Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  We were sitting eating dinner one night with Trucido expounding at length on a joke at my expense, when the optio called in. Our two companies of recruits were to be taken on a crash-course training weekend. To the island of Mona, no less, where in my father’s time the legions had finally trapped and destroyed the druids. Ocratius was apparently fond of the place, for it was still one of the wildest and least occupied places in Britannia, and since the tribune had apparently assigned Ocratius’ century to a month’s construction work, the centurion felt we needed toughening up first.

  We packed up our gear and made our way along the north coast towards that mystical island in three days, each carrying our impedimenta of full kit. Because we were so new and our muscles were still developing to cope with the strenuous life of the legionary, Ocratius allowed us to camp in the open with only a four man rotating watch and no entrenching or defences. So we were in good spirits as we crossed to the island by way of two local fishermen with their small, dangerous-looking boats, who were only too happy to courier the oppressive invader so long as he also brought oppressive coins with him. We were cheerful as we crossed the island to the centurion’s favourite spot for training. I’d even managed to ignore the unsavoury presence of Trucido.

  That night we camped as though we were friends on a social trip. Ocratius and his optio slept aside, as officers are wont to do, but the other sixteen of us passed around the wine flasks and bowls of cooked meat while we cracked lewd jokes and told tales of our homes. Even Trucido seemed to be laying off me – something I should have taken as a warning – though I did see a strange, knowing look in his eye from time to time. When my turn for watch came I was a little bleary from the wine, but none of us had taken too much to make it through. Then I returned to my blankets and snuggled down. I was woken long before dawn by a rough kick to the lower back. I looked around, and though I could see Trucido wrapped up in his own cloak, I knew it had been him.

  The day dawned sore and bright. I rubbed my back a lot as I hauled myself into my armour for the run in kit across rocks and streams, through undergrowth and across the soft, giving sands of the beaches, through the cold, refreshing sea and up along the cliff, back to our camp site. I made sure I kept my pace carefully a little back from the optio, should Trucido attempt a repeat of his tripping jape. Fortunately, the veteran thug’s leg was still apparently not back to its full strength after his long sojourn in the hospital – exacerbated by our previous slog – and he had enough trouble on that long run stopping himself from collapsing in a heap, so I was spared the worst of his attentions.

  That morning, while wearying and testing, was uneventful from a bullying point of view.

  The first such event came in the afternoon.

  There we were atop a grassy slope above a narrow rocky cove that continued to rise on either side, all lined up and with the officers at the end. ‘Collect three stones,’ we were told, and so we had, with some difficulty. Then, we took it in turns to hurl those stones out into the cove. If we didn’t hit the water we were rewarded with push-ups. It was tough, but competitive, and I suspect we were enjoying it more than Ocratius had intended.

  I initially had no idea what had happened. All I remember is a sound like the biggest bronze bell in the world being banged with the biggest clapper in the world. My eyes went completely blind and my head sang with a painful din. Of course somehow, Trucido had contrived to slip with his stone – the largest we’d found by far – and missed the water by such a wide margin that he’d struck me hard, directly on the head. Had I not still been wearing my helmet my companions would not have been trying to stop my suddenly senseless body from rolling down the slope and dropping into the sea. They would have been helping me scour the grass, looking for my brains.

  As it was it took more than half an hour for my vision to return, and best part of a day longer than that for my hearing. I still have the headache now, I think. When I focused on my helmet, which they’d taken off in the mess, I could clearly see the egg-sized dent in it. A corresponding place on my head felt as though those lead miners were at work on my skull.

  The day’s training was cut short and we returned to camp where I was given the best care they could think of: unwatered wine! Ocratius had perhaps been a little short-sighted in not bringing a field medic with us, but fortunately for him I was not permanently harmed. Still, it was morning before my wits had untangled enough for me to be able to identify names when put to me. It transpired that Trucido had slipped with his rock, the result of a damp palm. He had been given fifty push-ups for his carelessness. A mere fifty push-ups!

