Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  Soon they left the scene of the skirmish behind and were once more deep in dark, menacing forest. Atius hated that he was so lost, so completely in the hands of their foreign guide. Eustachys at his side seemed to share his sense of unease, though no words passed between them, just unhappy glances. But Aldric gave him no cause for suspicion, and when he came to call a break in a small clearing, around noon, he felt they had made good progress, in what he thought was roughly the right direction.

  They sat in a small circle, breaking out water flasks and hard biscuits and refreshing themselves efficiently. Aldric announced he was going to scout on ahead, and Atius nodded agreement. He watched the long-haired German pull his cloak tight about him and head roughly east. As he disappeared into the trees, Atius wondered again what motivated their scout. Blind loyalty to his chief just didn’t seem enough. He thought too about the barbarian attack on the barn. Was it random? It was a large party to just be hunting, or patrolling this deep in their own territory. And if it wasn’t random, how had they tracked them in all that snow?

  He wished once again that Silus was there, that he could talk it through with his wily friend. But he wasn’t. Atius was the one in charge. Frowning, he got stiffly to his feet.

  ‘Are we off already?’ asked Scaurus, not a little irritably.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Atius. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just wait here, I said,’ Atius snapped.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Scaurus gave a sarcastic salute and went back to chewing on his biscuit.

  Atius followed Aldric’s tracks to the east. They weren’t as clear as fresh tracks in snow would have been, but there were enough cracked puddles and muddy footprints to make it easy for Atius to follow. The trail continued east for a short way, then looped south. Atius wasn’t sure why Aldric would need to head in that direction. He was supposed to be scouting their way ahead.

  The path continued south just far enough to be out of sight and sound of the Roman soldiers’ break spot, then headed back west. This wasn’t right. Atius put his hand on the hilt of his sword and loosened it in the scabbard so he could draw it quickly if needed. He followed the tracks due west, moving swiftly but quietly. The trail now looped back north, until it intersected with their previous path.

  And there Atius found Aldric, tying a piece of cloth around a low branch. It was dyed a bright red, standing out clearly against the greens and browns of the trees, the mulch and mud of the forest floor and the snow clinging to boughs and trunks. Beside it, an arrow indicating their direction of travel, had been carved into the trunk.

  Atius approached quietly, to within six feet, with Aldric oblivious to his presence. Then he trod on an iced puddle, and just the slightest weight on it made it crack noisily.

  Aldric whirled, and his eyes widened and his face paled as he saw Atius. His mouth worked as he searched for words, reasons, excuses.

  ‘I was just… I thought I saw.’

  ‘What is that on the tree?’ asked Atius, voice even.

  ‘I don’t know, I just found it here. Something the locals put there to mark a boundary maybe?’

  ‘I just watched you tie it there.’

  Aldric took a step forward, extending an empty hand in a gesture of… friendship? Supplication? Atius looked at in suspicion, almost taken in by the distraction. Then Aldric’s other hand whipped forward, pulling his knife from his belt and lunging at Atius.

  His surprise assault might have borne fruit if it was aimed at someone without Atius’ training and experience. An ordinary legionary or auxiliary, used only to marching long distances with a heavy pack, and occasionally standing in line beside his comrade, behind his shield, stabbing at anyone who approached. A man such as that might have the knife in his guts before he could respond.

  But Atius was an Arcanus. He had seen the attack in Aldric’s eyes before he had even moved. A tightening around the corners. A widening of the pupils. So he was already in motion as the knife flashed out, and the weapon harmlessly split the air where Atius had been just before he dodged sideways.

  Aldric cursed, momentarily off balance. He recovered quickly, but it was enough time for Atius to draw his gladius and hold it out defensively.

  Aldric could see he was outmatched. He was up against a real fighter, with a weapon with superior reach. His eyes darted from side to side. Was he looking for escape, or help? For a moment, Atius worried that the guide’s barbarian friends were about to spring from behind the trees.

  But no, Aldric was alone.

  Yet despite the hopelessness of his position, the guide went on the attack.

