Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  The others muttered agreement, and though Atius felt the same, he felt obliged to speak up on behalf of their charge.

  ‘Eustachys isn’t trained like we are. He’s going through physical hardship he has never had to endure before.’

  ‘Because he is woman,’ said Memnon, and the others laughed at the witticism.

  ‘My cock is twice the size of yours,’ said Eustachys, summoning some defiance and attempting to match the soldiers for vulgarity.

  ‘Shame it has only been up your boss’s arse then,’ said Scaurus, drawing another round of laughter.

  ‘Enough,’ said Atius, suppressing his own smile. ‘Leave the poor man alone. He has a job to do that’s vital for Rome, and it is up to us to keep him safe so he can do it.’

  ‘Fuck Rome,’ said Drustan, ‘shoving us out here to freeze to death.’

  Scaurus stood abruptly. ‘Don’t you talk like that about the Empire.’

  Drustan was instantly on his feet. ‘I’ll say what I like about those fuckers in Rome who chew up men like me and you.’

  ‘Like you, maybe, you British barbarian cocksucker. Not me. My family goes back generations in Rome. My great-great grandfather was a senator.’

  Drustan laughed scornfully. ‘And your great-great grandmother was a slave, and so were her bastard children, and your family has lived in the Subura for generations.’

  Scaurus was almost too quick to follow with the eye. He leapt forward, his hands reaching for Drustan’s neck. Sparks and embers scattered into the dark air as he caught the fire with his trailing foot. He bowled Drustan over backwards, and before Drustan or anyone else could react, he was raining blows down onto the centre of his face. Drustan was no weakling, and when he got his hands between them, he was able to fend off some of the worst of the punches, but he was still struggling until Atius and Memnon grabbed Scaurus by the shoulders and hauled him off.

  They had to restrain him for some time, struggling and spitting, until he was calm enough to be carefully let go.

  Drustan wiped the blood from his moustache and beard, where it had spurted out of his nose.

  ‘I should kill you for that, bastard,’ said Drustan.

  ‘Insult my family again, barbarian, and I’ll slit your throat before you can draw breath.’

  ‘Enough,’ barked Atius, and the two belligerents sulkily simmered down.

  ‘I should have you both caned,’ said Atius. ‘That sort of indiscipline has no place in the Roman army.’ Atius was aware his own track record made this rather hypocritical, but he wasn’t going to get into that now. ‘Let me remind you that not only do we have a mission to fulfill, we are in enemy territory, and our lives are in danger both from hostile Germans and the weather. This sort of behaviour could cost us all our lives.’

  Scaurus and Drustan looked shamefaced, then with some hesitation, Scaurus held out his hand. Grudgingly at first, Drustan took it, but Scaurus gripped it tight and shook it hard, pulling Drustan into a hug and clapping his back.

  ‘I’m sorry, barbarian,’ said Scaurus. ‘I am a bit sensitive about Rome and my family.’

  Drustan hesitated, then returned the hug.

  ‘I’m sorry too, Roman. I shouldn’t have teased you. Family and homeland are important.’

  And just like that, like a summer storm that crashes overhead and is gone, it was over, and only the blood on Drustan’s face and some scattered ashes showed that anything at all had transpired.

  ‘It’s time to hit the tents. Bed, everyone. That includes you, Eustachys. Memnon, go and relieve Toutorix. Scaurus, you’re up after Memnon, then Aldric, then me until dawn.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Eustachys have to keep watch?’ complained Scaurus, as he did every night.

  ‘How many times do I have to say this? He is not a soldier. What use would he be if he came across an enemy?’

  ‘He can scream, can’t he? I bet he can scream real good.’

  ‘Bed,’ said Atius firmly, in the tone of voice he had heard Silus use on his dog Issa. Scaurus shuffled off to his tent like a reluctant child.

  Atius held the flap of the tent open for Eustachys, and then followed him inside. It was cool, but the leather walls keeping the wind out helped with the temperature, and the layers of wool beneath Atius’ tunic stopped him from freezing solid. He placed his pack as best he could to make a pillow, curled up into a tight ball, and closed his eyes.

