Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘But what do I do, Ocratius?’ Tiberia whispered. ‘I’m only here because Pompeius invited me, because he needed me to clean house for him. I’m not officially supposed to be in the fortress at all. How do I get out of this?’

  Ocratius chewed on his lip for a moment. ‘You sit tight here, Tiberia. If you’ve the stomach for it, try and move the body to the bath suite and clean up this room. I’ll either send Pompeius here or I’ll return myself shortly. I’m going to find your betrothed first, and then have a little chat with Tribune Longus.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Tiberia warned.

  ‘You don’t make it as a centurion by being careful,’ he smiled. Grateful that he’d opted for his weapon belt this morning, he drew his pugio dagger from its sheath and pressed it into Tiberia’s hand.

  ‘Just in case.’

  Gingerly, she took it and Ocratius squeezed her arm encouragingly once and then rose, folding away the wooden tablet case containing the list of names and slipping it into the pouch at his belt.

  As he emerged from the prefect’s house, he paused, wondering where his first port of call should be. The distant roar of an excited crowd answered the question for him. Longus would attend the games out of duty, and Pompeius out of desperation. With a quick stretch and a last glance at the house behind him, Ocratius made for the east gate and the amphitheatre that lay beyond.

  The games were clearly progressing well and the crowd thoroughly entertained, judging by the ebb and flow of groans and cheers, as Ocratius approached the ground-floor entrance that had been put aside for the use of the legate and his senior officers. Two legionaries stood on guard, to the sides of the tunnel entrance, the gate closed but not latched. Now on the alert, since his conversation with Tiberia, Ocratius’ roving eye took in not only the two men standing on guard, but also a small knot of soldiers standing with a young centurion nearby, running down a list on a tablet.

  His eyes narrowed as he recognised the man as one of the pair of young officers from the bathhouse the previous day. Ocratius’ shoulders tensed as the young centurion raised his head and caught sight of him. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. His wary eyes caught a tiny movement ahead as one of the two soldiers at the gate placed his hand on the hilt of his sheathed gladius. Not the act of a proper legionary in the presence of a senior centurion.

  Trouble. Ocratius made a cursory headcount. Nine to one, all in. Too many even for the most veteran centurion to handle at once.

  ‘I’m here to see the senior tribune and the camp prefect,’ he announced loudly to the pair at the gate, hoping that his words would buy him time and put these men off whatever it was they intended to do. He was suddenly acutely aware that apart from these soldiers there was no one else in the street. No witnesses.

  Ocratius was disappointed to see Quintus Valerius Fronto, one of his own men, among the young centurion’s crowd. The rot seemingly ran deep, then.

  As one of the guards, his face troubled, turned and began to swing the gate open, the other centurion and his men began to cross the dusty ground towards the new arrival. Ocratius gripped his vine staff tightly and placed his free hand on the pommel of his sword, ready.

  His eyes still on the approaching centurion and his men, Ocratius took a step forward into the tunnel, through the open gate, but his distracted gaze failed to notice the guard’s foot as it came out and tripped him. His world spun as he fell into the dark tunnel, hitting the solid ground hard and winding himself.

  The two guards were on him in an instant, their fists flying and feet pounding. At least their swords were still sheathed. Ocratius gasped. On a normal day, he’d have been able to at least put up a reasonable fight against the two, but his limbs were still weak, and with every blow they weakened further. As he flailed and spun onto his back, his hands coming up to protect his face, he caught sight of the centurion in the entrance. Other legionaries were coming to join in.

  Desperately, he shouted, but his cry for aid went unheard as the arena crowd roared at some exciting event on the sand below. Three more men were on him now, kicking and punching. He couldn’t take much more of a beating in his state…

  He swept out with an arm and caught a bare shin with a vicious punch with central knuckle extended slightly and was rewarded with a curse in a familiar voice.

  Fronto?

  Fronto was there with them! His own man putting the boot in. Ocratius felt betrayed.

