The Emperor's Blood (e-novella)

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Like you, Andragathius, I’d not wish to raise my sword against fellow soldiers. But I am bound by my oaths as a Praetorian Guardsman, so I will leave with those men who feel as I do. Is it agreed that you’ll not prevent our departure?’

  ‘Should you have so wished, you could have killed us all, friend, so go in peace and take what stores you feel are needed for the journey to your homes. I’ll pray that we never meet on the battlefield as enemies, for such loyalty as yours is rare in these dark days when the virtues of the Old Republic are considered cheap and outdated.’

  Decimus and most of his Praetorians backed away from the scene of carnage, then turned on their heels and headed for the picket line where their horses had been hobbled.

  ‘What of you?’ Andragathius demanded of the remaining legionnaires who were gathering their wits. They were still prepared to do battle, or to run, as their senior officers demanded of them.

  Conanus held his breath. Even the night seemed to have stilled as the breeze dropped.

  Then, after a short moment of contemplation, one veteran officer sheathed his sword. The sound of metal on metal was grating in the silence.

  ‘I’m not prepared to die for a fool who was tricked by a Roman dressed up as a fairground whore.’ He spat in the direction of Gratian’s body which was lying, fully exposed, in his bloody toga over the divan where he had died so ignominiously. The emperor’s blank eyes were staring into eternity with a look of complete surprise.

  And so the Battle of the Divan Chair was won without the loss of a single legionnaire’s life. The shape of empire had been changed and time was rushing onward towards the destruction of Rome and all her works.

  EPILOGUE

  Is it fitting to consider what is impermanent, painful, and subject to change as, ‘This is mine, this am I, this is myself?’

  Ali Tripitaka. Book of Discipline

  As night turned to day, the cavalrymen scrubbed themselves clean in the river, removing their disguises and the slick skin of blood that covered them from head to toe. Once his hair had been plaited and he had dressed himself in honest armour, Conanus felt himself again, although the night seemed like a dream that had come to an improbable and fortuitous ending.

  After Andragathius had ordered the senior officers to strike camp and head north to Augusta Treverorum, he surveyed the body of his enemy who had been the subject of this long hunt. It was obvious that he couldn’t lug a reeking and rotting corpse over the many miles they must cover to reach Maximus’s army. Therefore, with some distaste, he hacked off the emperor’s head, packed it in a bag of salt and tied it to his saddle.

  Gratian’s war chest and his tent were now the property of Maximus so, as the captain carefully explained to the legionnaires, it would be remiss of them to succumb to temptation.

  ‘If you should steal from Maximus, he will send us after you. I would be aggrieved if I was forced to kill you!’

  The Romans nodded carefully and put away all thought of availing themselves of sudden wealth, or any matter that could be construed as treason.

  When Andragathius’s cavalcade headed back towards Cabillonum, bellies full of red meat and their saddlebags packed with provisions to feed them on the long journey, they took several women with them who had been captured by Gratian’s men on the journey into the south. Andragathius never pretended to be a hero, or to be particularly noble, but the memory of Horse rose up to remind him that women and children are loved by someone, and pain and suffering are not the exclusive preserve of those who are blessed with noble birth.

  The road was long, but even Conanus refrained from asking unnecessary questions of his commander. Somewhere between Cabillonum and Gratian’s campsite, the Briton had become a wiser man.

  But he took care to avoid his captain’s company, for he feared that he might learn to love Andragathius and, therefore, share the inevitable fate that would come to greet the Master of Horse at some time in the future. Conanus now knew that men who are beloved by the gods are tortured lifelong, and their testing is hard and terrible.

  Andragathius would have been amazed if he had known that his name would endure down the centuries and be recounted in future times. He sat on his stallion with a sensation of peace, for the shade of Horse would no longer trouble his sleep.

  Gratian’s blood had washed the past away and, for Andragathius, the future alone would held the real meaning in what remained of his life.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  NOTE: To simplify the complexity of the character’s names, the list of characters is depicted in ‘first-name’ order.

