by Marc Jones
He fixed each of them with a piercing gaze. The colour seemed to be re-entering the faces of some of them, as fear gave way to relief tinged with anger. Verontius Felix was watching him with his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, like a cat studying a hawk.
“You have been generous of late. This morning I had a word with Innocentius, the Bishop of Rome. He told me that you have all given the Church large donations recently. Out of the goodness of your hearts of course. Well – I think that if you can afford to give such sums to the Church then you can now also afford to make some patriotic and very public contributions to the State. Large contributions.”
“Are you asking us to bribe you, Magister Militum?” Verontius Strabo drawled as he raised a thin eyebrow at him.
“I am asking you to give up some of the money that you have been so stupidly hoarding to the State so that I can build the Emperor a field army that won’t be composed of mercenaries, elderly veterans and freed slaves who have barely grasped which end of a spear should go into the enemy. And if the donations are sufficiently large then my very bad memory will forget – perhaps – the warrants for the immediate arrest and execution of all of you that have been signed by the Emperor himself.”
The room fell silent again. Then Verontius Felix raised a finger. “I feel a sudden outbreak of patriotism coming upon me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
He sat there, in the dark of the room at the back, and brooded. He’d dealt with uncertain loyalties before but this…. this was more than that. This was treachery. He paused as his mind drifted down the years. All that support, all that loyalty… and now it was all gone. In a blink of an eye it had all been destroyed. Every scrap of it.
He thought about screaming with rage, he thought about throwing the piece of rag with the words inked into it against the wall and then stamping it into the mud… and then he looked up at the wall. He wiped away the tears and then smiled a terrible smile. Very well then. So be it. If that was the way that the world worked then he had no choice but to accept it, no matter how much it hurt.
He folded the piece of rag neatly and then got up and walked into the next room, where a fire was crackling merrily. As he looked into the flames he unfolded the rag and looked down at it one last time, memorising the words, before throwing it onto the fire.
As it blackened and burnt he looked deep into the flames and rebuilt the wall in his head, hiding the anger and fury behind a façade of normality. The stakes were very high now, he had to be very, very careful. One slip would lead to disaster and his people would be faced with a catastrophe that they couldn’t avoid and perhaps couldn’t survive.
Only when the piece of rag had been reduced to glowing ash did he leave the room. He had work to do. He had songs to whisper into people’s ears. Oddly enough despite the treachery he felt alive in a strange, invigorating way. Being in mortal danger had that effect on him and he needed to remember to hide what he was feeling.
He walked out into the open air and sniffed. Winter was coming. The air… he could smell rain rolling in from the West. And something more. Ah. How… what was the word? Appropriate. There was a storm coming. He walked off down the hill. Yes, he had work to do.
Cato dabbed a little oil on a dry area of the saddle and then worked it in carefully. After a moment he glanced up. Little Marcus was watching everything that he did with a look of total concentration. He thought about dabbing a spot of oil on his son’s face to make him giggle, but Valeria, who was watching them fondly as she repaired a garment with needle and thread, would probably tell him off for that. It still astonished him how fast his son was growing up. Before the Valentia campaign he’d been clinging to things as he walked. Now he seemed to be running everywhere like a young colt learning how fun it was to gallop.
He added a little more oil, rubbed it in carefully and then frowned thoughtfully at the saddle. The new design wasn’t all that different from the old one, but it still made him pause for thought. That old Decurion on the Wall, Honorius, had been right. By spreading the weight around they’d avoid putting too much pressure on the spine of the horse and creating sore spots as well. He paused for a moment, his thoughts suddenly very far away.
“What are you thinking about?” Valeria asked softly. “You seemed to leave the room for a moment.”
Cato smiled ruefully at his wife. “I was thinking about life on the Wall. I know that it’s better manned these days, but with winter almost on us… well let’s just say that I’m very glad to be in Deva right now.”
She smiled back at him as she put the piece of cloth that she had been repairing away and stood up. “And we are so very glad to have you back safe and sound.” Her voice quavered slightly at the last three words and as she approached Cato reached out to hold her hand.
“I came home,” he said softly. “All the Painted People in the North couldn’t stop me from coming home.”
They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment and then they were interrupted by Marcus, who had taken the opportunity provided by them taking their eyes off him for a moment to poke at the drying oil on the saddle then then try to see what it tasted like.
“Oh no you don’t!” Valeria laughed as she swept the little boy up in her arms and made him giggle. As he subsided into what looked like the sudden and boneless sleep of the very young she looked at Cato again and then asked in a soft voice: “What’s going to happen? In Gaul I mean. And here.”
Cato sighed and shook his head. “I’d be lying to you if I said that I knew. I don’t. Rebellion, revolt, call it what you might,” he said quietly. “But we’re cut off from the Empire now. And you have no idea how much those words scare me.”
She nodded slowly and then walked into little Marcus’s room to put him to bed. Cato went back to working on his saddle, only looking up when his wife rejoined him. “What will Aurelianus do?”
