The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Obulco’s coin bounced at her feet almost before her lisping had finished. Like the others, and not wanting to tempt the spirits, I threw her a sesterce.

  Her watery eyes grew wide, and the crooked smile broadened at the sight of the coins. “Bless you,” she cackled. “May the gods, whose names I dare not say, forever guide your paths with good fortune.

  “But remember . . . ,” she glared at me once again, “young man of Iberia, respect the gods and beware of the Eastern one. Your offering will not change anything.” She picked up the copper piece and tossed it to me. “Do not come under his spell.” The priestess retrieved the rest of the money and shuffled away in renewed vigor, disappearing among the oak trees.

  “Why did the witch curse you, Sergeant?” Obulco asked.

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. I don’t know anything about an Eastern god.” Why had Mugain chosen me?

  With the exception of Crispus, the men avoided me for nearly a week. But a few times out of the corner of my eye I caught Crispus staring at me. No doubt he, too, wondered why the crone marked me. Did they believe that I was cursed? And what about the dead young woman? Was it Kyar?

  No, it couldn’t be.

  I shrugged. This was no time to be intimidated by foolish superstitions.

  Chapter 18

  Five days later, Rix’s caravan appeared outside the legion camp. Crispus and I rode out to confront him. It was midmorning when we entered his place, one of several dilapidated tents and lean-tos lining a muddy path. Except for the Gaul and one of his cronies guzzling wine at a planked bar table, the makeshift tavern was empty.

  Squinting his eyes, Rix watched as we approached in the dimly lighted room. He gasped aloud, dropping his cup to the earthen floor, its sound a muffled thud. Stepping back, he blessed himself, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He bowed wide-eyed like one who had seen a ghost.

  “Sergeant, this is unexpected,” he said in a quivering voice. “I heard you were killed. But you live, praise the gods.” He raised his hands, drew his head back, and looked skyward.

  I reached the bar, leaned across, and stuck my face within inches of Rix’s. His foul breath almost gagged me. “And you, dog, wasted no time in selling Kyar, you thieving bastard!”

  “I assure you, had I known for one minute you were alive, she would be here today.” He cringed.

  It took all the discipline I could muster to refrain from strangling his dirty carcass.

  “How did you find out?” he sputtered.

  “I have my sources. Where is she?”

  “I sold her to Chosroes, the slave dealer,” he answered all too quickly.

  Partially hidden by Rix’s tunic, I saw the mountain-cat broach belonging to Kyar. He wore it on a gold chain, dangling from his chest. I remembered her words: You’ll know I’m dead if Rix has the amulet.

  The tremor of fear creeping through my body turned to anger. I ripped off the broach and grabbed the Gaul by the scruff of his neck. “You’re a lying pig, where is she?” Rix’s eyes bulged, his face purpled as my fingers squeezed his throat, pushing through his lumpy flesh. “Where is my father’s buckle?”

  Crispus threw his arms around my waist and pulled me away. “No, Marcellus, not now! We’ll get him later!”

  At the same time, Rix’s henchman drew a dagger. “Put it away, you fool,” Rix ordered in little more than a whisper, “do you want us killed?” The Gaul shoved the weapon back into his waistband.

  Rix caught his breath and massaged his throat. “I told you the truth.” His voice shook. “If you threaten me again, I’ll go to Gallus─he’ll know how to deal with you.”

  “You won’t live long enough.” I loosened myself from Crispus’s grip.

  “Easy, Marcellus, you’re making this worse. Let’s get out of here!”

  Crispus was right. “You haven’t seen the last of me, Rix!”

  “Wait! Here’s your money.” Rix pulled a leather pouch from behind the bar and held it out to me. “I sold your buckle because I believed you dead, I swear it! This is all I have left. If you give me a little time, I’ll get the rest.”

  I knocked his hand away, scattering the bag of sesterces across the floor, and stormed out of the place.

  In my blinding fury toward the Gaul, I nearly missed the plump figure of Sigrid, partially hidden by an opening to a small tent, down the muddy path from the tavern. She pointed to the sun in the west, and motioned to the grove beyond the Gaul’s camp.