  He was no beginner. He ducked and weaved around Atius’ sword play, darting in to lunge with his blade, forcing Atius to parry and leap backwards. For a brief moment, the fury and desperation of Aldric’s attack dominated the fight, Atius on the defensive at every swipe and lunge.

  But it couldn’t last, and from the wild look in Aldric’s eyes, Atius realised he knew it. He obviously wanted to die in battle, for glory, or to take his secrets to his grave.

  Atius wasn’t prepared to grant his wish.

  At the next thrust, Atius twisted his body in a half turn to the right, letting the dagger glide harmlessly past. The attack brought Aldric close, and Atius thrust his elbow up into the German’s face. Bone and gristle crunched, blood spurted, and Aldric cried out in surprise. He fell backwards, but Atius grabbed the extended arm with both hands, and brought it down against his knee, cracking it like you would snap a dry branch for the fire.

  Aldric screamed, the knife falling from his hand, and dropped to his knees, cradling his shattered elbow. Atius watched for a moment, then stepped forward and kicked him full in the face, snapping his head up, so he toppled over, sprawling on his back. Atius dropped onto his chest, his knees either side, pinning Aldric down as he writhed and mewled. He grabbed the collar of his cloak and pulled him up, so his face was just a couple of inches away from Aldric’s. The German stared back, defiance crowding out the pain.

  ‘Toutorix,’ Atius growled. ‘Your fault, right?’

  Aldric spat a blood-filled gob into Atius’ face. Atius didn’t so much as flinch. He just smacked Aldric across the face, and though his hand was open, the force snapped his head sideways.

  ‘Let’s try again,’ said Atius, as he took another grip. His voice was low and harsh, a slight tremor giving away the effort he needed to keep himself under control. ‘How long have you been helping your friends track us?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, you Roman cunnus.’

  This time, Atius slammed him down into the earth, knocking the wind out of him. Then he stood, and began to kick the prostrate guide. Aldric curled up, trying to defend his broken arm, but Atius laid into his upper back and kidneys with his heavy boots, the punishment methodical and well-aimed, not in the least frenzied.

  Atius paused for breath, then rolled Aldric onto his back once more.

  ‘Last time. Who has been following us? For how long? Why are they trying to kill us?’

  Aldric coughed, a paroxysm that sprayed droplets of blood over Atius’ face and chest. Atius turned his face away to avoid the spray.

  In that moment, Aldric reached out with his good hand, and grasped the knife from the ground where it had fallen. Atius had no time to curse his carelessness, just the briefest moment to react. As the knife arced around, he threw himself sideways, off Aldric, rolling across the muddy ground, coming to a crouch, ready to react.

  But the blow was never intended for him. As Atius righted himself, he stared at the German, disbelieving.

  Aldric had plunged the knife into the side of his own neck, all the way to the hilt, so the tip emerged from the other side in a gout of blood. Open-mouthed, Atius stared into the German’s hate-filled eyes, and watched the awareness fade from them as a dark red puddle spread all around.

  Atius slowly, painfully, stood upright and looked down at the erstwhile guide. Slowly, a realisation crept across him of how truly d
isastrous their situation was.

  ‘Christos,’ he whispered into the silent forest. ‘We’re fucked.’

  Chapter Five

  Martius 213 AD

  ‘Are you all packed?’ asked Oclatinius.

  ‘I have a spare undershirt and a hat for the sun, I wiped my arse particularly clean with the sponge stick this morning, and I will eat lots of fresh vegetables and try not to fuck any women with rashes while I’m gone,’ said Silus. ‘Thanks for caring, mother.’

  Oclatinius shook his head. They were standing by the city gates.

  ‘So since I am about to leave, isn’t it about time you introduced me to this guide?’

  ‘Of course.’ Oclatinius whistled and beckoned to someone behind Silus.

  ‘I hope he can handle himself,’ said Silus, turning to look. ‘Oh, Pluto’s arse.’

