by Manda Scott
“Are you?” The man turned and the shadow gave back his years. Only his eyes were the same, a lifetime’s wisdom tempered by sorrow. “Then take care of yourself. I would not lose a patient to the flaying knives just because he took a wrong turning. Remember, whatever else he may be, Gaius is a good judge of men. He tests those around him, seeking their weak points. Don’t show him yours.”
“He knows them already: Amminios and the colt.”
“Then do not act as he would expect you to. Be sure he will have planned for it.”
Iccius returned to Bán as he passed the last of the tents. The child ran ahead to the bridge, skipping and turning cartwheels and laughing freely as he had begun to do in the few days between leaving Amminios and being taken captive again. The river that bordered the camp was substantial but it was not the Rhine; it did not suck souls, nor make a barrier between civilization and barbarity. This river, in as much as it made a boundary, divided the tents from the horse lines. By an accident of the gods, the glow of the lighthouse reached to its edge and no further. Bán crossed the bridge into darkness. The river flowed beneath him, dreamily, its noise just enough to cover the sound of his feet. He felt light as thistledown, and hollow. He had to pinch the back of his hand to make sure he had not already passed into the world of the spirit. Then he looked up and any certainty left him. Eburovic was waiting at the bridge end, the first time he had appeared to Bán since the battle in which he had died. He carried his war spear and the she-bear shield and his smile was enough to stop the world. He took his place at Bán’s spear side, the place of the elder warrior. Iccius stepped up at his left. A new shield hung from the child’s shoulder, bearing the shape of the colt etched out in black on a white bull’s-hide covering. Bán felt his breath hiss between his teeth and by that alone knew he was still alive. It was clear to him now why he had lived this long, and he was grateful beyond expression that the gods had granted so much. Stooping, he picked a stone from a pile by the bridgehead. It was not a warrior’s weapon, but it was enough. He stepped forward and felt the shades of his kin step with him. “Let’s go,” he said.
The horses stood in rows in wicker-backed stalls with half-roofs covering their heads and good hay in squared wooden troughs to pick at through the night. As in the legionary camp the men were divided, so the cavalry horses were kept apart from those of the cohorts and these were separate again from the baggage train. Two legions had come together outside Gesoriacum: the XIVth, which had marched with Gaius, and the IInd, which had joined them from Argentorate. The two had held competing manoeuvres along the coast in the days before their arrival at the port, demonstrating their readiness for battle. To these were added four cavalry wings, eight cohorts of mixed infantry and cavalry, the emperor’s horse guard, two cohorts of the Praetorian Guard, the entire vast array of the emperor’s travelling household and a delegation from Judaea, which had caught up with the emperor at Nemetacum and had, perforce, joined the train. In excess of thirteen thousand men had travelled from the Rhine to the coast and each night the order of encampment had been the same. By force of habit if nothing else, Bán could find the colt in any weather or at any time of night.
He felt his way forward, breathing in the warm, bakery smells of bran mash and barley, hay and horse dung, that hung over every camp. He reached his own row and stood at the end furthest away from the colt, listening. The horses fed, or dozed in peace, hips tilted and hind feet resting. He did not believe there was a stranger amongst them.
The colt was picketed, always, in the endmost stall. They had found early on the ride east from Durocortorum that he kicked the men tending horses on either side and was safest when placed against the wicker end wall. Since leaving the Rhine, Bán’s brown mare had been tethered each night at his right, with a space between for safety.
Bán was within sight of the mare when the Crow began to move. The white on its face showed in the almost-light of distant campfires as it tossed its head and took a half-step backwards. At the second step, it tugged at the halter rope and snored, a deep, guttural sound that inevitably presaged violence. A man swore softly in Trinovantian. Bán spoke in the same tongue. “Theft of a cavalry horse is a capital offence. Have they not told you that?”
The colt jerked its head as if the halter had been pulled. Amminios said, “It is no offence for a man to claim his own property. The colt is mine, a gift from the emperor.”
