Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two (5 page)

He shook himself free of the momentary introspection, raising the cup of wine to his friends.

‘And enough of that, there’s wine waiting. Let’s have a toast, gentlemen. Tungrian comrades, living and dead.’

‘Living and dead.’

They raised their cups and drank.

‘Here’s a toast for you.’

Julius raised his cup and looked around the small group with a wry smile.

‘I’ll drink to that moment at Lost Eagle when Uncle Sextus started humping that chieftain’s severed head in front of twenty thousand wild-eyed blue-noses. That was the moment I was sure I was going to die.’

They drank again. Rufius nudged Dubnus with his elbow.

‘Your turn,
Centurion
.’

After a moment’s silent thought the young officer raised his cup.

‘To Lucky, wherever he is now.’

Julius drank and laughed sharply.

‘Not so lucky after all. All those years with never a scratch only to get his hair parted by a blue-nose axe. His loss, your gain.’

The four men nodded silently, sharing a moment of memory. Marcus raised his cup to Rufius, a questioning look on his face.

‘And your toast, Grandfather?’

‘My toast …? I’ll raise my cup to those we loved who are no longer with us.’

The other men nodded, lifting their cups in silent salute, Rufius draining his and hammering it down on the long wooden bar with a smack of his lips.

‘A refill, Steward! We’ll be sitting over there by the stove. It might be late in the month of Junius, but it’s bloody cold for all that.’

‘It began, Prefect, back in the month of Februarius. One of my chosen men brought a young man in peasant clothing to the fort’s main gate …’

Frontinius told Prefect Scaurus the story of Marcus’s fight to gain a place with the cohort in swift and economical sentences, taking care not to exaggerate his recollection in any way. When his story was complete Scaurus sat in silence for a moment before speaking.

‘First Spear, you present me with a dilemma greater than any puzzle requiring a solution during my years of learning.’

A long silence hung in the air between them. Frontinius judged it best to keep his mouth shut as he waited for the prefect to resume what he expected to be a one-sided conversation.

‘It occurs to me that while I know what you have done, I do not yet understand why. So, First Spear Frontinius, help me understand your decision with regard to this fugitive from imperial justice. In your own time …’

The prefect rose from his chair and paced across the room, turning to look straight into his senior centurion’s eyes. Now his face was in shadow, unreadable, while the lamp behind him would show him any emotions crossing the first spear’s face. The first spear pondered his response for a moment before abandoning any thought of attempting to put any particular shine on the story.

‘You want to know why I agreed to allow a man wanted for treason to take sanctuary with the cohort. There is no one reason, but I’ll try to make why I did what I did clear for you. I suppose we can ignore the fact that both the man and his father were innocent of any of the charges laid against their family, although I’m convinced that was the case …’

Scaurus shrugged without interest.

‘It’s immaterial, First Spear. He could be as pure as a novice priestess and that would change nothing. My question wasn’t about his widely accepted guilt, I want to know why he’s
here
.’

Frontinius nodded.

‘Very well. In the first place it was my prefect, Septimius Equitius, who made the request of me, and he is a man whose judgement I had learned to trust during his time in command here. He owed a debt of honour to Sollemnis, the former legatus of Sixth Victorious. The legatus was the boy’s real father, and this was the way in which he was being asked to discharge that debt. And don’t mistake this for an attempt to shift the blame to Legatus Equitius. If there’s a hammer and nails in my future then I’ll do my own dying. However protracted the agony might be I can only cross the river once. All I’m trying to say is that there was a man’s honour involved in the decision.’

He paused for a moment, picking his next line of attack.

‘There was benefit to the cohort too. I exacted a price for Corvus’s acceptance from Legatus Sollemnis in addition to the large sum of money that he contributed to the burial fund. Corvus was accompanied here by a legion centurion not long retired, a legion cohort’s first spear, in fact, and I made his service here for a year part of the bargain.’ He chuckled darkly, unable to resist the humour in his memory of Tiberius Rufius’s smug smile once he had a vine stick back in his hand. ‘Turns out the man would have killed with his bare hands for the chance to bellow his lungs out at a century one more time …

‘There was one more reason for my decision, the most important of all. I would have given Prefect Equitius the hard word if I hadn’t seen something in the boy, and neither his honour, nor the gold,
and not even the bonus centurion that sweetened the deal would have swayed me. I’m not stupid enough to go risking my life, and those of the officers I serve with, not without a good reason.

Scaurus shifted, staring hard into his eyes.

‘What reason?’

Frontinius stared back at him, his eyes flint hard in the half-light.

‘He’s a born soldier, Prefect, simply that, a born soldier. I’ve spent most of my adult life chasing recruits round these hills, teaching them how to take their iron to the barbarians that threaten their people. I’ve seen thousands of them, good, bad and indifferent, and I’ll tell you now, without hesitation, that he’s the most able warrior I’ve ever met, and the best leader to boot. He knows what to do, he does it without hesitation, and he’s faster and more skilled with a blade than any man I’ve met. The men of his former century would cover his arse with their shields even if it put them at risk of catching a spear themselves. Given a different roll of the dice he would have risen to command a legion without breaking sweat …’

He stopped, unable to read the prefect’s expression in the shadows.

‘You weren’t at the battle of Lost Eagle, Prefect, but if you had been you wouldn’t be asking me to explain my decision. When you get the chance to see him fight, then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that you’ll never see a man throw his iron around with so much grace, or so much purpose.’

The prefect laughed quietly.

‘Very poetic.’

Frontinius shook his head dismissively.

‘Fuck poetry, that was simple fact. And now, Prefect, you’ve toyed with me for long enough. You’ve made your decision, now have the decency to tell me what it is. If you want me on a cross then that’s how I’ll depart this life. But I warn you, if you plan to nail him up then you’d better have something good up your sleeve because there’s at least one century of Tungrians that will paint the floor black with their own blood and that of anyone that gets in their way before they’ll stand still and watch that happen.’

