RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

‘You sound like a Roman. A flag of truce? There is no truce where he’s concerned, just hatred. You men of the cohorts may indeed still be the finest warriors the tribe has, but I find myself wondering if a little less Roman influence wouldn’t serve us better.’

  Alcaeus inclined his head in respectful acknowledgement of the point, refusing to take the bait, and the tone of his reply was mild where Hramn’s had been harsh and provocative.

  ‘Your question correctly identifies an issue that I have been considering myself, and one that will doubtless require much discussion once we have triumphed and established the independence from Rome that was our stated aim in starting this war. Although our old ways seemed to work well enough in turning Labeo’s flank at the river. I doubt Brinno’s men could have swum the river and brought about their surrender without our losing a single man.’

  If he was too canny to rise to Hramn’s challenge, the prefect was more than ready with a terse reply.

  ‘Without losing a man? Is that your concern? How unlike the Romans you seem to deify! You know as well as I do that what made Rome the greatest power in the world – back when they had an empire to boast about, that is – was the fact that they greeted any defeat by simply raising a fresh army and attacking again.’

  The wolf-priest nodded his acceptance of the point again, carefully walking the line between docile acceptance of his superior’s point and needlessly irritating the man.

  ‘But we are not Rome, Prefect. We do not have a never-ending supply of men to be recruited from an empire of millions. And our cohorts have taken decades to reach their current prowess. We could not replace them overnight, even if we did have the men—’

  Hramn cut him off with an angry gesture.

  ‘Our cohorts, Alcaeus, have had their day in the sun. They may remain peerless among my uncle’s army, but they are no longer the force they were.’ The priest kept his mouth shut, biting down on the obvious rejoinder that Hramn’s words were only true because of the disaster at Gelduba over which he had presided, but some sense of his frustration must have been evident, and Hramn’s thin patience abruptly snapped. ‘You and your men no longer seem as committed to our cause as once seemed to be the case. You have become cautious, lacking the lust for glory that once made us the most feared men in the empire. You’ve lost your edge, and every man in our army can see it.’ He stared at the silent centurion for a moment, shaking his head in an affectation of sorrow. ‘I know it, Kiv knows it, and I’m quite sure you know it too. Your men no longer have the stomach for this war, and neither do you. It was your fault that Labeo was able to escape when you had him at your mercy, which means that all this …’ he waved a hand at the city that was being noisily sacked before them, ‘is blood on your hands. I even find myself wondering if the Banô’s escape was in some way your doing, since you were the last man to see him alive.’

  Alcaeus stared back at him levelly, holding his gaze unblinkingly.

  ‘If that is your suspicion then you must act accordingly. Prefect.’

  ‘It is my suspicion. But I can’t prove it. So no such accusation will be made. But I’m watching you, Priest. And from now on the men of the Guard will stand behind your line at every battle, ready to deal with any man who chooses to run rather than fight.’

  ‘The men of the cohorts will never stand for such an ins—’

  ‘The men of the cohorts will accept Kivilaz’s decision to provide them with a battlefield reserve in close support. As will you. Because there are worse options, believe me. From now on the men of my cohorts are going to be at the point of the spear. They’ll be the first into battle and the last out, and if they show any reluctance to do their duty to the tribe then they will find the tribe particularly unforgiving.’ He leaned forward, putting his face within inches of Alcaeus’s. ‘Is that understood, Centurion?’

  The other man nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off his superior’s.

  ‘Perfectly, Prefect. You make your intentions abundantly clear.’

  Germania, April AD 70

  ‘They’re getting careless.’

