Empress Of Rome 1: Den Of Wolves

by Luke Devenish

  The cheers of joy that arose from the astonished men of the cohorts were louder than the screams of all the Germans they had butchered. Germanicus willed himself to feel as great as the men told him he was.

  Aged thirty, he had rare height for a man of Italy. His dark eyes spoke of the south, but his stature was German. He was broad-shouldered and lean like a northerner. He was a giant to those around him, in person and in myth. He was a warrior. The name he’d been given by Drusus, his late father, was the name that defined his path. He was the man to conquer Germany.

  Yet he was a sham. Germanicus was an inexperienced general with a reputation for greatness he hadn’t earned. It was his father’s renown, not his own. When Drusus had died his achievements, in Rome’s grief, became the son’s. Yet Germanicus had done few of the things that popular belief ascribed to him. In his soul he was a blank wall, a space. This was, he knew, his most fatal flaw.

  Despite his recovery of the eagles from the chicken coop, Germanicus’s self-doubt returned, and with it, his dread of learning why.

  Nymphomidia and I attempted to secure the last of the little boy’s costume: hobnailed caliga boots, miniature size. It wasn’t easy – he was so impatient. ‘Hurry up!’ yelled Germanicus’s son.

  ‘Don’t be in such a rush.’ Nymphomidia squatted on her haunches in front of him. The weight she had gained in pregnancy had stayed with her long after her own baby’s birth.

  ‘Soldiers don’t rush,’ I informed Gaius, holding his little helmet in readiness.

  ‘Soldiers fight and I’ll fight you, slave! I’ll chop off your head and stick it on a spear.’ He was a nasty beast at times, for all his look of sweetness.

  ‘You’ve been fighting us since the sun came up,’ said Nymphomidia. ‘Hold still so I can buckle up your little boots.’ But holding still meant not moving, which was impossible for Gaius. He was barely three but was ready to lead legions and kill the enemy, just like his father.

  From the rear of the general’s tent his silly swordplay was observed by another boy, two years older, with honey-toned skin and deep green eyes: Nymphomidia’s son. He wore a slave’s face of placidity, but inside he was envious of the costume. Gaius knew there was a jealous witness and played up to it, stamping his foot and treading on Nymphomidia’s fingers.

  ‘You little ape!’ she cried.

  ‘Gaius,’ said Agrippina, in a warning voice.

  The little boy looked to his mother in the shadows of the tent interior.

  ‘Be kind to Nymphomidia and Iphicles; they’re the ones who made your fine armour.’

  Nymphomidia made a show of looking martyred. ‘The thanks we get. We’ll know better next time, won’t we Iphicles?’

  ‘On top of everything else they do for us,’ said Agrippina, sitting up in her couch, ‘they still found time to make such a nice a present for you. See how impressive you look.’

  The little boy knew when sweet smiles for strong women were called for. ‘Thank you, slaves,’ he said to us for his mother’s benefit. ‘It’s very well-made. One day you’ll be very proud of making it for me.’ His smile was beguilingly beautiful, but his eyes were too calculating for a child of his years.

  ‘We’re very proud now,’ I said. ‘As proud as your mother, almost.’

  Nymphomidia secured the buckle. ‘Now you can fight.’

  Gaius was away, his sword slicing through the air.

  ‘Stay near the tent,’ Agrippina called after him. ‘Don’t annoy the men.’

  He ignored that, barrelling through the tent flaps. Nymphomidia’s placid-faced son watched after him, burning with envy. If he weren’t a slave, he’d have kicked the brat, or worse, such was his loathing.

  I turned the attention to our pregnant mistress. ‘Does your back pain you, Lady?’

  ‘No more than usual.’ Agrippina was past full term. ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it, so don’t worry yourself. It won’t stop hurting me until this new child is born.’

  Nymphomidia wondered if food might help.

  ‘No,’ said Agrippina, but she saw her slave look at the mushrooms longingly. ‘You two eat them, no need to waste.’

