Whether he would actually have the courage to do it was another question entirely.
He closed his eyes and prayed silently that it wouldn’t come to that. When he opened them, he saw that Seker had turned to look back and was staring at him, his eyes glinting in the red light of the setting sun. “A devout man, are you?”
Thrasyllus nodded. “I am.”
The rat-faced man sniffed. “You’ll be screaming the names of many a god if you’re wrong about this boat. And they won’t help you.” He looked over to the much larger man beside him. “The brute here will see to that, won’t you?”
It had been painful for the big man to crouch down beside them on the sunken path. Whatever injuries he’d sustained during his life, they clearly ran far deeper than the scars visible across his face. But there was something else about him that Thrasyllus had noticed. More than once he had shown signs of a kind of inner pain, as if he was tormented by memories of the things he had done. When Seker spoke of his threats, the brute’s broad shoulders hunched up almost as if he’d been struck. “I’ll do what I need to do,” he said.
“That you will,” Seker said. Turning back to Thrasyllus, he said, “I recognized his talent right away. He’s hard as a wall and strong as any three other men put together. Surprising since he’s a Roman.”
“Was,” the big man growled.
Seker’s smile was full of a kind of sneering delight. “That’s right. He doesn’t like his own kind anymore. So tonight should be fun, as long as he doesn’t have to run.” The rat-faced man chuckled quietly in the dim light, but the big man didn’t react. He just stared out at the water.
Thrasyllus tried to smile, but he was anything but amused or even remotely calm. Men were going to die soon. Many men. He prayed that he’d get over the guilt. And he prayed, too, that he wouldn’t be among the dead.
For many minutes they waited in silence. The darkness rising behind them brought the first stars into view. The light of the high moon was beginning to take over from the dying sun, and the last birds of the day were chittering toward their nests.
Ahead of him, the brute shifted uncomfortably. Without turning his head, he spoke quietly back to the astrologer. “You’re certain the barge didn’t already pass?”
Thrasyllus shook his head, even though the big man wasn’t looking. By his calculations they should have been well ahead of the barge. “Impossible,” he said, praying that it was true. He didn’t want to even try to imagine what might await him if it had. He didn’t doubt the big man’s efficiency at causing pain. Not to mention the disappointed bowmen. If the barge didn’t show, Thrasyllus was sure he’d be lucky to leave this bank alive.
The big man sighed. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “Best to get the killing done.”
Thrasyllus nodded, as if he had any notion of what it took to kill a man. The satchel at his side seemed to grow heavier with each passing heartbeat. Could he really take a man’s life? Could he really bury the blade and feel the blood? Could he stand to look even this vile pimp in the eyes as he did it?
No. He couldn’t face even so loathsome a creature as Seker. He would have to do it in the back.
If he could do it at all.
Please, he thought, let them go with my plan.
“Is that it?” Seker said quietly.
Thrasyllus looked out. Backlit by the last light of the dying sun, a barge was coming up the canal. It was laden with textiles, piles of rugs and cloth. Two men on board had been speaking, the murmur of their voices sweeping across the still water, but it was too low to hear what they said, and they stopped before he could recognize whether one was Lucius Vorenus.
But it had to be, Thrasyllus thought. The timing was right, and with night falling any barge still on the canal must be hurrying from something.
“Well?” Seker whispered.
“It should be,” Thrasyllus said. “But we need to know which one is the Roman. You can kill everyone else. But don’t kill him.”
“Easier to kill them all,” the big man rasped.
“You can’t kill him.” If they killed Vorenus, what would he do? He hadn’t even thought about that. “We agreed,” he whispered urgently.
The brute seemed to shrug, and Thrasyllus saw that there was a gladius in his thick hand. He was tensing, as if the prospect of killing made him feel young again. As if it made him feel alive.
By the gods, Thrasyllus thought, he likes this. They all do.
Though he could make out no details against the sunset, he could see that the two men who had been talking were lounged amid the piles at the front of the vessel. They seemed relaxed, unaware of the bows being drawn in the tall reeds along shore.
“Home,” one of the men said.
It was a single word, but it was enough. The man was a Roman. It was him.
The big brute gasped or grunted, Thrasyllus couldn’t tell.
The barge was coming abreast of them. So close. Seker looked deadly in his expectation.
Thrasyllus nodded vigorously, and Seker immediately turned toward the bowmen below them and gave a soft whistle.
“He’s in front. On the left,” Thrasyllus said, his whisper rising in his urgency. “Leave Vorenus alive.”
The big man lurched as if he’d been struck, and he actually half turned around to look at Thrasyllus. “Vorenus?”
Thrasyllus simply nodded dumbly, shocked at the thought of what he’d just done. He could see the man at the tiller now, too, a perfect target of black against the crimson sky.
The brute’s eyes went wide, and he suddenly stood, rising up from the shadows. Seker tried to reach for him, but it was too late. The big man had already turned toward the barge that was sliding up before them. The next moment, when he shouted the word, it seemed to be ripped from his throat, from the very center of his soul. “Vorenus!”
Below, as if in response, the first arrows sang out.
