Deva Tales

by S. J. A. Turney

  His centurion was staring at him, and Fronto tried to express through just his eyes the true desperation of the situation. Ocratius suddenly fell back and started to shake. Casting silent thanks to both Fortuna and the light-bringer, Fronto rose, leaving the bloodied body shaking.

  ‘What’d you do that for?’ the legionary behind him grumbled.

  Fronto glared at the speaker. ‘You’re new, lad. When you’ve fought a few battles, you learn not to piss about. Kill and move on.’

  Wiping his pugio on his tunic, Fronto shot a warning look down at Ocratius before stepping back and sheathing it again.

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed the young centurion from the gate, as he indicated Fronto. ‘Drag him into the storage area and then come back out. There’s much to do.’

  The rest of the group moved to the entrance and Fronto was left alone in the darkened corridor. ‘Sorry sir,’ he apologised to Ocratius. ‘Looks like the gods were with you, though, else I might not have been.’ Muttering something unpleasant about his Heliodromus and the lunatic priests who endlessly spouted doom, Fronto dragged the centurion into the pitch black of the small nook in the passageway where he would not be spotted by anyone passing along the corridor, and lowered him carefully.

  ‘You’ll recover, sir. Those’ll crust over within the hour. You might be a bit weak, but you’ll live. Jupiter watch over you.’ He realised that the officer had already succumbed to his beating and was unconscious and, rising, he huffed and then scurried back out along the corridor.

  How could today get worse?

  * * *

  The young centurion had been an odd mix of excited and nervous about their attack, and his mood had carried to the rest. As time wore on, the officer had begun to ruminate on moving the body and disposing of it. Fronto had kept his voice calm and explained quietly that it would be extremely unwise to go back near the body. The day’s games would soon end and the notables of the legion would come back through that tunnel. What would the future hold for an ambitious young centurion if he was found carrying the body of one of his seniors?

  That had shut the lad up.

  A further note that it was daylight and carrying a centurion’s body through town might not be the subtlest of moves had further stilled his tongue. Fronto had told the officer that he and a friend would return for the body after dark and dispose of it in the deep, sucking river mud. That seemed to satisfy and bought both time for him time and life for Ocratius.

  Another half hour passed and the tribune emerged from the tunnel, despite the clear indication by the noise back inside that the main event was still going on. While the rest of them stayed respectfully back, the tribune beckoned to the young centurion and the pair shared quick, quiet words. Longus had nodded and glanced over at Fronto – a clear sign that the tale of Ocratius’ death was being told, and indications, moreover, that the news sat well with the tribune. As the two officers returned to the group, Longus nodded at him.

  ‘I don’t anticipate any further trouble here now, gentlemen. Centurion Cicatricula will take you all on to your next assignment. Fronto? I’m returning to my house. I have preparations to make, for the procurator will be dropping in once the games are over, and I would like you to escort him to my house and then take a position guarding the door.’

  Fronto saluted. The procurator? What was going on here? As the rest of them moved off, Fronto turned and hurried around the curved outer wall of the amphitheatre to the far side and the tunnel that led to the procurator’s seat. He narrowed his eyes when a cloaked figure emerged from it as he approached and then strode off in the other direction. Briefly he considered running after the figure, but the crowd was still roaring at the games, the figure had not run suspiciously, and Fronto was already irritated at the world today. Probably a servant of the procurator sent out to acquire something.

  This day was full of mysteries, and he wasn’t sure he liked any of them, even the small ones.

  With a deep breath, he waited outside the entrance, listening to what seemed to be a huge crescendo to the main event. Then, as announcements were made and the closing proceedings begun, the sound of footsteps echoed from the corridor. There was some sort of brief argument and shouting from the tunnel, and then, as Fronto stood at attention, a squat, toad-like man in a toga emerged, blinking into the light, his face ashen. His cronies were with him, as well as a bunch of hairy German mercenaries.’

  ‘Was that you?’ the man hissed.

