My purpose in bribing your tribune to send you to my friend is a simple one. He will, I am confident, undertake to send you deeper into that harsh and difficult country and hide you among his friends, out of sight of the throne’s hunting dogs. I apologise gravely for not sharing my intention with you, as should have been the case between men. Your sense of honour, so carefully instilled by years of patient teaching, would only have tripped you before you could fly. Our conversation on the night of your sister’s birthday proved to me that you had no comprehension of the fate looming over our proud house. I chose therefore to make your flight one that required no such understanding.
So now you are in Britannia, if all has gone well. You must think hard now, despite your sorrow, and act with decision and courage. You are the last of our line, the only blood left unspilt from a once distinguished family. Your task now must be to preserve that blood, to hide it from the hunters until the chase is abandoned, perhaps even until the man on the throne has changed. You alone must judge the right time to emerge from hiding, and how much vengeance to seek at that point, depending on your circumstances. Remember, my son, revenge is a morsel best savoured at leisure, rather than hot from the oven, lest you burn your own mouth. In truth, it would be enough for me to know that our blood will be passed on to later generations. For our honour to be restored would be more then I could expect.
I only ask, for your grandfather’s sake if not for mine, that you do not despair of this last request. I know that you loved the old man, and would like you to know that your military training and position were mostly at his request, a promise I gave him on his deathbed. Certainly I had no will to resist the last desire of a dying man, as I hope will now be the case with this request I make of you, since I am most certainly doomed.
I wish you, and the future of our line, the best of luck. May Mercury guide your steps and Mars strengthen your sword-hand.
Your father, Appius Valerius Aquila
Marcus looked up from the scroll and stared bleakly at the older man. Rufius took a deep breath before speaking again.
‘Sollemnis tells me that your father had the misfortune to be both wealthy and a man of honour and intelligence at a time when both made him a target. No emperor can afford to leave any survivors when he removes a perceived threat to his greatness, for the fear of their becoming a rallying point for discontent. Worse, most guard commanders will tell you that almost anyone can be killed, if the assassin has no concern for his escape once the deed is completed — if he has nothing left to live for. It’s a usual precaution for the emperor to order the death of all males in any family he moves against, an essential task of the praetorians, I’m afraid… I’m sorry, but your father is almost certainly dead. Did you have any brothers?’
The younger man nodded, swallowing painfully.
‘A younger brother. He’s… was… ten…’
‘I’m sorry… So you see, this is that moment of which I spoke. You are the only surviving male of your family, the last of your bloodline. If you die, your father and grandfather’s line will be snuffed out for ever. But you’re going to have to take a part in your own protection. Neither I nor Dubnus can run around looking after you for the next ten years, and so…’
Marcus nodded his understanding, took a deep breath and got to his feet, stooping to pick up the razor-sharp cavalry sword.
‘And I certainly won’t knowingly endanger either of you any further. You’ve both already done more than enough. I’ll find some way to escape the pursuit…’
Rufius looked up at him with a gentle smile, shaking his head in bemusement.
‘Brave enough talk, my lad, but likely to see you dead before dusk tonight. What’s needed now isn’t nobility, but mobility. You need to be somewhere else, as far from here as can be managed. And, much as it pains me to tell you this, you must also become someone else, another man entirely, and take on a name as far removed from the one you’ve used with pride all these years as possible.’
Dubnus turned to face them across the grove. Marcus met his frank stare with a shrug.
‘You’re right. This is your country, not mine. So tell me, where should I go?’
Rufius exchanged glances with Dubnus, and then continued.
‘What I was going to say was that neither Dubnus nor I can be absent from our usual routines for long. I would quickly be missed, and suspicions about my role in all of this will already be high enough, and Dubnus is expected back on duty with his unit on the Wall in a few days. We do, however, have an idea of how we can spirit you away from under your enemies’ noses, and hide you in a place they’d never consider. Your part will be to do everything and anything Dubnus tells you to, from now until he delivers you to your destination. Perhaps you can find a way of repaying him…’ He lowered his voice. ‘… although I’d advise against offering him money.’
Marcus nodded slowly, his face still white from the shock of reading his father’s message.
‘I will do whatever I have to. I have no choice. My name…’
Rufius grimaced.
‘It’s never easy to jettison something as close to your identity as the name your father gave you, especially under such circumstances, but you have no choice. You need a simple name, one to let you fade into the background of this bloody story and be lost to view from Rome. Your forename should remain the same, there’s no sense in risking your being caught out in your deception when there’s no need. As for clan and family…’
He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then thrust a hand into his bag.
‘For a clan name, I suggest this…’
Resting on his outstretched palm was a device constructed of four metal spikes heat-welded together, their points bright iron teeth.
‘It’s a tribulus. Strew a few thousand of these in front of a cohort and you’ve removed any danger of cavalry or chariot attack. See, no matter how you drop it to the ground, there’s always one nasty little point sticking up to wreck a horse’s hoof, and it’ll make a mess of a blue-nose foot too.’
