The World's Last Breaths: Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, and The Peeling

by Iain Rob Wright

  Manius’s optiones, second-in-command, came strolling over in the heavy-footed way that betrayed his Remi heritage. Members of the Remi tribe were notoriously ‘big boned,’ yet despite his girth, Carigo was a woodsman down to his marrow. Manius relied on the big man all too much. Their centuria was named the Cloaked Eagles, but only Manius was born of Rome. The only man shaven and clean amongst six-dozen wild men.

  “Centurion, would you have us camp?”

  “I would, Optiones. Four sentries in three rotations. We shall break camp in exactly six hours.”

  Carigo stomped away to see it done. The optiones organised his men with ruthless efficiency, whacking any man dawdling in the head with the flat of his hasta. That he used spear over sword gave away his Remi preferences. The other scouts were Gabali, loyal to Rome as a Gaul could be, but still Gauls. Manius had commanded the auxiliary centuria for eight weeks now, and so far, the tribesmen impressed him. Hailing from the mountains, the Gabali were strong and hearty, and complained little, but then few in Caesar’s legions had cause to complain. The Great Man treated his soldiers well, even named them his son.

  Manius loved Caesar no less than any other. The Great Man was truly a father as much as a general.

  That didn’t mean Manius enjoyed the task he'd been given. Scouting the unkempt lands of the Belgae was an awkwardly achieved task. The forests grew thick, and it rained without end. Manius's men carried their armour rather than wear it, preferring the freedom of loose fitting shirts and short trousers. The only thing in the Cloaked Eagles favour was the abundance of wildlife in the forest through which they travelled. The men filled their bellies to bursting every night, boding well for Carigo who ate twice as much as most men.

  In absence of a proper camp—they had neither the space or equipment to lay stakes—they spent most nights and early mornings beneath cow-hide tents disguised with branches and leaves. Sentries hid in the treetops, but the scouting party's encounters thus far had been few. That could change at any moment.

  Carigo approached again, palming a handful of berries into the space inside his scraggly brown beard. He grinned with bright red lips. “Tar berries. A good find. Would you like some, Centurion?”

  “Perhaps later. I would wish to go over our route for tomorrow’s journey.”

  “As you are, Centurion. We’re nearing the river Sambre, and should be able to cross if we look for a place narrow enough. The Bellovaci dwell nearby,” he spat berry juice on the ground. “A bunch of unclean brutes, but not to be trifled with. Your man Caesar is right to worry. Last village we travelled through gave me a feeling we were most unwelcome there. Our presence is only going to get less wanted.”

  “Did you hear anything about the Bellovaci's disposition towards Rome?”

  “Not fond.” Carigo wiped his wet mouth with the back of a meaty fist. “If Gaul gives your man problems, it will be amongst the Nervii and the neighbouring tribes. We’re treading into hot water.”

  Manius grunted. “Caesar is not my man, he is our man. You have pledged allegiance to Rome.”

  “Aye, but that don’t mean I have to love it. You Romans are decent enough, I suppose, but you can’t change a man’s heart by enslaving him.”

  Manius felt a shiver and tried to disguise it by folding his arms. “Can I count on your loyalty, Optiones?”

  Carigo grinned. “Don’t worry, Centurion, I won’t put my spear in your back. You should be more worried about the Bellovaci doing it.”

  “We are only here to observe. Caesar wants an accounting for every tribe in the region not yet allied with Rome. When we spot the Bellovaci, we observe, and then we move on.”

  “To the Nervii,” said Carigo. “About as fierce as they come. They’ve never had a man turn his back on a fight.”

  Manius nodded. “Again, we are not here to fight, Optiones. Each man here was picked and trained to stay hidden, to disappear into the landscape itself if pursued. I am not a blood-lusting fool seeking glory.”

  Carigo lifted the corner of his mouth, as if amused, but after a moment’s thought he nodded. “Good to know. Worst men are the men out to prove themselves.”

  “I shall be brave when bravery is required, as I would expect of us all.”

  Carigo smirked again, but turned and trotted off. Commanding auxiliaries was difficult. No way of knowing their little quirks and habits. What looked like rudeness to a Roman might be something else entirely to the Remi. While he trusted Carigo enough to sleep at night, an unassailable palisade existed between them. They were different species of the same animal.

