Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer

by Richard Foreman

  “You look like a Briton,” Fabius had remarked, whilst nodding in approval earlier that morning.

  “I look like a complete c-”

  “Convincing mercenary,” Teucer remarked, cutting Oppius off.

  Teucer naturally looked and felt more comfortable as he walked alongside his friend – and he permitted himself an ironic smile that morning when he changed into the garb of his native land.

  Thankfully it had stopped raining. The two men walked, trying their best not to march, through a half-formed track in a wood and came out to look upon a lush valley. Lucius had to admit that Britain was an attractive and fertile land – or “a sometimes green and pleasant land,” Teucer said.

  “This is Kent. The garden of Britain,” the archer remarked, not without a little pride, as he gazed across the valley.

  “You’re still clearly fond of this land.”

  “It’s my home, for better or for worse.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “It’s a long walk.”

  Teucer, whose real name was Adiminus, was born into relative privilege in his tribe, being the youngest son of the region’s chieftain.

  “I was not the hardiest of children and my father took little notice of me, preferring to spend his energies on my elder brother, Caradog. They often hunted together. I was either too young or ill to join them. My mother doted upon her eldest son too. He was athletic and charismatic, although personally I grew to find him dull and often cruel. I was largely left to grow up by myself, although I possessed a curious mind and I would often spend time with visiting traders and craftsmen. Once I developed physically I also went off on my own and practised my archery. The harder you practise the luckier you get. Shortly after I came of age my father had a hunting accident, which left him crippled and bed-ridden. I began to spend a lot of time with him. Partly I felt sorry for my father and partly he grew to enjoy my company. He often asked me about the foreign ideas and stories that I had picked up from people who had visited the tribe over the years. I expressed to him how I wanted to one day leave the village and venture further afield, beyond Britain and Gaul even. He who knows only of the village knows nothing of the village, I somewhat conceitedly remarked to him. Trade and exchange, in the form of goods, skills and culture should be encouraged, I argued. Ideas should have sex with one another, to create new ideas. I dare say I sometimes bored myself with my zeal but my father I think was influenced by my arguments. He confided that he wanted me to succeed him as chieftain. “Don’t be the chieftain I was,” he confessed one time to me... Recognising how close father and I had become – and seeing that my father was perhaps positioning me to succeed him – my brother became envious and resentful towards me. I suspect that Caradog hated me even more because I was neither envious nor resentful of him at this time... My father died and Caradog accused me of poisoning him. His death was sudden and suspicious; there was no real evidence against me though. Yet my brother swiftly poisoned the tribe’s minds against me and I was banished. My mother and a number of the tribal elders interceded to stop my being condemned to death... I think about it nigh on every day, whether my brother planned to have my father killed and to implicate me – but at the end of each day I’m no closer to discovering the truth.”

  “Do you want revenge?” Oppius asked, thinking as much about his own father’s death as Teucer’s. He would sharpen, rather than bait, his sword if ever he encountered the man who had murdered him. And then challenge him in single combat.

  “I would much rather just have my father back,” the archer replied, with a gentle but mournful expression on his face.

  11.

  The embers of dusk glowed akin to the embers of the ensuing camp fire that evening. Teucer trapped and cooked a couple of rabbits. Over supper the Briton schooled the Roman in a few choice words and phrases in his language that might get him out of trouble. Oppius would be attacked and executed instantly if he revealed himself to be a Roman, even if he pretended to be a deserter. In terms of deserting Oppius remarked how he would not blame Teucer if he had thoughts of deserting and returning home.

  “I do not want the garden of Britain to serve as your grave.”

  “The legion is my home now. This mission may not be such a lost cause too. If there’s one thing a recruiting officer will do - it’s make himself available for a couple of mercenaries looking for employment,” the Briton replied, his tone conveying twice the confidence that he felt inside.

  The two men set off early the next morning and soon came to a large settlement. From the intelligence provided by Caesar, Teucer thought it was a good a place as any to locate the Roman agent. Oppius was far from overwhelmed by the village of Gowdhust. The houses were rickety, at best. Hope and prayers, far more than building materials and architectural skills, kept most of the dwellings upright. Wild-eyed children scampered about, ankle deep in mud and grime. The entire settlement smelled like a sewer, Oppius thought to himself, scrunching up his face in disgust upon first being assaulted by the stench.

  The only cheer emanated from the hut which housed and served alcohol.

  “Well if I were recruiting for the army I’d head for the nearest place which served alcohol. If you wait here, I’ll see if I can find some answers,” Teucer remarked and headed off to the hut where a bunch of Britons were either roaring with laughter or asleep in a corner. Oppius tried not to look conspicuous whilst wearing a scowl upon his face, to help dissuade anyone from approaching him. The unwelcoming expression was little different to the one he normally wore. The inhabitants of the settlement seemed little interested in the stranger however. They had seen plenty of mercenaries in their time and raised not their pale, drawn faces to the large archer as they walked by him.

