Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  ‘Listen, I know this is tough. We lost a man, and we don’t know who did it or why. The conditions are shit. And none of us know why we are here. Apart from Eustachys of course.

  ‘But we are doing a job, for Rome, for the Emperor, for the Empire. A job we are paid to do. Eustachys has assured me this mission is of great importance for the safety of Rome against the barbarian threats.’

  ‘Typical Roman army,’ said Scaurus. ‘Treating us like mushrooms.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Drustan, and Atius groaned, knowing where this was going.

  ‘Keep us in the dark and throw shit at us, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s enough, Scaurus,’ said Atius. ‘We don’t need your crap. Now let’s all concentrate on getting the mission done, swiftly and safely. We have lost one man, and I will have to write to his mother to break the news. I don’t want to lose any more. Let’s look after each other, and let’s stop complaining. It isn’t helping. When we get back to Colonia you can complain till your arse falls off, but not before. Do you understand me?’

  Scaurus nodded sourly, pinching his lips closed with his fingers.

  ‘We will keep watch in pairs tonight. It means we all get less sleep, but it also means we are more likely to wake up again. Aldric and I will take the first watch. Does anyone have any questions?’

  They all shook their heads or stared at the ground sullenly.

  ‘Aldric, with me.’

  The guide got stiffly to his feet, and followed Atius out of the door. Atius loosened his sword in its sheath to make sure he could draw it swiftly if needed, then began a patrol. Night had fallen, and Atius had to pick his way across the rough ground carefully. A seemingly level covering of snow could conceal an ankle-breaking rabbit hole.

  Aldric walked beside him, similarly picking his steps with care. Atius halted them frequently to stop, look around, listen. Their path traced a small circle around the crumbling barn, then a larger one, ever increasing in circumference. Aldric said nothing as they walked, sullen and taciturn as usual. Atius quickly became bored and determined to draw Aldric out of himself.

  ‘Remind me, which is your tribe?’

  Aldric gave him a measured look, as if trying to decide whether it was worth his while to reply. Then he let out a sigh.

  ‘The Brukterer. You call them the Bructeri.’

  Atius had been told that when Aldric had been assigned them as a guide, but he had had too many other things to think about at the time, preparing for the mission, to give it more consideration.

  ‘Tell me about your tribe.’

  Aldric said nothing for long enough that Atius thought he wasn’t going to get an answer. When Atius had almost given up, Aldric spoke.

  ‘You Romans think we Germanic people are all the same. But we are as different as Romans and Greeks and Egyptians. There are dozens of big tribes and countless small ones in the region you call Germania Magna.’

  ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘We call it home. We don’t have borders, we don’t have cities. We have settlements and farmsteads. We move when we need to. We stay if we want to. We fight each other. We make alliances with and against each other. Some of us are artists, some of us make music, some of us are warriors. But one thing we all have in common. We do not live under the Roman heel.’

  Atius looked sidelong at him. ‘You don’t seem to have much love for the Empire.’

  Aldric shut his mouth tight, and said nothing.

  ‘Not every man in the provinces loves the Empire,’ said Atius after a while. ‘Even now that they are all citizens. But they still pay their taxes, join the legions and auxiliaries. You don’t have to be a fanatic like Scaurus to serve.’

  Still Aldric held his tongue.

  ‘So why are you helping us? Guiding us through your territory in aid of Rome?’

  ‘I swore an oath to my chief. And he made me swear one to Rome.’

  Aldric stopped abruptly, hand up. Atius froze, gripping the hilt of his sword. Aldric listened intently, then said, ‘Nothing. A deer.’

  Atius considered himself a pretty good scout, maybe not in Silus’ league, but no amateur. Yet he had heard nothing. Aldric must have tremendously sensitive hearing. The guide dropped his hand and they continued.

  ‘Your chief?’ prompted Atius.

  ‘Colonia was built on Bructeri territory,’ said Aldric. ‘And the frontier of the Roman province runs through our land. Our chief wants peace with your Empire.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Atius. ‘If your people have lost territory, why doesn’t he fight to get it back?’

  Aldric let out a short exhalation that might have been a humourless laugh.

