The Emperor's Blood (e-novella)

by M. K. Hume

  Horse had been given his nomen by the jokers and bullies of the farm who identified him with one of the beasts in their charge. The bastard child had been born with a full head of thick black hair that resembled the mane of a good horse. His mother had died in childbirth, succumbing to death with relief after spending her youth as an overworked washerwoman for the villa. Even in her extremity, she had refused to name the father of her child, so Horse was treated with disdain by those boys who were aware of their sire’s identity. In fact, the youngster was treated with even more contempt and casual brutality than Pig Boy.

  And so these two victims had banded together in order to protect themselves. Considering his unfortunate background, Horse was cheerful, hopeful and was always prepared to fight to earn respect. Pig Boy felt safe in the presence of this peer who refused to be cowed by the fists and abuse of Balbus and Livius, while Pig Boy widened Horse’s world with vivid stories of the early Republic. It was probable that Pig Boy invented some of the stories attributed to Terentius but, nevertheless, Horse loved the tales spun by his friend of courage, obedience to duty and the manly attributes possessed by warriors.

  But destiny intervened, for Horse met his fate at the hands of one of Lady Tullia’s guests . . . before his ninth birthday.

  Horse had been a beautiful lad, regardless of the dirt that was ingrained into his skin and defied his best attempts to remain clean. The hair that had prompted his name was blue-black and glossy with health, although he could only wash it in the cold waters of the river when Balbus was drinking or whoring. Horse’s plaits hung down to his waist and he tied them back with a twist of dirty cloth.

  The boy’s face seemed older than his eight years, the age he thought he was, for no one had seen fit to mark the date of his mother’s death. His bones were strong, albeit delicate, and some of the women gossiped that the boy was the living image of the master’s heir when he had been a younger lad. If the rumours were true, Theodosius Minor did nothing to alleviate the suffering of his alleged son before leaving with his father to fight on the frontier.

  Horse had the slender, perfect body of an athlete and the back-breaking work in the stables had encouraged the development of long, lean muscles that contributed much to his graceful movement. Even his dirty feet were long and elegant, despite the calluses that had built up on his soles and heels. The slave women mothered him and he repaid their kindness with a sunny love and affection that should have been knocked out of the tall boy in the frequent beatings that came his way.

  Again and again, it was Horse who gave strength of will to Pig Boy when he was weeping in the straw after the grinding misery of his daily suffering. It was Horse who offered the hope that enabled him to rise with the dawn of each day so he could fulfil his duties, long before anyone gave a thought to feed the two boys. But, in their hearts, the boys accepted that the master would return some day and their lives would be far, far better.

  ‘Do what I does, Pig Boy. Smile when Balbus thumps you . . . he hates to see me smiling back at him, so he stops eventually. I won’t give him the pleasure of knowing that he’s hurt me, and I won’t bend my knee to anyone but the master. I’ll get my own back one day.’

  ‘But I don’t want to die . . . and I don’t want to be beaten,’ Pig Boy wailed.

  ‘It’ll make you strong eventually. One day, you’ll punch Balbus on the nose, so think how good that’s gunna feel.’

  Pig Boy’s imagination gave him some measure of relief when he was able to picture Balbus’s blood running down to his chin, so he kept his emotions in check during those days when sickness and hunger weakened his childish strength. But, gradually, the boy grew stronger and, while he lacked the humour and charm of his friend, his body had a basic sturdiness and he was long-legged. With the passing of each month, Pig Boy found his back-breaking labour was becoming just a little easier.

  On those ritual days when the priests dictated that all souls should rest and pray after the farm’s essential chores were completed, Horse dragged Pig Boy into the strip of forest along the edge of the stream that fed the farm. He showed Pig Boy how to find herbs and roots that could ease his hurts, while Pig Boy repaid him with those wonderful tales he had learned at the knee of Father Terentius. As a result, both boys were determined to join the legion and fight under the auspices of their master when they eventually reached their fourteenth year.

