by Alex Gough
He waited for Drustan to nock an arrow, then went to the door.
‘Cover me,’ he hissed, then flung the door open. He immediately heard the twang of a bowstring and ducked instinctively. The arrow, hastily shot, flew wide. Drustan and Scaurus leant out around the edge of the door frame and shot back. Their aim was similarly wayward, but it had the effect of keeping the Germans’ heads down for a moment.
Atius leapt onto the low roof, distributing his weight so as not to collapse the thatch and sticks that were strewn across the beams. The first arrow he reached was smouldering in damp moss, and he pulled it out and tossed it aside. He crawled further up the roof, and reached two more arrows which had just begun to ignite the straw. He gripped the arrows mid-shaft and removed them, then beat at the sparks with his fists to extinguish them.
Shouts reached him from the Germans surrounding the barn. He heard more bowstrings, the hiss of arrows through the air. There were two more fire arrows lodged in the roof, and he crawled carefully towards them as missiles fell out of the sky around him. He tensed, waiting at any moment for a barbed head to strike between his shoulder blades. His skin tingled in anticipation as he worked his way over to the final two burning missiles. The first was easily disposed of. It hadn’t caught any combustible material and so had all but burnt itself out by the time Atius reached it.
But the second had lodged into a beam, and the whole arrow shaft was burning. Worse, there was an expanding circle of fire in the thatch. Atius spat on his hands and grabbed the smouldering arrow. There was a hiss of evaporating spit, but he ignored it and pulled hard. It resisted, and Atius gripped tighter, gritting his teeth as pain shot up his arm. The arrow came free and he threw it over his shoulder, then smacked his hand against his sides to dissipate the heat.
That still left the fire in the thatch to put out, and he had no water. An arrow arced down from the sky and grazed the inside of his upper thigh. He yelped and his balls shrank up into his body. He did the only thing he could, and rolled across the flaming roof, using his body mass to starve the flame of air. He rolled onto his back, his cloak smouldering but doing its job, and the flames died down. He stared at the sky, at the bright stars and fingernail moon, and his eyes widened as he saw an arrow descending straight towards him.
Chapter Four
Martius 213 AD
They rode into Colonia just as the sun was setting. They deposited their horses with the office of the cursus publicus, and went to find a tavern for the night. Oclatinius knew his way around the Roman colony well, and Silus figured he shouldn’t be surprised. In his time in the Arcani, he had likely travelled the length and breadth of the Empire.
Nor should he have been surprised when, as he sat with Oclatinius eating bread and lamb stew and drinking German beer, Festus appeared and drew up a chair.
Oclatinius didn’t even look up, just finished his mouthful, then took a long drink from his cup of beer. Festus waited wordlessly, examining his fingernails, and picking some dirt out from underneath one.
Silus looked from one to the other, then shook his head, sat back and waited.
Eventually, Oclatinius looked up and nodded.
‘Festus.’
‘Oclatinius.’
‘Silus.’
‘Festus.’
That seemed to deal with the pleasantries. Festus turned his gaze on Silus, and regarded him appraisingly.
‘You put a lot of faith in this one, don’t you?’
‘I would say he has never let me down,’ said Oclatinius, ‘but that wouldn’t be strictly true. On the other hand, he is resourceful and skilled. And in this particular case, motivated. He is our best chance to get out of this mess.’
‘Well, he has certainly caused me a headache or two.’
‘You bring those on yourself, Festus. Frequently. You should keep a supply of willow bark on you at all times.’
Festus made a sour face. Silus regarded him steadily. He did not trust this man, and couldn’t understand why Oclatinius had made no move against him. Palace politics was not his field, though, and he decided just to accept the situation, at least for now.
‘So is now the time you tell me what I am really getting myself into? What was Atius’ mission? How will I find him?’
Oclatinius gestured to Festus and raised his eyebrows. Festus reached over and pulled a chunk of bread from Silus’ loaf, and chewed it slowly before speaking.
