‘No, Brocchus. You will take the camp and you will kill legionaries. The Twentieth will come here in force and peel the flesh from you before nailing you up as a warning to all those others you’re talking about. Alright, I don’t know the solution, but the simple fact is that the moment you kill a soldier, you condemn everyone with you to a fate much worse than simple death. You must understand that?’
Brocchus shot her a look filled with desperation, and Curatia realised that her arguments were falling unheard upon the stony ground. The miners had already thrashed all this out and come to the inevitable conclusion that resisting taxes and the Roman government was almost certain death, but then acceding to the procurator’s demands was no less fatal a path. A vote had clearly been taken. The men were ready to move.
She looked up at the late afternoon sun. The games would almost be over by now and Procurator Severus would be in high spirits. Those spirits would soar to undreamed of heights when he heard of the success of his campaign of provocation.
‘Brocchus, you can’t do this.’
‘Domina, you’re a good mistress, but you can’t stop this. Stay out of the way. I wouldn’t want you to become a target just because you were married to one of them.’
Curatia felt hollow, helpless. The cause was lost. Her bodyguards closed around her protectively, and her advisor and clerk moved to her sides.
A bird call rang out – the laughing honk of the common crane – and Curatia turned in that direction with a frown. They were high on the moors, not down by the lake. There were no water fowl here. Sure enough, the mining camp burst into fresh activity silently and urgently, as Brocchus put a silencing finger to his lips. Curatia held her breath. Someone was coming. Presumably Romans, given the level of activity. She should warn them, but despite Brocchus’ words of loyalty, would the miners still hold to her if she warned the coming victims?
Men moved into the scrub at the edge of the camp, close to the road that ran up from the valley to the mining concerns. She could see men hefting rocks they had lifted from the ground and peering through the foliage. Gesturing to her companions, she walked quietly across to a thicket where she might get a better view. Brocchus shook his head, telling her not to move, but she ignored him and went anyway. At a motion from the mine leader, one of his men moved across to the small party and gestured a warning with a knife at Curatia, putting his finger to his lips.
Her eyes strained through the greenery, but finally she managed to pick out two figures on the road, weary and slogging up the slope, apparently engaged in some sort of argument. One was a legionary, the other a civilian in good, if utilitarian, clothing. The civilian carried a wax tablet and stylus and was unpleasantly familiar. She could picture him at the legate’s feast, where he had spent most of the evening standing in a corner polishing off endless small pastries. One of the censors. A better target for the miners’ wrath she could not imagine. She eyed the worker behind her with the knife. He would not manage to hurt her, she was sure, since her bodyguards would put him down before he could do so. But to shout a warning would bring the whole camp down on her.
Besides, somewhere deep inside, she would like nothing more than to pick up a rock and dash the idiot’s head in herself. The legionary was another matter, though. As soon as they did away with him, their revolt was irrevocable. They would be at war with the Twentieth Legion.
The stone came from somewhere in the undergrowth and almost cracked open the censor’s skull. He fell with a cry, and Curatia watched the two men, helplessly and with held breath. The legionary dithered for a moment. Another moment and he would die. A second rock, badly thrown, missed the tall soldier narrowly. Before she could think, Curatia heard herself yell ‘run!’
The legionary apparently took little persuading and a moment later took to his heel, pounding back down the track towards the valley below.
The censor was not so fortunate. Curatia watched the miners crowd around him, their weapons rising and falling. She was extremely grateful she couldn’t see the official at the centre, and made sure to turn her face away before the attackers moved aside and the battered corpse became visible.
Sure enough, the miner with the knife behind her was being held tight by two of the bodyguards. Moments later, Brocchus was storming towards her, a dozen angry miners at his back.
‘I told you to be quiet.’
‘You killed the censor. That makes you a murderer in the eyes of the legate. If you get a Roman to speak for you, given the circumstances, you might escape the cross. But the moment you harm a legionary, there will be no saving any of you. I told you that. I just saved all your lives.’
‘You just let him warn his friends we are coming!’
‘Then don’t go. There is another solution. I don’t yet know what it is, but there is only one man in Britannia who is your enemy, and he’s not here. He’s in a tavern in Deva dreaming up new ways to break you. Don’t fall into his trap, Brocchus!’
‘Too late, Domina. It has begun. Now there will be no stopping until it is over, one way or the other. Go back to Deva and hide behind good, stone walls.’
Curatia placed her hands haughtily on her hips.
‘Not a chance, Brocchus. If you insist on this stupidity, you will have me nagging your conscience at every step. Remember, you work for me!’
The miner gave her a disbelieving stare for some time, which ended in a careless shrug.
‘Just don’t get in my way.’
Curatia watched the miners gather together, shouldering their makeshift weapons. That was it, then. The revolt had begun. But she could not let it end like this. There had to be a way to stop it. Time was running out, but she would stay with it to the end.
Rolling her shoulders, she turned and, to the surprise of her companions, drew one of her bodyguard’s long knives from its sheath.
‘Come. We have work to do.’
6. THE LEGIONARY
Some hours previously.