  A pair of Gabali prepared Manius’s tent, and he crawled beneath it. Already stripped of armour, he stayed as he was in shirt and trousers. There would be a chance to undress and wash at the river. With no horses in their party, the only sound was the quiet chit chat of the Gabali settling down to bed. Their tongue was foreign, but the tone light-hearted and relaxed. When soldiers stopped laughing, that was the time for an officer to worry. Manius closed his eyes and thought of home. Did Aemilia miss him as much as he did her? Was their new daughter well? That he had not yet laid eyes on little Tarentia burdened him so. If he died in battle, he would never see her even once. What would become of her then? No name or dowry to speak of, she would be married off to some socially stagnant knight or worse.

  Damn you, Sulla, and your proscriptions.

  Manius’s father, Titus Furia, had been one of Gaius Marius’s men and, as such, took the Marian side in the civil war against Cornelius Sulla. When Marius lost his mind, and then the war, Sulla took great offence at the Marian supporters. The Proscriptions had been dark days. Days when men such as Titus Manius could wake up one morning and see their names pinned up against the Rostra, marked for death. The rewards for proscribing were so high that two of Titus’s very own slaves had bludgeoned him to death in the street. Titus’s full wealth was seized by the state, and the two murderous slaves received their freedom. Dark days indeed. But what made Sulla’s revenge viler was a caveat that all descendants of the proscribed be stripped of their birth-right and status. Manius was the son of Titus, a wealthy patrician, but by the time he donned the Toga Viriis at fifteen, he stood lower than a pauper with a name meaning nothing.

  At least Caesar’s ascendancy put Sulla’s memory in the past where it belonged. Caesar was not a petty man like Sulla had been. He would sooner see an enemy toss aside their enmity than die on his sword. It was Caesar who recognised Manius’s name in the role calls and immediately elevated him to Centurion, with promise of one day fully restoring his name and station. If Manius retained The Great Man's favour, little Tarentia would grow into a woman of wealth and means. It was because of her, his daughter, that Manius vowed to make it back home to Rome, and become a senator.

  With thoughts of his baby girl drifting through his head Manius fell sound asleep.

  Chapter 2

  Manius awoke to shouts. That they sounded more angry than afraid, eased his mind. But the sudden shock from sleep still left him reeling in the dark. Carigo appeared and steadied him, the man's spear equipped but held casually by his side.

  “What is it, Optiones?”

  “Bloody wolves. Got into our supplies and took all the venison. Tell your man that once he takes Gaul, he needs to take care of the pests once and for all.”

  Manius blinked and adjusted to the dark. Most of the eighty Gabali were up and about, but only a handful were active. The panic was over before it had begun. “How did a pack of wild mongrels get past our sentries, Carigo?”

  “The sentries were watching for men, not creatures of the night. A wolf can crawl up through the bushes until it's right on top of a man. And forget the 'mongrel' talk. The wolves around here can grow bigger than a man. In fact, some Bellovaci pray to the Great White Wolf of the Ancient Groves.”

  “Jupiter’s cock! You cunni will believe in anything. In Rome, wolves are to be kicked and shunned, not feared.”

  “And in Rome, you stay indoors whenever an eagle take
s a shit on the forum. We all believe different things, Centurion.”

  Manius realised he had belittled the Remi man's beliefs, and so chose not to take offence at the man's counter-remark against Rome. He dropped his shoulders and allowed himself a laugh. “I suppose Rome’s auspices might seem odd to an outsider, as fear of wolves seems odd to me. Nonetheless, the sentries failed in their duties. Have them on half-rations for three days.”

  Carigo nodded. “Long as you don’t include me in that, fair enough. Can I have their rations?”

  Manius realised the man was joking. “Let’s hope we encounter nothing as dangerous as your wit. How long have we been encamped?”

  “About five hours, I’d say. Sun will be up before you can take a shit and wipe your arse.”

  “Then there’s no point going back to sleep. Assemble the centuria.”

  “Aye, Centurion.”

