His cousin Bairaz had accompanied him to the meeting with the Nervii nobleman and his kindred in his honoured position as the commander of his guard cohort, men of the tribe dismissed from their service as the emperor’s personal bodyguard the year before. Fully equipped in the parade armour of a guard decurion, he stood alongside Classicus’s cousin Montanus with the alert expression of a man who knew when to speak, and when to listen. Kivilaz continued, smiling as he looked around the tribal royalty gathered to meet him.
‘And I, of course, am already a wanted man. As Gaius Julius Civilis I was accused of treason twice and escaped execution by the thinnest of margins, and so now I am simply Rome’s enemy Kivilaz, my service to the empire at an end and my undying enmity declared in blood. And my tribe’s war with the empire has put a price on my head, a reward so high that a man could live in the most luxurious fashion possible for the rest of his life, were he to collect on it. Whereas you men of the Nervii tribe are yet to raise your blades against Rome, and are, in the empire’s eyes, the most valuable of allies in counterbalancing our threat from the north. Where I am considered a long-haired barbarian, who has returned to his tribe’s former bloodthirsty and ignorant ways, you are all still considered as gentlemen, albeit of a certain class.’
Classicus nodded, raising a hand to gesture at the Batavi prince’s face.
‘Nobody could deny that you have a … warlike appearance, Prince Kivilaz?’
‘That’s a fact!’ Kivilaz laughed, putting a hand to his dark red beard. ‘There are few enough men of the Batavi whose hair is this colour, given that the dye is our traditional mark of a man who has yet to kill for the tribe, so I chose to honour that tradition for a second time in my life, to remind my men of the Batavi people’s ancient customs. Once the Old Camp has fallen to our siege I will cut away this reminder of my vow to smash Rome’s rule over our land once and for all, and I will parade its two legions’ eagles for the tribes to see and take heart from.’ He looked around at them with his one good eye bright. ‘And with the Old Camp’s presence erased from our soil, I will unleash my armies to do the same to Novaesium, and Bonna, and Colonia Agrippina. When we’re done with them, there won’t be a legion any further north than the Winter Camp, a fortress that I trust is a part of your thinking?’
Classicus nodded, beckoning the prince to take a seat in the circle.
‘Our plan is well advanced. The three legions you chased away from the Old Camp after its brief period of liberation have taken refuge in the camp at Novaesium, and we men of the auxiliary forces who serve alongside them are left in no doubt that they are both demoralised by their recent experiences and utterly dissatisfied with the service of Rome. Two of those three legions have mutinied in the last few days, and their legatus augusti has learned the hard way not to underestimate the danger posed by angry men who feel they have nothing to lose. They butchered him, it seems, and left his mutilated corpse for the dogs.’
‘This news has reached us too.’ Kivilaz shrugged. ‘In truth I have to say that I liked Flaccus. He was an easy man to deal with, alert to the realities of his position. But he was undeniably also a fool to have been so openly in favour of Vespasianus when his legions so obviously wanted the man they put on the throne to remain emperor, and deliver on his promises to make them rich. So who commands their remnants of legions now that he’s dead?’
‘Gaius Dillius Vocula.’ Classicus shook his head in apparent sadness. ‘A man more deserving of pity than enmity. Flaccus relinquished his command to him late last year, when it became apparent that the legions weren’t going to stand for taking orders from a man they were very sure was Vespasianus’s creature. Since then Vocula has kept that army marching and fighting, mainly by the force of his will, executing would-be mutineers and flogging any man that showed any sign of recalcitrance, but it seems their willingness to be beaten into line eventually ran out. The mutiny’s over, it seems, and order restored, but those legionaries are ready to change sides, I can tell you that for a fact.’
‘How?’
‘Our tribes, Nervii, Treveri, Ubii and Lingones, all have infantry and cavalry cohorts serving alongside them. Our men mix with theirs freely, in the taverns and around the campfires, and they report that the First Germanica and Sixteenth Gallica are highly receptive to the idea that they might become part of the army of a different empire. We know the key men, soldiers and centurions, and our discussions with them are very well advanced. At the right time, when we call upon them, with promises of the rewards to be had by their joining with us, we will peel them away from the empire just as easily as pulling a perfectly ripe apple from the bough.’
Kivilaz inclined his head again.
‘That would indeed be a blow for Rome. But what of Vocula’s Third Legion?’
Classicus waved a dismissive hand.
‘The men of the Twenty-second Primigenia are not so easily persuadable, it seems. Their first spear is a man called Antonius, and he has his men in an iron grip. I doubt that they will come over to us with quite the same ease, at least not while he holds their collars. But then no man is immortal.’
Later, making their way back to the waiting cohorts through the darkened countryside, Bairaz leaned close to his cousin and asked the question that had been on his mind from the moment that Classicus had implied the potential for First Spear Antonius to be removed as an impediment to his legion’s subversion to the Gallic cause.
‘Do you believe they would go so far as to kill a senior Roman officer in such a dishonourable manner?’