Lucius Valerius Aurelius stood close to the amphitheatre’s inner wall, looking down on the sandy arena and the two combatants who battled across it. He reached up with his free hand to bite his nails nervously, but they were already chewed down to the quick from the heart-stopping moments of the main event. So much riding on one fight…
Not half as much as the camp prefect, mind, who he’d followed to the bookmaker, but still…
His eyes dropped once more to his other hand, his scarred soldier’s fingers wrapped tightly around the betting chits. If he should lose one of them… But no. His grip was firm, sure, as though round the hilt of a gladius in the depth of battle, and with just as much desperation in it. He’d toyed with shutting them up safely in his purse, but purses were too easy to snatch in such a place, while a passing thief would think twice about trying to tear anything from the grip of a veteran legionary, especially when so many other members of the crowd were his compatriots. The Twentieth looked after its own… most of the time, anyway.
Just in case, he counted the chits again. Five. Good.
His eyes rose to the fight again. He almost couldn’t watch. The big German – Lupus – had somehow managed to rip the net from Leonidas and hurl it across the sand and now the two men were circling warily.
It shouldn’t be like this.
Leonidas was a sure thing. Everyone knew that.
Five chits…
Two for the beast fighters, one of which rode on there being two survivors among the bestiarii, and the other that the most kills would go to the bear brought back from Caledonii lands. He only needed one of the two as a winner for his accumulator. And sure enough, though the bear had been an early casualty, two of the seven bestiarii had limped from the sand to the applause of the crowd and the relief of Valerius. His luck had held.
Unusual in itself, he thought glumly…
Two more chits for the earlier warm-up fights, one for each. The first on the five Caledonian war prisoners beating the five legionary deserters. That had been a bit more of a g
amble. The barbarians were hard warriors for all they had been beaten in battle, but despite their half year awaiting execution, their opponents were still men of the Twentieth, trained to be the best. It had briefly looked as though he would lose his bet, and Valerius must have sweated out half his body’s water in that one fight before the last condemned legionary was stuck through with a roar and the surviving Caledonian animal was granted his freedom in celebration.
Then the fourth chit. Less of a gamble. Segovax the hoplomachus was a known quantity and probably the second best of the Deva fighters, though the thraex that had come from nowhere to fight him was a monster. Valerius had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood when the fighters came out and had found himself wondering whether he should have bet on the thraex instead. But fortunately Segovax had proved his worth, dancing around like one of the Egyptian dancers they’d had to open the day’s events before sinking his spear into the man’s neck and finishing it with style.
Valerius had never cast so many utterances of gratitude up to Fortuna for her favour.
Four chits, and three wins in three events. Enough to take the accumulator.
But the fifth was the big one.
The first four had already repaid his stake and much more between them, and that was good. But the big fight was the one that would count for the accumulator. And it should have been the one that was a sure thing. Leonidas didn’t lose. Especially to some German thug who’d travelled half the province in the past few days just to get here. It was unthinkable. And when Leonidas won, Valerius would need a cart to carry away the winnings. His mind shivered with joy at the thought of all that coin.
But only if the bastard actually won, and he was starting to look like he was in trouble.
Breathing heavily, Valerius changed hands with his chits. His palms were getting too sweaty.
Because so much rode on this.
Not just his own personal funds, which – Gods knew – could do with a little injection of coin before he was forced to sell a few personal possessions to make ends meet. And wouldn’t Julia be pleased if he sold more of her jewellery without her consent? That last time she had almost torn his balls off. No… not because of all that, but because he had been so sure of his chances this time, his excitement had infected the other men of his contubernium and they had each put in a sizeable stake.
Why had he said yes to them? Why had he allowed himself to take the responsibility for his mates’ money? Stupid! It hadn’t looked so stupid when he was making the bets. It looked so good then that he had all-but assured them of success. But then who could have anticipated a fighter that could hold his own against Leonidas?
So much to lose.
He thought once again of his favourite Judean whore in the civilian settlement, of her loving arms reaching down to rip off his balls…
The German monster’s owner was leaning over the wall not far from Valerius and yelling at his man to tear Leonidas to pieces. The legionary had to fight the urge to take a few steps to his right and tip the bastard over the wall into the sand.
Valerius watched intently and suddenly the cart-load of coin he potentially owned rolled a little closer to him as Leonidas jabbed three rents in the German’s upper arm. The legionary was just slamming a victorious fist on the wall top and shouting his support when the move turned sour. Lupus had hacked off the head of the trident, which had become fast in his arm protection.
Leonidas was staggering back across the sand with only a jagged-ended pole and no net.
Valerius almost saw the cart load of cash beginning to roll away from him and his stomach wound into a cold knot of panic. Leonidas was going to lose!
Shit!
His eyes caught sight of the camp prefect across the arena, and his face was even paler than the sand upon which the gladiators fought. Valerius sympathised. He knew how the man felt.
His mates would be furious. He’d be looking at a piss-soaked bed for weeks, and getting the worst of any duty that came their way. He’d get the hard bread, the bowl of stew with no meat in it… all the traditional punishments for a tent-mate who let his friends down. At least that little crap-bag Trucido was gone from the picture since he’d pushed his luck with Valerius a little too far and ended up in the hospital nursing a leg that bent the wrong way. But still the rest would make life a living Hades for a while.
