Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  He walked over to the final tree, and used his knife to prise the nails from the wood, hating himself for disliking the way this abnormal use of the weapon blunted the edge.

  The skeleton fell apart as the nails came loose, rotten sinews tearing, so an arm that was still weight-bearing ripped free at the elbow joint and dangled as the rest of the bones crumpled to the ground. Silus took the last nail out with gritted teeth, and then Odo helped Silus move the majority of the body into the grave before he came back for the discrete limb.

  He looked down at the remains and thought, this can’t be Atius. Even if it is his corpse, it’s not Atius. If his friend was right, he would be in heaven now, being happy and good in the company of other happy and good followers of Christos. He wasn’t sure Atius would really enjoy it, but it beat the alternative.

  He filled the hole in himself, refusing to let Odo help with this part. He swallowed hard as the hollow eyes disappeared beneath the soil. Was that the last he would ever see of his friend? He would certainly never see him in the next world. If there was another life, there was no way Atius and Silus were ending up in the same place.

  Odo touched his arm lightly, and said in a soft voice, ‘Time to go.’

  ‘In a moment.’

  Odo looked around nervously. Silus didn’t know if it was the violence, the presence of recent death, the ill-fated location, or a real sense of danger that was perturbing him. He felt it himself, but he couldn’t leave without doing one last thing for his friend.

  He knelt beside the grave, bowed his head, closed his eyes, and prayed.

  He had seen Atius do this plenty of times, but had never paid much attention. What was it he said?

  He spoke the words he could remember as best as he could.

  ‘Father in heaven. Holy is your name. Come to the Empire and… do what you want. Give us our food. And forgive us for… all the bad stuff.’ What did he say at the end? ‘Amen.’

  Then he gave the possible body of Atius his own blessing.

  ‘If it’s you, old friend, I hope you are with your God. I hope you went easy. I’m sorry we parted ways, that I wasn’t here for you at the end. I hope you know you will always be in my heart, and I will do everything in my power to avenge you, I swear by Jupiter, by Mithras and by your Christos.’

  He kept his eyes closed, feeling the words bring him a surprising sense of peace and purpose. The only sound was the whistle as he breathed through his wonky nose, and he felt a sudden calmness in the quiet forest.

  In fact, the forest was completely silent. Nothing from Odo. No animals rustling nearby. No birdsong.

  He opened his eyes, and found the sharp end of a spear about an inch from his left eye. He looked up the shaft to the tangle-bearded barbarian warrior at the other end, then across to others who held Odo’s arms behind his back, and a knife to his throat.

  Oh fuck.

  Chapter Eight

  Martius

  This one didn’t frighten him. Yes, he was big, he was sadistic and when he smiled, a rotten stench emanated from his broken teeth and red gums. But he didn’t know what he was doing.

  Punching a man in the abdomen hurt. Smacking his face hard enough to whip his head round hurt. Thumping him on the chin so his lower jaw clanked into his upper jaw, the blow reverberating his skull, that hurt too. But it didn’t scare him. And that’s what they needed to do to get him to tell them what he knew.

  The one who actually scared Atius was the young priestess. If he hadn’t been in so much pain, starving and thirsty, he might have found her alluring. Intellectually, he knew her oval face and high cheekbones and supercilious expression would have attracted him greatly in other circumstances. But when she took one of the smallest knives he had ever seen, and stroked it along his lower eyelid, or up the inside of his thigh, his bowels tried to loosen, and once, to his shame, he even let out some piss which trickled warmly down his legs and puddled on the ground.

  But he was lucky. Their German captors had quickly worked out which of their two captives was the important one, and the priestess had largely left Atius alone, abandoning him to the attentions of the large warrior who kept him softened up.

  It was Eustachys who was having the really hard time.

