by Paul Doherty
All three refused to meet her gaze.
'Ah well.' Stathylus rubbed a hand across his face. 'I'll tell you.' He filled his wine goblet, gulped greedily from it and slammed it back on the table.
'In the winter of our ninth year of service, eighteen years ago last July, the Fretenses, an ala of cavalry attached to the Second Legion Augusta, were guarding a mile fort along the Great Wall. There were only twelve or fifteen of us, under our officer, Postulus, a Gaul from Lyon. We were skilled fighters, a crack mounted force, but we were virtually leaderless. Civil war raged in Britain.' Stathylus raised a hand. 'This pretender, that pretender. The wall was stripped of men, — cohorts and units greatly reduced. At one mile fort there were only three men left; we were the lucky ones. Now we learned that a Pictish war band was on the move, heading south to probe our weakness. Postulus? Well,' Stathylus shrugged, 'he liked to drink…'
'So you were left in charge.'
'Yes.' Stathylus nodded. 'I hate Picts, I always have, cruel bastards, sly and treacherous. By then Postulus was totally inebriated. Anyway, I was in charge, and I thought of a plan. We rode out searching for that band and killed a few.'
'To provoke the blood feud?' Murranus asked. 'To draw them further south? I've heard of that being done.'
'Precisely/ Stathylus agreed. 'Once we had their attention, we retreated back to our mile fort. The Picts followed us south and launched an attack; it failed. Shortly afterwards Postulus died from his drinking.' He grinned sourly. 'In official dispatches, he was classed as killed in action, but that was simply to honour his name. We didn't have time to dress his corpse so we left it there, abandoning the mile fort.'
Stathylus paused to drink; his two companions had turned slightly away from Claudia as if they didn't want her to study their faces. She was sure a lie was being told, just by their posture. Stathylus, more absorbed with his wine, was now back in time at that lonely fort along the Great Wall.
'We left the beacon burning; we even left the pay chest in the cellar. We'd also secured the northern door so it couldn't be opened from the inside. We then pretended to retreat through the southern gate of the fort. The land beyond dropped. At night we sheltered around a fire in the lea of a hill and waited. The Picts found the fort deserted except for the pay chest and jars of posca.' Stathylus shrugged. 'You know what that's like, horse piss and just as strong. They drank and, being hungry for more booty, poured out of the southern gate. I thought they would. We waited until they were out in the open, disorganised and separated, then we charged. The weather had been dry, so we fired the bracken. We could see them clearly and rode them down. There was only one way for the Picts to retreat and that was back through the fort. They did that, hoping to escape through the northern gate, but we'd locked it fast.' He spread his hands. 'We cut many of them down and pinned the rest, together with their leader, within the fort.'
'It was so easy' Secundus spoke up quickly. 'We were mounted archers, there was no escape.'
'No prisoners?' Claudia asked. She stared at them curiously. Their answers were so quick, they reminded her of actors delivering well-rehearsed lines, words tripping off the tongue, though to be fair, this must have been a story told time and time again. 'No prisoners at all?' she repeated.
'That's what war along the frontier was like.' Stathylus got to his feet. 'Life for life and a fight to the death.' He scratched his stomach. 'I've drunk a lot,' he muttered. 'I've got to go out for a while.' He stumbled to the door.
Secundus whispered something about getting extra food and left, stomping down the stairs. Claudia turned to Murranus and winked. Crispus seemed to be absorbed, busy tying a thong on his sandal; she raised a finger to her lips for Murranus to remain silent. Crispus was definitely uncomfortable. He straightened up, playing with the wine cup on the table, then began to hum a tune beneath his breath. He kept looking longingly at the door. Eventually the silence proved too much, and he flung a hand out.
'You don't believe us, do you?'
'I do believe you,' Claudia conceded. 'I think you are telling the truth, but not all of it. Something happened along that wall, something that has come back to haunt you all, but why now, eighteen years later?'
She studied Crispus carefully. He was younger than the rest, and she noticed the small bead of sweat running down from beneath his close-cropped hair.
'What are you frightened of, Crispus?'
