The Emperor's Blood (e-novella)

by M. K. Hume

Conanus dismounted and led his two horses a few paces down the lee side of the hill and tied both animals to a sturdy tree a little off the road, where they could crop at the long summer grass that was within reach. Then, as quietly as he could, he moved to a cluster of tumbled boulders sitting a little distance from the roadway. Here, he could observe the activity in the camp without in turn being observed by prying eyes.

  Within the earthen walls, no higher than six feet but of sufficient size to slow down a determined enemy approach, Conanus’s sharp eyes could make out three large fire pits over which several spits had been constructed. Five full carcasses of beef were being turned by a group of men who were stripped to the waist in the afternoon heat, so their bared skins seemed to glisten in the sun’s golden light.

  The breeze changed momentarily, and permitted the aroma of woodsmoke and roasting meat to travel up the rise towards Conanus. The smell tempted his taste buds, so that his mouth watered from hunger, despite the large meal he had eaten at dawn.

  More cooking pots and large pans were being tended over hot coals and the activity around the cooking feast had attracted a large group of hungry men who, from their actions, seemed to be joking with their comrades as they relaxed after the long ride from the north and the short burst of physical labour required to prepare the rudimentary earthen and log fortifications around the landward side of the bivouac area.

  Conanus sneered a little when he realised that many of the legionnaires had removed their armour and stowed away their weapons so they could be comfortable in the summer heat. However, one group of men kept themselves separate from the common soldiery. Distinguished by their shining armour and disciplined haughtiness, these men clearly displayed themselves as members of the elite Praetorian Guard.

  The entire camp had a relaxed air that could be gleaned from the roasting sides of beef and the slothful legionnaires, men who seemed to be wandering aimlessly about and chatting to each other in the late afternoon sun. Conanus’s experienced mind told him that this force was showing all the signs of indolence and slovenliness, and he was seeing the accumulated effects of a major defeat in battle and poor leadership in the field.

  Meanwhile, the Briton observed small groups of servants who were preparing outdoor tables to carry food, while other menial workers were moving in and out of the purple-edged tent that was obviously the site of a private feast being held for the emperor.

  But there was still no sign of Gratian, except for the eagle standards that he had removed from the battlefield when he abandoned his Roman and Alan warriors to their fate.

  ‘Where are their women?’ Conanus whispered to himself, because he needed the sound of his own voice to give shape to his ideas. Try as he might, his straining eyes could see no female shapes among the servants who wandered to and fro, although a large, much-patched tent in the southern corner of the compound seemed to suggest that personages of importance were housed within it. A number of guards had been positioned around the tent so it was difficult to determine why they were placed there: to keep legionnaires out; or to keep those within under some form of control.

  Eventually, a shrouded form opened the small flap that served as an entry to the tent in question and the figure that emerged spoke to the nearest legionnaire on duty. From this distance, Conanus could make out little detail of the covered form, but its swaying hips as it retreated back into the tent undulated in such a manner that the form could only be female. Then, as some of the servants returned with leather buckets filled with water, he decided that this tent must contain camp followers or the women who had been stolen during the overland trek to this pleasant bivouac.

  Conanus congratulated himself on having discovered the purpose of the tents, just as he noticed a horse-drawn cart that was approaching the bivouac from the south.

  ‘Lugdunum, perhaps?’ he murmured again, as he considered the departure point from where the wagon had been despatched. ‘What the hell is Gratian up to now?’

  The wagon was a primitive vehicle that was obviously used to transport food and produce. Imperfectly built on two wooden wheels that were braced with iron around the rims, the vehicle juddered over every imperfection in the road and left the contents of the cart covered in dust. It was drawn by two massive horses, distinctive for the breadth of their chests and the rounded muscles of their hindquarters. Even from a distance, Conanus could recognise the powerful physiques of beasts bred for the traces of farm carts. In sharp contrast, the wagon was decorated with a gaily coloured canopy that was soiled and frayed at the edges, but brightened its drab appearance in the waning light.