  Atius had come round after the battle to find himself bound hand and foot, gagged, blindfolded and slung over the back of a horse. Consciousness returned only gradually and for a long moment he had no recollection of how he had got there. Slowly, the memory of the battle had returned, then the miserable recollection of the deaths of his team, Drustan, Memnon, Scaurus, one after the other. Then the giant chieftain, he couldn’t remember his name, confronting him. But after that there was nothing. He had no idea how he had survived.

  The horse had stopped and he had been dumped from its back. With hands tied he wasn’t able to cushion his fall, and he thought for an instant that the impact had dislocated his shoulder. His blindfold had been removed, and he had been hauled to his feet, and found he was in a large settlement with mainly wooden roundhouses and one large stone building. A crowd of barbarians had gathered round to stare; men, women and children.

  He then discovered that Eustachys had also survived the battle. He too was thrown from the horse, and Atius watched him blinking as he adjusted to the light as his blindfold was also removed. He had cuts and bruises around his face and arms, but seemed to have taken no major injuries. He had focused on Atius, and they had given each other nods and grim smiles as each discovered they were not the sole survivor.

  Then they had been led to the stone building and separated. Atius had been taken to a small room where he had been tied to the wall, and where he had been, by and large, ever since. He didn’t know exactly where Eustachys was, just that he was far enough away that they couldn’t talk, but near enough that Atius could clearly hear his screams.

  Atius looked at the man before him steadily. He was of typical Germanic build, tall, well-muscled, and he was still in his youth. The first time they had met, he had been introduced by the little priestess as Friduric, a cousin of Aldric and Hunfrid, and she had made it clear how delighted he was to be looking after him.

  For the beatings, his wrists were tied and hoisted into the air by a rope slung over a roof beam. It made breathing hard after a time, which was almost as uncomfortable as the punches and kicks. He had no idea how long they lasted, usually until Friduric had worked up a sweat and had had enough. Then they would leave him to heal for two or three days, before working him over again. Since Friduric didn’t speak a word of Greek or Latin, if the object of the exercise was to obtain information, it was entirely pointless.

  Of course, that wasn’t the reason Friduric beat him. It was pure and simple revenge for the deaths of his cousins. But he was clearly not allowed to take it too far. He was not to inflict any injuries that could be fatal or permanently disabling.

  Early in his captivity, Wigbrand had come to see him. Then, and at every subsequent visit, the Chatti chief had treated him with respect. His Latin was accented but fluent, making conversation easy.

  Atius’ initial tactic had been to refuse to engage with his captor, and Wigbrand had taken his silence with equanimity, shrugging and leaving him alone. The beatings had started soon after, but when Wigbrand returned he showed no anger or even resentment. Atius was provided with enough stale bread and water to stay alive, but when Wigbrand visited he brought beer and meat. He always consumed it thankfully, intent on keeping up his strength as best he could.

  In the first days of his captivity, his thoughts were constantly on escape. He tested his ropes, he scraped at the iron wall fastenings, he tried to slip his hands through the bindings or untie the knots. He had been in worse situations before, he told himself, and things had always turned out for the best.

  But when it was clear that he could not free himself, and when he reflected realistically on his situation – he was deep in Germania, and no friends or allies knew where he was, or even that he was alive – despair set in. H
e thought about how this would end. Continued torture, until his body weakened and he died? Sacrifice by the priestess to their pagan gods?

  That was when he decided to kill himself.

  There were few options. Nothing sharp. He had wrapped the rope around his neck, and pulled tight, held it until the room span and darkness closed in.

  It turns out that when you pass out from self-strangulation, you stop strangling yourself and you wake up. Actually hanging himself was not an option, since his bonds would not allow him to lift his body off the floor. He tried refusing food. His captors did nothing to force him to eat. When he left the bread untouched, they simply shrugged and took it away. He lasted about two days, before the hunger pangs got the better of him.

  At that point, despair gave way to a fatalistic resolve. He would survive, for as long as possible. And he would pray, for release in this world, or for mercy in the next.