‘The Emperor wishes for a great victory over the Germans. Although he led the army in Caledonia, and everyone who was there knows that the praise should be his, it is seen in Rome as his father’s expedition and his father’s victory. Germania will be his alone.’
Silus nodded and continued eating, moving his food out of Festus’ reach. Festus frowned, and reached for Oclatinius’ loaf. Oclatinius caught his wrist, and gently replaced it on the table.
‘Maybe you would like to order your own?’ suggested Oclatinius.
Festus let out a huff and flicked his fingers at a slave. ‘Another bowl of this muck, and some bread, and a cup of your finest wine, for which I have few expectations.’
The slave bowed and hurried off.
‘Well. The situation in Germania is similar to that in Caledonia, with the tribal rivalries. Taking on individual tribes is relatively straightforward. It’s when they unite that they become a problem. And right now, they are showing some signs of unification. Have you heard of the Alamanni?’
Silus shrugged. He found it better to feign complete ignorance when having a topic explained to him. It gave the other person a sense of superiority, often false-placed, which he could use to his advantage at a later date. Though he could never smuggle that sort of ploy past Oclatinius.
‘The Alamanni are a confederation of tribes, like your Caledonians and Maeatae.’
Not my Caledonians and Maeatae, thought Silus bitterly, but he supposed that to Festus, Britannia was just one big island.
‘We aren’t entirely sure where they came from. Some say they came from the Hermunderi, some that they are mainly descended from the Iuthungi, youths of various tribes like the Marcomanni who were crushed by Marcus Aurelius nearly fifty years ago. Regardless, they are the biggest threat in the area. But interestingly they are not the most hostile. They are actually quite romanised in some ways. Some of them live in Roman-style stone houses and use Roman tools. Some of their women even dress in Roman fashions.
‘The Chatti, further east and north, are more of a threat. They are an older tribe, and took part in the massacre of Varus’ legions.’
Silus shivered and made a sign of good luck subtly in his lap. Every man who served in the legions knew about the Varian disaster in the Teutoburg forest, and Germania was still thought of as a land of ill omen and doom, despite the successful wars against German tribes since that fateful day.
‘Beyond them, further north again, are other tribes like the Chauci and Saxons. Were they all to unite, and someone could direct them, they could pour through our defences into Gaul, and unchecked into Rome. They are a much bigger danger to the Empire than the Caledonian tribesmen, who were only a threat to Britannia. If Britannia was ravaged, so what? If Rome was sacked, well…’
He let the words trail off, obviously believing his point was made. Silus personally would rather see Rome destroyed than his people back home, but it wasn’t a choice he would have to make. He listened, outwardly polite, to gain what information he could that might be of use to his mission, but actually he felt like punching this smug spymaster on the nose. He sipped his beer and waited.
‘Well. The point of all this is that Atius was conducting a man of mine, a fellow called Eustachys, on a diplomatic mission into Chatti territory. And in order for this mission to succeed, Eustachys had to be privy to some of the Emperor’s strategic plans.’
Silus couldn’t resist now. ‘He went into enemy territory with Caracalla’s military secrets in his head? Why didn’t you just carve them into a big tablet and send them by courier to their chie
f?’
Festus’ face darkened. ‘You know nothing about politics and diplomacy and strategy. I judged it a risk worth taking, for the considerable rewards.’
‘And with hindsight?’
Festus got to his feet, hands on the table, leaning forward so his face was up against Silus’ own.
‘Listen, lad. Oclatinius here might like you, but I don’t. Continue to take that tone with me, and you will find yourself swigging hemlock in your next beer.’
‘Sit down, Festus,’ said Oclatinius calmly. ‘I think we are all agreed that with hindsight, it was pretty stupid, whatever your justification at the time. But Silus is here to solve the little predicament you have put us in. We are all pulling in the same direction.’
Festus glared at Silus a little longer, then sat back down. The slave carrying his food and beer arrived at that moment, but Festus yelled at him. ‘Take this muck away.’ The slave retreated rapidly.