Marcus picked up the vicious device.
‘It’s bent.’
Rufius nodded, taking the tribulus and wrapping his fist around it.
‘My own modification. See, a small change to the spikes’ angles makes it the perfect close-combat weapon if you lose your sword.’
A single spike protruded from between his fingers, two more poked out from either side of his fist, while the last stuck straight out from his palm.
‘However I choose to punch a man with this I’ll always have a nice length of iron in front of my fist. This one’s yours, I’ve got another one in my bag, and you never know when you might find that little toy your only weapon. So, for your clan name I suggest “Tribulus”. Seems quite appropriate, given the way you keep fighting back no matter which way up fate throws you. As for a family name…’
The distant crow cawed again, its harsh call cutting through the crisp morning air. Marcus lifted his head, looking out across the bleak landscape laid out below them.
‘There’s your answer — “Corvus” — it will serve to remind me how my father was mistreated even after his death. And it’s as good as any other name if I have to abandon the one my ancestors have used with pride since the expulsion of the ancient kings from the city…’
Rufius put a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re not abandoning anything, just burying it here for a while, along with everything else that can betray you to your pursuers. Work the new name through your mind until you consider yourself as Marcus Tribulus Corvus. If the right gods smile on you, you’ll be safe at the Hill in a matter of days, and once there you’ll have to be comfortable with your new identity.’
‘The Hill? Where’s that?’
Rufius’s face creased in a rueful grin.
‘Where’s the Hill? At the end of the world, that’s where. Dubnus, it’s time for you both to leave…’
The Briton pondered for a moment. To their west rose the Pennin
e mountains, still snow-capped with retreating winter, a bleak killing field with little cover if the inevitable searching cavalry patrols came upon them. A long climb would take them to the peaks, another day’s march would drop them back on to the lowlands on the far side. There they would find safer ground, another legion’s territory, although he knew that the ripples from the slaughter he’d inflicted on the Roman’s pursuers would still spread wide. Taking the fugitive to the north, on the other hand, would take them off the road, but into the forests, dangerous beyond belief for a pair of men, one in the hated armour of Rome, the other very much an unknown quantity. Even if the cavalry sword in his grip was edged with blackened dried blood.
‘I will take him over the mountains to the west.’
Rufius nodded agreement.
‘And I need to be back about my business, away from the pair of you, at least for now.’
He embraced Marcus briefly, stepping back to appraise the younger man one last time.
‘Farewell, then, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, we’ll meet again in the north, Mars willing. My horse is safe in the woods below, so I’ll leave you to it.’
He nodded to Marcus, clasped hands with Dubnus and started back down the slope. The Briton turned to face Marcus, unwrapping a bundle that Rufius had left behind.
‘Clothes and boots, as worn by my people. Rufius bought them for you in Yew Grove. Let’s hope they fit. Also, a blanket, and a nice heavy hooded cape to keep you dry in the rain.’
Fit they did, although they were a rude surprise to Marcus after the quality of his own clothing, rough material and ill-made boots that chafed his feet before he’d even started walking. They buried his tunic, cloak and boots to prevent their discovery, wrapping his gold cloak pin and the message from his father in their folds, and marked their position with a small pile of rocks. Dubnus strapped the cavalry sword to his right hip.
‘Better I throw it to you if it comes to a fight. What would a roughly dressed peasant like you be doing with such a fine weapon? You can have it back when we reach the Hill.’
He wiped mud across the younger man’s face to complete the transformation, standing back to admire his handiwork.
‘You’ll pass. Your hands are too soft, you need to get some dirt under your nails, and your hair is too short, but we’ll cut it even shorter once we’ve got the time, make it look military. You’re a tribesman now, my nephew in fact, and I’m taking you to join my cohort at the Hill… Cocidius forgive me. Anyone talks to us, you keep your mouth closed, your head down and you let me do the talking. Very well, let’s march.’
He turned to leave, shouldering his pack pole and spears. Marcus tested his new boots by walking a few paces, grimacing at their fierce grip on his feet.
‘So how far is it to the Hill?’
‘One hundred and fifty miles, seven days’ march for a legionary. We’re going to march at that pace, like legionaries. Your legions use the roads they build to move fast and concentrate dispersed forces to gain superior strength before they attack, it’s their strongest weapon against the rebel tribes because it multiplies their strength. Now we’re going to use their roads to get you away from their patrols.’
Marcus nodded his acknowledgement of the point.
‘I’m impressed with your knowledge.’
Dubnus snorted, his nostrils flaring as he looked at the bedraggled Roman.
‘You look at me and see a barbarian in Roman armour. You view me with Rome’s contempt, or something close to it, because that’s what you’ve been taught. I’m an educated man, and a soldier in a country where soldiers are guaranteed to see action several times over their term of service, even if only in dirty little skirmishes with locals. Let me tell you, you can die in a skirmish just as easily as in a full-scale gang fuck unless you’re trained and ready. I will start to train and ready you as we travel north.’
