Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Tribune Perennis, salutations. You’ve had a full day on the road, it appears.’

  The other man dropped his hands to his hips in a confident stance.

  ‘Tiberius Rufius. Well, don’t you always manage to turn up when things get interesting? Doubtless merely coincidence, just as always seems to be the case. And yet we never see you out in the countryside, no matter how carefully we look.’

  Rufius smiled gently, keeping his face neutral.

  ‘Yes, Tribune, well, I like to move around with a degree of caution. You can never be sure just who’s waiting to jump out on you in these troubled times. Only today I heard a man with a surprisingly German accent exhorting a bunch of drunken Brits to carve out my liver.’

  The officer laughed quietly, with a faint smile that failed to touch his eyes.

  ‘German, eh? How very interesting. Well, never fear, senior centurion, my Asturians will take care to look out for you on the road. Our paths will cross one day soon, of that I’m quite certain. Goodnight.’

  Rufius watched him walk away with hard bright eyes, muttering so quietly under his breath that even the sentries’ straining ears were frustrated.

  ‘Not if I see you coming first, you cocky young bastard.’

  *

  A beaker of water in the face served well enough to wake Marcus from a seemingly endless nightmare of roads and hills. Rough hands pulled him from the bed, still dressed in the tunic and leggings he’d worn the previous night, putting him on his feet and holding him upright while his head swam. A disgusted voice cut through his daze.

  ‘Pissed! Throw some more of that water over him.’

  The sudden cold sting shocked him into a degree of consciousness. A pair of armoured and armed legionaries were holding an arm apiece to keep him vertical, while a centurion watched impatiently from the doorway, an oil lamp in one hand throwing unsteady shadows against the walls. He considered vomiting, but fought the impulse down after a moment of awful physical indecision.

  ‘Waking up, are you, you little shit? Good, you’ve got two minutes to pack. After that, anything you haven’t stowed gets left behind. You, take that sword and make sure he doesn’t get a chance to grab it off you, he’s dangerous behind a blade from what I’ve heard.’

  The marble-hard face left no room for argument. Stuffing his travel clothes, left dirty on the room’s chair for washing in the morning, into his saddlebag, Marcus checked that his purse was still in place at his belt.

  ‘Ready? Right ...’

  His voice returned, hoarse from the wine’s bite.

  ‘Wait ... where are you taking me?’

  The centurion stepped across the tiny room to put his face close to Marcus’s, close enough for his sour breath to register, and for grey whiskers to stand out of the black of his beard. He reached out a hand and, with cold, hard fingers, took the younger man’s jaw in a firm grip.

  ‘For a short and painful interview with the legatus, cumstain. After which I’d be happy to go a round or two with you in a closed room, you fucking traitor!’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘Shut your face! Bring him!’

  The innkeeper was waiting grim faced outside the room. The centurion nodded to him.

  ‘Pay your bill.’

  Marcus numbly dropped coins into the outstretched palm.

  ‘Petronius Ennius ... my friend Rufius ... ?’

  Ennius shot him a hard stare, his mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘Left straight after dinner. And well away from you, from the looks of things.’

  The soldiers hustled him from the inn, moving briskly through the town’s dark streets. Across the river bridge, through the main gate’s man-sized wicket gate and into the fortress they marched, past sentries waiting at the parade rest for their dawn relief. A building loomed out of the torchlit gloom, the door watched by another pair of legionaries. Inside there was warmth and light, a mosaic floor and painted walls, pleasant enough to take the chill away from Marcus’s skin in the few moments that he waited, still under close guard, in the house’s hallway. Waiting for the officer’s return, he spent several moments examining the quality of a wall painting representing the goddess Diana hunting with two dogs, but all the while he stared at the artist’s handiwork, trying to affect an indifferent air, his mind raced frantically, trying to account for the sudden turn of events that saw him under armed guard where he should have been greeted as an equal. It was a circumstance for which he was completely unprepared, and he was sure that his disquiet was showing beneath the attempted veneer of confidence. Resolving to remain silent as to his mission for the time being, although the desire to end the charade pressed heavily on him, he awaited the officer’s return, concentrating on a studied ignorance of the guards’ curious stares. The centurion eventually returned, motioning the soldiers to stay where they were.