  *

  Dusk fell before she could sneak away. After wading through the clump of oaks, she appeared in the clearing and ran to Crispus. She embraced and kissed him passionately, then drew back, tears clouding her eyes, and running down her rosy cheeks.

  “What’s wrong, Sigrid?” Crispus asked.

  Shaking her head, she cupped her face with her hands.

  “Sigrid, what happened to Kyar?” I asked. Her body shook, and she wouldn’t look at me.

  “Nothing, it’s like whatever Rix told you.” Crispus had told me earlier that Sigrid feared Rix, who no doubt had threatened her life. “I can’t, it’s too hard to say,” she cried softly.

  “Sigrid, tell Marcellus, please,” Crispus said in a firm voice. “He has a right to know.”

  “It’s so hard . . .”

  “Sigrid, I don’t know if Kyar ever told you,” I said in a soothing tone, “but I was in the process of buying her. It’s important that I learn the truth. Tell me, we’ll protect you from Rix, I promise.”

  She peeked at Crispus through spreading fingers, and he nodded. Sigrid wiped away the tears, smearing her rouged face. “Kyar weren’t sold to no one,” her voice quivered. She trembled again. “Oh, Crispus, I can’t say it, I can’t!”

  “Take your time, Sigrid,” Crispus said in a soothing voice. He held her tight about the waist.

  A few minutes passed before she regained her composure. “Kyar’s dead!”

  A numbing sensation swept through my body. “How?” I asked simply.

  “Rix murdered her,” she answered in a subdued tone, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her mind.

  Gradually, the numbness changed to rage—heat rushed through every pore in my body. But I had to keep my wits and learn the details. “I had known as soon as I saw Rix wearing her broach. How did it happen?”

  “Kyar stole your buckle from Rix.”

  “Why did she steal it?”

  “He had a buyer and was going to sell it. She knew it belonged to you and your father and was worth a fortune.”

  “How did Kyar steal it?”

  “I don’t think Rix had any idea at first. He searched our cubicles and found nothing. Maybe he thought she stole it, because you were buying her and she knew about it.”

  “Did Kyar take it?” I asked. My breath labored heavily as I grabbed the handle of my sword, gripping so tightly my knuckles turned white.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she tell him?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “No, Kyar died before she confessed.”

  “Damn that rotten bastard!” I pulled my sword half way from its scabbard, determined to kill him.

  “Easy, Marcellus,” Crispus urged. He motioned for me to shove the weapon back in place.

  I hesitated, glaring at him. Exhaling, I nodded and slid the spatha back into the leather covering. “How did she die?” I asked Sigrid.

  She bit her lip and whispered, “He tried to beat the truth from her. He slapped, beat, and kicked her in the stomach. Over and over.” Sigrid paused. “She bled to death. He didn’t know she was with child.” Sigrid clutched her abdomen. “Before you left with the army, Kyar was sick.”

  “For the love of the gods, if I had only known.” I would have swallowed my pride and borrowed the entire amount from Gallus and freed her from Rix’s clutches instead of leaving her with him. She could have joined the other camp followers as the army moved on campaign.

  “But Rix made her work,” Sigrid added, ripping me from my thoughts.
“He didn’t pay no attention to your warnings. When she refused, he slapped her a lot. Kyar got so afraid, she did what he said.”

  “That fucking whoreson,” I muttered.

  I remembered her coughing and drawn appearance as the cohort departed Iping—all of it coming back with Sigrid’s words, including Rix’s greedy approval at the time. Had the child been mine? Perhaps. But Kyar’s child for certain, and I would have loved them both.

  I barely breathed.

  “When did she die?” I asked.

  “About five weeks ago.”

  “Where is she buried?”

  “She’s not.”

  I froze, knowing the meaning of her words.

  Sigrid’s eyes pleaded with Crispus. “It’s all right, Sigrid, tell him.”

  She drew a deep breath and then exhaled. “He threw her body into the river.”

  “The witch’s story!” I gasped. “Kyar’s the one in the witch’s tale! Her soul will wander forever in this accursed land. She’ll have no peace.”

  Crispus hushed Sigrid before she asked what I meant.