  ‘How are we ever going to make it with that rabble?’

  Atius suppressed a sigh.

  ‘They are hand-picked.’

  ‘By whom? A blind idiot?’

  ‘Look…’ Atius began, but was interrupted by a shout.

  ‘Centurion! Atius!’ It was Memnon’s deep booming voice.

  Atius was out of the tent like a cat after a mouse. He grabbed a burning brand from the fire and followed the sound of Memnon’s voice. The others were swiftly out of their tents too, drawing swords as they stumbled to their feet.

  Atius reached Memnon, who was standing still, sword drawn, wide eyes darting around him.

  At his feet lay Toutorix, on his back, staring blankly at the dark sky.

  A thick spear, rimed with frozen blood, protruded from his chest.

  Martius 213 AD

  He didn’t know who he would miss more, Tituria or Issa. The little dog loved him unconditionally, and was his only link to his past, his family and the country of his birth. With Tituria, their relationship was more nuanced. It couldn’t be otherwise, given their history, the circumstances of their meeting. She could never forgive him for what he’d done to her family, while at the same time she would never stop being grateful for his other actions. And he was all she had now.

  Issa didn’t understand his departure. She tolerated his hug and his kiss on her forehead, then wriggled to get down. She ran around the atrium, sniffing for food, then bent down to drink from the impluvium. The fish that had been lazily circling near the surface splashed out of her way.

  Tituria understood he had to go, but though she tried to be the embodiment of Roman womanly fortitude, she was still a child, and as he embraced her, the tears broke through into uncontrollable sobs. He stroked her hair, feeling guilty. Almost guilty enough to tell Oclatinius to go fuck himself.

  But it was Atius that was in trouble. He couldn’t abandon his friend, not even for the feelings of this little girl he loved almost as much as his own daughter. He squeezed her tight, then extricated himself. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

  ‘I will be back.’

  She nodded, though he saw the disbelief in her tear-filled eyes.

  ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘And maybe, if I do this service for the Emperor, I can persuade him to reconsider your exile.’

  She looked up at him with a little hope. But then her expression became sad.

  ‘And if he did? Where would I go? I have no home, no family.’

  ‘You have me. We could go anywhere together. Rome. Britain. Alexandria.’ Those were most of the places he had personally visited, so were the first to come to mind, though he wasn’t sure he genuinely wanted to go back to the scenes of such horrific memories. But it seemed to give Tituria some comfort.

  ‘Alexandria,’ she said. ‘I would like to go there. What you have told me about the place, it sounds magical.’

  ‘Then we shall,’ he said, with more confidence than he felt. He had to survive this mission, get Caracalla’s pardon for Tituria, and get permission to return before he could fulfill that promise. But he had to leave her with something.

  ‘I have to go. The ship leaves with the tide.’

  He stepped back, walked towards the door.

  ‘Silus.’

  He turned back.

  ‘Please come back to me.’

  He nodded. ‘I will.’

  * * *

  Lipari receded into the distance. Silus watched it get smaller from the rail at the stern of the liburnian. He felt frustrated, full of pent-up energy he couldn’t use. He was le
aving behind the closest thing he had to family, sailing to the rescue of his friend, and yet it would be days before he even reached the port to disembark, after which he would still have to travel many miles to begin his search.

  So for now he was stuck on this ship, with nothing to do. He looked down and realised he was gripping the rail so tightly, his knuckles had gone white. He released his grip and looked down at his palms, indented with the wood.

  ‘She is a tough child.’

  Silus started at the voice coming from over his right shoulder. For all his own skills, he was always amazed by how Oclatinius could move around so silently.

  ‘I know,’ he said, turning his gaze back out to sea. ‘But a child, all the same.’

  Oclatinius stood next to him at the rail. Gulls circled in the wake, occasionally diving into the foam, sometimes emerging with a wriggling fish, sometimes empty-beaked and cawwing in frustration. They stood a while in silence. Then Oclatinius clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Come and eat. We have much to discuss.’

