Free Arthur Imperator by Paul Bannister Page A

men. It was the biggest cavalry force along the entire Wall, and many of them had been discharged to their farms and wives, so did not go to Germania five years ago when their legion was pulled out.
    “I went with silver and five centurions who can recruit men, and I came back with about 90 experienced troopers, and the promise of more to follow when their crops are gathered. After Carlisle,” he continued, “I went all the way across country to Colchester because one of my centurions told me how he’d always lost money on the horse races when he was stationed there. It is the only place in Britain with an arena for chariot racing, and of course that’s where I found trained horses and men who are used to handling them.
    “It was a goldmine. Some of the old soldiers were trainers who actually had an illicit business going, shipping horses for breeding to Gaul. It was a very easy matter to persuade them to use their skills in the service of the emperor, or perhaps they would prefer a trial and execution? I got a dozen trainers there, plus a few younger fellows. Yes, many of the recruits are not young, but they are trained soldiers and horsemen, and they’ll serve our purpose. Some of them have already brought in half a hundred horses from the herds that run wild here and are busy gentling them right now. It could be that in just a few months, we’ll have a cavalry force of some kind, and in three years we could have a very fine heavy cavalry, once we breed these Frisians and the other horses we’ll be acquiring.”
    Cragus glanced around. The nearest sentry was 30 yards away, eyes forward, rigidly aware of his commanders’ close presence. “There’s one other thing: I sent a platoon down to Arthur’s old palace at Fishbourne to see if there was anything to salvage after Maximian’s men burned the place. They came back with some useful things, including a wagon load of amphorae which we thought was olive oil. Turns out, it’s actually is some very good Rhenish wine. It’s waiting in the barracks for us, and I think we should nobly do our official duty, and drink to the success of the cavalry.” 
     
    In Chester, where I was looking morosely towards the mountains to which my Guinevia was travelling, the cavalry’s success was not uppermost in my mind. I was standing at the edge of the dusty practice ground where the drillmasters were working with some new recruits from the south. They’d gone through exercises to harden them, swimming in the Dee, doing gymnastics under the city wall, they’d made long marches in full kit and they had been marched and counter marched on the parade ground until their feet were sore and their ears ached from the shouted commands.
    At present, after slipping away like a truant schoolboy from giving judgements on court hearings, I was watching a couple of grizzled centurions overseeing combat training exercises. The men were attacking straw targets with wooden swords, and it recalled me to the day in Rome when the Emperor Carus had handed me my commission. Carus, called Persicus for his victories over the Persians, had also awarded a wooden sword, a rudis , to some brain-damaged gladiator as symbol that his days in the arena were ended honourably. I even recalled the warrior’s name: Timminus, and his blank stare. The emperor had turned to me like an old comrade, calling me ‘Bear,’ and explained with a sympathetic nod as the man was led away: “They retire after six years or 30 bouts. Not many get that far, and the ones that do have usually got some head injury that prevents them becoming an instructor, which is what we’d prefer.” Carus’ uncondescending affability impressed me. The emperor treated me as a fellow soldier, and I vowed that one day, if I achieved high rank, I would do the same to my subordinates.
    But not, I thought, to these young recruits, not yet. They were struggling to obey their instructors, and the two centurions’ voices were getting shriller and