‘He want be emperor too?’
‘Yes, and this general’s officers marched their army to the same place where the first battle had been fought and challenged the emperor’s army to fight.’
Beran shook his head in puzzlement.
‘Fools. Why fight where enemy has already won? He know ground, he have gods’ favour.’
‘Not this time, it seems. The new challenger’s army fought bravely, and the emperor’s generals were defeated.’
‘Your Decimus die?’
‘Yes. And yet from the stories that reached us in the Old Camp, he had every chance to retreat from the battle with his legion in good order and his own skin intact, if he’d chosen not to stand and fight.’
‘I see why you tell story. Your Decimus, he should run, but he fight and he die. This he … duty?’
Marius nodded.
‘He did more than fight, he led his men forward against twice their own strength, against massed bolt throwers, and—’
Beran cursed, making the warding gesture.
‘Machine-arrows? I see once at Rome fort. Kill ox at two hundred pace with single arrow. No way to fight.’
Marius pursed his lips, thinking of the thousands of tribesmen the Old Camp’s bolt throwers had slaughtered during the fortress’s long siege.
‘No, it’s no way to fight. Decimus was killed by a machine-arrow.’
‘Kill by man he never see.’
‘Yes. And he’d been asked to take off his crested helmet by his men, because it made him a target, but he ignored them. Despite knowing that he was likely to die as a result.’
‘He serve he legion and ignore the danger.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But your legion dead. Slaughtered, you tell me. No man left. You legatus fall on sword. So nothing left for you. Nothing. You just be …’
He struggled for the Latin word and Marius shrugged.
‘An inconvenience? Perhaps. And yet I have to go back. It’s my duty.’
Beran nodded.
‘Yes, you be inconvenient. They not want you back. And like you Decimus, you will die. I know this.’
The Roman shrugged.
‘Perhaps. Although I’d hope for something better from my former brothers-in-arms.’
The German raised his open hands in a gesture of resignation.
‘Tomorrow we take pell to great river, pay boatman to cross. We know you love you duty, we see if you duty still love you back.’
South-Western Gaul, January AD 70
‘Fuck me, that’s cold! Get that door shut, will you?’
The newcomers were a trio of soldiers, stamping snow from their boots and propping their shields neatly at the entrance, two of them carrying viciously barbed spears while their leader sported the crested helmet of a centurion. The speaker, a man dressed in good quality if nondescript clothing, was standing in front of the tavern’s open fire, the wet puddle of snowmelt at his booted feet testifying to his own recent arrival. He turned to look at the newcomers as they shuffled in from the snow-filled night air, closing the heavy wooden door behind them. Casting a significant look at the two hulking men lurking at the table next to him, he turned his back to the blaze, luxuriating in the flames’ warmth.
‘Come far, have you?’
The officer, his face partially masked by his helmet, stripped off his snow-flecked cloak to reveal a shirt of scale armour before replying.
‘All the way from the Old Camp, by way of here and there.’
‘The Old Camp? The last time I saw that place it was nothing but wreckage and ashes.’
The newcomer nodded.
‘It’s being rebuilt. In stone this time, but the same size as before, by a pair of very bad-tempered legions whose men will be making life difficult for the tribes across the river for some years to come. And keeping an eye on the Gauls too, just to make sure nobody gets any more ideas about a Gallic empire any time soon.’
The man by the fire smiled.
‘That shouldn’t be hard, should it? The Gauls proved to be just about as hard as day-old dog shit.’
The other man nodded agreement, tossing his cloak down on the table beside him.
‘And you should know that better than anyone.’ He called out to the tavern’s owner. ‘Landlord! Wine for my men! And bring us six plates of whatever it is you’ve cooked for dinner, we’re about to work up an appetite!’
He turned to the two soldiers behind him, nodding a silent instruction, and as one they raised their spears ready to throw, the threat freezing the two bodyguards as they rose, knives in their hands, in response to the unspoken command their client had flashed them.
‘Drop the knives onto the floor, and kick them over here. Then sit down and put your hands under your arses, if you don’t want me to find out what a pilum feels like when it’s buried a foot deep in your chest.’ He waited while the two men relinquished their weapons and did as they were told. ‘Good. Stay that way and nobody needs to get damaged. Well, neither of you two at least. But as for you …’
The man standing at the fire stared back at him with narrowed eyes.
‘I know you.’
‘Of course you do. If I hadn’t left the camp outside Novaesium before you turned up with your Gallic friends, you’d have had me killed alongside Legatus Augusti Vocula, wouldn’t you?’ He grinned as the subject of his evident ire flashed a glance at the tavern’s rear door. ‘Don’t bother. My other three men are waiting out there, impatiently, I’d imagine, just in case you try to make a run for it. You show as much as a whisker through that door and they’ll put you down and leave you to bleed out in the snow. There are better deaths.’
The man by the fire shook his head in disbelief.
‘Who is it you think I am, exactly?’
‘I don’t think you’re anyone, I know you’re Aemelius Longinus, just as well as you know exactly who I am. And why I’m here.’