  ‘Because he fears death.’

  Atius glanced at him.

  ‘I knew a man once, a legionary, tough guy. A veteran. He was afraid of moths. And butterflies. Anything that flapped its wings. He could hold the line in a battle against a Caledonian charge and keep bowels shut and the inside of his legs dry. He would barely break a sweat as he stabbed and parried all day. Yet if a moth got trapped in the tent with him, he screamed so loud you would think he was being impaled in a druidic sacrifice.’

  Aldric grunted, the merest acknowledgement that Atius was even speaking.

  ‘That,’ continued Atius, ‘is a dumb fear. The fear of death? I think that’s quite reasonable.’

  ‘For a Roman, maybe,’ said Aldric.

  ‘For anyone with sense.’

  ‘I do not fear death,’ said Aldric firmly.

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ said Atius.

  They walked in uncomfortable silence for a while, Atius keeping half his mind on his guard duty, and half on the barbarian under his command. But silence was an unnatural state for the garrulous Atius.

  ‘You hate your chief?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Aldric back quickly. ‘He is my leader, and he has my complete loyalty. Maybe I would wish he was otherwise. That he had more iron in his backbone, more fire in guts. But what is the point of wishing for that? It is like wishing for different parents.’

  Atius nodded. He didn’t like the idea of a discontented German in their ranks, when they were in enemy territory. He decided he had pressed enough and changed the subject.

  ‘How many more days’ travel now, would you say?’

  ‘Maybe three or four. If the weather holds.’

  ‘And will it?’

  Aldric shrugged. ‘Pray to your Christos it does.’

  They patrolled for another hour, then Atius led them back to the barn. He woke Drustan up easily, but Scaurus was snoring loudly, so he reached over and shook his shoulder. The legionary’s eyes shot open and he grabbed Atius around the throat. Drustan and Aldric grabbed Scaurus’ arms and prised them apart. They held him until he stopped his wild struggling.

  Breathing heavily, he looked around him in confusion. When his eyes came back to Atius, who was clutching his throat with one hand and wearing a furious expression, his eyes widened.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said.

  Atius glared at him, then coughed and spat a wad of phlegm.

  ‘Scaurus, get out of my sight. Drustan and Eustachys will be on next watch.’

  ‘Eustachys?’ complained Drustan, looking askance at the diplomat.

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Eustachys, just as concerned.

  ‘Yes,’ said Atius. ‘With the watch doubled and Toutorix gone, everyone has to pull their weight. Does anyone have a problem with that?’

  Silence.

  Atius rubbed his throat.

  ‘Wake me before dawn. I’ll take the last watch of the night.’

  Chapter Three

  Martius 213 AD

  The port of Aquileia at the top of the Mare Adriaticum was a decent-sized city. Silus was aware that he had been spoiled recently by his extended stays in Rome and Alexandria, and his perception as to what a big city was had been skewed. But Oclatinius informed him that Aquileia was actually bigger than Londinium, the biggest city in Britannia.r />
  He was in no mood for sightseeing. He had done enough of that in the two vast metropolises, and although both places bore bad memories, he knew that it would take something special to compete with the incredible sights in either city.

  Aquileia was nothing special. As they walked from the docks, they passed through a market that had some quality goods. There was a preponderance of fine glassware, crafted by local Jewish artisans, as well as amber jewellery and goods and ornaments of bronze and copper. Silus stopped and studied a pretty necklace for a moment, one of many spread across a stall. The stallholder was on him in a trice.

  ‘Very pretty, sir. Very fine artisanship. Made with my own hands. It would look wonderful around the neck of your best girl.’

  The stallholder held it up around his neck and put on his best girlish smile, the effect of which was marred by a mouth of blackened stumps from which wafted a stench that reminded Silus of a gangrenous limb. He tried to shut out the sight and smell, and instead picture how the trinket would look around Tituria’s neck. He was missing her already, a few short days after he’d left.

  ‘No finer in Aquileia,’ said the halitotic vendor. ‘The best price for you, too, sir. Where are you from? Africa? Hispania?’

  Silus realised he must have picked up something of a tan from his time in southern climes.

