Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  ‘I will. Silus. You are a Roman. Why did you save me?’

  Because of Odo. Because of their sister. Because it was wrong. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, so he just shrugged, pathetically.

  ‘Silus. My father. My brother.’

  ‘I took Odo to safety before it all started,’ he said.

  Ewald was not stupid, and immediately noted the obvious omission.

  ‘Then my father…?’

  Silus shook his head.

  Ewald looked down, swallowed. He held his tears inside. Maybe that’s what he thought bravery was.

  ‘Please pass on my condolences to your mother and sister. I don’t know if they will believe it, but I am truly sorry. And when you see your brother…’ He trailed off. Odo would never forgive him, not just for the treachery of Silus’ Emperor, but for his own deceit, taking Odo away from danger without giving him the chance to save his father. There was nothing he could say that would make that right.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ he said, the words sounding weak even in his own ears. He turned, feeling the eyes of Ewald and the other Alamanni burning into the back of his head, and walked back towards the Empire.

  * * *

  Silus stormed into the governor’s palace, past the guards, growling at them when they challenged him that he was on Arcani business, and they could go fuck themselves. It was enough for them to let him pass, but the German bodyguards at the entrance to Caracalla’s headquarters were less impressed by his credentials, and barred his way with crossed spears.

  ‘Let me pass.’ His voice held all the authority he could muster, but his anger was plain to see, and the Emperor’s personal bodyguard took their jobs seriously. They blocked the doorway impassively.

  Silus put his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘This is your only warning,’ he said. ‘Stand aside.’

  It was like talking to the wall of Hadrianus. As impassive and impenetrable. But walls were no obstacle to an Arcanus. He began to draw his gladius.

  A hand clamped over his wrist, held it fast, the blade only half drawn. He turned and found himself staring into the stern features of Oclatinius.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Take your hand away.’

  Oclatinius’ grip was surprisingly firm. Silus took a step backwards, wrenching himself free.

  ‘Don’t get in my way, old man.’

  With speed that amazed Silus and took him completely by surprise, Oclatinius jabbed him with straight fingers beneath the ribs. His breath left him, and he doubled up. Oclatinius stuck two fingers into the angle behind his jaw, under his ear, and Silus was overwhelmed with pain and dizziness.

  Oclatinius spoke to the guards in a low, threatening tone.

  ‘You saw nothing here. Do you understand?’

  They nodded, clearly more intimidated by the old man than they were by Silus. Oclatinius grabbed Silus’ upper arm and dragged him away.

  When they reached a secluded office, Oclatinius threw Silus at a stool.

  ‘Sit,’ he barked.

  All the fight departed from him. Silus slumped onto the wooden seat.

  ‘In the name of Mithras, what did you think you were doing?’

  Silus had no answer. He had let his feelings overwhelm him, and that alone would earn Oclatinius’ disapprobation. His plan had gone no further than confronting Caracalla and telling him what he thought of him. And then what? The guards tried to cut him down, and he either died, or killed them. Then did he need to kill the Emperor too? Or try to flee? Or wait meekly for his arrest? What would happen to Tituria then?

  He put his head in his hands and began to shake. Oclatinius said nothing, and waited for the flood of emotion to subside. After a while, Silus took a deep breath and looked up at Oclatinius.

  ‘How could you let it happen?’ The anger had gone from his voice now. His tone wasn’t even accusatory. He was genuinely puzzled.

  Oclatinius spoke with clear regret. ‘You overestimate my influence. Others have the ear of the Emperor more than I do.’

  ‘Festus?’

  ‘For one. And Macrinus. They are not the type of people to tell Caracalla something he doesn’t want to hear.’

  ‘And you are?’

  Oclatinius inclined his head. ‘It is a habit that could serve me badly, if I wasn’t so valuable to him.’

  ‘So you tried to uphold the honour of Rome, at least.’