  Silus looked out at Lipari once more. It had been a long time since he could make out any detail on its shores, and now it was disappearing into the haze. He sighed, and followed Oclatinius.

  The spymaster had found two bags of flour to use as seats, and when Silus settled into the surprisingly comfortable makeshift furniture, a slave brought over wine, bread and olives. Silus took a loaf and broke it. He chewed laboriously, having to take a sip of the wine to moisten it enough to swallow. The wine tasted like vinegar, and he screwed up his nose in distaste.

  ‘You’ve been getting used to the good life, Silus, in your self-imposed luxury exile. You’ve forgotten what military rations taste like.’

  Silus scowled at him but said nothing.

  Oclatinius sighed and took a sip of the wine himself. He immediately spat it out.

  ‘To be fair, this does taste like whore’s piss.’

  Silus decided not to enquire how Oclatinius knew that.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Silus. ‘Tell me about Atius. And for that matter, what’s been happening in Rome? We got little news on Lipari.’

  ‘Rome and Atius are all bound together, I suppose. Where should I start?’

  ‘We seem to have a lot of time,’ said Silus, gesturing vaguely at the journey ahead.

  Oclatinius nodded, and took another sip of the sour wine, this time swallowing it like it was some sort of self-inflicted punishment. Maybe it was.

  ‘The Emperor has… not been himself. Since the death of his brother. His mother has been distant, understandably. He has taken to drinking. Chariot racing for the Blues. And… other things.’

  Silus waited without questioning. He didn’t really want to know about Caracalla’s vices. Their Emperor was another person with whom Silus had a complicated relationship. Caracalla had elevated him from obscurity, interceded on his behalf, rewarded him handsomely. But he had also asked him to perform deeds that had taken their toll on Silus, and haunted his dreams. Not to mention his exile of Tituria, which while understandable, since her father had been involved in a plot against him, was hard for Silus to bear.

  ‘It has been hard in Rome too. His purge of his enemies has continued. Some because they are genuine threats, and some just because he needs their money. Thousands have died.’

  ‘Who has been wielding the axe for him then, in my absence?’

  Oclatinius clearly noticed the resentful tone, but ignored it.

  ‘Most of the victims are noble, and so are given the option to take their own lives. But for the others, there are no shortage of volunteers. Some do it for monetary gain, some through loyalty to the Emperor, some just in obedience to orders. The outcome is the same for the poor sod who loses his head. Or gets strangled quietly in their cell. Of course, if they need something more entertaining for the games, they end up thrown to the beasts, or forced to fight with a wooden sword against a fully armed gladiator, or… well, you know what they do.’

  Silus looked sideways at Oclatinius. Was the ruthless spymaster getting soft in his old age? But as long as Silus had known him, he had never gloried in death and suffering. Just saw it as a necessary means to an end on occasion. He wondered if the sheer scale of the killings was getting to the old man.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Oclatinius. ‘Festus and I decided Caracalla needed something to distract him, so we planted in his mind the need for something grand to augment his auctoritas and dignitas, on the scale of his father’s victories in Britannia. Something that would secure his reputation as a commander and Emperor. Fortunately, Germania Magna appears to be becoming something of a threat, so Festus and I made sure he saw reports of unrest across the border from the German provinces. Real reports, but their importance may be overemphasised.

  ‘Caracalla took an interest, and has been for some time now planning a big campaign in Germania. He has raised new troops from Africa, and left Rome with a great army. He went to Germania Superior and oversaw the construction and repair of the border fortifications. Then he gathered troops from nearby provinces like Raetia and Pannonia to prepare for the campaign. Unfortunately, the neighbouring barbarians noticed, and Pannonia was attacked by Vandals and Carpi.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ said Silus. ‘Atius wrote to me. He said that Caracalla rode a hundred miles a day to get to Pannonia in a week and defeat the invaders.’

