by Jack Ludlow
It took two days to get the wounded back to civilisation, two days in which Titus Cornelius planned the revenge he would take on those who had mutilated them. For once he would put aside any thought of humanity or understanding and react as a Roman. He would surpass his father in the way he chastised the tribes, wondering if, years ago, Aulus had been too lenient. Let him hear of this and the great Macedonicus would want to lead another army to this place to finish what he had failed to achieve ten years past.
In his mind Titus imagined himself riding at his father’s side again, saw slaughtered men and cattle, for no beast or man would live, and a line of slaves. The women and children they would march into captivity. If the enemy had fields of crops they would be sown with salt, if they had wells they would poison them, forests they would burn so that anyone surviving would freeze in winter for want of the means to make a fire. Each thought of retribution piled on each other, but at the head of it all was the image of that Druid shaman hacking the centurion to death. Brennos he and his father would burn, patiently, over charcoal, and watch as the flesh fell slowly in strips off his pain-wracked body.
His commander was waiting for him as he marched, tired, hungry and covered in dust, into the command tent. That he was standing was unusual, for he was a person to have a care that his rank should be recognised. Just about to make a report, a raised hand stopped him.
‘Titus Cornelius, I have for you some very sad news. Your father, the great Macedonicus, is no longer with us. You are to return to Rome immediately.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Fulmina rubbed her belly again, trying to ease the pain that had been with her for months, getting steadily worse as if some beast was inside her eating at her vitals. The visit to the local healer had done little good: it had cost her a big slice of her meagre savings to be told something she already knew; how to brew an infusion of herbs, something her mother had taught her when she was a slip of a girl. She had asked Drisia to cast her bones and look into the future, but the soothsayer had claimed she could not see anything. Fulmina knew, deep down, that Drisia was lying, though she did not say so since there was nothing to do about it; it would either get better or get worse.
She had a peasant woman’s attitude to life and death, accepting the one with little joy and the other as inevitable, but she had realised that she was lonely; for all his faults she missed Clodius. He was not much of a husband, but he had a good, if wayward nature and he had never beaten her. She wanted him to come home, not just for herself but to take care of the boy if anything happened to her. As she cast her mind back over the last seven years she bitterly regretted the callous messages she had sent back to him. These had been carried by men who had had the money to buy their time off, unlike poor Clodius, who had forgotten to include that provision in his bargain with Dabo. Her mind turned to her own children. Demetrius, the eldest, had opened a bakery in Rome and was doing well.
‘That’s one in the eye to all those doubters,’ she said out loud, pulling herself to her feet. They had laughed at him when he said what he intended to do, but he had been right: city folk were sick of baking their own bread, so they flocked to his little shop, morning and afternoon, to buy it fresh. ‘Maybe Demetrius will take the boy in. He’s only got two of his own.’
There was no chance of her daughter taking care of him. She had eight children already and a constant struggle to feed them and the youngest son was worse than his father, Clodius. He was a true drunkard. Fulmina put her hands over her face, pressing hard. ‘Why don’t you come home, Clodius. Why?’
Aquila raced through the door, early for once, the huge dog Minca at his heels. ‘Guess what Gadoric taught me today, Mama,’ he yelled, and started spouting at her enthusiastically.
Not a single word made any sense, since he spoke in that gibberish she had been told was the shepherd’s native tongue, but it was some kind of poem. All this happened while he poured water over his head, which made it even harder to comprehend, then, in between mouthfuls of food, he was busy with the comb, Fulmina’s wedding present, slicking back his golden hair. The kiss he gave her barely touched her cheek, before he was gone. A stab of pain shot through her lower abdomen, and Fulmina worried over whether it was time for her to speak for it was something she dreaded, but also a matter she knew could not be left to anyone else. Should she wait up for him, or leave it till morning, when the sun was shining and the boy would go out to a day filled with lots to do? That was a way of avoiding endless questions, as well as a dark night for both of them, lots of time in which to feel miserable.