'The past,' he mumbled, and stared up at the smoke-blackened ceiling. 'Always the past! You don't know what it was like out there, desolate, empty, nothing but the grass bending under the wind, the lonely call of birds, the cry of animals at night and, when the civil war raged in the south, the wall being stripped. We had this nightmare, or at least I did, that the Picts would stream across the wall and surround us, cut us off, take us prisoner. If we fell into their hands…' He stared at them and blinked. 'If you fell into the hands of the Picts, they'd take weeks over killing you. I've seen their work: men nailed to trees, prisoners slowly tortured…' He wetted his lips, turning his head as if straining for a sound, then muttered something.
'What was that?' Murranus asked. He got to his feet, went closer to the veteran and sat down. 'What is it, Crispus? I have not been a soldier but I know what it's like to fight, to be wounded. What is it you're hiding?'
Crispus opened his mouth to reply but shut it when he heard a sound on the stairs.
'You can't answer, can you?' Claudia asked.
Crispus closed his eyes and shook his head.
'I daren't,' he whispered. 'It had nothing to do with me.'
'You were at General Aurelian's party,' Claudia continued. 'What happened?'
Crispus, relieved at the change in questioning, shrugged and swallowed hard.
'You know the General, or perhaps you don't,' he replied. 'Generous, a great man, a good leader, he looked after his troops. Well, over the years he invited all those who'd served with him to a banquet in his garden. They were marvellous occasions, beautiful lanterns hanging from the trees, serving girls, ladies of the night, musicians, actors, tumblers. This year it was our turn. None of us wanted to miss such an exciting evening. We gathered just before dusk and the celebrations went on well into the next day. The General is a hospitable man; those who wanted to could sleep in the gardens, and when they woke up to quench their thirst, there was more food and wine.'
'Did you see anyone,' Claudia persisted, 'or anything which reminded you of the past?'
Crispus closed his eyes, thinking hard.
'Anything at all,' Murranus insisted. 'Anything untoward.'
Crispus opened his eyes. 'I swear,' he pointed to the Lares on the table, 'I swear by that. I saw nothing, I heard nothing.'
'And the rest?' Murranus asked. 'Stathylus, Lucius, Petilius, Secundus?'
'Petilius may have.' Crispus paused to recollect his thoughts. Tm not too sure what he wanted to see General Aurelian about. We presumed it was something that happened at the party, because it was only after he saw him that he began his petitioning. It could have been something else. As for the rest of us,' he shook his head, 'nothing untoward was noticed, nothing at all.'
'Nothing what?'
Claudia looked round. Secundus, a platter of bread and cheese in one hand, his other resting against the doorpost, was staring threateningly across.
'What's going on here?' Secundus strolled across and slammed the platter down on to the table. 'If you've got any questions, wait for our officer to return.'
Murranus got to his feet and squared up to him.
'Do you want to die, Secundus?' he asked quietly. The veteran blinked. 'Do you want to die?' Murranus pushed his face closer. 'Because I'll tell you this, someone in Rome is killing former members of your cavalry troop. Your friends are dying in a barbaric way. How do you know you won't be next? I don't think we've been told the truth.' He gestured at Claudia. 'She is the Empress' representative. If you want, we will invite you back to the palace and we can continue our conversation there.'
&nbs
p; 'We've done nothing wrong!' Secundus blustered. 'You can't arrest us.'
Murranus seized the man's face between his hands. Secundus had the sense not to resist. 'Listen, you fool,' Murranus whispered hoarsely, 'we are not arresting you, only trying to protect you.'
'Where's Stathylus?' Crispus half rose. 'I thought he'd gone out to relieve himself. He should be back by now.'
Murranus took away his hands. Secundus walked to the table, drew the dagger from his waistband, cut himself a piece of bread and cheese and started chewing noisily. Claudia was about to return to her questioning when she heard a cry from below. She hurried to the door and stared down the wooden stairs. The tavern-keeper stood listening to a grimy-faced maid who was hysterically pointing to the half-open door. Claudia hastened down, followed by Murranus and the rest. The girl, gibbering with fright, led them out of the tavern and down to a small alleyway, a needle-thin passageway running between the houses. The tavern-keeper carried a lantern. At first Claudia thought the girl was pointing to a bundle of rubbish, old clothes — until the tavern-keeper placed the lantern on the ground. The light within strengthened, and the tavern-keeper swung away, one hand to his mouth.
