RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

  The Old Camp, Germania Inferior, March AD 71

  ‘Here comes another pair of the dirty bastards. Fuck ’em off nice and quick before the centurion gets a whiff of them, or we’ll all be pulling double duty again.’

  The older of the two legionaries standing guard on the Twenty-second Primigenia’s temporary fortress stepped forward and raised a hand. One of the two heavily-bearded men stopped at the command, but his companion, a man in his late middle age whose long hair was shot through with grey and whose gait, distorted by a limp, was nevertheless a good deal more confident than most tribesmen confronted with the camp’s magnificent edifice, strode towards the impressive wooden gates as if he had simply failed to comprehend the unspoken order.

  ‘What the fuck …?’

  Looking at his comrade with a disbelieving expression, the soldier stepped out into the road and raised his hand again.

  ‘Halt!’

  Gripping the hilt of his gladius, the threat in both his tone and deed were unmistakable, but to his amazement the German not only failed to show any of the expected fear, but simply put his hands on his hips and surveyed the two legionaries with disdain.

  ‘Which legion?’

  After a moment’s astounded silence, in which the two men absorbed the fact that not only had a German tribesman addressed them in Latin but had the temerity to demand information of them in such a preemptory manner, the soldier decided that enough was enough when faced with such bare-faced disrespect. He pulled the sword from his right hip, levelling it at the German with a flourish that made very clear his complete willingness to use it if the offending native pushed him just a little harder, but as he drew breath to roar a tirade of abuse, the other man, astoundingly, beat him to it.

  ‘Put that fucking weapon away! I’ll have you in front of your legatus inside an hour on a charge of threatening a centurion with your sword, and you’ll find yourself sitting in a boat with a coin in your mouth wondering what went wrong!’

  The legionary’s jaw fell, his face abruptly reddening, the sword seeming to sheathe itself of its own volition, his voice quivering as he turned to his fellow sentry.

  ‘F-fetch the centurion. Now!’

  As the younger of the two sprinted into the camp, the bedraggled newcomer looked about him with what appeared, to the men who had gathered on the wooden rampart ten feet above him, to be an incongruous but unmistakable professional curiosity.

  ‘So, which legion is this?’

  The answer was a moment coming, almost reluctant, the soldier feeling compelled to answer but still unable to believe his eyes.

  ‘Twenty-second Primigenia.’

  ‘Twenty-second Primigenia, Centurion.’ The gaunt figure looked up at the camp’s walls, nodding appreciatively. ‘Not a bad piece of work, but then you’ve had six months to put it together. They’re not rebuilding the Old Camp, then?’

  ‘No, Centurion. They’re going to build a new fortress, in stone, because—’

  The legionary’s centurion stalked through the camp’s gate with an expression that brooked no nonsense, his vine stick held ready to dispense swift and violent discipline.

  ‘What’s this? Your idiot mate told me you had one of the long-haired bastards pretending to be a cent—’

  The older man stepped forward, apparently considering himself to be on very firm ground in addressing a man whose soldiers only ever spoke to if they couldn’t avoid it, so foul-tempered was his reputation. His tone was at once threatening and condescending as he pointed to the charred ruins of the fortress alongside which the legion was camped.

  ‘See that fortress? The one that’s been reduced to ashes because Rome’s valiant legions couldn’t get their fingers out of their arses fast enough to relieve the garrison before we were starved into submission and then massacred by the Batavians?’ The officer stared at him in amazement equal to that of his gawping soldiers, knuckles clenching white on his vine stick. ‘I commanded that fortress for six months, Centurion, waiting for you delicate flowers to get around to coming back north, fighting off wave after wave of barbarians from across the great river, holding out until we had nothing more to eat than grass and boot leather! So take me to your legatus, or I’ll make sure you end the day as a single-pay latrine scrubber!’

  The Twenty-second’s commander looked up from his desk in disbelief as the man who called himself Marius, standing rigidly to attention, laid out the bones of his story, finally shaking his head in amazement when the former first spear stopped talking and waited for a response. His own first spear stood behind the newcomer in the corner, expressionless and imperturbable.