  The young lad before him was taller than Silus, but probably half his weight. He had long, straggly, fair hair, acne and a feeble attempt at a beard which looked like the fluff on a piece of mouldy bread.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Silus, this is Odo. He is a warrior of the Alamanni confederation, specifically of the Lentienses.’

  ‘I’m not a wet nurse, Oclatinius. I’m not taking a child with me.’

  ‘Odo’s tribe seeks an alliance with Rome against the Chatti. I can vouch for his loyalty, and he knows both Alamanni and Chatti territory. You will not find a better guide. Nor will you look for one, since it is my command that he accompany you.’

  ‘But he looks like he can barely hold a sword.’

  ‘He has proven himself in his tribe’s warrior rituals. But honestly, if you have to fight your way out of Germania Magna, you’re probably screwed whoever you take with you.’

  Silus shook his head. ‘And how are we supposed to communicate?’

  ‘I suspect Latin would be easiest, since I doubt you speak any Germanic dialects,’ said Odo.

  Silus had the good grace to flush.

  ‘You understood every word I said, and didn’t react?’

  ‘Insults only hurt if they are true,’ said Odo.

  Great, thought Silus. A philosopher too.

  ‘You know where we are going?’

  ‘Like the goose knows its way home in the winter, like the river knows its way to the sea…’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Silus. He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders, lifted a hand in the air to Oclatinius, and set off without a backward glance. Odo hurried after him.

  Januarius 213 AD

  Atius’ mind was blank as he walked stiffly back to the temporary camp where the rest of his men waited for him. He was aware that he should be processing what he had discovered, calculating the impact of Aldric’s betrayal, evaluating what it meant for the mission, and making plans to compensate for the change in their fortunes. But all he could think about was his fatigued and aching muscles from the two fights, so proximate in time, the sting from the arrow wound over his collarbone, and the hard, dull throb in his ribs and back where he had fallen through the roof. Beyond that, all he could summon was a deep sense of doom.

  He did nothing to hide his feelings as he entered the clearing. His expression, his demeanour and the spatters of blood across his face were instantly noted by Eustachys, who leapt to his feet.

  ‘Atius. What happened?’

  The others stared at him in dismay, faces pale and drawn.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ growled Scaurus, rising slowly with his hand on his sword.

  Atius slumped to the ground, gritting his teeth at the pain that even the slight impact caused as it jolted through his body.

  ‘Atius,’ said Eustachys again. ‘Where is Aldric?’

  Atius shook his head. He reached for his pack, pulled out his flask, and took a long swig, the cold water overflowing and running down his chin.

  Eustachys stood over him, not speaking, but waiting impatiently for an answer.

  ‘Aldric’s dead,’ said Atius.

  ‘The Germans got him,’ said Scaurus. ‘Cocksuckers! They even killed one of their own.’

  ‘No,’ said Eustachys, catching on quicker than the others. ‘It wasn’t them, was it, Atius?’

  Atius shook his head.

  ‘He died by his own hand. But if he hadn’t, I would have killed him myself.’

  Scaurus looked over to Memnon and Drustan, eyebrows raised, but the other legionaries simply returned confused shrugs.

  ‘So,’ said Eustachys. ‘He betrayed us to his countrymen.’

  ‘He did what?’ Scaurus looked like he might blow apart with rage, like the obstructive rocks that Hannibal heated with fire and split with vinegar. ‘I knew he wasn’t to be trusted. Fucking barbarians. Traitors and cowards, every one of them.’

  ‘Has he been responsible for all our misfortune?’ asked Eustachys. ‘Toutorix? The attack on the barn?’

  Atius nodded. ‘I caught him laying a trail for his friends to follow. He clearly never meant us to reach our destination.’

  ‘Are we even going in the right direction?’

  Atius thought about it. ‘I believe so. My scouting skills are good enough that he knew he wouldn’t be able to trick me by leading us astray. And he didn’t need to, as long as the warriors following us could stop us.’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ asked Drustan. The Briton looked anguished, and for a moment, Atius wondered if Drustan felt any split loyalty to his Emperor and his conquered homeland. But Britannia had been Roman for nearly two centuries now, and Atius knew from his time there that except for among those in the northern and westernmost extremities of those isles, the status quo was accepted, and even preferred by most.