  Nymphomidia descended on them with Nubian grace and speed, leaving nothing for me, while Agrippina shifted her weight among the furs, her long, fair hair loose to her waist, her beauty unadorned in confinement. Stuffing herself, Nymphomidia examined our domina’s bare feet, rubbing them. ‘The child is late,’ she said with a mouth full of mushrooms. ‘It must feel sympathy with my complaints and would rather be born in Rome.’

  ‘And just like you, it’ll have to lump it.’

  Nymphomidia rolled her eyes. This was why we both loved our mistress; we were at times almost friends, and all three of us knew what it was like to bow to duty. I was in Agrippina’s service because my domina had given me to her. For once, I was neither spy nor assassin; I was a loyal slave. And Germanicus wore his dead father’s glory like a crown. It would surely make a king of him and I was happy to help it be so.

  When Nymphomidia had parted from Clemens knowing that she carried his child, she had thrown herself upon the mercy of her exiled master’s sister. Just as she had with me, Agrippina freely absorbed the Nubian into her own household, little interested in whose child Nymphomidia carried. It would be just another slave.

  When the baby was born Agrippina had advised against bonding. It was better that the child be collectively raised by the women of the household, freeing Nymphomidia for service. The little boy had no idea who his mother actually was. Every day Nymphomidia waited for news of Clemens’s progress – just as Agrippina awaited news of her own beloved. But Clemens’s goals were secret, hidden from the world, while Germanicus’s path had been decreed by the Senate.

  ‘Your child will greet us just as soon as its father does,’ Nymphomidia said to her mistress.

  ‘The very minute he arrives,’ said Agrippina. ‘Germanicus will return with the eagles and I’ll hatch a chick at his feet.’

  Nymphomidia thought this extremely funny, and her mistress laughed too.

  Outside, Gaius’s battle cries caused alarm to the augur’s farm fowls. Nymphomidia felt Agrippina’s fear for all that couldn’t be known – it was her own fear too. ‘This tent is cold, Lady. The German winter’s with us. You hate it, and who can blame you, when we all miss Rome so much? Let me send Burrus to fetch some more wood for the fire.’ The watching slave-boy sprang to his feet.

  ‘I feel hot – spare the boy,’ said Agrippina.

  ‘Go anyway, Burrus,’ said Nymphomidia. ‘Lady will feel cold later on.’

  Agrippina didn’t object so Burrus ran from the general’s quarters. Nymphomidia watched him go, suppressing the soaring love that sprang to her heart. He was her son by Clemens, although the boy would never know it until his father had fulfilled Octavian’s wishes.

  In the yard, as he went to the wood store, Burrus saw the hated brat giving hell to the sacred chickens. He felt deep disgust and, when it was just the two of them, didn’t care if the general’s son knew it. ‘Don’t you hurt those birds,’ he warned Gaius.

  ‘I’ll hurt them if I wish,’ the brat shouted. ‘They’re my birds.’

  ‘They’re not your birds; they’re your augur’s,’ said Burrus. ‘And if you hurt them, I’ll get the rod. So if you don’t want to sleep wide-eyed at night for what I’ll do in revenge, you’ll leave them.’

  Gaius was defiant. ‘My father’s in the forest with his legion and I’m the man of our family until he returns.’

  Burrus’s laughter was cut short by the sharp crack of one beam shifting hard against another. A second crack got both boys’ full attention. They couldn’t see but they could hear a cry coming from men assembled at the Rhine.

  Inside the general’s tent, Agrippina sat upright. Nymphomidia paled. ‘What are they doing?’ There was another groan of timbers straining and Agrippina’s feet were on the ground, her arms heaving her girth from the couch.

  I tried to stop her. �
��Lady, you’re in confinement.’

  ‘My slippers, where are they?’

  ‘Let me put them on you.’ Another cry went up and we realised there were hundreds assembled at the bridge. ‘Your feet …!’ I clutched at the slippers.

  Agrippina ran from the tent, her feet bare, using strength she hadn’t felt since she’d grown by the size of a calf. Ploughing through winter mud, sinking to her ankles with the weight of herself, she drove forward. I took off after her.

  Agrippina reached the track, gravel scraping her soles, her hands holding her belly. She was fearful she’d stumble, but more fearful she’d not make it. A single legionary led a half-dead horse to the stables, and Agrippina realised the man was weeping as she lurched in front of him.

