Most people take the shell off first, the general said. I don’t mind it, myself.

That was a relief – the thought of those tiny legs crunching in his mouth did not appeal to Dardanus at all. He peeled the shell from the tail and