  But now I knew we’d taken the next step in our war.

  That rock might well have killed me. And half the lads had their helmets off at the cove, with the centurion’s permission. The bastard meant me true harm. It was no longer pranks, or even unexpected punches. Now he was trying to hurt me properly.

  I spent the morning, as we broke our fast and prepared for the day, deep in thought. It crossed my mind to do unto Trucido what he had planned for me. Clearly I could hardly just keep going, surviving attempt after attempt until one day he finished me off. But the very idea of actually seriously wounding or killing the man seemed not so much wrong as near impossible. I simply did not have Trucido’s talent for mayhem and stealth. And even if I could somehow manoeuvre him into a position where he left evidence or was observed by the officers, that would only ruin my standing with my tent-mates.

  It was something of a quandary.

  I contemplated it as we did the reflex exercise on the beach and the son of a Pompeian whore smacked me on the side of the head with a thrown helmet, knocking me flat.

  I contemplated it as we formed and reformed shield-walls, the contra-equitas formation, the testudo, and other, less common battle forms and Trucido took more than one opportunity to crack me on the back of the head with his shield rim.

  I contemplated it as we sparred in mock fights and the bastard nearly broke two of my toes with his shield.

  I contemplated it as we collected up our thrown pila and I was forced to run and leave one of mine in place when Trucido ‘mistakenly’ threw his while I was still in the field.

  All day I contemplated it, and then all night again, while I slept light with an eye open for trouble.

  The next day dawned with a slight drizzle.

  After a nourishing breakfast of stodge with some miscellaneous grey lumps that young Tiberius Fatalis had dreamed up from his febrile imagination, we took to the turf for a four mile run to start the day, still in expedite, leaving our armour at the camp under the optio’s watchful eye.

  Centurion Ocratius led us around the local hills and beaches, past sights that were already becoming familiar. Once, I swear I saw a white-robed figure on a rock watching us, but Fatalis told me not to be stupid and that the druids were all gone. Still, I shuddered whenever I thought of that illusory figure. A short while later we returned to camp, most of us bending double and heaving in breaths or rubbing sore muscles. Trucido was vigorously kneading his knee, but that was fine by me. So long as he was leaving me alone, it bought me more time to think on my problem with him.

  Then we armed up and loaded with our kit for the next stage, though not with full pack. We had no idea what to expect when Ocratius and the optio led us out and along the cliff edges, high up above the iron-grey western sea. And there it was. The centurion stopped us not far from a rock that rose from the sodden grass like a tall, balding man in a hirsute crowd. Down went the shields and we were given our instructions.

  It was simple: climb that.

  Now, I expect that you’re like me. Despite a poor youth that left precious little time for such pursuits, I still managed to find the occasional opportunity to climb trees and rocks when I could. There were rocks around Verulamium, though not of the ilk they have up here at this north-western edge of the world. My initial observation was one of smug certainty. I had climbed higher and steeper in my time.

  Then my se
nses started to fill in the image with more detail.

  I was wearing slippery hob-nailed boots. I was encumbered and restricted by segmented armour. Moreover, the rock was just that: rock. No shale or gravel. Few sparse tufts of grass to aid purchase. And the morning’s drizzle had left it wet, too. In fact, the longer I looked at the rock, the less possible it looked to climb it.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ barked Ocratius, ‘Elysium?’ And suddenly we were scrambling up the lowest edges of the rock. The brighter ones – myself included, I’m pleased to say – moved around the other sides and located the most viable routes, though even they were tortuous and dangerous.

  As I climbed, slowly, with care, I spotted Trucido on a nearby parallel route. He gave me a vicious grin and began to work his way towards me. There were too many men around to do anything, surely? I would hardly be able to deal with him now, and assuredly he saw the same? And yet he was making to cut me off. Was he mad?