  ‘Why did he break his oath to us?’

  So that was it. Drustan was upset by the fact that Aldric was an oathbreaker.

  ‘He explained nothing to me,’ said Atius. ‘He gave me no chance to interrogate him, either. But I believe he had a higher loyalty, to his people, above the orders of his chief to work for Rome.’

  ‘So, what now, centurion?’ Scaurus gave Atius’ rank a contemptuous inflection. ‘What the fuck do we do now? We’re lost, and we’re being pursued by a superior force, in enemy territory, with no hope of reinforcement or rescue. Tell us, what are your orders?’

  Atius looked to Eustachys, hoping to find inspiration, or at least support there. But Eustachys seemed as lost as the rest. Atius was the leader, and his men were scared and demoralised. It was down to him, alone.

  ‘We go on.’

  ‘We what?’ asked Scaurus.

  ‘The mission has not changed. It has not become less important, just because we find ourselves in hardship. We still have the ability to complete it.’

  ‘We should go back,’ said Scaurus. ‘Find the quickest way back to Roman territory. We have no chance of completing the mission now. Even if we don’t get massacred, we have no idea where we are going.’

  ‘Maybe he is right,’ said Eustachys uncertainly. ‘Our chances of success without a guide are greatly diminished.’

  Memnon and Drustan nodded and muttered agreement.

  ‘Eustachys,’ said Atius. ‘This mission is vital, right? Is it worth our lives?’

  Eustachys hesitated, looked around at the angry, anxious soldiers, then his shoulders slumped and he nodded. ‘I believe it is.’

  ‘Then our orders stand. We go on.’

  Martius 213 AD

  They were one day’s travel into Germania Magna, and Silus was already feeling the mission was hopeless. The countryside was beautiful and wild, and reminded him of Britannia in some ways. Forests, farmland, marshes, hills. The early spring weather was mild. A bit chilly, a bit wet, a bit muddy underfoot, but nothing he could really complain about.

  But this place was just so big. How was he supposed to find Atius in all this wilderness? If indeed Atius was alive.

  Odo, though, seemed optimistic. Despite Silus’ rudeness to him at their initial meeting, Odo bore no grudges and chatted all day long with the garrulo
usness of an over-familiar barber.

  ‘What made you join the Arcani? Have you ever been to a chariot race? Does it always rain in Britannia?’

  Silus’ curt and monosyllabic answers did nothing to curb the young man’s enthusiasm, and eventually Silus ordered him to be silent unless he had something pertinent to the mission to impart. Odo grinned at the order, but kept his peace obediently.

  They traced the route they believed Atius and his companions would most likely have taken to get to Kalkriese quickly and discreetly. The wild countryside was punctuated by frequent settlements, collections of stone houses that made a village, or farmsteads with barns, byres and a farmer’s cottage. They bypassed these inhabited areas, but decided they would risk the open roads. Silus was dressed as a trader from a German tribe, with a simple hooded cloak, trousers and a backpack. He wore his sword conspicuously at his belt to deter bandits who thought they might be an easy target, but that was no different from any other traveller in these parts, and indeed many Germans owned Roman swords, bought, traded, stolen or looted from the dead.

  At this time of year, the days were lengthening, although of course the number of hours of daylight remained constant, since an hour was simply one-twelfth of the time between sunrise and sunset. As the sky darkened that evening, Silus asked Odo where he intended for them to rest for the night.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Odo. ‘I have the perfect place in mind.’ And then, sticking to his orders to be quiet, he shut his mouth and kept it shut.

  The main road curved to the right, but a small track, imprinted with cloven hoofprints, led to the left, and Odo took them down this route. The track wended through open farmland, grazed by shaggy, long-haired cows and scruffy sheep.

  A prickling sensation at the back of Silus’ neck was his first indication that something was wrong. He cast Odo a sideways glance, but his young guide seemed as cheerful and unperturbed as ever. Silus surreptitiously loosened his sword in his scabbard.