A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  “I wonder what this is all about,” Agricola said, miffed that the pleasure trip had been curtailed.

  “He’s probably hammered,” Roscius said. “He nearly always is these days. You wonder how his wife puts up with it.” They turned back and headed toward the center of the fort where the praetorium—the commander’s quarters—were located. “Mind you, that’s one wife I wouldn’t mind a ride on. She’s Iberian, isn’t she, his other half?” He eyed Agricola, who felt his cheeks reddening. “Big tits,” he pressed. “Lovely, lush lips . . . You’ve bedded her, haven’t you?”

  “As you say, Poenius Postumus is always drunk. He invited me for dinner on my first night here. He passed out . . .” Agricola trailed off. “She was lonely.”

  Roscius shook his head. “You’ve shit on your own doorstep. And mine.”

  Agricola did not reply. The truth of it was that despite his hard-earned role as camp prefect, Postumus had now chosen to go to seed. A drunken bore, he treated his wife worse than a slave, upbraiding her constantly during their meal, making lascivious comments about her “barbarian skills in the sack.” The man was an utter bastard and, even in Agricola’s inexperienced view—a bad officer. Isca was a secure, pacified area, and the fact was that Postumus looked on this appointment as a grand opportunity to fleece money, get drunk, and shirk duty. He had, however, been correct about his wife’s skills in bed—Lavinia Postumia was in her thirties, twenty years her husband’s junior, and evidently sex-starved. She had drained Agricola dry whilst Postumus snored and farted in the adjacent room.

  “Let me do the talking,” Roscius advised as they approached the praetorium. “If he’s pissed and pissed off about something, it’s better I talk to him in his own language. Rank-and-file lifers like Postumus always hate you career tribunes.”

  The praetorium was large, dimly lit, and dominated by a desk of heroic proportions and, Agricola noticed at once, equally dominated by the flatulent reek of Postumus’ belly gas. A wine jug was in evidence on the table and the prefect’s white tunic was jeweled with purple spots, mute evidence that he’d been walking with Bacchus. Like Roscius, he was broad at the shoulders and must have been an imposing man in his prime. Now, however, his belly seemed to begin at his chest and carry on outward—it wasn’t the corpulent flab of a senator, but seemed solid, as though he had a large boulder hidden under his clothing.

  “You two pricks are late,” Postumus growled, stabbing a stubby finger at them. His eyes were glazed, glinting with anger and something else that Agricola couldn’t quite read.

  “Apologies, sir,” Roscius said as they drew to attention and saluted. “He was training—under my instruction. The boy needs toughening up.”

  Postumus turned his attention to Agricola, who kept his eyes front, not wanting to antagonize a drunkard. “He does,” the prefect agreed with some malice. “He looks like a fucking catamite.”

  “As I keep telling him, sir.” Roscius could evidently not resist the gift.

  “I’ve got news for you.” Postumus grasped a wax tablet on his desk. “Do you know what this is?”

  “A wax tablet, sir?” Agricola offered and could feel Roscius willing him to stay quiet.

  “You’re a namby fucking cunt, Agricola,” Postumus told him, fury etching its way across his weathered visage. “I hate everything about you. Your face, your high-and-mighty attitude, your fucking Greek ways. If it were up to me, I'd have you executed. You, boy, are a cocksucker of the lowest order.”

  It was all Agricola could do to keep from sneering at the man and advising him that his wife was a cocksucker of the highest order. But to say so would mean death, so he offered a neutral “yes, sir” that any put-upon legionary would have been proud of. What he had done to arouse such ire in the man was beyond him, however. Unless . . . Agricola felt himself pale as he wondered if Postumus had learned of his wife’s infidelity. He swallowed. No, that couldn’t be the case; she wouldn’t have said anything, for the shame was hers. He had simply taken what had been offered, as any man should. But to admit she had offered it—no, that she would not do.

  “Orders,” Postumus hurled the wax tablet at their feet, “from Gaius Suetonius Paulinus.”

  “The governor?” The surprise in Roscius’ voice was evident.

  “Yes,” Postumus said. “The governor. As you know, he’s up in Cambria, sorting out the natives,” the prefect went on. “He’s been contacted by Agricola’s family.” He turned a baleful eye onto Agricola himself. “As part of your cursus honorum—your path of honor, which by the way is a fucking contradiction in terms—you’re to be seconded to his staff.”

  Agricola’s eyes flicked to Roscius. Clearly, this is what his mother had been referring to when she’d told the big man that Agricola was “going places.”

  He looked back to Postumus; the prefect’s fist was clenched tight on his cup. “You don’t know how lucky you are.” He tossed back some wine and winced before looking back to Roscius. “You’re his keeper,” he said. “You go with him. And I want reports, Roscius. Since you and the cocksucker here are educated types, I can think of none better to conduct the operation. I’m sure the correspondence will be fucking epic.”

  “The cocksucker is a fine writer, sir,” Roscius agreed. “An assignment that we’ll relish, I’m sure. I’ve always wanted to go to Cambria,” he finished with an evident lie. No one in their right mind wanted to anywhere near Cambria, a mountainous land full of wild-haired savages, harpy-like women, and gods-cursed Druids.

  Postumus grunted. “You won’t be going alone. I want those dickheads in the Tenth of the Tenth blooded. They’re just as useless as you two. Hopefully, the woad-skins will do me a favor and wipe the lot of you out. You know what they do to Roman prisoners, don’t you, Agricola?”

  “Offer them for ransom?”

  “Torture.” The prefect took a more-than-healthy draught of wine, draining the cup. He refilled it—and drained that, too. “Things you wouldn’t believe, boy,” he slurred. “I can’t even make it up. Skin you alive, cut cock and balls off and shove them in your mouth, and slowly roast what’s left alive. And they’ll laugh at your screams. I’ve seen it happen before a battle with prisoners they’ve captured. They do it to shit the life out of you. It works.”