  ‘Keep his belongings here and don’t touch them, they might contain evidence against him. You, come with me.’

  He followed the officer past yet another guard into a large office, hearing the door shut behind him. The centurion pointed to a spot on the room’s floor, sliding his sword from its scabbard.

  ‘Stand there and don’t move. If you do move, I’ll put my iron through your fucking spine. And don’t speak unless you’re asked to!’

  Seated at the heavy wooden desk was a tired-looking man in his mid-thirties, his white tunic edged with the thick senatorial stripe, his black hair cut somewhat longer than was the formal military style. Marcus found his face strangely familiar for some reason, and wondered distractedly whether they had met before. Another, younger man, whose tunic bore the thinner equestrian stripe, lounged against the room’s far wall, casting a calculating gaze over Marcus. Blond hair and piercing blue eyes hinted at northern European ancestry somewhere in his not too distant past. The seated man sat in silence for a moment, then spoke with a swift and practised formality.

  ‘Marcus Valerius Aquila, I am Legatus Gaius Calidius Sollemnis of the Sixth Imperial Legion. This is Titus Tigidius Perennis, my senior tribune, who I’ve asked to attend this interview to act as a witness to my decisions. I’ve had you brought to my residence since I didn’t want to do this in the headquarters building – too many eyes and ears, I’m afraid. Before we go any farther in this matter, I will declare an interest in your case – I was at one time a close friend of your father’s, although we haven’t spoken for some five or six years now. You look very much as your father did at your age ...’

  He raised a hand in pre-emption of any question.

  ‘No, you’re here to listen. Marcus Valerius Aquila, do you know why I ordered you to be brought here at this time?’

  The opportunity was irresistible to a young man in desperate need of reassurance.

  ‘No! Sir, I ...’

  The flat of the centurion’s sword slapped his arm hard in admonishment.

  ‘Answer the legatus’s questions with a simple yes or no!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you have no idea of events in Rome of the past weeks?’

  The urge to be sick returned, held in check only by the sudden return of the concerns he had managed to put to the back of his mind over the weeks of travel.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. Then I must inform you that your father was arrested three weeks ago, for the crime of plotting to assassinate the emperor. When did you leave Rome?’

  Marcus’s skin crawled with the revelation, and with the equally sudden realisation that he was in desperate danger. It was time to shed the deception that had accompanied him from Rome, to reclaim his identity before this went any further.

  ‘The fifteenth day of the month of Januarius. Sir, I have ...’

  The blow fell again, harder this time.

  ‘Silence!’

  ‘I see. You arrived here only a day after the courier bearing the news of your father’s crime. Good timing for the legion, though, to have the opportunity to arrest a traitor ...’

  ‘Arrest ... ?’


  Marcus thought he saw a brief narrowing of the legatus’s eyes, but the man’s face itself was set hard against him.

  ‘Indeed. The son of an old friend you may be, but an enemy of my emperor is an enemy of mine. I have no choice but to send you back to Rome to beg for the mercy of the throne. Do you have anything to say?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sir, I am a praetorian officer on detached courier duty, bearing a private dispatch for you from the emperor himself. I have been instructed to travel incognito, in order to ensure that the message remains confidential. My saddlebag contains a message container bearing the imperial seal, to be opened only by you. I know nothing of the events you describe, and have been following the direct orders of my superior officer in making this journey.’

  The tribune leaning against the office wall spoke for the first time, his voice heavy with irony.

  ‘Correction, citizen, you were a praetorian. The praetorian prefect rescinded your commission as soon as your absence without leave was linked to your father’s crime. Your tribune was interrogated, and admitted taking money from your father in return for sending you away from Rome on a false errand. A very large amount of money, as it happens. He has already paid the appropriate penalty for consorting with enemies of the throne. The seal on your message container is nothing more than a good fake, and the container itself holds nothing more than a last letter from your father ...’

