The Philosopher Prince

by Paul Waters

  On one side of me, in a withy pen, a heavy she-pig lay on her side snoring, with her bald pink babies arranged in a sleeping row around her dugs. Durano came up beside me, followed by Gereon and the others. Then, just as we drew near, the bound man jerked his head up with a start. I heard him draw his breath to shout; but before he could make a sound I leaped forward and clapped my hand over his mouth, and made a sign for him to hush. Then I looked him in the face. It was not Marcellus – I knew that already. But I recognized him all the same. It was young Rufus.

  ‘Are you the only one?’ I asked.

  He looked at me, dazed and blinking. He had been badly beaten.

  ‘There were five of us,’ he murmured through parched and broken lips. ‘They took the others to the forest and killed them, one after the other. I heard their cries.’

  I lifted my flask to his lips. He drank in great gulps, spilling the water down his bloodied tunic. I wiped his chin, and had it in my mind to ask why he alone had been spared. But then something made me look again at his torn kilt, and the blood and scratches on his half-naked buttock. And then I realized what they had kept him for, and what they had done to him.

  He met my eye, imploring, his face full of shame. Silently I nodded, and tried to smile; and my eyes filled with tears of grief and rage.

  I let him drink, and gently covered his kilt where it exposed him. He had possessed, after all, a fresh-faced, vulnerable childlike innocence; the very kind that a barbaric lust, loosed of all decency or restraint, would want to defile.

  Around me the others had not noticed. They were speaking in urgent whispers, but I was only attending with part of my mind. There was a ringing in my ears, like a man who has been beaten about the head. Rufus coughed. ‘Wait, Drusus,’ he said, peering at me. ‘Marcellus… Marcellus wasn’t with the others; they took him apart, to the headman’s house.’

  The madness, which I had kept scarcely controlled, seized me then. I sprang up like a wild scalded thing and began to move. Someone grabbed me hard by the arm and jerked me back. It was Durano.

  ‘Wait! Be still. The warriors will be sleeping in the headman’s house. That is where they all go.’

  I tried to snatch myself free of him, but he held me firm, his blue eyes locking onto mine. ‘Think, Drusus! Remember what I taught you – now more than ever, if you want to save him.’

  ‘Live or die, I will not leave him.’ I spoke, but at first it seemed my voice was far away, as if it were not my own. But now my mind came back to me. I drew a deep breath and nodded, and said, ‘Yes, I will remember.’

  Meanwhile the others had cut Rufus free. He was standing unsurely, looking wretched. Turning to him, Durano said, ‘They took him inside? Are you sure of it?’

  Rufus frowned and shook his head. ‘Maybe not inside. I could not tell.’

  Durano turned, and saw my eyes on his face. ‘Yes, go then,’ he said, ‘and see what you can find. Be quick, Drusus; it will soon be daylight.’

  I left him, and hurried off between the enclosures. As I passed a hen coop a cock crew, loud and indignant, and I heard hens scurrying and clucking in alarm. I cursed under my breath. There was a house behind; anyone inside would surely have heard.

  The hens settled. I went on more carefully. Behind me I heard footfalls and I swung round; but it was only Gereon, coming up behind. He nodded an acknowledgement and matched my pace, and we advanced together.

  The headman’s house stood in its own grassy clearing, between the settlement and the encircling forest. At the front, extending along the whole length, there was a raised overhanging porch, like a colonnade, with pillars of roughhewn wood.

  We crept to the corner, then paused and listened. All was quiet within. I stuck my head forward.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ whispered Gereon.

  I shook my head. Tall wicker baskets, piled up near the door, obscured my view. I said, ‘Wait here and watch for me. I need to get closer.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous, Drusus. I don’t think anyone’s there. Your friend is probably dead already. You heard what the boy said.’

  I looked him in the face.

  He looked back at me, and after a moment shrugged. ‘He may be inside. What then?’

  ‘I don’t know; but I have to do this. That is how it is between him and me. Go back to the others if you want.’ ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I stay. Be careful.’

  I stepped out and scurried along the exposed open ground, keeping my head low. Then I followed the line of the porch, to where I could get a proper view.

