With this Antonicus seemed to suddenly wake, standing up and blinking into the sky as he stared open mouthed at Marcus who simply sat and stared back not knowing what to say.
Chapter 6
“You’re a lucky bastard” said Decimus as he sat on a small folding chair outside Marcus’s marching tent drinking deep red wine, which Marcus thought looked like the blood he had seen spilt that day. The sight had un-nerved him more than he thought, so he had decided to drink only water this evening. The bright, warm, fire and full moon gave the night an intense light despite the fact that it was hours since the sun had gone to sleep over the mountains. The day had ended with a funeral pyre for the fallen Romans to appease their lemurs, their ghosts, and allow them to sleep in peace. Libations to Mars and Fortuna had been given s was their right as the gods of the battle and the soldier. Marcus had been vigorous in his prayers and Libations, bringing a short speech from Lucius on the horrors of war and how he must try and forget them, which went right over Marcus’s head as he nodded at his brother.
Libations and prayers had also been said at the mouth of the cave to appease the spirits of the caves and rocks, and men had filed past and thrown food and wine into the cave as offerings of peace. This was a common occurrence for the Romans, who wanted to ensure that they did not offend any of the spirits that inhabited the land and might look for vengeance upon them. But now the fighting men of Rome sat around their camp fires and drank in celebration of victory over the Aequii, however costly it had been. The pickets had been set and the fires burned brightly across the valley as Marcus sat quietly, his mind going over and over the words Antonicus had spoken, not able to make sense of what it meant and why it was him who had heard these words he had written them down at the first opportunity he had. His mind was in a whirl as the noise of the camp fire brought him back to the discussion.
“He’s a lucky bastard” said Decimus again in a loud drunken slur, his thick muscular arms waving at the fire and bringing Marcus back into the conversation. He swayed on his chair pointing his drinking cup at Bassano who, equally inebriated, grinned manically back at him, his leg wrapped in a thick bandage. Decimus was a bull of a man, his many years of farming had turned his skin nut brown and his wiry muscular frame was evident, even under his thick leather surcoat. Marcus turned to his Centurion and looked at the man who earlier that day had been like a bolt of lightning, destroying everything in his path. One push would knock the man from his feet now he thought as he smiled at the man sat in front of him, who was clearly drunker than Marcus had ever seen him.
“I should think he agrees” said Marcus, “If it weren’t for those leather thongs on his armour that arrow would have gone right through his leg, not just two inches into it”. It was traditional for higher class Romans to use long leather straps hanging from their armour to guard against sword strikes slicing down their breast plates and into their thighs. Bassano had had special thongs added to his armour only the day before the battle and one of the thick leather thongs had been pierced by the arrow which struck his thigh taking most of the impact and undoubtedly saving his leg and probably his life.
“I mean” drawled Decimus, ignoring what Marcus had said “What sort of woman’s skirt is that?” he questioned leaning forwards on the chair and bathing his face in the yellow and orange glow of the fire. Bassano burst out laughing as he half stood, half swayed and twirled round sending the thongs darting out in a spiral as he went around and around, eventually crashing through two other Centurions and falling to the floor yelling about the pain in his leg as the huddle of men around the camp fire fell about in fits of laughter.
As Marcus wiped the tears from his eyes he saw a small man enter Postumius’s tent away to his right. After he had accepted the surrender of the final Aequians, Postumius had been confined to his tent with concussion, but it seemed that he was awake now. He recognised the man who had entered but couldn’t put a name to the face. Within minutes the Tribunes tent was busy with people coming and going and Marcus, as the only sober person there, left the drunken soldiers to their revelry to go and see what was happening. As he reached the tent, nodding to the guards stood stiffly at the entrance, he kicked the central tent pole three times to announce himself.
Entering, Marcus saw that the Tribune was sat up on his cot with the small thin man sat in a chair next to him. They were conversing in quiet, hurried tones and the thin man was writing quickly on a wax tablet. He looked up sharply when Marcus entered the tent and closed the tablet as if hiding the words within from prying eyes. The two men glanced quickly at each other and both sat back and turned to look at Marcus. “Ah, Camillus” said Postumius rolling over to the far side of his cot and momentarily turning his back on Marcus, an act that would normally be seen as a snub to any Patrician when entering another’s house or field tent. But Marcus was surprised to see that Postumius turned back beaming at him, his face full of friendship, and held out to him the elaborate sword which he had seen him use that day.
