Altar of Blood: Empire IX

by Anthony Riches

  ‘You managed to completely alienate the outgoing governor, for a start. And a man like Gaius Domitius Dexter isn’t going to take that sort of embarrassment sitting down. I spoke to him a week or so ago, and it’s safe to say that you’ve made yet another enemy to add to your long list. An influential enemy.’

  Scaurus shrugged.

  ‘A venal man, Chamberlain. A man whose theft from the imperium was breathtaking not only in its monetary value but the degree to which it weakened a strategic frontier. He deserved every embarrassment I could heap on him.’

  Cleander shrugged equably.

  ‘Indeed he did. Just be warned, Rutilius Scaurus. And that’s before we come to discussing the apparent murder, at least if Domitius Dexter is to be credited with having the truth of it, of a young broad stripe tribune by the name of …’ He looked down at a tablet. ‘Ah yes, Lucius Quinctius Flamininus. You’d be more than a little perturbed, Rutilius Scaurus, had you been present in any of the interviews I’ve been forced to endure with that young man’s father, given the depth of his righteous anger towards yourself and your tribune here.’

  Nodding to himself as if he’d just recalled an important detail, he turned his attention back to the paper before him.

  ‘Which reminds me, Tribulus Corvus, or whatever it is that you’re calling yourself these days, you too are discharged from your position as a military tribune, thanks from a grateful throne, etcetera, etcetera. I commend you for your role in the Parthian matter, and I recommend that you never allow Flamininus the elder’s men to corner you on a dark street.’

  Putting the quill down he looked at the two men before him with an expectant expression.

  ‘Nothing to say, Rutilius Scaurus? No protest at having your rank stripped away after having done such a fine job in the east?’

  Scaurus shook his head, his features impassive.

  ‘It wasn’t my rank, Chamberlain. It belonged to the empire.’

  The chamberlain raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘Oh how very noble. And these Britons you’ve dragged halfway across the empire and back again? How sanguine will your reaction be if I reassign them to a new tribune? Some ambitious young man with a career to build and somewhat less concern with how he might do so than you when it comes to the preservation of his men? After all, there’s always a war brewing somewhere, an opportunity for such a man to make his name at the expenses of a few thousand soldiers’ lives …’

  He looked at Scaurus for a moment.

  ‘Does that prospect not concern you, Rutilius Scaurus?’

  The subject of his scrutiny shook his head.

  ‘Nothing lasts forever, Chamberlain. If you’ve chosen to retire me then I shall simply have to make the best of it. If …’

  ‘If indeed. You’re a perceptive man, Scaurus, I’ve never denied that, even whilst cursing your gift of causing upset among the richest and most influential men in Rome. I do have something in mind for you both, and for the men who follow you, although you might find yourself wishing I’d decided to let you idle away the rest of your life.’

  2

  ‘Germania? Again?’

  Scaurus smiled at the most outspoken of his centurions in the transit barracks’ lamplight. He’d decided to decamp from the house on the Viminal Hill in order to ensure that no hint of the Tungrians’ latest mission, or even their immediate destination, could reach prying ears. A former prince of the Brigantes, the tribe through whose lands the Roman defence of northern Britannia ran from sea to sea, Dubnus had long since given up any pretence at moderating his forthright manner.

  ‘Yes, Centurion, it’s Germania Inferior. Again. But this isn’t the Germania Inferior you know. What you saw was the civilised edge of the province where it abuts Gallia Belgica, farmland for the most part with the occasional vineyard. Whereas in reality Germania Inferior isn’t really much more than a military buffer zone, a strip of land no more than thirty miles deep protected by legions and auxiliary cohorts camped along the length of the river between the sea in the north-west and Fortress Bonna two hundred miles to the south-east. The governor of the province has two simple tasks to perform, the most important of which is to ensure that the barbarian tribes who inhabit the land on the other side of the river don’t get any ideas about crossing the Rhenus and settling in the Gaulish provinces to the west. And while the mission that the chamberlain has set out for us will initially take us to Germania Inferior, we won’t be staying there for long.’