Kivilaz grinned back at him, his teeth a white slash in the moonlight.
‘Do I think Classicus would have this first spear Antonius killed if he could? Of course.’ He laughed at Bairaz’s bemusement. ‘Why do you think I take you and a century of your guardsmen with me whenever I go to meet our new allies? It isn’t just for the pleasure of your company!’
‘You think that—’
‘Cousin, the Romans would have me killed, if they knew the place and time where they might find me. Of course they would. And I’d do the same to this Gaius Dillius Vocula, if I knew I could get an assassin into his tent at the right moment, not least to have my revenge for the men who died on his legions’ spears. And I daresay that Classicus will be looking for any chance to kill the last man capable of providing their army with leadership. Putting a knife between the ribs of his trusted first spear wouldn’t achieve quite the same result, but I doubt the men gathered around that fire back there would hesitate for even a moment in having this man Antonius murdered. And unless he keeps a bodyguard of men he can trust around him at all times, they surely will.’
He paused for a moment, looking up at the blaze of stars above them.
‘And there’s another reason I’d have Vocula killed, if I could get a blade close to him. There’s someone in the tribe passing him information.’
Bairaz looked him in astonishment.
‘A traitor? But anyone with anything worth telling the Romans would have to be on the council.’
Kivilaz nodded.
‘Either that or close enough to the council to effectively be a member. Like yourself …’ He raised a hand to forestall his cousin’s indignant protest. ‘I’m not implying it’s you, Bairaz, I’m pointing out that finding whoever it is that’s sending the enemy information isn’t going to be easy.’
‘But …’ the decurion shook his head. ‘You’re sure? You know for a fact that we’re being betrayed?’
The prince shrugged.
‘Nobody likes the idea that someone within the tribe might be passing our plans on to the enemy, but it’s beyond doubt that the Romans knew we were coming, when we made what was supposed to be a surprise attack at Gelduba. I know the Vascones arriving in your rear at precisely the moment of your victory over Vocula’s legions was an utter coincidence, but if they hadn’t been given enough warning to get most of their strength out of the camp before you attacked then they would have been trapped and helpless, and the fi
ght would have been over before the Vascones arrived. That act of treachery cost the tribe half its fighting men, and there’s hardly a family on the Island that hasn’t lost a son, a brother or a father. So when I catch the bastard I’m going to crucify him in front of the great hall. And I’ll make very sure that he dies as slowly as possible, no beating, no flogging to help him on his way, just a hammer, three long nails and a very slow and painful death.’
Bairaz looked out into the darkness.
‘You sound very sure we’ll catch him.’
Kivilaz nodded grimly.
‘I have Draco looking for him. If anyone’s going to sniff out a traitor it’s our Father of the Tribe. Depend on it.’
Germania Inferior, January AD 70
‘You think Kiv knows what he’s doing this time?’
Egilhard gave his father a despairing look in the fire’s dull red light.
‘You can’t say that. Not in front of me. I’m a watch officer and my position requires me to come down on that sort of statement like a falling oak.’
Lataz shook his head in disgust.
‘My own son, coming the—’
‘No, Lataz.’ The younger man overrode him with an ease that surprised them both, raising a finger to forestall any further comment. ‘I think the question you were asking your watch officer was whether he thinks that Prince Kivilaz will be a bit luckier this time round?’
Egilhard’s father shook his head again and his older brother Frijaz smirked at his only apparent discomfiture, his eyes vanishing into a nest of crows’ feet.
‘Don’t let him fool you, boy, he’s loving every minute of you being an officer. Although he’s got a point. Kiv did lead you lads into a right goat fuck that night in December, didn’t he? And he doesn’t mind being called Kiv either, he came to see us old bastards and children off when we was marching to join you heroes, and he told us—’
‘I’m not a child!’
All three men turned to look at the youngest member of the family present, but it was the tent party’s leader Lanzo who was first to voice a flat contradiction of Sigu’s indignant statement.
‘Yes, you are, actually. The age of fifteen doesn’t make you a man, and now you’re a warrior you have to have killed for the tribe to be considered a man, no matter how—’
‘But I— Ah!’ Sigu shot his father a hard look, rubbing the back of his head where Lataz had knuckled him. ‘What was that for?’
‘To teach you to show a bit more respect for your elders and betters! Your brother is a watch officer now, which means that you have to go where he tells you, do what he tells you and don’t, under any circumstances, give him any lip. An experienced soldier like one of these ugly specimens might get away with the occasional piss-take, but you, young Sigu, you don’t speak unless you’ve been spoken to, and even then only to say “yes” or “no” depending on what the question was. Not if you don’t want the centurion to give you a taste of his vine stick!’
‘Who’s going to taste my vine stick?’
The tent party’s eight men jumped to attention, but Alcaeus waved a hand, having walked up to their fire unseen while their attention was directed inwards. Bareheaded, taking the chance of enjoying the cold night air on his thick head of grey-streaked hair, he had left his helmet and its wolf’s head cover, which indicated his status as the cohort’s chief priest, lying on his pack.