  Aeron Scribe in the employ of Flavius Magnus Maximus who follows his master into Gaul for some years. He is the intended of Princess Endellion, daughter of King Caradoc of Tintagel.

  Albus Big Ears A villager in Bibracte who assists Andragathius to hunt down Gratian.

  Andragathius Captain of Flavius Magnus Maximus’s cavalry. He is in command of the assassination squad that pursues the Emperor Gratian after his defeat in Gaul.

  Balbus A farm labourer at the villa of Theodosius Senior.

  Blasius A cavalryman in Andragathius’s command.

  Caelia Foster-mother of the boy, Andragathius. She is a cruel and conniving woman.

  Celsus A villager in Bibracte who assists Andragathius to hunt down Gratian.

  Conanus Deputy to Andragathius during the pursuit of Gratian after the emperor’s defeat by Maximus. Conanus is a British prince of the Ordovice tribe and is the brother of Elen, Maximus’s British wife.

  Cnaeus An officer in Gratian’s army.

  Crucius One of Maximus’s lieutenants.

  Decimus An officer in Gratian’s army.

  Elen Queen of the Ordovice tribe and wife of Flavius Magnus Maximus. Their marriage elevates Maximus to the throne of High King of the Britons.

  Fortuna The Roman goddess of fate and good luck.

  Gratian Emperor of the Western Roman Empire. He is defeated in battle by the forces of Magnus Maximus, who succeeds him as emperor.

  Herminius A young Roman sycophant at the court of Emperor Gratian.

  Horse A young farm hand employed at the estates of General Theodosius Major.

  Livius Farm labourer at the villa of Theodosius Senior.

  Maximus Flavius Magnus Maximus High King of the Britons and, later, ruler of the Western Roman Empire.

  Pig Boy Andragathius’s boyhood name at the estate of General Theodosius Major.

  Shithead A commonly used name given to Emperor Gratian by the Gallic peasantry.

  Tatius Septimus Chief Magistrate in Cabillonum.

  Terentius A priest who becomes the foster-father of Andragathius.

  Theodosius Major General of Roman forces in Gaul. He owns a huge estate at Augustobriga in Hispania.

  Theodosius Minor Son of General Theodosius Major.

  Tullia The young wife of General Theodosius Major.

  Willa A serving maid at the villa of General Theodosius Major.

  GLOSSARY OF PLACE NAMES

  Arar River Saône River, France.

  Arelate Arles, France.

  Augusta Treverorum Trier, Germany.

  Augustobona Troyes, France.

  Augustobriga Talavera la Vieja, Spain.

  Bibracte Autun, France.

  Cabillonum Chalon, France.

  Colonia Agrippina Cologne, France.

  Durocortorum Reims, France.

  Iuliobona Lillebonne, France.

  Lugdunum Lyon, France.

  Lutetia Paris, France.

  Massilia Marseilles, France.

  Mediolanum Milan, Italy.

  Placenza Piacenza, Italy.

  Pompaelo Pamplona, Spain.

  Rome Rome, Italy. City of the Seven Hills.

 
Sequana River Seine River.

  Vienna Vienna, Austria.

  We hope you have enjoyed reading this exclusive e-novella telling the gripping tale of the death of Emperor Gratian.

  For a taste of what led to this dramatic conclusion read the Prologue and Chapter One of THE BLOOD OF KINGS now . . .

  PROLOGUE

  A Noble Roman

  The reason why we have two ears and only one mouth is that we may listen the more and talk the less.

  Zeno of Citium, Lives of the Philosophers

  A fitful winter light fell on burnished iron helms, breastplates, coats of ring-mail and gleaming swords and spearpoints. Without warning, the Roman cataphractarii swept out from the margins of a dark and dripping forest and struck the line of Hibernian warriors with the force of a giant hammer. The superbly trained horses used their sharpened hooves to pound the enemy into the mud until the world was filled with wild Hibernian screams, crushed flesh, wild-eyed steeds and straining men who hacked and thrust at each other in scenes reminiscent of the Christian Hades.