  I saw a vision of Kyar’s battered, bloated body, floating downstream or snagged beneath a submerged rock and fed on by the fish. I wanted to yell, but dared not because we were too close to Rix’s encampment. Instead, I turned and leaned against a spindly tree. My body shook, eyes burned and welled with tears. “Now, I’ll gut him for sure,” I swore through bitter tears streaming down my face. “Kyar, what has he done to you?” I wept. A roar swirled between my ears like surf pounding the seashore. My head spun, and I grabbed the tree to keep from falling. Flashes of Kyar’s soft face and small turned-up nose rushed across my mind. I could almost feel my hand running through her long, sweet hair after our love making.

  Then I felt Sigrid slip to my side, touch my arm, and share my sorrow.

  “Easy, man,” Crispus said, “we’ll take care of that fucking pimp.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, but I turned away.

  “Come on, Marcellus, I know how you feel, believe me, but now, we must leave. Sigrid will be in great danger if she doesn’t return to Rix’s camp.”

  I was silent. Sigrid stepped back to Crispus’s side.

  “Rix will kill her if he learns that she’s seen us. Get your wits together. You’ll have to save your grief for later, when you’re alone.”

  Slowly, I straightened up and wiped my eyes in the darkness. “You’re right, I don’t want Sigrid killed.”

  Sigrid nodded. “Kyar was my friend. She loved you very much, and you had to know the truth.”

  Sigrid kissed Crispus, who held her briefly about the waist, and turned to leave.

  “By the way,” Sigrid said, “I have the buckle.”

  A chill went down my back. “What?” The pain of Kyar’s death had erased all thought of the buckle from my mind. “How did you get it?”

  “I will tell you when I bring it to you, later. I must go before Rix misses me.”

  “But where is it?” I asked.

  “It’s in Kyar’s hiding place.” Sigrid paused and her eyes met mine. “Kyar called for you before she—I can’t!” She hiked away as fast as her plump body would carry her toward the poorly lit camp.

  In falling rain, Crispus and I returned to the Legion camp in silence. Jumbled thoughts of Kyar rattled around in my head. Images of her ivory face, her lithe body, clothed and unclothed, our love making shot through my brain like racing chariots in the Great Circus, impossible to control, to slow down. A part of me died with Kyar, a wound from which my soul could never heal. Sounds of jagged clasps of thunder pounded my head, flashes of lightning hurled through my mind in which I glimpsed Kyar’s ghostly image, the gray pallor of death. Her hand reached toward me. Then she was gone.

  I shook my head as if that could remove the images and blasting sounds from my skull. Had our love been too intense? Deep inside I must have feared losing her. Is that why I risked paying Rix most of the outrageous price for her in advance? Now, she was gone. Most people viewed her as merely a slave, a piece of property, but she had been a live human being, and I loved her.

  Never again would Rix murder anyone. I began plans for revenge.

  Chapter 19

  Back in our quarters, after stabling Argento, I dropped my saddle at the foot of the makeshift bed pallet. The tented barracks reeked of rancid saddle leather mixed with the sweet-sour odor of lathered horses.

  Crispus produced a small earthen jug hidden beneath his bedding. “Have a drink,” he said in a lighter mood. “You need it, and so do I.”

  “Aye, that’s the truth.”

  I pulled a bronze cup from my saddlebag and sat down at the crude, wooden table. Crispus splashed it full of his favorite rotgut. Then he filled his a little fuller than mine. I gulped down the acidic-tasting stuff, barely noticing as it burned a passage down my throat.

  Crispus refilled my cup. Initially, I refused his undiluted swill. I needed a clear head for planning my revenge. He said the wine would relax and allow me to think better.

  “No, it won’t,” I said. “I—”

  “What are comrades for? Would I bridle you wrong? And this stuff is diluted—tastes rotten, that’s all.”

  The first cup had eased the tension. Another drink wouldn’t matter. “All right, but only one more.”

  “Naturally. After all, you’ve got to think how you’re going to deal with that fucking Gaul.”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll tell Budar about Kyar’s death. He’ll know what to do. I don’t feel like facing him tonight, knowing what he’ll say.” Crispus poured a third cup, which I drank rapidly.