  Marius blinked silently in acknowledgement of Lupercus’s almost inaudible whisper. The two men were sitting in apparent silence by the fire their escort had constructed on pitching camp for the night, most of the guardsmen already having fallen asleep having consumed their dinner and drunk liberally from the skins of beer that had been supplied to them in the village through which they had passed earlier. It was the evening of the third day of their march north into Bructeri territory, having reached the limit of the Lupia’s navigability by the ship that had carried them upriver. A single man had been set to watching them in the still of the evening, and, as the prisoners had watched, the effects of a long day in the saddle and the fire’s warmth had combined to set him nodding. The day’s ride had been uneventful, although the behaviour of the tribesmen in the settlement that had gifted their guards the beer had been instructive to both men. Approaching the party in something close to a state of awe, the Germans had stared up at Lupercus with the air of men confronted with a rare animal for the first time, and eventually had to be driven away by their Batavi guards as they grew bolder and more curious. The legatus had laughed at the time, telling his subordinate to get used to the idea of being treated like a performing bear, but it had been evident to Marius that the day’s events had brought the reality of their captivity home to him more than any other aspect of the journey. Waiting for the sentry’s head to nod again, he risked another whisper.

  ‘They think we have nowhere to run.’

  Lupercus looked across the fire at the sleeping Germans for a moment before nodding decisively.

  ‘It has to be now.’

  Marius shook his head in disbelief, shocked by his superior’s sudden decision, but Lupercus stared back at him with equal certainty. The man with the duty of staying awake to watch them stirred uneasily in his doze, waking sufficiently to stare at the two men with unfocused eyes before his head sank back onto his chin.

  ‘Where can we run to?’

  The legatus shook his head fractionally.

  ‘I don’t intend running far. I just want one of them alone, and to take his sword.’

  Marius stared back at him with the certainty of long association, knowing that the other man craved nothing more than a clean and honourable death, the news of which would revive his family’s shattered pride.

  ‘But …’

  ‘This could be the only chance.’ Lupercus nodded decisively, his gaze softening momentarily at the sudden anguish in his subordinate’s eyes. ‘Goodbye, Marius.’

  Without warning he was up and running, and after a momentary pause for the dozing guard to register the flurry of movement, the Batavi was on his feet and roaring a challenge that jerked his comrades awake, as Marius struggled to stand, his legs numb from sitting for so long.

  ‘After him!’ Bairaz was clearly furious, spittle flying as he shoved the red-faced guard at Marius. ‘You, watch him! If he escapes you’ll die here!’

  The other five men pounded away into the evening’s long shadows after Lupercus, and Marius instinctively knew that the legatus, still weak from the siege’s long, slow starvation, was unlikely either to be able to best any of them in a straight fight or escape their pursuit. Turning to find the abashed sentry within arm’s reach, his right fist clenched and drawn back with evident purpose, he readied himself for the blow, pulling his head back as the guardsman threw an angry first punch, rage and mortification at his failure clouding his judgement. Shrugging off the glancing blow’s effects with a swift shake of his head, the pugilistic instincts of half a lifetime of fighting on the harpastum pitch took him forward into the Batavi’s attack rather than seeking any attempt at escape, stepping inside the other man’s reach and hugging him close to pinion his arms, then he snapped his head forward in a headbutt that channelled every moment of the last six month’s fear and frustration into the attack. The guardsman’s nose popped in a spray of blood, his eyes momentari
ly losing their focus, and before he could react to the unexpected retaliation, Marius had released his grip on the other man’s body and positioned himself for the kill, grabbing the hair at the back of his opponent’s head and pulling sharply downwards before snapping a half-fisted punch to crush the reeling soldier’s throat. As the guardsman tottered away, fighting to breathe, the centurion pulled the sword from the hapless Batavi’s belt and punched the blade through his mail, killing the soldier as the sharp iron slid between his ribs and cut his heart in two.

  Looking up, he realised that the remaining guardsmen had vanished from sight, having pursued Lupercus into the forest, and that, if he chose to accept it, his own escape beckoned. Dithering between fight and flight, he looked down at the fallen guardsman again, the germ of a plan forming in his mind as the sounds of pursuit intensified, Lupercus’s hunters shouting to each other as they closed in on their quarry.

  ‘I hope you’re going to appreciate this, once you’re happy with your ancestors.’