  As a group of the distant legionnaires rushed towards the improvised gate near the southern end of the earthworks, Conanus suddenly began to laugh when the red cloaks of the Praetorian Guard moved quickly to re-establish a semblance of discipline on the idling soldiery. The Briton could make an educated guess at the contents of the bone-shaking wagon.

  ‘I’ll wager that these are more whores from Lugdunum,’ he crowed. ‘Gratian has paused in his ignoble retreat to amuse himself with the sweepings from the gutters of a provincial city. What a pathetic joke!’

  Once the rough wagon had passed through the gates and come to a halt near the women’s tent, some half-dozen vividly adorned women emerged from its depths. Because the wheels were so high, the women were forced to clamber out over the rear wall. Even from a distance of half a mile, Conanus could imagine the flash of white buttocks as several women half fell on to the grassy earth. Finally, the dishevelled group of whores was led off to the assigned tent where they could straighten their clothing and beat the dust of the roadway from their hair and their best peplums.

  It’s almost time to go, Conanus decided. Gratian’s legionnaires will be thinking of nothing but the feast and the new women, so their preoccupation with pleasure could work in our favour, especially if Andragathius has devised some way of breaching those earthworks and insinuating us into Gratian’s camp.

  ‘Fuck’, he swore softly. ‘I hope the crazy bastard isn’t hiding something useless in that wagon he’s hauled along with us.’

  Feeling rather pleased with himself, Conanus mounted his horse and dragged the spare steed in his wake. Now was the time for a speedy return to the column with the intelligence he had gathered. Gratian was displaying an unusual lack of common sense in his security, because no sentries had been positioned on the low hill behind the campsite where the Briton had established his observation post so, with a prayer of thanks to Mercury, the messenger of the gods, Conanus set off at a gallop in order to intercept his commander’s column.

  He met Andragathius’s cavalry as the sun slid down the sky, having left his second horse to fend for itself in a meadow of deep grass beside the road. The waste of a couple of horses was of little account to the Briton when their loss was compared with the importance of the information he was delivering to his commander. Even so, Conanus was surprised at the number of miles that the troop had covered when the column’s red cloaks finally came into view. He could see the thick layer of dust that disguised the cloaks’ distinctive colour, but any observer would still have recognised a Roman hunting party if they had been abroad.

  Fortunately, the road had been empty.

  Conanus mentally compared the troops at Gratian’s camp with the appearance of his own fellows and the Briton felt an immediate thrill of pride. Most of the men who served Gratian had become slovenly and careless under the command of their aristocratic master. ‘But not the Praetorians,’ Conanus grunted grudgingly into the mane of his horse as he lifted his body in the saddle to take his weight off the tired stallion’s spine.

  As the column rode up to him, Conanus slid off to the ground and prepared to be quizzed by his captain.

  ‘Well met, Conanus. Your short absence tells me you’ve found Gratian’s camp.’

  And so, with an admirable economy of words and description, Conanus
gave his master the intelligence he had gleaned from his position at the apex of the low hill. Despite the distance of the bivouac from his observation post, the view of Gratian’s camp had been sufficiently sharp that the Briton could describe Gratian’s defensive positions by using a stick to draw a site plan in the dust beside the roadway.

  Andragathius’s column had come to a halt and the men had dismounted. The relative silence of the cavalrymen revealed their intense excitement at Conanus’s return more powerfully than any irrelevant chatter could have done. As Conanus gave his report, the restive horses whickered and danced as if they, too, were eager to complete the hunt that had consumed their masters over many weary miles.

  Andragathius absorbed Conanus’s scratchings in the dust with carefully calculating eyes, asked some perceptive questions and nodded his approval of the subordinate’s efforts.

  Surprised, Conanus found himself blushing with pleasure at this unusual praise.

  ‘Now, friend, I’d like you to mark the position of the tents and the fire pits,’ Andragathius asked, with a courtesy that was usually foreign to his nature. The commander’s eyes had darkened and his features were gleaming with anticipation as he considered his options in the ruddy twilight.

