The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Rufius was wounded but alive. As I jumped from Argento, the decurion lurched to his feet. With renewed frenzy, we fought viciously back to back, gouging and downing more warriors. Bellowing like a madman, I hacked fiercely, slaying one wild man after another until my troops smashed through the circle of Celts. Argento rammed a warrior, reared and trampled his body, then crushed another’s chest with a solid hind kick.

  Suddenly, the battle was over—the enemy annihilated. Argento settled down and stood nearby, panting, mouth foaming, as I guarded Rufius. He sank to the ground, next to his dying horse. My commander had lost much blood from the wound high in his shoulder and from a dagger still buried in his thigh. There was little bleeding from the leg injury. If he lived, the blade could be safely withdrawn later by a medicus. I removed strips of linen dressings from a small, leather bag tied to my saddle. Kneeling, I pressed them against his shoulder wound. I prayed to the gods to let him live long enough for the surgeons to arrive. Tough but approachable and fair, he was too good an officer to lose.

  “Did . . . did we get them?” he asked in a weak voice. “Did . . . they get away?”

  “We killed most of them,” I answered. “Only a few escaped.” I glanced quickly at the battlefield strewn with the victims of Mars. For the length of a dozen heartbeats, I felt an impulse to charge into the smothered chaos and hack the wounded enemy.

  “Good. Did . . . you get the . . . the bastard who . . . killed me?” he rasped slowly.

  “You’re not dying, sir,” I said, attempting to comfort him. Blood seeped through the gauze staining my hands.

  Andubal approached us, bloodstained sword in hand. Other troopers covered in blood, including Crispus, followed behind him. “He saved your life, sir,” Andubal said. “I saw it all.” He turned to me. “You’ll get the Corona—”

  “Shut up!” I exploded. “How can you think of medals? We’re talking about a man’s life.” I was embarrassed by his remark, and Rufius could still die. For the first time, I noticed blood splattered all over my chain mail, breeches, and bare arms, hands sticky with the slime of death. My mouth was parched and arms and legs the weight of lead ingots, I could hardly move. “I did what any soldier would have done,” I added wearily.

  “Horseshit!” Crispus exclaimed. “You cut your way through those whoresons into the eye of the storm! Gods, we couldn’t keep up with you. And the way you fought—Jupiter Thunderer—there was almost no one left for us to kill! Don’t be so fucking modest. You saved his life!”

  For how long?

  “Enough, dammit!” I said. “He needs medical attention.” I yelled to a nearby medicus checking a wounded trooper. He came over, examined, and ordered two men to help him place Rufius on a horse-drawn stretcher. Leading the mount by the reins, he rushed the decurion over the churned muck, between strewn bodies, to the field-dressing station. Piss on their stinking medals. It won’t bring back the men we lost, or Rufius, if he dies. I grabbed the water bag from my saddle and took a long drink.

  Crispus muttered, “That whoreson got away again.”

  “Caratacus?” I asked, splashing the cool water on my dirt-encrusted face and head.

  “Aye, the same” he replied loudly, knowing the surge of battle-fever was still hot in his blood—like mine.

  “I had a feeling the crafty bastard would escape, he’s like a wolf.”

  “We could have captured him if the shit-smearing Batavians had done their job.”

  I wiped the excess water and sweat from my face with a tunic sleeve and corked my flask. “No point fretting about it. Besides, the Batavians fought well enough. It’s not the first time that devil’s been underestimated.”

  Crispus spat. “He fled across the river and disappeared into the forest. We’ll never find him.”

  *

  We rode into the fortress and found a smoldering village. Legionaries rounded up survivors and herded them into pens in the center of the fortress. The civilians would be sold as slaves, but the warriors would be impressed into auxiliary cohorts with other Britons and stationed on the Danubus River on the northeastern frontier of the empire. Other soldiers searched the remnants of blackened huts for survivors and booty. One detail dragged away the dead to be buried en masse in the cemetery at the fortress’s west end. Another group loaded debris into carts and transported the rubbish to a designated dump outside the stronghold’s walls. The rest were put to work establishing a camp inside the fortress.

