RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

  ‘It’ll make no odds to me, will it? Right, can you see my squamata?’

  His fellow centurion looked him up and down, looking for any sign of his distinctive armour under the cloak.

  ‘No, there’s not a single scale to be seen, but—’

  ‘Good. So with a bit of luck they won’t realise who I am. Stay here, but don’t hang around if I don’t come back.’

  He turned and strode back towards the legions’ camp, his men staring in disbelief at the sight of their first spear in a subordinate’s uniform.

  ‘How long do we need to wait for you?’

  Antonius called the answer back over his shoulder without stopping, his eyes fixed on the distant earth walls.

  ‘That’s your decision! Your first duty now is to the cohort!’

  Covering the distance back to the camp’s walls at a swift pace, he prepared a story with which to talk himself past any gate guards, but, as had been the case when they marched out, no sentry was to be seen. A growling rumble of voices drew him towards the centre of the camp’s rectangular layout, the ground around the legatus’s headquarters tent now thronged with men who were evidently arguing amongst themselves. Elbowing his way through the scrum of men, some in full armour while others wore only their boots, tunics and belts, he ignored curses and complaints as the men he had shouldered aside took in his crested helmet and the fixed scowl of features rendered brutally anonymous by the helmet’s closely fitting cheek pieces, and decided that, on the whole, it would probably be best to let a pissed-off chosen man go on his way than risk a swift and brutal beating. Reaching the front of the crowd gathered around the tent he glanced keenly to either side, waiting to see who was in effective command of the mob.

  ‘I say we do him now!’

  A wiry-looking legionary raised his dagger and pointed it at the tent’s closed flap, but not only did he not take a step forward but neither did any of the men he was exhorting to murder their legatus augusti. Another man extended his arm in a theatrical gesture.

  ‘You go right ahead then, if you want to be the man who killed an army commander. I’m a bit too fond of my life to risk ending it nailed up as an example to others!’

  Antonius looked around himself, seeing men whose resolve was wavering in the face of the enormity of what they were considering.

  ‘We killed Fatty Flaccus!’

  A man standing close to him raised the challenge, and the centurion realised that Vocula would be hearing every word inside his tent, readying himself to die with the dignity expected of him.

  ‘Yeah, but that was different, wasn’t it? Flaccus was a traitor to Vitellius, but Vocula’s been straight up and down with us. And whoever puts the knife in can be sure his name will be known in Rome soon enough. And I don’t want to be that man because Rome will find a way to have its revenge on him.’

  A chorus of agreement greeted the gloomy prediction, and Antonius flicked a glance to the tent’s rear, wondering whether, against all expectations, he might still manage to spirit his friend away to safety. If the mob dispersed for even a short period he could cut his way in through the back wall and try one last time to persuade Vocula to accompany him out of the camp. Perhaps, he mused, if the threat of death receded and the legatus came to see himself as no more than a prisoner he would be more inclined to consider flight.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  A soldier had stepped out of the crowd while his attention had been elsewhere, and was standing in the open space in front of the command tent with a drawn sword in his hand.

  ‘Longinus? But you …’

  ‘Deserted? Yes I fucking well did, once that cunt in there started beheading men for the crime of speaking their minds and telling the truth!’ He looked around at the men surrounding the tent with an expression of naked glee, and Antonius realised that with his arrival any faint hope of saving the legatus’s life was gone. ‘I ended up with the Gauls, and they’ve sent me to put some backbone into you pussies! So, if nobody else has the guts for the job …?’

  Silence greeted his challenge, and the newcomer strode forward to within two paces of the tent’s closed door flap.

  ‘Legatus Vocula! Come out and make recompense for the good men you killed!’

  After a moment the leather was pulled back to reveal the legatus, white-faced but evidently resolved to face his would-be murderers. He stared at the deserter for a long moment and then stepped forward quickly, reaching down to lift the waiting sword blade, placing its point against his sternum.

