RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Krubjan?’

  ‘Bone and meat we not take.’

  ‘The wolves will eat their own kind?’

  The German laughed softly.

  ‘Every animal eat own kind, brother Mariuz. Even man. You go back to legion, you find out, I think. Now come, much work, little time. And Beran hungry for heruta liver.’

  10

  The Fog River, September AD 70

  ‘What do you expect his terms will be?’

  Kivilaz brushed a speck of dirt from his tunic before answering Hramn’s question, looking down the length of the bridge on which he and the Roman general Cerialis were to meet. Constructed specifically for the purpose of their conference, a five-pace gap had been left in the central span, a void too wide for an armoured soldier to leap but sufficiently narrow for two men to negotiate with each other. At Kivilaz’s back what remained of the Batavi army had been paraded in ordered ranks, his guardsmen closest to the bridge and the remnants of the once mighty cohorts at their rear with what was left of their tribal allies formed up behind them. The soldiers were clearly exhausted, their clothing and equipment worn to the point of destruction by months of campaigning, but their ranks were ordered and precise, and every man present stood with a straight back and a stern expression, discipline maintained to the last. The Romans were just visible at the far end in the dank, drizzle-filled air, a full legion standing in equally disciplined ranks behind the party of a dozen men who were gathered around their legatus augusti.

  ‘Look at them and then you tell me. He’s accompanied by a legion, the bloody-handed Twenty-first from the look of them, but he has three more available at the sound of a trumpet. If we fail to agree terms then all he has to do is cross the river and we’ll have nowhere to run. He’s burned out every farm on the Island except for those owned by our family, the cunning bastard, which means that our support has dwindled to almost nothing. The German tribes are no longer willing to stand with us, not with a Roman army eager to be at their throats and the better part of their manhood either dead or fought out after the disaster at the Old Camp. And we’ve fought on for three months since that fateful day when one among us betrayed our battle plan to them, but all to no effect. Our men are exhausted, and they sense the lack of will among the people of the tribe clearly enough, which only makes them less inclined to be the last men to die in a war that now has no meaning. All of which means that if we choose to fight on we’ll be forced to surrender in short order, and on whatever terms they deign to allow us. Cerialis has won this war, and he knows it.’ He raised a hand to gesture at the Roman general, visible at the bridge’s far end among his escort. ‘I am commanded to come alone to this discussion, but Cerialis brings lictors, secretaries and bodyguards, and even that bastard traitor Labeo if my eyes don’t deceive me, all to reinforce his superiority over me. He’s won, and he wants me to be in no doubt that he’s got his sword at my throat.’

  He sighed.

  ‘So what do I expect from Cerialis? Nothing good. He will either order me to kill myself, here and now, or, if his master has ordered him to be merciful, he may send me to Rome to argue for my life, and possibly to be spared in return for exile from my tribe, perhaps in Rome, perhaps somewhere much farther away. Either way, today marks the end of my time leading our people. From today a new era begins, and you must face the realities of this situation without my help, the only man in the tribe with the influence to hold onto the power that remains to the ruling families. Cooperate, Hramn, play the respectful and penitent war hero. Put the responsibility for this war on my shoulders and be public with your regret for the things that war forced upon you. Deny all foreknowledge of the things that Rome will charge me with, the massacre of the Old Camp legions and the death of Lupercus. Do all of these things and with a little good fortune you will find yourself in a position of power once again.’

  He paused, lowering his voice to be sure that they were not overheard.

  ‘And on that day move swiftly and decisively to take control. Use intimidation and murder if you have to, but re-establish our family as the foremost in the tribe. If other families stand against us then do whatever you have to do to intimidate and control them. Fight from the shadows, nephew, but fight with only one aim, to be the victor. We may have lost our fight to be independent of Rome, but we can still return our fortunes to the position we held before this war was forced upon us. Don’t let me down in this.’

  The younger man scowled at the legion massed on the other side of the river.