Claudia slowly approached. She lifted the lantern and peered down. Stathylus lay wedged almost in the corner of the wall and the dirty rutted trackway, head tilted, his throat like a bloody gaping mouth, a terrible gash along his belly, his right hand thrown back holding what looked liked a piece of severed bloody meat. Claudia felt her gorge rise and hastily retreated. She leaned against the wall trying to control her stomach, half listening to the others' exclamations, the girl still whimpering, the tavern-keeper retching.
It was Murranus who imposed order. He returned to the tavern and came back carrying a large piece of sacking, shouting at Secundus and Crispus to help. Stathylus was lifted on to the piece of sacking, which was wrapped tightly about him, and taken across the tavern yard to an outhouse, where he was placed on an old trestle table. Lamps were brought. Claudia went out with the rest to study the corpse, but it was too much, the look of terror on Stathylus' face, those awful wounds to the throat and the belly, the great bloody mess between his legs. She could take no more and, hand to her mouth, hastened back to the tavern and its upper room. She sat for a while shivering. The lights before the Lares were now burning low; one was guttering. She stared at that bronze statue, the sinister helmeted figure, cloak billowing around the rearing horse.
'Now,' she muttered to herself, 'now they'll believe me.'
Chapter 4
Hoc volo, sic iubeo: sit pro ratione voluntas.
I will do this deed, so I order it done. Let my will stand for my reason.
Juvenal, Satires
Claudia hastily refilled her goblet of wine and drank it a little faster than she'd intended, half listening to the sounds from downstairs. She peered at the statue and recalled Murranus' question at the Temple of Hathor. If the truth be known, she believed in no religion. She could accept there might be a God, but all this bloodshed and horrid death, the sheer cheapness and brutality of life, how could Presbyter Sylvester explain all that? Noises on the stairs alerted her. Murranus, Secundus and Crispus came into the chamber, followed by the tavern-keeper bringing what he said was his best wine, along with four clean cups. He put the tray down and hastily retreated. Murranus filled the cups and raised his in the direction of the Lares.
'May his God look after him,' he toasted. 'May Stathylus be brought to a place of light. He deserved a better death.' He drank and refilled his goblet.
Claudia stared at the two veterans, men who had now had the fight knocked out of them. They seemed to have aged in such a short while; their unshaven faces had paled, cheeks almost sunken, their eyes held the haunted look of beaten slaves.
'So quickly!' Crispus murmured. 'He went out for a piss, that's all he did!'
Claudia, her stomach now settled, told Murranus and the others to wait and went downstairs. The tavern-keeper gave her his lantern and she returned to the alleyway and the place where Stathylus had died. She placed the lantern on the ground and searched carefully, gingerly picking her way around the congealing blood. She stared down the alleyway and glimpsed pinpricks of light beyond. In the end she could find nothing, so, picking up the lantern, she returned to the tavern, washed her hands in a vat of water just beneath the stairs and went up to join the rest. Crispus and Secundus were now drinking as if facing their own deaths.
'How could it happen?' she asked. 'Crispus, you're a soldier, a veteran, — whoever killed Stathylus must have got very close and taken him by surprise. Another man, a boy?'
Crispus shook his head. 'Who then?' Claudia asked. 'A woman?' 'Of course,' Secundus slurred. 'Stathylus is like the rest of us. Our wives are dead, or back in Britain; any woman who offers herself would be taken. Stathylus had been drinking, he wouldn't remember, he wouldn't realise the danger until it was too late.'