  Thankfully Teucer returned relatively quickly. He bought a couple of lose-tongued barbarians a drink (although Caesar did not furnish the centurion with a cohort for the mission, he did furnish him with plenty of gold) and then came back after downing his drink.

  “The bad news is it seems we missed our quarry by a day or so. But the good news is I know where he’s heading.”

  “The worst news is that the agent is travelling with a bodyguard of three picts,” the Briton remarked as the two men walked toward the next major settlement.

  “Picts?” Oppius replied, only half concentrating on his friend as he shook his head in disapproval again at the quality of the road that they were travelling on. Numerous wagon tracks scarred the ground and the path seemed to meander more than the Tiber. Britain would not be built in a day, but Rome would build it up, the centurion thought to himself.

  “They’re from the north. They’ve got a language, dress sense and cuisine all of their own – which you’d want them to keep for themselves. With their red hair, pale skin and rasping war cry they’ll be some of the scariest foes you’ve ever encountered. And their women are even scarier. Indeed this trio are probably down from their home to get away from their wives,” Teucer expressed, half in jest. “But these picts could prove formidable. They fight hard and dirty. Think of this agent as being protected by Roscius, times three. Caesar and Rome would do well not to poke the hornet’s nest of the tribes in the far north.”

  Oppius and Teucer had little time to worry about barbarians from the north however, as they were soon attacked by local brigands.

  12.

  Rain began to spit down again from a slate coloured sky. Leaves rustled and then bracken snapped.

  They appeared quickly, in two pairs, from either side of the dense woodland that the road ran through. All four of the young men had their bows drawn. Oppius briefly thought to himself if the youths had camouflaged themselves, or it they were naturally grimy and feral. Both Oppius and Teucer knew that they were at a disadvantage and resisted reaching for their weapons.

  The apparent leader of the brigands stepped forward and occupied the middle of the road. The youth had a sinewy body, harelip and sadistic aspect, which sh
one as brightly as the dagger he held up, after slinging his bow back over his shoulder.

  “This here is our road – and you need to pay a toll.”

  Teucer fancied that he would gladly have paid the toll if he thought that it would have gone to the upkeep of the road.

  Oppius assessed the situation. The youths would be easy to best, just as soon as they lowered their bows. With three of them still training their bows on the two of them it was likely that at least one of them would not escape falling to the brigands. Already the centurion noticed how their arms were tiring though, whilst also grinning inanely as they thought about what they would spend their booty on. They would also soon switch to holding their daggers too as greed overtook them and they searched their victims for any valuables they possessed. The two brigands to his right, nearest to him, looked strong but unskilled. He would allow Teucer to deal with their leader in front of him and the pock-marked barbarian to his left.

  “Let’s not fuck about. What have you got on you?”

  Both soldiers, thinking the same thing, merely raised their arms – willing to be searched – rather than retrieved their valuables themselves. The lead brigand paused however, just as he was about to search Teucer.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, squinting suspiciously at the archer.

  “Doubtful. I probably would have killed you if we had met before.”

  “No, I do know you. You’re Adiminus. This, lads, is the brother of our chieftain. Caradog should reward us if we bring him back with us,” the youth remarked, his harelip curling even more, in a smirk.

  “How is my brother?”

  “He’s doing a lot better than you, by the looks of it,” he replied, with a snigger. His companions grinned at his joke too. Two of them slung their bows over their shoulders and removed their hunting knives.

  “And how is my mother?”

  “She’s dead. She crossed over a year ago.”

  “Give her my regards, when you see her.”

  “What? You should be worried about the kind of regards your brother is going to show you. He’ll welcome you with a campfire – and then cook you on it,” the brigand replied, letting out a laugh.

  They all now looked at each other and laughed. It was the distraction that the professional soldiers had been waiting for. In one swift, smooth movement Teucer gripped the brigand by the throat in one hand and plucked an arrow from the quiver on his back with the other – and plunged it into his enemy’s right eye. The blood curdling scream cut through the air, as all matter of creatures retreated further into the woods, frightened by the unnatural noise. Reacting at the same time – and with the same swiftness - Oppius pulled out his dagger and threw it into the barrel-chest of the youth who still had an arrow nooked upon his bow. Shortly afterwards he was attacked by the other brigand to his right. Oppius caught his knife-hand though as he was about to slash – and slammed his forearm into his opponent’s face, crunching and crushing the cartilage in his nose. Oppius then twisted his hand back so the brigand relinquished his dagger to him. The blood gushing from his face soon ran into that coming from his throat, as the centurion sliced open his neck. Oppius looked up to check where the remaining brigand was, readying himself to fend him off – but all he could see was a figure racing through the forest. The wood was too dense for Teucer to take him down with a shot from his bow.

  “How far is the nearest village?” Oppius asked, concerned that the remaining brigand could quickly raise a larger force.

  “Far enough, but we should get moving,” the Briton replied, seemingly unmoved by the news about his mother and older brother.

  13.

  Evening fell.

