Camulod Chronicles Book 1 - The Skystone

by Whyte, Jack

  "Four emperors again. " Caius's disgust was palpable. "God! This is obscene!"

  "Aye. Anyway, Magnus divided his armies and struck back into Illyricum again. Both armies met defeat. Magnus was taken. They killed him out of hand. "

  Caius's face was suddenly filled with concern. "Both of Magnus's armies beaten? What about his son? Does he still live?" I knew Caius was thinking of Picus, who might have died with either one.

  Alaric shrugged his shoulders. "No one seems to know. It is presumed he fell. But I do have news of your son, Picus. "

  "Picus!" Caius's voice was avid. "What of him? Is he alive?" Alaric laughed. "Aye, Caius, he is alive and well. He rides with Stilicho. " Caius's sudden frown matched my own. "Stilicho? Who is he?" Alaric shook his head ruefully. "What, do you people hear nothing here?

  Stilicho is the brightest star remaining in the Empire's battered crown. A brilliant young general. Picus is one of his protégés, it seems. I heard their names linked together only a week ago, up in Glevum, though no one present tied Picus's name to yours. "

  Caius grunted. "No, they would not — not now. I am too long gone to think of. Yesterday's soldier. " I saw pain in his eyes. "Tell me more about this Stilicho. My son is his friend, you say?"

  "One of his best cavalry commanders is what I heard. " Caius was mystified. "But how can that be?" he asked, frowning, "Picus was with Magnus. He left with Magnus. "

  "Aye, but he also left Magnus. " Alaric's smile was kind. "Picus is his father's son, Caius. It did not take him long to see through Magnus and his posturing hypocrisy. We can only assume that, having seen the error of his ways, he surrendered to Stilicho and was pardoned. Stilicho is a very clever man, or he would not be where he is today. He would recognize Picus immediately for what he is, and he would want to retain the services and the loyalty of such a man. "

  Now, belatedly, the rest of what Alaric had said registered in Caius's mind.

  "Cavalry?" he asked. "Did you say cavalry?"

  "Yes, Caius, I said cavalry. " The Bishop was smiling widely now. "You asked me earlier if Rome was training horsemen. Well, she is. Legions of them. Heavy cavalry. Heavily armed and heavily disciplined. Your son, according to the talk I heard, is one of the key figures in the new techniques of horsemanship. "

  "Picus? He's but a boy!"

  I heard the paternal pride in that statement, and smiled to myself as Alaric asked, "How old is he?"

  "He must be twenty-three, or twenty-four. "

  "Then he is no boy, Caius. Stilicho is only twenty-four and already he commands the Household Troops of the Imperial Court in Constantinople. The word is that he will be named Commander in Chief of the armies within the year. "

  "Commander in Chief? At twenty-five? Has Theodosius lost his mind?"

  "No, only his favourite niece, Serena. She is wed to Stilicho. "

  "Oh God!" I groaned. "Imperial patronage!"

  "No, Varrus, not so — not quite. " Alaric held up his hand to prevent my next outburst. "The troops who serve with Stilicho say he is the finest military mind since Alexander. "

  "Huh!" I reserved judgment. "Stilicho. That's a strange name. "

  "He is half Vandal. "

  Caius's interruption was explosive. "Half Vandal? Another barbarian!

  Being half Vandal seems to me much like being half with child. " His relief at knowing Picus to be well was making him sound most unlike himself, and Alaric's next words were gently chiding.

  "Caius, I have never known you so querulous before. Do you feel well?"

  "Quite well, thank you. The Commander in Chief a Vandal. I'll be damned!"

  Alaric smiled at me. "If you die in this mood, my friend, you might be. " I was grinning broadly, hearing Caius reproached, even thus mildly, at his own table.