  ‘If you’re going to kill me, have the decency to make it qui—’

  The soldier lunged forwards, ramming the gladius into the Roman’s chest with such force that the blade burst from his back, then stepped backwards, wrenching the sword free and leaving the legatus tottering, bloody-lipped as he coughed gore in a crimson spray.

  ‘You men … will … regret …’

  He staggered, consciousness fading, then slumped to the ground and lay motionless. The gathered soldiers stared down at his body for a moment before the murderer’s voice broke the silence.

  ‘Regret killing you? I don’t think so, Roman! Your time has come and gone, and now I serve a new empire!’

  ‘But will you men of the First and Sixteenth Legions join with us?’ The crowd of men turned to find a single man behind them, tall and patrician, dressed in the polished bronze armour of a Roman general with a scarlet cloak draped over one arm in the classical style, exuding the authority of a man born to power with one hand resting nonchalantly on the pommel of his sword. ‘You have taken a step towards your destiny that can never be reversed! And now the moment of an even greater decision is upon you! Now that you have freed yourselves from the dead hand of Rome’s failing hold on power, will you choose to serve the Gallic empire, or will you be content to remain leaderless, loyal to no man and a threat to all? After all, two of Rome’s mighty legions are a formidable prospect in these difficult days! Will you accept the offer of the safety and prosperity that service to a new empire will afford you, or should I regard you as masterless and make my exit? After all, you may consider that you have no need of allies.’

  The deserter raised his bloody sword, shouting a challenge at his former comrades.

  ‘I say we swear to serve the new empire! Rome is finished! The Gallic empire will rule north of the mountains from now on! Will you join me?’

  The men around him erupted in cheers, shouting their affirmation, and Antonius watched in disgust as the deserter and the Gallic general exchanged knowing, triumphant glances.

  ‘Very well!’ The Gaul nodded imperiously, raising his free hand and turning on the spot to encompass them all before administering his verdict. ‘I, Julius Classicus, prince of the Nervians and general of the empire of the Gauls, accept you into that empire’s service! The oath will be sworn at the right time and with the right solemnity, but from this moment on you can be proud to consider yourselves Gauls, each and every one of you! You will be paid at the same rate as under Rome, and when the time is right you will all receive the donatives that Vitellius promised you as a mark of the Gallic empire’s high regard for your service! You will have the gold you are owed!’

  More cheers erupted, louder than before at the unexpected but welcome promise of what every legionary hoped for. When they had died away Classicus spoke again, pointing to the deserter.

  ‘Aemelius Longinus is promoted to the rank of centurion as a reward for his courage in ending Rome’s hold over you! Let him be awarded his phalerae for this act, and take his place among your proud centurionate! Now dismiss, and equip yourselves for the march. At dawn tomorrow you will swear your allegiance to the Gallic empire, and then we will march north to demonstrate to the men holding out in the Old Camp just how futile their resistance really is! Find your other officers, Herennius Gallus and Numisius Rufus, and make them secure, without any harm being done to them, in recognition that the time for violence is past! They will have a key part to play in demonstrating to the Old C
amp’s commander that the time to give up his doomed struggle has arrived. And remove that poor man’s body – we should at least accord him some respect in death!’

  The Nervian turned and walked away, and Antonius paced slowly through the dispersing crowd of soldiers to stand over his friend’s corpse, unconcerned as to whether his disguise was still effective as the men around him turned their back on the scene, laughing and joking at the prospect of being paid a donative that they had long since decided was destined never to be honoured. Waiting until the ground around the legatus’s tent was deserted, with only Vocula’s remains for company, he knelt by the legatus’s body, pushing a silver denarius between his lips and into his mouth.

  ‘Farewell, Gaius Dillius Vocula. I failed to save your life but I promised to avenge its loss. And at the right time I will. Your murderer will spend the time from this moment to that looking over his shoulder, whereas you are in Elysium with your ancestors. Among whom you have no need of shame.’

  He nodded down at the corpse and turned back to the camp’s southern gate, adopting the persona and gait of an evil-tempered chosen man in a hurry, one hand on the handle of Vocula’s dagger, muttering to himself as he strode back through the camp’s rows of leather tents.

