The wolf-priest nodded gravely.
‘Yes, my prince. He is a man whose family is of unquestionable honour, and whose father and brother died in your service, one at Augusta Trevorum, the other after the battle at the Old Camp, giving his life to save his son. There is no better man among us to stand with you.’
‘Fetch him here, and warn him of what it is that will be expected of him.’ He smiled wearily, patting the hilt of his sword. ‘Once this blade is sheathed in my guts I have no desire to provide the Romans with the satisfaction of the slightest sign of distress, so I’ll be expecting a quick and clean ending at his hands. A death with honour.’
The centurion inclined his head in a gesture of respect.
‘Of course, my prince.’
Kivilaz turned away and walked towards the waiting cohorts. Hramn looked at his uncle with the expression of a man who had expected a gift that had not been forthcoming.
‘You’re going to ask a man with no family blood in his veins to be your second? You’re going to trust a man you don’t even know to give you the mercy stroke?’
Kivilaz looked at his nephew levelly for a moment before continuing.
‘I must go to my grave with the least fanfare possible, if our family is to survive the storms that will batter it this winter. Better for me to choose a man of impeccable honour from the ranks of my army to give me my peace than for there to be any way for our enemies to accuse me of seeking to build a dynasty in my last moments. And besides …’
He stared at his nephew for a long moment.
‘We started this war, Hramn, and for the most part we have avoided its hardships, while our men, especially those of the cohorts, have been bled white in battle after battle. It is important for us to be seen to be aligned with their sacrifice, to be men of the tribe and in no way setting ourselves above it. That’s why I’ll have the mercy stroke delivered by a man who’s given everything he has in that painful, bloody retreat. For the good of our family I will be seen to seek a humble and honourable exit from this life at the hands of a Batavi war hero.’ He looked out into the drizzle, nodding to himself. ‘And besides that, because it is the right thing to do. History will judge me better for making this simple choice. Send him out to me when Alcaeus brings him here.’
He turned back to the bridge, calling his last words back over his shoulder.
‘And remember what I told you – our family’s day is not done, just as long as you have the sense to keep your head down.’
‘Don’t ask me to do this.’
Alcaeus shook his head at Egilhard.
‘I’m not asking you to do it, Achilles. I’m not even ordering you. I’m telling you that you have no choice in the matter.’
The chosen man shook his head in bafflement.
‘But—’
‘I don’t know what’s in your mind? I have no idea what you might be capable of?’ He reached out a hand and gripped the collar of Egilhard’s mail armour, pulling the younger man so close that he could whisper and still be heard. ‘Trust me, I know. I told your father before he died, and now I’ll tell you. I have dreamed of this day every night for the last year, more or less, which means that I know exactly what you’re capable of. And in my dream you walk out onto that bridge just as Prince Kivilaz has ordered.’
‘And after that? Have you seen what follows?’
The wolf-priest nodded into his chosen man’s questioning stare.
‘I have. All of it.’
Egilhard looked into his eyes for a moment longer and then nodded.
‘Very well. I cannot argue with the gods themselves.’
Alcaeus took the brass-bound hastile from his unresisting hands and passed it to Lanzo.
‘Here. He won’t be needing this.’
He led the slightly dazed soldier towards the bridge, telling him what it was that his prince would expect of him as they walked.
‘This is Kivilaz’s last moment in history. He knows that whatever he says, and however he dies, will be remembered by every man watching, written about in the histories and passed down for generations to come. He will repeat his justifications for leading us to war, refuse to accept the Romans’ accusations of ordering the slaughter of the legions he captured when the Old Camp fell, and generally pose as a man doing what was forced upon him. And with that done he will kill himself, or rather he will take his sword to himself and expect you to finish the job with one swift killing stroke, severing his head from his shoulders. He’ll be in the most appalling pain, and he will expect you to put him out of that pain as quickly as you can.’