  "Thank all the Saints that Picus is doing well, Caius, " I said, "and don't be such a critic. If he's as good as they say, he might recall our talks of Alexander and teach some decent tactics to his chief, Stilicho. " Stilicho. The name stuck in my mind. I felt excited by it, but not threatened. Somehow, I felt, this was a name to conjure with. The news of Magnus's defeat and death was timely. I imagined the demoralizing effect it would have on Seneca when I told him of it. Now the status quo in Britain would revert to what it had been before the revolt, and the Imperial Procurator of South Britain would be hard pressed to explain his long absence in the light of the evidence I intended to furnish to the returning imperial forces of Theodosius. I had to wrestle with myself to resist the temptation to tell Caius what I had decided to do about Seneca, but I knew that there was nothing to gain by doing so except argument and opposition. I held my peace and immersed myself that evening and most of the following day in the excitement caused by the outcome of our journey to Stonehenge.

  It was clear that all our lives would be changed from the moment of that meeting, and there was a spirit of wild optimism among the Colonists for days after our return. For the first time, we had genuine allies who were prepared to protect our interests in return for our support in their own affairs.

  I rose early on the morning of the second day after our return and slipped out of the villa before anyone was awake, having told Luceiia the night before that I was riding to Aquae Sulis that day. It was not a complete lie, for my destination lay only five miles south of that town. By the time dawn broke in the morning sky, I had covered more than ten miles, and my horse was eating up the remaining distance on the straight, solid road that ran for miles without a bend.

  In spite of my early start, it was long after mid-morning by the time I arrived at the place where I had arranged to meet Tertius Pella. He was there, waiting patiently with one of his men, concealed within the trees that grew right to the edge of the road. We exchanged brief greetings and he led me away from the road and into the forest, along a track rutted by the wheels of farm carts. Only when we were well concealed from the sight of anyone passing on the road did we rein in to talk.

  "How is our prisoner?" I asked.

  "Safe and unharmed, I am sorry to say, save for a few bruises and chills."

  "Did you have any trouble?"

  "A little, not much. One of our men was slightly wounded, no more than a deep scratch. He'll be fine in a week. "

  "What about the others?"

  . "What others? Ours or theirs?"

  "Theirs, of course. "

  He grinned at me. "Three of them died. We left the five survivors trussed and gagged. If anyone passes by the townhouse, they will be found and rescued. "

  I did not like to think of the alternative. "And Seneca, how long have you had him?" I asked.

  "Six days. He would probably say six long days. We've managed to make them highly unpleasant for him. You wanted him confused, disoriented and afraid. He is totally as you wished on all three counts. "

  "Good. How far from here is he?"

  "Two miles, " he said, pointing. "One mile straight in and another mile along a deer track to the little clearing. "

  I pulled a package from my tunic. "You've done well, Tertius. Your men will be well rewarded. Now we have to think about timing. " I turned to his companion and held the package out to him. ""Take this to the commander of the guardhouse at the garrison in Aquae Sulis. Tell him you were given a silver piece to deliver this to him. Here it is. " I flipped him a silver coin, which he dropped into the scrip that hung from his side. "The message tells him that the missing Procurator, Claudius Seneca, may be found in this place. There is a map to guide them, too. As soon as you have delivered the package, make your way back to the Colony, but make sure no one knows where you are going and be sure that you are not followed. Is that clear?" He nodded. "Good. It should take you an hour, perhaps longer, to reach the garrison, " I continued. "It will take them half that long again to organize a search party, and then another hour to make their way here using the map I drew for them. From this point, they should be able to find their own way to the clearing. In the meantime, Tertius, you and I have to finish our job and
then be gone from here by the time they arrive, which should be before mid-afternoon, so let's get on with it. "

  Tertius swung his horse back onto the path and I followed close behind him, leaning low along my horse's neck to avoid the lower branches of the trees that hemmed us in.

  We left our mounts some distance from the clearing and walked in, and I stopped on the edge of the camp they had set up. It consisted of two leather legion tents, a trestle table with a folding chair and a fire-pit. The fire was burning brightly, giving off flames that were almost invisible in the clear air. I could hear the sound of running water from a stream somewhere off to my right.

