Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  It was not that Fronto was predisposed to worship. Oh, he paid his dues to the gods like everyone else, begging their help when needed and thanking them when it was given. But it was not a bone-deep desire to serve the light-bringer or an all-encompassing belief in the divine bull’s blood that had drawn him to Mithras and the secretive cult. It was the material advantages that attracted him. The religion was a soldier’s cult, and fairly exclusive. The higher grades were almost always held by senior officers, and advancement through the seven grades of initiation often mirrored advancement in the army that supported the temple.

  Indeed, in twenty years’ service with the Second, despite an active part in some of the bloodiest campaigns this province had ever seen, Fronto had managed to rise from an ordinary soldier to the grand position of... ordinary soldier. And yet in the two years since the Twentieth had made Deva their home – and the nine months since he had first donned the black cloak and raven mask and entered the sacred chamber – he had been given immune status and had already been singled out as the next Tesserarius for his century. A meteoric rise in less than a year, when compared with the previous twenty.

  But then, he had ingratiated himself. He had been helpful beyond expectations. Though the identity of the Pater, who led the Deva cult, was a mystery, his second in command – the Heliodromus – had been readily identifiable as Tribune Longus if only by his exotic Syrian accent, and Fronto had made himself useful to the tribune at every given opportunity.

  And as the tribune’s trust in him grew, so did his standing among the occupants of the sacred cave. And as his cult standing grew, so his position in the legion improved. He had soon managed to cast aside the raven mask and take up the veil of the second grade. Then after four months, he had laid aside the veil and, at the command of the tribune, taken up the lance and helm of the third grade Miles. A hint of how his standing had grown was that the expensive, anachronistic bronze Attic helmet had been gifted to him, rather than he having to source one from his own purse. But now, after another five months, he had placed aside that helm for the hooded crimson robe of the fourth grade Leo.

  He smiled, thinking back on the last half hour and his advancement rite. It would be a while now before he could even hope to advance to the level of Perses, of which there were so few. But he would do it. He would manage. Because if he could do so, he was pretty much guaranteed entry to the centurionate, and his career was made. And, of course, because tribunes were such fleeting members of a legion that Longus would soon move on back to Rome, and the elusive sixth grade would open up. And if he was ready…

  He shuddered with the thought of how far he could go.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, and he almost jumped out of his skin. Turning, he smiled again to see the white robe and gleaming face-mask of the high priest of the cult in Deva, wearing the glorious red Phrygian cap and gripping his staff with a beringed hand.

  ‘Pater,’ he said, lowering his head respectfully. The rest of the cult were sharing wine in the sacred cave, and only the two of them stood in the dank, dark brick cellar.

  ‘You are fast becoming a favourite of the light-bringer, Leonis Fronto. I have rarely known an initiate to rise so fast. It concerns me that perhaps you value advancement over the sacred duty such advancement requires.’

  Fronto felt his heart skip a beat. One negative word from this man and his career could be in the crapper.

  ‘Pater, I wish only to serve…’

  ‘Do you remember why your hands as Leo were anointed with honey and not water, and why the honey on your tongue?’

  ‘I do, Pater. My hands and tongue are to be kept pure and free of evil, crime and contamination.’

  The gleaming steel face-mask hid the Pater’s face completely, but Fronto knew despite the obfuscation that the man’s eyes had narrowed as he weighed up this oh-so-successful initiate. He tried to look both humble and confident at the same time and quickly became aware of how damned difficult it was to pull off such a look.

  It seemed to work. The Pater nodded.

  ‘Remember those words in the coming days, Leonis Fronto. There is trouble in the wind and it gusts among the buildings of Deva, bringing with it the stench of death and treachery. And even in our sacred space the miasma rises. The light-bringer’s own crop contains a bad seed. If this seed is a new Leo, he should begone right now before he grows into a thorny problem in our presence. If not, then it is the duty of the lions of Mithras to watch and keep the light-bringer’s own in order.’