The younger man nodded slowly, lost in thought as they reached the bridge’s foot. Hramn turned from his contemplation of Kivilaz’s lonely figure to face them, his furious expression revealing the humiliation he was feeling at not having been selected to grant his uncle the mercy stroke.
‘He knows what is expected?’
Alcaeus nodded.
‘He does. I have told him that every moment he delays will be an hour of agony for the prince.’
The big man nodded brusquely, addressing Egilhard directly.
‘Do this properly and there will be a reward for you. But if my uncle suffers unnecessarily, you’ll pay the same price. Do you understand?’
Egilhard nodded, holding the prefect’s stare.
‘Perfectly, Prefect.’
‘Very well, go out there and do as you are ordered. Let’s get this over and go home. This war is over, and I have better places to be.’
Walking out onto the bridge the young soldier realised that he was being watched by hundreds of men on both sides of the river. On the far bank a cohort of legionaries was drawn up in neat, orderly ranks, their armour and helmets gleaming faintly in the damp, drizzle-filled air, a stark contrast to the weary remnants of the Batavi cohorts whose equipment and clothing were rusted and threadbare from months in the field, the soldiers themselves gaunt from lack of food and beaten down by the succession of defeats they had endured since the disaster at Gelduba. As he neared the end of the bridge he saw that the Roman general Cerialis was standing on the other side of the hastily opened gap in the central span with a familiar figure. His gaze met the big man’s stare for a moment, Aquillius nodding his recognition of the Batavi soldier with a directness that raised the hairs on the back of Egilhard’s neck.
‘You are the soldier that my army has chosen to name Achilles? The man who saw off an attempt to kill me in my own tent?’
Egilhard bowed.
‘Yes, my prince.’
Kivilaz shook his head.
‘There is no need for formality. I am Kivilaz, simply a warrior now, and I will shortly accept my fate and kill myself in order to spare my people the indignities of a Roman occupation in force. Your part in this is to swing that sword of yours, an honoured blade that has tasted the blood of our enemies on a dozen battlefields, if the stories I hear of your deeds are true?’
He paused, a questioning expression on his face and Egilhard nodded impassively.
‘They are true. This sword has sung, both in my hands and in those of my father Lataz and my uncle Wulfa.’
‘Good. Then I will be the last man to fall in this war, and to a blade whose honour cannot be maligned. When I am done you must cast the weapon as far out into the river as you can, to prevent the Romans from taking it from you and parading it through Rome to be placed at the emperor’s feet, as is their way. Let it go to the river goddess and bear testimony to my sacrifice. And make it quick, one swift blow to end me and give me peace from the agony these Romans have demanded I inflict upon myself, you understand? I have no desire to spend any more time in the agony between life and death than is necessary.’
Egilhard nodded, unable to speak such was the strength of emotion running through him. Kivilaz, meeting his gaze, was satisfied. He turned back to the waiting Romans, his long hair streaming out in the fresh breeze that was whipping the river’s water into waves that lapped at the bridge.
‘I a
m ready to satisfy the terms of our agreement, Petillius Cerialis! Tell me again how you will uphold your part of the bargain.’
The Roman legatus augusti nodded, his voice booming out over the wind’s thin whistle.
‘I, Quintus Petillius Cerialis, the appointed representative of the emperor Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, declare that, when Gaius Julius Civilis has surrendered his life to the declared sentence of the emperor, there will henceforth be renewed peace and allegiance between the peoples of Rome and the Batavian tribe! The Batavian cohorts will be welcomed back into the service of Rome, to serve as our trusted allies and safeguard our frontiers against external enemies! The terms of our historic treaty with the Batavian people will be renewed, and respected in perpetuity, and the Batavian homeland will be safeguarded from any aggression by Rome’s enemies by the presence of a legion selected by myself and with orders to respect both the property and people of the Batavian tribe! Rome and the Batavian tribe will be at peace, and no penalty, financial or otherwise, will be levied for this brief period of disagreement! Gaius Julius Civilis, do you accept the terms of the agreement as I have made them clear to you?’