  I continued rambling about Budar and my plans to avenge Kyar, and Crispus kept pouring refills until I quit counting. The wine broke down the will restraining my tears and caused me to look away, burying my head in my arms on the table. Before long, I passed out.

  *

  Reveille sounded too soon. The cornus’s brassy sound shot through my head like a thunder clap, bouncing from side to side. Sprawled on top of my pallet, I barely moved. My head felt like a roaring avalanche pounding the inside of my skull. Thank the gods those accursed trumpets only blew in the morning and for taps. Painfully getting to my feet, I staggered outside and headed for the latrine, oblivious to morning camp activity. Centurions shouted orders, legionaries marched along the path heading out to relieve the night watch on sentry duty. Others with axes in hand headed outside to the nearby forest to cut wood to shore up the stockade’s defenses. Smoke from cooking fires drifted upward, disappearing in the gray morning sky.

  Before I had gone too far, Crispus approached. “Thanks friend,” I grumbled, “just what I needed, a drunk.”

  Crispus looked about. “I had a reason, Marcellus. I can’t explain here, I’ll tell you later.”

  “Now, dammit!” I winced. “Gods, my head!”

  A soldier snickered as he walked by.

  “All right, let’s go to the stable. No one ought to be around yet.”

  Being close to feeding time, Argento was happy to see me. His soft mouth slimed my shoulder, staining my tunic. I grabbed a wooden pitchfork and threw him some fodder as Crispus and I conversed.

  “Kyar is with the gods of her people,” Crispus said in a low voice, “her soul is at peace.”

  “There’s only one way that could happen,” I said quietly, praying my throbbing headache would go away.

  “The pimp is dead.”

  I dropped the pitchfork, a thud erupted as it hit the dirt floor. The only other sound in the stall came from Argento munching his hay. “How?”

  “Budar.”

  “Why? Revenge was mine, not his.”

  “We didn’t want you involved.”

  “What do you mean, we?” I eyed him suspiciously.

  Crispus tapped his chest. “Me, Budar, Obulco, and the Germans—they helped, too.”

  “What is this, a conspiracy?” Argento raised his head as if on cue. His bulbous hickory eyes seemed to be studying me as strands of hay hung from the si
de of his mouth. Then he returned to his feed.

  He stiffened and shook his head. “No friend. We saved your arse. In your state of mind, you would’ve left a trail wide enough for the whole legion to follow. Gallus would love to charge you with murder.”

  “What about you?”

  He glanced around the stable. “Don’t fret, we cloaked ourselves. Whether you know it or not, the entire squadron respects you.”

  I shrugged.

  “No matter,” Crispus continued, “Obulco gladly volunteered when I told him what I had in mind. Others would have, too, but I figured the fewer who knew about the plan, the better.” He paused. “Everybody hated Rix. No one will miss his thieving carcass, except Gallus, and he’ll investigate. So we made certain none of us were seen.”

  “What makes you think Gallus won’t accuse me of being involved? Knowing him, he’ll find a way.”

  “He won’t,” Crispus answered with a wink. “Kimon stayed with you most of the night. He’ll truthfully answer you didn’t go anywhere.”

  “I never saw him.” I placed a hand to my still-throbbing head and rubbed my temple. A waste of time. I lowered my hand.

  “He came in about the time you passed out. After helping me tuck you safely in your bunk, he kept an eye on you until I returned.”

  “How did you kill Rix?”

  Crispus grabbed the hilt of the dagger strapped to the side of his waist. “We kidnapped him late last night.”

  My friend explained that he and the rest of the conspirators slipped over to Rix’s wagon sometime after midnight. He and Obulco left camp by the south gate where the Asturians stood sentry duty. Earlier he learned the password, so they could return safely. Crispus bribed the Northerners not to report their movements. When the guards asked where he was going, he said to visit Mattan’s women. They chuckled and waved him through the gate.

  “Obulco and I joined Budar and the Germans at his quarters,” Crispus related. “We rode to Rix’s camp keeping downwind from the horses and mules.”

  He went on. They had approached the Gaul’s quarters and dismounted, muffled the hooves of their horses with soft deer skins, and silently crept the remaining distance. No one was around. Budar posted two Germans at the entrance to guard against any surprise. Without making a sound, the rest entered.