‘Festus, do please continue,’ said Oclatinius.
Festus took a breath and visibly calmed himself. ‘All you really need to know is that Atius led a small expedition into Chatti territory to escort Eustachys on his mission. That expedition was ambushed, and two of their number were captured. Those captives may know secrets that it is vital do not fall into the hands of the Germans. You are to rescue those two men, or if that is not possible, kill them.’
Silus clenched his teeth. Oclatinius had already revealed this to him. He wasn’t about to let on that he had no intention of killing his best friend. He lived with enough guilt already.
‘Where do I find them?’
‘That, we don’t know.’
‘Um. I have heard Germania Magna is quite a big place. Have I been misinformed?’
‘You don’t have to scour every pes quadratus. We know where their meeting was supposed to take place, so we can assume they were en route there, maybe even at the meeting point, when they were captured.’
‘Fine, where was the meeting point?’
‘Kalkriese.’ Oclatinius and Festus exchanged sombre glances.
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ asked Silus.
‘It’s in the Teutoburg forest,’ said Oclatinius in a low voice.
‘The Teutoburg… the place where…?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why the fuck did you choose to meet there?’
‘It wasn’t my choice,’ said Festus defensively. ‘The man they were meeting, a Chatti nobleman called Erhard, picked it. I suspect he thought it would intimidate Eustachys, give him an upper hand in the meeting. Maybe he even believed it had magic power, that it could influence the fates in his favour.’
‘If ever a mission was ill-omened… Was this Eustachys left-handed, and did he break a mirror before he left?’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Silus, it doesn’t suit you.’
‘Regardless,’ said Silus. ‘I don’t know my way to this Kal… Kalkriese.’
‘You will have a guide to show you the way. An Alamanni.’
‘Fine. And a hand-picked squad of elite speculatores?’
‘No,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Just the two of you.’
Silus’ heart sank.
‘You’re sending me into the heart of Germania with just a guide? When Atius and a team of hardened soldiers were killed or captured to a man?’
‘It’s a different task,’ said Oclatinius. ‘You aren’t escorting a civilian on a diplomatic mission. You need to move quickly, unseen, get in and get out, with or without… whoever is still alive.’
Silus shook his head. ‘Fine, fine. I just hope this guide you have allocated me is one tough bastard.’
Oclatinius and Festus exchanged a look.
* * *
Caracalla sighed and tugged on his beard. The evening banquet had been tedious from start to finish. The decurions, the local officials who ran the Colonia, had taken every opportunity to harangue him about their terrible lot in life. He had no sympathy. These were men from the masses of the humiliores, plebeians, without rank and social standing, who had been accepted into the nobility purely because they had the cash to be able to fund the public works that the city needed now. So it was galling to hear them complain about the cost, how building stadia and repairing roads and putting on games was already near bankrupting them, and now half the Roman army had come to their city it would be ruin.
He listened with half an ear to their pleadings, while his focus was on the woman on his right. Julia Domna at least appeared to be paying attention to the whining provincials, and made promises on his behalf which he had no intention of keeping. Still, it didn’t hurt to keep them pacified. Passive rebellion by the likes of these men could lead to funds being withheld for any reason or excuse they could find, and this expedition was already putting a strain on the treasury.
His father had amassed a fortune in Rome’s coffers, but Caracalla was doing a good job of working his way through it. It wasn’t his fault. The bribes and donatives he had had to pay to keep the Praetorians and others loyal had been phenomenal. To be fair, his father’s dying words to him and his brother had been to command them to live with each other in harmony, enrich the soldiers and damn the rest. He wondered if his father would be happy with two out of three.
As always when he thought of his brother, his mood soured even more. He took a big slurp from his wine goblet, and stood abruptly. The decurion, a stooped, skinny man with a bald pate rimmed with straggly white hair, who was discussing the pressure on the city’s sewage system, stopped mid-sentence.
‘I’m tired,’ said Caracalla. ‘I will retire now.’