  The men he’d gathered for the briefing seemed to collectively lean closer to their newly reinstated tribune. In addition to Dubnus, who had acted as the 1st Tungrian cohort’s first spear while Julius had been temporarily ranked as the Third legion’s senior centurion during their time in the east, he had summoned Qadir, a centurion who hailed from the city of Hama in Syria, a man he valued highly both for his imperturbable steadiness and his men’s skill with their bows, and Cotta, simply for the veteran’s experience and forthright opinions. His German slave Arminius stood behind him, having long since become more companion than bondsman, the first member of the small group of men Scaurus had come to consider as his familia. Ignoring Julius’s disgust at being left behind, Scaurus had swiftly decided that since only a small portion of his two cohorts’ strength would be marching north he would leave a strong leader to ensure that those men left behind were kept fit and ready to fight, and since Marcus already knew the detail of their mission he’d sent the younger man home with the first spear to spend a little time with his son before the time came to leave. Taking a sip of the wine that he traditionally served at such gatherings of his officers, he pointed to the map that lay unfurled on the desk before him.

  ‘I’ll be taking a small party of men north to the provincial capital, and leaving the rest of both cohorts here, a distance of a thousand miles that I expect will take twenty-five days or so on horseback. From there we’ll cross the river by whatever means is deemed to be the most likely to get us onto the far bank without being discovered.’

  Cotta looked up at him in surprise.

  ‘We’re going to cross the Rhenus?’

  Scaurus’s lips twitched into a wry smile.

  ‘It’ll be fairly difficult to carry out the task I’ve been handed by the emperor’s chamberlain if we don’t.’

  The veteran centurion shook his head with a stubborn expression.

  ‘But … everyone knows that barbarian Germania’s just a mess of forests and bogs, Tribune. How are we going to make any progress through that?’

  He fell silent as he realised that both Scaurus and Arminius were looking at him with expressions of amusement.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything that you’re told, Centurion Cotta. The lands across the Rhenus are no better and no worse than those on the western bank, they just haven’t been subjected to Roman influence. There’s some fertile farmland, some deep forests and yes, even some mountains and bogs, but very little of it is completely impassable. The biggest challenge won’t be the terrain, it’ll be making sure that we’re not detected by the tribesmen who inhabit the land we’ll be crossing to reach our objective. Because if they find out what it is that we’re hoping to take away from them then both cohorts wouldn’t be enough to protect us. Not nearly enough.’

  Dubnus stared at him in open disbelief.

  ‘What is it that’s so important to these tribesmen that we have to take it away? Gold?’

  Scaurus shook his head.

  ‘It isn’t a what, Centurion, it’s a who. We’re ordered to effect an abduction, gentlemen, a kidnapping of the most dangerous person in the whole of Germania.’

  ‘Since you’re here you can hold this young man while I sort out their dinner.’

  Marcus took his son from Annia, placing the squirming infant onto his knee and jigging the child up and down to both their delight, his misery forgotten momentarily at the sight of his son’s innocent enjoyment.

  ‘And you, infamous daughter-namer, can have this wriggling bundle o
f delight.’

  Depositing her daughter Victoria into her husband’s lap she turned on her heel and stalked into the kitchen, noisily rattling pots as she prepared the two children’s evening meal. Julius and Marcus exchanged knowing glances, the heavily bearded first spear grimacing at his friend.

  ‘Best not to say anything when she’s in this mood. She only brings up the fact that I chose the girl’s name without consulting her when she’s raging about something or other.’

  The retort from the kitchen was instant.

  ‘I heard that. And you needn’t pull that face either.’

  Silence reigned for a while, broken only by the children’s giggles, Julius’s eyes narrowing as his daughter first found his beard and then discovered the fun to be had from pulling at it.

  ‘So it’s Germania?’

  His question went unanswered for a moment, while the Roman watched his son’s face beam with delight at their game.

  ‘So it seems. A simple enough task, as long as we don’t let the Bructeri get scent of us.’

  ‘Bructeri?’

  ‘A German tribe who live on the land across the river from the provincial capital.’