Barbinus’s overseer was not noted locally for his kind heart. He was, in fact, termed a miserable bastard by all and sundry. The fire iron he had in his hand, which was waving close to Aquila’s head, did nothing to dent that reputation.
‘Don’t you think the other female slaves knew what you two were about,’ Nicos yelled. ‘Mooning over each other behind that fence, sneaking off into the woods? I had it out of them at the threat of my whip when I saw you hanging about.’
Aquila did not reply, since there was really nothing to say. Only his own impatience at not seeing Sosia for three whole days, with no response to his taps on her shutters, had caused him to flout the normal rules, and enter the compound to ask for her whereabouts.
‘Just you thank the gods that she was intact. If you’d laid a hand on her, Cassius Barbinus would have strung you up and me as well, for letting it happen.’
The look of incomprehension on Aquila’s face must have registered. The fire iron came down to chest level and the boy felt it nudge into his ribs. Nicos stopped shouting, and instead growled at him. ‘When Barbinus wants a virgin that’s just what he means. Not goods soiled by the likes of you.’
‘A virgin?’ asked Aquila, shaking his head.
‘That’s right, boy. He took her, as is his right, a couple of nights ago. And then, when he’d had her, he shipped her off to Rome. If Sosia’s lucky and does what her new master wants he’ll like as not keep her in comfort but if she weeps, the way she did when she left here, then he’ll send her to the slave market for some other bugger to try, or even flog her to a brothel.’
The overseer had turned away, shaking his head and murmuring to himself about ‘tears, never heard the like’. Aquila was rooted to the spot, his mind and body churning, until he remembered the single piercing scream he had heard that night and realised that it had not, in fact, come from the throat of a terrified fox.
He would have struggled to sleep that night, anyway, but any thoughts he had were driven from his mind as he lay there listening to the painful groans of his mother as she tossed and turned in her cot. Aquila was young and eventually slumber took him, blotting out a misery that only came back to him when he had been awake for several minutes, a feeling that destroyed any desire to eat. He signalled to the dog, up and ready even if it was barely light.
‘Come back here!’ said Fulmina, sharply.
‘I’ve got to go, Mama,’ he replied, listlessly. ‘Gadoric won’t let the sheep out till Minca’s there.’
‘Then he’ll just have to wait,’ she said, favouring the hound with a baleful expression. Minca might be big and fierce, but he knew who was the boss in this hut. Fulmina’s look was enough to cause him to emit a small whine, wag his tail once, and sit down.
‘Oh, please,’ pleaded Aquila. ‘It’s nearly full daylight already.’
Fulmina ignored him and went to the big chest in the corner of the room and opened the lid. ‘I’ve made something for you. A gift.’
The prospect of a present dented Aquila’s impatience a bit. ‘For me?’
‘Yes.’ With her back to the boy, bent over the open chest, Fulmina clutched at her stomach, her eyes shut tight. The pain was terrible and she fought to control her voice so Aquila would not notice. ‘And I want you to have it now, before it’s too late.’
‘Too late?’ he asked, confused.
She snapped to cover her mistake, turning round to berate hi
m. ‘When do I ever see you. You go off before dawn, you’re here for all of a minute before you go off chasing girls, and you come back after darkness. I wonder that you still count this as your home.’
He blushed slightly at the mention of girls, but stayed silent, just staring at her with a hurt look. Fulmina melted, unaware that Aquila was concealing a pain of his own. ‘You’re young. Enjoy it while you can.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For not doing as Papa asked. I haven’t looked after you.’
He was so serious, standing there with a genuine look of shame, that Fulmina clutched him to her, biting back the stinging sensation in her eyes. ‘Oh, get on with you, Aquila. I wouldn’t have you any other way.’
‘I promise to be here more often, Mama. I would stay now but I have to take the dog back to Gadoric.’
‘I know, son. And so you shall. Just as soon as you put this on.’
