The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “Why are you in the temple?” I demanded.

  “Passing information to . . . to my master,” the scout said.

  “Who is your master?”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “Out with it!”

  “Caratacus.”

  “Traitor!” the Druid screamed. “Thou art excommunicated, thy soul is damned forever!” Again, Obulco slapped him down.

  The Celt stared at the old man, and his whole body shook. His face grew crimson, and tears welled in his eyes. “Have mercy on me,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry, Lord, but . . . but I don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”

  I found no pleasure in watching the old man suffer and was relieved that the scout willingly answered my questions. “I know that you’ve made a very difficult decision,” I said, “and I respect you for wanting to save his life. I believe the gods will, too.” At this point, I would have said anything to keep him answering my questions.

  “My life is nothing if he dies. It don’t matter if I don’t see the gods.”

  “I’m sure the gods are more merciful than he would lead you to believe,” I said. “We must proceed with the questioning. Where is Caratacus’s army?” He attempted to speak but choked. I motioned to one of the men to give him water, then I repeated the question.

  “The west, Maugh-Dun Castle,” he replied in a resigned monotone. His large eyes, set far apart, stared blankly ahead.

  “The capital of the Durotrigians? Their king is supposed to be neutral.”

  “King Unig has made an alliance with Lord Caratacus—he hates the Romans.”

  “When are they launching their offensive?”

  “After Beltaine, what you . . . you call May.” His eyes remained fixed on the fire.

  “What day?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Obulco shot a hot iron to the base of his throat.

  Even from where I stood I felt its piercing heat and metallic smell.

  “You’re closer than you know to a wanderin’ spirit,” the interrogator spat.

  The scout’s eyes widened as Obulco ripped open his trousers.

  “And a wanderin’ spirit without no balls is a sorry spirit indeed,” Obulco said.

  “I don’t know! By . . . by Lugh, I swear I don’t know.”

  “Let him be, he might be telling the truth, though I doubt it,” I said with a sneer. “Is Verica in league with Caratacus?”

  “Aye,” he whimpered through quivering lips. “He secretly pledged his . . . his allegiance when he learned the Romans would not leave his lands.”

  It was common knowledge that Verica had persuaded the Emperor Claudius to invade Britannia and restore to him lands taken by Caratacus.

  “What about his sons and daughters? Are they in league with Caratacus as well?” I prodded.

  His face tightened before he nodded. “Aye, his sons, but I don’t think his daughter.”

  “And why isn’t she?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, that’s what I hear, I swear it.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Eleyne.”

  He seemed too eager to be excommunicated and answer my questions. He knew too much be a mere scout. His knowledge came from one who had access to the inner circle of the ruling class.

  “What is your real name?”

  “Alwynn,” he answered, eyes downcast.

  I nodded to Obulco, and he drifted his hot iron to the barbarian’s testicles, singeing hairs.

  The Celt screamed.

  “What’s your real name, you lying shithead?” I demanded. “You know too damned much.”

  His reddened eyes filled with terror as the hot prod lingered, scorching close to his scrotum. “Don’t,” he begged. “Cadwal, cousin of Caratacus.”

  My lower lip dropped in disbelief. “Why are you, a king’s cousin, risking your head? You know it means certain death being caught as a spy.”

  “I know. My cousin says I’m not worthy of . . . of being his kin. My mother was his . . . his Uncle Epaticcos’s concubine. He said I had to prove myself leading you into ambushes.”

  “Is it not the custom of the Celts to prove their bravery in a full-blown battle?”

  “Aye, but I never took no heads like a real warrior. I’ve got to prove myself this way.”

  “You’ve had your last chance,” I whispered. “No more.” I pondered his revelations for a moment, and it occurred to me that for political reasons his life might be spared as a hostage. I knew from official reports that Caratacus had several half brothers and cousins, but no Roman had ever seen them. My prisoner could be lying about his identity. But if he were telling the truth, I was certain the Imperial Command would keep Cadwal incognito, until the right moment presented itself.