Kivilaz nodded, raising his arms and opening them wide as if to encompass the land on the far side of the river.
‘I do! But before I go to meet my ancestors as your chosen price for this new, golden age of peace, I will first state my case! Let history decide on the rights and wrongs of my people’s rebellion against Rome’s betrayal of our alliance, but let it do so in full knowledge of the facts, when the story of these times comes to be written!’
He stared intently at Cerialis who, fully expecting his demand, simply waved a gracious hand as a signal for him to continue.
‘For generations my people have been steadfast allies of Rome! We were called “the best and bravest”, and granted the pride of place in the line of battle by our parent legion! When the Iceni tribe rose against Rome, destroying cities and despoiling their inhabitants, it was the Batavi who took their iron to Rome’s enemy and broke the Iceni people, and yet it was the Fourteenth Legion that claimed the glory. As the years passed, our parent legion came to take our service for granted, belittling us at every opportunity, and when we expressed dissatisfaction we were chastised for disloyalty! Our cohorts won the battle that placed Vitellius on the throne, and yet our reward was nothing more than a handful of empty promises from that faithless impostor and a plan to distribute our men throughout the legions, supposedly to replace their battle losses but in truth, and all too evidently, as a means of preventing the supposed threat of our prowess on the battlefield from becoming reality! Our treaty with Rome was ripped up by the very man we had gifted with the empire, and Rome’s centurions were sent to conscript our youth, abusing their power to make free with our children! What else was there for us but to rise up against this abuse of our honourable service?’
He stared directly at Cerialis, his eyes blazing with indignation.
‘And what of the promises we were made? In letters from your emperor’s general Marcus Antonius Primus I was offered a free Batavi homeland, to be governed as my people saw fit, offers made on behalf of Titus Flavius Vespasianus to encourage me to lead my people against Vitellius and sink a dagger into his back, forcing him to fight two wars with forces barely adequate for a single enemy! Offers reinforcing those I had already received from Vitellius’s legatus augusti for Germania, Hordeonius Flaccus, may his spirit find rest after his murder by his own men, acting against the interests of his master and in the clandestine service of Vespasianus! Offers that were in turn repeats of the blandishments of Gaius Plinius Secundus, friend to both Vespasianus and his son-in-law Quintus Petillius Cerialis who now leads Rome’s forces against the Batavi! The Batavi people were subjected to a deluge of promises when Vespasianus needed the Batavi’s threat to distract his rival for the throne, but once his rule was secure those promises were forgotten! And what of myself and my family?’
He shook his head as if in sadness.
‘My family have served Rome faithfully since the time of the first Caesar, before Rome was ever an empire! We accepted Rome’s friendship and allied ourselves with her interests, never once considering any alternative until my brother Paulus’s flimsily justified execution, and my own brutal arrest and transport to Rome to be tried and murdered, a murder only averted by the death of Nero. And no sooner had I returned to my homeland, sworn to live quietly for the remainder of my days, than I was arrested once more by Vitellius, to satisfy the anger of his centurions, then released as a means of keeping the Batavi quiet until such time as there was enough strength to deal with us once and forever! You accuse me of treason? Consider the mind of a man who has cheated death twice, both times by the width of a hair, and who knows that the inevitable third attempt will not fail for the lack of resolution on the part of the men holding the blades. What is he to do, that man threatened for a third time? Should he smile and accept his would-be murderers’ repeated betrayal, or should he rise up against them with every ounce of his strength? I know what any Roman would do! Why should a man of the Batavi be any different?