  ‘What’s happening at the bridge?’ she demanded. Her undressed hair and bare limbs were ungodly to him.

  I came up breathlessly behind. ‘It is Agrippina.’ I hissed at the fool.

  Shocked, he spoke to the horse, eyes averted. ‘It’s not my place, Lady,’ he said. ‘You must find someone in command.’

  ‘Is it my husband? Has he returned?’

  The legionary grasped for the courage to tell her the truth, fearful of her status. He glanced at her swollen womb.

  ‘She’s carrying the general’s new child,’ I spat at him with contempt.

  It was enough. ‘They’ve been lost, my Lady, to the last man. The Germans are heading towards us – they’re going to invade Gaul by our bridge.’

  The shock took away her control. I grabbed her arm, saving her unborn from hitting the ground. ‘He’d never be lost …’ she stammered.

  ‘A rider arrived – this is his horse. Germanicus sent word as the barbarians fell upon them all. It’s like Varus again, Lady. The Germans set the same trap.’

  She wanted to strike him in her rage and he tensed, expecting it. There was another groan of beams at the river and Agrippina realised now what the response plan was. ‘This is treason.’

  He was frightened of her. ‘This is an invasion, Lady. They’ll be upon us.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? Germanicus does not fall for traps.’ Agrippina snatched back her arm from my grip and turned to sprint. Her belly gave a slicing cramp that winded her, but she could not stop. I could only follow. At a rise in the track she saw the bridge and heard a sharp keen of fear – her own. Aged veterans and boys, the only males left in the camp, had chained bullocks to the bridge’s beams and whipped the beasts from the shore to pull at the supports. The bridge was dying.

  Agrippina flew at the men. Grizzled heads and cherub faces looked at her in shock. ‘In the name of the First Citizen, in the name of the Divine Augustus, you will stop!’

  Some heard her, others didn’t. No-one halted. A beam wrenched free from the bridge’s span and fell into the rushing Rhine, pulling in bullocks. Men scrambled to release the chain as the structure lurched, foundations shifting beneath the current.

  Agrippina felt her belly spasm. Her chamber gown caked with mud, her feet bleeding, she willed away the pain and forced herself into their faces. ‘Don’t you know my husband?’ she berated them. ‘Don’t you know Germanicus? Who is more courageous, who knows this land, and all its tricks and its lies, better than he does? He was named for this land!’

  The faces stared at her, wordless. Only a highborn woman could dare speak to them in this way.

  ‘Six years ago Varus lost his eagles because he was a pretender. He fell for the Germans’ trap because he had never learned to think like a barbarian. Germanicus knows what’s in their hearts, he sees their savagery and he knows their lack of honour. He would never fall for a German trick because he will always out-trick them. He understands where they’re weak.’

  A veteran found courage to reply. ‘The general sent a rider, Lady. The legion was overwhelmed. It was like Varus, just like Varus all over again.’

  ‘Where is this man?’ Agrippina demanded. ‘Let him speak to me.’

  A broken youth lay in the shore mud. His eyes were closed, his face and body black with grime. The agony of his experience was obvious to all, but Agrippina refused to feel pity. ‘What lies are you spreading? Are you a German spy?’

  The youth was beyond hearing anybody, and she seized at this straw. ‘You’re a spy!’ She turned back to the men. ‘Who here even recognises this traitor? Has anyone ever seen him before?’ A red-haired boy went to raise his hand but Agrippina’s glare halted him. ‘See! No-one knows him! He’s not even Roman. What sort of men are you to believe a barbarian?’

  The rider’s lips opened and closed, making to defend himself. I could see Agrippina’s mind racing from where I watched her helplessly. She feared she would have to throw him into the river. Then a movement past her legs made her see the figure of a tiny general, sword held high, darting onto the bridge.

  Her little son had followed her.

  ‘Gaius!’ He reached the centre where the timbers were straining. ‘Gaius!’

  He smiled at his mother and addressed the men. ‘Would you leave my father to burn in a wicker cage?’ he railed at them. ‘Would you leave my father to be burned up alive in a dirty cage by dirty German pigs?’

  A wail went up from the grizzled veterans.