  That same veteran legionary was suddenly down and closing on him, a pugio blade gripped in his right hand. Ocratius managed to kick out the legs of one of the others, but Fronto was elbowing his companions aside and dropping down on Ocratius, the blade coming in sharply. With white hot pain, the centurion felt the blade score a line down his ribs, and warm blood began instantly to soak his tunic. As he struggled, aware of how lucky the blow was to bring only a flesh wound, Fronto dropped close to his face, so that the scent of sour wine filled his world.

  ‘Play dead, sir, for the love of Jove!’ he hissed.

  Ocratius blinked as Fronto brought the knife down again in what looked like a brutal stab, but which pricked his chest only to a depth of less than a finger’s-width. Blood welled up over his heart. Ocratius blinked in shock, but the desperate look in Fronto’s eyes jerked him out of confusion, and he let himself fall back, shaking involuntarily.

  Through slitted eyes, he watched Fronto stand, pushing another of the legionaries back.

  ‘What’d you do that for?’ the latter grumbled.

  Fronto glared at the speaker. ‘You’re new, lad. When you’ve fought a few battles, you learn not to piss about. Kill and move on.’

  The veteran legionary wiped his pugio on his tunic, giving his centurion a warning look before stepping back and sheathing it again.

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed the young centurion from the gate, as he indicated Fronto. ‘Drag him into the storage area and then come back out. There’s much to do.’

  The last thing Ocratius remembered before blessed unconsciousness claimed him was Fronto dragging him as gently as he could into the alcove near the stairs and muttering something derogatory about priests and how his day could hardly get any worse.

  The games were over. As Ocratius regained consciousness slowly, like a man rising from the depths of a lake, he registered immediately the change in atmosphere. The roar and hum of the crowd had disappeared and the world felt oddly empty without it. He felt bruised and weak, but clearly very much alive, and as he tried to rise, he realised he was unharmed apart from the odd cut and bruise. Lucky Fronto had been among that crowd. He owed the man a cup of wine or two for the ruse that had saved him being kicked to death.

  Ocratius frowned. Something had wakened him, and he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

  ‘You’re a state,’ murmured Pompeius from where he crouched in the dim corridor next to the centurion. Ocratius blinked at him. ‘You should see the other fellow,’ he noted drily, as he struggled to rise.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Don’t know. Some young officer off your list.’

  Pompeius had the grace to look flustered. ‘I’ve no idea what…’

  ‘Don’t deny it, man. I’ve got the list in my damn pouch. Your Tiberia had to fight for her life over it with that bloody actuarius of yours. You’re lucky she’s a strong one. Wife against legionary – wife wins, clearly. Almost funny that a bureaucrat be killed with a pen!’

  ‘I’m done for, Ocratius. Longus has my balls in a vice. I owe him more money than even Croesus ever imagined – more than I could make if I had my full career over again. I thought I could put it right with a safe bet on Leonidas, but the bastard drew so I’m even worse off now!’

  Ocratius narrowed his eyes.

  Longus.

  ‘Don’t worry too much about the senior tribune, Pompeius. I’m off to see him now and denounce the dodgy little scrote. With this tablet and yours and Tiberia’s testaments, the legate will have the piece of shit beaten to death. Maybe even crucified. Get back to
your house and look after Tiberia ‘til I get back.’

  The camp prefect searched Ocratius’ eyes and found nothing but genuine concern. With a grateful nod, he helped the centurion to unsteady feet. ‘You’re in no fit state to face trouble, and that’s what you’ll get from Longus.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ocratius smiled darkly. ‘I’ve no intention of getting in a tussle with the shitbag. Just giving him the chance to come clean before I drop him in it with Viator.’

  ‘He’ll kill you first.’

  ‘Even wounded, I can take Longus,’ the centurion said quietly, hoping to gods that he was right. ‘I’ve seen him with a sword. Like a damned actor, waving it about in circles.’