  Ten minutes later, they were once again on the move. Just as Carigo had said, the sun came up to meet them almost immediately. Their camp had been near the edge of the woods so they soon broke free onto a grassy plain. The river shone ahead of them like a slow-moving snake of the brightest silver. Gaul had moments of splendour when it wasn’t raining.

  Being so close to the river, the area made prime farming land, which presented them with a grave problem. A young Gaul was leading a steer across a paddock beside a small homestead. When the farmer saw the line of scouts approaching, he panicked. It looked like he would run, but fear made him freeze and he stood there in place, eyes brimming with tears. The Gaul saw his own death approach.

  “We must slaughter him,” said Carigo, although he did so without relish.

  Manius said nothing, for he knew the obvious thing to do. If they did not kill this young farmer, he would run and tell the Bellovaci of their presence. “Seize him.”

  A group of Gabali broke from the group and grabbed the startled Gaul. He kicked out at them and begged, but he did not dishonour himself by screaming.

  “What is he saying?” Manius asked Carigo.

  “He says, ‘Love Rome. Love Rome. No hurt.’ Should I kill him now?”

  Manius put a hand up to keep his optiones from doing anything. “Hold on. First ask this man what he knows about the Bellovaci.”

  Carigo nodded, then spoke in that uncouth language all the men shared. After chatting with the farmer for a minute, the Remi man turned to Manius and said, “He says there's a Bellovaci village called Carlei right across the river, but you can't cross here.”

  “Why not?”

  Carigo asked the man and relayed the reply. “The mud in this section of river will suck a man down and drown him. The only safe place to cross is further North-East, but that would take us right into the heart of the Nervii.”

  “What about taking the river further West?” asked Manius.

  Carigo relayed the message. The farmer went pale and glanced around sheepishly. When he spoke, he did so rapidly and alarmed.

  “What did the man say?” Manius asked.

  Carigo shrugged, as if he didn't quite understand it. “He said no one crosses the river West.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is a sacred place, he says. Only the Lacuscii can go there and any who trespass in their groves will meet a bloody end.”

  Manius rolled his eyes again. He needed the Gabali on board with whatever he decided, and now he worried. Would they share the Bellovaci farmer’s delusions? “What do you make of this, Optiones?”

  Carigo chewed at the side of his mouth as if desperately hungry. He let out a laboured breath and then threw his arms out in a shrug. “The Lacuscii are a myth even I don’t believe. Most Remi men probably haven't even heard the tales, they're so old. The Lacuscii are a tribe of men who mated with the creatures of the forest when history first began. Over time, they became as much beast as man, and their druids gained power over nature itself. It’s a children’s tale. Truth is, this unwashed bugger is trying to divert us north where his bastard Nervii will cut us to ribbons.”

  Manius tapped on the wooden pommel of his Gladius—the one thing of his father he had managed to retain. “I’m inclined to agree. The man's expression when I suggested going West was untrustworthy. He'd hiding something”

  Carigo sighed, then pulled the spear off his back and placed the tip under the farmer’s trembling chin. “I’ll kill the bugger.”

  “No wait!” Manius held his hand up again, but wasn’t sure why. Why did it pain him to slaughter this tribesman? One day, he would likely take up arms against Rome. Letting him live was a betrayal against Rome. If he let the Gaul go, and he made it to the tribal leaders, he would give up the Cloaked Eagle's location.

  But killing the farmer seemed unjust. Not like something Caesar would do at all.

  Then Manius saw the woman and child. They stood near the homestead, anxiously looking on. The little boy in the mother's arms was pointing and cooing at the Gabali. The mother tried to shush he child.

  “He comes with us,” said Manius.

  Carigo frowned. “He’s Bellovaci scum, and you want to bring him along, feed him, guard him? What about his woman and child? You want a squawking infant along?”

  “We’ll butcher the man's steer for extra meat, and once we’re out of Bellovaci territory, we’ll release him. Tell his woman that if the enemy finds us, we shall slay her husband the moment we unsheathe our swords. If she remains at her home, and alerts nobody, she will see her man return safe and sound.”