  ‘I won’t. You know what I’m capable of. Who was it that put your nephew Briganticus to the spear, when he came at you like a fell-handed maniac in that last battle before we fell back to this side of the Rhenus? Whatever it takes, whoever I have to kill, I will restore our family to power. I swear this. I’ll make a start with the wolf-priest, and make sure that he can never betray the tribe again.’

  Kivilaz nodded.

  ‘As you see fit, you have my blessing. And now, I suppose, the time has come to go and talk to this Roman once again, and see what fate he has in mind for his one-time friend.’

  He stalked out onto the bridge, conscious that the eyes of his followers were upon him as he walked slowly down its length until he reached the point where the gap had been left in its structure. Folding his arms, he watched impassively as Cerialis made the same walk on his own side of the crossing, waving away most of his party with the exception of a pair of scribes and a hulking figure who Kivilaz recognised with a hard smile. The Roman reached the edge of his half of the bridge and looked down at the Fog River’s dark water flowing beneath him, then back up at the Batavi leader waiting in silence for him to speak.

  ‘Gaius Julius Civilis. It’s been a long road to this strangest of meetings, since the last time we spoke in Rome.’

  Kivilaz stared across the gap that separated the two men in silence for a moment, his face as impassive as stone under the other man’s scrutiny.

  ‘Long and bloody.’

  Cerialis nodded.

  ‘It’s certainly been that. A dozen battles or more. Two legions temporarily lost to desertion and another two destroyed for ever, slaughtered almost to the last man it seems, despite your promises that they would be spared if they abandoned the Old Camp. A legion fortress razed to the ground, a fleet suborned and turned against Rome along with numerous auxiliary cohorts …’ He paused and stared at the Batavi nobleman questioningly. ‘And yet all of that death and destruction has ultimately proven fruitless. And so here we are, at the end of your rebellion, with tens of thousands of men dead, a province in ruins, and your people’s survival hanging in the balance. Under the circumstances I feel constrained to ask you just what it was that you were hoping to achieve? It’s not as if you lacked guidance from my father-in-law’s generals, is it? You might have believed that the assault upon the Old Camp would be forgiven when he became emperor, given that you were diverting military resources that could otherwise have faced us in Italy and turned the battle in favour of Vitellius, but once that battle was won you seem to have lost your mind? You attacked a Roman fortress, an act that you knew Rome could not tolerate. Why? What was it that stopped you from quietly abandoning your revolt, once it was clear that Vespasianus was going to be emperor? Surely you know that he would have accepted you back into the empire with an equal lack of drama, had you chosen to do so?’

  The Batavi shrugged.

  ‘I was committed. Gaul rose against you, much as I expected, and I saw the chance for our combined strength to close the door against any attempt to reconquer us.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘If I’d known just how ineffective the Gauls would prove to be, I might have been more circumspect.’

  Cerialis raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You were committed? So it was all an expensive gamble. But tell me, what expectation of mercy can you really think you have now? Why would I take your hand, after all the good men you’ve had murdered? I’ll warn you now that I’ve heard more than enough stories about your own bl
oodthirstiness to have hardened my heart against any idea that you might live out a quiet retirement in Rome, in case you have hopes of the traditional imperial indulgence to a defeated but honourable enemy. You’d have the same hard view as I do if you were in my place. Officers forced to fight their own men? Legionaries used as living targets for your son’s javelin practice? Two legions herded into a trap to be hacked to death by your vengeful German allies? These are not the acts of Gaius Julius Civilis, honourable foe of Rome, they are crimes of war perpetrated by a barbarian whose infamy will rank alongside that of Arminius before you.’

  Kivilaz shrugged, affecting to be untroubled by the venom in the Roman’s voice.