  Fronto allowed incomprehension to command his expression.

  ‘The two gladiators?’ the man breathed. ‘The bodies?’

  ‘Domine?’

  The procurator, apparently rather shaken, but clearly accepting Fronto’s perplexity for genuine, shuddered. ‘Too many surprises today, I think. Longus sent you?’

  Fronto nodded. ‘I am to escort you to the tribune’s house, Domine.’

  The procurator looked him up and down. ‘A veteran. Good.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Alheric, you come with us. The rest of you go back to the mansio. Tonight and tomorrow will be very busy.’

  As his entourage moved off, the procurator indicated the four burly slaves who attended a litter waiting across the open ground towards the river.

  ‘A two-man litter, legionary. Alheric will walk. Will you ride?’

  The legionary tried not to let his true feelings on such softness show, and simply nodded, gesturing for the official to go ahead. A moment later they reached the sumptuous litter and the procurator entered, the four slaves standing ready to lift the carrying poles. As he waited for the procurator to get himself settled, Fronto took the opportunity to size up the mercenary accompanying them. He looked big and mean, and certainly had the muscles and the craggy forehead. But his sword sheath was slightly dishevelled and the leather torn. The hilt was pristine, with little sign of wear on the grip. The man did not look after his weapons and rarely wielded the sword. Like so many mercenary guards for hire, he was pure show and little real talent. Fronto had no doubt of the outcome if it came to a fight.

  Somehow, he had a feeling it might do.

  The procurator gestured for him to enter, and began to chatter inanely about the local economy.

  Something was dreadfully wrong with all of this. Had it not been the Pater’s wishes, Fronto would by now have dipped out of helping the dubious senior tribune in his clandestine duties. What bond between Longus and the procurator could be so strong as to tie the two men and bypass legate Viator?

  As he climbed in and the whole vehicle was lifted shakily to the slaves’ shoulders, he listened to the uninteresting blather of the official, though his thoughts were racing ahead now, making unexpected connections. Procurator Severus and Tribune Longus were long acquainted. He remembered hearing talk among the cult initiates that Longus had gained his commission through his association with the procurator. And that acquaintance had been born when they were both serving in the retinue of Procurator Norbanus, lately of Raetia, the shitbag that had been responsible for stamping on the revolt of Governor Saturninus.

  It was bad form to speak publically in support of the failed rebel but Fronto, like so many others, privately mourned the man’s loss. Only four months ago, the emperor’s increasing paranoia and cruel tendencies had led the governor of Germania to announce that it was time for Domitian to be removed. No career-minded officer or soldier would voice such thoughts, yet the victorious general, after the revolt had been put down, had burned Saturninus’ correspondence to protect other conspirators, of which it was said there were many.

  Another connection fired in his mind, and Fronto blinked. The waffling procurator had just in passing mentioned Lucullus, the governor of Britannia. Lucullus had reputedly been Saturninus’ man before the revolt – it was said that his name was one that the burned documents had protected. And Legate Viator was Lucullus’ man for sure. A whole spider web of connections suddenly filled his mind’s eye. And the spiders in it polarised to two sides. Norbanus of Raetia, with procurator Severus a
nd Tribune Longus, on the one side, and the sadly-demised Saturninus with Lucullus and Viator on the other. And each was accompanied by numerous other pieces on the game board. Hungry young centurions and junior officers, who were currently unchecked, in Deva surrounded the procurator and his allies. The veterans among the twentieth surrounded Viator and the governor… No. Not surrounded them. Definitively not surrounding them, for almost all of them were currently absent, posted away by the damn tribune!

  The procurator had said that tonight and tomorrow would be busy. And what had Longus said yesterday? If the day goes as planned, I may have other, more important duties for you later…

  Whatever they had planned involved all of them, and support for Viator would be alarmingly low. He had a gut feeling that Longus’ corruption ran far deeper than betraying his cultic brotherhood. Had he even planned to betray the eagle? And all for the procurator?

