Scaurus shrugged without interest.
‘It’s immaterial, First Spear. He could be as pure as a novice priestess and that would change nothing. My question wasn’t about his widely accepted guilt, I want to know why he’s here.’
Frontinius nodded.
‘Very well. In the first place it was my prefect, Septimius Equitius, who made the request of me, and he is a man whose judgement I had learned to trust during his time in command here. He owed a debt of honour to Sollemnis, the former legatus of Sixth Victorious. The legatus was the boy’s real father, and this was the way in which he was being asked to discharge that debt. And don’t mistake this for an attempt to shift the blame to Legatus Equitius. If there’s a hammer and nails in my future then I’ll do my own dying. However protracted the agony might be I can only cross the river once. All I’m trying to say is that there was a man’s honour involved in the decision.’
He paused for a moment, picking his next line of attack.
‘There was benefit to the cohort too. I exacted a price for Corvus’s acceptance from Legatus Sollemnis in addition to the large sum of money that he contributed to the burial fund. Corvus was accompanied here by a legion centurion not long retired, a legion cohort’s first spear, in fact, and I made his service here for a year part of the bargain.’ He chuckled darkly, unable to resist the humour in his memory of Tiberius Rufius’s smug smile once he had a vine stick back in his hand. ‘Turns out the man would have killed with his bare hands for the chance to bellow his lungs out at a century one more time …
‘There was one more reason for my decision, the most important of all. I would have given Prefect Equitius the hard word if I hadn’t seen something in the boy, and neither his honour, nor the gold, and not even the bonus centurion that sweetened the deal would have swayed me. I’m not stupid enough to go risking my life, and those of the officers I serve with, not without a good reason.
Scaurus shifted, staring hard into his eyes.
‘What reason?’
Frontinius stared back at him, his eyes flint hard in the half-light.
‘He’s a born soldier, Prefect, simply that, a born soldier. I’ve spent most of my adult life chasing recruits round these hills, teaching them how to take their iron to the barbarians that threaten their people. I’ve seen thousands of them, good, bad and indifferent, and I’ll tell you now, without hesitation, that he’s the most able warrior I’ve ever met, and the best leader to boot. He knows what to do, he does it without hesitation, and he’s faster and more skilled with a blade than any man I’ve met. The men of his former century would cover his arse with their shields even if it put them at risk of catching a spear themselves. Given a different roll of the dice he would have risen to command a legion without breaking sweat …’
He stopped, unable to read the prefect’s expression in the shadows.
‘You weren’t at the battle of Lost Eagle, Prefect, but if you had been you wouldn’t be asking me to explain my decision. When you get the chance to see him fight, then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that you’ll never see a man throw his iron around with so much grace, or so much purpose.’
The prefect laughed quietly.
‘Very poetic.’
Frontinius shook his head dismissively.
‘Fuck poetry, that was simple fact. And now, Prefect, you’ve toyed with me for long enough. You’ve made your decision, now have the decency to tell me what it is. If you want me on a cross then that’s how I’ll depart this life. But I warn you, if you plan to nail him up then you’d better have something good up your sleeve because there’s at least one century of Tungrians that will paint the floor black with their own blood and that of anyone that gets in their way before they’ll stand still and watch that happen.’
* * *
Far to the north of the Roman wall whose stones he had so recently trodden as conqueror, in a forest clearing not unlike the one in which the war had been set in train a few short months before, Calgus, lord of the northern tribes, was arguing his corner against growing opposition. While only one of the tribal leaders dared to speak out against him, half a dozen other implacable faces were arrayed behind the old man, mirroring his grim obduracy. Calgus shook his head and scowled at the old man, raising his hands and eyes to the skies as if to seek guidance from their gods.
‘No, Brennus. We have not lost this war. In fact this war has barely begun, and yet already we have two mighty prizes to parade in front of our people.’
The king of the Votadini tribe leaned back tiredly in his chair, glaring back at Calgus from beneath the hood of a heavy cloak.
‘As you keep saying. My people are expected to be happy with the head of a dead Roman officer and a meaningless metal bird on a stick when what they really need is their dead menfolk back. That, and an end to the killing. Can you magic forth either of those things from your bird on a stick, Calgus? At least we had peace with the Romans before this war, unlike your troublesome Selgovae. There were no forts on our territory before this revolt, whereas your lands were already studded with their outposts. You argued for us to abandon our ties with the Romans when you had already long since soured your relationship with them, like a fox without a tail convincing its brothers to go without theirs.’
The old man looked around to his fellows, holding his hands out in apparent exasperation.
‘Now they will litter our territory with their soldiers in the way that they already control your tribe’s land. We will live under their control, no longer trusted to run our own affairs but instead jealously watched, and herded like the cattle we will become.’
The old king was pushing harder than Calgus had expected, encouraged by the knowledge that he had more than enough supporters around the grove to give Calgus’s bodyguards a decent fight, and made bold by the combination of his anger and apparent security. Calgus took a deep breath and started again.
