Emperor's Spear

by Alex Gough

  Still Silus did not draw his sword. Odo hesitated, clearly unwilling to cut down an unarmed man. Emotions warred in his eyes. Then he let out a howl of anguish and despair and swung his gladius two-handed at Silus’ neck.

  Instinct took over then. Whether a rational Silus, given time to think, would have accepted the blow, rather than be forced to fight back and kill his friend, he would never know. Because the animal was at the fore now, the predator, the prey. Kill or be killed.

  He ducked under the blow, rolled across the damp, grassy earth and came back to his feet with his sword already in his hands. Odo pressed forward, swinging left to right, right to left. Silus dodged, parried, ducked again. Still he retained enough control, his human mind ruling the animal just enough to stop him striking back. Maybe he could disarm Odo, force him to surrender.

  But Odo had given himself to a battle fury that Silus had never seen before in the youth. He howled and spat and cursed as he hacked and slashed. And then the moment came, when Odo over-extended his reach, lost his balance.

  The animal Silus struck. Before he even knew it had happened, he thrust his sword into Odo’s abdomen, twisted, pulled. A gout of blood came out with the blade, and Odo fell to his knees, dropping his sword, mouth open in shock and pain.

  Silus was instantly by his side, his own sword discarded. As Odo tumbled backwards, he caught him, cradled him in his arms.

  Odo looked up at him, spittle on his chin, tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Oh. Silus, it hurts.’

  Silus looked down at the lad, his own tears flowing freely now.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ said Odo. ‘The gods willed we should be enemies. You know…’ He coughed, and red-brown blood spewed out of his mouth. Silus wiped his face clean with the sleeve of his tunic, and Odo breathed heavily for a few moments, before summoning up the strength to speak again.

  ‘You know, I would have been proud to call you brother.’

  Silus frowned. The comment seemed incongruous.

  ‘And I know you would have made my sister happy.’

  Comprehension rolled over him. Oh.

  ‘You knew?’

  Odo tried to laugh, coughed again. More blood. When he was able to speak again, his voice was noticeably weaker, and all colour had left his skin, his boyish red pimples vivid against the pallor of his face.

  ‘I told you. I’m young, but I’m not naive. I saw the way you looked at each other. But now, I think my sister would find it hard to love the man who killed her brother.’

  Silus thought of his strange love-hate paternal relationship with Tituria, whose family he had murdered. He thought of Caracalla’s relationship with his stepmother, whose son, his half-brother, the Emperor had killed. And he felt suddenly so exhausted. Odo was right. Ima would not love him. But nor would he put himself through the pain of loving her. Not with Odo’s eyes staring out of hers accusingly, every time he looked at her.

  ‘Odo. I would have been proud to call you brother, too.’

  Odo nodded and closed his eyes. Silus stayed with him, holding him, as his breathing became deeper, more irregular. He didn’t know at what point the boy lost consciousness, but he knew, when the breathing stopped, the body stiffened, the point at which he died. He hugged the young Alamanni against him, and he shook as he wept.

  Below him, the battle raged on.

  * * *

  Atius lay in a damp puddle. The earth rocked like he was on a boat in a rough storm, and he put a hand down to try to steady himself. The puddle was strangely warm and sticky, and when he lifted his palm to his face he saw it was covered in congealed blood. He thought, with a strange sense of detachment, that the blood must be his, until he turned his face sideways and found himself looking at a headless corpse, still oozing from the severed vessels.

  The shock made him sit up, and though his head spun, he did not pass out again. Though he had been dragged back from the front of the battle when he was struck, the front line had retreated back to him, and he was in danger of being trampled by the hobnailed boots of his own side as they took step after step in reverse.

  He shuffled backwards on his seat, then cautiously levered himself upwards. He had lost his sword and shield, but the decapitated soldier beside him still clutched a gladius and his shield lay nearby. Atius pried the surprisingly strong grip off the hilt and swung the sword experimentally twice, to test its weight. A gap opened in the lines a couple of feet in front of him as a legionary toppled sideways when an axe bit into the angle between neck and shoulder.