  Pulling the dead man’s mailshirt over the corpse’s head, Marius struggled into it, shaking the iron rings’ weight down to sit comfortably before fastening the Batavi’s belt about himself and picking up his discarded helmet from beside the fire. A swing of the sword partially severed the corpse’s neck, another blow releasing the Batavi’s head to roll away from his body, and, picking it up by the hair, he tossed it away into the undergrowth leaving only a decapitated body clad in a red tunic, the same colour as his own. Voices sounded in the trees behind him, men shouting in angry triumph interspersed with the grunts and shouted imprecations of a beating, as they dragged the recaptured legatus back towards the fire and confirmed his fears for the man’s ability to evade their pursuit and that his friend was paying the price for failing to secure the means of the suicide he craved. Two guardsmen dragged Lupercus into view, his legs trailing across the forest floor as he lolled semi-conscious between two of them while Bairaz strode angrily behind them, the other two presumably still out in the darkened forest.

  ‘Get the rope! We’ll tie the bastards up at night from now on if this is the thanks we get for our—’ The decurion stopped speaking abruptly as he took in the sight of the headless corpse. ‘You’ve killed him? Why the f—’

  He gasped as the man he had assumed was his soldier lunged forward and thrust his bloodied swordblade through the throat of the man on Lupercus’s left, then pulled the blade free, whipping it up in a high arc to hack into the other soldier, severing his right arm in a spray of blood. Shoulder-charging the maimed warrior backwards into Bairaz, sending both men sprawling, he vaulted the wounded man to attack the reeling decurion, but fell headlong as his booted foot caught the wounded man’s raised arm. Rolling to his feet he found Bairaz facing him with his sword drawn, the Batavi leaping forward to attack with a snarl of anger, thrusting the gladius’s blade at his leg. Stepping back, the Roman parried the strike imperfectly, gritting his teeth against the pain as his enemy’s sword opened a long wound in his thigh and prompted a predatory smile from his opponent.

  ‘All I have to do now is wait for you to lose enough blood to …’

  His eyes widened as Marius stormed forward, driven to attack by the certain knowledge that he had a fleeting window of opportunity to win the fight before his opponent’s prediction became fact. Abandoning any attempt at finesse, he fought in the only way left to him, channelling his rage at what he had been reduced to into a desperate attack, all of his frustration and loathing in the sword’s flickering arcs. Caught off balance, Bairaz barely managed to defend the first lunging thrust, raising his sword to block the swinging hack that followed it, but he was unprepared for the violence with which the Roman sprang forward, dropping his gladius and leaping at him with his fists raised. A swift left jab staggered the Batavi back on his heels but the right-handed uppercut that followed it, delivered with all the strength left in Marius’s body, was the killer blow, lifting his body off the ground with its concussive impact and sending him headlong into the dust, his body twitching spasmodically as he surrendered his consciousness. Marius stared at him for a moment before retrieving the sword, using it to cut a strip of wool from the tunic of his first victim and binding his own wound, the makeshift bandage swiftly darkening with blood. Walking tiredly over to the maimed soldier, frantically attempting to stem the flow from his severed arm with his remaining hand, he hacked a single deep cut into the back of the man’s neck, snapping his spine, then limped over to Bairaz, whose eyes were fluttering as he started to recover his wits, putting the gladius’s point to his throat.

  The Batavi’s eyes opened, fought to focus and then fixed on the weapon’s blade, his body freezing into perfect stillness as he realised the gravity of his situation. Marius stared down at him pitilessly for a moment before speaking, his anger evident as he ground out the words.

  ‘I have a message for Kivilaz! You’re his cousin, right?’

  The Batavi officer’s hand moved fractionally towards the hilt of his dagger, but Marius pushed the blade down to dimple the skin of his neck, and he raised both hands in surrender.

  ‘You know you’ll never—’

  ‘Escape? I doubt it. But I can still send your snake of a cousin one last message.’

  ‘What mess—’

  ‘This.’ Marius stabbed the blade in, staring down into the Batavi’s eyes as the man’s realisation of his own death hit him. ‘Your corpse will be all it takes to tell him that Rome never stops fighting. Never.’

  He turned back to Lupercus, who was squatting where he had fallen when Marius’s unexpected assault had freed him, staring exhaustedly at his subordinate.