  ‘That will be a decision for Vespasianus, I would imagine, and not for you. I am a Roman citizen, as you well know, and I demand my day in Rome. I demand an imperial judgement. And who knows, you Romans do love your noble barbarians, do you not? Perhaps my one-eyed arrogance in defeat will persuade enough of you to petition the emperor that he will choose to be magnanimous and spare me? After all …’ he grinned unashamedly, ‘I only rose up at the direct instigation of Marcus Hordeonius Flaccus, Gaius Plinius Secundus and Marcus Antonius Primus, as I can prove by producing their correspondence and calling upon Plinius and Primus to bear witness to the truth of my assertions. It was only my fear of the revenge that would be exacted on my people by the returning legions, no matter who won, that convinced me to keep fighting when your father-in-law took power. As for the “crimes” you mention, most of them are lies invented by my enemies to blacken my name, and the destruction of the Old Camp legions was an unfortunate miscalculation.’

  He fell silent, and Cerialis shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘The deaths of thousands of men? A miscalculation?’

  ‘Yes. You surely can’t imagine that I actually intended such a thing to happen? I counted on my German allies being able to keep their warriors under control when the legions marched out in defeat, but their rage at the losses they took over the six months of the siege was greater even than I had predicted. I simply miscalculated what they would do.’

  ‘I see. It was a miscalculation, was it,’ Cerialis almost spat the word out, ‘that cost the lives of all those men? There is a man serving with my army who will bear witness, as you put it, that it was nothing of the kind.’ He gestured to Aquillius, looming behind him, his hate-filled eyes locked on Kivilaz. ‘I doubt very much that Vespasianus would be minded to view that evidence with any predisposition to lenience. And that’s before I come to consider the murder of a Roman gentleman, a war hero who resisted your attacks until he and his men were reduced to literally eating the grass that grew in the gaps between the cobbles of the Old Camp’s streets. You imprisoned Quintus Munius Lupercus, a Roman senator, you shipped him across the Rhenus to your German allies and you colluded in his execution by whatever barbaric methods they use on their most hated enemies.’

  Kivilaz shook his head.

  ‘That is most assuredly not true. Munius Lupercus was exactly what you describe, an honoured foe with whom I fought in Britannia. He was being transported to serve a period in captivity as the servant of the Bructeri priestess Veleda, as—’

  Cerialis overrode him with all the arrogance of a man used to being heard rather than forced to listen.

  ‘Rome is aware of the woman, and her part in encouraging your rising. I can assure you that she will be dealt with when the time is right. And if you’re going to tell me that Lupercus was to serve a short period of captivity before being released, simply to prove the magnanimous generosity of the German tribes in victory, you can save your breath. I’ve heard of your boasts that he was destined for a lifetime of slavery but I still prefer to believe that your intention was only ever for his murder, to assuage the tribes’ lust for Roman blood.’

  ‘Lupercus committed suicide! He killed my nephew Bairaz and used his sword to kill himself!’

  Cerialis shook his head in firm denial.

  ‘Nonsense. The man was as weak as a kitten from months of privation, he could no more have fought his way free of your guardsmen than you’re going to be able to talk your way out of having ordered his murder.’

  ‘There was a centurion, a man called Marius! He could have killed Lupercus! Ask him!’ He pointed at Aquillius. ‘He knew the man, he can vouch that—’

  ‘Enough!’

  Kivilaz fell silent, contemplating Cerialis with the calculation of a man who instinctively knew his fate was close to hand. The Roman spoke again, his voiced pitched low so that only Kivilaz could hear him over the river’s ripples.

  ‘Do you want to know what I find funny in all this, Civilis?’

  ‘Tell me. I could welcome some humour.’

  ‘What amuses me is the irony of your position. All those lies you’ve told about how the deaths of our legionaries cannot be laid at your feet? Even if they were true, nobody would ever believe them. History will say that you ordered the destruction of the surrendered legions, that you had your son throw spears at helpless prisoners and that you instructed your men to force Roman to fight Roman in the Old Camp’s arena.’ He pointed at the imperturbable Aquillius. ‘He’s the living proof of all those accusations. Your lies will be refuted and left to rot where they fall. And as a consequence, the only truth you might be telling – that you never intended Lupercus to die – that will be rejected as yet another lie as well. In seeking to muddy the waters over matters that Vespasianus might have found a way to forgive, or blame on others, you will die for a crime against Rome’s ruling class that you might never have intended.’