  ‘Thank you, Tigidius Perennis ...’

  The legatus fixed the tribune with a dark-eyed silencing stare. He held the stare until the younger man looked down at his boots, clearly intending to win the brief clash of wills with his junior.

  ‘Perhaps your father expected that I would be in a position to protect you ... but if he did it was a misguided expectation. In the light of his crime, you must return to Rome immediately to face trial in connection with his offence. You will be escorted to the main gate, where your horse will be waiting for you. You are instructed to return to Rome by the most direct route, deviating from that road for no reason. Failure to present yourself at the praetorian camp by a date no more than six weeks from now will result in your immediate loss of senatorial rank, and the declaration of your entire family as proletarians, to the most distant cousin, with confiscation of all assets. I’ll send a message back by fast courier warning the praetorians of your return, and when they should expect your arrival. That is all.’

  The centurion, sensing the numbness of shock in the young man’s hesitation, grasped Marcus firmly by the upper arm, leading him out of the office and back to the waiting escort. They marched back out to the main gate, where the watch was being changed with all the usual noise and disturbance. The centurion looked around him at the ordered chaos, and then pulled Marcus into a small guardroom, dismissing the legionaries inside with the order to go off duty with their fellows. In the meagre yellow light of the oil lamps that lit the stone-walled room he seemed larger than he had in the brightly lit commander’s residence, squat and menacing in the bulk of his armour. Marcus found his voice at last, slowly starting to recover from the initial shock and finding anger where there had initially been only fear.

  ‘Is this where I get the beating you promised me earlier? Don’t you need your men with you to make it completely one sided?’

  The other man swept his helmet off, dropping it on to the table with a clatter, running a hand nervously across his balding scalp.

  ‘Button it. We’ve got less than five minutes before your horse is ready, and I’ve had to bribe the stable master to get that much time.’

  The sudden change in his tone put Marcus, who had been readying himself for a fight, off balance once more.

  ‘What ...’

  The centurion prodded a broad finger into his chest, urgency fuelling his irritation.

  ‘Shut up and listen! You’re being turned loose, alone, before dawn, to make your disposal as easy as possible. You think it’s usual for enemies of the state to be sent back to Rome alone, no matter what threats might be made to their families? Most criminals would think of their own necks before those of their loved ones. This is just a set-up to get you out of the way, out into the dark. You were supposed to get killed on the road yesterday, but the locals apparently managed to cock that one up. The men waiting out there for you now won’t make the same mistake. You ride out of here alone, and you’ll be lucky to get five miles before that bastard Perennis’s tame cavalry cut-throats take you and slit your throat, steal your purse and your horse, and leave you in the dirt for the morning patrols to find. Do you fancy that for an epitaph, “Killed by robbers”?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start. You know how to use a sword and shield on horseback?’

  ‘Yes. I was trained in ...’

  ‘I know. Listen, half a mile down the road you’ll come on a stunted tree growing over a large rock, on the right. Look behind the tree and you’ll find a cavalry sword and shield. Ride on, as fast as the moonlight lets you, and stop for nobody. At the two-mile marker you’ll be met by ...’

  A solid knock rattled the room’s wooden door.

  ‘Centurion! The traitor’s horse is ready.’

  The officer nodded at Marcus, grabbing his helmet and replacing it on his head before replying.

  ‘Good! I’ll bring the little turd out.’

  He cocked a solid-looking fist.

  ‘... you’ll be met by friends. Sorry, but this needs to look like the real thing.’

  The swift punch stung Marcus’s right eye; the heavy slap that followed cut his upper lip against his teeth. The officer pulled him to his feet, whispering urgently in his ear.

  ‘Stop for no one until the two-mile marker!’

  ‘But who’s meeting me?’

  ‘You’ll know when you get there! And once we’re outside keep your mouth shut, unless you want me nailed up alongside you.’

  He paused to fill his lungs.

  ‘Right, you bastard traitor, let’s be about it!!’