‘They used to control our land, but not any more, King Brennus. You may recall that we burned out every fort on Selgovae ground in the first two days of our war with these usurpers. The Selgovae are newly freed from their oppressive presence on our land, and we will not lightly fall back under their domination. The prizes that we took in battle with the Romans will draw the northern tribes back to us. They are the symbols of an empire grown newly vulnerable. They tell us that the legions can be defeated, that we can be free again, they tell us that …’
The Votadini king laughed at him in shockingly open defiance, stiffening Calgus’s posture with astonished anger.
‘They tell us that we got lucky, Calgus. They tell us that you turned a Roman against his own, to lead a legion on to ground that made them helpless against our attack. We cannot expect such fortune again, if indeed I should call it fortune. We may have defeated a legion, but before the end of that day we were running like frightened children with two more legions on our heels, and their bloody cavalry. I lost a son to their spears, a son I will never see again thanks to this adventure of yours. A son whose head will have been taken by their soldiers to decorate some barrack or other …’
His nephew Martos, a scar-faced warrior with a fearsome reputation in battle, stared at Calgus from behind his uncle’s chair with a look of thinly veiled anger, a half-dozen of his men at his back. Brennus sat back in the chair, his eyes locked on Calgus’s, and with a flash of insight the Selgovae king knew that the challenge was coming. He strolled easily across the ground between them, looming over the old man and bending to speak quietly into his face. Martos and his men stiffened, ready to air their blades if Calgus as much as touched their leader.
‘Got a new champion, have you, old man? Could it be your sister’s boy that’s stood behind you, perhaps? Or will you do this the old-fashioned way and turn your men loose on mine, see who prevails, eh?’
Brennus looked him straight in the face, no sign of fear in his eyes.
‘There will be no challenge if you agree to make peace with the Romans. They have two full legions on ou
r soil even now, they dominate the land around their destroyed forts on the north road as they start to rebuild them, and yet you claim to have broken their grip on us for ever. If we seek to offer them resistance those legions will roll over us and grind us into the ground we stand on.’ He shook his head at Calgus, then turned to the men behind him. ‘This rebellion is over! We’re back in the iron fist, but this time there’ll be no Roman tribute payment to soften the indignity of our lost sovereignty. The best we can hope for is to trade those cursed spoils of battle, and humble promises of peace and good behaviour, for some measure of normality. Until we do their legions will trample our land and people under foot, forever seeking revenge for their wounded pride.’
Calgus turned away, affecting to consider the suggestion. It was more than a suggestion, of course, more like an order from the leaders of the other tribes arrayed behind the old man, and an assured death sentence for him. If the tribes negotiated with Rome he knew that nothing less than his own head, alongside that of the Roman legatus currently sat in a jar of cedar oil in his tent, would satisfy their lust for revenge. Not unless they could take him alive, of course, for a lengthy humiliation and eventual ritual execution. He turned back to face the implacable faces with a slow secret smile.
‘So, it’s to be peace at the price of my head. If that’s how you all want it, I suppose I have little choice. And I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that my sacrifice won’t be the only one you have to make.’
He stood and waited, watching a glimmer of understanding dawn on the old man’s face while the others around him frowned their incomprehension.
‘You have hostages?’
Calgus shook his head sadly.
‘Brennus, Brennus, what do you take me for? Of course I’ve taken hostages. Since you’re all culpable for our defeat, you can all pay the price for our surrender. If you betray me, you betray your closest family members.’ He pointed at each man in turn. ‘Your sons will never reach manhood. Your wife will never warm your bed again. Your daughters will never run to their father’s arms again. And, to be quite clear, they will all leave this life in slow, hard ways. I’ve sent the right men to make sure of that.’ He spread his arms wide, encompassing the gathering with a feral grin. ‘So, if you want to take my head for your would-be Roman friends, go ahead.’
He waited ten long seconds for anyone to move. ‘I thought not.’ He stepped close to the seated elder, a grim scowl replacing the smile. ‘In that case, let’s get back to business as usual, shall we? And in case any of you are tempted to put a sword in my back, I’ll warn you that if the men holding your family members don’t receive messages from me as expected, then you’ll be killing your loved ones just as if you’d put the knife to them yourselves.’
Brennus stared up at him with a look of horrified distaste.
‘Do you expect to rule us in this way for ever, Calgus?’
‘For ever, Brennus? Of course not! But I will keep you under control for long enough that we can finish the job we started. The Romans may have twenty thousand angry troops in the field, but they’re on unfamiliar ground in a land filled with hostile tribes, and the legions from the south and west can’t stay up here for ever. The first sniff of trouble in their own areas and the governor will have them away down the road to their fortresses, leaving the Sixth Legion and the auxiliaries to hold the line. I’ll have them bottled up behind their wall by the end of the summer, and then we’ll see if your people still want peace on Roman terms. I’ll chop our invaders up piece by piece, I’ll make them rue their desire to expand into our lands, and I will send them away with their tails between their legs. And you, Brennus, all of you fools, you should worry less about for ever and more about the next few days.’