  Perhaps Horse might have become an admirable legionnaire, but Lady Fortuna had intervened and reduced his hopes to nothing. Pig Boy had learned to hate that distant goddess with her great wheel of chance, for she stole away his only friend without a single thought for fairness or the promise that was inherent in Horse’s nature. On one of the bleak days of autumn, Lady Tullia had been paid a visit from her brother and a cluster of his friends who arrived on her doorstep after a sojourn in the fleshpots of Rome. Inevitably, Horse’s beauty came to the attention of an effete nobleman with a taste for young boys.

  Such a situation was not unusual. Among the servant and slave classes, parents hid pretty children of both sexes for fear of rape or other abusive horrors. Nor were parents able to argue with the demands of their masters. The world was an unfair place, but it had always been so for those with neither birth nor power.

  Horse had been dragged away by Balbus, who had scrubbed the boy clean and perfumed him for the pleasure of this aristocrat. In his usual manner, the ruffian had gloated over Horse’s plight and enjoyed explaining the grosser details of Horse’s likely fate. Neither Lady Tullia, her noble brother, nor any of the other gentlemen who made up the travelling party saw fit to save a bastard slave-boy from multiple rapes.

  Unfortunately, Horse was determined to fight for his virtue and his self-respect. The streak of rebellion that had sustained him in the stables was his eventual downfall; he was beaten into unconsciousness, raped and tortured before he was thrown into the pigpen as a final indignity once the nobleman was done with him. This punishment was considered just for a scraped arm and a bruised chest where Horse had struck the nobleman a lucky blow.

  Unfortunately, pigs are cannibals and meat eaters, as Pig Boy was aware, but Horse had been too weakened to climb to his feet and fight his way to freedom from the sty. Trapped in the stinking, clinging mud, Horse had been trampled and crushed by the sheer weight of the large animals. Pig Boy, who had slept in the stables, had finally fallen asleep dreamlessly, so he had been unaware of the faint cries for help that were carried on the wind. Did others hear and still do nothing to help the suffering boy? No one admitted to any guilt when Pig Boy found his friend’s corpse in the early hours of the morning. Horse had been partly devoured by the ravenous animals that were never sensitive in their choice of food.

  Later, Balbus took pleasure in describing how Horse’s screams during his death throes had roused some members of the household but, other than being berated by Tullia’s guests for his lack of consideration, no one came to the boy’s aid.

  Pig Boy would never eat pork again. And nor would he forget the lesson of his powerless friend. The seeds of Andragathius’s rage had come into being.

  With set lips, Andragathius put his painful past behind him, although the face of the gatekeeper’s son seemed to morph and shiver into the features of his long-dead friend. He blinked and shook his head until he had banished the ghosts of the distant past back to the places where they belonged.

  The cavalry had barely entered the town and were travelling through the mass of humanity moving towards the town’s central square when, suddenly, a stone arced out of the crowd on their left and struck one of the riders on the temple. Senseless, he slumped in the saddle and was only saved from falling when one of his fellow Britons supported him and moved to protect him from the crush of humanity around them. On an order from Andragathius, the cavalrymen encircled their friend and faced the mob with drawn swords.

  The growling of the townspeople became louder and Andrag
athius felt the hairs rise on his arms. At the smallest provocation, this market-day crowd might be tempted to throw themselves at the twenty-two armed and mounted soldiers. As he surveyed the angry faces and sullen, narrowed eyes, the horse captain formed an opinion that he and his men might have difficulty leaving these narrow streets alive.

  ‘Keep Rufus upright in the saddle, so we can see to him later. On your lives, don’t precipitate any trouble. Wait! Stand fast, while I try to talk to them!’

  As he issued these commands to his troop Andragathius eased his roan forward, while taking care not to make any sudden movements. The horse whinnied and stomped its front hoof, but the press of men and women made way for him.

  The noise from the crowd lessened a little as the townsfolk and farmers waited sullenly to hear an explanation from this hated Roman officer.

  He raised his hand in the universal sign of peace so that he could be heard.