  He slammed the door open, propelling Marcus through it with a hefty shove in the back.

  ‘Here he is! Take a good look at a traitor!’

  The incoming watch’s centurion goggled at Marcus’s face.

  ‘You’ve had a go at him!’

  ‘Yeah, but it was no fun. All he did was beg me to stop. Even you wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all.’

  The other man put his hands on his hips and laughed uproariously.

  ‘I see what you mean. I doubt he’ll offer any fight to the first robbers he meets.’

  ‘Yeah, and since those Asturians are bum boys to a man it might be quite a morning for our friend here.’

  He reached out, pushing Marcus’s saddlebag at him.

  ‘Go on, take your bag. It’ll be a small compensation for the boys that have been out half the night waiting for you. Now get on your horse and bugger off. Open the gate!’

  Marcus climbed on to the beast’s back, eyeing the soldiers that surrounded him with a sense of complete powerlessness. A scent of violence filled his nostrils, the energy generated by men eager to deal out pain. The main gates opened with a ponderous swing as half a dozen legionaries strained against their weight. The centurion pointed out into the darkness beyond the gate’s flickering torches.

  ‘Right, piss off. I only hope they get the time to do a proper job on you! Go!’

  He slapped the horse’s rump, and the gate towers were suddenly behind Marcus as the animal bolted out into the pre-dawn gloom, across the bridge, past the houses and shops of the town and away down the dark road, pursued by the shouted insults of the gate guard.

  2

  Out on the open road, even without the magnifying effect of the tightly packed buildings, the sounds of Marcus’s horse’s hoofs on the road sounded deafening. He steered the animal on to the softer grass verge, diminishing the staccato clatter to a gentle patter. When the stunted tree loomed out of the slowly lightening murk he dismounted, finding the promised sword and shield hidden in a t
angle of roots that curled sinuously over the massive boulder around which the oak had flourished. His father, he mused, would have paid a fortune for such a decoration in the house’s courtyard. His father ...

  The sword’s edge glittered slightly in the moonlight. Marcus touched the blade, his fingers snagging against a razor-sharp line of minutely ragged steel, rough-sharpened for combat, rather than the smooth steel of a peacetime weapon. He’d heard of the practice from old soldiers, but never seen it carried out. Someone expected him to need every small advantage that could be put his way. He remounted, riding cautiously on with an ear cocked for trouble, holding the reins with the hand that gripped the sword’s hilt. Shadows moved and swirled in his vision, purple and black, each eddy in the night’s mist taunting his senses.

  At the one-mile marker he thought he could just make out the distant sound of horses’ hoofs in front of him. He halted his own mount to listen in silence, but could hear nothing other than the wind’s moan. Another five minutes of uninterrupted progress relaxed him a little, and he started to worry more about exactly who he would find waiting for him at the two-mile marker than what might happen in the intervening stretch of road. He reached down to pat the horse with the back of his sword hand, as much seeking as offering reassurance.

  Looking up, he saw them materialise out of the mist to either side of the road, a pair of horsemen with swords held upright like cavalry troopers on parade. Wanting him to see the weapons, he guessed. He started as a voice spoke in the murk behind him, the Latin made crude by the edges of the man’s German accent.

  ‘Give up now and we’ll make it easy for you. Run, and these two will have their fun with you before you die.’

  Three, or more? Marcus let the sword and shield, already held low from stroking the horse’s mane, slip down against the animal’s flanks, hopefully invisible in the dim grey light of approaching dawn. Curiously unafraid, although his heart was pounding at his ribs with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer, he gently spurred his horse with his boot-heels. Riding steadily towards the horsemen he allowed his body to slump in the saddle, reassuring them that he was already in their grip. Behind him, hoofs clattered on the road’s surface, a fast trot designed to close the distance and put the third man within striking distance. Marcus kicked the horse hard, shouting encouragement into its ear as it surged forward into a gallop. He lifted the sword and shield from their resting places on the beast’s flanks, and into the positions his father’s bodyguard had made him practise thousands of times.