  Fronto nodded, frowning, and the Pater stepped back and returned to the cave-like temple.

  With a sigh, Fronto left the cellar, stuffing his robe and accoutrements carefully into a bag and rubbing his hands – made sore from the initiation ordeal of hot coals – before emerging at the top of the stairs into the sprawling housing block of the civil settlement and out into the failing light, blinking after the gloom of the temple.

  As he moved through the busy streets beneath the purple evening sky, he glared sourly at the two quasi-religious madmen who stood in their accustomed position near the arena, haranguing the crowd with prophecies of doom and the end of Deva’s prosperity. Death was coming. Rivers of blood. Shadows drawn down over Britannia. Ancient barbarian gods stirring. All the usual shit.

  With a sigh, he passed through the fortress gate and hurried to his barracks. It was not late, but he was exhausted. A full day of training and guard duty had been interspersed with doing a few favours for the well-placed Tribune Longus, and when a legionary would normally go off-duty and relax, he had instead prepared himself and then headed to the temple for his rite of advancement and all the pain and discomfort it involved.

  He collapsed into bed and slept.

  Dreams came quickly, and they were filled with mad priests shouting their prophecies, and Mithras’ initiates in their varying robes all accusing him of being in it only for the glory as they pressed hot coals to his flesh. He was sweating through the imaginings when something stirred him and he looked up to see legionary Facilis collapse face-first on the bunk next to him.

  ‘Bad day?’

  ‘You have no idea,’ Facilis sighed.

  ‘I might. If I had the energy, I’d tell you about mine. I’m sick to the back teeth of priests.’

  Facilis waved him quiet with his free hand. ‘Keep your eyes open in the coming days, mate. The procurator’s causing trouble and we’re in for a hard time. The locals are going to get restless.’

  Fronto shrugged, remembering with a chill the Pater’s earlier words. ‘The procurator will calm down tomorrow night. Word is that the legate’s arranged a feast for him and his cronies. And he’s confirmed the games for the day after, so that’ll settle the people. Always does.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Fronto grumbled, ‘if the usual nutcases rattling on about the end of the world outside the arena are right, now’s a good time to be out of the fortress.’

  ‘Great.’

  And with a tired shudder, Facilis fell asleep fully-clothed on his bunk, snoring. It took Fronto a while to sink into slumber again, and when he did, all the priests and initiates with their dooms and their coals were still waiting for him.

  * * *

  The next day brought normalcy once more, much to Fronto’s relief. Duty was light and easy, and he began to feel less put-out by his peers. And then, as he finished his time in the fabrica and strolled across the fortress back towards his barracks, he frowned to see the legion’s architectus on an intercept course.

  ‘Afternoon.’

  The man smiled and replied in kind, and then glanced around to make sure they were not being observed, which immediately put Fronto on guard.

  ‘The Pater would like you to attend him in the temple.’

  Fronto nodded and bade his cult superior good day, then hurried out, without bothering to change, and made his way to the temple. As he descended the stairs and moved into the sacred cave, bowing ritually to the statues of Cautes and Cautopates
at the entrance, the Pater emerged from the shadows by the altars at the far end, his silvery mask gleaming in the light of the torches on the walls. Few soldiers bothered with the face-plates that were occasionally used on parades and in sports events, especially in the Twentieth. They had been more popular in the Second. But it was the perfect method to keep the Pater’s identity secret.

  ‘Ah, our new Leo. Good.’ His voice, as always, was muted and hollow, gifted a metallic edge by the mask.

  Fronto bowed to his superior and became suddenly conscious that he was armoured and bore his sword in a sacred place. It did not seem to be bothering the Pater though, so he ignored the fact. The white-robed man fell silent for a moment, and then sat on the side-bench, motioning for Fronto to sit opposite, which he did.