The guests all hurried to stand and bow, but he had already turned away and was striding through the door. One of his bodyguards hurried after him, and he snapped an order for more wine to be brought to his bedchamber. The bodyguard dispatched a slave on the urgent mission, and Caracalla entered his bedchamber.
A slave girl was smoothing his blankets, and she yelped involuntarily when he threw the door open, then put her hand over her mouth in shame and fear.
‘Get out,’ he snapped. Then, as the girl rushed out, he yelled after her, ‘And tell the Empress I wish to see her.’
He closed the door on his bodyguard, and sat on the edge of the bed. He leant forward and put his head in his hands, and he was still in that position when the door opened, and Domna’s gentle voice reached him.
‘You asked to see me, Augustus?’
Caracalla sighed. ‘In here, I am not your Emperor.’
Domna cast her eyes down. ‘You are always my Emperor, Augustus.’
‘Come and sit with me.’
‘As you command.’
Domna walked over, tall and elegant, and Caracalla let his eyes wander from her feet to her face, still shapely despite her increasing years. She sat beside him, her hands in her lap, looking straight ahead. Caracalla gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the anger. Just over a year since he had killed her son, his half-brother. And she knew it was self-defence. She was there. When was she going to get over it?
‘Lie down,’ he said.
‘Yes, Augustus.’
Obediently, his stepmother kicked off her shoes and lay on her back on his soft bed. He lay beside her, stroked the hair out of her eyes, and kissed her cheeks, her nose, her lips. She made no response, just stared unblinking at the ceiling. He put a hand on her breast, squeezed gently, and she flinched a little. Then he reached a hand up the inside of her thigh, stroking, probing.
He smiled when his fingers came away wet. She might be showing no outward sign of interest, but her body said otherwise, he thought. They had shared love together so many times, before Geta’s death, and it had been so wonderful. But she had been distant ever since. In public she was a proper and responsible Empress, diligent in carrying out her duties, an ever-solid advisor in councils. But in private, she was as cold as a dead turbot, and though never outright defiant, she made it clear that there was an unfordable river between them.
Yet now, was h
e finally making some progress against the flow? He willed himself to slow down, to be gentle. He heard her breathing deepen, saw her chest moving faster, could see the throb of a pulse in her neck. He felt himself hardening, and he pulled her dress up around her waist and rolled between her legs. He looked down at her, and for the first time in more than a year saw something other than reproach in her eyes. He held himself in his hand, fumbled for her, penetrated her. Her eyes flew open and she gasped.
Suddenly an image of his brother was superimposed on her. He had never before appreciated how alike they were. But the picture before him now was of that last moment of his brother’s life. With Caracalla’s sword penetrating his chest. His eyes wide open. Gasping, trying to speak, blood pouring from his mouth.
Caracalla’s erection shrivelled like a punctured pig’s bladder. Domna, who was gripping his back and moving against him, noticed the change and was still, looking into his face questioningly. Caracalla squeezed his eyes shut, tried to continue, but the image was still there behind his eyelids, his brother’s bloodied, agonised face.
He let out a cry and rolled off her.
‘Antoninus?’ Even in his distress he noticed that she used his real name. ‘Antoninus, what’s wrong?’
He sat up, pulling a blanket from the bed to cover his shame.
‘Get out,’ he whispered.
Domna put a hand on his shoulder, the most loving touch he had received from her since… since that time. He took hold of it and thrust it away from him, stood, taking a step away from her.
‘Get out!’ he yelled pointing at the door. ‘Get out!’
Domna jumped to her feet, hurriedly rearranging her stola, and swept out of the door, choking back a sob. As she disappeared from view, the bodyguard poked his head round.
‘Augustus. Are you well?’
‘You get out, too,’ he roared, but as the bodyguard hastily retreated, he snapped out, ‘Wait!’
The bodyguard reappeared. ‘Augustus?’ He was unsuccessfully attempting to disguise the tremor in his voice.
‘That slave girl, the one who was making the bed when I came in. What was her name? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Just send her to me.’