  Atius grabbed the discarded shield and stepped into the lacuna. A spear thrust over the top of his shield nearly went through his forehead, but Silus was able to sway to his left just enough for the tip to pass harmlessly past his right ear. He thrust his gladius through the tiny gap between his shield and his neighbour’s and was rewarded with a soft resistance, and a low gasp of pain. He shoved forward with his shield, the boss crunching into something bony, and his attacker fell away.

  Another appeared instantly in his place, and Atius shoved with his shield again. This one was armed with a stabbing sword, and he used the Roman tactic of thrusting through gaps, rather than swinging, clubbing and bludgeoning, which was less effective in the closely packed ranks. Atius had to gyrate his body to avoid a blade in his guts, and his own counter-thrust was ineffective. The Alamanni warrior snarled at him, cursed him in his guttural language as he stabbed again, and this time the attack found Atius’ midriff, even as he twisted away.

  Fortunately, Atius’ desperate evasion attempt changed the angle of attack just enough that his armour deflected the blow. The armour parted around the sharp iron, and the edge sliced his skin, but the point did not find its target, his soft innards.

  But Atius was off balance now, and slow from the head injury and his general poor state of fitness. The warrior withdrew his sword and prepared for a thrust to Atius’ face over the top of the shield, and though Atius brought his own blade up to counter, he knew he was going to be too slow.

  The legionary to Atius’ right saw the threat, and stabbed hard in the direction of Atius’ opponent. The gladius tip went into the soft temple, and the barbarian’s eyes rolled up into his head as he died instantly.

  Atius turned to thank his comrade, only to see a spear skewer his neck from front to back. The legionary sank to his knees, clutching at the spear and yanking it from his killer’s hands. Atius stabbed out, and his neighbour’s assailant staggered back.

  For a moment, Atius found himself unopposed in the line, and he was able to take stock. All the Roman reserves had been thrown forward down, to shore up holes in the defences, or reinforce parts of the line where the defenders were looking shaky. Even Caracalla was in the action with his Praetorians, some way down the line from Atius. He had charged into a breakthrough on the left, his Praetorian cavalry with him, and thrown back the attackers forcefully. Now he was swinging around him with a long spatha, hacking down any who came near.

  It was obvious from his luxurious and highly polished attire that he was important, and it didn’t take much guesswork to conclude this was the Emperor. Consequently, the Alamanni leaders directed their reserves in his direction, hoping to bring the battle to a swift conclusion. But the Praetorian cavalry and the Emperor’s bodyguard fought like lions. Arrows arced towards him but were swatted away by his companions’ shields. Spears thrust out but were knocked aside or cut in two with sharp blades. Axes were swung or hurled, but their wielders were cut down.

  Caracalla made no headway into the mass of warriors, but his mere presence drew swarms of Alamanni towards him like wasps attacking honeycakes, and that alone relieved the pressure elsewhere. But even that was not enough. The Alamanni were just too many. And with the reserves used, when defender was cut down, there was no one to step up to plug the leak. At first a trickle, and then like a dam breaking, the Alamanni burst through. Now the defending legionaries were beset not just f
rom the front, but from behind as well.

  The structured formation of the Romans broke down, and suddenly it was every man for himself. Atius found himself back to back with another legionary, fighting for their lives. Exultant Alamanni swarmed around them, crying out in victory, waving their weapons in the air as some made for the baggage carts to begin looting, while others, the more disciplined, pressed their advantage home.

  For the Romans were not yet done. Though they no longer fought in the protection of their close-packed ranks, they still had months and years of training. They had strength and stamina, their swords were like extensions of their arms, and now, as the Alamanni had been at the start of battle, they were fighting for their very survival. They expected no mercy from these people whose unarmed kin they had so recently slaughtered.

  So the fighting continued, with no let-up. In the end it came down to stubbornness. Atius was not willing to give up, not ready to die, not after he had stayed alive against all the odds so far. Though he could barely lift his sword, though his shield sagged, though his comrade behind him stiffened, gurgled, died, Atius fought on.