  “If you’re lying about who you are,” I threatened, “I’ll butcher the old man like a sacrificial bullock. Then I’ll run you through your member.” I pointed my spatha menacingly in that direction. “Do you understand?” Obulco’s face grinned into another snarling and twisting mask.

  “I swear it’s . . . it’s true. Don’t kill him.”

  Obulco squeezed Cadwal’s sack hard enough to provoke a whimper, then released it.

  *

  We returned to the camp in the pouring rain and darkness. I ordered the priest gagged and separated from Cadwal, lest he persuade him to be silent.

  Passing through the main gate we brought the prisoners to Rufius’s tent. I ordered the men to wait as I went inside. He sat at a small table, in the dim candlelight, writing reports. Next to the parchments was a small, earthen jug of wine and a gold cup with a lead base, his only concession to luxury in the field. In the shadows behind Rufius sat his big slave, Timoleon, cleaning his helmet. Rufius looked up as I entered, and the tension drained from his face.

  “Where have you been? By the looks of that nasty wound on your face, I’d say you’ve been ambushed.”

  Obulco had cleaned and placed a smelly salve on the wound, but it still stung. I knew it needed stitches to properly close it.

  “I can explain, sir.”

  “You’d better. And once you finish, get that wound taken care of before it festers. Now report.”

  “I’ve got something to show you.” I turned and motioned through the opening, and four of my squadron, including Crispus and Obulco, shoved the two drenched Britons inside onto the planked floor in front of the decurion. Rufius’s face flushed, but he said nothing until he motioned to the others to leave his quarters, except Crispus.

  The old veteran’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “What in Melkart’s name have you done? Your orders were no contact, no prisoners!” He carefully rose from the table as if in pain from aching joints, and came around for a closer examination of the prisoners. The old Druid stared defiantly, and the other one kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Rufius grabbed a handful of Cadwal’s wet, matted hair and yanked his head up with a violent jerk. He recognized him as our scout. “Why is he shackled?”

  “Our so-called scout is a dung-eating spy.”

  “A spy, is he?” he repeated, his tone changing.

  “He claims to be Cadwal, Caratacus’s cousin.”

  “Does he now?” Rufius smiled like a viper. “It’s time I hear your report—it had better be good.”

  I related what had happened on patrol.

  “You have the imagination of Homer,” he said in a voice the mixture of amusement and suspicion. “If there is any basis to your tale, you might escape the axe. But by Jove’s brass balls you better pray the generals believe it. It’s your good fortune that they’re in camp!”

  Chapter 6

  As we approached headquarters I spotted the mounts of Generals Sabinus and Vespasian and their entourage, protected by members of the emperor’s palace troops. Nearby, other Praetorian guards huddled around a huge fire.

  Tightly wrapped in crimson cloaks, two Praetorians guarded the entrance. They barred our way with thin-shank pilums. “The generals are in conference,” th
e taller of the two sentries said. They pointed their javelins menacingly close to our chests. “They’re not to be disturbed.”

  “You shall report that we have two prisoners,” Rufius ordered in a stern voice. “One is a spy. His information is vital to the general’s upcoming offensive. Do it now!”

  A frown crossed the dog-like face of the taller guard. Obviously, an elite Praetorian resented taking orders from an officer of the auxiliary cavalry, even a superior officer. He exhaled and motioned us to wait as he stepped inside. A moment later he waved us through.

  In the lamp-lit room stood ten officers surrounding the generals, who sat at a long table spread with a series of maps. Among them was Gallus. Outwardly, the tribune appeared indifferent, but he eyed our prisoners, as did the rest.

  At thirty-nine, General Flavius Sabinus was Vespasian’s older brother by five years. Nearly bald, his remaining hair was a thinning, sandy brown. Taller, but not as stocky as Vespasian, his round, smooth face and sparkling eyes, the color of mahogany, belied his reputation for persistence and patience. He had an impeccable reputation for honesty. But he was not above taking advantage of any weakness he perceived in an opponent. Nevertheless, he was respected by all, friend and foe alike.