  ‘And I promise you one more thing. When the time comes, your murderer will depart this life a good deal more slowly than you did.’

  Outside Batavodurum, January AD 70

  ‘Make sure you walk the guard posts properly once it gets cold. This lot will be sneaking away for a warm by the closest fires if they think you won’t be along to keep them honest.’

  Egilhard nodded, tying his helmet’s cheek pieces tightly together and reflexively putting his hands to the hilts of his sword and dagger, and the century’s chosen man Hludovig shook his head at the younger man.

  ‘Always with the blades, eh? The sharpest thing you’ll need tonight is your tongue, Watch Officer. Lash one or two men with it and the rest of them will soon enough come to respect you. You show them any softness, they will take advantage like the bastards they are.’

  Looking over his superior’s shoulder Egilhard fought to keep his face straight as Frijaz pulled a face at the chosen man’s back, eyes crossed and tongue protruding, the other men of his old tent party wearing various expressions of boredom and indifference at Hludovig’s words. Since his promotion to chosen man he had carried on with his generally reviled approach to his responsibilities as if nothing had changed, bringing his own particular brand of irascibility and casual violence to the role in stark contrast to his predecessor’s more easy-going approach to discipline. Certain in his own mind which approach he would be better emulating, Egilhard was nevertheless more than intelligent enough to say and do what was expected of him when under the older man’s hard-eyed scrutiny.

  ‘Yes, Chosen Man!’

  Nodding his satisfaction, Hludovig turned away, leaving his deputy to the pleasures of keeping several tent parties of soldiers alert through the depths of the night.

  ‘I’m away for a beer. You see anything to worry you … anything … you send for me and let the grown-ups sort it out, right boy?’

  Egilhard watched him stalk off into the sea of tents that constituted the cohorts’ camp, Hramn having refused to countenance any attempt to make it more permanent or comfortable for the men of the cohorts despite their proximity to their own city, on the grounds that they could be commanded to march at any moment. Once the older man was out of earshot he turned back to his soldiers with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Very well, you heard the man. You “bastards” can all consider yourselves well and truly shouted at, and once you’ve recovered from it you can get the watch fire burning properly and start cooking. And make sure there’s plenty in the pot, nobody on my watch goes hungry.’

  Leaving his father and uncle bickering over the best way to encourage the fire’s dull embers back to life, he walked off along the camp’s four-foot-high turf wall, stopping at every guard post to exchange a few words with the tent parties manning the defences. Respected for his almost supernatural abilities with a sword, he knew the soldiers he had counted as comrades only months before well enough to wear his authority lightly, encouraging rather than cajoling, his growing confidence evident in both his relaxed approach to the groups of soldiers and their respectful responses. Walking back along the wall to the camp’s eastern entrance, which was his main point of responsibility, he found the fire burning properly under Lataz’s expert gaze, while Frijaz offered helpful suggestions to the tent party’s other men as they chopped meat and vegetables into the large pot that would then be suspended over its heat.

  ‘All good?’

  Lataz nodded, grinning affectionately at his son in the fire’s soft light.

  ‘Once I persuaded your uncle to bugger off and leave me to it, yes. And not a bad night for it either.’

  Egilhard looked up, taking a moment to consider the cloud-free evening sky, fading from dark blue to black in the east as night fell properly. Something on the western horizon caught his eye, and he raised a hand to point at the sparkling flecks of light, dancing golden specks against the indigo backdrop.

  ‘Do you see that?’

  Lataz stared out into the dusk for a moment before responding.

  ‘Torches. Moving fast too, so they’re probably horsemen. Best you call out Hludovig.’

  The chosen man answered the runner’s summons quickly enough, joining the tent party as they watched the approaching riders, the cooking pot forgotten.

  ‘Whoever it is, they’re bold enough to be riding out after dark. Only a handful of them though, so it’s not likely to be anything more exciting than a messenger.’

  ‘Shall I call out the rest of the century?’

  Hludovig shook his head.