  The purple shadows of dusk crept through the rubbled castle when Sergeant Corribilo approached me. The squadron had finished grooming and feeding its horses and were pitching tents. I thought about Rufius and planned to visit him. Corribilo, now acting-decurion of the troop, returned from a meeting at Legion Headquarters. His naturally long face formed a big, toothy horse grin. “Good news about Rufius, the surgeon says he’s going to live.”

  A sense of relief rushed through my mind and body. “Thank the gods. I shall sacrifice to Asclepius for his quick recovery. You won’t find a better officer,” I added.

  Corribilo agreed.

  “Any other news?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s still too early to be official, but chances are you’ll receive the Corona Civica—congratulations.” He extended his hand.

  I don’t know why, but an uncontrollable shudder raced down my spine. “What? You’re joking.”

  “No, it’s true, you saved his life.”

  We shook hands. I knew what he meant. The Corona Civica was the empire’s highest award. I still felt embarrassed since I did what any other trooper should have done.

  “Every soldier that’s awarded the Corona has been promoted to decurion or centurion,” Corribilo said. “That’s a big jump. Think of the pay and the women it’ll buy.” He laughed, knowing it meant little to a man from a wealthy family who already had the woman he wanted.

  I shrugged. “If I get it.” Final approval had to come from the emperor. Perhaps Rufius would refuse to admit I had saved his life. He would have to personally decorate me, and denials were common. Officers hated admitting they had been saved by subordinates. “There are many others, including you,” I continued, “that deserve to be rewarded, too.”

  “Rewarded? By the lucky twins, survival is good enough for me.”

  You’re so right, my friend.

  *

  Eight days later the legion assembled on parade. Awards for valor were given by Vespasian and Sabinus, after Vespasian gave a long-winded speech on the bravery of Rome’s finest troops in killing thousands of barbarians. Many were decorated, including Corribilo and me. He and I received two silver armillae arm bands for exceptional bravery. I would receive the Corona Civica at a later date, if I received it all.

  In the presence of Gallus, Sabinus presented me with the silver armbands. He spoke in such a low voice only I heard what he said.

  “So far, you have lived up to my expectations. Although I cannot make any promises, with the emperor’s approval, an even greater award awaits you. You will go far if I have anything to say about it, and I do. Soon you will hear from me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” A deep sense of pride overcame me despite my previous doubts and objections about awards.

  *

  The next morning Legion Second Augusta marched from Maugh-Dun Castle, heading westward into the hill country. The bloodletting would continue for another five months before the conquest of southwest Britannia was complete.

  I hadn’t received any messages from Kyar since we had left Iping. I prayed she was well.

  I didn’t know when I would next see her.

  Chapter 16 - August, 44 AD

  Nearly six weeks had elapsed since the army departed Maugh-Dun Castle. Another fifteen hill fortresses were overrun before General Vespasian halted the advance at Isca, capital of the Dumnonii, far to the west.

  Caratacus had vanished like a phantom in the night.

  After Gallus’s daily morning briefing of his cohort and troop officers and sergeants in the headqu
arters tent, he dismissed the group, but ordered me to stay behind.

  Barely the first hour after dawn, the heat of summer pressed down on the legion camp like a breathless demon, all activity slowing to a crawl. Despite wearing a protective soft, woolen scarf, the top edge of the chain-mail armor chafed my neck.

  “You realize,” Gallus said, as he sat behind his portable table, “only three weeks remain before your loan is due?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware.” I stood at ease in the stifling cohort command tent. “I expect the money to arrive from home any day,” I added.

  “Repayment may not be necessary.”

  His remark piqued my curiosity. What devious thoughts were running through Gallus’s mind? “I don’t understand.”

  “If you are agreeable,” Gallus continued, “I will propose an offer that will cancel your loan.”

