“You are mine Nigrinus. You are mine,” Marcus roared, as he advanced towards him with murderous intent.
Standing back from the fighting beside a section of the ruined and shattered fence, Nigrinus finally spotted him and as he did he raised his spear and pointed it straight at Marcus.
“There he is,” Nigrinus bellowed. “Get him. Get him. Kill him.”
Ignoring the swirling, screaming battle around them Marcus and Indus stormed deeper into the enemy ranks towards Nigrinus and as they did men peeled away from the fight with Aledus and his mercenaries and came lunging at them. Within seconds Marcus and Indus were surrounded and hopelessly cut off from the others as more and more of Nigrinus’s men were drawn away from the mercenaries and into defending their leader. Desperately, Marcus tried to hack his way towards Nigrinus, but there were just too many men blocking his path. Howling and yelling at him, Nigrinus’s men pressed around him furiously jabbing and stabbing at him with their weapons. Giving up the attempt to reach Nigrinus, Marcus and Indus instinctively twisted around and, standing back to back, they turned to face and fend off their attackers. Indus was still singing but his voice was growing laboured, as he blocked and parried the growing number of frenzied blows that were coming in at him. Suddenly Marcus cried out in pain, as a knife slashed across his upper leg. Swiftly he was struck again in the shoulder by a blade that pierced him. With a groan he staggered backwards, bumping into Indus as the men around him yelled in triumph. Behind Marcus, Indus seemed to explode in rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, the Batavian dropped his shield, yanked a pugio knife from his belt and, clutching weapons in both hands, he boldly, crazily and fearlessly launched himself head-long at the two men who had knifed Marcus. The momentum of his attack sent all three of them crashing to the ground, but Indus was the only one who tried to stagger back to his feet. The others lay on the ground with Indus’s weapons stuck in their throats, blood spurting into the air. But as he staggered to his feet, Indus was swiftly cut down by several swords and knives, collapsing silently onto the bodies of the last two men he’d killed.
Dimly Marcus was aware of triumphant screams and movement around him. Desperately he tried to stay on his feet, as he felt the blood trickling down his chest. Then the breath was knocked out of him, as a sword savagely drove into his back and another stabbed him in his abdomen. Groaning again, Marcus dropped his sword and collapsed onto his knees amongst the corpses. Swiftly someone kicked him in the head and sent him crashing sideways onto the ground.
Time seemed to slow.
Marcus lay on the ground, his eyes glazed and unresponsive. The pain in his body seemed distant and unreal and he couldn’t move. The noise of the fighting seemed to dim and grow distant. Was it all over? Marcus’s breathing came in weak, ragged gasps. Close by, Indus lay on top of the two men he’d killed, his sightless eyes staring at Marcus. Standing over Marcus, a figure suddenly appeared. It was Nigrinus, his silent face curling in contempt and then triumph. In his hands the man was holding a knife. Then with a terrifying surge of noise and movement reality came rushing back to Marcus and the noise of fighting filled his ears. Something was happening behind him. Close by, one of Nigrinus’s bodyguards suddenly staggered forwards and collapsed with a spear sticking out of his back. Another of Nigrinus’s bodyguards, still sitting on his horse, was roughly and violently flung from the saddle, as two arrows thudded into his exposed neck. A ragged, defiant roar rose up from somewhere out of sight. Gazing up at Nigrinus, Marcus saw his enemy’s face swiftly change from triumph to terror as another of his guards sank to his knees and was cut down by an axe. Abruptly Nigrinus vanished from Marcus’s view.
A few moments later Cunomoltus and Aledus hove into view, their faces filled with alarm and shock as they bent over Marcus looking down at him. They were talking but their words were not registering. The remaining mercenaries were storming passed him, screaming in triumph as they seemed to be pursuing someone out of sight. Mustering the last of his strength, Marcus was able to turn his head. The fight seemed to be over. Had he won? Across the barren fields and rutted track, Nigrinus and a few of his surviving men were fleeing, running for their lives whilst a rider-less and terrified horse galloped away towards the forest. As he gazed at the scene without understanding, Marcus saw an arrow bring down one of the fleeing men and another wounded straggler set upon by his three hunting dogs who started to tear him apart. The unfortunate man’s terrified shrieks rent the afternoon. Then slowly the light dimmed, and Marcus lost consciousness.