  ‘You misunderstand me,’ said Oclatinius. ‘My opposition to this mad plan was not based on honour. It was strategy. The Germans are a tough nut to crack. Many have come unstuck on them in the past, and any victories have been temporary. We had the opportunity to split their forces, use the Alamanni to crush the Chatti and the others in the north and east. Then we could deal with the Alamanni at a later date. Or assimilate them into the Empire, which I have a suspicion might have happened over time if we carried on with trade and friendly relations. Much of Rome’s Empire has been gained by conquest, but also much by peaceable treaties, and inheriting lands bequeathed by chiefs and kings. The tragedy of today is that it was all so… unnecessary.’

  ‘Then why did he do it?’

  ‘Caracalla has a keen eye for an advantage, however it is gained. He defeated a powerful force with the potential to be a formidable enemy, with almost no loss.’

  ‘And has earned their perpetual hatred.’

  Oclatinius inclined his head in agreement.

  ‘So. What now?’

  ‘Now,’ said Oclatinius. ‘It is war.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Caracalla was only half listening. The day after the battle, and he still had that feeling inside, that sensation of joy, like the first time he had sex, the first time he killed a man in combat. It was his first victory. The first that was his alone, undisputed. Though he knew that he was responsible for the triumph in Caledonia, that he had earned the title Britannicus, he was aware that some muttered the victory belonged to his father, that he was just a lieutenant. There could be no disputing the architect of yesterday’s result. No father to overshadow him, no brother to undermine him.

  Thoughts of Geta threatened to crowd in on him, to burst the bubble of his exaltation, so he pushed them aside, and tried to concentrate on the discussions of his advisors. They were poring over scouting reports of the movements of the Chatti and other tribes from around the mouth of the Albis river. Festus relayed some information from one of his spies, and the others nodded and commented.

  Julia was present, and he kept glancing at her. She kept her eyes from him, steadfastly ignoring his attempts to make eye contact. It had been some time since they had shared a bed. She had shown no interest, but ultimately it had been his choice. He had not wanted to see his brother’s accusing eyes staring out of her beautiful face as he looked down at her.

  Now, though, he felt different. There was a virility coursing through him, and he felt more aroused than he had for some time. He looked at the curve of her body under her stola, thought about times they had spent together before, and his breath quickened. He blinked hard and forced himself to look away. Festus’ ugly face helped dampen his ardour, at least temporarily. The Commander of the Sacred Bedchamber was speaking, and Caracalla focused on his words.

  ‘The Alamanni are shattered. We need to march into their territory, now, and wipe them out, before they have a chance to pull their pieces back together.’

  Oclatinius looked grave. ‘Maybe we should be magnanimous in our victory. If we extend an olive branch now, then, though we cannot expect their forgiveness, at least maybe we will not be nurturing a new enemy on our doorstep. And the time may come when Rome has need of allies.’

  Macrinus shook his head vigorously. ‘Nonsense. Rome needs no allies. These barbarians only understand might. The Caledonians and Maeatae will not be troubling Rome for a generation or more, after your father’s wise policy of extermination, Augustus. Let it be the same with the Alamanni.’

  Caracalla gritted his teeth. Always his
father. His shade still blocked the sun. No more.

  ‘These people and their lands are mine. This victory is mine. Macrinus, send orders for the men to prepare. Tomorrow we march.’

  His advisors, recognising a final word, bowed their heads and hurried out. Julia made to leave as well.

  ‘Stay, Julia,’ said Caracalla.

  ‘Yes, Augustus,’ said Julia, submissively. When the others had left, and the door had closed behind them, he walked up to her. He looked into her face for a moment, then brushed the hair back from her forehead.

  ‘Still beautiful.’

  ‘You are very kind, Augustus.’ She spoke with the dutiful expression of a slave, without warmth or love. Maybe another day, that would have put him off, and he would have looked for a favourite servant to satisfy him. But not today. Today, he felt like the ruler of the world. He was Alexander reborn.

  He took her arm, and led her towards his bedchamber. If he took her from behind, he reflected, he wouldn’t see those eyes.