“You lie. If the emperor believed any other man could mount that horse and live, it would be in his stable. He has seen it fight. He will not give it away.”
“Not even for the promise of a kingdom? You do him greater justice than he deserves.” The colt struck at the voice. A half-white forefoot flashed in the dark. Amminios sidestepped with the ease of long practise.
“You haven’t mellowed him, I see. The question we always asked was whether he was born like this, or made like it during the trip to Noviodunum. Only foals sired by him would have given the answer. We had plans to put him to twenty different mares in his first season. If the first crop had turned bad, we would have poleaxed him before the second.”
He had let go of the halter. His voice was moving. The colt knew where. Bán followed the lie of the part-white ear. “He was kind as a foal,” he said.
“They say Gaius Germanicus was quiet as a child. Look at him now. Men of Corvus’s calibre quake at his glance.”
“Corvus doesn’t—”
“No, of course not. A man who has lived through one shipwreck will always choose to wear full body armour aboard ship. Don’t be ridiculous; Gaius is a monster and everyone knows it.”
“You’re still alive.” He sounded like a child, pleading. He stopped.
“I am useful. He will parade me through Rome and the Senate will vote him a games in honour of his victory and set his statue in the temple of Mars Ultor. Next year, if Galba believes he can spare him the legions, I will be his excuse to invade Britannia, and when the legions have won I will be his client king in the lands of the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni. I can wait.”
“I saw you in a vision once as Mandubracios, the traitor. If I had known how true it was, I would have killed you.”
“And brought on yourself the dreamer’s death? No, you wouldn’t.” The voice flowed from beyond the brown mare. Bán edged away from it, towards the colt. The scents of the baths drifted past him: of rosemary oil and lavender, of steam and smoke and Iccius’s death. But Iccius was beside him, vividly. His father balanced his spear in his hand, his dead gaze fixed on one place. Amminios said, “Did you know that in Trinovantian legend, Mandubracios was a hero who fought to the death with his comrades? It was Andurovic of the Eceni who betrayed the tribes to Caesar. It is why we never trusted you.”
He was close, perhaps in the stall beyond the mare. Bán moved past the colt. He spoke towards the wall, making his voice echo. “You’re lying. The Eceni have always hated Rome. All of the tribes know it.”
“Of course. Which is why Bán of the Eceni has accepted a place in Caesar’s cavalry. I hear you are newly posted to the Ala Quinta Gallorum. Favourite of the prefect and his emperor, granted full citizenship by the god on earth in person.” They had been speaking the tongue of the tribes. He changed to Latin, mocking. “Julius Valerius. Does Gaius know you hate Rome and everything it stands for?”
“He’ll find out.”
“Only if you live long enough. I am tempted to leave you alive. Gaius will take far longer killing you than I have time to do.”
“But when it’s over I will be free. You will be hunted through the lands of the dead by those you killed by treachery.”
“If I believed that, my poor barbarian savage, do you suppose I would have—Oh, no, not yet, my beauty…”He had circled back, behind. The colt had kicked out, at the shape as much as the sound of the voice. Amminios slipped past him. His voice spun on, softly malevolent. “Ah, he’s a fighter. It will be good to have him back.”
“You couldn’t take him. He would never work
for you.”
“Of course he will. Who do you think broke him to ride in the first place? It wasn’t your Dacian friend. He could never get near him.”
“Liar. Fox was ten times the horseman you are.”
“Maybe, but I broke the colt. See, he knows me…”
Amminios was at the head, fingers tugging at the halter rope. Hemp whispered past the tie post. The Crow stood rigid, with his feet braced wide, snoring a warning. Bán counted a handful of heartbeats, his eyes wide in the dark for movement he could feel but not see. As the rope came loose, he snapped forward, slapping his hand against the dark hide. The colt jerked back, found his halter rope loose and spun sideways, snaking his head. Bared, murderous teeth showed dimly white. Amminios ducked, laughing. “Bán, Bán—you are so very predictable. But then, so am I.”