  The procurator would be ambitious. Any friend of Norbanus’ would be.

  Deva was sinking under the weight of a conspiracy, it seemed…

  He was trying to figure out what the procurator stood to gain as he realised they had already passed through the fort gate and were closing on Longus’ house. Something nagged at the back of his mind, and he suddenly held up his hand, surprising the procurator – who had been yapping incessantly – into silence.

  ‘What did you just say, Domine?’

  Severus frowned. ‘That the people would have to accept the new tax strictures and live with it.’

  The tax notices he’d seen by the amphitheatre, reading them while they waited this morning… He’d thought at the time that they were unrealistically harsh. His mind ran back over the last few days. There had been a dull undercurrent of dissatisfaction around the civilian settlement. Nothing specific, but definitely something in the air, almost tangible.

  And that was among the well-off folk in town. How would the peasant workers in the countryside be reacting to the news? The answer to that was all too obvious. Only Lucullus might have enough authority to overturn the proclamations, and even that was dubious; and anyway, Lucullus was away in the north. Viator might just have the balls to try anyway, and he would certainly have the guts to stamp down on any troubles while he dealt with the larger issue.

  But without the veterans present, and with Longus seemingly largely in control of the military of Deva, Viator would be impotent. Fronto felt as though he were standing on the wooden cover of a deep mine shaft and with every realisation, people were slowly removing the pegs holding it up. The Pater had been damn right when he talked about trouble in the wind. More even than that, those bloody irritating lunatic doom-sayers may just have been right with their predictions, too.

  The litter stopped and was lowered gently to the ground, rocking as it did so. The procurator was helped out by the slaves, and Fronto clambered out gracelessly afterwards.

  He tried to keep his face blank as he approached the tribune’s door. Quickly, he rapped on it and waited as the procurator continued to rattle on about taxes. Nothing. His pulse racing, Fronto rapped again and paused. Still nothing. He shot a slightly nervous glance at the procurator, but the man was in the middle of some story about a stylus-pusher back in Camulodunum, and was paying no attention. The German seemed equally clueless, his eyes empty of thought as he stared into the middle distance. Fronto, however, knew that something was wrong. Why so silent? Longus was expecting them, after all…

  Gingerly, he reached down and tried the door, which proved to be unlocked. It swung inwards and the room within was poorly lit and made all the darker for him by the bright square of the doorway to the courtyard beyond. Taking a deep breath, the legionary stepped inside. He had meant to tell the procurator to wait, but the man, busy mid-anecdote, had automatically followed with his German bringing up the rear.

  Fronto stopped dead, the colour draining from his face.

  A tableau from nightmare came into view as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  Four men he knew well occupied the room, off to the left, away from the door. Centurion Ocratius was still blood-coated, but looking otherwise reasonably hale. Valerius looked like a blood-spattered thug, with a wooden club in his hand. But Celer… Celer was drenched in crimson and brandishing what appeared to be gladiator weapons. Tribune Longus – or what had recently been Tribune Longus – lay on the room’s central table, deathly white and in a pool of sticky red. The room was in disarray. The three men had clearly been searching the place.

  ‘What… the… fuck…?’

  The three men recognised Fronto, and Valerius and Celer moved to intercept him, but Ocratius held them back with a raised arm and a commanding glance. ‘He’s with us.’

  ‘I am, sir? I think I’d remember that!’ he snapped, pointing at the body on the table.

  ‘Fronto!’ yelled Valerius, pointing past him.

  Fronto ducked instinctively to the side, away from whatever Valerius had pointed at, and was rewarded by the sight of the German, overextended and falling forwards. He threw out his hand and slammed the front door shut before taking two steps forward and pushing the stumbling German over the table and its grisly burden, where the bodyguard fell at the feet of Celer, who gave him an evil look, all white teeth and eyes in a blood-slick of a face. The German didn’t rise to fight, instead cowering on the floor.