  ‘I am Andragathius, Horse Captain of Flavius Magnus Maximus, who has defeated the forces of Emperor Gratian at Lutetia in the north. The Roman soldiers at Lutetia laid down their arms and declared that my master would be the new emperor of the Roman Empire.’

  ‘Another Shithead! One’s as bad as the other.’ A shout came from somewhere in the crowd, while a low burr of agreement seemed to rise from the cobblestones of Bibracte itself.

  ‘I am one of you,’ Andragathius interrupted. ‘I am from your lands and I serve no tyrants! Flavius Magnus Maximus pays his way, and he was born and raised as one of your people from these lands. He was born in Hispania on a farming estate, so he understands the difficulties of life for those citizens who till the soil or herd farm animals. He honours those men of the land who serve him loyally, so he despises tyrants such as Gratian for their cowardice, their avarice and their selfishness.’

  The crowd rumbled once again, but the tenor of their mood had undergone a subtle change and the peasants at the front of the crowd seemed to be listening to his speech. It appeared obvious that little word of the campaign waged by Flavius Magnus Maximus had been received by the people of these parts. Before they could be provoked by the troublemakers in their midst, Andragathius directed his explanations towards the more reasonable minds in the mob, as he tried to seduce them with hope for a better future.

  ‘I have been sent here by Flavius Magnus Maximus to capture Gratian and deliver him to the justice of the new emperor. I have also been charged to add to the many claims made against Gratian by his erstwhile subjects. For those of you who know the small village to the north, you can believe me when I swear that I shall demand justice for the innkeeper’s daughter who was stolen away as a toy-thing for Gratian to despoil and cast aside. If it is humanly possible, I intend to return her to her father and her mother, and I will demand full reparation for the stolen food and possessions of the villagers who live there. Maximus would not permit this village to perish in the winter because the emperor didn’t care for his people.’

  Finally, a ragged cheer greeted Andragathius’s oath as the citizens of Bibracte recognised the impassioned honesty that flowed from the cavalryman’s mouth. His eyes promised dire consequences for Gratian and his minions, so more than one of the citizens smirked as they imagined the emperor’s surprise when fate and fortune finally caught up with him.

  ‘But I will need your help. Who among you will volunteer to advise me on Gratian’s latest movements? And where can my thirsty men buy a drink around here?’

  Titters of laughter lightened the crowd’s mood; two sturdy men offered to provide the necessary information, a physician emerged from the crowd to see to Rufus’s head and several other persons were quick to recommend the Siren’s Song as a good, honest establishment where the wines weren’t over-diluted by water.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Conanus muttered softly. ‘The bastard’s persuasive as well.’

  The two officers joined a number of the citizens in the Siren’s Song, while the rest of the troop was permitted to stand down. One man was required to guard the horses and another was tasked with caring for Rufus, but the rest of the cavalrymen were permitted to slake their thirsts that were always raging in dusty throats – as long as they paid in coin for every drink. Wise to the ways of soldiers, no matter how disciplined they might seem, Andragathius took the precaution of warning the men that their lives would be forfeit if they succumbed to the effects of drunkenness or sampled the wares of the whores who were always eager to help them spend what little coin they had in their pouches.

  ‘One final matter! You must be ready to leave quickly. Any man who slows me down will lose the skin off his back,’ Andragathius warned without a trace of a smile. ‘Is that fully understood?’

  The men nodded agreeably, for they were prepared to accept half a loaf rather than be denied the whole. They scuttled away to the local inns before their master changed his mind.

  Back in the secrecy of a private room in the Siren’s Song, the two citizens who had volunteered to assist Andragathius were eager to tell everything they knew so that Gratian could be brought to justice.

  ‘You understand that if we fail in our mission and we’re captured, you may be hunted down by the Praetorian Guard for your part in the attempted assassination,’ Conanus warned.

  The two men nodded, although their faces darkened a little at the thought of retribution.