  ‘He did,’ said Oclatinius. ‘With just his bodyguard cavalry with him, he rallied the local defences and routed the barbarians. Whatever anyone thinks of Caracalla, it was a remarkable piece of generalship.’

  ‘I’ve never doubted his ability in the field,’ said Silus. ‘Now tell me more about Atius. How did he get himself captured?’

  Chapter Two

  Januarius 213 AD

  Atius ordered a rest stop at around noon. There had been a break in the weather, and the sun was out, albeit distant, low on the horizon and cool. They set their packs down and took out water flasks and hard biscuits. Nobody spoke, nor even caught each other’s eyes.

  They had scouted the area surrounding their camp the previous night, but had found no one. In the morning light, before they had set off for the day, Aldric had pointed out human tracks in the snow. They had clearly stopped a short distance from the camp, hidden at the edge of the clearing, and it would have taken a decent spear throw from that distance to where they had found Toutorix’s body. Atius doubted it was some local villager who had just happened across them. The kill was too accurate, and too bold. What local villager would want to risk the wrath of a well-armed band of travellers who were just passing through, anyway?

  But who the killer was, he couldn’t surmise. They had left Raetia the previous week, and none of the men had been told where they were going. Only he and Eustachys had known. Aldric had been questioned about his knowledge of the general area they were headed to, but it was only after they had left Roman territory that he was informed of the precise destination.

  So how could a skilled enemy have tracked them in this forest, in this weather? It must have just been bad luck. A German tribesman, a young warrior out to make a name. He was probably even now being congratulated by his elders, while the women of his tribe fawned over him, and offered him their bodies. Fucking barbarians.

  They had buried Toutorix as best they could. The icy ground was impossible to break, so they had covered him in branches and leaf litter and let the snow finish the job. Atius had said a few words of Christian prayer. The others had stood respectfully as he spoke the words, but only, he suspected, because he was their leader. None of them were followers of the Christos. And he was sure he had seen Scaurus, ever the traditionalist, slip a coin into Toutorix’s mouth for the journey across the Styx. What Toutorix himself believed, he didn’t know. The Roman pantheon? The Gallic gods?

  To be honest, he wasn’t sure it mattered. He had been forced to confront his faith in Alexandria, and he still didn’t know if it had been strengthened or shattered completely. When one such as
Origen, who inspired so deeply, had turned out to be just a fallible man, where did that leave faith?

  He had more or less decided to ignore the problem, and just carry on as before. A faithful follower of Christos, but without the rules and restrictions applying to him personally. But when he was presented with a sudden death, unexpected, the old doubts came back.

  He tapped Aldric on the knee.

  ‘How far have we come today?’

  Aldric bit his lip and looked upwards. ‘Five miles. About.’

  Atius tutted. It was slow progress. The best part of a week since they set out from Colonia. He thought they were making around ten miles a day, heading mainly east and a little north, deep into the territory of the Chatti.

  ‘How much further to our destination?’

  Aldric looked up and to the right, thinking for a moment.

  ‘At this pace, still six or seven days.’

  Atius looked around him at the men, not exhausted, but clearly fatigued from the half day’s march. He could up the pace, but it would not be sustainable. There would be injuries, from falls to foot sores, and their defensive abilities would be degraded. His mother had told him Aesop’s fable of the tortoise and the hare when he was a child, and though he had rarely put its moral into action, now was a good time to apply it. Slow and steady wins the race.

  ‘Finish up, lads. We’re moving again soon.’

  His announcement was greeted by muted grumbles, but none spoke out loud. For all their rough edges, these men, who Oclatinius and Atius had picked from the ranks of the frumentarii and speculatores, were disciplined, and he hadn’t yet had cause to regret his decision. Which made it all the more surprising that Toutorix, an experienced speculator, had been taken unawares like that.

  Atius swallowed the last chunk of hard biscuit, chased it down with some cold water, stoppered his flask, and got to his feet. Most of the others rose at the same, time, though Scaurus needed a kick to get moving. Aldric led the way once more, Atius close behind.

  * * *