  Beyond the pile of baskets was the great door of the chief’s house, old black oak, carved with whorls and fearsome animal heads. I glanced about. At first I could see nothing but baskets and pots and other clutter. Then, at the end of the porch, near the great door, I noticed a shape, deep in twilight shadow, lying curled up against the post. I stared, narrowing my eyes, remembering the barking dog. But it was no dog that lay before me; it was a man’s body.

  I took a breath, and listened, forcing myself not to rush forward. The dawn birds were calling loudly, but I could hear no other sound, except my own heart beating. I crept up, moving on my hands and knees as I passed the door, expecting at any moment a band of sword-wielding warriors to fall upon me.

  Then, closer now, at the edge of the shadow, I saw the broad hand I knew so well and, on the wrist, the tan leather strap that Marcellus had worn since he was a boy.

  He was bound with a rope to the supporting post. Like Rufus, he had been beaten about the face, though not so badly. They had stripped him of his belt and leather outer tunic, leaving only the thin red linen garment beneath. Through it I saw his sides stir gently with his breathing, and I allowed myself to live again.

  Softly I touched his shoulder. His eyes flashed open, and I signalled for him to make no sound. Then I took my knife, and began cutting at the tether.

  It was tough plaited hide; the knife slipped and slid and would not bite. I braced myself and pulled it taut, and pressed down hard with the blade. Marcellus pulled too. Then suddenly, with a loud snap, the tether parted, sending me falling heavily back on my haunches.

  I froze, startled at the noise, looking up at the house.

  The sound had echoed up the wooden post like the beat of a drum. At first there was nothing. Marcellus began to speak, saying something about how the Germans had been up half the night at their wine, and it would take a kick to the head to wake them. I almost laughed. But then, just as I thought we were safe, it began, a furious grating of animal claws scrambling violently on wood, followed by frenzied barking.

  We leaped from the stoop and ran to where Gereon was waiting, tense and wide-eyed. Behind me urgent voices were already shouting from within the headman’s house. Then I heard the heavy door-bolts shifting.

  We raced down the track. Ahead the others were urging the horses out of the paddock. As I passed the pigsty, I heaved open the gate, and yelled and waved my arms, rousing the she-pig and scattering the squealing piglets into the path. The dogs had been loosed from the house. I could see them behind me, coursing across the open ground; they were closing fast.

  ‘This way,’ I cried, pulling Marcellus with me.

  We veered off the track into the tall grass and ran on, stumbling over concealed runnels and boggy pools. It slowed us, but – as I had hoped – it put the dogs off our scent. We were almost through, where the grass met the forest and the stream, and the others were waiting. But then, ten paces behind, Gereon suddenly cried out and fell. I stopped and turned. A dog was upon him, snarling and biting. I shouted for Marcellus to go on. Then I turned, drawing my dagger.

  Gereon was struggling to keep the creature off. It stood over him, tearing at his forearms, trying to reach his throat. Then, as I moved, its head jerked round: it must have sensed me coming. It growled and drew back, ready to spring, baring its bloodied fangs. Carefully I advanced, stepping sideways, using a wrestling feint I knew; and at this, as I had intended, the creature abandoned Gereon and le
aped at me.

  It was powerful and quick, with huge strong jaws. Yet I was quicker. I twisted round, ducked down, and sank the knife into its side. The dog gave a furious howl, but the blow was not mortal and whipping round it lunged at me again, snapping at my face. But Gereon, his hands now free, had found his own dagger. He stumbled forward and thrust it into the dog’s throat. There was a gurgling hiss of air; the beast shuddered and choked, and then fell lifeless between us.

  There was no time to talk. We ran on, panting for air. Gereon’s left arm was bleeding, and when we reached the others I sat him down by the stream, and helped him clean it. All over the barbarian village there was shouting now. ‘Time to go,’ said Durano.

  We moved off, splashing through the chill shallow water to hide our scent, and soon we were back under the deep concealing shade of the forest. We followed a narrow gully, where the stream flowed clear on a pebbled bed, through a tunnel of overhanging branches. I was last, with the rest some paces ahead. The stream changed course at a great smooth rock, and as our advancing line moved around it, I lost sight of the others.