9
CLAIMING THE REWARD
CANTABRIA, 26 BCE
The last place that Juba wanted to be was in the command tent. Something had happened to Selene while he was away at the meadow, and he was desperate to find out what it was. She insisted that she was fine, but the look in her eyes when she had come forward to embrace him was unmistakably fearful. She was scared, and he wanted to know why.
But rather than have the opportunity to discover the truth, he was here with the others in the tent. Octavian had called them back as the sun set, and he had told them that in the morning he planned to engage in a full assault on Vellica, the Cantabrian hillfort across the valley that stubbornly refused to surrender to their siege.
So now Juba was listening to another of the long-toothed Roman commanders give another long-winded excuse about why he didn’t think the time was right for such an attack. The opinion was nearly unanimous. It seemed that every man in the tent but himself, Tiberius, and Carisius had voiced disapproval. The Cantabri were still too strong, they all insisted. More time would weaken their resolve, their strength, their walls.
It didn’t matter. Juba knew his stepbrother’s own stubbornness was a match for any fortification, much less the minds of the men in this room. And Caesar’s mind was made up. He wanted a full assault, and a full assault he would get. All this discussion was merely for show.
And a show it was. Octavian sat upright in his seat, his face set with determined focus as he listened to the complaint. Though Juba could well imagine the disgust that was churning through his stepbrother’s head, not a bit of it was shown on his face.
At last the commander stopped talking.
“Thank you,” Octavian said. His voice was calm and collected, almost paternal despite the other man’s greater age. He nodded thoughtfully, and then he turned to Carisius, the highest ranking field commander, who’d sat in a kind of brooding silence staring at the crude map of Vellica that had been placed before them at the center of the table. “And you, Carisius? What is your wisdom in this matter?”
The older man
’s eyes narrowed at the map. Tracing his gaze, Juba could see that he was staring at the outline of the gates of the Cantabrian fort. Vellica filled the top of the kidney bean–shaped hill completely, and it had but three gates—each of which presented a substantial problem for the Roman forces.
Vellica’s main gate was actually the one farthest from the Roman encampment, at the northwestern end of the fort. The slope of the hill was far less steep there, and the existing main road would surely speed any Roman troops who approached from that direction. The Cantabri, aware of this, had dug significant trench works to narrow the field along which they could be engaged, and they’d built a high defensive tower beside the gate in order to repel any attack. From the reports of the Cantabri prisoners they’d taken—many of whom had been released earlier in the day to spread Caesar’s offer of a reward for Corocotta’s capture—it seemed that the second tower visible within the hillfort helped guard a second defensive wall that had been built in case the initial gates and tower were overcome.
The second gate, smaller than the first, stood midway along the eastern side of the fort. The terrain was very steep there, and approach could only be made by means of a narrow path that hugged the side of the hill, making a final switchback right at the foot of Vellica’s walls. It was a natural choke point, and Juba was certain that the Roman dead would make the way impassable long before they could breach the stout entrance.
That left the third gate, which was essentially the rear entrance to Vellica. It was, by plan, the gate closest to the Roman encampment, on the southeast end of the fort. In some respects, it suffered from the same problem as the second, since it could only be engaged from a ramping sweep of earth that started to the west. Anyone attempting to breach the gate by such an approach would have to do so by marching uphill, under relentless assault from the walls of the fort above them. On the other hand, there was no final switchback, and a stretch of trees in the valley below would give the Romans at least some measure of cover as they readied for the final push.
In light of these facts, Octavian’s plan was simple but sensible. The Roman forces would march west out of the encampment, crossing the valley on a direct path for the woods below Vellica. There the three legions would divide, with two continuing their march, paralleling the walls of the fort as if intending to come around to assault the main gates. This was a diversion, intended to draw defenders away from the rear gate. At a signal, the third legion left behind in the woods would then make a direct assault on that minimally protected gate, bringing up battering rams beneath the cover of their shields.
It was a good plan, Juba felt. He certainly couldn’t think of anything better.
All eyes were on Carisius, who took a long, steady breath, his own eyes still riveted to the map. “The plan is a sound one, Caesar. No man here has ventured a better one.”
There was a murmur from around the table, but it was true: they’d spoken against it, but no one had offered an alternative except delay. “Yet you hesitate,” Octavian said.
Carisius finally looked up from the table and met Caesar’s eye. Then he nodded once, slowly. “I do. For the same reason we all do, the reason that has gone unspoken.”
Juba quickly scanned the room and saw that many of the men suddenly appeared frightened, as if fearful of what Carisius might say.
“I speak of the ghost,” Carisius said. “That’s what the men call him. The ghost who haunts—”
From the head of the table, Caesar cut him off. “You mean the rat. The slinking, hiding rat who feeds on the crumbs of a much larger force. Corocotta. You’re scared of him.”
Juba saw Carisius instinctively open his mouth to deny the accusation, but then he stopped, apparently recognizing that honesty would serve him best. Though the other men all seemed to be looking everywhere but at Octavian, Carisius continued to look him in the eye. Juba felt a great deal of respect for him. “Yes, Caesar.”