  Carigo glanced at the Gabali who seemed as little enamoured by the idea as he was. While they were not natural enemies of the Bellovaci, like Carigo’s Remi were, they were still not friendly. Carigo couldn’t wipe the frown off his face. “I don’t understand your thinking, Centurion. We are a scouting party. Having a prisoner will compromise us. How will we stay silent if this lad cries out to the nearest enemy we see?”

  “If he makes one sound intended to give us away, you may kill him, Optiones. Until then, he has done nothing deserving of his death.”

  “Being Bellovaci is enough,” Carigo muttered.

  Manius locked his jaw and stared daggers at his second-in-command. “Optiones!”

  “Yes, okay, all right. Your will, my hand, and all that. I'll inform the lad he is now an honoured prisoner of Rome. Best tell his woman too.”

  After receiving the news, the young Gaul bowed and muttered enthusiastically.

  “He says ‘thanks’,” said Carigo.

  “I gathered, thank you. Okay, men, form up. We’re heading West.”

  The men butchered the steer and collected the choicest meat, leaving the rest to the woman and her child. Then they resumed their journey across the plain. Reaching the river, they headed West. That was when the young Gaul started hopping, long blond locks flapping in the breeze. “Ester ester!”

  Carigo translated, not that it was necessary. “He means East.”

  “Tell him we are going East, and that we will cross away from the Nervii realm.”

  Carigo said so, but the Gaul kept arguing, on the edge of panic. “Ester ester!”

  Manius groaned. Thank Jupiter there were no other tribesmen in the area to hear them. “Tell that man we are a scouting party and that no harm will come to him or his kin so long as he shuts his damned mouth, right this instant.”

  Carigo seemed at a loss, not something the big man wore well. “He knows that, Centurion. The bugger keeps insisting we're heading into danger. I think he truly believes it.”

  Manius stopped marching and approached the troublesome prisoner. The Bellovaci farmer begged him in foreign tongue, waving his arms madly. He was making it very difficult to justify not killing him. With a sigh, Manius threw a stiff punch. The Gaul slumped to the silty mud beside the river. “Pick him up. We shall carry him the rest of the way.”

  Carigo grunted. “Still think we should kill him.”

  “Such actions are growing more favourable, Optiones.”

  Despite his argument, Carigo was the one to carr
y the young farmer. As the strongest amongst them, he still managed to keep pace, as if carrying nothing more than a sackful of figs. The Cloaked Eagles made good time and soon stopped amongst the nearby hills to wash in a stream running toward the river.

  Manius waded up to his knees, but the water ran no deeper. It felt good to rinse the stink off him, and he sat down in the current and allowed the stream to rush around his torso. He’d lost a little weight, despite eating well, but these were the best years of his life physically. He was strong and lean, with stamina to march a whole day through. While scouting duty lacked the finer pleasures of Roman life, like wine and whores, it hardened a man’s body better than being at camp. He hated it out here in the wild most times, but he knew he would miss it when it was over. Few Romans got to explore beyond the main roads laid by their forefathers.

  Carigo, however, looked a man who would spend the rest of his days away from civilisation. The Remi were a well-fed sedentary people, but his Optiones had a nomad’s spirit, more Germanic than Gaul. But the Gabali making up the bulk of the party were most adaptable of all. Wiry men with vulpine eyes, they saw everything and hid themselves with preternatural ease. Manius had learned much during the short time he had commingled with them. Far more enlightening than being surrounded by a bunch of bickering legionaries. Romans had too many opinions. These Gabali men got on with the job at hand.

  As Manius continued washing himself in the stream, laying back on his elbows so that his entire body sunk beneath the surface, he thought once again about his daughter. That Tarentia was black of hair like he, was understood from his wife’s letters, but he knew not yet of her eye colour and complexion. Was she pale, like her mother? Did her eyes shine green as finest jewels? Or smoulder like burnt, brown mahogany? He could not wait to see her, yet the prospect of arriving home was daunting. So much time and distance to draw in, and all while surrounded by Gauls.

  Something bumped against Manius’s tricep, but he kept his gaze on the grey-blue sky above him. One of the men had merely struck him as they waded by. But then something else bumped against his other arm, causing him to lower his gaze upstream. He frowned at what he did not understand. Dark shapes moved in the water, floating past on their way downhill towards the river.