  I saw the shaggy creature in the instant before it struck. For a moment I thought it was a bear, or some other wild thing of the forest. Only as I fell did I see the iron belt-studs in the animal furs; and then I knew it was a man. He must have come over the ridge by a shorter path, or lain in wait behind the rock, among the osiers and tall ferns. I had no time even to reach for my knife. He held me pinned with his great bulk beneath the surface of the water, pressing my face down, suffocating me. I sensed his body shift, and through the water I saw his arm rise above me for the fatal blow.

  With the last of my strength I kicked out hard and twisted. He seemed to hesitate. My head broke the surface and I hauled the air into my lungs. I saw then why he had paused. Marcellus was on his back, clinging on like a child on a bucking horse, while the barbarian roared and swung at him with his dagger. I reached down to my belt, but my knife was gone: I must have lost it when I fell. I began searching wildly in the stream-bed with my fingers, but all I felt were pebbles and sand. But then, turning my head, I saw the blue-silver blade in the stirred-up water, two paces away, at the furthest edge of my reach.

  I lunged out. For a moment I felt nothing but yielding sand, and could stretch no further. Then, at last, my fingers touched the familiar cord-bound hilt. I snatched at it, and with a great yell rose up and buried the blade in the struggling mass of wet furs above me. I heard Marcellus fall; then Gereon and Durano were there. I struck again. My attacker wheeled round with a bellowing roar. For an instant his eyes above his beard met mine; then he staggered, toppled into the blood-smoked water, and was still.

  I climbed to my feet, and stood fighting for my breath, with my hands on my knees. My leg was bleeding, but the wound was not deep. Beside me Durano kicked the body and cursed. Then I looked up and saw Marcellus clutching at his side.

  ‘It’s nothing, a graze …’ he said, meeting my eye. But his face betrayed him, and looking down I saw blood welling between his fingers, spreading over the side of his tunic and dropping into the water like great red tears.

  I ran forward. ‘Don’t be a fool, let me see.’ I took his hand away and pulled up his tunic, exposing the bare flesh. There was a deep gash in his side, along the line of his ribs. Pulses of blood surged from it each time he took his breath.

  I sat him down. ‘You’re shaking.’

  ‘I got wet. The water’s cold.’ He tried to smile. But instead he gasped and coughed, and when he looked up again I saw blood on his lips.

  Durano had gone scrambling up the bank to make sure the warrior had been alone. He returned while I was binding Marcellus with a strip torn from my tunic. He crouched, and inspected the wound, and helped me pull the bandage tight. ‘We must continue,’ he said frowning. ‘The rest will not be far behind.’

  We pushed on through the forest, following the stream. Marcellus could walk, but his face was ash-grey, and every few steps I heard him catch his breath, though he tried to hide it. The day came on, and slanting threads of light pierced the canopy of forest.

  Presently I saw Gereon pause. He was with the German scout, about a spear’s throw ahead. The scout touched Gereon on the shoulder and directed his attention into the distance. I looked, following their gaze. At first I saw nothing; but then, beyond a thicket, I noticed a slight movement in the dappled light, and saw in a bright clearing a grey stallion, wearing a Roman headstall, calmly chewing at the grass.

  Marcellus said, ‘That’s Plancus’s horse. It bolted when we were taken.’

  He climbed up the bank and went to it. The creature, knowing him, tossed its head and nuzzled its face against his hand.

  ‘What happened to Plancus?’ asked Gereon.

  ‘They took him into the forest with the others. He did not beg for his life; but I knew when they killed him. He cried out his father’s name.’

  Gereon frowned and looked down. Durano muttered some curse, then said, ‘You are hurt, Marcellus. Can you stay on a horse?’

  ‘I can ride asleep,’ said Marcellus, making light of it.

  And so together we eased him up. By now he could no longer hide the lines of pain in his face. His breath came shallow; and after he was mounted I saw his midriff soaked with new red blood.

  But Durano was bright with him, saying, ‘There! You will travel better so. Some horse-god must be watching over you.’

  He laughed and patted the horse’s flank; but as he turned away, I saw the smile fall too quickly from his face.

  ‘What, Durano?’ I whispered, going after him. ‘Is he dying?’