  As I heaved myself up I saw that his pugio military dagger was sitting fractionally clear of the collar of its sheath, ready to be drawn swiftly and easily and… most of all, noiselessly. Could he really be meaning to end it here? I had a picture of myself with a blade wound lying at the bottom of the rock. He couldn’t risk that, surely? As I picked up speed in my desperate climb, now battling not only the dreadful elements, but also the pursuit of a killer – for that was clearly what he was – my mind raced over the possibilities.

  If he was quick enough and precise enough, he could do it! A swift blow to the temple would be a quick kill. Then all he had to do was dash my skull on the rocks so that it broke and bled and then let me fall. It would look natural. Unfortunate.

  It must have been his plan.

  I climbed as though the lemures of the dead and defiled were on my heel, biting my flesh. My boot-nails struck sparks from the rock as I tried to gain better purchase. And I slipped, and then regained my hold and pulled with every ounce of strength. Trucido was near. I could hear him grunting and panting as he climbed. How was he managing? He was catching up with me despite the fact that he was having to also cover the distance between us horizontally. He must be sure-footed as a mountain goat!

  True panic began to grip me. I wasn’t going to make it. There was one man down below me, back near the bottom, where he’d made a little headway but then slid back. He’d be too far back down to see what happened. And the others were all out of sight or only partially visible around the curve of the rock. While not private, it might as well be.

  He was going to kill me, and worse, he was going to get away with it.

  We all know that the thrill of true fright injects into a person a strength and celerity they don’t normally feel, I’m sure. Well I’ve never been stronger or faster than I was that afternoon. Desperately, I ripped at tufts, hauling myself up, boots scrabbling at wet rock, failing to find adequate purchase. I felt my heart skip as a hand closed around my ankle, but I pulled hard and yanked my foot from his grasp. We were that close.

  I could see now the top reaches of the rock. As it started to level out there was turf… the top was relatively flat and grassy. Fingers scraped my leg and I began to feel the flood of relief when my hand fell upon the first properly anchored turf. That was when the blow came.

  Knowing I was almost out of his grasp, he had whipped out that knife and tried to cut my heel-tendon. He’d missed as I yanked my leg to the left, but the blade skittered and drew a line of red across the calf, bringing the hot sting of a sword wound.

  And then I was up. Four were already there as I staggered to my feet, closing on the group, my whole body shaking. Two of them gave me looks of – what: Surprise? Sympathy? Trucido was there too, hauling himself upright, knife innocently sheathed once more, no sign of blood, since he’d probably wiped it on his red tunic. In a matter of heartbeats we were all up there.

  The centurion and the optio looked up at us, nodding. They approved, apparently.

  My own problem, of course, had merely grown in stature, and I turned to Trucido, my mind swimming with the brazen boldness of what he’d just tried. If that was the level to which he was rising there would be no rest for me now, and very likely, very soon, a funeral pyre and a cold cinerary urn.

  And then it happened. Almost in slow motion, in fact. I watched as Trucido’s leg, still weak from hospital and now badly shaken from the climb, simply folded useless beneath him. He started to topple and the most amazing thing happened. His eyes widened in the panicked realisation that he was too close to the edge. His hand shot out in desperation, his gaze pleading. I was the nearest person to him.

  And my arm was actually reaching up to stop him!

  I am not by nature a cruel man, but some things are simply beyond my bearing, and Trucido – and the month-long hell he put me through – was simply one of them. I made a conscious effort to stall my hand and my arm failed to rise enough to stop him.

  Trucido’s other heel turned, the nails on the boot failing to hold him well enough. He was going. Next to me, Fatalis reached out and grasped the slipping, retreating hand. He had him.

  And in one of the most breath-stealing moments of my life, my friend Fatalis – whose single grip held the power of life and death over the thug Trucido – turned to me, a question on his face. My heart thundering, I nodded faintly and watched as Fatalis gently released his grip.

  ‘Nooooo!’ Trucido panicked as his balance – no longer held – failed and took him out and to the slant of the wet rock. I listened to the sickening clonk and wet crunch as his skull hit the slope in his descent.

  In that moment I was free.