  ‘Despite any misgivings I may have voiced yesterday, be assured that your position and trust within out brotherhood is secure, Fronto. Our Perses architect believes you to be highly worthy, and last night the lord of light spoke to me in my dreams. If I share a concern with you, Leonis Fronto, will you give me your word on the Light-bringer’s name that you will hold that confidence?’

  Fronto nodded emphatically.

  The private confidence of the Pater!

  ‘I am led to believe that the rot within our brotherhood is at the highest levels. My own second, the sun-courier Heliodromus himself, may very well be corrupt and busily disregarding the commandments of our brotherhood, ignoring his own oaths to the bull-slayer.’

  Tribune Longus?

  Somehow, it came as far less of a surprise than Fronto might have expected. He’d never particularly liked the oily easterner. No-one did, really. And the son of a Persian whore being corrupt and wicked was a remarkably simple concept to handle.

  ‘You seem unsurprised.’

  He had not been aware his face was so easily readable. ‘If there was rot in the brotherhood, Pater, he would be where I first looked. His hands may have been purified with honey as he rose through the grades, but I can guarantee they have been purified with blood and gold many times since then. Especially gold,’ he added, thinking on the many rumours he had heard in the past year of the officer’s association with that low-life Carvilius.

  The Pater nodded slowly. ‘Yet you tie yourself closely to the man in the form of a patron?’

  ‘He is my superior in both the temple and the fortress. It is my duty in every way.’

  The nodding continued. ‘Yet your hands are clear of such corruption?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Then continue to serve him. Keep yourself in the tribune’s company and do as he asks. You may be able to serve the light-bringer and uphold his commandments even in the face of wickedness within the brotherhood. If the lord is forgiving, you will not find yourself torn between your duty to the tribune and your duty to Mithras. If you are, how you handle such a situation will define you not only as an initiate, but as a man.’

  ‘I have duties in the fortress, Pater.’

  ‘I have influence with the legate. Your duties can wait.’

  Fronto sat silent, feeling a stone of nervousness settle into his belly. Would such a difficult situation have developed if he had not taken on the lion’s cloak yesterday?

  ‘Good. Go, my friend. Follow the dictates of your heart, for the light-bringer will guide you.’

  * * *

  The next morning, Fronto located the tribune in conversation outside the headquarters with the camp prefect, who looked rather nervous, waited until the latter had scurried off, and then casually strolled past, saluting Longus. The tribune’s brow furrowed and he half-heartedly returned the salute.

  ‘Fronto. Off duty?’

  ‘Two days furlough, sir,’ he replied with a smile.

  ‘At such a busy time? You are fortunate indeed, Fronto. I don’t remember signing such an order?’

  ‘The legate did, sir. You were not in your office. I was hoping to watch the games tomorrow, you see, sir.’

  An in. He’d spotted an in!

  ‘Busy, sir? Anything I can help with?’

  ‘Enjoy your furlough, soldier.’

  No. He needed to help the tribune. For the Pater, if not for the sake of his own career…

  ‘A follower of the light-bringer is never too busy to aid a brother,’ he said quietly, so that the words would not carry to those others wandering further along the street.’

  ‘Thank you, Fronto. But I have nothing requiring your aid today. Tomorrow I have many duties, though they would prevent your attending the games.’

  An in.

  ‘I am at your service if required, my Heliodromus.’

  Tribune Longus regarded him for a while, and finally nodded. ‘I have put together three small security details to handle any trouble for me tomorrow. Owing to the absence of veteran officers from the fortress, they are all commanded by rather junior centurions, and their men are largely young soldiers. The addition of a veteran of your standing – especially a trusted member of the brotherhood – could only be of use. Find centurion Cicatricula at first watch tomorrow and attach yourself to his party. If the day goes as planned, I may have other, more important duties for you later.’

  Fronto bowed his head and saluted. He was unsure of how to end the conversation, but the tribune saved him the trouble by returning the salute and striding off into the headquarters.

  Security? Security detail for the games? How could that possibly help the cause?