  ‘So, you want me to believe that you’re the former senior centurion of the Fifth Alaudae? A man who’s known to have been taken north of the river in the company of—’

  ‘Legatus Quintus Munius Lupercus. A man whose heroism in the service of Rome deserves to be told, Legatus.’

  The Roman sat back.

  ‘A man, First Spear … if you are who you say you are … who surrendered two legions to the enemy. And who was brutally murdered on the road into captivity. Were it not for the rash actions of some unknown enemy warrior, Lupercus would by now be enslaved to a German priestess, his honour and that of Rome forever traduced by his lack of resolution to fight to the end. Come in!’

  His clerk, having tentatively knocked at the office door, escorted in a soldier whose face was at once familiar to Marius, last seen on a dark, moonless night a year before. Taking one look at the prematurely aged first spear, he snapped to attention with a vigour that raised the eyebrows of the watching officers.

  ‘First Spear Marius, sir! We were told you were dead!’

  The gaunt figure nodded gravely.

  ‘Not everything you’ve heard is true. Or, I suspect, fair.’

  The legatus pointed at Marius.

  ‘This is really an officer of your previous legion, soldier?’

  The legionary nodded confidently.

  ‘I’d know First Spear Marius anywhere, Legatus! I was there that night he got that scar …’ He pointed to the line of puckered tissue bisecting Marius’s right eye. ‘“Get that fucking ladder off my fucking wall!” Do you remember that, sir?’

  Marius nodded slowly.

  ‘It seems to have happened in another life, but yes, I do.’

  The legatus dismissed the soldier, one of the few who had been released by the Batavi to spread the word of the Old Camp’s surrender, waving to the seat in front of his desk.

  ‘Sit down, First Spear. I was dubious as to whether your story could be true, but now that there can no longer be any doubt I suppose you’d better tell me what really happened.’

  Marius recounted the tale of the fortress’s besiegement, the multiple German attacks and the garrison’s surrender and slaughter, but it was only when he reached Lupercus’s fate that the legatus took a close interest.

  ‘He really took his own life? All of Rome believes that he was murdered in the most barbaric of manners by the German tribes.’

  Marius nodded.

  ‘The truth of it is that he fell on a sword taken from Civilis’s nephew, Bairaz. He died with honour, Legatus, and his family deserve to know that.’

  The Roman pondered for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps they do.’ He raised a hand to forestall the other man’s protest. ‘I know, you served the man for a year, you shared his travails and you were there with him at the end. You may even have been instrumental in his suicide.’ Marius stared at him expressionlessly, sensing that the senior officer was searching for any sign, for the slightest hint that Lupercus’s death had been assisted. ‘I see. You’re not going to provide me with any clue as to anything other than Munius Lupercus having died with spotless honour, are you?’ He waved a hand dismissively at the centurion’s impassive anger. ‘I understand, and don’t mistake me as not caring, but the whole matter of the man having died with dignity, as you’re assuring me was the case, is out of my hands.’

  Marius frow
ned.

  ‘Out of your hands, Legatus?’

  ‘Yes. Are you aware of what happened to Civilis when he finally agreed to surrender and end the war?’

  Marius shook his head.

  ‘No, sir. I spent the winter in the forests north of the Rhenus. I was wounded escaping from the Germans, and my life was saved by a hunter, a man whose life kept him far away from the German tribes, and it was only when the spring thaw came that I was ready to walk south to the great river. My knowledge of the war’s end is minimal.’