  ‘Britannia,’ he said.

  ‘Britannia?’ The stallholder attempted a whistle, which sprayed spittle. ‘You are a very long way away from home. What brings you to our city? Are you passing through or here to stay?’

  ‘None of your fucking business. How much is this thing?’

  The stallholder looked taken aback, but recovered quickly. He pressed the necklace into Silus’ hand. ‘Five denarii, sir.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Silus dropped the necklace onto the table and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait, sir. This is fine work. No finer in Aquileia. Made with my own hands.’

  Silus paused, waiting for more. The vendor’s spiel was obviously limited, and he had nothing else to justify the valuation, so bowing to inevitability he dropped the price.

  ‘Four denarii for you, fine sir.’

  Silus waited.

  ‘Sir, I must feed my family.’

  The mention of family caused Silus’ jaw to tighten. The vendor had no way of knowing of Silus’ tragic personal history, but he wasn’t helping his cause.

  ‘Three denarii,’ he said, ringing his hands.

  ‘Two,’ said Silus.

  ‘Sir, the amber alone cost that.’

  Silus kept his gaze steady as he drew two silver denarii out of his purse and laid them on the table.

  The vendor sighed, and picked the coins up. Silus took the necklace and walked off.

  ‘May the gods give you all you deserve,’ shouted the vendor after him. Silus ignored the double-edged blessing.

  ‘I don’t think it suits you,’ said Oclatinius.

  ‘It’s for Tituria,’ replied Silus. Saying it out loud gave him pause. The hardened assassin, buying trinkets for a little girl. A small part of him wondered what he was becoming. The larger part of him told the smaller part to get fucked.

  ‘I guessed. Not to be boringly practical, but you are going on a dangerous mission into enemy territory. Are you planning to take it with you there and back?’

  Silus hadn’t thought about it. It was an impulse purchase, coming from a place of loss deep inside him. He looked uncertainly at the necklace he was cradling like a newborn chick.

  Oclatinius smiled and put his hand out.

  ‘I’ll keep it for you. Until you return safely.’

  Silus passed it to him gratefully. ‘You know, sir, I can never truly decide if you are a nice person or a complete bastard.’

  ‘Can’t I be both?’

  They walked on, past various temples dedicated to a multitude of deities such as the Celtic sun god Belenos and the Jewish god Yahweh, past shops and workshops and foodsellers, until they reached the tavern that Oclatinius had decided they would stay in for the night. Oclatinius paid for the room and a meal, and they sat at a table to eat.

  A slave boy served them bread, olives and smoked meats, and the tavern owner came over with a jug of wine and two cups.

  ‘Will you try out local Pucinum wine, sirs? It is world famous. The favourite wine of the Empress Livia, you know.’

  Oclatinius waved him to fill the glasses and Silus took a deep swig. It was light-coloured and sweet, with a slight sparkle that teased his tongue.

  ‘Not bad,’ he commented. He still felt a slight uneasiness in his stomach from the sea journey. Not full-on nausea, but his appetite was reduced, so he picked at the meats and dates unenthusiastically.

  ‘Now we are back on dry land, what next?’

  ‘Now we eat and sleep. Tomorrow, we ride for Colonia.’

  Of course they would be riding. Sore arse and chafed thighs, how I’ve missed you, thought Silus.

  ‘We can pick up horses from the cursus publicus along the way. We can be in Colonia in six days with regular horse changes, if we ride hard.’

  Silus’ buttocks clenched involuntarily. This was going to be painful.

  Januarius 213 AD

  Three or four days, if the weather held, Aldric had said. The weather did not hold. When Atius was roused for his second watch of the night, a blizzard had whipped up. The wind was whistling around the holes in the roof, bringing clouds of snowflakes through. Aldric and Atius went outside to patrol, but even with torches, visibility was close to nil. Atius pulled his cloak tight around him and over his mouth and nose, but the wind scourged them with a whip made of ice. They made a circuit around the barn, but Atius could see so little it was pointless, and they retreated to the barn. They stood watch within the door, only partially sheltered. Atius wished that he hadn’t ordered Scaurus to kick it down.