  The senior tribune’s house stood in a line of similar structures on the street opposite the headquarters building, though Ocratius chose to approach the courtyard house from the rear, along the wall of the storehouses that separated the place from the hospital and the main baths to the south. The fortress hummed with life and yet the streets seemed strangely empty as the centurion slipped along the wall, making for the tribune’s back door, which would open into the slave quarters at the rear. It felt odd to be creeping around in the shadows in his own fortress, but his approach had been an easy decision to make. Given what had happened at the amphitheatre, he felt certain that the tribune’s house would be under observation by yet more legionaries.

  His heart leapt.

  So was the rear.

  As he ducked back by the storehouse, Ocratius steadied his breathing and slowly, almost silently, slid his sword from its sheath. Carefully he leaned out to the corner and looked again. The legionary near the back door was suddenly interesting for two reasons.

  One: the man was not guarding the door and watching for approaching folk after all. He was, in fact, closing on the door with a small knife in one hand and a wooden baton in the other, a leather satchel weighed down with something heavy over his shoulder. Also, his tunic was spattered with blood, which was seemingly not his.

  And two… it was Lucius Valerius Aurelius, another veteran of Ocratius’ century and a man who Ocratius would trust into the Jaws of Cerberus and back.

  Stepping out into the narrow alley between the buildings, Ocratius cleared his throat.

  ‘Valerius,’ he hissed. The legionary gave a startled jump and turned, his expression one of momentary panic. The soldier threw a sudden sharp salute, almost concussing himself with the club in his hand.

  ‘Cut that out,’ Ocratius hissed as he scurried along to where the legionary lurked. ‘What are you doing?’

  Valerius looked him up and down, apparently taking in the various bruises and the two patches of blood-soaked material on his tunic. ‘Business with the tribune, sir,’ the man answered evasively.

  ‘The sort of business that requires a rear door and a club?’

  Valerius floundered for a moment, trying to find a credible legitimate reason for his presence, but in the end gave up and shrugged. ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘Similar. Get that door open.’

  As Valerius finished unlatching the door with his small eating knife thrust into the gap, Ocratius flexed his fingers around his sword hilt. ‘You seen the list, too?’

  ‘List?’

  The centurion frowned. ‘What’s Longus done to you, then?’

  ‘Long story, sir, but I know he’s been working with that villain Carvilius in the town. And he owes me enough money to make this worthwhile.’

  ‘You’re not alone there,’ Ocratius mused, picturing the camp prefect’s maudlin face. ‘Longus has more to answer for than a bit of usury and association with known criminals, though. Forget your debt issue. You’re with me now, Valerius, and I don’t want you beating and robbing the man. I want information from him. I believe he’s sold out the eagle and his oath to the procurator for some reason and I want to know more.’

  ‘Respectfully, sir, he’s yours until you’re done with him, but then I want permission to hit him with this club until the bastard turns handsome.’

  ‘Granted,’ said Ocratius with a vicious smile as the door creaked open.

  The pair moved through the narrow corridor and out into the tribune’s peristyle garden. The house was almost a mirror for the camp prefect’s, which Ocratius knew well enough. Apart from personal touches, all the tribunes and officers’ houses were the same, barring the legate’s mini-palace. The two men paused, silent, trying to ascertain where the tribune might be found.

  A brief squawk emanated from the private bath suite and the pair shared a look, and then ran across the garden in the direction of what had sounded like a pained cry.

  The bath house was dark, though a flickering golden glow emanated from the latrine at the far end. With Valerius in the lead, the two men hurried on through and turned into the latrine doorway, weapons brandished ready.

  Tribune Longus sat atop the wooden seat of his private latrine, his underwear around his ankles and his tunic hoisted up to his midriff. His face was deathly pale, and Ocratius could easily see why. A man stood between them, a wicked-looking knife in each hand, one with the tip drawing a bead of blood from the tribune’s throat, the other at his genitals in such a manner that even if Longus sagged deeper onto the seat, he was staring instant eunuchdom in the face.

  The tribune’s eyes rolled in panic, and the legionary’s head snapped around at the interruption, though both blades remained poised, steady.