  He was praying at that instant, his eyes closed, as Friduric pummelled his ribs. The German was grunting with exertion as the rapid blows landed in quick succession. Atius could feel every punch, but at the same time mouthed the words of the prayer that Christos had taught his followers, over and over. ‘Father in heaven, your name be hallowed.’

  When Friduric stepped back, breathing hard, Atius slumped in the irons suspending him. Friduric spat in his face, punched him one last time, then stalked out. Two other tribesmen entered the room, took him down and secured him back to the wall.

  Once, when they had been transferring him from his attachment to the wall to the rope over the beam, he had tried to take advantage of the moment when he was unsecured to try to fight for his freedom. Although he had taken them by surprise, and knocked one down with a double-handed blow, the other had smacked him in the side of the head with the hilt of his sword, stunning him, and doubling the size of the bruise there. After that, the priestess had come to talk to him. Caressing his skin with her tiny knife, she explained why it would be a bad idea to attempt escape again. Then she had left, and moments later, the screams from Eustachys were renewed.

  Atius sat with his back to the wall, breathing through his nose, resisting the urge to prod and poke the bruised areas of his ribs and abdomen. He didn’t think anything was broken this time. More than once, in previous beatings, he had felt a rib crack, and a deep breath or a cough still hurt like hell.

  The hours of the day were hard to judge, since although there was a small window in the room the sky was so often grey, he could rarely tell the sun’s position. Visits from Friduric, the priestess, Wigbrand, or even his guards bringing food were irregular, and did nothing to help him work out the time. So the day-night cycle was his only chronological yardstick, and even that was becoming a blur. How many days had he been in captivity now? Thirty? Forty?

  It was taking its toll. He had seeping sores around both wrists where the ropes chafed. His entire body was a patchwork of fresh blues and purples mixed with older yellowy-browns. There seemed not to be a single part of him that was not either newly damaged or in the process of healing. And despite the supplement to his diet that Wigbrand brought him, it was not enough, and coupled with the immobility from being chained up all day long, he was wasting. They had even had to retie the ropes as he had become thin enough that they were in danger of slipping off his wrists.

  The door to his room – he thought of it as a cell, though he was sure it hadn’t been designed as such – creaked open. It was solid oak, with no lock, but he heard a bar slide into place on the far side whenever he was left alone. That seemed like overkill given how well he was secured, but they were obviously taking no chances.

  Wigbrand entered, bearing a clay jug of beer and a plate of chunks of roasted venison. Atius’ mouth instantly started to water, and Wigbrand put the meal before him and stepped back. Atius grabbed a chunk of meat and thrust it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, almost ecstatic at the juices that flooded out as he chewed. Despite the pain from broken and loosened teeth, the meals that Wigbrand brought him were a tiny piece of pleasure he could cling to in this horrific ordeal.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that Wigbrand was waiting patiently for him.

  ‘How’s your head, Atius?’ he asked.

  Atius lifted his hands to touch the tender area.

  ‘I think you cracked it. But my skull is pretty thick.’

  ‘The lump has gone, at least.’

  During one of their first conversations, Atius had asked why he wasn’t dead. Wigbrand had described how, with Atius at his mercy, on an impulse he had twisted the axe in his hands and smacked the flat of the blade against his temple. Atius had gone out like a snuffed candle.

  Wigbrand seemed to enjoy Atius’ company. He continued to show little interest in why Atius was trespassing in his lands, and talked instead about battles and tactics. They ran through the fight on the road together, the single combat against Hunfrid, the desperate last stand of the Romans against the Chatti. Grudgingly, Atius found himself opening up to the affable chieftain. They praised each other’s strength and prowess, and even gave each other constructive criticism on tactics.

  Once they had picked apart their mutual battle, Wigbrand turned his questioning to more general military matters. He had a thirst for knowledge, and while Atius took care to avoid giving away anything he thought might give the Chatti an edge in any war against the Romans, he was quite happy to discuss matters of general knowledge. So they talked about the war against the Caledonians and the Maeatae, of which Atius had first-hand knowledge, and they talked about Caracalla, and they talked about history that Atius had not experienced, but knew well from campfire stories, such as the deeds of Caesar and Agrippa and Trajan. Wigbrand in his turn told him about the infamous battle in the Teutoburg forest – where Varus lost his three legions – from the German point of view.