  Magnus Maximus grinned with a flash of teeth that was more of a grimace than a smile. This was war and it was all he knew. Yet it accorded him no pleasure and bugger-all satisfaction, in the crude description of his manservant, Decius, a hard-bitten decurion.

  ‘For Rome!’ Maximus thundered, and heard his call answered, raggedly at first, but then repeated from three hundred disciplined throats. ‘For Rome!’

  Rome was a city that most of them had never seen; nor would they choose to, even if the chance was offered. But the name still conjured up the familiarity of centuries of rule, of unimaginable power and of deep-rooted corruption under the white marble.

  ‘For Rome!’ Maximus bellowed again and slashed down at a leering Hibernian face.

  The general kneed his horse to the top of a small rise from where he could survey the battlefield and make a cold and calculated assessment of the conflict’s progress. His horse took the climb in its stride, for this particular bay gelding was a superb specimen of horseflesh, one that had been raised on the sweeping plains of Maximus’s homeland in the province of Gallaecia in Hispania. Maximus had been born in the wide, spreading estates of Count Theodosius the Elder, his kinsman and the patriarch of their family. As a notable soldier and an aristocrat, the commander scorned to use the hardy hill ponies of the Britons, for the indignity of his feet dangling only inches from the ground offended his sense of self-importance.

  In truth, Maximus cared more for the welfare of his horse than he did for most of his men. To his experienced eye, the Eagles were not what they once were, although the Roman cavalry could still be classed among the cream of Britannia’s military might.

  The Britons are the only tribes in these lands who use horses, Maximus thought sardonically. Yet the other barbarians shun the use of beasts in battle, and reject anything that takes attention away from their own personal heroism.

  In the chaotic scene below him he immediately recognised the core of order and planning that lay beneath the messy detritus of violent death. The cavalry had done well, even the Britons who were all hair and talk. He was satisfied, for he could rid himself of the irritating Hibernians, at least for a time. His kinsman and commander Theodosius would be pleased. Maximus turned in the saddle and pointed his sword towards the dimness of the forest.

  The tribune’s gestures became sweeping and decisive, as his sword tip was now pointed directly at the melee below the elevated knoll where his horse was standing so alertly.

  ‘For Rome!’ he howled, until the wind plucked at his voice and carried it into the tree line.

  In answer to his call, a cohort of Roman infantry marched out of the woods in crisp and menacing formations. They moved purposefully towards the enemy with their shields overlapping to provide protection to their comrades, while their short stabbing spears bristled outwards like the spines of primeval beasts.

  Maximus allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. Even after fifteen years of war, the tribune could still feel a visceral thrill as his legionnaires bore down on their enemy at an unhurried pace as inexorable as the death that would claim so many souls.

  The same breeze that fluttered the standard of the boar and made the eagles appear to dance at the top of their tall poles lifted Maximus’s scarf, scarlet for practicality, that he had knotted around his throat to protect his skin from the cold and abrasive iron of his cuirass. This particular Roman was large for his race; men from Hispania tended to grow tall and lean. His profile was sharp and aquiline, while his features were as elegant as a beautifully smithed knife blade, and as masculine as the frozen face of the god, Mithras, who silently overlooked his altar. His hair was so dark that it shone like the breast of a raven. Despite having been shaved by Decius at noon, a blue shadow was already beginning to cover his cheeks and chin. A pair of heavy black brows formed a ridge above a pair of sharp brown eyes. A single clean scar had caught the edge of his mouth on the right side to give every smile a sardonic twist. It added gravitas to one who was very young to have attained his high rank during a short career, although his peers realised how resentful he was of the slow pace of his climb through the ranks.

  The Roman troops had reached the edge of the knoll when Maximus gave an order that instructed the cataphractarii to vacate the field. His eyes passed regretfully over the fifty or so wounded men, but perhaps the strongest of them would survive the ministrations of the field surgeons. With a shrug, Magnus consigned the Roman wounded to the mercies of their own particular gods, for the subtle deities Fortuna and Mithras between them ruled the battlefield.

