Hramn shrugged.
‘A small number will have escaped into the forest, it’s inevitable, but their liberty will be short-lived. Other than these three, there were another twenty-two taken to their arena, including the Banô.’
‘He’s dead, I presume?’
Hramn shook his head with a wry grin.
‘Not yet. It seems the man has a charmed life. We matched him with over a dozen of his men, two and even three at a time, but every time he managed to leave them all face down and walk back to centre of the arena as if the whole thing were no more than a training session. I would not wish to face him alone.’
Kivilaz nodded slowly.
‘Perhaps you’ve toyed with him enough. Our allies must see him dead, if their anguish at the horrors he has carried out is to be calmed, and I am wary of creating a symbol of further Roman resistance.’
‘You wish him to die tonight? I can bring him here to be made an example of.’
The prince shook his head.
‘That would deny the tribes their moment of revenge. But tomorrow, once the arena is full, release all the remaining prisoners onto the sand. Tell them that they can have their freedom if they take him down and make him die slowly. Use your imagination as to how they do that, but make sure his howls of pain and desperation are heard by every man within a mile of the spot. And if they refuse then I’m sure Brinno will find sufficient men who lust after revenge to do the job.’ A muffled shriek of agony interrupted him, and he turned to look at the tethered prisoners, one of whom had a spear through his right thigh, the boy turning to his father with a delighted smile. ‘Very well done! You see, you are becoming a warrior fit to fight alongside Hramn and his wolf-priest! Now sit and listen as we discuss what is to be done with our captives.’
Hramn waited respectfully until the boy was seated alongside his father’s throne before speaking again.
‘And after Aquillius is dead? What would you have me do with them?’
Kivilaz shrugged.
‘Free them, of course. We need survivors, a few men to spread the word of the horrors the men who defied the will of the Batavi have endured. I want Rome to know what’s waiting for any legion they send north, and I want the Gauls to be under no illusions as to which of our two kingdoms is the more vindictive in victory. And the more likely to achieve that victory, for that matter, despite their captured legions.’
Hramn nodded.
‘Very well, my prince.’
Kivilaz turned his gaze to the wolf-priest, whose eyes were fixed upon the captive legionaries.
‘You disapprove, Alcaeus.’
‘I do, my prince.’
The older man smiled, his eyes hard, as the centurion turned his grey-eyed gaze to stare levelly at his ruler.
‘As straightforward as ever, forthright without fear for any consequence. I like that in a man, and more so in a priest. So tell me, do you believe that these men fought with honour?’
‘No, my prince.’ Alcaeus shook his head firmly. ‘Far from it. I believe they hid behind their walls for half a year and used deceit and trickery to keep us at bay, forcing us to spend our men in vain attempts to break into their fortress.’
‘You lost comrades?’
‘I lost friends, my prince. As one always does in battle. But men lost in such a way do not die with glory, in the heart of the enemy’s line with their swords and bodies painted red, deaths to be celebrated in stories and songs. They are killed by men they will never see, and without any opportunity to sell their lives dearly. My friends died with arrows in their throats, or crushed by rocks thrown from the walls. One was burned alive, pinned to the wooden shell of our testudo by a bolt. For these deaths, and many more, I despise these men for the cowards they are.’
Kivilaz raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘But for all that, you still disapprove of this?’
‘I do not believe the slaughter of hapless men at the end of their endurance brings any cause for pride to our tribe. Our warriors’ deeds are watched by Herakles, and he must surely have turned his face from what we did today.’
Kivilaz nodded, smiling faintly.
‘Herakles. Clever of you, Priest, to use the Greeks’ name for our god rather than what the Romans prefer. But why not simply call him Magusanus?’
Alcaeus inclined his head in respect.
‘Magusanus is a tribal god, my prince, a god of hunting, and raiding, and feasting. Whereas Herakles is a soldier’s god.’
The two men stared at him for a moment, Hramn’s gaze stony while his uncle’s was kinder.