***
Kyna was trembling as she looked down at Marcus, lying in the bed inside one of the villa’s rooms. Beside her stood the doctor and Aledus, his forehead covered in a bloody bandage. Cunomoltus were silently gazing down at Marcus whose eyes were closed. He was still unconscious. Marcus’s wounds had been bound with fresh white bandages, but his breathing was weak, and he looked in a bad way. At Kyna’s side, Cunomoltus, one of his legs covered in a bandage, quietly reached out to steady her. Then he glanced across the room to where Dylis was leaning against the door. Marcus’s sister had an ugly gash across her face, but apart from that, she looked unhurt. She was staring at Marcus with a hard, uncompromising gaze.
“By all laws of medicine,” the doctor said, with a weary sigh, “he should not be alive. The wounds he sustained should have killed a lesser man days ago. He is holding onto something, something that is refusing to let him die.”
“Is it that bad doctor?” Kyna asked in a voice devoid of all emotion. Her face was ashen.
“The doctor is right,” Aledus muttered. “With these wounds, he should have been dead by now, but he is holding on to life. It can’t last. He is not going to recover. No man can recover from such wounds. It’s just a matter of time until he succumbs.”
“I fear he is right,” the doctor replied lowering his eyes.
A wretched sob was Kyna’s only answer and, leaning against the door, Dylis lowered her gaze to the floor.
“Three fucking days,” Cunomoltus exclaimed, shaking his head. “He has been like this for three days. What is he holding out for? How long can he last?”
“I don’t know,” the doctor replied, with a weary shrug. “He is a strong man and the human body constantly surprises me, but it won’t go on forever. If you must still prepare, I suggest that you do so now. The time left him in this world is short. You should prepare. He hasn’t got much time left.”
“We have made all the preparations,” Dylis snapped from the doorway.
“Good,” the doctor said, turning to glance quickly at Kyna. “I advise that someone is at his side day and night.”
“Someone will be,” Cunomoltus said quickly. “Thank you, doctor. We appreciate all that you have been able to do.”
At Marcus’s bedside, the doctor nodded and then, giving Marcus a final resigned glance, he reached out to shake Cunomoltus’s hand, before leaving the room.
Once the doctor was gone, Aledus sighed and slowly turned to glance at Cunomoltus and then Dylis.
“He and Indus turned that battle you know,” Aledus said with a little disbelieving shake of his head. “That crazy, foolish charge straight towards Nigrinus drew in Nigrinus’s men. It took the pressure from us and allowed us to regroup and hit back. He did that. He bought us that space. Kyna, you and Dylis’s son killed three men with those bows of yours and wounded many others. You did well.” Aledus lowered his eyes. “I have to admit that I didn’t think any of you would put up the fight that you did. You are not trained for this but boy was I wrong. We kicked their arses.”
“We did it for him and because this is our home,” Cunomoltus said in a serious voice gesturing at Marcus. “All of us. We fought for him for he has a way in bringing the best out in us.”
“I know,” Aledus muttered. “However, we still have a problem. Nigrinus is still out there. Our situation is dire. We may have beaten him back, but he could return with reinforcements. I don’t think that man is going to rest until he has seen that Marcus
is dead. We are in no state to fight him a second time. Half my mercenaries are dead, as is Indus and some of the slaves and Petrus is badly wounded. All of us have wounds. We are exhausted. If Nigrinus comes back, we cannot fight him.”
“What would you have us do?” Dylis sneered in a contemptuous voice. “Would you have us abandon our home. I am not leaving, and neither are my children. Marcus was right, this is our home.”
“We are not leaving this farm,” Kyna said suddenly. She was standing gazing down at her husband, her face filled with resolve. “I am not leaving. They will have to kill me before I leave this place.”
A tense silence descended on the room.
“The doctor said he is clinging to life,” Cunomoltus said at last. “What is he clinging to? What is making him refuse to die?”