  He had sent the heavy cavalry in first to test the Hibernians’ mettle, despite the fact that they were usually employed to mop up the battlefield, after the initial attacks by the infanteers were unleashed. The unexpected tactics had proved highly successful.

  An order from a half-dozen bronze horns sounded from the lines. Spears were thrown and, for a moment, seemed to blot out the sun in a rain of iron. The Hibernians raised their shields to trap the spearpoints and protect their bodies from the deadly hail, before they were forced to cast down the shields with the long spear shafts embedded in them, rendering them useless. Maddened and frustrated, the Hibernians charged towards the Romans while screaming to their gods.

  And now, the first lines of Roman infantry marched onto the field for the final kill. In parade-ground straight ranks, they met the Hibernian warriors with a phlegmatic lack of emotion. Killing was their business.

  Spears made short work of those inexperienced barbarian warriors who were slow to raise their shields. And, now that so many of the impatient Hibernians were dead or wounded on the battlefield, their bodies were trampled into the mud by the metal-studded sandals of the Roman infantry. With swords drawn, the Roman ranks began to inflict the real carnage.

  Maximus’s legion had recently been issued with the newer, longer form of the gladius, a weapon that had been redesigned to suit the taller generations of Roman soldiers and barbarian comitas who were serving the empire. Already its power and efficiency in close-quarter fighting had given the Spanish gladius a reputation for inflicting mayhem.

  ‘The Hibernians rarely run, Decius. It’s a strange trait of the northern barbarians and I wonder why it’s so?’ Maximus asked his fellow officer who had made his way up the knoll and was now standing beside his master with his sword drawn and ready. Maximus, focused on the butchery below him, never bothered to turn his head away from the action.

  ‘Like most barbarians, they’re judged to be courageous or cowardly by their individual actions on the field. Like those blue bastards from the land of the Picts, the Hibernians will always refuse to retreat, unless they have a leader who displays a modicum of common sense. Retreat is always regarded as cowardice.’

  ‘So I thought. A leader’s role is to win, but it’s pointless to succeed and yet have so few men
survive the battle that the leader can’t defend what’s been taken. Watch! I’ll wager that these fools fight to the last man.’

  The decurion grinned widely and exposed two browning canines. ‘Perhaps the journey to reinforce Deva won’t be quite so harrowing from now on.’

  ‘Let’s finish it then! Sound the attack signal and we’ll unleash my dogs of war.’

  Maximus was prepared to allow the men a little fun now that they had turned the tide of battle. His infantrymen had demonstrated their discipline and martial skills, so the time was right to crush the Hibernians with tried and tested tactics.

  ‘Let the enemy have a taste of Hell,’ Decius ordered a boy with a long brass horn who had joined them on the knoll. Above the din of battle, the horn’s peal was more the howl of an alien beast than a musical note. Suddenly the Roman infantry changed direction as they followed the tactical instructions of their centurions. In some cases the middle of the line seemed to collapse, so the Hibernians screamed triumphantly and charged into the gap in the retreating line. Then, as if by sorcery, the Hibernians found they were surrounded when large squads of Romans suddenly enveloped them. The small, dark men from the Middle Sea carved the Hibernians up like raw meat.

  Decius’s grin was even wider now and he wished he could stand on the line with his comrades. Still, serving as Maximus’s personal servant had its uses.

  All over the field, men fell and died. The Hibernian lords gnashed their teeth, tore at their beards and demanded more and more heroism from their beleaguered men. Meanwhile, the tribune’s attention drifted away from the battle. The contest was unequal now, and the numerical advantage held by the Hibernians had been neutralised. Maximus began to lose interest in a struggle whose outcome he had considered inevitable from the very beginning.

  ‘How well did the Britons fight, Decius? Were they useful? They boast enough for ten of our best veterans – but do they possess the necessary martial skills?’