RETRIBUTION

by Anthony Riches

  He pointed at the looming bulk of the praetorium.

  ‘And here we are. If there are secrets to be found anywhere in this place then this is the place they’ll be waiting for us. I’ll go in first, and you men can stay out here, all except for you, Watch Officer. Let’s go and see if we can find anything of interest.’

  Inside the building the rooms were sunk in darkness, their window shutters closed, but Draco strode confidently away into the gloom, limping slightly from the decades-old wound that had ended his military career, his staff tapping at the floorboards.

  ‘Always the same layout. They’re creatures of habit, the Romans, always following their manuals to the last letter. Get those shutters open and let’s have a little light to show us what they left behind, eh?’

  Unfastening the shutters, and throwing them wide to admit the daylight, Egilhard could hear the elder’s staff tapping away into the gloom of the building’s inner sanctum. The noise stopped abruptly, and Draco called out in urgent tones that put the soldier’s hand on the hilt of his sword without his even registering the reaction.

  ‘Come in here, Watch Officer!’ Hurrying into the next room he found the veteran officer staring at something in one corner. ‘Let’s have some light in here, shall we? Open that door as wide as you can.’

  Standing in the half-light, he pointed to one corner of the room, where a small, flat wooden box bound in tarnished silver lay on the floor.

  ‘You’ll be my witness that we found whatever that is in here. This is the office that would usually be used by the legion’s legatus, if I remember correctly. And that, from the look of it, is a writing tablet.’

  Rome, January AD 70

  ‘Gentlemen …’

  The consul’s lictors swept into the audience chamber twelve strong, taking up their positions on either side of the magnificently decorated doors with the easy precision of long practice, and the assembled legati and their senior centurions responded with equal formality and precision, snapping to attention as the head lictor announced the arrival of the august personage they had been waiting for. The officers were dressed in formal togas, while their first spears had been advised to wear their very smartest off-duty uniforms, and so it was that, freshly bathed and groomed, five men who would have been far more at home wearing forty pounds of iron and silver found themselves feeling strangely out of place in their dress tunics, their discomfort at being unarmed only partially assuaged by the gleam of their belts and boots and the comforting presence of their vine sticks, the closest thing to a weapon any of them had been allowed to bring onto the Palatine Hill despite their exalted status in their own military worlds.

  ‘Gentlemen! Consul Gaius Licinius Mucianus!’

  The great man paused in the doorway and looked at the assembled officers in an apparently frank appraisal. After a moment his expression softened, and he nodded pleasantly at them in a manner that caused more than one man’s heart to lighten just a little, inclining his head fractionally to the two men who would be commanding the campaign to choke off the most widespread and dangerous tribal revolt in recent memory.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ He nodded to the two army commanders in turn, then opened his arms to encompass the wider gathering behind them. ‘Appius Annius Gallus, Quintus Petillius Cerialis, gentlemen legati, honoured members of the imperial centurionate, welcome to the Palatine Hill. And please, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. I, just like you all, am no more than a loyal servant of the emperor. We men who hold the empire’s fate in our hands on his behalf have no need of such barriers, especially on the eve of your commencement of yet another campaign in eighteen months which has already seen very little other than marching, fighting, mourning our losses and then marching once again.’

  Standing towards the rear of the group, in the company of the other legion first spears who had quickly recognised that their place was as far out of sight as possible, Pugno fought the urge not to smile at the patrician senator’s words. The stories he had heard in the weeks following the defeat at Cremona, as victors and vanquished alike had worked hard to reintegrate the defeated Vitellian legions into Vespasianus’s army, had made it very clear that Mucianus was far from being any sort of simple servant of the emperor, even if his loyalty to Vespasianus was evidently iron-hard. His new legatus had breezily confirmed the opinion of his colleagues from the other legions when asked.