Bán rolled sideways, into the space between the horses. Iron hissed in leather. A knife called light from the dark. Iccius shouted a warning that had no sound and swung his shield, wielding the edge like a club. Eburovic stabbed with his spear, blocking the escape. The Crow, freed of all restraint, struck with its forefeet as it had done against the Chatti, striving to kill with a raw, unhampered passion. It screamed its rage, covering the truncated noise of human death. The smell of blood rose and fled down the line, stirring the other horses and, soon, the watch. Voices and running torches gathered on the far side of the bridge. A single shadowed figure squeezed out between the horses at the far end of the line and ran for cover amongst the thousands of other mounts wakened by the sudden presence of death amongst them.
CHAPTER 24
He was lying awake in the tent when they came for him: eight men and a centurion of the IInd Augusta, all of them strangers. The men of his tent would have fought for him until they heard the charge; then they stood back, pale in the morning, and let the others take him. Bán walked in the centre of the eight, matching pace effortlessly with the men on either side. He was awake. More than that, he was fully alive. A fierce joy flared in his chest. Beneath the mist and the blistering flare of the lighthouse, the morning was sublime. The camp woke around him, busily organized. Bán smelled the smoke of a thousand campfires and baking bread and the latrines and thought them equally perfect. He imagined his death and the pain that would come before it and did not care. Iccius and his father had departed from him, but he lived with the certainty that he would join them by nightfall or perhaps the next dawn. Nothing else mattered.
The emperor was not prepared to deal with judicial matters at daybreak. The guards beat their prisoner carefully, leaving no bruises on his face or hands, and locked him in a storeroom in the magistrate’s residence until the summons came. Bán lay back with his head on a bale of undyed linen and his feet cushioned on cards of raw wool and watched a pregnant female rat make a nest in the centre of a neighbouring bale and did not disturb her. He remembered the gods of his childhood and gave thanks to Nemain of the waters and to Briga, goddess of death. He did not ask their favour. In granting Amminios’s death and the manner of it, they had given more than he could ever request; his world was perfect, and nothing could diminish it. When they came for him again, he was singing the death-song of his people.
He was by now used to the realities of an imperial audience room: the fresh limewash on the walls, the excess of gold, the ravishing silks that could be packed and unpacked at need. Only the people standing to attention near the dais had the capacity to surprise him. He had not expected Theophilus to be at the hearing, or Corvus. Temporarily, their presence took the shine from the morning; it was no part of his plan that others should suffer because he must. The physician frowned as the prisoner entered; already he regretted the loss of a promising pupil who lacked the sense to heed good advice. Corvus was standing rigidly to attention, his eyes locked on nowhere, with dark rings in the olive skin beneath. Bán knew himself to be radiant and felt a moment’s guilt; then the emperor entered and it was impossible to look elsewhere.
Gaius walked at ease, making the Praetorians ahead and behind slow their pace. He wore the toga, the first time Bán had seen him do so, and carried a scroll. The great, carved eagle chair awaited his presence. He passed it and stood in front of the prisoner. He was always taller than one remembered him; not the height of the Batavians, but taller than most Romans. As once before, Bán saw the extraordinary pain locked in his eyes. They fixed on him now, drawing the joy from the morning.
“A good night?” asked the emperor, softly.
“My lord, yes.” He did not intend to lie.
“Good. Hold to it. The memory will sustain you through the rest of your life.” Ever the master of ambiguity. Smiling, Gaius ascended the throne.
Men of the IInd Augusta had found the body and one of their junior tribunes read the charge: that during the first watch of the night, the accused, Julius Valerius Corvus, did loose his horse, a pied colt known for its unstable temperament, and did set it to kill one Amminios, son of Cunobelinos, against whom he was known to hold a grudge, this man being under the protection and care of his most noble majesty the Emperor Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus.