  He moved the child to his other knee, repeating the jigging trick to provoke another giggling shout of delight, and Julius stared at him for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Marcus …’ The Roman looked up at him, eyebrows rising at the troubled look on his friend’s face. ‘Are you sure that you’re ready for this?’

  ‘Which means you’re sure I’m not.’

  Julius shrugged helplessly.

  ‘You’re your own man. But …’

  ‘But I’m not myself. Withdrawn most of the time, distant, as if I’m not really interested in what’s happening around me. Yes. I believe my wife would have diagnosed a severe reaction to a number of events that have happened over the last few years. The death of my family, several pitched battles, the killing of my enemies both for the empire and for my own purposes and now her rape and effective murder by the one man I can’t take any revenge on. I lack focus on the events around me, my former speed with my swords has deserted me and when I go to my bed sleep eludes me. I can hardly see the point of it all any more, Julius, and there are times when all I want to do is curl up in a corner and cry.’

  His friend stared at him in silence for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘We’ve seen it before, in men who reached the limits of their courage and surrendered to their fears. And you and I both know that they swiftly become useless in a fighting unit, much less a detachment tasked with crossing the river Rhenus and taking on these …’

  ‘Bructeri.’

  ‘So why go, Marcus? Why put yourself at such risk when you’re clearly not ready? Stay here with us, enjoy your son! The gods know you’ve seen little enough of him since he was born, and here you are threatening to go away and in all likelihood never come back.’

  The younger man jigged his knee again, setting Appius giggling once more.

  ‘I know. And I know I should stay. But I can’t. What if my friends went across the Rhenus and were never seen again? How could I forgive myself? And what is there for me in Rome anyway, other than the ghosts of my family and my wife, and the grinning, fornicating bastard that murdered them all?’

  Julius shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘You’re going with them. You’re going to turn down the chance to rest, recover your wits and spend some time with the child, and go north as part of some idiotic scheme that’s more than likely been dreamed up by that bastard Cleander simply as a way to have you disappear.’

  ‘Yes. I should feel some emotion at the prospect of leaving Appius fatherless, but all I feel is … numb.’

  ‘He’ll never be fatherless, I promise you that.’

  ‘Here, you can shovel this into the little monster.’

  Annia had returned with a pair of bowls, placing one on the table in front of Marcus.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll have more luck than I normally do in avoiding him getting it all over himself and whoever’s feeding him.’

  Taking their daughter from Julius she sat the child on her knee and reached for the other bowl, only to freeze as an infant’s wail came from the nursery on the floor above them. Giving her a knowing look Julius reached out and took Victoria, who looked up at him with the same slightly baffled expression with which she had regarded him since his return the previous day. Returning with the baby, Annia went into the kitchen and busied herself with a pan of milk whose contents, suitably warmed, went into a terracotta bottle which, once filled through a trio of slots in a dished section at the thicker end, had only a tiny hole at its pointed end from which the baby might drink. Marcus looked up as she walked back into the room with the infant, his face hardening at the sight of the child. The woman took her seat in silence, lying the child back in the crook of her arm and positioning the bottle to dribble a thin stream of warm milk into his mouth. Only when he was contentedly sucking away at the spout did she look up at Marcus with an expression he’d learned brooked no argument.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. You look at this baby and all you can see is Commodus violating your wife and bringing about her death. And you’re right. The emperor did rape her, and the blame for her death does lie with him. But it doesn’t have anything to do with this innocent. I promised Felicia before she died that I’d raise him as my own, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

  She tipped her head at her husband, who wisely concentrated on putting food into his daughter’s mouth.

  ‘Julius has already agreed, not that I gave him any choice, and you’re going to promise me never to do anything to bring harm to the child. You’ll keep the facts of his birth to yourself, no matter what provocation might come your way, and you’re going to allow him to grow up to be the best man he can possibly be, with Julius and me to guide him. And do you know why?’

  The Roman shook his head in silence.

  ‘Then I’ll tell you. You’ll be gone again soon enough, away to perform whatever suicide mission it is that’s been dreamed up for you and Rutilius Scaurus this time, leaving me here with these three. A pair of two-year-olds and a newborn to raise—’

  ‘We can hire a nurse. More than one if need be.’