  ‘Mucianus? We can all be very grateful to him in my opinion. He and Vespasianus used to be at daggers drawn, when Mucianus was governor of Syria and Vespasianus was sent to take command in Judea, mainly because Mucianus had failed to put the Jews back in their place and Vespasianus was sent to do the job properly. But they reconciled their differences soon enough when it became clear that poor old Galba had been murdered. After all, who wants a man like Otho or Vitellius on the throne? And don’t mistake his affected senatorial gentility for anything other than a very clever disguise for an absolutely razor-sharp intellect combined with a ruthlessness to match the best of them.’ He caught the fleeting look of disbelief that had crossed Pugno’s face. ‘What, you want proof? Look at Legatus Augusti Antonius Primus. The proudest, most headstrong commander I’ve ever met, and all the way to Rome completely determined to ignore his very clear instructions to wait for Mucianus. He was fixated on being the first man into the city, and we all knew that his plan was to play with the senate for a week or two, and try the throne for size without actually having his centurions insist on his becoming emperor immediately. After all, Vespasianus is still far away in Egypt, and who knows what a man in command of several legions might achieve given a few weeks with the free run of the capital? But Mucianus was wise to his game, so he force-marched his own legions south and arrived in the city the day after Antonius. And that, my dear Pugno, was that. Antonius has been slid quietly aside and will doubtless find himself, in the fullness of time, quietly retired to his estates and forced to read accounts of the campaign that make it very clear where the fault lies for the extreme barbarity that his legions visited on the town of Cremona. If not for Mucianus there would probably still be two emperors, instead of which we have the luxury of something approaching normality once again. And we can thank the gods for that, Pugno, because it means that we can get back to something more like soldiering.’

  Mucianus turned to the two armies’ commanders, beckoning them forward.

  ‘I have called you all here simply to offer you my very best wishes for your campaigns on the Rhenus. Your legions, and those that will join you as you march north from elsewhere in the empire, have been given responsibility for the swift and pitiless return of the empire north of the Alps to normality. The tribes from the wild country across the great river are to be chased back to their dung heaps. Our legions remaining in the theatre of war are to be rescued from their plight, put back on their feet and enabled to take their places in the defence of the empire’s frontiers. And taxes are to start flowing once more.’ He looked around them with a knowing smile. ‘After all, your men consume food at a prodigious rate, and someone has to pay for all that bread and pork. Which means, gentlemen, that your march north must be brisk, your performance on the battlefield must be effective, and your men’s behaviour towards the Batavians when they inevitably succumb to the strength of your legions must be not that of conquerors, but rather of disciplined soldiers charged with the difficult task of bringing back errant allies. And the reason I invited you here, all you senior centurions skulking at the back of the room …’ he smiled to show that his words were intended warmly, ‘is because nobody else can influence the behaviour of your legions like you. If you and your brother officers set an expectation of leniency and good behaviour, punishable in its absence by the most severe of sentences, then I expect that, by and large, that expectation will be delivered. And be under no illusions, gentlemen, the emperor expects his wishes in this matter to be respected. You must act vigorously to put down this rebellion, but in victory you must be magnanimous and sympathetic. The em
peror wants the Batavians back in the fold, so to speak, and reincorporated to the body of the army as quickly as possible, and what the emperor wants is of the utmost importance to us all, if we value our places in this newly reformed army.’

  He looked around at them all, and Pugno felt the force of his personality in their brief exchange of glances before the consul started speaking again.