  ‘But if you think I’m telling the truth …’

  ‘Why order your death on the basis that you’re lying? A calculating man like you already knows the answer to that question. Rome needs to put a head on a spike, Civilis, someone to point to and say “he has lived”. Someone the people can blame for this uprising, to take the focus away from the ruling class’s crass mistakes of the last few years. And that head can only be yours. Your citizenship has been expunged from the record, and as you are no longer a citizen of Rome there is no need for Rome to grant you the dignity of a trial before the emperor. Instead, I have been given clear instructions as to your fate, instructions that Vespasianus agonised over for weeks before issuing the order, and finally only agreed with the assistance of his colleague Gaius Hosidius Geta, a man known to you and whom he felt he could trust to consider the matter from the perspective of a man who undoubtedly owes you his life. You will die, Gaius Julius Civilis, today. Here. Now. And by your own hand. If you acquiesce to this order your people will be treated with the greatest leniency. Our alliance will be restored. Your people’s immunity from tax will continue just as it was before this unfortunate revolt. Your cohorts will continue to serve, although without their horses and never as anything more than single cohorts, or anywhere close to home for that matter. After all, you’ve taught us a few painful lessons as to just how to manage the military units contributed by our subject peoples.’

  ‘And am I to presume that my former colleague, and indeed your own, for that matter, Claudius Labeo, is to rule the Batavi after my death, given his presence here? Will you disband the council of our elders and give power to a man who has broken every alliance he ever forged?’

  Cerialis shrugged.

  ‘I am yet to decide how and by whom the Batavi will be governed, but I can assure you that your family will have no part in it. For now Labeo is here to demonstrate that the decision is not for you and your cronies, but rather an imperial prerogative.’

  Kivilaz nodded wearily.

  ‘And Batavodurum?’

  ‘Your capital will be reconstructed in a place where it cannot be fortified and defended. And a legion will be set to watch it, one of my better house-trained legions and not the Twenty-first, as has been suggested to me by men whose first priority is revenge. I have the Second Adiutrix in mind. All of these concessions to continued alliance will be granted to your people …’

&nbs
p; He paused, and Kivilaz nodded his understanding.

  ‘But I have to die. By my own hand?’

  Cerialis smiled bleakly.

  ‘Why would I deny you that one last honour? I’m not a monster, simply the man who has to enact imperial policy. Would you like some time to compose yourself?’

  Kivilaz shook his head.

  ‘I’ve had the best part of a year in which to make my peace with the gods. All I need is a reliable and suitably honourable man to perform the mercy stroke once I’ve opened my guts.’ He gestured to the men clustered at the bridge’s end. ‘If you’ll allow me to make my choice?’

  The Roman inclined his head gravely.

  ‘Of course, Prince Civilis. Take all the time you need.’

  The Batavi officers waiting at the bridge’s northern end watched gravely as their prince walked slowly back to them, stiffening their backs as he stopped and looked around them.

  ‘My fate is sealed, brothers. The Romans have pledged to allow the tribe to return to their service without further punishment, under their officers and not our own, of course, and as infantry-only cohorts, which will be posted far away to prevent any further risk of uprising, but we will retain our tax exemption in return for their service. A legion will be billeted on the Island but with orders to respect our people. There will be no resettlement and no enslavement. Cerialis will keep his dogs muzzled. He will grant the tribe all of these concessions in the name of a continued alliance with Rome only if I kill myself, here and now, for all to see. I have accepted, of course, as my last act as commander of the tribe’s army.’

  Hramn nodded slowly.

  ‘I will stand as second to you with pride.’

  Kivilaz shook his head.

  ‘I expected this, and I have given thought to means by which I intend to leave this world.’ He turned to Alcaeus. ‘You have a chosen man who goes by the tent name of Achilles, if I recall correctly? The man who captured Labeo’s assassin and prevented an attempt on my life?’