“They will live with me,” Crocus said at once. “I would not hear of it being otherwise.”
“Perhaps that is just as well,” Eumenius agreed. “Tribune Constantine will be commanding the Twentysecond Legion.”
“My best horse are with the Twentysecond,” Crocus exclaimed. “You are very lucky, my friend.” Then his face sobered. “But such a command is not worthy of the son of an Augustus, who saved an entire army in the Persian revolt. I’m surprised that your father didn’t make you his deputy.”
“He offered to, but I asked for a legion,” Constantine admitted. “After all, my last command was less than fifty men. I shall have to prove myself, as you did.”
“One battle will do it,” Crocus assured him. “We’ll have plenty of fighting when we go against the Piets. Come along and I’ll find quarters for you.”
Constantine and Dacius were soon comfortably ensconced in a house at the edge of the town that had been taken over by Crocus. It overlooked a field where horses were tethered by the hundreds, awaiting transfer across the channel, and bands of mounted men were in training. A servant brought meat, bread and wine the Gauls, Constantine remembered, were always mighty trenchermen.
While they ate, he sounded out Crocus concerning affairs in Gaul and particularly about his fathers health.
“Augustus Constantius was very ill earlier this year,” Crocus told him. “Some of us felt then that you should be sent for, but he feared that Galerius would hear of his condition and refuse to let you come, lest you seize the reins of power if if anything happened.”
Constantine admitted
“I almost didn’t come this time,” Constantine admitted. “Orders had already been issued sending me to the Euphrates. Galerius only released me because he planned to have us killed by assassins in the Alpine passes.”
Crocus swore a colorful oath. ‘Then you only got out of the East in time. How that beast Daia would have loved having you under his command. But you will enjoy fighting the Piets,” he continued. “They are great rough fellows wielding huge broadswords and speaking a tongue that sounds like a saw biting into an oaken log. A giant named Bonar leads them into battle shouting a cry calculated to paralyze all but trained troops with fear. It’s truly a pity their chiefs don’t have the good sense to sign a treaty of peace and become Roman citizens, as did the rest of Britain.”
“Then you think it may be possible to pacify all of the island?”
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