  ‘For half a dozen men? We’d be the laughing stock of the camp. No, just have your lads form up and look fierce, and let’s find out what this lot want.’

  The leading rider dismounted, a blazing torch in his right hand, nodding to the chosen man as he stalked forward.

  ‘I have a message for Prince Kivilaz from Atuataca. The men of my tribe have decided to join the Batavi in your war with Rome. So if you’ll take me to the prince’s tent I’ll—’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Hludovig raised a hand, shaking his head. ‘Nobody sees Kiv without being approved by our prefect, and definitely not a Tungrian. You cowardly bastards have taken Rome’s side, which makes you …’

  He fell silent as the centurion raised his hands in meek surrender.

  ‘No problem, Chosen.’ He looked to the men behind him, some unspoken signal passing between them. ‘We understand. And besides, you just told me all I need to know.’

  ‘What do you m—’

  The bemused chosen man grunted in surprise and pain as the Tungrian’s dagger punched into the side of his neck and before his men could react, the newcomers were on the attack, flinging their torches into the camp and flashing out their swords. The centurion himself seized his opportunity, hurling his brand at Egilhard and diving into the camp’s rows of tents while the watch officer was distracted by having to dodge its flaming arc.

  ‘He’s after Kiv! We’ll deal with these!’

  Realising that Lataz was right, Egilhard turned and ran for the centre of the camp still carrying his shield, knowing that the Tungrian would be doing the same, using his long familiarity with the camp layout that the Batavi habitually used, as the result of long association with legions who were in turn accustomed to following the dictates of their instruction manuals to the letter. Hurdling campfires and dodging between tents, he would be intent on reaching the command tents before the alarm could be raised, gambling on finding the Batavi leader in his quarters. Breathing hard, the young watch officer ran to a halt in front of the largest of the tents, its door flap guarded by a pair of Bairaz’s guardsmen who stared uncomprehendingly at the young soldier. One of them stepped forward, raising a hand to deny the young soldier access.


  ‘Nobody enters without—’

  Knowing that he only had seconds to act, Egilhard stepped forward, bending his knees to lower his centre of gravity, then lunged upwards with his shield, hammering the closer of the two away with its iron boss, then quickly stepping back off his leading foot to put his shoulder into the other man’s chest with enough force to send him sprawling. Striding into the tent’s living space, ignoring the shouts of alarm from the momentarily discomfited guardsmen, he came face-to-face with the Tungrian in the act of climbing through a long slit he had hacked in the tent’s back wall. The intruder snarled a challenge, leaping forward with his sword extended, intent on gutting the only man standing between him and his target, only to find his blade pushed harmlessly aside by the Batavi’s shield and the point of his attacker’s sword raised to strike.

  ‘Alive!’

  Nodding grimly at the shouted instruction from behind him, the young soldier stepped forward and butted his opponent between the eyes with the brow guard of his helmet, smashing his shield’s iron rim into the reeling Tungrian’s sword arm to disarm him. Turning to leap through the hole in the tent’s wall, the would-be assassin doubled up in agony as Egilhard sank his blade’s point into his calf, dropping him to the ground, then shouted in pain and indignation as the Batavi warrior stamped down on the scrabbling fingers of his left hand with the nailed sole of his boot to stop him drawing his pugio. The first of the guardsmen came through the tent’s doorway with a murderous expression only to come up short as Kivilaz raised a hand to forestall any attempt at revenge for his humiliation, having emerged from the tent’s inner quarters.

  ‘Restrain this man, and fetch a bandage carrier to bind his wound, I want him alive for long enough that we can understand what, or rather who, is behind this attempt on my life. And as for you, soldier, it seems that I owe you a life.’

  Hramn and Alcaeus arrived moments later and pushed their way through the knot of guardsmen gathered around the tent, the wolf-priest raising a knowing eyebrow at the sight of Egilhard standing in one corner of the prince’s tent while a pair of guardsmen stood over the captive as his leg was bandaged. Kivilaz gestured to the fallen centurion with a flick of contempt.