  Beyond the tents, a massive old oak tree dominated the clearing and dwarfed the two men beneath it. One of these, the guard, whose name was Randall, was dozing against the trunk of the tree. The other, Seneca, stood naked by a thick stake that had been hammered into the ground. He was blindfolded and shackled at the ankles, and the chain of his shackles was threaded through the lower of two large iron rings fastened to the stake. His wrists were manacled in front of him and a taut rope, threaded through the upper ring, held his arms stretched downward. Above this ring, not passing through it, a second rope was tied to the first and looped upwards over a thick branch above the prisoner's head. By loosening the one rope and pulling on the other, Seneca's guard could dictate the position of his bound wrists.

  I stared at Seneca for a long time, filled with revulsion, savouring the moment and the promised vengeance I would take for Phoebe. He looked terrible. His hair was matted and unkempt and his cheeks were heavy with sprouting, dirty-blond beard. As I looked at him he slumped and then pulled himself erect again, straightening up as far as the taut rope through the ring would allow him to. He could not stand completely erect, and so his back was bent. The guard was under instructions to yank him to his feet if he tried to lie down. As I looked at him, I was conscious that the sight of anyone else in that condition would have moved me to pity and to anger at his captors, but I had Phoebe's sweet face in my mind and was able to stifle any feelings of compassion that might have stirred in my breast. I motioned to Pella to lean close to me and I whispered in his ear,

  "Has anyone spoken to him?"

  He shook his head and whispered back, "Not a word since we took him six days ago. "

  I nodded and waved him forward, and he walked into the clearing, heading towards the table in front of the tents. Seneca's head came up quickly at the swishing sounds Pella's feet made in the long grass, but he made no sound. His guard heard it, too, and straightened up slowly, nodding to me in recognition. I held my fingers to my lips, reminding him to stay silent.

  In the meantime, Pella had bent down and released the tension on the rope that held the prisoner's arms stretched downward. Seneca felt the release immediately, but before he could react to it, his arms were already being dragged above his head as Pella hauled on the other rope. A moment later, Seneca hung by his wrists, high enough that he had to bear his weight on his toes. He howled like an animal but Pella ignored him, concentrating on tightening the knot that held the tension on the rope. When he was satisfied that it would hold Seneca correctly in position, he crossed to the table and picked up something that lay there. This was the worst part. I resisted the urge to interfere at the last moment and forced myself to stand immobile as Pella went up to the prisoner and laid the metal-tipped lashes of the scourge he held gently across Seneca's shoulders, allowing them to slip down and off under their own weight. Seneca moaned as he recognized the feel of the lashes, and opened his mouth to scream. As he did so, Pella stuffed his mouth with a filthy rag. I closed my eyes against what was to happen next, but made myself open them again immediately. This next step was necessary, as an earnest of what was to come.

  As Pella stepped back and swung the lash up and around, Seneca drew his finely muscled body into a bow shape in a vain attempt to avoid it. He was even bigger, stronger than I remembered. The scourge swished through the air and exploded into his writhing torso, and he screamed, in spite of the gag in his mouth. I turned aside and vomited into the grass, shuddering, unable to believe that I had planned this in cold blood, or that I was permitting it to happen. When I straightened up again, wiping the saliva from my chin with my sleeve, Seneca hung unconscious, blood trickling from a score of welts around his whole upper body. I swallowed hard.

  "Take that thing out of his mouth and remove the blindfold. " As Pella moved to do so, I crossed to the table and sat in the chair, so that Seneca would be looking at me when he regained consciousness. I picked up the scroll that lay on the table and unrolled it.

  "Did you find his seal?"

  "Aye, he had it around his neck on a gold chain. Here!" Pella tossed Seneca's seal to me and I laid it beside the scroll and the stick of wax. There was nothing more to prepare.

  "Throw some water on him. "

  Seneca struggled back to consciousness, fighting against the shocking coldness of the water that hit him and the brightness of the sun that wounded his eyes after six days of tightly bound darkness. I watched him become aware of my presence and fight to gain control of himself, then saw him fight again, in vain this time, to bring his eyes to focus on me. For long moments neither of us spoke, and then I broke the silence.

  "Do you know me, Seneca?"

  I could see him struggling physically for words, trying to control the violent shuddering that racked his wretched body. When he finally answered me, his voice was cracked and dry-sounding and his eyes peered at me almost sightlessly as he held them shut against the brightness of the afternoon.