‘At ease, soldiers. And he’s right, Soldier Sigu, until you’ve taken the life of an enemy in battle you’re not a man, not in the only way that really matters to us. That’s why your hair is dyed red, as a badge that you’re yet to shed blood for the tribe. Of course those who never serve will call themselves men, and not one of us will ever look to shatter their illusions, but you ask any man that ever marched with the cohorts and he’ll tell you the same. And on top of that, you’re not even a trained soldier yet, so don’t let me catch you abusing your watch officer, eh? He might not want to punish you, but I’ll be left without much choice. Won’t I?’
Egilhard flashed his brother a look, but Sigu had been well coached by his father and uncle.
‘Yes, sir, Centurion Alcaeus, sir!’
All three of his family members breathed silent sighs of relief, and Alcaeus looked at them with a soft chuckle.
‘Good. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow morning is going to be busy.’
Walking across the darkened camp he listened to the voices of men talking in the dark, most of them incapable of sleep with the prospect of battle the next day. Where the Batavi tribe’s eight cohorts of warriors would previously have been abuzz with the thought of a fight, the snippets of conversation he heard as he passed their fires were quiet, introspective for the most part. Finding the headquarters tent, he squatted down by the fire and spread his hands to warm them.
‘And what did you learn in doing your rounds, Priest?’
He looked up at his prefect, the man in command of the tribe’s military strength, keeping his face carefully composed. The big man was regarding him with the hard, closed expression that Alcaeus had become used to, his evident disapproval barely masked by the vestiges of military professionalism that had been drummed into them both by long years of service to Rome.
‘What did I learn? That our men are tired but that will hardly surprise you. They’re quiet, Hramn. They’re talking about the men we lost at Gelduba the last time we attacked, when those Vascones came out of the night behind us and trapped us against the legion’s shields.’
‘And they’re wondering whether I’m going to lead them into another disaster by attacking that same camp again? Even though the scouts tell us that it’s deserted, as we expected.’
Alcaeus nodded, pursing his lips.
‘Yes. How could they not be? They wonder if our gods have turned their faces away from our fight for freedom for Rome.’
‘They wonder if their leader is cursed.’
The priest conceded the point.
‘That too, perhaps, even though none of them voice such a sentiment. Show me a soldier who doesn’t believe he could do better than the men who lead him, with the luxury of making decisions after the battle is done with.’
Hramn regarded him levelly across the fire.
‘And you, Priest? Do you believe that you could have done any better?’
Alcaeus raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you sure you want to explore in that direction, Prefect? You know me well enough to know that I will never speak ill of any decision made by the prefect of these cohorts.’
‘I do. And I know you well enough to know that your smooth face conceals the thoughts of a man who killed not one, but seven wolves, alone in the forest, for his initiation in the priesthood. You have the blood of heroes in you, Alcaeus, for all of your sermons to the recruits not to seek glory at the expense of their own lives, and I sense a hero’s disdain for failure in every word you speak, no matter how carefully you place your words. So tell me, truly.’
‘Could I have done any better at Gelduba?’ The centurion stared levelly at his superior, Kivilaz’s nephew and former commander of the imperial bodyguard, appointed to command the cohorts on the death of his predecessor Scar. ‘I couldn’t have led a better approach march, or attacked with any greater aggression.’
‘And …?’
Alcaeus shrugged.
‘What do you want from me, Hramn? Recognition that our attack was betrayed to the Romans by somebody within the tribe? Acknowledgement that the Vascones arriving on the battlefield at that precise moment, given that they had marched all the way from Hispania, was the grossest piece of ill-fortune? Both are probably true. And it is assuredly true that without that betrayal we would have caught the legions in their tents ready to be slaughtered, rather than drawn up before their camp in a defence that held us just long enough for the Vascones to tear into us from out of the night, turning victory into disaster in a single moment.’
‘And yet?’
The centurion shook his head in bemusement.
‘And neither am I?’
The question was bitter in tone, and Alcaeus smiled gently at his superior.
‘Perhaps not.’ He shook his head. ‘Hramn, the one thing the Romans gave us, when they adopted us to be their favourite sons, delighting in our bloodthirsty love of rampage and slaughter, was discipline. Oh yes, they gave us all this iron to fight with, so much iron that the tribes across the river still marvel at our wealth, but their principal gift was the ability to calculate the odds rather than just to laugh at them. The self-control to fight in formation as one man, to make eighty men the match of three times their number of warriors fighting the old-fashioned way. Scar knew that, and he respected their teachings above everything else, as did his predecessors before him. But you, Prefect, abandoned that long-ingrained restraint in search of a chance to rip out three legions’ throats.’
The other man sat in silence, staring at his deputy.
‘I did. And I’d do it again, given such a prize.’
‘I know.’ Alcaeus nodded slowly. ‘And while there’s a part of me that exults in the same urge to spill our enemies’ blood, there’s another part that’s terrified of the disaster that might result.’
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