  Caesar finally dismissed his legates and high-ranking centurions. On his own, he sighed and buried his head in his hands, his elbows resting upon a make-shift map unfurled upon the table. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Not even Servilia was this exhausting, he joked to himself. The encampment was fortified though and supplies sufficient, for now. Yet a prospective shortage of food and the absence of his cavalry meant that he could not make further inroads into Britain and satisfy his ambitions. He sighed again and screwed up his face in disdain as he thought of how he would have to court and win over some of the local tribal chieftains. It should have been that they needed to court and win him over. Perhaps he should make an example of one of the tribes – and the rest might fall into line. Yet such an action could galvanise them against him. Yet they already seemed to have allied themselves against him. Original intelligence had suggested that factional in-fighting would prevent a grand alliance. Was it the case that the Roman agent on these shores was not just recruiting soldiers for Gaul, but conspiring with the tribes here to defeat him?

  Caesar briefly turned his thoughts to his new centurion and wondered how he was progressing. He had fought well in the shallows upon the beach; Caesar envisioned that he would fare equally well upon being thrown in at the deep end. One of the legates had approached him that day, saying that one of Oppius’ comrades, one Roscius, said that he would be willing to be sent out to help the centurion with his mission. Caesar admired the centurion for the loyalty and friendship he had inspired but he refused the request. At the very least he hoped that Oppius would be able to kill the traitor. Joseph had asked him the other evening that if the centurion returned and said that he had completed his mission and murdered the agent how would he know if he was telling the truth?

  “Soldiers are honest souls Joseph - it’s a politician who you need to distrust when he promises you something.”

  Caesar next turned his attention to some of the correspondence on his table. Letters from Brutus, Pompey and Balbus all needed responding to. Yet the first letters he replied to were that of Julia, his daughter, and Octavius, his young nephew. He smiled upon reading Julia’s letter when she mentioned overhearing Cicero at a party.

  “Do you know any man, even if he has concentrated on the art of oratory to the exclusion of all else, who can speak better than Caesar? Or anyone who makes so many witty remarks? Or whose vocabulary is so varied and yet so exact?”

  He smiled, partly because Cicero was the sole person who Caesar would have said the above in relation to as well. Although he did not always share his politics, Caesar was constant in his admiration for the former consul. He thought of how he would try to introduce Octavius to the great writer and statesman when he was next in Rome.

  Caesar heard someone approach and he wiped the expression of fatigue off his face, as if he were wiping away a film of sweat. As it was Joseph however who entered Caesar soon wore tiredness – and warmth – in his features. He could not help but yawn though.

  “You should get some sleep,” the old Jewish servant remarked, in a spirit of both fussiness and concern.

  “I’ve got too much on my mind. I’m finding it difficult to sleep.”

  “Perhaps I could make boring you to sleep part of my official duties.”

  “And how would you go about fulfilling such a duty?”

  “Hmm, I could either recite some of Cato’s speeches – or tell you about the most interesting dish British cuisine has to offer.”

  14.

  The coals upon the brazier burned as intensely as the heated look in the chieftain’s eyes. Caradog flared his nostrils and stared at the breathless pock-marked youth who had just delivered the news, that not only had three of his warriors been slain but that his brother had returned. Had he come back to take his revenge? Caradog creased his brow in thought – and worry. If Adiminus had returned to take his revenge however, why was he travelling in the opposite direction to his village? Caradog angrily dismissed his attendants – and even the woman he intended to take tonight. She could have the pleasure of his company and favour another time.

  The jewellery-laden chieftain poured himself a large measure of wine. His mind was filled with a hundred thoughts, breeding like rats. He could not ultimately find out his brother’s intentions until he encountered him. He could not ul
timately live in peace until his brother was dead. First the Romans arrived, unsettling the region – and now his brother had returned to cause him personal disquiet. Yet were the two things related? Caradog recalled how one of his archers had reported seeing his brother fighting alongside the Romans on the beach. The chieftain had laughed at the idea at the time, but now it made sense. Should Adiminus now be serving in the Roman army – and rather than being a deserter Caradog judged that he was gathering intelligence for the enemy - then he would need to make his way back to their camp upon the south coast. His plan of action would be to send a small force to pursue his brother, but Caradog would also lead a small force of his own to lie in wait for him when he returned to camp. He believed he knew the route his brother would take. Wine stained his teeth as he grinned, wolfishly, thinking of how Adiminus always fancied himself as an archer and trapper. Caradog would now show his brother that he was superior to him in both of those trades.

  15.

  Midday.

  Oppius waited just inside the tree line at the edge of the settlement, sharpening his knife, as Teucer returned from his reconnaissance mission.

  “He’s here. He’s pouring lies into their ears and drinks down their throat in that large hut closest to us. The three picts are with him. They’ve been drinking, but they can hold their drink as well as hold their own fighting anyone. They’re well armed, carrying shields as well as swords and axes. I overheard which settlement they’ll be heading to next – and they’ll be heading along the track leading this way into the forest.”