Claudia leaned against the table, staring down at the food and wine stains. She tried to visualise what had happened. Stathylus had staggered out of the tavern wishing to relieve himself; he'd gone up that alleyway. Someone had known he'd be here tonight. Someone was waiting. It didn't matter who came out; in the eyes of their killer, the fate of these veterans was already sealed. Stathylus was an old soldier, a man who lived by himself, apparently; with a belly full of wine, he wouldn't realise the danger. Some pretty whore comes tripping along, drawing close; she stabs him with a quick thrust to the stomach. The shock alone would paralyse Stathylus, then the rest. Claudia lifted her head.
'Are you going to tell us,' she asked, 'what you have omitted, something very important, from your story? If you want to live, you'll have to tell us, and tell us now.'
Secundus tried to stop him but Crispus, wide-eyed with fear, struck away his companion's warning hand. 'I'll tell you,' he declared. 'Stathylus' story was true, but there was a great deal missed out. We were on the wall under Postulus. No, no, shut up, Secundus, do you want to die like a pig in an alleyway?'
Secundus let his hands fall away and sat, head down.
'As I said,' Crispus' voice grew strong, his tone bitter, 'in the beginning it was a good life. Postulus was a fine officer; he liked his wine but he cared for us. Then we were dispatched to that mile fort. I hated it! A haunted place! The skies seemed to press down on you, and either side of the wall there was really nothing but gorse, bramble and long grass. There was fighting in the south between the different pretenders, units were leaving, but we decided to stay, it was safer. Anyway, there was bad blood between Postulus and Stathylus, they hated each other. Postulus was of the old school, a little bit of a snob; he thought he should be in charge of more men but, of course, cohorts, units, even legions had been drastically reduced. Nevertheless, he was competent enough, and he made sure we were paid, fed and well protected. We heard rumours of Pictish war bands prowling in the area so we decided to go out and reconnoitre. With Postulus there must have been,' he pulled a face, 'about fifteen or sixteen of us. Our horses were good, we were well armed and provisioned. Postulus led us out. We almost stumbled on that war band, they were sheltering in the hollow of a hill. Perhaps they thought that, because of the confusion along the wall, they were safe. We attacked at night, riding into their camp, slaughtering to the left and to the right. There were more of them than we thought, so Postulus decided to call it a day, but we had two captives: a young man — we cut his throat; he was so badly wounded Postulus said we couldn't take care of him.'
'And the other prisoner?' Claudia asked.
'You'll never believe us.' Crispus stared directly at her. 'The Picts are small, dark and wiry. They had allies to the north, the Caledonii, and, across the seas to the west, the Scoti. Some of these are extremely fair-haired. To cut a long story short, the Pictish chieftain had a woman, a young wench, perhaps no more than sixteen or seventeen summers old. She was cloaked and hooded but when we returned to the fort we discovered she was a great beauty. One of our number knew the Pictish tongue
, or at least a few words. We tried to make sense of what she said. She was very frightened and claimed she was a princess, the Pictish chieftain's new wife, and that he'd be angry and would come looking for her. We asked for her name but all she told us was that she was the Golden Maid — that's what her name meant — and she'd been given to the Pictish chief as a bridal present, to seal an alliance between the tribes.
'Usually when we took women captives they were shared out and then sold in the marketplace, but this was different. Postulus and Stathylus were both deeply smitten. At first the Golden Maid was frightened, but she soon realised there was very little difference between Pict and Roman, we all have our brains where our balls are, so she played one off against the other. At the same time our scouts reported increased activity amongst the Picts. Furious at their loss, they were hurrying south, a war band of between thirty and forty men. They launched one attack upon the fort but we beat them off. An argument broke out between Postulus and Stathylus about what should be done. Postulus was all for handing the girl back and making a peace treaty, buying the Picts off with some silver from the pay chest and a few jars of posca. They'd be content and leave us alone. Stathylus was different. He accused Postulus of treason, of conspiring with the enemy. Postulus became very drunk. I don't know what truly happened, but he retreated to his chamber. Stathylus took over and did a really stupid thing. He sent out a scout to find out exactly what was happening, and the poor bugger never returned. We later discovered the Picts killed him before they came after us. Stathylus knew the mind of the Picts; the Golden Maid was their woman, so if they found out she'd lain with Romans they'd kill her too. Stathylus, well, he was…'