  ‘Ah, shit,’ Fronto grumbled, and reached out to grab the procurator, who was already making for the door. ‘Looks like we’ve got trouble, then.’

  ‘Not really,’ Valerius said. ‘I think we’ve removed the trouble.’ He pointed at Longus’ body.

  ‘Hardly, Lucius,’ Fronto sighed. ‘That oily sod’s got the whole bloody legion lined up to support him. They’re prepared for something tonight, and I’ll wager they’re already in position, so I don’t think Longus being absent will stop it. There’s hardly a friendly face out there today!’

  Ocratius glared at the procurator. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘I’ll fill you in as soon as we’re safe, sir,’ Fronto murmured.

  ‘If the list I have is anything to go by, that’s not likely. Everyone, even down to the watch officers and musicians are part of this,’ Ocratius grunted.

  ‘We need to get to Viator, then,’ Celer put in. ‘To warn him.’

  Valerius turned to his companion. ‘If Fronto’s in the right of it, sir, then we can be certain that the legate’s already beyond our reach. If Longus was planning to take control tonight and everything’s in place, then we’ll find an army of young ‘uns between us and him.’

  Slowly, the centurion nodded. ‘You’re right. We’ll just have to hope that they planned to keep Viator under lock and key until he could be removed from command officially. I doubt Longus would have planned to do away with him – that sort of thing doesn’t sit well with the imperial government. Besides, with the emperor’s current… state… all it would take is a suggestion of wrongdoing or incompetence and the legate’s head would be on a spike in the blink of an eye. No, Longus was too subtle for straightforward murder. Viator will be safe for now, if powerless. What we need to do is get this piece of shit somewhere safe,’ he noted, pointing at the procurator.

  ‘Easier said than done, sir,’ Celer put in. ‘If the whole fortress is already in Longus’ coin-purse.’

  There was a panicked squeak from behind, and Fronto turned to look at the procurator. The man was terrified, and the faint smell of urine was rising from him, his face resembling a tragic theatre mask…

  A mask.

  A steel facemask.

  Fronto grinned.

  ‘Once the night watch starts, I think I know a way out of Deva, sir.’

  * * *

  Fronto shoved the procurator forwards, eyeing Celer and Valerius as he did so. The latter was weighed down with a heavy satchel that shushed with the noise of many coins as it moved, and the former was still grim faced, having quickly dispatched the German guard and left him alongside the white, bloodless husk of the tribune.

/>   The sun had barely set, the sky the same inky purple as it had been before dawn, and Deva was oddly quiet. Despite that, the journey through the fortress had been nerve-wracking, even led by Valerius through the back door and along the narrow alleys between buildings down to the west gate, where Fronto believed their safe passage to be.

  The inclusion of another civilian – Ocratius had insisted that they stop at the next house and collect the camp prefect and his woman, though he had stamped on Valerius’ request to collect his favourite Judean whore – had worried him, but despite that and the franticly panicking procurator, who was tied, restrained and gagged and yet still thrashed and moaned, they reached the gate in short order.

  Fronto paused for a moment and looked out across the road that ran around the inside of the fortress walls. Sure enough, there he was. Standing atop the gate: a figure in gleaming segmented armour, his helm displaying a white transverse crest… the centurion of the Seventh Century, First Cohort. The watch centurion for the night. One of the few men to have stayed on from the Second when they left, reassigned to the Twentieth, and a man with whom Fronto was vaguely acquainted. Strike that, he thought as the man turned to him, not just acquainted. For Fronto could remember the time he had been sent with a message for the man. The steel face-mask that had hung on the centurion’s wall had not drawn his attention then. It had been common among the second, after all. But why keep the mask polished and to hand, when he never wore it in uniform?

  Because it was not when he was in uniform that he wore it…

  The centurion – the Pater – responded to his crow-call and peered down from the wall top. He turned and issued a steady stream of orders to the men at the gate. There was a brief confab and then the heavy timber doors slowly creaked open.

  ‘It’s always who you know, eh?’ Valerius grinned.