  * * *

  The sun was gently warming and the moderate breeze was cool. A pleasant temperature for hiking in the German hinterland. Scattered around the hills and valleys were the first flowers of spring, narcissi and daffodils, and the calmly grazing goats, sheep and cattle, tended by herding boys, gave the countryside an idyllic air.

  Many miles behind them marched Caracalla and the legions, armed, armoured and bent on bringing destruction to this bucolic scene.

  Silus and Atius had been assigned to track the movements of the fleeing Alamanni, and find out where their remaining strength was gathered. They weren’t the only scouts performing the mission, but they were the two most familiar with the region. And of course, they could no longer expect help from the Alamanni who had been working with them. Silus had had no chance to argue with Oclatinius before being sent back into the field. Maybe the old man didn’t want to give him time to think. Nor had he had a chance to argue against Atius as his partner. Oclatinius had simply told him how it was to be, and dismissed him.

  Silus and Atius spoke to each other professionally, pointing out tracks and other tell-tale signs of the passing of significant numbers of men. They discussed their locations, their bearings. They coordinated their scouting, and informed each other when they saw Germans – farmers, warriors, women and children – so they could avoid them. They had nothing else to say to each other.

  As yet there was no sign of any reorganisation of the fled survivors, just scattered, broken warriors fleeing east to safety. Silus was aware at the back of his mind that he was still aiding the Emperor who had behaved so treacherously. But he was a Roman. As Oclatinius had said, this was war, and the lives of many Roman soldiers depended on the quality of the reconnaissance that they performed. And much as he loved Odo, when it came to a choice between the lives of Romans and barbarians, Silus, a loyal Roman citizen, would choose his compatriots every time. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  Atius pointed to something in the middle distance, an object against a tree. They headed towards it to investigate, and as they approached it became clear it was a body. A warrior, young, long hair tied back, tunic torn. Silus knelt by him and inspected the corpse. A fly, buzzing loudly, flew out of his mouth, making Silus jerk back involuntarily. More flies hovered around the warrior’s midriff, and Silus saw a wound in the side of his abdomen, congealed and sticky. The entry hole wasn’t large, but there was a putrid odour, worse than he would expect just from a day or so of decay. The blade must have ruptured his guts. A slow, agonising way to die.

  He rose to his feet, and avoided looking at Atius, who said, ‘I wonder what Caracalla will do if we don’t find a concentration of the enemy.’

  ‘I think you know what he will do,’ said Silus. ‘He will make a wasteland. Then he will move on. It’s like a plague of locusts, but ones that aren’t hungry, that just have the urge to destroy.’

  ‘They are a threat,’ said Atius, and Silus knew the words rang hollow in Atius’ own ears.

  ‘Is that what you told yourself? All that time, when you knew what was going to happen? All that time you kept it to yourself, a secret from me, your partner and best friend?’

  ‘I… didn’t know what to do. I was going to tell you. I wanted to, more than anything, to share the burden. You always know what to do.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘Then I saw how you were with Odo. How much you trusted him, liked him. And I knew Odo would be one of the ones to die.’

  ‘I thought you hated him just because your own guide had betrayed you and you thought he would do the same.’

  ‘I know. I let you believe that. But that wasn’t the reason I behaved with him the way I did. It’s because I was ashamed.’

  Silus turned now and looked his friend in the face. Silus’ eyes were wide and wet.

  ‘You should have told me,’ said Silus, his voice rising.

  ‘And what would you have done?’

  ‘Tried to stop it somehow!’ Silus was almost shouting now.

  ‘Exactly. For all the things you have done for Caracalla, he gives you a lot of leeway. The same with Oclatinius. But there are limits. If you had tried to interfere with this plan, spoken out of turn to the Emperor, or worse, tried to warn the Alamanni, then Caracalla would have ordered Oclatinius to kill you and he would have done it in a heartbeat.’

  Silus stared, searching for words, none coming.