  The generals seemed puzzled by our presence but not angry—yet. We saluted. The prematurely bald and peasant-faced Vespasian, commander of the Second Augustan Legion, stared first at us, and then at our bound prisoners, who were forced to their knees. He scowled at the disheveled sight of Cadwal and the Druid. Sabinus appeared to be carefully studying the prisoners.

  “Well, well, well, out of what hole did you find these crawling rats?” Vespasian asked.

  “They were captured by Squad Leader Reburrus and his men, sir,” Rufius answered.

  “Can you tell us the meaning of this intrusion?” Sabinus inquired. “I see one prisoner is a Druid. Did you raid a temple?”

  Rufius nodded to me.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, looking directly into Sabinus’s eyes. The muscles in my body tightened. I wasn’t used to speaking to generals. “It was the one rumored to be in the hills to the west,” I continued. “They’re spies—they confessed.”

  “I confess nothing!” Llugar ap Nudd spat. Crispus grabbed his long, white hair and smashed his face to the floor. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose.

  “They may well be spies,” Vespasian replied, “but you disobeyed orders, and I will not tolerate disobedience.”

  Sabinus leaned over and whispered to Vespasian, who nodded. “Please, go on, tell us what happened.” Sabinus’s voice was as smooth as oil. “We would like to know more about your prisoners.”

  I related the events leading to their capture and summed up their questioning. I didn’t mention that I wasn’t going to tolerate the loss of additional men by entrusting their lives to lying, murderous barbarian scouts. When I finished, a low murmur swept the group.

  “Great Jupiter Thunderer,” Vespasian remarked, “you know that bat-fornicator Caratacus has eluded us for months.”

  “There is one detail I left out, sir. With your permission, I would like you to hear it from his lips.” I nodded to Cadwal.

  “Raise your head, man,” Sabinus ordered in a gentle but firm voice.

  No response.

  “Do as I say.”

  Silence. General Sabinus glanced to me.

  “He understands you well enough, sir,” I said.

  I motioned to Crispus, who pulled the barbarian’s head by his long hair, forcing his skull back until he looked defiantly into the eyes of Sabinus, who stood above him.

  “Tell the general who you really are,” I ordered.

  The barbarian eyed the Druid, who stared through him, and lowered his eyes.

  I drew my spatha.

  At the sight of the long blade, the fire in his eyes flickered out.

  “My name is Cadwal,” he stammered.

  “Who is your cousin?”

  “Caratacus.”

  “Louder,” I said.

  “CARATACUS!”

  Another murmur came from the staff. Sabinus remained impassive while Vespasian smiled like a cat.

  “My dear, Cadwal,” Sabinus said dryly, “I was disappointed when your cousin did not pledge allegiance to Rome.” A dark expression crossed his milk-fair face, “For your sake, I trust that you will make amends for his indiscretion by telling our interrogators everything we want to know. Otherwise, your cousin will be minus a devoted relative.”

  “If I hadn’t been discovered, your sons would’ve had no father!” he blurted.

  The staff officers gasped, and a stunned expression crossed the face of the generals. I placed the point of my spatha at the base of Cadwal’s ruddy throat. Seeing my longsword, he offered his jugular.

  “It won’t be that easy, barbarian,” I said.

  His green-flecked eyes bulged as Crispus yanked the savage’s scalp back by the ends of his stringy hair.

  “Unless you want to be like your friend,” I nodded towards the prostrate Druid, “and die a slow death after being nailed to a tree, you will explain yourself!”

  “I was going to kill General Sabinus myself.”

  I jolted—his answer caught me totally off guard.

  A loud murmur erupted from the officers standing about the table, including Gallus.

  Vespasian glared at Cadwal.

  Sabinus paled, his lips tightened.

  “When?” I questioned. It would have been so easy to kill him, but that is what he wanted. I refused to give in to my urge to send him to the gods.