‘Longinus? I’m not Longinus! Longinus died when—’
‘Longinus died when the Picentine cavalry wing decided not to fall in with the First and Sixteenth Legions, when you cowards swore loyalty to the Gallic empire. Is that the story? Longinus died when they came across him on the road to the Winter Camp in his new centurion’s equipment, and were so incensed that they showered him with spears? Apparently he did. Except I found three men happy to swear an oath to Mars that it wasn’t Longinus they killed, because they saw the corpse and all three of them told me that while Longinus was hung like a donkey, the dead man was somewhat lacking downstairs. They all speculated that you must have realised you were a dead man, once the joy of putting your sword through a Roman general had faded, and that you’d found some way to put another man in your place and have the legion cavalry put him to death. After all, you had long enough in his tent to have looted his personal effects, so you were hardly short of gold. And I’d imagine that your friend Classicus made sure you were well provided for, having played your part and slaughtered Dillius Vocula when nobody else had the balls for it.’
‘But—’
‘No. I was there, you fool. Dressed as a chosen man, and so close to you when you killed him that I saw the look of glee on your face as you pushed your sword into him. You’re Longinus.’
The murderer sighed.
‘How did you find me?’
‘It’s ironic, really. That manhood you’re so proud of? Not all of the tavern owners remembered you, but the prostitutes certainly did.’ He smiled grimly at the other man. ‘And, one by one, they all told me what it was that you boasted about while you were playing the big man, once you were sated and wanted to talk. They told me that you were headed somewhere warm and far away to the south, where your face won’t be known and your gold can buy you a place to hide and drink and whore away the rest of your days. And do you want to know the funniest part of it? No? I’ll tell you anyway. That empire you told your mates was dead and buried just before you killed the best officer I ever served under? It’s back in control, Longin
us, and it scares the shit out of everyone more than ever, now that it’s got fresh blood on its hands. A legion centurion asking questions inspires instant and unquestioning responses. Those tavern keepers and whores gave you up in a heartbeat, no sly demands for payment, they just pointed out the way you’d ridden and scuttled back into their premises hoping we’d go away and leave them in peace. And that empire, Longinus, sent me to make an example of you.’
He pulled the dagger from his belt, raising the weapon to be seen in the firelight.
‘See this? A beautiful thing, isn’t it? Vocula entrusted it to me before he sent me away. It’s worth a small fortune, unlike the sword, which is probably worth a much larger sum. It was made by one of the finest swordsmiths in the empire, and it would be a shame to sully such a blade with your blood …’
He paused, as if to reflect, and then the dagger’s blade was buried deep in Longinus’s belly, the fugitive’s mouth gaping wide as he sucked in air to scream, but Antonius snapped a hand to his windpipe and choked off the scream, pulling the other man’s face close to his own.
‘I told Legatus Augusti Cerialis I’d have the empire’s revenge for the killing of a good man. And here I am.’
Kicking the wounded man’s legs out from under him, he pulled the dagger free and thrust down with the death grip on his victim’s throat, pushing him back onto the fire, then stepped smartly back. Whooping for breath, the murderer shouted in pain as the flames’ incandescent heat made his clothing smoulder, the moisture trapped in the fibres boiling out with a faint hiss, his limbs thrashing as he fought to escape the pain, but Antonius had taken a spear from one of his men and put the weapon’s butt spike into his victim’s chest, pinning him to the burning logs without any visible emotion. He watched hard-faced as the fire took full hold of the other man’s clothing and hair and his body was suddenly engulfed in flames. His screams went from wounded outrage to animal fury in the space of half-a-dozen heartbeats, no longer an expression of rational anger and pain but simply the insensate distress of a dying beast whose entire being was consumed by the agony of its ending.
‘That should be enough.’
Raising the spear, Antonius gestured to his soldiers. Taking a boot apiece, they pulled him clear of the fire, beating at the flames with their wet cloaks to extinguish them and leave Longinus writhing on the tavern floor. The centurion turned to the horrified tavern keeper, his expression still emotionless.
‘You have a back room, I presume? I’ll pay you twice the usual to put him in there and leave him to it. It’ll take him a day or two to die, and I want him to know every last moment, so no putting him out of his misery. He murdered a man I considered a friend, and this is how he makes recompense. If you come between me and that revenge I’ll have to put you in his place. Understood?’
The tavern keeper swallowed and nodded quickly.
‘Yes, Centurion.’
Batavodurum, March AD 71
‘Well done, Prefect, they’re barely recognisable as the men who’d fought themselves into the ground six months ago.’
Alcaeus inclined his head in recognition of Draco’s praise, flicking a glance at the three Batavi cohorts paraded on the training ground over which loomed a new legion fortress, now almost completed.
‘Thank you, Magistrate. Of course, the Romans had quite a lot to do with that.’
The veteran shrugged.
‘Their assistance was with the physical, Alcaeus, with the things that can be seen and understood. Armour, weapons, boots … but then that was only in their own interests, if they want cohorts. What you have achieved here is a good deal more than just physical. They look like soldiers again, and not the exhausted husks of men they were when we surrendered to the Romans.’