She held out a leather amulet. It was deep brown, rubbed with beeswax to make it shine and Fulmina had embroidered it with the outline of an eagle, wings outstretched. More than that she had managed to raise the bird so that it stood out from the background, giving it a sense of real movement. The thongs to bind the amulet were threaded through the eyes, and she slipped it onto his arm, pulling them tight and lacing them quickly.
‘Do you like it?’ she asked.
‘It’s wonderful,’ he replied enthusiastically, fingering the eagle.
‘Now sit down for a moment, while I tell you something.’ He glanced anxiously at the waiting dog, then composing himself, he looked back at Fulmina. ‘There is something of value in this amulet, something that belongs to you.’ Aquila started to speak, to ask what it contained, but she put her fingers of one hand over his lips and clutched the other tightly. ‘No. Just listen. When you are old enough to fear no man, you must unpick the stitching around the bird. There you will find another eagle, a valuable one. It is your birthright. The chain to hold it is sown into the leather that laces the amulet to your arm. You must guard it with your life.’
The boy fingered the stiff leather. Fulmina could see that he was about to start asking a host of questions. ‘Say nothing! But swear to me, by all the gods, that you will do as I ask.’
The silence lasted for what seemed an age. He looked into her eyes and his young face registered a look of surprise, as if he was seeing the ravages of pain for the first time.
‘Why now?’
‘You have brought me more joy that I can say yet now I have to tell you that I am not your mama, just as Clodius is not your real father.’ The boy dropped his head, trying to hide his emotions. He kept it there as Fulmina continued. ‘I wanted you to become a man before telling you this, but I shall not have the time.’
The sun rose high in the sky as she spoke, telling the boy how Clodius had found him; of the valuable token he now wore on his arm, and of their fruitless search for his true parents. All the time he looked at the ground, with only an occasional squeeze on her hand to indicate the pain he was feeling.
She touched the eagle gently. ‘All this time, I’ve kept this, though it could have eased our lives no end. Clodius wanted to sell it and buy another farm.’ His voice was hoarse. She did not quite hear what he asked but she knew the nature of the question. ‘At first I wanted to keep it so that we could claim our reward for raising you. Besides, I wouldn’t have trusted Clodius to get a proper price for it. Even if he did, I wonder how much of the value would have been left when he got home. If we’d had enough to buy another farm he’d have drunk that away in no time.’
‘He wouldn’t have had to go away.’
‘It was the dreams, really, and once Drisia had done with her spitting, and cast her bones, I knew it was true, since she saw your future as I did.’
For the first time in an age the boy looked up. He was hurt, that was clear from his expression. But he had not shed a single tear.
‘It happened more than once, Aquila. You would appear in my dreams, that eagle on your neck, a grown man, but no farmer toiling in the fields. Crowds cheered you, and you wore white robes tinged with purple and a laurel wreath around your ears. All my dreams spoke of greatness, of a destiny for you, in which you will take your rightful place in the world. That is really why I kept the charm. It’s part of your path to that destiny. By raising you, Clodius and I have played our part.’
She squeezed his hand again, but this time he spoke. ‘You’re going to die?’
‘Yes.’
‘How soon?’
She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s of no account, Aquila. What matters is this. You know that there’s a path to follow. Drisia and I have seen that it won’t be an easy one. You face death many times.’ She rubbed the leather amulet again. ‘But I want you to swear never to part with this. I can’t tell you how, but this alone will propel you to glory. In the bottom of the chest you’ll find some coins, not much, but enough perhaps to get you to your papa.’ Her face clouded at the mention of her husband. ‘If he tries to persuade you to sell it, tell him to go jump in the latrine.’
The head was down again, the voice forlorn. ‘He’s not really my papa.’
‘That won’t stop him,’ she snapped. Then her voice softened. ‘He’s not a bad man, Aquila, just a weak one. Take care of him, and if you do have some fortune, ease his old age. Now come over here with me and swear.’