  Her smile was thin enough for the meaning to be clear.

  ‘Nurses feed children, bathe them and clean their backsides three times a day. But they don’t often raise children, talk to them, entertain them, or give them love.’

  ‘But the right nurse—’

  ‘Will still only be a nurse and not a mother. I’ll be mother to the three of them, and Julius, given he’s not going with you, can play at being a father for a while. While you go and do your best to get yourself killed, no doubt.’

  She looked at Julius again.

  ‘He’s told me the sort of thing you get up to.’

  Julius shrugged apologetically, and Marcus found himself unable to resist a wan smile.

  ‘I surrender. All I have to offer is abject apology …’

  The woman stared at him for a moment in silence, her expression softening.

  ‘The gods know you’ve been through enough, Marcus, your family destroyed, your name and honour trampled into the dirt, and now this latest horror. Doubtless you’ll be happier killing barbarians in whatever part of the empire it is you’re being sent to this time than moping here, with your fingers twitching for the emperor’s throat. Perhaps you’ll even be able to forget all this, for a while at least. Just don’t forget, while you’re out there killing Rome’s enemies, that you’ve got a son here who’ll need a father if he’s to grow up whole.’

  Marcus nodded gravely.

  ‘I can’t argue with you, Annia. And I thank you for your devotion to my wife, and to her memory. I promise by the name of Our Lord the Lightbearer never to harm the child through act or word. What name have you given him?’

  Annia’s face softened again as she looked down at the feeding baby.

&
nbsp; ‘I decided upon Felix.’

  Marcus smiled bleakly.

  ‘Felix? He’s certainly had his fair share of luck, I’d say, but—’

  He looked down in dismay as Appius buried a food-streaked face in the wool of his tunic.

  ‘Ah. I see what you mean.’

  ‘Every man is to wear mail. No scale armour or crested helmets for the centurions, no bronze for the officers and no segmented armour to be worn by the men either. I want nothing to differentiate any of us from each other, or to indicate who might be a centurion or senior officer.’

  Scaurus looked at the gathered centurions with an expression that told them he was deadly serious.

  ‘Vine sticks will not be carried, and medal harnesses will not be worn. The glorious panoply of the legions is all very well if you’re marching into enemy territory with four eagles and forty cohorts at your back, but not quite as well advised when your party numbers as few men as ours will. There will be no decorated equipment of any sort, just standard-issue items straight from the stores with nothing to make the user stand out. Shields, oval shields mind you, will be painted plain green and kept in their covers until such time as we’re across the river, and their metal edging will be removed and replaced with rawhide. I want any casual observer to think at first glance that the men he’s looking at are German, and I want as much uniformity between every man’s armour and equipment as possible.’

  ‘If I might be so presumptuous as to question this decision, Tribune, why is it that you wish all of us to appear identical?’

  Scaurus turned to face Qadir.

  ‘Because, Centurion, if any of us are captured the best we can hope for is a quick death, with as little further unpleasantness as possible.’

  The Syrian raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You imply, Tribune, that these Germans habitually use torture on their captives?’

  Scaurus shook his head.

  ‘Not always. It depends on the tribe, and how their interactions with Rome have left them feeling towards us. I myself heard enough screaming from enemy camps during the war with the Marcomanni and the Quadi to know that being taken prisoner is often by far a worse alternative than stopping an arrow or a spear. Of course a chieftain may order his men to spare captives, looking to sell them back to Rome or simply enslave them, or he may choose to punish their audacity in breaching his territory by making an example of them. The histories mention soldiers being caged and starved to death, or set alight to burn for the Germans’ amusement, but when it comes to officers their ferocity is unbounded. The survivors of several defeats have returned with tales of men having their eyes pulled out and their tongues severed, but the most bestial treatment is sacrifice on an altar in one of their sacred groves. There are tales told by the very few men who survived German captivity of more than one senior officer having his ribcage cut open with a saw, then pulled apart with simple brute force, and his heart pulled still beating from his body.’