  ‘You risked your life, on the chance I might have been alive,’ said Atius. Tears were running freely down his still hollow cheeks now. Silus hadn’t seen Atius cry since he had rescued him. Sullen, irritable, distant, yes. But not tearful. ‘You saved me. So I gave up my honour to save you.’

  The anger inside Silus did not disappear. But it attenuated a little. He would not give his approval of Atius’ actions. He would not absolve him of his wrongdoing. He could pray to his Christos for that.

  But he could try to move on. He gave Atius a curt nod. ‘Tracks head this way. Let’s see where they lead.’

  * * *

  The trail led them east and south, along the north bank of the Menus, a large river that eventually merged with the Rhenus. The scattered tracks slowly coalesced. Silus pictured droplets of rain gathered in an upturned shield, which when you rocked it in gentle circles slowly came together to make a single pool of drinkable water. The Alamanni were congregating.

  They spent the night in a hollow they dug out below a fallen trunk. They huddled together for warmth – though it was spring, a frost still descended and rimed the leaf litter and the new buds on the trees. They did not return to their argument. That abscess had been lanced, and now picking at it would slow the healing. And there was still a lot of healing to be done.

  But they did talk. They talked about drinking beer when they were back in Colonia. They talked about returning to Rome. They reminisced about missions and battles of times past. And they slept, closer than they had been for a year. Still, Silus thought something had broken in their friendship. He wondered if it would ever become whole again.

  The next morning they ate a breakfast of hard biscuit and dried meat in something closer to a companiable quiet than an icy silence. They were on the move before the sun had crested the horizon. Almost immediately they began to encounter small groups of warriors. The Arcani’s dress was purposefully nondescript, and from a distance they could pass for Alamanni, although that disguise would be useless the moment someone tried to speak to them in Germanic. But they kept their distance, waved greetings where it seemed appropriate, and stayed off the beaten path as best they could.

  The concentrations of warriors became ever greater as the day wore on. Though they were some way off, Silus could make out their attitudes from their stance, their gait, their noise. Some were sullen, shoulders hunched, feet shuffling. Survivors of the massacre no doubt. Others were angry, voices raised, stride purposeful. Maybe relatives or friends of those who died. And some were enthusiastic, laughing and singing war songs and
wrestling each other playfully. Men unaffected by Caracalla’s treachery, but excited by the prospect of battle.

  It was becoming clear in which direction the gathering warriors were headed now, and Silus and Atius plotted a route that would take them into the general vicinity while keeping far enough away for at least some degree of comfort and safety. Towards the mid-afternoon, the trail of the warriors curved around the foot of a steep hill. Silus gestured to the summit.

  ‘Let’s get up there and take a look.’

  The hill was rocky and steep, and in places they had to use handholds to haul themselves up. By the time they reached the top, they were breathless and sweating, despite the cool air. The far side of the hill had collapsed into a scree slope, and they stood at the edge and looked down. Atius whistled.

  ‘Christos, there are a lot of them.’

  Silus nodded. ‘If Caracalla thinks he got them all, he’s very wrong.’

  Below them, in a large valley, were thousands upon thousands of men. They milled around, looking like tiny mice swarming over a grain store. Silus squinted, trying to make out detail. He thought he could see a variety of tribal colours decorating shields, but it wasn’t easy from this distance. It made sense though. The Alamanni was a confederacy, and no doubt after the massacre they had put out the call far and wide to gather, and avenge their slain kin. The warriors below would be everyone that the Alamanni could draw into one place. Farmers, young boys, even some of the more fearsome women. And allies of course, other Germans who were not part of the confederacy, but who knew their fate was bound up with the Alamanni. The Germans might be barbarians, but they weren’t stupid. They knew how Rome in general, and Caracalla in particular, behaved. This was a fight for their very survival.

  ‘How many do you think?’ asked Silus.

  Atius put his hand to his eyes to shield them from the low sun. His lips moved as he counted rows and columns, and did the mathematics in his head.