  Immediately, I suspected the rope Crispus warned me about months ago when we departed Iping on campaign. Would Gallus now play hangman? Crispus was right, no loan is interest free. “What’s your proposition?”

  Gallus clasped his hands together on the table and cleared his throat. “Your family owns a parcel of land I want to buy. It includes the foothills and the coast road between your family home and the town of Abdera.”

  “That’s prime grazing area,” I answered. No doubt, he knew it was the best we possessed. “It includes our sacred ancestral grounds, where my father is buried, and the shrine to Melkart, maintained by my mother as high priestess.”

  The tribune nodded. “Of course, and I pledge to respect its sanctity for all time. You and your family will retain the right to visit your revered temple and burial grounds whenever you wish—that is only proper.”

  I carefully chose my words. “You are aware, sir, the river running through those properties drains into the rest of our lands, including my mother’s home. What guarantees do I have you wouldn’t cut off our water supply?”

  “I would guarantee your water rights for the next three generations.” Gallus gestured to the jar of lampblack ink and blank parchment laying on one side of the table. “Naturally, the agreement will be documented and witnessed before magistrates of your choosing. Am I not being reasonable?”

  “So far, yes. What is the offer?”

  He quoted a generous price of more than one million sesterces—a small fortune not to be taken lightly. I turned the price over in my head. Why was Gallus making such a lucrative offer? A sense of excitement and turmoil rolled through my being. I had to maintain control of my thoughts. Should I sell? There was nothing to keep Gallus from reneging on his agreement. Damming up the water supply, precious to the prosperity of the latifundia, meant drought and starvation. Magistrates were easily bribed to change their decisions, which would leave Gallus free to purchase the remaining land for a fraction of the cost. Filing suit in court required years of litigation and a financial drain on the family fortune in legal fees. We would lose everything before receiving a favorable judgment, if we received one at all. Regardless, the lands were sacred to the family. I could no more sell the property than kill my own mother.

  “Your offer is most generous, sir, but I can’t sell what has belonged to my family for generations.”

  Gallus flinched. He glared at me for what seemed a long time. “You realize,” he said slowly, “this is the favor I expected you to repay for my loan.”

  Drops of perspiration ran down the side of Gallus’s sunburnt face and neck, disappearing beneath his white corselet tunic. The same flowed down the back of mine from inside of my helmet to within my clothing. The enclosed stifling tent reeked of its stale, salty smell.

  He waited for my answer.

  “Sir, had it been anything else I would comply. But not ancestral lands. It would be like cutting off my fighting arm.”

  “Sometimes one must cut off a gangrenous part to survive.” He snorted. “I made you a generous offer, and won’t bicker over the terms.” He jabbed a finger toward me. “Since your word of honor is meaningless, I’ll find another way. One you won’t like. In the meantime, since you have broken your word, I shall amend mine. You will repay the loan with an additional interest charge of one hundred percent.”

  “That’s outrageous, I never agreed to those terms.”

  “They just changed,” Gallus answered coolly. “Be thankful they’re not worse.”

  Heat rushed through my body and muscle tightened. Not daring to show my anger, I kept my face blank. He knew he had me in a bind. I dared not go to higher authorities to report the illegally high usury rates. It was my word, as an enlisted man and auxiliary, against a Roman officer. I had to pay the amount if I didn’t want Gallus making my life any more miserable then he had already.

  “Very well, Tribune, I’ll pay the full amount, including your criminal interest rate.”

  “It is not unreasonable, considering the gracious offer I made.” He smiled sadistically. “Is your slut still worth it?”

  *

  General Vespasian left a garrison of four auxiliary cohorts at Isca and wheeled the army northward to the hill country of the Dobunnii. The Second Legion advanced through a land of contrasts—lowlying, sun-bleached plains, high, jagged limestone cliffs, and forested, gray-stone hills mantled in a cloak of dark shadows, surrounding the River Severn. Its narrow tributaries ran into deep mountain caves, gouged away by eons of swift-flowing currents.