‘I understand. Your upbringing and training have invested you with certain beliefs that are hard to abandon. So tell me, what would Herakles do to restore our honour, if he were here now?’
The wolf-priest thought briefly, then gestured to the rack of spears.
‘I will show you, if I may?’
Kivilaz extended a hand.
‘Be my guest. Perhaps you can provide my son with an example to follow.’
Alcaeus selected three spears, weighing them in his throwing hand in turn and rejecting one, nodding satisfaction with its replacement. Walking to a spot twenty paces from the tethered prisoners, he turned to face them, muttering a few brief words of prayer before stamping forward and slinging the first weapon in a low arc, the spear thudding into the left-hand man’s chest. The Roman tensed, fought the iron shaft’s agonising intrusion for a moment, then slumped, his chin sinking onto his collarbone. Taking the second spear from his left hand, the centurion repeated the prayer and then threw again, putting the weapon’s evil iron head through the right-hand man’s breastbone and killing him instantly. The last man, barely alive with the prince’s spear still transfixing him, raised exhausted eyes to stare at him for a moment, nodded fractionally against the rope’s grasp, then slumped down again, held up only by his restraints. Alcaeus prayed swiftly, then hurled the last spear with all his strength, sending the missile in a flat trajectory to pierce the last legionary’s chest, killing him as surely as he had done with his comrades. Stepping back from the dead captives, he turned to Kivilaz and bowed deeply.
‘Thank you, my prince. I will pray to Herakles, and ask for his continued favour in granting us good fortune in the battles to come.’
Kivilaz inclined his head with equal respect.
‘You have indeed provided an excellent example of martial prowess, Alcaeus. Now leave us and ensure that the prisoner Aquillius is secure in his captivity. I have much to discuss with my nephew.’
The centurion bowed again and turned away, leaving the two men staring after him.
‘You indulged the man, Uncle, and in return he went too far.’
Kivilaz shrugged.
‘Too far? Really? Not everyone is as much of a hothead as you, Hramn. Alcaeus is the expression of a warrior religion that our family have always encouraged, bringing the favour of the gods through their sacrifice and bravery, and inspiring our young men to feats that might otherwise remain out of the reach of their courage. What would you have me do with him, for his crime of pointing out that the ways in which we are indulging our tribal allies’ need for fire and blood run counter to the beliefs of that religion? You need men like Alcaeus and his fellow priests to keep your cohorts fighting, otherwise your men might start to despair, given the loss of half your strength at Gelduba. Do you not?’
Hramn nodded fractionally, his lips pursed in silence at what he knew, for all the mildness with which it was phrased, was a rebuke, and after a moment the prince continued.
‘We agree then. You have your differences, that’s obvious, but I know you can find a way to work together rather than pulling in different directions. For your own sake, for my sake …’ he pointed at the boy squatting alongside his throne, ‘and for his sake, I suggest you do so.’
Aquillius sat cross-legged in the darkness of the arena cell into which Brinno’s spearmen had herded him after the day’s final bout, resting his back against the room’s wooden wa
ll with his bound legs stretched out in front of him, his lips moving as he recited the list of fourteen names and towns to himself, only ceasing the exercise when he was sure he had all of their details perfectly memorised. The tribesmen who had gathered to watch him die had stared down at him in awed silence as he left the fighting surface, their hatred rendered impotent by astonishment at the sheer ferocity with which he had torn through the legionaries sent to kill him. His body was bone tired, exhausted beyond fatigue by the succession of combats that had demanded every ounce of his prowess and speed with a blade, and half a dozen minor wounds bore evidence to the narrowness of some of his victories, cuts and abrasions that he knew would slow his reactions and sap his strength in the morning. Their combined effect would probably result in a fatal loss of speed and power, when combined with the lack of any food or water since the scanty meal he had consumed on recovering from the blow that had stunned him that morning. His tunic was stiff with blood from the dead men’s wounds, his legs streaked with the gore that had puddled across the arena’s surface as the afternoon had worn on, and his nostrils were filled with the rich aroma of the blood spray that had dried on his face. His hands and feet were numb from the harsh bite of the ropes that had been used to bind his wrists and ankles, trussing him so effectively that the hourly check by the tribesmen set to watch him presented no opportunity for escape whatsoever. Whoever’s turn it was to leave their fire and open the cell’s door to check that he was still there made a cursory and contemptuous inspection of their prisoner before heading back to drink more beer and crow at the Old Camp’s blazing ruin.