‘You accuse the Batavi of breaking treaties and betraying Rome? I say that it was Rome who inflicted the first wounds on our previously happy relationship, expecting the Batavi to smile and bear the repeated insults! You thought you could dominate us, and reduce us to a subject people! You were wrong! You accuse me of leading that betrayal, of plotting with Vindex and of desiring to make myself king of the Batavi and rule Germania? I say that all I ever wanted was to be left in peace, a peace you rudely disturbed not once but twice, executing my brother and making my own fate very clear! You thought you could sweep me aside and leave my people leaderless! You were wrong! And now you call me a murderer, and accuse me of going too far in the rebellion that you begged me to raise! You say I killed your colleague Lupercus! I tell you he committed suicide! You say I slaughtered two legions when they surrendered to the Batavi for lack of food? I say it was my allies from across the river, provoked one time too many by men like him!’ he pointed to Aquillius, who stared back at him expressionlessly. ‘Provoked by disfigurements inflicted on helpless tribesmen, by a refusal to allow our dead to be retrieved from the field of battle with dignity, by inhuman and barbaric means of war that left their victims between life and death. You call us barbarians? You are the barbarians now, burning farms and murdering their occupants! Yes, I will do as you wish and end my life, if it is the price I must pay for peace, but Rome should consider its part in this war with care, if it is to avoid inflaming other peoples with the same wanton lack of regard with which it provoked the Batavi! Let my words enter your historical record as a rebuke to every man involved in bringing about this sad state of affairs for which I will now pay with my life!’
He fell silent, staring obdurately at Cerialis, who looked back at him for a long moment before drawing breath to reply with equal vigour.
‘Gaius Julius Civilis, there is a good deal of truth in what you say! Rome’s relationship with your people has become more troubled than the emperor is willing to countenance as acceptable! From this moment onward Rome will manage its relationship with the Batavian people with more care. This does not, however, excuse your people’s uprising against Rome becoming a war, with repeated and bloody attacks on our armies and their fortresses, and Rome’s swift and entirely justified response is no less than you can have expected when you personally threw that first spear over our walls! You yourself have indeed been mistreated, but your response has been to abuse the trust placed in you by our legionaries when you starved them into surrendering, to callously murder a Roman senator and to massacre his legions almost to the last man, forcing those few captives you took to fight each other in the arena like common slaves, and using their living bodies as targets for spear practice. You have led your people to transgress the usual rules both of protest and war and now you will personally pay the price demanded of you by the emperor, the life of the man responsibl
e for these crimes against the empire in return for the emperor’s forgiveness, and his renewed favour for your people! You have accepted the terms that have been offered, so if you wish to afford the Batavian people the continued friendship of Rome you must now conduct yourself with the dignity that both Rome and your people expect and deserve, and end your life in a manner that will reflect credit upon you and your tribe for accepting defeat with grace and magnanimity! I have nothing more to say, and you have spoken to the limits of my patience! Let this be ended now, so that we can declare that you have lived, and put this matter in the past where it belongs!’ He lowered his voice, speaking directly to Kivilaz. ‘As do you, Julius Civilis. You are a throwback to a more brutal age and you have no place here. End your story and take your leave of a life that no longer requires your blood thirsty choler.’
Kivilaz nodded, turning to Egilhard with an expression devoid of animation, as if all of his anger had been spent in his final oration to leave him devoid of passion. Ignoring the rain, now falling with sufficient force to be audible against the iron of the soldier’s helmet, he drew his sword, lowering his body into a kneeling position facing away from the Romans and placing the weapon’s point against his stomach. Looking up at the young soldier he nodded, his lips tightening to a hard line as he readied himself to commit the act that would end his life.
‘You know what is expected of you. A swift death, so that I may betray none of the agony I will know when this blade pierces me. Strike surely, and grant me that mercy, and you will be rewarded richly both in this life and the Underworld.’
Tensing his body, he gripped the sword’s hilt with both hands, looked up to the skies and pulled it towards him with a convulsive jerk, the point punching through his stomach wall with an audible crunch as the muscles parted around the blade. Grunting with the pain, he pulled again at the weapon, wrenching it forward and stabbing the blade deep into his body, hunching forward over the sword as the overwhelming pain of the cold iron’s intrusion gripped him, his voice little more than a strained whisper.
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