  ‘Speaking of our august emperor, I should probably share with you what he has recently communicated to me, revealing his innermost thoughts on the subject of the rebellion that you’re ordered to suppress. Thoughts that might help to explain the instructions I’ve just issued you on his behalf.’ He looked around at them again, his gaze level. ‘The emperor finds himself more than a little troubled by this revolt of our dearest allies. For a century we have regarded them as our most effective auxiliaries, savage, fearless and terrifyingly efficient on the field of battle. You will all be aware, no doubt, that he fought alongside them in Britannia, an experience that left him in no doubt that they were an ally beyond compare with any other. And yet, he muses, here we are at war with them. And no longer deniably so. This rebellion is long past the point of our being able to quietly draw a veil over skirmishes and insults that can be ignored. Their prince, Gaius Julius Civilis, a man who has given a lifetime of service to the empire, has become so disaffected with our rule that he has taken up arms, and gone so far as to place a legion fortress under siege. And for this, the emperor is absolutely clear, we have only ourselves to blame. Only a fool like Vitellius, he tells me, would have arrested Civilis on a charge of treason, the second such accusation to be levelled at the man, and then allowed him his freedom for reasons of the most nakedly obvious pragmatism, freeing him to go and make mischief in the sure knowledge that the charge would be renewed when the circumstances were more auspicious. In his idiocy Vitellius left Civilis with absolutely nothing to lose, and free to rouse a tribe already smarting from Galba’s mistaken decisions to dismiss the emperor’s German Bodyguard, a source of much pride to them. And he compounded that idiocy by ordering conscription from among them, something totally forbidden under the terms of the treaty agreed with them a hundred years ago by the divine Julius.’

  He looked around the room, shaking his head and raising his hands in an invitation for them all to join in his evident incredulity.

  ‘Which means that it was effectively us that caused this revolt, gentlemen, let’s be under no doubt as to that fact. Yes, perhaps Civilis was already plotting an uprising, but without those errors of judgement the emperor very much doubts that his people would have been sufficiently aggrieved to humour his demands for war. Which is why he is determined to tread softly around them, within the limits of good sense, once they are defeated. Recognising the sound common sense of this approach, I have appointed a man known to the Batavian cohorts to be the emperor’s emissary to the tribe, once they have been dissuaded from any further violence. Alfenius Varus?’

  A toga-clad senator who had been standing on the edge of the room stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Consul.’

  Mucianus gestured to him.

  ‘This is Aulus Alfenius Varus, former commander of the Praetorian Guard under Vitellius but, rather more to the point, also the man who commanded the Batavian cohorts at the first battle of Cremona. This, gentlemen, is the man whose cohorts turned the battle, and who rescued a legion’s eagle from the hands of men who might otherwise have carried it away and brought shame upon the legion in question.’ He shot Pugno a glance so swift that the senior centurion was more than half-convinced that it had been pure coincidence that he had picked that moment to look in his direction, and yet knew in his bones that it had been no accident. ‘He knows the Batavians as well as any man among us, and it is to be hoped that his rapport with their senior officers will make it easier for us all to learn to rub along once the fighting is done. Time, I suppose, will tell. And so, before we take wine and talk more about the situation as we understand it to be in Germania as we know it, does anyone have any questions? You, First Spear, I suspect there is at least one thing you’d like to ask me?’

  Pugno was momentarily taken aback at being addressed by the emperor’s right-hand man, but, feeling the eyes of his peers upon him and determined not to allow his legion’s reputation to be sullied in their eyes by a failure to respond, he snapped to attention and saluted.

  ‘Legatus Augusti! My name is Pugno, First Spear, Legio Twenty-first Rapax!’

  Mucianus smiled.

  ‘I know it is, First Spear. And your question, from the heart of the legion famed as the most brutal and bloodthirsty body of men in the army?’

  ‘Legatus Augusti, I am curious as to how far the emperor’s mercy towards the Batavians extends? Are we to spare their military commanders if we capture them?’

  The senator nodded.

  ‘Straight to the heart of it as ever, eh, First Spear? Your answer is this: if, in the course of the campaign to retake the Batavian homeland, acts are committed that render the enemy guilty of a charge of brutality, the murder of prisoners, for example, then their leaders can consider their lives forfeit. Messages to that effect will be sent to the enemy, to ensure that there can be no doubt in the matter.’

  ‘Thank you, Legatus Augusti. And this man Civilis?’

  Mucianus smiled more broadly.