She led the boy by his hand to the tiny altar stuck in the corner of the hut. Fulmina had decorated it with meat, fruit and flowers, each a votive offering to the deities that she worshipped. Farmers’ gods, since she had held to the older beliefs all her life, the religion of the land from which life came. She made incantations to Luna, to Conditor, the God of the Harvest, Volturnus the God of the River and Robigo, Goddess of the Fields, using words that she had learnt at her own mother’s knee.
‘We need no priests, Aquila. No visit to the temple, with a fee for the augurs and a chicken sacrificed that they’ll eat for dinner. No offering to the gods that rich folk worship, either. These are our gods. The sun that brings life and the fruits of that life, the moon that tells us of the change of season. Swear by these gods, the ones we raised you by, that you will abide by my wishes, that you will keep that charm safe and never sell it.’
The boy touched each of the offerings in turn then put his hand on the turf of the altar. In his mind he recalled Gadoric’s voice, talking of the deities that his tribe worshipped. They were the same kind of deities celebrated at this turf altar, even if they had different names. Fulmina, having finished her prayers, nudged him. His voice was steady as he spoke.
‘I swear.’
She fought back the pain in her belly once more, with greater ease somehow, no longer caring. She had done with her task. ‘Now take the dog and go see your barbarian.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There was an unnatural stillness to the woods, a lack of sound that made the hairs on Aquila’s neck twitch and the dog sensed it as well, the usual ritual of sniffing, then marking every tenth tree forgotten. Instead he would run a bit ahead, stop and test the wind, before moving on again. They left the woods and crossed the open field towards the pens. The sheep were still there but he could see no sign of Gadoric. Minca yelped suddenly and raced for the tiny lean-to hut that, set hard against a wall of rock, served the shepherd as home. Aquila put aside the knot of fear he felt and ran after the dog. The rope-hinged door had been torn off. What few possessions Gadoric had owned were scattered around the place and his cot, fashioned from rough-hewn saplings, was broken. The pole on which he hung his gutted birds and small game was empty and the long shepherd’s staff lay on the floor, the white wood of the sword cuts it had sustained stark and frightening. The dog was whining loudly, sniffing at the floor. Aquila bent down and rubbed his fingers over the hard packed earth. The blood was still wet so whatever had occurred in the hut had happened very recently.
Minca whined again, looking pleadingl
y at Aquila and the boy covered his eyes to fight back the unaccustomed tears, for his heart was as heavy as a stone. How much loss could he take in one day? First Fulmina and the story of his birth, worse still the words backed up by the lined and weary face that told him of her impending death. Now the shepherd, who had come to occupy the central position in his life; he would not have known how to say what Gadoric had become to him, a surrogate father, but that was what had happened. The flaxen-haired giant had refined his crude skills and taught him to hunt, snare and trap, had shown him which bait to use and how to fish, the proper way to catch a snake without being bitten plus myriad other ways to survive in the woods. Gadoric had set up targets and made him practice at throwing his spear until the boy could be sure to hit a wild boar in the right spot, even if both he, and his quarry, were running flat out. They had had sessions with wooden swords that went on till Aquila’s arm ached, but he could thrust, cut and parry enough to occasionally force his tutor onto the defensive. The bow that the shepherd had fashioned, along with the arrows he had cut, feathered and trimmed was back in the hut. Gadoric had worked hard with the boy until he could down a flying bird.
More than that, he had taught him his own tongue and told tales of barbarian gods clashing in the heavens as they fought for power, of great battles and mighty feats of arms, of lands to the north where the forests ran on for days, inhabited by fierce tribes who burnt their enemies alive in wicker cages. Aquila fingered the raised eagle on the still unfamiliar amulet as if that would clear the rush of images that filled his mind. Blood, but no body; that meant that whoever fought Gadoric had not killed him, but had taken him away. The youngster leapt across the cramped space, pulling aside the piles of kindling faggots that Gadoric had heaped in one corner.