“Who knows?” Aledus muttered in a weary voice.
Once more a sombre tense silence descended on the room. Then abruptly the silence was shattered as outside, a trumpet suddenly rang out. In the room all turned to stare at the door in horror. Quickly Cunomoltus pushed his way past Dylis and hobbled through the villa, until he emerged into the courtyard. The late afternoon sunlight bathed the farm in bright light. As Cunomoltus stepped out of the house, he was swiftly followed by Aledus, Jowan and Dylis - all armed.
At the shattered fence, the female slave on watch in the watchtower once more blew on her trumpet and the haunting sound went ringing out across the fields. Moving towards the gates, Dylis suddenly gasped and raised her hand to her mouth. Out on the rutted track leading towards the farm, horsemen had appeared, their armour gleaming in the sunlight. The riders, at least thirty of them, seemed to be in a hurry as they came galloping down the track, sending clumps of mud flying up into the air. Leading them was a red-haired man clad in a fine legate’s armour and red cloak, and at his side, rode a soldier holding up the proud square vexillation banner of the Twentieth Legion. As they drew closer, Aledus suddenly cried out, unable to hide his excitement.
“It’s Fergus! That’s Fergus! It’s Fergus!”
“Good gods,” Cunomoltus exclaimed, as he went down on his knees in the mud. At his side, Dylis still had her hand clasped to her mouth. Then slowly she shook her head in disbelief.
“Aledus,” Fergus shouted, as he peered at the four figures ahead of him. “Aledus is that you?”
“It’s me,” Aledus roared with delight, as he opened his arms wide in triumph. “Thank fuck you have come Fergus. Thank fuck. You have no idea. You have no idea how good it is to see you.”
Slowing his horse, Fergus came trotting towards the gates and, for a moment, he paused and silently turned to gaze at the rows of sharpened wooden stakes, the debris of the ruined, shattered fence and the murder pits still containing the impaled corpses of dead horses and men. At his side, his legionary cavalry escort, came to a halt as the soldiers turned to look at the debris of battle that lay scattered across the fields. Further back coming towards the villa along the track a horse-drawn wagon had appeared in which Galena and her daughters were sitting, gazing anxiously towards the house. The wagon was surrounded by another troop of armed cavalrymen acting as escort.
“Where is my father?” Fergus cried out, as he turned to stare at Dylis, Jowan, Cunomoltus and Aledus. “Where is my father? Where is my mother? What has happened here?”
***
“Father,” Fergus said quietly, as he stood in the room looking down at Marcus and holding his hand while Marcus lay in his bed with his eyes closed. “Father. It’s me, Fergus. I have come home. I am here with you now.”
Standing around the bed, Cunomoltus, Kyna, Jowan, Dylis, Galena and Aledus were gazing down at Marcus, as he lay motionless in his bed.
“He hasn’t spoken a word since Nigrinus attacked us,” Cunomoltus said at last. “The doctor says he is refusing to die, but that it won’t be long now. I am sorry Fergus, but there is nothing more that we can do. His fate is in the hands of the gods.”
Fergus remained silent as he gazed down at Marcus. Then with a weary sigh he looked up and glanced at Galena.
“How long has he got?” Fergus asked no one in particular.
“Not long,” Kyna replied.
“Good gods how could this have happened,” Fergus said, turning away with a little bewildered shake of his head and clutching his father’s hand. “How could this have happened? How?”
In the room no one replied and, as the silence lengthened the mood grew more and more oppressive and sombre.
“Fergus,” a voice suddenly whispered and, startled, all turned to look down. In his bed, Marcus’s eyes had suddenly flickered open and he was gazing up at Fergus. “Fergus,” Marcus whispered again in a weak voice that was barely audible.
“I am here father,” Fergus replied, gripping Marcus’s hand.
“Fergus,” Marcus groaned softly. “I am glad. The gods…they want me to join them. They call to me, they summon me, but I would not go. I told them I would not go until I had seen your face one more time.”
“I am here father,” Fergus said in a reassuring voice. “I am here now.”
“You are the father now,” Marcus whispered in a faint voice, as his eyes flickered and tried to focus on Fergus. “Look after them. Ensure their survival my boy. Nothing else matters.”