He should never have taken their money for the bets, even talked a few into it.
Stupid!
He could hardly watch as the two gladiators whirled and fought desperately, Leonidas gradually giving way under the onslaught. The imagined wagon of coins was almost out of sight now and accelerating away from him..
And everything stopped in a moment.
Valerius felt his heart lurch and leaned forward to try and see what was happening.
The two fighters were still as statues and only a few feet apart, the referee rushing in to talk to them.
A stand-off!
His eyes took in the unlikely result of the fight. Leonidas was one push away from severing the German’s windpipe and arteries. A gory death, even if hidden beneath the helmet. But equally Lupus was a shove away from impaling the heart of the Greek.
A mutual death!
Valerius’ mind tumbled through the possibilities, ignoring the crowd’s roaring. What would this do to the bet? There was no conceivable way now that there could be a victor. Either both men would live, or both would die. How did that affect the accumulator?
He felt sick.
Something was happening nearby – a kerfuffle of some kind, but he had no mind to pay heed to it. His stomach flipped again and again.
‘Let them both die,’ called someone. A mutual death.
But there was a tumult from the crowd. Valerius felt a sudden surge of hope. Would the crowd seek Leonidas’ victory? He was their hero, after all. He looked around. They wanted life. What would the legate do? He focused on the man who had paid for the games, his senior commander, standing like an emaciated vulture in the box opposite, where he raised and lowered his arms, attempting to quieten the crowd.
‘Mitte it is.’
No! Mitte for both?
There was a brief confused moment when the legate and the procurator seemed to be engaged in a battle of wills over the outcome, the crowd swaying this way and that with their shouts. Not that it made any difference to Valerius whether both men lived or died. Either way, Leonidas could not be considered the victor. He couldn’t see the cart of coins at all, now. Instead, he could see a dismal near future of discomfort at the hands of his mates. The gladiators were separating, going their own way.
No. There was still a chance. The last fight had been a draw. It couldn’t count for the accumulator. The first four bets would have to count individually instead. There would be no sudden riches like those he had momentarily envisaged, but the winnings from the three successful bets would more than cover the stakes, so he could pay them all back. He would even have enough left over to buy an amphora of good wine to drown his sorrows in Julia’s bed tonight.
His heart steadying with the realisation, Valerius turned and clambered up the steps between the rows of seating to the outer wall of the amphitheatre and the exit stairways that led down from there. Close to each stairway were the makeshift desks of the bookmakers. Carvilius’ stand was still empty of customers. The show wasn’t over yet. The legate would make announcements and offer prizes. There would be all sorts of showy little moments, including a return of the enticing Egyptian dancing girls, and so almost the entire crowd remained in their seats, determined to watch to the bitter end and get the most from their day’s entertainment.
The oily-looking Spaniard who manned Carvilius’ stand watched him coming with an unpleasant grin. Of all Carvilius’ representatives with whom Valerius had dealt, the Spaniard annoyed him most. He’d have gone to another stall had it not been for the fact that the last year of events at Deva had seen him lose credit with all the others and only the bare-faced criminal
Carvilius would still take his bets. Even then, as he neared the booth, he saw the bookmaker’s two enormous hired thugs close on him, hands on the heavy wooden batons at their sides.
Striding up to the counter, Valerius slapped the three successful chits on the wooden surface.
‘Three of five to claim.’
The Spaniard gave him a seedy look and peered down at the three chits.
‘These are no use, Valerius. They’re accumulators. No good without the last one.’
The legionary narrowed his eyes. He should have expected such obstruction from the oily little runt. ‘The accumulator cannot be paid as the last fight was inconclusive. The first four bets should stand on their own merits. At a lesser pay-out, admittedly, but still successful.’
‘You’re dreaming, Valerius. Once more Fortuna shits down your neck, eh? Bad day. Go home and sleep it off.’
Valerius took an angry step forward, his hip jostling the table. The two thugs moved closer, defensively, to the Spaniard. ‘Listen, you Baetican piece of shit,’ Valerius growled, ‘you’re not doing me out of my money. I’ve been playing the odds at games like this since before Carvilius bought you at the slave block. Give me my winnings for the three and I’ll leave in peace.’
‘Shut your loser mouth and get out of my face, Valerius, or you’ll leave in pieces!’
The legionary narrowed his eyes. The urge to slap the Spaniard hard was almost unbearable. The two big thugs were armed with cudgels and he carried nothing but an empty purse and two scarred fists, yet still he would be able to take them… but in such a public place?
The members of the crowd at the higher tiers of seats had stopped watching the show now and had turned their gaze on this new entertainment, and Valerius confirmed with irritation that even if he took all three down, he was being observed by a large crowd. The loss of a great deal of coin would pale into insignificance next to the punishment the legate would dream up for one of his legionaries battering members of the public in plain view. Valerius had no wish to take part in the next games Deva held.
Deva Tales Page 10