  Today, Wigbrand wanted to talk about Caracalla’s second campaign in Caledonia, the one in which he had been instructed by his father to kill every inhabitant of that country, man, woman and child. Atius told him unflinchingly what he had seen, and saw Wigbrand’s eyes hardening at the massacre of innocents.

  ‘But this is not honourable,’ he said. ‘Do your chiefs not have honour?’

  Atius shrugged. ‘They do what they feel they have to, to protect the Empire and its people. The Caledonians and Maeatae had broken peace treaties more than once. And if they were defeated in battle, but not in their homes, then they would soon be back to fight again. Severus and Caracalla have ensured that the north of Britannia will be safe for a generation.’

  ‘By killing mothers and infants. Your Christos that you tell me of, would he approve?’

  Atius took a slurp from the beer as he suppressed a sudden guilt and sadness. Was it fatigue or captivity that made him feel emotion more keenly?

  ‘No,’ he said, in a low voice.

  ‘Then maybe your Christos was an honourable man, after all. I had thought him a coward.’

  ‘He sacrificed his own life to save the peoples of the world,’ said Atius angrily. ‘That is not the action of a coward.’

  Wigbrand held up his hands placatingly. ‘Calm yourself, Atius. I meant no offence. Your god is so different from ours – he is hard to comprehend sometimes.’

  Atius glowered at him, and Wigbrand, sensing the mood change, got to his feet.

  ‘I will leave you now. But I have someone else who wants to meet you. My nephew. I told him about our discussions, and he wants to learn about military matters from you, as I have. Will you see him?’

  Atius clearly had no choice in the matter, but he appreciated the courtesy that gave him the illusion of free will.

  He nodded. ‘Of course. I think I have time today.’

  Wigbrand laughed at the weak attempt at humour and clapped Atius on the shoulder, which like most of his body was bruised and painful. He opened the door.

  ‘I’ll send him to you this evening,’ said Wigbrand. ‘His name is Erhard.’

  * * *

  Odo strug
gled in his captors’ arms, babbling in his native Germanic language, yelling and pointing at Silus. An older warrior stepped forward, presumably their leader, and questioned him abruptly. Odo replied quickly, breathlessly, gesturing again to Silus.

  The leader seemed satisfied and nodded to his men to let Odo go. Odo rubbed his arms where they had been tightly gripped and stared resentfully at the men who had held him. The leader spoke to Odo again, ending with a harsh command.

  Odo nodded and turned to Silus, who had risen cautiously to his feet, the spear tip never wavering from him.

  ‘His name is Radulf. He wants to know who you are and where you are from.’

  ‘What else did he say? What’s going on, Odo?’

  ‘I told him I was your prisoner. That you are a Roman slaver, taking me back to the Empire as a slave.’

  ‘You did what!’ Silus exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t overreact, Silus. I’m supposed to be translating for them, nothing more.’

  Radulf interrupted angrily. Odo replied then turned back to Silus.

  ‘He says you are talking too much and wants answers. What should I tell him?’

  Silus thought quickly. Odo’s improvised lie wasn’t actually a bad one.

  ‘Tell him I’m Silus from Britannia and I’m a slave hunter. Tell him I am chasing an absconded Roman slave who had conned his way into the legions to escape his master.’

  Odo translated, and the Chatti leader asked another question.

  ‘Why do you think the escaped slave is out here?’

  ‘Tell him I’ve tracked him from within the Empire borders, that I believe he was out here a few weeks ago in a small party of men. Tell him I can pay if he takes me to him.’

  The reply came via Odo. ‘How do you know he isn’t one of these?’ he said, indicating the fresh graves.