Marcus was still discussing the next day’s march to Arab Town with his friends when the prefect’s orderly delivered a polite request for the centurion to join Prefect Scaurus and the first spear in his residence. He went back to his quarter, changed into a clean tunic and hurried up the hill just as the evening’s quiet gloom was finally surrendering to night, and the torches were being lit along the fort’s streets. Inside the building he was conducted to the prefect’s private rooms, where he was surprised to find Scaurus sitting opposite Frontinius, a sword unsheathed in his lap. At the room’s far end stood a foot-high statue, surrounded by a ring of small candles. It was a representation of a man in the act of stabbing a bull to death, his left hand pulling back the animal’s head while the other wielded the knife buried in its throat. The first spear nodded to the chair set facing the two men.
‘Take a seat, Centurion.’
He sat down with a questioning glance to both of the men, already pretty much sure of the reason for the summons. The prefect nodded a greeting, tapping the sword’s blade.
‘Forgive the impolite nature of this meeting, Marcus Valerius Aquila, but given the circumstances I decided that not to take the precaution would be foolhardy.’
Marcus nodded his understanding, keeping his eyes fixed on the prefect’s.
‘You’ll know why I’ve asked you to join us …?’
He nodded again.
‘You’ve uncovered my secret, Prefect, and you want to talk to me before you decide what to do with me.’
The senior officer raised an eyebrow.
‘You’re assuming that I haven’t already made that decision.’
‘Yes, sir, I am. If you’d already decided to have me arrested I would have found myself at the point of a sword without warning, my hands bound, and then thrown into the punishment cells for safe keeping. And if you’d already decided to ignore my situation I probably wouldn’t even be here, you’d be agreeing with the first spear the best way to keep me out of trouble. As it is you have a sword ready to use, which implies either mistrust of my potential actions or a lack of confidence in your own abilities. Or both.’
Scaurus laughed, flashing a glance at Frontinius.
‘Confident even in the face of execution, Valerius Aquila?’
‘I’ve lived with the prospect of an unjust death, like the one visited on my father, my mother, my brother, my sisters, my uncle and my cousins, for several months now. It’s hard to stay scared for that long, Prefect.’
He closed his mouth and waited for the prefect to speak. Scaurus looked into his eyes for a moment, then shrugged slightly and continued.
‘Like you, I was born and raised in Rome. Unlike you, although I am the son of an old and respected line, I was not born to a wealthy family. Our clan fell on hard times during the Year of the Four Emperors. My ancestor was unlucky enough to back the wrong man a hundred years ago, and the Emperor Vespasian made him pay for it with enough severity that for a while it was touch and go as to whether the family name would survive at all. We’ve managed to rub along well enough since then, but we’ve never been sufficiently well connected to amount to very much beyond the usual imperial service, a rather shabby existence for a family that can trace its line almost seven hundred years, back to the overthrow of the last king of the city. My mother died in childbirth, and my father was killed serving on the German frontier when I was young, and so I found myself living with my uncle’s family, essentially a burden to them and, if not resented, hardly welcomed with open arms. It was inevitable that I would seek a means of escape from their charity, and I found it in the patronage of a man of great power.’
He paused, a half-smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the listening men.
‘And now you’re wondering in just what way I prostituted myself to make that connection. Exactly what was it I had to offer an older man that would make him take me into his house and treat me like a son? What did I give him in return for the status and favour that he bestowed on me?’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’ve lived with the sideways glances and innuendos for half of my life now, but in point of fact my benefactor simply took a chance on me. He plucked me from a life destined to disappoint everyone involved, not least me, and he raised my face to see the heights to wh
ich I might climb. He did this because he saw something in my wildness that he believed was worth his time and effort to bring to fruition. He looked into the eyes of a disaffected youth and saw a warrior waiting to be released.’
He stood, raising the sword to point at the complex statue standing amid its ring of tiny bright flames.
‘He made one small change to my life, almost insignificant compared to what you’ve been through, Valerius Aquila, but just as deep in its impact as the traumas you’ve endured. He brought me to the worship of the god Mithras, the Unconquered Sun, the soldier’s true god, and in doing so he gave me the purpose I was lacking. I won’t bore you with the changes that my service to Mithras has wrought on my life, but I will tell you this – his decision to take the chance that I could be rehabilitated led me to the path I still follow, a life of service to Mithras and the warrior code followed by my sponsor and his brothers. Men who became, through my service to the god, my brothers too.’
He stared at the statue for a long moment before continuing.
‘Don’t underestimate Mithras, either of you. I have been in more than one tight situation, with weaker men around me reduced to little better than panic, including some that were appointed to lead their fellow men into battle, and my faith in him has kept my sword hand steady, and ready to exploit the opportunities that he always provides.’
He turned, pointing the sword’s long blade directly at Marcus.
‘I can see in you the same restless purpose that I felt fifteen years ago, and which my sponsor chose to harness in the service of our god. You can do great things, Valerius Aquila, or you can continue with your current path and eventually be discovered and put to death alongside those you have come to regard as your brothers. Every day that you remain here is another toss of the coin, another chance for the emperor’s head to land face down and destroy everything you hold dear. I have a choice for you to make, between service to a noble god in the pursuit of the soldier’s ideal and hanging on here until the day that your hiding place is discovered.’
Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two Page 4