  ‘I see. Well the quick version is that the new emperor decided that Civilis had to die. That he was too great a threat to the empire to spare because it would be too much of a risk to allow a man who had thrown a spear into a Roman fortress to be seen to survive. Of course, there were some, men looking to score points against the new emperor, a man sufficiently open-minded to allow such comments to be made, men who were ready to argue that it was our own fault that Civilis whipped his people up to war because he did so at the express request of the emperor’s own supporters, although of course that’s been flatly denied by all concerned. That we had betrayed them in the first place by breaking our treaty with them, and that on top of the provocation of his needlessly having been accused of treason, and the execution of his brother on the same charge. Why was it, they asked, that the Batavians have been taken back into the empire without punishment, other than the loss of their horses, but Julius Civilis was ordered to kill himself to expiate their crimes? And you can see their point, to a degree. Which is why, like the good politician he is, and predicting just such criticism, Cerialis quickly fastened onto the story that the Germans had murdered your legatus on a bloody altar as all the justification he needed for ordering Civilis to commit suicide. He argued that it had never been Civilis’s intention to imprison Munius Lupercus with this Bructeri witch Veleda, but rather to present him to his allies, with his sacrificial death to be staged for the pleasure of the tribes on Bructeri territory, and that Civilis’s story of Lupercus’s suicide was an invention, intended purely to deflect the blame for the murder of a Roman senator onto the man himself. This is the accepted version of events, First Spear. And any challenge to it may not be … wise.’

  He fell silent, watching Marius while the centurion nodded slowly, comprehension dawning on him.

  ‘You’re telling me that the news that Munius Lupercus took his own life will not be welcome in Rome. And that if a man were to be responsible for that news becoming widely known …’

  ‘Exactly. The last thing the emperor will want is any hint that Civilis was telling the truth when he insisted that your legatus was found beheaded, bent over a sword, which he had thrust into his own guts. The story of his slow and horrible death has become the accepted version of events, and that suits everyone concerned very neatly, First Spear. Everyone that matters, which that means that voices from the past with new stories to tell will not be welcome. A man of my status who failed to suppress such voices would find himself in a very uncomfortable position.’

  ‘And Lupercus’s honour is of no account?’

  The legatus shook his head.

  ‘His honour is unblemished, First Spear. Vespasianus, a man with a good deal more of that commodity than most of his predecessors, it has to be said, has been careful to praise Lupercus’s family for his evident dignity in defeat, and to declare that his death can only bring pride on their name, as he clearly remained steadfastly loyal to his city and people to the end. His wife and children have been placed under the protection of the imperial household, and his boys will doubtless find themselves with a good start upon the cursus honorum when the time comes. I doubt that even they would be delighted to have the accepted version of events altered to accommodate a story of suicide, rather than that of glorious defiance to the last breath, which has brought them so much imperial favour. So you can see the problem that your unexpected arrival gives me.’

  He gestured to the centurion waiting silently in the corner, and Marius nodded, his expression bleak, not looking around as the man behind him paced slowly forward, the faintest hiss of oiled iron against the centurion’s scabbard throat reaching his expectant ears.

  ‘I’m sure it does. But one that’s probably easy enough to solve.’

  The legatus stared across his desk, his face softening in sympathy.

  ‘You should never have come back, First Spear Marius. When military reality and political necessity meet, there is usually only one victor.’

  ‘Yes.’ The veteran centurion rose to his feet slowly, raising his hands so as to give the man behind him no reason to strike prematurely. ‘Although I like to imagine that if I were ordered to murder a brother officer I would have found the courage to refuse.’

  ‘That’s easy for the man on the wrong end of the sword to say.’ The voice behind him was bone-hard, and Marius knew beyond any doubt that his death sentence was being pronounced. ‘But when a legion commander orders the death of an impertinent tribesman who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, a man either plays his part or pays the price.’

  ‘And better me than you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. You know how to do this quickly? I’d hate to—’

  The gladius’s point punched through his unarmoured body, its cold intrusion shocking him into silence, his blood spraying across the legatus’s desk and arms. Marius coughed a bubbling laugh as the man behind him put a hand on his shoulder and pulled the sword free, staggering as his body spasmed with the abrupt agony of the blade’s removal. He slumped forward onto the desk, staring unblinkingly at the legatus facing him.