  A realm of superstitions, witchcraft, and elfin legends lay before us. Local natives claimed lost souls wandered aimlessly, cursing all they touched. Soon, the more superstitious troops became infected by the foreboding tales. The deeper we advanced into Dobunnii territory, the more sacrifices and votive offerings the legionaries made to the gods. They feared evil spirits more than the enemy.

  I believed little of what I had heard, but as a precaution, I, too, sacrificed to the local gods.

  One humid morning our troop scouted the hilly, wooded area near the River Axe. Futilely, the sun attempted to burn away an overcast sky. As I baked in my chain mail and tunic, we rode several miles ahead of the advance column, following a deer trail up a broad ravine. Except for the soft clatter of hooves and snorts of horses, the land seemed eerily silent. In the distance stood a cluster of ash trees in a jagged half-circle, a natural site for the outdoor ceremonial rites of the Druids.

  Ahead of us, down the path, hobbled a stooped old woman wearing a dirty cloak and hood over a dusty, white tunic that hung to the ankles. She supported herself with a wooden staff clutched in a gnarled left hand. Purple woad tattoos, the markings of a Druid, covered her emaciated face and hands. She stopped and raised her staff upon our approach.

  “Beware soldiers of Caesar—beware!” she cried. She cackled and again cried her warning.

  Corribilo, the acting troop commander, signaled a halt. The troopers looked about as if unnerved by her appearance and shrill warning. They grasped the hilts of their spathas and looked about.

  “She’s a witch,” Andubal murmured uneasily.

  Others nodded in agreement. Obulco, whose bravery in battle was unquestioned, stared at her in saucer-eyed silence.

  “What’s the meaning of this, old crone?” Corribilo demanded. “Step aside!”

  “Take heed of my words, oh, lords of the world,” she crowed in mockery, and dipped her head in an aged bow. “Beware of the evil spirits lurking in the hills and forest. They will curse and haunt those who do not appease them.” She scanned the surrounding forest, drawing our searching eyes along with hers.

  “Rubbish,” I snarled, fearing more unease from my men if I didn’t act. “Move aside, you old vulture.”

  She glared at me through eyes no more than slits and pointed a veiny finger. “You, young warrior,” she hissed, “especially you, must beware.”

  She gave me the evil eye, and I immediately blessed myself, spat on my chest, and silently lipped the sounds, “Papa-sima, papa-sima,” to ward off her curse.

  The witch jabbed her staff at the rest of the troop. “Bewa
re, for the dead will haunt you. The spirits of the unburied and headless travel the land searching for peace and revenge!”

  The old Druidess paused a moment and slowly nodded to me. “A few weeks ago a young woman died a hor-rrible death at the hands of another. There was much blood. Now her soul wanders these very woods.” She stabbed a bony finger toward the grove. “And the river,” she said, motioning in the direction of the River Axe, “seeking her lover. She will rest only when she is avenged.” Her voice trailed away. “But there is more.”

  Again, she pointed a knotted finger at me, or so I thought. But the crooked finger curved unnaturally, and it could have been pointing at Corribilo. Seeing that I was not sufficiently intimidated, she brayed, “Yes, you! You must respect the gods and above all . . . ,” she paused briefly, “beware of the god from the East.”

  “Which one?” I asked in jest. “There are hundreds.”

  “You will know when the time comes.”

  “What can we do to ward off the evil spirits?” a shaken Corribilo interrupted. He viewed me suspiciously, as if I were some possessed demon.

  “Sacrifice to the forest gods, especially to the sacred ash and oaks, nothing else will save you.”

  “We have neither incense, nor goats with us,” Corribilo protested.

  She smiled, exposing her black teeth. “They will accept your tokens of coppers,” she intoned with a humble bow of the head. “My name is Mugain, and I am the Brig Bretach, the Druidess of Judgment, and Priestess of the Woods. I shall gladly accept, on their behalf.”