  And when he finally felt the end nearing, the last reserves of his energy gone, he heard the sound of bucinators blaring their sweet trumpet notes across the valley. He was unable to turn to see the source of the noise, but it was unmistakable, and if he had had any doubts, the thunder of horse hooves dispelled them immediately. The Alamanni heard the sound too, stepped back from the fight, turned their heads in fear.

  Now Atius could look, and his heart lifted at the sight of a wedge of a hundred heavily armoured Roman auxiliary cavalry charging down the hillside to take the Alamanni in the rear. Behind them, preparing their charge as soon as the cavalry had struck and retreated, were the infantry, three legions, a little fatigued from the forced march, but fresher than any man on either side on that battlefield.

  Half the Alamanni were skirmishing against pockets of resistance while the others raided the meat and beer wagons and looted the dead. The cream of their leadership dead in the massacre, the remaining nobles and chiefs had no control over their men, and when the cavalry struck, there was no defence.

  The Alamanni scattered in panic, but the Romans were quickly on them. Those that were outright fleeing were easy fodder for the short lances and long spathas of the cavalry, who speared them like fish in a pond. Those that stood and fought faced the full force of the legionaries.

  It was no contest. Barbarian disorganisation and fatigue fought Roman energy and discipline. All Alamanni resistance disintegrated, and then the slaughter began, no less bloody or complete than the previous massacre, for all that these barbarians were armed and prepared for a fight.

  Atius’ attackers melted away, and with disconcerting abruptness he found himself all but alone. Around him lay a circle of dead and dying, Roman and German. The focus of the battle rolled off into the distance, like a thunderstorm passing from overhead to somewhere far away. His hands dropped to his sides, the last of his strength deserting him with the fading of the danger. His shield and sword dropped from numb fingers. Though they crashed to the ground, he didn’t hear them.

  A sudden thought occurred to him. He looked up towards the hill crest, where Silus had been stationed. He could see two figures there, one kneeling, one lying, but he could make out no more than that. He feared for Silus, but as he looked around him at the battlefield strewn with dead and dying, he could summon no emotion. He tried to pray, but even that was beyond him. Was this his retribution? Was he healed? Sated?

  He sat down heavily, hugged his knees to his chest, and rocked back and forth, trembling violently.

  Epilogue

  Odo’s body was so light, Silus’ stout horse seemed not to notice the extra burden. The steed plodded slowly through the countryside of Germania Magna, and Silus let it choose its own pace, which turned out to be appropriately funereal. The roads were full of refugees, mainly women, children and old men, some dressed in fine, Roman-style robes, others in little more than rags, all mingled together as they fled east. Some rode in farm carts laden with furniture, tools, cooking utensils, pulled by oxen. A few were on horseback, trotting past the rest, their gazes steadfastly forward as they tried to ignore the envious and pleading glares of those they were overtaking. The majority were on foot, taking with them whatever they could bear on their backs.

  A small child, a girl of around the age his daughter had been when she died, stared at Odo as he passed her, then looked up. She had a snotty nose and muddy cheeks, and she carried a doll in the crook of her elbow, the thumb of the same arm firmly lodged in her mouth. Silus silently wished her a speedy journey to safety. He hoped the other German tribes would accommodate their uprooted cousins. There were no guarantees. The Germans were as likely to fight each other as the Romans. Maybe these people were just marching to a different type of slavery, working in fields and serving noble chiefs, rather than labouring in mines or being at the beck and call of Roman matrons in sumptuous villas.

  It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t do it, he couldn’t stop it. No matter how many times he told himself this, he couldn’t escape the aching guilt. Even when he tried to fix his eyes away from the wretched, defeated people, Odo was always in his line of sight, limply accusing. Someone else he cared about, who was now dead. The list was becoming longer. Velua and Sergia, his wife and daughter. Daya, his fellow Aracanus. Now Odo. Maybe it was dangerous to be cared for by Silus. Maybe he should stop caring.

  His thoughts drifted to the strange young son of Marcellus and Julia Soaemia. Avitus. He had saved that boy. He wondered where he was now. Was he with his father in Numidia still? Was he with his crazy mother? Silus felt a sudden surge of protectiveness towards him.