  The snow didn’t let up, and by the time day broke, drifts had built up in the corners of the barn. He woke the sleeping soldiers, being careful to prod Scaurus awake with the tip of his foot, keeping a respectful distance. When they were all roused, Atius went outside. He got no more than a few feet from the door. The snow had drifted up to his waist in places, and it was still coming down heavily.

  He went back inside and beckoned Aldric over.

  ‘It’s deep, and still snowing hard. Can we make any progress today?’

  ‘Little,’ said the German. ‘It will be difficult marching, and I might not be able to find the way.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Atius. ‘We wait it out.’

  * * *

  It kept snowing heavily all day. At intervals, Atius had the men shovelling snow into heaps in the corner of the barn, to prevent it forming drifts in the part they had camped in, though it was like bailing out a leaking boat. After some nagging and pleading from the men, Atius grudgingly allowed them to build a fire. No one would be able to see the smoke for more than a dozen feet, and even the most dedicated warrior would want to take shelter from this weather.

  Though much of the smoke went through the hole in the roof, enough lingered inside to burn Atius’ throat. But the warmth was welcome, and they all clustered round the flames, except for whoever’s turn it was to keep watch by the door.

  Drustan melted some snow in a pot and threw in some dried meat and some roots and mushrooms he had foraged along the way. Soon the bubbling stew was making everyone’s mouths water. Scaurus tried to dip his cup into it, but Drustan slapped him away.

  ‘Patience. It takes time for the flavour to come through.’

  ‘Fuck the flavour. I’m so hungry I would eat a rotten dog if it was cooked.’

  Eventually, after a few delicate trial sips, Drustan was satisfied, and doled out the broth. Atius blew on it, eager to eat but able to hold back long enough to avoid burning his tongue. That was a change, he reflected wryly. When had he started being able to delay his gratification?

  Scaurus finished first, and so was able to use some bread to clean out Drustan’s pot before anyone
could protest. Drustan reached for the stew-soaked loaf but Scaurus shoved it whole into his mouth, chewed quickly, swallowed and then stuck his tongue out at Drustan, still covered in bits of bread and meat.

  ‘You’re disgusting, Scaurus,’ said Memnon in a deep, disappointed voice.

  Scaurus belched in reply and Memnon screwed up his face and turned his head aside.

  ‘Why did you join the legions anyway, Memnon?’ asked Scaurus.

  Memnon cocked his head to one side.

  ‘For the same reason as you, probably, Scaurus.’

  ‘Ha, I doubt it,’ said Scaurus. ‘I can trace my family back generations and generations in the city of Rome. I joined up for the honour of my ancestors. What were your ancestors, goat herders?’

  Atius watched carefully for a sign of reaction. They’d been cooped up in a small space for a prolonged period of time, and he knew men could start to fight like rats in those circumstances. The discipline of the legions should prevent it, but it depended too on the men. These were good men in many respects, but he didn’t yet know how well they could be relied upon in a pinch.

  Memnon did not rise to the bait, though. Calmly he replied, ‘My father owned a hundred cows, and my mother was a maker of pots.’

  ‘Farmers and artisans,’ said Scaurus. ‘The sort of people the city needs to keep proper Romans fed and cared for.’

  ‘Proper Romans?’ Memnon raised an eyebrow. ‘You forget that we are all citizens now, since Caracalla’s proclamation.’

  ‘I bet that must have been galling,’ said Scaurus. ‘Joining up for twenty-five years to become a citizen at the end, then Caracalla gives it away for free to everyone.’

  ‘I didn’t join up to become a citizen,’ said Memnon.

  ‘I fucking did,’ said Drustan. ‘It was the only fucking reason. And here I am freezing my arse off on a dangerous mission in the middle of nowhere, when I could have been in Britannia, fucking the local girls, drinking the beer, and making an honest wage that didn’t involve my friends getting spears stuck in them.’

  Memnon looked at him until he was sure he had finished, then continued. ‘I joined up to see the Empire. To see other countries and other peoples. And I was bored. My parents are good honourable people, but I did not want to become a farmer.’