  He turned and looked at me. Dark night-stubble showed on his jaw, and there were blue lines under his eyes.

  He put his hand on my shoulder and let out his breath. ‘He has the horse to carry him now. He may yet live, but he is worse than he pretends. Stay with him, Drusus, and see he does not fall.’

  The army advanced across a wide swathe of forest, like men on a hunt who beat the scrub to flush out their quarry. They put the German settlement to the torch; but just as Durano had predicted, the inhabitants had already fled. Those few they caught they put to death. The men were in no mood for mercy, after they discovered what remained of their comrades in the grove beside the village.

  All this I heard later. At the time my only thought was for Marcellus.

  He had long since fallen unconscious. The doctor, an old sharp-faced Gaul from Metz, mumbled and clucked and shook his head, while his pallid assistant applied some ill-smelling concoction to the wound from a steaming earthenware bowl, with the air of some ham-fisted slave whitewashing a wall.

  I stood and glared. The return through the forest had been taken up with survival, and keeping Marcellus on his horse. Now, the shock of battle having passed and being suddenly at leisure to reflect, I saw his life ebbing away before me, and I had no resources. Yet the doctor treated me as if Marcellus’s life or death were a matter of indifference, and spoke like some bored cattle-healer discoursing to a farmer about a creature in his herd.

  Finally, when I could take no more, I lost my temper and spoke sharply, demanding to know what more could be done. He turned his solemn face to me, and for some moments did not answer – he was the sort of man who delights in drawing out bad news. He might have done something, he said, pursing his lips, if he had been summoned sooner, and when I protested he said, ‘Yes, I understand you were not here. It is unfortunate …’ His voice drifted into silence and he gazed at Marcellus lying on the bed, still and grey as a corpse. I stared, horrorstruck, scarcely able to draw my breath. ‘In any event,’ he went on after a pause, ‘you should find someone who will stay with him, though I cannot think it will greatly affect the case.’

  ‘I will stay. What else does he need? Tell me and I shall bring it.’

  He shrugged, as if to say the patient was beyond all help. I could almost have struck him.

  ‘You might pray,’ he said eventually, with an amused smile, ‘if y
ou believe in such things. And send for me if there is any change. Otherwise I shall return tomorrow.’

  He made to go; but instead of leaving he paused at the door and gave a significant cough. I looked at him; then, realizing what he was waiting for I snatched a coin from my purse and pressed it into his waiting palm. ‘Just so,’ he said. ‘I thank you.’ And then he went away.

  That night I lay with the lamp burning, staring across at Marcellus on the bed opposite, willing him to live. In the end I must have dozed, for I woke with a start to the grey dawn, and the sound of scratching on the door. I leaped up, thinking the doctor had returned. But when I threw open the door it was Durano’s dark-haired girl, standing silent on the threshold.

  I suppose, in my confusion, I stood open-mouthed. She looked back at me, said something in her own tongue, and after a moment, when I did not move, eased past me, pulled up the stool, and sat herself down beside Marcellus’s bed.

  She watched him for a moment, then touched his brow, and straightened his tousled hair.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I cried, staring. Then I realized I was still naked, and grabbed at my bedding.

  She stayed, tending to Marcellus, sitting all day beside him, now and then intoning strange, charm-like words under her breath. That night, like a guard dog, she slept on a mat at the foot of his bed.

  For five days he lay at the threshold of death, and still she remained. One day I went to a stall-holder at the camp and bought a cock, and that night offered it to Luna and the Great Mother, not caring who might see and report me for conducting a banned sacrifice. Julian came to visit. He talked of the gods, and of Fate; but just then I was in no mood for philosophy, and soon he left, insisting I must come to him if I needed anything. Later Oribasius, who was away in Paris, wrote with detailed instructions for the doctor. Julian must have sent a courier.

  It was on the night I sacrificed to Luna that the girl came to my bed.

  I had crept out after dark, carrying the bird in a withy cage to a secluded wooded bluff I knew, a place overlooking the river where the wind whispered in the alders and the ground smelled of damp earth. The lamp in the window was out when I returned, and the girl lay sleeping on her mat. I pulled off my clothes and climbed into my bed. I felt restless from the sacrifice, and lay staring up into the darkness.