  “Tomorrow,” Cadwal answered.

  “How?”

  He hesitated, and Crispus’s grip tightened. “When he left the camp,” the Celt rasped.

  “But then you would have died,” Sabinus said, apparently having recovered from his initial surprise. “My guards would have killed you.”

  “No matter, my cousin would’ve been proud of me. I’d die a warrior’s death.”

  Cadwal went on to reveal that he planned to murder Sabinus after approaching his guards and telling them that he had a very important message for Sabinus’s ears only. Approaching the general, he would remove a message pouch from beneath his tunic. Inside was a hidden dagger. He meant to plunge it into Sabinus’s throat before he could be stopped. He didn’t hope to get away without being killed.

  “Why me?” Sabinus asked.

  “My cousin says you’re dangerous. You could persuade others to betray their people like the eleven traitor kings!”

  “We have treated the kings and their people decently,” Sabinus said.

  Cadwal spat. “They’re slaves, not free like us!”

  “You were free,” Vespasian said in a snarling voice. “We’re not finished with you yet. We have great things planned for you,” he added with a grin. His raven-dark eyes glowed with pleasure.

  “And we’re not through with you,” Cadwal threatened.

  “Do something to dull his sharp tongue,” Sabinus whispered loudly to his brother.

  “There are questions still requiring answers, but that can be done at our leisure,” Vespasian said. “Guards!”

  Two entered the tent. “Take them away.”

  He nodded to a centurion. “I want a twenty-four-hour watch kept on these two. Bind them! At no time are they to be out of sight. I wouldn’t want them to harm themselves. I will hold you personally responsible for their security.”

  The centurion saluted and left, along with the guards who had the prisoners in tow.

  “Well done,” Sabinus said, “you have more than vindicated yourselves, Sergeant. But consider yourself fortunate.”

  Then he paused for effect. “I like a man who has the courage to be daring, but take care that it does not cost your head. Had it turned out differently, you would have been executed. Nevertheless, I’ll give you your due, Spaniard.” Vespasian and the rest of the staff nodded.

  Inwardly, relief rushed through my body, the muscles relaxing, but outwardly,
I kept a sober face. I had not fully comprehended the ramifications of my deeds until Rufius, Crispus, and I stood before the generals. Thank the gods they were in camp. Had Sabinus and Vespasian not visited the garrison, Gallus would have punished me for disobedience, much to his delight, and taken all the credit for himself. Regardless, my squadron had halted one source of attacks on the troop making all the effort worthwhile.

  Encountering the generals was an unexpected opportunity for recognition and a small step on the journey to the Equestrian Order. I imagined I had foreseen a mention of the incident in the weekly dispatch to legionary headquarters in Noviomagnus, possibly followed by a minor decoration.

  As we were leaving headquarters, I heard Sabinus turn back to the business we had interrupted. “And now Tribune Gallus, about the horrendous conditions of this camp.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning Rufius and I reported to Gallus. As we hiked up the muddy main street of the camp, the grandly styled Via Praetoria to headquarters, a cavalry squadron noisily rode by us. Squeaking saddle leather, jingling brass pendants, and muffled sounds of hooves kicking up dirt clods filled our ears.

  “Do you know why he wants to see us, sir?” I asked.

  “I can guess. Can’t you?”

  “Because of yesterday, or last night?”

  I expected he had more on his mind than the misconduct of my troops. Despite the lateness and foul weather, my men had gone to the tavern and brothel of Rix the Gaul in the village, got drunk and into a fight.

  “If it were only the brawl in the village. Gallus is in an evil mood this morning, I hear. General Sabinus ordered him to rebuild the fort.”

  “Where did you hear that bit of good news?” I asked.

  “From my friend, one of Vespasian’s retainers.”

  “Thank the gods, he should have remedied this stinking mess months ago.” I heard the scraping of shovels, turned, and spotted a detail of infantrymen, a short distance from us, digging shallow trenches, where tents stood just yesterday. I realized they were preparing foundations for the new barracks.