“I owe you a debt young man and I give to you the sword of my father’s father” he said with a formal tone and sitting as upright as his cot would allow. The thin man, who Marcus now realised was Fasculus, sat forward and helped Postumius sit up.
“I give you my greatest possession my young friend” he said handing the sword to Marcus “in the hope that you accept it as a gift for saving my life. Go on, take it” he smiled as Marcus stood dumbfounded for a moment.
“I... I cannot” fumbled Marcus not sure what to say or do and unable to take his eyes off the magnificent sword. The sword was embossed in silver and gold at the hilt and was inscribed with the emblem of the Postii family, a great boar with enormous tusks. It was held in a thick brown leather scabbard of the highest quality, and clearly of some age, but well oiled and cared for. Marcus thought hard, he knew he must accept the gift, to not do so would offend the giver, but he could not see how he could keep such a great family treasure without causing some offence to Postumius despite his freely giving it to him.
He took the sword, half slipped it from its scabbard to look at the fine craftsmanship and then replaced it as he stepped forward and knelt next to Postumius’s cot. “Tribune, such a gift is not necessary. I did my duty, as I swore to do” he said looking to both men who seemed suddenly tense.
“I am unworthy of your family sword and I ask that you keep it safe for me as I would surely not do it or your family the honour it deserves” he added bowing his head and handing it back to Postumius. Postumius smiled with a look of relief, the giving of the sword must have been a wrench for such a man, driven by family pride and glory, thought Marcus, and these words meant that Postumius could retain the sword, even though it technically belonged to Marcus and he would never ask for it again.
“I would though ask one favour” he added quickly looking up at both men and hoping that he was not risking too much. He knew his next request could anger both Postumius and Fasculus but this was the perfect chance to help his friend.
“In today’s fight, as I was lucky to be able to help you Tribune, another man saved me from certain death.” He glanced at them both, noting that they seemed by the impassive looks on their faces to be oblivious of this fact. The stories had clearly not reached the Tribunes tent yet. “I would like to make this man my personal orderly and remove him from his legionary rank” he blurted, hoping the appeal didn’t sound too desperate. Postumius looked at Marcus with a creased brow, his dark eyes fixed on Marcus and bored into him as if picking his brain for any information as to why he would want to do this. Fasculus seemed on the point of speaking and urgently tapped the wooden case of the wax tablet with his stylus.
“Something to say Fasculus?” asked Postumius, whose voice was suddenly haughty and aloof. “It can wait” he said turning and facing Marcus directly. His thin lips squeezed together and his eyes narrowed as Postumius slowly took the sword from Marcus and placed it meaningfully on the table beside his cot.
“And if I give you M
ella” he said, smiling as he recognised from the look on Marcus’s face that he had thought he hadn’t known of Mella’s part in the final battle even though it was the talk of every camp fire that night, “He will still be a thief, but, I suspect, a well looked after one” he finished, tapping a finger on the wax tablet in Fasculus’s hands and ushering Fasculus to leave with a shake of his head.
“Sir” saluted Fasculus as he rose, nodded to Marcus with a knowing half smile and left the tent. Alone with Postumius Marcus suddenly felt very vulnerable and glanced at the Tribunes sword. He had misread the situation and wondered if he had pushed his luck too far. There was silence as Postumius slid back in his cot to rest his head on the thick pillows behind him and closed his eyes. Marcus, kneeling at the side of the cot, didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t been dismissed and Postumius had not agreed to his request. He knelt motionless, hardly daring to breathe and stared at the reclining Tribune.
Without moving Postumius spoke in a low whisper “What is it I hear about Antonicus speaking of a great prophecy after the battle today?”
Marcus was stunned, did this man know everything. Surely there had been no-one else close to Antonicus and himself when he had spoken the words, and Marcus was sure that Antonicus remembered nothing as he seemed to be very confused for some time after he had spoken and did not remember anything of the words he had said. His mind whirled, he did not understand the words Antonicus said and he certainly did not understand their meaning.