  "No, " he whispered. "Who are you?"

  I made my voice hard and toneless. "I am an old, grey-bearded man with a limp. Does that remind you of anyone?"

  He shook his head sharply, as though trying to dismiss an unwelcome thought. "No. Who are you?" he asked again.

  "Come, Seneca, you know me, surely? I had a friend in Verulamium. A bright-faced young woman with red hair. Her name was Phoebe. She died while she was a guest of yours. Don't you remember? You told Antonius Cicero about it. "

  He was squinting hard against the sunlight, twisting his head and trying to see my face more clearly. He rubbed the right side of his face against his right arm, trying to dry the moisture that was trickling into his eye, and this time, when he spoke, his voice was much stronger and his courage was starting to return.

  "Damn you, " he cried. "What madness is this? What do you want of me? Who are you? I don't know what you're talking about!" I pressed on, maintaining the same hard, hectoring tone.

  "You do not remember Antonius Cicero? He was Legate of the garrison at Colchester. He died because he was loyal to Theodosius when all others were rebelling with Magnus. Do you not remember, Seneca? You told him about Phoebe's death. Surely you must recall? You told him that the man you sought, the grey-bearded cripple, had escaped you. You had found his whore. But the whore died without telling you anything, and you were vexed. You cannot have forgotten that, surely?"

  Now he said nothing. His eyes had narrowed and his face grew cunning. A trickle of new blood seeped down from beneath his right armpit, where one of the lashes had bitten deep. The way he was hanging emphasized the great white "V" on his chest. I stood suddenly, feeling the chair fall back behind me, and strode around the table to confront him. His eyes widened and then clenched shut as I approached. I balled my fist and punched him on the breastbone.

  "Look at me, whoreson, look at me! I'm the one who carved you and spoiled your pretty nose!"

  His eyes snapped open, though I couldn't tell whether they yet saw or not, and then he lunged at me, and as he failed to reach me he spat, swift as a serpent, in my face. Then he began to scream, stringing obscenities and curses together in a chain that would have shocked even Plautus. But through all of it there was a theme. "Who are you?" I wiped the spit from my face and waited for him to be quiet. Finally his stream of venom dried up.

  "Who are you?" he whispered again.

  "Your n
emesis, " I answered him. "To you I have no name, other than Death and Vengeance, hence my 'V upon your chest. Do you recall my friend here?"

  I indicated Pella with a nod and he stepped forward, to where Seneca could see him clearly.

  Seneca glared at Pella, then shook his head. "I don't know you. "

  "No, you don't, but you knew my son, in Aquae Sulis six years ago. He was five years old. Five. And you killed him, you demented, perverted whoreson, along with four others, and thought yourself safe. But you were seen. And now it's time to pay. with your sick life, you festering sore!"

  "Caesarius Claudius Seneca, you have a choice to make, " I interrupted, drawing Seneca's wide-eyed gaze, now alert and fearful, back to me. Even still, he continued to glance sideways towards Pella through all I said from that time on.

  "Listen, and do not interrupt. If you do, Pella will silence you again with his lash. " I picked up the scroll and began to read:

  "Mine has been a life in which few could take pride. I have abused my power since I was old enough to do so. I have killed wantonly, in person and through others hired to do my will.

  "I have also abused my position here in South Britain. Angered at Theodosius, and mindful of my own future prospects. I chose to aid and support the ambitions of the usurper known as Magnus Maximus, self-styled Emperor of Britain. In order to do this, I secreted funds from the revenues collected on behalf of Theodosius and used those funds to equip and provision Magnus and his armies.

  "In so doing I was the direct cause of the death of the Legate Antonius Lepus Cicero. Commander of the garrison at Camulodunum. Loyal to his Emperor, he marched against Magnus and died.

  "As soon as Magnus had declared himself, I withdrew into hiding, and have remained in hiding ever since that time, awaiting the outcome of Magnus's venture, and knowing that if he failed I could emerge as a loyal officer who had taken his affairs into concealment to protect them.