  ‘Appropriate … my blood … on your hands.’

  The senior officer shrugged.

  ‘It will wash off.’

  Marius struggled back to an upright position, his sight dimming, and the legatus raised a hand to forestall another blow.

  ‘He’s dead on his feet. Let the man die with dignity.’

  Feeling the taste of blood in his mouth the veteran centurion grinned, then spat crimson spittle into the other man’s face.

  ‘Fuck dignity … and if … you think … this is bad … wait until … my comrade … Aquillius … hears … of … this.’

  The legatus wiped his eyes, shaking his head at the tottering centurion.

  ‘Your friend Aquillius is long dead. He drowned on the last day of the war.’

  Marius stared at him, swaying on his feet, laughed through another mouthful of blood and fell full length to the wooden floor. The centurion knelt beside him for a moment, then looked up at his legatus.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘A shame. He was a good officer, from what I’ve heard. Dispose of his body, and have that legionary who identified him join him in whatever pit you throw him into.’

  ‘As you command, Legatus. And the German he walked in with?’

  ‘I don’t think you need me to tell you how to ensure that this matter is buried here, today?’

  ‘Legatus.’

  Wiping his sword on the dead man’s tunic, he sheathed the weapon and turned for the door, looking back as the legatus spoke again.

  ‘The one thing I don’t understand is why he laughed when I told him that Aquillius is dead.’

  The centurion stared at his superior for a moment before replying.

  ‘When I agreed to kill this man, Legatus, I did so in the full and certain knowledge that his colleague Aquillius is a man—’

  ‘Is?’

  ‘Yes, Legatus. Is. I’ve talked with more than one officer who served under him, and I quickly came to understand that his reputation for being indestructible was well earned. He was written off as dead during the war with the Batavians but found his way back to the army with no more concern than if he’d just taken a stroll down to the latrines, having killed an entire tent party of auxiliaries and tortured one of them to death just to remind the Batavians that not all Romans considered themselves beaten. And so when I agreed to this …’ he gestured
down at Marius’s sprawled body, ‘I did so knowing that if this man Aquillius is still alive, as I suspect is likely, then I’ll probably be meeting him when I least expect it at some point in the next few years. As might you, Legatus. Killing the man who identified him won’t avoid his hearing this story at some point, it’ll already be all over the camp by now.’

  The legatus shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘This man Aquillius was a centurion. What does a man of my rank have to fear from a centurion? Any man laying a finger on me would die in the most agonising manner, and …’ He frowned at his subordinate’s expression. ‘What?’

  The senior centurion shrugged.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, Legatus, Aquillius would happily murder an emperor if he felt himself, or anyone close to him, sufficiently wronged.’ He drew himself up and saluted. ‘I respect your courage, but I can assure you that I’ll be watching my back with the greatest of care having killed this man. From now until the day I depart this life.’

  The senior officer stared at him for a moment in silence.

  ‘I see. Well in the meantime you can go and deal with his German friend. If that’s not too much of a risk?’

  Saluting briskly, the centurion stalked out of the headquarters building with two trusted men in his wake, walking swiftly to the tavern outside the fortress’s walls to which his men had followed the hunter. Pausing on the threshold, he drew his dagger, indicating to his men that they should follow his example.

  ‘Let’s make this quick, eh? The poor bastard didn’t do anything other than make friends with the wrong man, so there’s no reason for him to suffer.’

  Finding the tavern empty except for a pair of disconsolate veterans clearly used to making a beer last an afternoon sitting in one corner, he called for the barman, who pointed at the stairs without having to be asked.

  ‘Your lads said you’d be along.’

  The centurion nodded brusquely.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘First room on the right at the top of the stairs. Don’t damage the merchandise, eh?’

  Nodding with an amused smile, the officer led his men up the wooden stairs, ignoring the quiet creaking of the treads, which was barely audible over the apparently delighted female cries of pleasure coming from the room in question. He readied himself to open the door, lifting his dagger in readiness.