  The junior officer complied with a flourish.

  ‘Excellent, Conanus, excellent!’ Andragathius breathed softly, and then ordered the entire column to remount and prepare to continue their onward trek. ‘We’ll use your hill as an observation post so I can make the final preparations for our attack.’

  ‘Yes . . . but how?’ Conanus answered, as he hurried after his commander and swung himself into the saddle. He had been bone-weary until a few moments earlier, but his commander’s urgency had energised him. Andragathius simply glanced at his junior officer in his usual cool fashion, before throwing Conanus into utter confusion by winking, slowly and deliberately, at the younger man. Confused at this uncharacteristic behaviour, Conanus booted his horse’s ribs and followed Andragathius on to the roadway.

  ‘The hunt is on, Conanus.’ Andragathius grinned so broadly that Conanus could see his canine teeth gleaming from under the shadow of his helmet. ‘Gratian has made another major mistake and we will ensure he bleeds for it, won’t we?’

  ‘Aye!’ Conanus replied, his brows still drawn down in ignorance. ‘Whatever you say!’

  The sun had descended towards the long twilight when the troop approached the low hill near Gratian’s temporary bivouac. Always cautious when selecting an overnight camp, Andragathius sent two scouts ahead to ensure that none of Gratian’s sentries had been inserted into positions at the apex of the hill since Conanus’s departure, and to secure an observation post where the commander could make his final plans for the coming attack.

  As always, the need for caution overrode all other considerations in Andragathius’s Roman-trained thought processes. The horses had been taken into the tree line along the river and loosely hobbled to restrict their wandering. The wagon had also been pushed into the long shadows and low foliage of a willow tree where only the sharpest-eyed and most determined of scouts could chance upon it.

  Then, after issuing orders that a picket line was to be strung out, the rest of the troops were sent to dig an earthen and log wall beneath the trees to create a last line of defence if they were surprised in this almost-perfect observation post. Once he was satisfied, and after he had spent some time staring down at the camp that was laid out below him, Andragathius called for his twenty men to gather around him. It was time to reveal his long-awaited plans to Conanus and the rest of his command.

  ‘Gratian is a proud man and a reasonable commander, but he is careless and his habits tell me he is an ugly sybarite at heart. He has made the mistake of ignoring the scrolls containing the accumulated military wisdom of past Roman generals of note, and is so over-confident of his own abilities that he intends to cavort with women and feasting at a time when he’s only a stone’s throw from the safety of Lugdunum. This behaviour is proof of his hubris but it is possible that he prefers privacy in his perversions. How can common soldiers understand the thoughts that lie within the depths of an emperor’s mind? Why he has chosen to carouse and feast at this dangerous time is a mystery to me, but I intend to capitalise on his errors. To succeed, we must have the courage and determination needed to carry out our ruse. Are you with me, even though I have yet to share my plans with you? This is the time when we must make Gratian pay, because he has held our skills and determination in such contempt that he has decided to rest and frolic, with his enemies gathered around him.’

  The legionnaires voiced their enthusiasm until Andragathius silenced their dangerous noise with a wave of one hand.

  ‘Good lads! Now, which of you Britons have kept your hair long? Good!’ Andragathius sighed with pleasure as all ten of the Britons, including Conanus, raised their hands. ‘Loosen your braids for me.’

  Puzzled by the request, the Britons slowly removed their helmets and began to unravel the plaited hair that signified their manhood. Some of the younger men had bound up their long hair from the crown, for their manes were quite dangerous in combat conditions when an enemy could grasp at loose hair and drag a warrior off his horse where he would be unbalanced and easy prey for any competent warrior. When they had finished, all the men were displaying masses of hair, the longest of which hung, cloak-like, to the elbow of its owner. Half of them possessed curly locks, while the remainder had long manes that fell down their backs in heavy waves.