‘Enough food, some respite from the constant threat of battle, the chance to see their loved ones. It all helps. They still carry the scars though, some on their skins, the others in places we can’t see. Some of them still wake up screaming every night, though not as many as I’d feared.’
Draco nodded.
‘My grandfather told me stories from the war against Arminius with just the same punchline – some men are haunted by what they’ve seen and done for the rest of their lives while others don’t lose a minute’s sleep over it. So what we’re seeing now is just the same as it was then, and as I expect it will always be.’ He looked out over the cohorts awaiting inspection with a dispassionate eye. ‘Some of them will kill themselves, eventually.’
Alcaeus nodded.
‘I’m busy training a new crop of priests to replace those who died in the war, but it will be another six months before I allow them into the forest to kill their wolves. In the meantime, we depend on the sensitivity of their centurions to pick out the most obviously damaged as their symptoms make themselves clear.’
‘The sensitivity of their centurions? And just how well is that working out? I always thought it a rarity in my day when I met a centurion with anything more than a fleeting regard for whether his men were sane or not, as long as their spear drill was up to standard.’
The prefect shrugged.
‘Some of them are still disappointingly impervious to the idea that they might give a shit for their men at all. But the younger men, the ones who started the war as junior officers or soldiers, they’ve got a different attitude.’
‘They know what it’s like in the front rank.’
‘Yes. Add to that the fact that a fifth of our centurions are men of the former guard and you can see the problem. They still look down their noses at the rest of the army and resent being “reduced” in status to command mere soldiers, many of whom are effectively raw recruits. They beat their men more, which breeds resentment, which leads to more beatings … You know the way that goes.’
Draco nodded.
‘I suggest that you pick one and deal with him just as hard as you like. Make it the worst of them, let him step over the line and then show him what it feels like to be on the receiving end. Do it privately if you like but do it soon. You still have the stones to order one of your officers to be punished, I presume? Reduced to the ranks to give the others a salutary example, perhaps, or just flogged and dismissed if he’s earned it.’
Alcaeus nodded.
‘I do. So it’s back to the old ways, is it?’
‘The old ways were usually the old ways for a reason, Prefect, so don’t mistake our renewed obedience to Rome for any excuse to exchange raw meat for bread and milk. This is still an army founded on the principle that hard men know when to use their fists, and that when they use them without good cause harder men are likely to put them straight. Some things have changed though, which means that I’ll need all three of these cohorts ready to march by the end of the month. The Second Adiutrix’s legatus wants them to report to their new duty stations before summer’s out, which means that we can say goodbye to them for a while.’
‘And their duty stations are …?’
‘Pannonia, Raetia and Noricum. Far enough away that they’ll never be tempted to rise up on behalf of the tribe, close enough to allow men to come home every now and then. Apparently once we’ve got back up to our previous eight cohort strength we can think about raising a cavalry wing. How long do you think that’ll take?’
‘We can probably recruit and train a fresh cohort every year or so, as long as we can pick officers and men out of the cohorts that are already on their duty stations to salt the fresh meat, and send some of the new boys to join the established cohorts. They’ll be young but they’ll be soldiers.’
‘So, you’ll need five years to re-establish our full strength? Good enough. And when you’ve achieved that target, you can think about what you want to do with the rest of your military career.’
The wolf-priest stared at him in disgust.
‘Whatever will remain of it by then. I thought I was going to be allowed to choose my path once I had the first cohorts stood up?’
Draco smiled, his eyes hard, then looked out across th
e parade ground.
‘You’re going to do your duty to the tribe, Prefect. Which will undoubtedly be better than finding yourself on trial for colluding in the deliberate insulting of a tribal noble in the moment of his self-sacrifice, I’d imagine. With your accomplice alongside you.’
Alcaeus stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head in disgust.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to fall back on threats to keep me in place.’
The magistrate’s level stare at the paraded men did not waver.
‘Threats, Prefect? On the contrary, I’m complimenting you on the fine job you’ve done in getting this many men ready to serve again so quickly. As I am in turn being complimented by the Second Adiutrix’s legatus, and encouraged to increase our contribution to the empire’s military strength as fast as possible in the most Roman of ways. More soldiers will result in more assistance in the reconstruction. A failure to deliver on the other hand …’
‘Will result in shit flowing downhill?’
‘Indeed it will. Just another example of how we’re back to the old days, it seems.’ Draco smiled with more warmth. ‘Cheer up, Prefect, you’ve managed to keep your champion alive, and established him as one of your best centurions. Surely that’s reward enough for your efforts? Tell me, which cohort does he serve with? I’d like to meet him again now that he’s had his vine stick for a few months.’
The priest shook his head.
‘I’ve given him and his uncle leave to go and pay their respects to Lataz and Sigu.’
Draco nodded.
‘That seems fair, given that he’ll be serving a thousand miles away soon enough. Send him to see me when he returns, will you? I never found the time to talk with the man who held back the death-stroke in the face of his prince’s wrath, and I’d like to know how it feels to walk in those boots.’
Alcaeus shook his head, his lips a white slash in his face.
‘You want to know how it feels to walk in those boots, Draco? I’d pray to Magusanus you never find out, if I were you.’
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