“We are all here for you father,” Fergus said quietly. “We are all here. Your family is here for you. You have made us who we are. You have been the rallying point around which, we have become who we are; thank you father, thank you.”
Around the bed, a mutter of agreement broke out. Then Kyna reached out and gently and lovingly ran her hand across her husband’s cheeks and, as she did, Marcus’s eyes turned to look up at his wife.
“You are loved Marcus,” she said quietly, with a fond smile, “You are loved by all of us. I shall see you again in the next world husband. I shall remain at your side for all eternity, like I promised. You saved all of us. You have won, Marcus. We shall not forget, we shall not forget.”
In his bed, Marcus smiled and then closed his eyes and did not answer. Fergus gasped and looked away and, as he did Galena appeared at his side, her eyes filled with concern.
“Let him go to the gods,” Galena said quietly, as she reached out to grip Fergus’s arm.
***
It was a cold morning, two days, later when around the copse of trees, beside the old moss-covered memorial stone to Corbulo, the small gathering of people stood sombrely looking down at the freshly dug and covered grave. Fergus clad in his legate’s uniform, his red cloak nearly touching the grass, stood to one side, his arms linked together with Galena and Kyna, standing beside him. The two women were clad in black mourning clothes and their faces were veiled. Opposite Fergus, an honour guard made up from the troopers from his cavalry escort, stood stiffly to attention, their armour gleaming in the morning light. At the base of the grave, the family and the slaves had gathered together clad in their mourning clothes. The stretcher on which Petrus was lying had been placed on the ground in front of them and on it Petrus lay grasping his wooden cross as he gazed at the grave with tears streaming from his eyes.
No one spoke. At last Fergus took a step forwards and solemnly knelt beside Marcus’s grave. For a moment he said nothing as he gazed down at the disturbed soil. Then he reached out with his hand to touch the upturned soil and simultaneously lowered his head, until it rested on his chest. Silently, he said his prayer and, once he was done he rose to his feet and turned to Kyna. In response Kyna, her face obscured by her black veil, took a step forwards and knelt beside the grave. For a moment the copse remained silent, except for the gentle wind rustling in the nearby trees.
“Lords of the underworld, fair gods and spirits, hear my lament,” Kyna said quietly, as she slowly closed her eyes, lowered her head and extended her arms over the grave. “Take my husband, my man Marcus into your embrace. Look after him. He goes to you willingly and unafraid. He is a good, honourable man, a soldier who faithfully served Rome, a fine father, b
rother and husband - the best that nature can produce. Treat him well for he deserves nothing less. Hear also you immortals, guardians of the life beyond this one, I, Kyna, wife of Marcus, give praise to my veterans of Rome, for they are my veterans of Rome. My father-in-law Corbulo, my husband Marcus and my son Fergus. Better men this world has not known, and I look forward, unafraid to the day when I shall see them all again, united once more.”
Chapter Thirty – The Legate of the Twentieth Legion
Autumn 118 AD, Deva Victrix, home base of the Twentieth Legion, Britannia
As Fergus in his fine cuirassed body armour and legate’s cloak strode into the Principia building at the heart of the legionary fortress of Deva Victrix, the legionaries on guard duty saluted smartly. Inside his personal quarters in the HQ complex, Fergus sighed and wearily took off his helmet, rubbed his red hair with his hand and placed the helmet on a nearby table. Through the open doorway into his family’s rooms, he could hear Galena arguing with Briana and Efa, his two eldest daughters. With a little bemused smile, Fergus moved away from the doorway and reached out to pour himself a cup of wine. His girls were growing up so fast. Briana was already thirteen and it would not be long now before he would have to consider her marriage. But the thought of marrying off his daughter filled him with revulsion. It could wait. Taking a sip of wine from his cup, he looked down at the array of official documents that lay on his table. All seemed urgent. In a corner on the table, a stone bust of emperor Hadrian looked down sternly on the room. Sitting down on the edge of the table, Fergus turned to look around his quarters. Through the doorway, Galena’s dispute with her daughters continued without remorse.
Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 31