  ‘Its Germanicus’s boy; look at him, the very picture of his dad!’

  ‘He’s got his own breastplate and armour.’

  ‘Look at his sword!’

  The veterans were felled by sentiment. ‘Look at his little caliga! Look at his little boots!’

  ‘Gods have mercy on us, what have we done?’

  Agrippina struck hard. ‘Would you really rob my boy of his father? Spare the bridge – Germanicus will return. Find the faith in your hearts you’ve always had for him. Find the love in your hearts you have for his son!’

  The veterans pitched forward across the bridge, snatching the tiny Gaius and holding him high. A cry went up: ‘Little Boots! Little Boots!’

  Tears ran down my face as I joined it. ‘Little Boots! Little Boots!’

  Gaius loved the big effect he’d had.

  From the opposite shore the blast of a horn cut through the din. As one, those on the bridge turned to it and the noise chilled Agrippina’s flesh: was it Roman? Another blast, closer, but the piercing note seemed alien above the rush of the river and the moan of the bullocks.

  I felt my mistress’s fear.

  The first riders burst from the forest in a spray of leaves. There was no formation, no order to them. They galloped towards the bridge at a pace to break their necks, devoid of armour, minus standards. They were barbarous.

  ‘Germans!’

  The cramp seized Agrippina’s belly like a torture. The men panicked, young and old, the crippled bridge jolting under their mass, Gaius still held aloft with his sword. Agrippina staggered to the bridge’s side, clutching at the barrier, the pain stabbing at her guts. I fought to reach her, but the flailing men kicked me into the mud. Agrippina held a hand to her eyes, squinting to see the charging forces more clearly.

  She saw their blood, she saw their swords – and then she saw their eagles.

  With all the voice she could muster, Agrippina turned to stop the fleeing cowards; she, a woman, was more courageous than them all. ‘For the Gods’ sake, look! Can’t you see? It’s Germanicus! There are his eagles!’

  They turned and saw.

  Then she lost her waters.

  Germanicus fought to stay cognisant for the last of Caecina’s report. He was still standing, just, and he was proud of that, though it wasn’t much. The disgrace of everything else sucked the pulse from him.

  The Rhine camp was torchlit against the early winter dark and again full of soldiers. ‘The bridge is fully defended,’ said Caecina. ‘The engineers will begin repairs at sunrise.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Those who participated in the near-destruction have been flogged with the short whip, and the ringleaders executed by stoning.’

  ‘How many ringleaders?’ Germanicus feared
dozens; the whole camp had doubted him.

  ‘Six.’

  This was a relief, presuming Caecina was telling the truth. ‘Any more executed than that and we wouldn’t have had enough men for one legion, let alone two.’

  ‘Six hundred men are unaccounted for from the forest retreat, General.’

  Germanicus closed his eyes at the number. He no longer had two legions anyway.

  Caecina continued, ‘How many of those were killed I cannot tell you, General. I pray they all died with honour and that none were taken prisoner.’

  Germanicus willed himself not to think of legionaries alight in wicker towers and to think instead of his wife as he’d seen her on the bridge: her strong arms unadorned; her breasts full on her belly; her hair flying about her head like a gorgon’s snakes. She’d been magnificent.

  ‘The men are asking to be presented to your son.’

  Germanicus was brought back from the memory. ‘Gaius?’

  Caecina wasn’t sure how to phrase this. ‘They’re calling him divine.’

  The superior looked at him hard. ‘Are they mocking me, Caecina?’

  ‘No, General.’

  Germanicus felt his anger rising. ‘He’s a boy of three; he’s not divine. This is nonsense.’

  Caecina was at pains not to misrepresent the men. ‘The boy’s courage and fury inspired all at the bridge, Germanicus. He inspired both our returning men and the cowards here. He was the image of you, despite his size.’ Caecina hid his distaste for the rest of it. ‘Combined with the actions of your wife, the men were part of an event that seemed to them directed by higher powers.’

  Germanicus sensed Caecina’s distaste, knowing why his old friend felt and hid it. ‘Are they calling my wife divine too?’ If they were, then the family faced danger.

  Caecina lied outright, the better to spare his General. ‘No.’