This time, the door’s bolts were drawn back but without the usual drunken gusto and in a manner better suited to stealth than had hitherto been the case, a shadowy figure slipping into the cell and closing the door behind him, almost invisible in the darkness.
‘Centurion Aquillius.’
Straining to see the indistinct figure, Aquillius nodded.
‘Yes. You’re no German though. You speak Latin as well as I do.’
‘Speak quietly, if you’d prefer not to toss away this last chance for freedom.’
Puzzled, the Roman squinted at the newcomer for a moment before realising who it was.
‘I remember your voice. You’re the Batavian centurion who was sent to negotiate with us, the wolf’s head, the man who showed such disgust at the slaughter of my legionaries. But how can you be my last chance for freedom?’
Alcaeus moved closer, dropping a fragment of iron the length of his finger on the floor at the captive’s feet.
‘Yes, I am Alcaeus, and the answer to your question is simple: I can give you what you need to make your escape.’
The Roman frowned up at the Batavi priest.
‘Why would you betray your own people?’
Alcaeus smiled down at him, his teeth a pale gleam.
‘I dream, Aquillius.’
‘You dream. And what of it? We all dream. I dream of battle and the most efficient ways to defeat an enemy so completely that no man remains standing to offer me his surrender.’
‘My dreams are somewhat different to yours. So listen to me, if you wish to live?’
Aquillius nodded.
‘I am, you will have noticed, unlikely to have any more pressing engagement. Speak as you wish, priest.’
‘We have met on several occasions, Aquillius the Banô, and every time I have seen your face I have been struck by the sensation that I know you from another time and place.’
Aquillius stared back at his dark silhouette.
‘I can assure you that we never met before the day your cohorts marched past this fortress last year.’
‘I know. And yet even that first time that I laid eyes upon you it was as if I already knew you, and knew the kind of person you are. And over time, as I have spoken with you in our negotiations, that feeling of familiarity has grown until I am completely sure. I have seen you fight, Aquillius, in my dreams.’
Aquillius shook his head incredulously.
‘In your dreams.’
‘Scoff all you like, Roman, but be assured of one thing. I do see the future. Sometimes I see the most inconsequential of things, sometimes I am witness to events that are to come to pass, matters of the greatest import. I dreamed about the battle at Gelduba.’
‘The battle in which the arrival of the Vascones turned the fight against you?’
‘Yes. In my dream I was leading my century forward, just as was the case that night, driving the legions back over their walls, forcing them into the camp that was to be the scene of their deaths, but all the time I knew that something terrible was behind me, something the dream had never revealed to me.’
‘And it came to pass.’
‘It did. In the instant before those auxiliaries tore into our rear and started the disaster that cost us half our strength, I relived the last moments of the dream, knowing that when I turned it would be to witness horror.’
‘And?’
‘The first thing I saw was my chosen man dying on their spears. A lifelong friend whose life I might have saved, had I just discerned what it was that the gods were trying to tell me.’
Aquillius shrugged.
‘You cannot be responsible for what you do not see in these dreams.’
‘No? Perhaps it is a punishment from the gods, revealing enough of what is to come that I see its possibilities without giving me enough to avert such a disaster.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps it is the price I must pay for my chosen path in this life. But I have other dreams, Banô, and in one of them, as I have said, you have made more than one appearance. I have watched you fight, Aquillius, alongside a man I judge to be the greatest swordsman in our tribe.’