  ‘An excellent sight, gentlemen, and perfect for my needs. You, Conanus, take four of your countrymen and bring the contents of the wagon to me. You will be surprised when you see what I have brought, but it is important to the trickery I intend to play on our erstwhile emperor. The rest of you can collect the bags in the back of the wagon and bring them to me as well.’

  Convinced that he would never understand the mind of his commander, Conanus swept his mass of curls away from his face and eyes and trotted obediently towards the trees. When he reached the wagon, he made short work of the ropes that held down a coarse blanket covering a bulky timber object. As soon as one of his men pulled the coverings away, the Britons gawked at what the wagon held – a travelling divan chair of polished ebony and rosewood, with long poles to hold its passenger aloft. Gilded and decorated with elaborate carving, the travelling chair permitted a man or a woman to recline on its long divan while they were carried in some comfort. More gilded posts supported gauzy curtains of a pasty shade of blue that had been highlighted with exotic golden stars.

  ‘Uh! . . . It’s a divan chair!’ Conanus gasped, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with frustration at his lack of perception. ‘I really have no idea what our captain is thinking.’

  The cart also contained a number of bulging cloth bags apparently filled with cloth and bulky objects that clanked whenever the bags were moved.

  Despite their confusion, two of the Britons carried the chair, front and back, to lay it down carefully in front of Andragathius. Quickly and efficiently, the wagon was emptied and the contents were transported to an open spot next to the gaily decorated chair where they could be laid out on the grass.

  ‘Do any of our Roman or Frank cavalrymen shave their heads?’ Andragathius asked slowly, his eyes panning over the legionnaires.

  Several of the men removed their helmets to reveal shaven heads with the start of fuzz growing on their skulls after their many days of travel. With the laughing encouragement of his friends, another man revealed a head that was almost completely bald, except for a dark fringe of curls around his ears and the base of his skull.

  ‘Excellent! Excellent!’ Andragathius responded, as the balding cavalryman endured some good-natured heckling from his peers.

  ‘As it turns out, even the great Julius Caesar became thin on top and I’ve lost count of the noble generals who always wear discreet wigs. Don’t be ashamed of yo
ur bald pate, friend, for I intend to put it to a useful purpose.’

  The legionnaires became silent instantly, as their commander’s voice had become serious.

  ‘My hair is obviously Roman in style and cut so it must be hidden, but our British comrades and those among you who possess shaven heads will be able to stand in full view of the Praetorian Guard. They won’t expect Roman cavalrymen to come to their party as entertainers.’

  ‘Entertainers?’ Conanus repeated, sounding almost half-witted in his confusion.

  ‘Yes? One further matter! Can anyone play simple musical instruments? I must confess that I’m useless at those particular skills.’

  ‘I can play the harp – but not very well,’ Conanus answered, still none the wiser.

  ‘I doubt there are any musical connoisseurs in Gratian’s camp,’ Andragathius retorted gruffly.

  ‘I was able to play a set of pipes when I was a much younger man,’ another legionnaire responded, while still another confessed that he had been able to extract some rhythm out of a drum when he was little more than a boy.

  ‘Fair enough! I’ll be travelling in that chair with six of you carrying me as I relax behind the drapes. I will be dressed as a woman for the role I’ll be playing, and I’ll have a special hairpiece so my appearance will be realistic. My ugly mug won’t pass close examination but, with luck, our appearance as travelling entertainers who are at the beck and call of a beautiful and aristocratic whore should get us into the compound. Unfortunately, I can’t speak much during our entry to the compound as my voice just won’t be high enough to be accepted. Conanus and his harp will act as our mouthpiece. He’s always had a ready tongue. The rest of you will play the part of musicians or dancers. I know this sounds unlikely, but nobody in the provinces expects musicians and entertainers to be truly competent. To achieve our aims, we’ll be brazen and create a scene that is believable to Gratian and his guards. The louder and more outrageous we are, the more likely that Gratian will come out to view this company of grotesque minstrels. I’ll only need a moment to achieve my purpose, if Gratian can be enticed into the chair.’