  ‘Civilis? At this point in time the emperor’s thoughts on his eventual treatment are … shall we say, as yet unsettled? Yes, he has led his people in an act of war against Rome, for which the usual punishment would be death, whether prompt or delayed by his transport to Rome for the purposes of the act’s visibility. On the other hand, he has twenty-five years of service to the empire, service which cost him an eye in the final battle with the Iceni people in Britannia. And his revolt, as I have intimated, was at least partially rooted in our own actions. Vespasianus has called a former colleague to his side, a man who shared battlefield dangers with him during the conquest of Britannia, and who will, he expects, provide him with a suitable ability to reflect and decide upon the most appropriate penalty for Civilis to pay. And so the answer to your question, First Spear Pugno, is that I literally have no idea whether the emperor will order the man to be crucified as an example to others, or retired to Rome with a comfortable pension, to serve as an example of the new man on the throne’s ability to show mercy when appropriate. Doubtless you’ll have orders on the matter before the time comes, borne to us by the fastest message ship in the whole of Our Sea. And doubtless you’ll follow those orders through to the letter. After all, we are just instruments of the emperor’s will, are we not?’

  Germania Inferior, January AD 70

  ‘Two months for them to build it, and a day for us to reduce it to ashes.’ Egilhard followed his father’s stare at the remnants of the Gelduba fortress, the timbers that had formed its walls still glowing with a heat both men could feel on their faces at two hundred paces. ‘Seems a bit like our relationship with them, doesn’t it?’

  The two men were standing guard on the cohort’s marching camp, freshly built from turves, Lataz having drawn the lot to stand the second watch and Egilhard having swapped guard duty with his taciturn tent mate Wigbrand to keep his father company, much to the older man’s relief at not having to endure a watch spent in the big soldier’s brooding silence.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lataz was silent for a moment.

  ‘Do you remember your uncle Wulfa?’

  Egilhard started at the mention of his father’s younger brother, long dead and hardly ever mentioned by his father or uncle, his loss still raw for both men even after so many years.

  ‘Not very well. He was gone before I was old enough to know him.’

  The older man nodded, sunk in thought for so long that Egilhard was on the verge of speaking again.

  ‘He was a wild one, was Wulfa. Our mother’s despair and our father’s pride and joy. Old Frijaz now, he was the gambler, always looking for a way to get his hand
s on a drink, or a woman, but he was never a warrior, not in the way you are. And neither was I, for that matter. I was the quiet one, the sensible one, always having to pull my stupid older brother’s chestnuts out of the fire. Don’t get me wrong, we were decent fighters alright, we stood in the line and killed our share, but we were neither of us gifted, not like you. And not like him. He was …’ he paused, smiling at the memory, ‘he was magnificent. Faster than any man in the cohort. I see all three of us in you, boy. A good-sized portion of me, a little bit of Frijaz, may the gods help you, but mostly I see Wulfa. Every time you draw Lightning he’s there in your eyes. Every time you look at me over a shield’s rim on the practice ground, there he is. My younger brother didn’t give a fuck about the risks, he just loved to dance with his iron and see the other man’s face as his spear’s blade took the poor bastard’s life. It killed him in the end, of course. I’ve told you often enough that all heroes fall to the curse that makes them famous, and he was no different.’

  He fell silent again, and Egilhard knew his father well enough to let him think.

  ‘He danced into the Iceni at the battle that settled things for them, and that was the last time I saw him alive. He probably killed a dozen of them before they put him down, he was that good, but he had the curse of the hero on him alright. We found him after the battle, while the rest of them were busy hunting down what was left of the Britons and enslaving their women. There were wounds all over him, boy. All over him, his arms, his legs, his neck – someone had hit him with a spear hard enough to put it right through his mail, front and back – but there were dead men all round him. He’d still have been serving now, if he’d not had that restless spirit whispering blood and glory in his ear. Which is why I’ve told you not to be a hero so many times, not that you’ve ever listened. We burned his corpse that night, and doubtless we’ll have to do the same for you one day …’