  ‘My name is Celsus, and I am the shoemaker in this town. I can speak for Albus Big Ears here, and myself, when I say that we’ve both lost sons and daughters to Gratian and his minions during the past four years,’ the older townsman explained carefully. ‘Whether our children are alive or are dead is not known, but their separate fates destroyed our lives. My wife killed herself when my girl, Thera, was taken by a troop of Alans who were passing through. We never found her body, so we were denied any opportunity to have her poor little corpse shrived. Her sin was to be so beautiful and to be too innocent to survive in these evil times.’

  The shoemaker’s old eyes filled with fat tears that ran down his seamed face. His friend patted his shoulders awkwardly.

  ‘My girl was taken to the villa of the owner of a local estate some two years ago, when she became a servant in his service. I have tried to obtain word of her, but I was whipped for my trouble and was thrown out on to the roadway. My Daisy was an ugly child, but she was clever with her hands and her fine weaving was excellent. Our sons were taken away and sent to the frontiers, so we’ll never see them again. My wife comforts herself with thoughts that they might still be alive. Yes, master! I would risk a great deal to punish the emperor and his servants for the sins they have committed without any understanding or care for what they’ve done.’ Albus had no tears left, but his eyes were aflame with indignation and hatred.

  ‘After your troop has left the town, we’ll close our businesses for a time and stay with kin in the country. We’ll wait until Gratian has left the area, so there’s no need to fear for our safety,’ the shoemaker added, his tears now replaced with the slow anger of the powerless that was becoming far too familiar to Conanus.

  Once the jugs of ale had been brought out with mugs of plain, local pottery, Andragathius drank deeply and then fixed the two informers with his hot eyes. ‘When did Gratian pass through Bibracte? Did he, or any of his guard, give an indication of their route or their plans?’

  Albus’s face indicated he knew something of importance, while Conanus noted that the man had clenched his hands so tightly around his mug that his knuckles were white with strain.

  ‘The Praetorian Guards are far too disciplined to run off at the mouth, but one of the drivers of Gratian’s supply wagons drank himself silly in the front room and, in his cups, he was loudly abusive to everyone, including his masters, until such time as he passed out. His loose tongue told us that Gratian’s column was heading initially towards Lugdunum and thence to Vienna. From there, he will turn eastward to Placenza, and
then follow the roads into eastern Italia. He plans to escape to the Eastern Empire where he will beg protection from Theodosius Minor, Emperor of the East. He also plans to beg his fellow emperor for aid to crush Maximus, whom he calls the Base-born Dog.’

  Conanus bit his thumb, while Andragathius swore under his breath at the reference to Theodosius Minor.

  ‘That escape route sounds all too logical. How far ahead of us is Gratian’s column?’ Somehow, the captain held his temper. He remembered Theodosius Minor as the son of his master, a man who was born to take an empire with the blade of his sword.

  ‘A day, no more,’ the shoemaker answered grimly. ‘But he’s in no particular hurry, having received word that Maximus is heading east as well, but far into the north. Gratian believes himself to be free from danger and any threat of capture. How can such a small group as the troop under your command hope to defeat a force of Romans that includes fifty Praetorian Guardsmen, soldiers who are loyal to the emperor until death?’

  ‘That depends on who the emperor is, doesn’t it?’ Andragathius countered with a nasty smile that made the two civilians very nervous. ‘The bulk of Gratian’s Roman army declared for Maximus as emperor when they surrendered to our commander. It’s a nice point, but our plans will depend on whether the Praetorian Guards remain loyal to Gratian. Did you notice anything else that might help us?’

  Celsus’s face slowly creased into a smile.

  ‘Aye! The Praetorian Guardsmen must have been instructed to confiscate a supply of meat and wines from the markets, for they were unimpressed by the glares that were directed towards them by our local peasants and traders. They obeyed their orders and used force to violently wrest five carcasses of beef from the butcher, but several of them cursed their master audibly and complained that fighting men should never be treated like servants. If there should be some dissent among their ranks, it’s possible that Fortuna might yet smile on you – if your luck holds.’