  * * *

  Fronto leaned against the wall, picking his teeth with a long splinter and perusing the various official notices plastered across it. The tribune had been right about his security details. In fact he had seemingly underestimated their need for veterans. The average age of the half dozen men around him seemed to be about twelve summers, the centurion included. He wondered briefly if any of them had discovered shaving and girls yet. Certainly, if there was any real trouble he wouldn’t have put money on them handling it well.

  Behind the high wall, the crowd roared their excitement at some move of the fighters.

  ‘Come on Leonidas.’

  The centurion frowned at him and he shrugged. ‘Just ‘cause I’m not watching it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have a couple of sesterces on the net man, sir.’

  The centurion gave him a look that Fronto couldn’t identify but that if he had to name, it would be trying for a troublesome shit.

  It had been such a tedious morning, lurking near the amphitheatre and waiting for the adolescent centurion to decide if something might constitute trouble. He had arrived early and placed bets for each of today’s events, right down to whether the jugglers would drop their batons, and he had kept himself partially entertained working out what the return would be on his stakes with each passing muted announcement from within.

  ‘Hello. What’s he doing here?’ murmured Cicatricula in surprise.

  Fronto’s gaze wandered away from the other patrol members, past the two similar hungry-looking young soldiers at the gate, and fell upon a figure striding across the open ground towards the entrance. His heart suddenly filled his throat while his bowels made a nervous gurgling noise.

  Centurion Ocratius. His own commanding officer! The man was supposed to be in the sick wards, the last Fronto had heard. He certainly didn’t look good, and was leaning a little on his vine staff for support, yet here he was.

  ‘He’s not on the list, lads,’ the patrol centurion said darkly. ‘In fact, if there was a list of men we needed to keep out of the way, he would be near the top of it. Move in. I want him taken down and out of commission before he can cause any trouble.’

  Fronto felt panic grip him as the small group made for the entrance gate, heading off his own worthy, honourable, veteran centurion. If he had been in any doubt that the Pater had been right about Tribune Longus, this pretty much clinched it. His mind churned and roiled with a thousand thoughts, none of them any use in resolving this situation.

  Taken down, and out of commission both implied non-lethality,
but Fronto wouldn’t have wagered a sestertius on that result. He would have to take control of the situation somehow, and fast. Ahead, the two men at the tunnel opened the gate and stood aside. The centurion moved in, and Fronto noted signs of impending violence on faces of the two guards. He could only hope that Ocratius had spotted it too. But then, the centurion was ill.

  Taking a deep breath, he picked up the pace, moving out to the head of the patrol. Two of the others kept pace, the rest hanging back uncertainly. As they rounded the corner into the tunnel, Fronto could see the pair of guards kicking seven shades of shit out of Ocratius. A thought occurred to him – from the youthful inexperience of the men around him and their mix of excitable violence and uncertainty, gaining the upper hand might be easier than he had believed, as long as he was convincing.

  Gritting his teeth, he drew his pugio and elbowed two of the men out of the way.

  He was rewarded with a hefty knuckle-punch to the shin that almost felled him and would certainly bruise the bone. He grunted and caught the disappointed, angry expression on his centurion’s face. Didn’t Ocratius realise what he was doing?

  ‘Shitting shit, shit, shit,’ he hissed as he pushed the last of his companions out of the way and dropped down on top of the centurion, lashing out sharply with his dagger and drawing a flesh wound along his side, enough to well up the blood and look much worse than it was. Behind him there was a yelp as Ocratius’ flailing boot connected with another shin.

  ‘Play dead, sir, for the love of Jove!’ he hissed, and Ocratius blinked as he realised what Fronto was trying to do.

  Swiftly, keeping his body in the way to obscure the view of the other legionaries, Fronto jabbed down with his pugio and stabbed a small hole in the centurion’s chest – not deep enough to do any real damage, but enough to soak the officer’s tunic with blood.