  ‘As practical as ever, First Spear. And now, if you’ll pass me a weapon, I’ll do what I should have done when I was clear we’d have to surrender.’ The first spear handed him Bairaz’s sword, and Lupercus got slowly to his feet, putting the blade’s point to his abdomen. ‘Give me the mercy stroke and then run. I could never survive in this green Hades, but you might just have it in you to prove them wrong.’ He braced himself to act, then glanced up at his subordinate with a smile. ‘It was an honour to serve with you, First Spear.’

  Slumping tiredly forward onto the sword, he groaned in agony as the blade pierced his abdomen, heaving convulsively to drive it deeper into his body until the weapon’s point burst from his back.

  ‘N … now!’

  Marius swung his own sword with all the strength he had left, cleaving his mortally wounded friend’s head from his body and standing in silence over the twitching corpse, muttering a prayer as Lupercus’s spirit left his body.

  ‘Go well, Quintus Munius Lupercus. And raise a cup to me when you dine with your ancestors this evening.’

  Wiping the bloody blade on Bairaz’s tunic, he sheathed the weapon, then picked up the dead legatus’s head by its hair and hurled it away into the forest, where it was lost in the undergrowth, safe from any further indignity. The sounds of the remaining soldiers reached him through the trees, coarse laughter at some joke or other, and he grinned at the thought of their reaction when they discovered the havoc that had been wrought in their absence, and what Kivilaz’s reaction was likely to be when they returned to the Island with such inauspicious news.

  ‘This is one more promise the Batavi will just have to break, I suppose.’

  He turned and limped away into the trees, vanishing into the evening shadows and leaving the sprawled corpses as mute testament to his bitter rage.

  Tungria, April AD 70

  ‘They’re over the mountains? Already?’

  Classicus nodded at his Batavi counterpart’s incredulous tone.

  ‘It seems that reports of the empire’s demise in this part of the world are a little in advance of the reality, Prince Kivilaz. And yet it also seems to me as if our opponent has somewhat underestimated what it is that they face.’

  He had ridden into the cohorts’ camp an hour before, and after a swift discussion Kivilaz had decided to summon his senior officers to
discuss the Gaul’s news from the south.

  ‘You think they’re guilty of hubris? It seems to me as if the men of the Treveri and the Lingones are the ones who’ve been asleep at their posts. Wasn’t your colleague Julius Tutor supposed to be guarding the passes through the Alps?’

  Classicus nodded grimly.

  ‘It seems that the Treveri have done little other than gather some of the smaller tribes to their banner, most of whom doubtless agreed to join his army for fear of his retribution if they failed to do so. And that fool Sabinus led his Lingones against their neighbours the Sequani, who promptly sent them home with a bloody nose and inspired him to take his own life. Perhaps we ought to have taken a hand ourselves, rather than seeking to settle old scores?’

  Kivilaz shook his head in disbelief, either ignoring or simply failing to comprehend Classicus’s reference to his attempt to deal with Claudius Labeo.

  ‘How many legions?’

  ‘Five from Italy, our spies report, but they’ll send men from the other provinces as well, given enough time. Two from Hispania and another from Britannia, I expect. But there is one piece of good news. The bulk of their army is under the command of Annius Gallus, four legions in strength and ordered to secure the upper reaches of the great river. Only one legion remains to the force that is supposed to be putting us all back in our place, under Petillius Cerialis.’

  The Batavi smiled slowly.

  ‘Cerialis? I doubt he’d have been the first choice for such a responsibility were it not for the fact that his wife’s father also happens to be the emperor. He’s reckless by reputation, still prey to the same reluctance to avoid taking risks that was his downfall in Britannia.’ Classicus looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Ah, I’d forgotten that you didn’t arrive in the province until after the revolt of the Iceni was over. Petillius Cerialis led half of the Ninth Hispania head on into a horde of angry Britons and only just got away with the legion cavalry and his life. He always was one for gambling everything on the outcome of a single wager, and I can’t imagine he’s changed much. And has only one legion to play with? Let me guess, it wouldn’t be the Twenty-first, would it?’