The charge was known to those present. Theophilus closed his eyes. The caduceus rose and fell on his chest, raggedly. The rest stared straight ahead and offered no views. The emperor leaned forward, his elbow on his knee, his hand balancing his chin. His smile carried a hunger that Bán had not seen before. For the first time he understood the full magnitude of the promised pain. Terror thrilled through him, jangling his nerves. He felt the life drain from his heart.
The emperor sat back, slowly. He made a tent of his fingers and tapped them to his lips. Time became a space between them. At the end of it, he said, “Did you loose the colt?”
“My lord, I did not.”
“Will you swear in the name of Jupiter, best and greatest, and on the genius of your emperor, as the most sacred of all things you hold dear, that you did not loose the colt?”
“I will.” He did so. It would make no difference later. The emperor glanced sideways at Corvus. The prefect could have been cast in marble, so little had he moved. The emperor’s index finger tapped at his thin, unpainted lips. Around him, men awaited the relevant questions and the inevitable verdict. Only the sentence remained in doubt.
Gaius kept them waiting. His smile was indulgent. He nodded more clearly at Corvus.
“The prefect tells me that love between men is a disgrace amongst your people. Is that so?”
“My lord?” Bán could feel himself frown. It was not a proper expression to bring before one’s emperor. He fought for the earlier calm. Gaius gave him no time to find it.
“I have seen you together. At the river fighting the Chatti, on board the Euridyke, here and there about the camp. Seeing how you fought for his life, I had thought it had happened long since, but I am told last night was the first time. I am also told that you would die before you admitted to it, which would be unfortunate, and a denial of that which is beautiful.”
“My lord?” Bán felt the world tilt beneath his feet. For a moment he stood on the edge of a precipice, denying the evidence of his ears. Then understanding flooded him, bringing its own destruction. A door crashed shut that had been open and in its place he felt the weight of a new obligation, a life held in balance by his own. He could deny what they palpably believed to be true and they would not believe him, simply label him a child; or he could provide them with evidence of the truth—that he had killed Amminios—and Corvus’s life would be forfeit with his own. On the periphery of his vision, Iccius shrugged and departed.
“Corvus—” He rounded on the prefect. A single muscle jumped in the man’s cheek. Grey eyes fixed their space on the wall and would not leave it. Of all men, the prefect understood the depth of his betrayal.
Bán forced his gaze back to the gilded chair. The emperor was smiling as Amminios had smiled on winning the first hard-fought game of Warrior’s Dance. He said, “We have men skilled in the asking of questions. I do not believe you would
die before admitting it, but you would not be fit to repeat your experience, or to fight for your emperor afterwards, and we still have need of you. And”—the cavernous gaze circled the room; none escaped it—“there are other ways to arrive at the truth than pain. His words might deny the reality, but his body cannot.”
The emperor’s eyes fixed, at last, on the tribune of the IInd. “Titus Pompeius, we commend your prompt action, but we do not believe the charge as brought bears up to scrutiny. There are factors of which you are not aware, not least of which is that the dead man had requested the pied colt as a gift and had been denied it. It is clear to us that he attempted to take what he desired and that the horse, knowing its duty to its emperor, would not be taken. It is a lesson to us all, that we should trust the integrity of the beast, which knows only its true master. Is that not so?”
It may have been a rhetorical question but it was not safe to assume so. The tribune nodded. “My lord, it is.”
“Good. The guilt lies with the dead man and he has paid his price. Your legionaries, however, allowed a thief to enter the horse lines and lay hands upon our property and therefore stand guilty of dereliction of duty. The punishment should be exemplary and swift and should encompass the full chain of command up to and including the centurion. Do I make myself clear?”
“My lord, you do.” The tribune had been expecting other things. Ashen, he saluted and was dismissed.
Bán had not moved. He opened his mouth. The emperor smiled and he shut it. Fear churned in him, threatening the hold of his bowels. The emperor glanced down at the scroll in his hand.