  Ocratius interviewed Fatalis and myself with clear suspicion, but the only real witnesses to the event could confirm that Trucido’s weak leg had given way and led to his fall. None of them could say that we let him go. In fact, witness accounts said that we had tried to stop him falling. But the man’s history with me was no secret, and Ocratius and his deputy were no fools. Had there been an actual murder inquest required, it is possible we might have ended with a serious punishment rather than enforced labour. But luckily for us – though not for him – Trucido had actually survived the fall. Of course he would never walk or fight again. In fact, he would spend the rest of a very short and unpleasant life doing little more than making accidental farty sounds and blowing the spit from the corner of the crooked mouth in his misshapen, broken head. He was no longer truly human. He would be sold to some collector in due course and probably exhibited at shows and festivals.

  And us? Well Ocratius came down with some illness he picked up on Mona island and so it was the optio who took us to the lead mines and the fortlet site and had us dig the first turf, while the centurion tossed and turned in his fever back in Deva’s hospital, only one room across from Trucido.

  Nemesis, the goddess of righteous vengeance, can be a hard-faced bitch at times, but friend, how much do I love her!

  2. THE GUIDE

  Two days later.

  Marcus Favonius Facilis eyed the grand entourage outside the headquarters building with distaste. There was something unsavoury about men involved too heavily in the business of finance. Not when it came to the standard bearer handing out the monthly pay, of course, but on this kind of grand scale, finance tended to make men fat, greedy, lazy and picky. And, of course, ostentatious…

  The carriage alone was worth more than his century’s current pay-list. Add to that the pair of well-groomed horses pulling it, the four slaves, eight attendants, six junior officials, the dozen Germanic bodyguards hired at great expense on the docks at Londinium, the pair of hunting dogs lounging in the baggage cart behind, and it was a show of pomp at the very least.

  Procurator.

  It was a classy name for a thief, really, and everyone who’d grown up in a family that had to save every coin to provide even the smallest of life’s luxuries knew that. Facilis was no exception. That the procurator was the second most important man in Britannia after the governor made no difference. H
e was still a leech in a badly-fitted toga.

  As the legionary walked past, glowering beneath beetled brows, his tanned face offset by the greying hair of his temples and confirming a bloodline more truly Roman than any other occupant of this place, the pasty, white-blond Germans on their shaggy ponies gave him that haughty sneer that only the private guard of an important man can perfect. Facilis’ fingers twitched towards the pommel of his sword. Less than a century ago the empire had been Hades-bent on the complete obliteration of the Germanic peoples. The scum had, after all, annihilated three legions in their godsless forests. And now here they were body-guarding a procurator and looking down their noses at a Roman of the ancient Pollian voting tribe. How easy it would be to spill a little German blood in the dirt…

  Such protective units were in vogue these days, though, despite the disbanding of the emperor’s German Guard twenty years ago. Still they were popular with the wealthy for their only loyalty was to their purse, which made them extremely hard to corrupt, as long as their employer had seemingly-bottomless vaults.

  As opposed to seemingly faultless bottoms, he mused, as a shapely young slave passed by on a duty for her master. Facilis tore his gaze from her and let it linger for a moment on the smug Germans, pointedly drumming his fingertips on his sword pommel. He then removed them and turned his back on the Germans, walking through the archway between two bored looking legionaries from another cohort and into the depths of the headquarters.

  With a recovering breath, he marched across the flagstones and into the wide cross-hall, where the grand armoured statue of Domitian stood to one end grandly facing the beloved former Governor Agricola at the other across a floor of two-tone marble which clacked and crunched beneath the feet of the clerks who crossed it.

  Ignoring the offices of the standard bearers, the shrine of the standards and the legion’s record office, he made for the end room, where habitually the legate who commanded the Twentieth held court. As he clacked across the marble, the legate’s door opened and the legion’s second officer, Tribune Longus, strode out, his expression inscrutable. The tribune barely glanced at Facilis as he passed, his mind clearly on other matters, and the legionary shrugged and approached the office, straightening his tunic.