“I” he stuttered, “I am not sure, Tribune. He...he seemed to speak of a great leader of Rome and a man who would defeat barbarians at Rome’s door”. He looked up to see Postumius was now sat staring hungrily at him, a look of greed and desire on his face which he had never seen before, his eyes suddenly intense and bright, wide-eyed with interest.
“And this prophecy” demanded Postumius in a cold urgent voice, “could you write it, word for word?” he spoke loudly now, suddenly wide awake and urgent in his movements as he jumped from the cot making Marcus also jump to his feet and step back. He thrust a stylus and a wax tablet in Marcus’s hands “here, now, quickly, before you forget” he demanded softly but urgently, motioning Marcus to sit at the small desk in the corner and picking up his sword, stroking the image of the boar as he spoke.
“I am fortunate you were there my friend” he said with a sudden cajoling voice, placing a steering hand on Marcus’s shoulder and motioning him to the chair. Marcus sat, confused, and looked at Postumius who stood beside him, his eyes wide.
“All of it. Write all of it, Marcus” he said quietly as he nodded to the wax tablet. “And of course, Mella is free to be your man. You have done me two great services today, for you saved my life and brought me the prophecy of my great future” he added absently as he turned and shouted for his orderly to bring wine and food.
**********
Chapter 7
The camp was in uproar. Postumius had risen early and called all the Generals and Centurions to his campaign tent before dawn. The tent was in the centre of the camp next to the tent of deities, and Marcus had stopped to pour a libation to the new day as he passed. The majority of the men had been up late drinking and gambling, and many of the senior officers had also indulged their fill the night before and were in a sorry state of undress and drunkenness when they arrived. As the last man, Victus, a Centurion of five campaigns known for his excellent singing voice, staggered into the tent barely able to stand up straight and flopped into a chair, Postumius stood up from behind his campaign desk, resplendent in his full battle armour and looked at the men around him, turning slowly to each one but holding Marcus’s gaze longer than the others.
He tapped a small wax tablet, which Marcus knew was the one holding the words he had written the night before, as he rose to his full height, and looked down his long nose at the assembled officers. “The gods look on me with favour” he said with such an air of superiority that the men palpably bristled “and they have delivered to me” he said as a self-satisfied smile broadened on his face “the son of Comus”.
He turned theatrically as Fasculus, dressed in a blood stained brown tunic which showed he had clearly been torturing the prisoners, dragged a small boy, one of the Aequii prisoners from the day before, into the tent. The Centurions got to their feet as one to look at the dark haired boy of twelve or thirteen years who was standing, bloodied and bruised, in filthy rags in front of them, fear and hatred staring out of his wild eyes. Fasculus grinned an evil grin, his right hand flexing as he held the boy in his left, the manacles and chains on the boys wrists covered in blood as the boy tried to stare defiantly at the Romans around him.
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The march back to rejoin the main Roman army had so far taken four days. Marcus, Decimus and Mella were travelling ahead of the bulk of the army with a small convoy of bodyguards to avoid the constant fog of dust that was thrown up by the marching columns. They had travelled a different route to that taken when they had chased the fleeing Aequians as the main Roman army had already started on its long route back to Rome and they wished to catch up as quickly as possible. The campaigning season was coming to a close and the weather was already changing, with brisk winds coming from the coast and turning warm days into cold nights. The horses had grown thinner on the campaign and Marcus was just thinking that he should ask his father for a new mount when the Decurion, the captain of the horse guard, called them to a halt. In the distance they could see a trail of dust, a single rider by the look of it, heading straight for them at some speed, his attention fixed exactly on the spot where they stood as his horse, ears pinched back on its head, galloped towards them.
“Gaius, Patricola go and see what he wants, but be careful” said the Decurion as two men saluted and charged off towards the figure in the distance.