Octavian nodded. “I understand your concern. A rat he may be, but a rat that has proven difficult to catch.”
Carisius took a breath, then gestured to the map. “The legions will be exposed as we march on Vellica. We don’t know how many men Corocotta has with him. He could easily attack our flank.”
Young Tiberius, like Juba, had been silent the entire meeting, watching it unfold from his brooding darkness. But now, at last, he spoke up. “Corocotta is a brigand, Carisius. We don’t know if he would expose himself to help the Cantabri.”
Juba saw a touch of heat flush the commander’s face, for Carisius to be addressed so informally by such a young and inexperienced man, but the commander was too politically astute to make any attack of his own. “It is true that we do not know if he would do so,” he said. “But it would be prudent to be prepared if he were to do so.”
“And I think he probably will,” Octavian said. His gaze was leveled at his stepson, and his tone was both authoritative and instructive. “His actions have indeed shown him to be supportive of the Cantabri cause. Even if he isn’t working from Vellica, he is clearly taking any opportunity to attack our weakness.” He turned his gaze now to Carisius, and as he did so his tone shifted to respect. “So as you have wisely said, we should expect an attack on our flank during the assault.”
“But how?” one of the other officers said. “We don’t even know how many men he has.”
“I think not many,” Octavian said. His eyes flicked over to Juba for an instant before they took in the whole of the room. “Perhaps a dozen men at most. Maybe even less.”
Several voices rose up at once, incredulous at the thought that so few men could cause such devastation and terror.
Caesar held up a hand, and the silence was almost immediate. “Corocotta will likely attack, but he should not be your concern. I will deal with him.”
“One million Sesterces,” someone whispered.
Octavian smiled. “It may be that this will be enough. But there are solutions even if it is not.”
His stepbrother wasn’t looking at him, but Juba could feel the press of his thoughts focusing in his direction. Juba was the solution, after all. The weapon to counter Corocotta. If the ghost indeed had the Shard of fire, what better defense than the Shard of water, the Trident of Poseidon, which he alone knew how to use?
A silence fell over the table for a few moments. Juba could hear the sounds of the encampment outside, and it made him yearn all the more to get up and run from the tent, run to the arms of the woman he loved.
Finally it was Carisius who spoke. “So we will assault Vellica in the morning,” he said.
Octavian nodded. “Yes. You know your men. You know the plan of assault. Make ready the attack.”
There was a murmur among the men, but at whispered commands several of the lower-ranking officers turned and hurried from the tent. Most of the men around the table began to rise.
Carisius had not moved. “I understand that Caesar intends for us to ignore it,” he said, and for a moment all movement stopped and everyone turned to him. “But may I ask from what direction you think Corocotta will attack?”
“Perhaps you will ask him,” said a small voice.
Heads turned once more, this time to the entrance of the tent, where one of the officers, who had been holding it open while he turned to listen to Carisius, stepped aside to allow a little girl to hobble into view. She appeared to be lame in her left leg, walking with the aid of a cloth-topped crutch of wood placed under her right arm. She had a dirty face and dirtier brown hair, and her clothing was hardly more than a tattered, soil-stained shift covered by a patched cloak. Behind her strode a bearded man with dark, shoulder-length hair and furred boots that matched his wolf-fur cloak. He carried what looked like a wooden spear in his right hand, the iron point held up as if he used it as a kind of walking staff. He had the bearing of a man of great importance. Both of them had the dusted complexion of the Cantabri.
Juba saw that three legionnaires and two praetorians walked in a half-circle behind him, their sw
ords drawn and ready to plunge into his back. Another legionnaire, who’d been carrying a torch to mark their passage through the dark encampment, fell away behind them.
The officers stepped aside as the odd pair made their way into the steady lamplight of the command tent. More than a few men who had been on their way out returned to their positions to learn about this new development.
Caesar stood, and Juba and the other men at the table followed his lead. The men at the end of the table opposite Octavian—including Tiberius, who appeared to be of an even darker spirit than usual—moved away in order to clear a space for the visitors to stand. Carisius, Juba noted, had deftly flipped the map in the commotion.
The legionnaires who’d accompanied them departed as the man and girl took their position at the end of the table, but the two praetorians did not: they stood directly behind the visitors, swords at the ready. It turned Juba’s stomach to see that one of the two blades was prepared to cut through the back of the little girl’s neck.
“Caesar of Rome,” the lame girl said, balancing off of her crutch to bow slightly, “Lord Corocotta has learned of the reward you have offered for his capture.” She made a sweep of her hand toward the big man beside her. “He has come to collect it.”
The bearded man gave only the slightest of nods.
Juba at last managed to pull his attention away from the Cantabri and look to his stepbrother. He found him smiling. “You are Corocotta?”
The big man’s chin moved up and down once.
“And you have come to collect the reward?”
Corocotta stared for a moment, unblinking, then turned to look down at the little girl at his side. Still leaning heavily on her crutch, she spoke up to him in the guttural language of their people. Theirs was a strange tongue, Juba thought, before reminding himself that they no doubt felt the same about the Latin otherwise spoken in the tent.
The Gates of Hell Page 10