The Roman stared up at his indistinct silhouette.
‘And you believe that if you free me, this dream will come to pass.’
The priest shook his head.
‘I do not simply believe it. I know it. And when the time comes I will call on you to fight, and you will answer that call. Because you will swear to do so. And I guarantee that doing so will not put your oath of loyalty to Rome at risk.’
Aquillius nodded slowly.
‘And this dream, will you tell me what it holds?’
Alcaeus shook his head slowly.
‘If I do then I may jeopardise its coming to pass. Whereas if I free you, I trust that Hercules will ensure that the path you follow will bring you to the right place at the right time. I can say no more.’
The Roman stared up at him questioningly.
‘And what is to stop me from promising to do as you wish and then disappearing into the countryside, never to be seen again. You know I’m capable of doing just that.’
‘I’d guessed as much. But there are two reasons why that won’t happen. The first is that you are a man of honour above all else, from the little I know of you. If you promise on that honour to answer my call then I know in my heart that when the time comes you will act exactly as I have dreamed it.’
‘And the second?’
‘Is simpler by far. Whether you are Aquillius or the Banô, you can no more run from your fate than any of us can. What I have dreamed will come to pass, be assured of that. In freeing you now I make certain that you will be to hand when you are most needed.’
‘So why do you need my promise, if I have no choice in the matter?’
The Batavi centurion smiled tightly.
‘Because when I call on you to fight the odds will be heavily stacked against you. A rational man would decline the combat.’
‘Do I die, in your dream?’
‘I cannot say. I have not seen the end of the fight, but what I have seen is savage and glorious. A man could be proud to die in such a moment of utmost achievement, if that is the price the gods demand for a such a pivotal role in these matters.’
Aquillius looked up at him for a moment and then shrugged.
‘It seems I have little choice, if I wish to live beyond tomorrow’s dawn. Very well priest, fre
e me. In return I swear on my honour that I will do as you wish when the time comes for this dream to become reality. Let us hope that neither of us comes to regret this bargain.’
5
Vindonissa, Germania Superior, April AD 70
‘At last. It’s about time we got some more support.’
Legatus Longus nodded, assessing the long column of auxiliary infantry marching onto the Vindonissa parade ground with an experienced eye. The Twenty-first Legion had reached their home fortress a week before, and the legion’s relief at the completion of their long journey across the Alps from Northern Italy had quickly changed to eagerness to march on the enemy, albeit tempered by an acute awareness that they were still only one legion potentially facing ten times their own strength if the Batavi, the Germans and the Gauls were to combine.
‘What do you think, First Spear? Do they look sufficiently warlike to you?’
Pugno nodded slowly.
‘Eight cohorts of auxiliary infantry are very welcome, Legatus. Will they come under your command?’
‘No, they will not.’ Both men turned to find Petillius Cerialis behind them, Pugno snapping to attention while his legatus inclined his head in respect for the legatus augusti’s rank despite their social equality. ‘Gaius Sextilius Felix is not the average auxiliary commander, gentlemen, and I expect he’ll make that very clear as soon as he gets the opportunity. He was awarded the rank of legatus, and put in command of these eight cohorts, pretty much every auxiliary soldier in Noricum, on the orders of Antonius Primus as a mark of the loyalty he has shown to Vespasianus. And he was given very specific orders, to watch the procurator of Raetia like a hungry dog, ready for any sign that Porcius Septimius was sufficiently loyal to Vitellius to send his own cohorts to war. Given that Septimius didn’t manage to find the courage of his apparent convictions and join the fight, Legatus Felix’s men have been sitting on their arses for the best part of six months, and you can take it from me that he’ll have been the most frustrated man in that camp. Now that he’s been called forward to join the war against the Gauls and Germans, I expect he’ll be straining at his rope to be unleashed on the first enemy we find. Shall we save him the trouble of coming to us?’
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