“I’m glad of the rest” said Mella jumping from his horse and heading to a small clump of trees to relieve himself, “I hate riding this damned horse, my arse feels like a hundred Gauls had their way with me last night” he shouted back, much to the delight of the remaining horsemen who whistled after him and laughed loudly. Decimus smiled at Marcus and shifted on his horse, “he’s right” he added wincing “my backside hurts like hell. I much prefer marching to this horse-riding stuff – no offence meant” he quickly added looking to the horsemen around him. He was just about to speak again when the three riders came racing to a stop in front of Marcus. “Sir” Gaius, the shorter, dark haired horseman said looking to the Decurion and to Marcus alike. “The rider has a nessage from Senior Tribune Lucius Furius Medullinus for Marcus Furius, which he must handover in person” he snapped as the rider handed over a wrapped tablet sealed with thick red wax with the insignia of the Furii family, a leaping horse, impressed upon it. Marcus took the tablet, thanking the messenger, who whirled his horse around and moved away waving to Mella, whom he clearly knew. As he did so Marcus opened the seal, half expecting to hear bad news as he had not received any message from his brother since the day they left the main Roman camp. The message was simple;
Brother, Tribune Postumius has taken the boy directly to Rome and has not joined with the main army. You must get the men to Avaenti quickly, we will meet you there. Beware the Aequii, they are massing to avenge their loss and find the boy. Message for Valerius enclosed. Your brother, Lucius.
The message was short and to the point as Marcus had come to expect from his brother.
Soon after parading the son of Comus to the senior officers Postumius had set off with him to the main Roman camp with a bodyguard of over a hundred horses, saying that the boy must be taken to Lucius as soon as possible. Responsibility for the remaining army was given to Valerius Magnus, the most senior officer and veteran of ten campaigns, with strict instructions to march back and meet up with the remaining army as soon as possible. Clearly Postumius had decided to press his advantage and head straight to Rome to present the boy to the Senate as his personal captive, which would be seen as a snub to the Senior Tribune and all th
e remaining senior officers in the army. This ‘snub’ would cause outrage in the Senate, thought Marcus, his mind wheeling as he tried to understand why Postumius would do this, it could be a career limiting decision for him and didn’t make any sense. For a moment, Marcus sat looking at the message trying to understand its significance back in Rome, but he was suddenly aware of the silence around him as every face looked expectantly to him.
He took the small wax tablet attached to his message and called the messenger forwards. “Take this message to Centurion Valerius Magnus at once” he said handing the tablet over, adding “It tells us to move to Avaenti as quickly as we can to meet the Senior Tribune and the remaining army”.
“A good spot” added Mella rubbing his rear as he arrived back at his horse, “good defensive palisade and clear ground for moving the troops. I like it” he added finally, jumping in one easy movement onto his horse.
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“I don’t understand why he would do such a thing” Marcus said to his companions as he stopped to remove another stone that had wedged into the side of one of his sandals. Once they had returned to the marching army they had all decided to dismount and walk to give their legs some exercise and their horses a rest, but the terrain was proving difficult to march in and many of the soldiers were struggling, constantly stopping to remove stones trapped in their sandals. The column wound its way across the rough ground towards Avaenti, a small city some thirty miles north of Rome and a good stopping point for any army due to its position on top of a small hill with good views of all surrounding countryside.
“It’s clear” said Mella as he drank from a water pouch and handed it across to Decimus. “Don’t you remember what Titus Regulus Oblitius did in the time of the old Kings?” He looked sideways with a grin on his face. Marcus knew the story of how a Roman General, Oblitius, had claimed a great victory by being the first back to Rome from the battle, proclaiming he had singlehandedly beaten off a great host of attackers. For two days he and his remaining men had feasted, and Rome had celebrated his victory before he had disappeared with over a hundred pounds of gold stolen from the temples of Rome. That same day news came of the loss of the Roman army and stories of how Oblitius had left the field with his men in cowardice, fleeing to Rome rather than die with their fellows. After a time Oblitius had finally been caught, skinned alive and his battered body dragged around the city of Rome tied to a boar whilst his family had been sold into slavery. Since that time no triumphs or feasts had been held until the auspices had been read and five days had passed – enough time for reports to be quantified and verified. No-one knew if the story was true or just a legend, but it served as a warning to all Romans to await the truth before acting.
Dawn of The Eagle Page 5