  ‘Celer?’

  A number of desperate expressions passed across the legionary’s face.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Unhand the tribune.’

  ‘No, sir. Can’t do that’

  Ocratius blinked. No one said no to a centurion – especially not Celer, who was known for his o’er-rigid adherence to the legion’s codes. Which begged the question why he was standing in a tribune’s toilet with a knife to the man’s private parts. There had to be a very good reason, certainly.

  ‘What are you doing, Celer?’

  ‘The tribune tried to have me killed, sir, for doing the legate’s work. I am returning the favour… with gusto.’

  Ocratius and Valerius shared a look again, and the centurion smiled unpleasantly. ‘It seems that you’ve been a rather naughty boy, Tribune Longus. Consorting with known criminals, attempted murder, and – from my own discoveries - I’d say treason against the eagle into the bargain.’

  ‘Let him do it, sir,’ Valerius grinned savagely. ‘I’ll flatten his face while he bleeds out. Suits me fine.’

  Ocratius took a deep breath. There would be hell to pay after today, but the idea of letting Celer push that knife in deep carried a great deal of merit. He stepped forward. ‘Seems like Celer wants justice, Longus, and we’ve never known him to break the rules before, have we? I’m a lot more inclined to believe him than you. And it seems to me that from where Celer has his knives, your day could go either very badly or a hell of a sight worse. Maybe you’d like to tell me what’s in all this for you and the procurator?’

  The man’s eyes were defiant, so, reaching down to his pouch, Ocratius withdrew the wax tablet and, opening it, held it up for the tribune to see. ‘I have the evidence, Longus. And the testimony of Pompeius. Between those two, when Viator learns of your plans to overthrow his command, you’ll be broken and across the Styx within a day. He might even nail you up and watch the crows eat your face. Now…’ his voice took on a dark, dangerous, threatening edge. ‘What’s in it for you and your friend the accountant?’

  Longus narrowed his eyes slightly and a strange smile split his face.

  Celer had no chance to react as the tribune lunged forward and the blade poised at his throat tore up into his neck, through his mouth and into his brain. Blood jetted from the wound, soaking the legionary and spattering the walls and floor of the latrine.

  ‘Shit!’ Celer leapt back out of the way, already soaked.

  ‘What next, sir?’ Valerius murmured.

  ‘What else?’ sighed Ocratius. ‘Report this mess to the l
egate.’

  Now that was going to be a difficult conversation to have. But first, they would have to search Longus’ house and office. Any extra evidence or clarification couldn’t do any harm.

  9. THE INITIATE

  Three days ago.

  Quintus Valerius Fronto ducked out of the low, dark room and into the cellar hall of the stairwell, where a wide trough of water stood in the dank chamber, a small basin next to it filled and heated to a comfortable temperature. Quickly, he pulled off the scarlet cloak, noticing irritably how the hem had trailed in the muck and had already become stained. Folding it carefully, he placed it on the shelf along with his ritual fire-shovel and iron lightning bolt, the bronze rattle jingling at his belt as he divested himself of the accoutrements. With a sigh of satisfaction, he rinsed the watered honey from his hands in the warm water and then dipped them in the cold trough, a relief after the heat of the coals in the temple.

  The twin statues of Cautes and Cautopates watched him suspiciously from the doorway, and he could hear the murmur of the worshippers inside, still busy after the closing of the ceremonies.

  It was relatively new to Deva, this cult, but word had spread here long ago, and Fronto had had friends in the Second who had been followers of Mithras the light-bringer; the bull-slayer god. He’d been interested, but never invited to join, under the old legion. But then the Second had left Deva and the Twentieth had settled in, and Fronto, who had retired after completing his term of service but rapidly wearied of dull civilian life, had signed on again with a different legion.

  It had come as a pleasant surprise to discover that the new legion’s chief architectus was a Mithraic follower of the Perses grade, high in the cult’s membership. A couple of well-timed and well-placed comments, and Fronto had found himself invited into the secret temple as a first-grade Corax.