Marcus smiled wanly.
‘At the speed you promise to travel you may kill me first.’
The Briton shook his head slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his eyes.
‘Far from it. Instead I’ll give you the stamina of a Tungrian by the time we reach the Hill.’
Marcus rolled his eyes to heaven in mock despair.
‘Or kill me trying. Gods help me!’
Dubnus, unable to retain his outrage, replaced it with an evil smile.
‘Roman gods won’t save you now. You belong to me, and you’re just a recruit as far as I’m concerned, and therefore subject to a new god. My god, Cocidius, a warrior god, a hunter god. So run, master recruit. Run!’
They ran, Marcus gulping the cold upland air deep into his bursting lungs. Between education and exercise it threatened to be a long week.
3
That evening, as the sun dipped slowly towards the horizon, Dubnus broke off the line of their march and climbed a short distance into the forest before lowering his pack to the ground. The fugitives had avoided the road for much of the day, moving cross-country on game paths that threaded through the thin scatter of copses decorating the mountain slopes. Having avoided the first angry heat of the inevitable cavalry sweep for the murderers of Perennis’s men, they had returned to the road when the sun was quite low in the sky. The Briton gestured to the small hollow he had found, sweeping his arm in around to indicate the sparsely wooded land around them.
‘We need to light a fire. It should be safe enough here, hidden from the road. You look for some kindling, dead stuff only, mind you, we don’t want to make smoke. And stay out of sight of the road. Keep within shouting distance, there are wolves in these hills.’
By the time Marcus, limping from the pain of his blisters, had found sufficient wood to make a good-sized pile of dry twigs and sticks, the Briton had cut and lashed branches to form a spit above the spot where the fire would burn. A large chunk of meat was in place, ready to cook. He examined the wood carefully, nodding sagely.
‘Good enough. If you’re wondering what the meat is, I cut it from one of the horses I killed this morning. If that bothers you, you have a choice — eat horse or go hungry, tonight and tomorrow. I took two pieces like this. While you think about that you can go and find twice as much wood again — we’ll need to burn the fire through the night in this temperature. Thicker branches, mind you, to last longer.’
Dubnus had the fire glowing hot by the time Marcus returned with his last load of wood. His boots were off, and he had the horsemeat turning over the flames. They sat a while in the evening’s peace while the meat started to cook, drops of fat falling on to the flames and burning in bright flares. The aroma tormented Marcus’s empty belly until he broke the silence, as much to distract him from his hunger as from any desire to talk.
‘Dubnus, who taught you to fight so well?’
‘My father. He was a hunter, killed animals for food and skins, then traded the skins with Roman traders like Rufius. Former soldiers usually. He taught me to fight, and to track and hunt… how to live off the country for months, with no need go back to our village. The land has everything required for survival if you have the right tools. Here, take a spell turning this meat.’
Marcus shuffled over to the fire to do as he was asked.
‘So why did you join the army?’
The other man’s eyes clouded for a moment.
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I’m sorry. I had no intention of…’
‘I joined the army because my father sent me to the Tungrian fort when he was dying, told me to ask the recruiting centurion to take me. He said that the army would be the best place for me when he was gone…’
‘Were you sad to leave home?’
‘Sad? Yes, I was sad. Leaving the land was difficult. Life in the army was very different.’
‘Hard?’
‘No. Nothing they could throw at me bothered me. My centurion beat me with his vine stick to get my attention and drum in the lessons. I told him to keep it up, told him I loved it. He broke it on my back and called for
another one.’
The big man sat in silence for a moment.
‘It wasn’t any harder than what I was already used to. It just wasn’t home.’
Marcus fell silent, eyeing the meat critically. He could imagine the huge Briton as a younger man, little different from how he was now, silent and proud. Every inch warrior blood. What a challenge to his first centurion, a man expected to turn him from barbarian into trained soldier. The meat was starting to crisp above the fire’s heat, almost ready to eat.
‘Dubnus?’
‘Yes.’
‘What will I do when we reach the Hill?’
‘Rufius has a plan. He’ll tell us when we meet.’
‘When will we meet again?’
The Briton shrugged indifferently.
‘Somewhere on the road north. Let’s eat that meat before it burns.’
He scraped the horsemeat from the spit and on to his wooden plate with a swift movement of his dagger, dividing it equally before passing one portion to the Roman. Marcus nodded his thanks, his nostrils flaring in anticipation of the meal as he gingerly sank his teeth into the hot meat, eating the first mouthful open mouthed to avoid burning his palate. The taste was divine after a day’s hard exercise without food. Fat ran down his chin unnoticed as he ate. He nodded at Dubnus in between mouthfuls.
Wounds of Honour e-1 Page 6