Cato paused and then leant back. “If I know him at all then he will continue to build up the Army. The same with the other Council members. We have to protect Britannia. We have no choice in this. We can’t intervene in Gaul, we aren’t strong enough. It shames me to say that. But…” he paused, his mouth working as he tried to think through the thoughts that had been building in his head for so long. “We have to protect what we have here. I cannot tell you what the future holds. All I will say is that I will fight to protect you and Marcus. And Deva. And my cavalry. And Britannia.”
She nodded sombrely. “There are dark times coming, I can feel it.”
He smiled at her. “Then we must all be Lanternbearers.”
The snow was falling outside the window as Constantius looked out and he found himself remembering Mogontiacum. It seemed like an age ago. It had been colder then. He remembered hearing with scorn the news that the Rhenus had frozen. And then with horror the news of the crossing. He had fought on the side of Stilicho that day. And had helped to win the battle.
It wasn’t as cold as that day had been. But he felt cold deep inside himself. It was the cold of uncertainty and worry, a cold that seemed to have hollowed out his stomach. He had to admit that the news from Rome had stunned him. Strabo was dead. The man that he had been counting on for help in battling that untrustworthy bastard Stilicho, the man who thought that he could trust or at least manipulate the Goths. The man who didn’t care about Gaul, not really, other than to use it as a defence line against barbarians.
Knuckles rapped against the door frame and he turned to see Tetricus standing there. “Are you alright sir?” The younger man looked worried and Constantius favoured him with a tired smile.
“Weighing options, Tetricus, weighing options.” He said the words as tiredly as he felt.
But much to his surprise his aide set his face and walked over to him. “Sir, I know that you have been thinking about what the best thing to do is now that Stilicho has the upper hand in Rome. I can tell you this – we all stand with you. To the bitter end. We will do our duty.”
“And my duty is to save as many o
f you as I can. I must look at all the options in front of us – all of them. To fail to do so would be an error of judgement. Yes, we can fight. Could we win? Perhaps. Stilicho is a good general. But he is also a politician and if I can save you all by accepting exile or even death, then that too must be looked at.”
Tetricus was very pale. He also had an odd smile. “Sir, we are all guilty of treason to the Emperor. If you surrendered to Stilicho what proof would you have that we would be spared? If I may say so – there is none. Stilicho’s position is a delicate one. Yes, he might spare us – but he might also decide that he needs a show of strength and have us all killed.”
Constantius looked back out at the settling snow outside. “Yes, that had occurred to me.” He smiled thinly. “I have perhaps been thinking too much and doing too little.”
“I know sir,” Tetricus said softly. “Your wife is worried about you.”
“She knows me far too well.”
“She asked me to remind you that even if you gave yourself up Stilicho will kill you. And your sons.”
This was a telling point and Constantius felt his stomach clench. “My wife is not averse to the odd low blow.”
“If I may say so sir, your wife is sensible.” He looked at the tiled floor briefly and then up again. “Sir, Gaul – and Upper and Lower Germania – is depending on you. We need you. Stilicho cannot be relied on. You know what he plans for us – Goths on both sides of the Rhenus is madness! Fighting him is maybe a different kind of madness. But you are right – we must fight him. I know that you have doubts. But this is a fight that we must try to win.”
It was very quiet in the room. Constantius stared out of the window at the snow, which was settling on the roofs in front of him. “Moments of doubt are things that occur to all men Tetricus. I had to think through all the options. Thank you for helping me to come to a final conclusion. I cannot risk you all. I cannot risk my family.”
He turned from the window and smiled at the other man. “Bring me the latest training reports for our cavalry and infantry. And also the maps of the area around Lugdunum. We have a war to win. A war for Gaul.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aurelianus placed his pen down on the deck and stretched until something crackled in his back. Yawning he picked up the pen again and looked at the parchment in front of him. The administration of Deva never ended. The administration of the region never ended. There was always something that needed to be approved or confirmed, from more armour for the troops to the collection of taxes. A new tile factory had started up near the fortress, and tiles were always something that they needed. Glass making was also enjoying something of a boom, and glass was always lucrative.
He looked to one side as the splatter of rain on the window there showed that the black clouds that had been on the far distance earlier had made their appearance in the skies over Deva. He smiled crookedly. Well, it could be worse. At least it wasn’t snowing.
He looked back at the documents on the desk in front of him and sighed heavily. It all had to be done. He could relax afterwards with a cup of wine and the lamb wrapped in pastry that the cook was making at the moment but at the moment he needed to finish what was in front of him.
Boots scuffed in the corridor outside his office and he looked up to see Poplicala approaching. He had a message in his hand and he looked more than a bit concerned. “Are you free?”
“Of course- what’s wrong?”
“Two things, one good and one worrying. The good news is that the latest shipment from the Ordovices has arrived. Excellent quality too. We can smelt it and stamp it as soon as possible.”
Aurelianus grinned boyishly. “That is good news! What’s the other news though?”
Poplicala’s face screwed up into a wince. “Something odd. There was a message from Selorix of the Ordovices. He said that there was word from the Demetae. Something about a count being made of the fighting men amongst them.”