* * *

Far to the north of the Roman wall whose stones he had so recently trodden as conqueror, in a forest clearing not unlike the one in which the war had been set in train a few short months before, Calgus, lord of the northern tribes, was arguing his corner against growing opposition. While only one of the tribal leaders dared to speak out against him, half a dozen other implacable faces were arrayed behind the old man, mirroring his grim obduracy. Calgus shook his head and scowled at the old man, raising his hands and eyes to the skies as if to seek guidance from their gods.

‘No, Brennus. We have
not
lost this war. In fact this war has barely begun, and yet already we have two mighty prizes to parade in front of our people.’

The king of the Votadini tribe leaned back tiredly in his chair, glaring back at Calgus from beneath the hood of a heavy cloak.

‘As you keep saying. My people are expected to be happy with the head of a dead Roman officer and a meaningless metal bird on a stick when what they really need is their dead menfolk back. That, and an end to the killing. Can you magic forth either of those things from your bird on a stick, Calgus? At least we had peace with the Romans before this war, unlike your troublesome Selgovae. There were no forts on
our
territory before this revolt, whereas your lands were already studded with their outposts. You argued for us to abandon our ties with the Romans when you had already long since soured your relationship with them, like a fox without a tail convincing its brothers to go without theirs.’

The old man looked around to his fellows, holding his hands out in apparent exasperation.

‘Now they will litter
our
territory with their soldiers in the way that they already control your tribe’s land. We will live under their control, no longer trusted to run our own affairs but instead jealously watched, and herded like the cattle we will become.’

The old king was pushing harder than Calgus had expected, encouraged by the knowledge that he had more than enough supporters around the grove to give Calgus’s bodyguards a decent fight, and made bold by the combination of his anger and apparent security. Calgus took a deep breath and started again.

‘They
used
to control our land, but not any more, King Brennus. You
may
recall that we burned out every fort on Selgovae ground in the first two days of our war with these usurpers. The Selgovae are newly freed from their oppressive presence on our land, and we will not lightly fall back under their domination. The prizes that we took in battle with the Romans will draw the northern tribes back to us. They are the symbols of an empire grown newly vulnerable. They tell us that the legions can be defeated, that we can be free again, they tell us that …’

The Votadini king laughed at him in shockingly open defiance, stiffening Calgus’s posture with astonished anger.

‘They tell us that we got
lucky
, Calgus. They tell us that you turned a Roman against his own, to lead a legion on to ground that made them helpless against our attack. We cannot expect such fortune again, if indeed I should call it fortune. We may have defeated a legion, but before the end of that day we were running like frightened children with two more legions on our heels, and their bloody cavalry. I lost a son to their spears, a son I will never see again thanks to this adventure of
yours.
A son whose head will have been taken by their soldiers to decorate some barrack or other …’

His nephew Martos, a scar-faced warrior with a fearsome reputation in battle, stared at Calgus from behind his uncle’s chair with a look of thinly veiled anger, a half-dozen of his men at his back. Brennus sat back in the chair, his eyes locked on Calgus’s, and with a flash of insight the Selgovae king knew that the challenge was coming. He strolled easily across the ground between them, looming over the old man and bending to speak quietly into his face. Martos and his men stiffened, ready to air their blades if Calgus as much as touched their leader.

‘Got a new champion, have you, old man? Could it be your sister’s boy that’s stood behind you, perhaps? Or will you do this the old-fashioned way and turn your men loose on mine, see who prevails, eh?’

Brennus looked him straight in the face, no sign of fear in his eyes.

‘There will be no challenge if you agree to make peace with the Romans. They have two full legions on our soil even now, they dominate the land around their destroyed forts on the north road as they start to rebuild them, and yet you claim to have broken their grip on us for ever. If we seek to offer them resistance those legions will roll over us and grind us into the ground we stand on.’ He shook his head at Calgus, then turned to the men behind him. ‘This rebellion is
over
! We’re back in the iron fist, but this time there’ll be no Roman tribute payment to soften the indignity of our lost sovereignty. The best we can hope for is to trade those cursed spoils of battle, and humble promises of peace and good behaviour, for some measure of normality. Until we do their legions will trample our land and people under foot, forever seeking revenge for their wounded pride.’

Calgus turned away, affecting to consider the suggestion. It was more than a suggestion, of course, more like an order from the leaders of the other tribes arrayed behind the old man, and an assured death sentence for him. If the tribes negotiated with Rome he knew that nothing less than his own head, alongside that of the Roman legatus currently sat in a jar of cedar oil in his tent, would satisfy their lust for revenge. Not unless they could take him alive, of course, for a lengthy humiliation and eventual ritual execution. He turned back to face the implacable faces with a slow secret smile.

‘So, it’s to be peace at the price of my head. If that’s how you all want it, I suppose I have little choice. And I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that my sacrifice won’t be the only one you have to make.’

He stood and waited, watching a glimmer of understanding dawn on the old man’s face while the others around him frowned their incomprehension.

‘You have hostages?’

Calgus shook his head sadly.

‘Brennus, Brennus, what do you take me for? Of
course
I’ve taken hostages. Since you’re all culpable for our defeat, you can all pay the price for our surrender. If you betray me, you betray
your closest family members.’ He pointed at each man in turn. ‘Your sons will never reach manhood. Your wife will never warm your bed again. Your daughters will never run to their father’s arms again. And, to be quite clear, they will all leave this life in slow, hard ways. I’ve sent the right men to make sure of that.’ He spread his arms wide, encompassing the gathering with a feral grin. ‘So, if you want to take my head for your would-be Roman
friends
, go ahead.’