  Eventually he came to the fork that led to Odo’s family home. Ran and Modi spotted him from some distance and they raced out to meet him, barking excitedly. But when they reached the horse, they came to Odo and sniffed his dangling fingers. Their excitement vanished. They surely couldn’t understand, but still they trotted slowly alongside Silus’ horse, head and tails held low, flanking him like an honour guard.

  Ada and Ima were waiting for him at the door. Ada’s face was hard, expressionless. Ima was not so emotionless, and rushed over to Odo, clutching at him and weeping in choking gasps. Silus dismounted, and gently detached Ima. Then he lifted Odo into his arms, and stood before Ada.

  She regarded her son for a long moment. Then she gestured for Silus to enter the house. He carried the body inside, and laid it on a couch. He tried to arrange the limbs in a peaceful position, but Ada shooed him away, and took over the task herself, crossing the hands on his chest, straightening his legs, taking a damp cloth to bathe his face.

  Then the facade of stoicism split open, and she collapsed on the body of her son, hugging him tight, her body racked by loud sobs. Ima came to her and knelt beside her, one arm on her mother and one on her dead brother, and joined in the wails.

  Silus stood back, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, not sure where to look. He wondered if he should just leave, his last duty to Odo finished. But at that moment, Ada stood, straightened her clothing, wiped her eyes and turned to face him.

  ‘You must be tired from your ride, please sit. Ima. Ima!’ Ima reluctantly let go of Odo and looked at her mother. ‘Go and fetch Silus some beer and some meat.’

  Ima flashed him a look of hatred, but did as her mother bade. Silus found a padded stool to sit on, and Ada sat on a couch opposite him. She regarded him steadily until Ima returned. Silus hadn’t realised how thirsty and hungry he was until he was presented with the food and drink, and he accepted it gratefully.

  ‘He died well?’ asked Ada abruptly. Silus had a mouthful of venison, and had to chew fast and swallow so he could speak.

  ‘He did. Like a true German warrior.’

  ‘It was you that killed him.’

  Silus flushed, but he wouldn’t lie. He nodded. ‘The gods put us on opposite sides of this war.’

&
nbsp; ‘Not the gods. Your Emperor started this.’

  Silus couldn’t disagree, and he felt a surge of anger towards Caracalla. He had fought for that man, risked his life, killed for him. He felt dirty, that the Emperor that he followed so dutifully could have behaved like this.

  ‘How is Ewald?’

  ‘Recovering. He will not see you.’

  Silus nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘And my husband?’ asked Ada, voice flat and hopeless.

  Silus looked down. ‘I couldn’t save him,’ he said quietly.

  Suddenly Ima flew at him. Crying incoherently, she struck him around the head and arms with her closed fists. He bowed his head and took the blows, unflinching. His cheekbone bruised and his lip split and he made no move to stop her. Eventually the storm blew out, and she stepped back and turned away, throwing herself once more over Odo and holding him tight.

  ‘Soldiers are coming,’ said Silus. ‘They will show no mercy. You need to leave here. Take what you can carry and get far away.’

  Ada glanced involuntarily to the open front door, and he saw a chill run through her. Then she straightened her back and looked at Silus.

  ‘I think there is no more to say, is there,’ she said.

  Silus stroked Ran or Modi, he wasn’t sure which of the dogs had been sitting by his side since he arrived, playing the companion or guard. He took a last look at Ida and Odo. Then he walked out, mounted his horse, and rode west.

  He travelled past more streams of refugees, who looked at him in envy at his steed and surprise at his direction.

  What direction was that? He had no real idea. He hadn’t reported back to Oclatinius since the battle, but really, fuck him. He still wanted to confront Caracalla, but he had calmed enough to know that was suicidal. He would go back to Lipari, to see Tituria, at some point. But what about Avitus? He would love to know how the fascinating child was getting on. Maybe he would find him, and see how he was. Or would that bring down disaster on the boy who wanted his own Empire? Silus didn’t know. He didn’t know much any more. But he had a feeling, a knot in his gut, a nagging at the back of his head. Anxiety, danger. Was it just a part of his life now? Or was there something really looming? Something that fate and the gods had saved up, just to make his life even more miserable?