This was odd. Aurelianus leant back in his chair. “A census? Peculiar. One hasn’t been ordered from Londonium. Did they say who had authorised it?”
Poplicala shrugged briefly. “No. It was just a passing reference.”
There was a brief silence whilst Aurelianus thought long and hard. “My thumb is pricking,” he said eventually and Poplicala looked at him quizzically. “And don’t ask me why. I just have a feeling. Send a message back to the Ordovices. Tell them to be wary and to keep their eyes open – especially to anything from the South.”
“The South? You mean Glevum?”
“Yes, I mean Glevum.” His fingers drummed a brisk tattoo on the surface of the desk for a moment and then he stood up. “I need to see all the latest reports of our current unit strengths. And how far along the resupply of armour has gone.”
Poplicala’s eyebrows were raised as far they could go on his forehead. “Are you expecting a war?”
“I very much hope not.” Aurelianus clapped him on the shoulder and then strode out of the office. Perhaps he was just worrying too much. Perhaps he was seeing a mountain when there was just a molehill. But he had no intention of taking any chances.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When he woke up again it was light again. Not that he liked that, because it meant that he could see all the bodies in the clearing. Oh and the crows. One was sitting in the branches of the tree that he was slumped against. He looked at it balefully. It was pecking at something that it was holding in its claws. An eyeball. Filthy thing.
The pain was still there, not that he was expecting it to go away any time soon. He pulled his hand away from the crusted bandage against his side and looked at the dried blood there. Even though he had slept he was tired. So very, very tired.
Athanaric looked over at where Roderic lay. The other man had gone quiet at some point during the night and now his lifeless eyes were staring at the grey sky above them. Now that there was enough light to see properly he could see how badly the other man had been hurt and he winced. He’d always known that his friend had been a strong man but how he hadn’t died screaming in agony from that stomach wound the Crone only knew.
He licked dry lips and stared hopefully at the sky. A little rain wouldn’t go amiss now. But the clouds simply blew onwards without shedding anything. He looked around at the clearing again. Someone had once told him that ‘Visigoth’ meant ‘Wise Goth’. Well, any wisdom had long since departed his people. Madness had taken its place.
Euric. If only that fool hadn’t been in charge. He had once heard Alaric say that a king who did not have a position to fall back upon wasn’t a king but an idiot. Well, Euric was just such an idiot. Once Constantius had driven them away from their would-be new homeland by the Rhenus it had soon become obvious that Euric had no idea where they were going.
South to Hispania? Well, perhaps? West? No, that was madness. North? No, again – madness. East then? Perhaps. Maybe. The meetings of the Visigothic nobles had started off worried and had rapidly become angry. And then they had become violent. He laughed softly and then winced as pain tore through him. The last meeting had been a disaster. Everyone had disagreed with Euric, who had lost his temper and gone after Wallia with a dagger. Wallia had drawn his sword and then the fighting had started, in the falling darkness.
Some, like Athanaric and Roderic, had tried to stop the madness. They’d been attacked for their pains. Attacked by fellow Visigoths with insanity in their eyes. And now here he was. Dying in a clearing full of bodies. He hoped that he wouldn’t survive to see the next sunset.
Hearing something to his right he looked over. Hooves on dead leaves, cracking branches. And finally it stopped and he heard a man swear. After a moment there was movement out of the corner of his eye and he could see the horseman. Well, horsemen. There were three of them. They were dressed in Roman armour and had spears with pennants on them. The lead horseman was dismounting and as he took his helmet off Athanaric frowned.
“I know you,” he croaked and the three horsemen all starte
d and looked over at him as they placed their hands on weapons. “Don’t worry lads. There’s no threat here from a dying man.”
The leader strode over to him and then squatted down not too far away. “You were with Euric.”
“Yes. And you were with Constantius, when he told us… to turn around.”
“Quintus Tetricus, Centurion of cavalry.”
“Athanaric of the Visigoths.”
The Gaul looked around at the dead bodies and then looked at him. “What happened here?”
“Madness happened.” He smiled at the other man bitterly. “Madness and folly. We have nowhere to go, thanks to your Constantius. So we… wandered aimlessly. And then the knives came out when… that idiot Euric lost his temper with all the questions about where we were going. And then-” He gestured weakly at the clearing. His throat was very dry now. “Do you have any… wine or watered wine? Please?”
Tetricus got up, strode over to his horse and then returned with a small winesack. “Here,” he said, as he removed the stopper and handed it over.
It was wine. Good wine too. Athanaric swallowed several gulps and then handed it back. “Thank you.” His vision was starting to grey at the edges and he wondered how much longer he had left. “I don’t suppose… you saw where… the others fled to?”
The Gaul sighed. “Some were seen fleeing South. Others West. Groups of people.”
Athanaric sighed tiredly. “Ah,” he said weakly. “So – we are broken.”
“I do not know. I cannot tell what lies ahead of you.”
“Not me – I know what… lies ahead of me.” He reached out a hand. “I don’t have… long. Please don’t leave me to… die on my own.”