  Agricola felt himself paling once again because, despite the fact he wanted to come back with a witty retort, he knew that the drunken old bastard wasn’t lying. He opted for keeping his mouth shut. Postumus continued to look at them, but it seemed to Agricola that he had drifted off into vile memory, his face slack and melancholy.

  “You look tired, sir,” Roscius said when it was clear a dismissal wasn’t coming. “I could get some of the lads to escort you home to your lovely wife . . .”

  Postumus squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “My lovely wife,” he repeated. When he opened them again, they were full of hate. “She’s dead, boy.”

  Agricola was shocked to the core; Lavinia Postumia was a woman in the prime of her life, and because he held some small affection for all the women he bedded, he spoke before he could stop himself. “I—I’m so sorry to hear that, sir.”

  “I killed her myself. This morning, as it happens.” Postumus’ gaze bored into him. “As paterfamilias, it is my right.”

  “But why?” Agricola could not contain the words.

  “A funny thing,” Postumus said, tipping back yet another cup of wine. He was so drunk it was difficult at first to understand him. “We never had children—and I’ve fucked enough tail to know that that was my fault and not hers. So imagine when she told me that she had one in her belly. Four months gone,” he added. “You’ve been here . . . what . . . four months now, Tribune? I remember I invited you into my fucking house for a dinner when you first arrived. It seems to me that you took more than just food from my table.”

  Agricola wanted to be sick, but it was lies and not bile that rushed to his throat. “Sir, I can assure you that—”

  “Don
’t lie to me!” Postumus exploded to his feet, his chair smashing into the wooden wall behind him. “Don’t!” he screamed. “I can see it in written on your face, read it in your eyes. You fucked her. Fucked her while I slept! In my own house, you bastard.” Postumus lunged at Agricola, who leapt back in shock, but the prefect’s foot caught on his desk, and he crashed to the floor. He tried to rise but, near paralytic as he was, he lost his balance, toppled backward, and hit the floor again. He rolled into a fetal position and started to weep, repeating his wife’s name several times before passing out.

  Agricola could only stare, aghast. He could tell that Roscius, too, was stunned, but the older man snapped out of it first, going to the prefect's desk. “What are you doing?” Agricola asked, appalled at the tremulousness in his voice.

  Roscius looked up at him, anger in his gray eyes, but did not reply. Instead, he scratched out some words on a wax tablet and moved over the snoring form of Postumus; taking the man’s hand, he pressed his signet ring into the wax.

  “Wha-what are you doing?” Agricola stammered, his mind reeling.

  “Postumus takes orders from the governor. We take orders from Postumus. And now we have them. And,” he rose, glancing at Paulinus’ missive, “we have the governor’s location, too.” He noted this on the tablet. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Roscius said, grasping his arm and propelling him toward the door. As they exited, slamming the door behind him, he looked to the sentries. “What did you hear?” he asked.

  “Nothing, Tribune,” the legionary replied. “Nothing at all.”

  “Come on.” Roscius dragged Agricola away with force.

  “What am I going to do?” Agricola wailed. He could hear the weakness in his own voice, and it disgusted him even as shame overwhelmed him. He pulled away and vomited onto the earth—much to the unknowing amusement of the soldiers passing by.

  “You’ve done enough,” Roscius snarled.

  It was the first time Agricola had seen the big man genuinely angry. It was worse that the uncharacteristic rage was directed at him. He was sick again, dredging up whatever was left in his guts. He straightened and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’ll turn myself in,” he announced with all the earnestness of a martyr. He would do it and atone for his actions—death because of the dishonor he had caused.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” Roscius said. “Turn yourself in for what, exactly?”

  “It was me. My fault . . . I . . .”

  “And how is he going to prove that? We don’t even know if she was up the duff—he could have killed her in a drunken rage for all anyone knows.”

  “No,” Agricola was resolute. “I know what I did . . .”

  “Maybe,” Roscius cut him off. “But the fact is that no one will believe anything Postumus says. Everyone knows he’s off his head on wine. And let’s be honest—how do you know you’re the only one that plowed that particular field?”

  Agricola prided himself on his virtus—his honor. He could not allow this to stand. “If I confess . . .”

  “Then we’ll both be for it the next time he gets pissed, you stupid bastard.” Roscius was dancing on the edge of fury. “He’ll make sure I get the chop before you do.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’m your friend!” the big man shouted. He breathed in through his nose, almost shaking with rage, forcing his voice to calm. “He knows how you think—he’ll have me offed, and you’ll go to Hades knowing that you got me killed. You might think that death is noble, Agricola, but the closest you’ve been to it is in the arena. Watching people die. When someone’s coming for you, it’s a little bit different. A man will do anything . . . anything to survive.”

  Agricola’s gaze fell to the ground, a guilty boy upbraided by his elder. “I’m sorry, Roscius.”

  “So you fucking should be. Now. We have to get out of here before he wakes up. Let’s get kitted up.”

  “It’s highly irregular, sir.” Calvus, the Tenth of the Tenth’s centurion, eyed Roscius as Agricola lurked behind him. Calvus was newly made to the rank, hence his position in the lowest century of the legion. Tough, bald, and short, he was still in his thirties and looked like a man no one wanted to get on the wrong side of.

  Roscius played hard. “Look, centurion,” he said, impressing who was higher in the pecking order. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but what do you want me to do about it? You can read as well as I can.” He indicated the wax tablet hanging loosely in Calvus’ hand. “The Tenth are to attach to Paulinus’ Twentieth Valeria Victrix. A training mission for your lads and an attachment for my colleague, Tribune Gnaeus Julius Agricola.”

  “Training mission,” Calvus repeated, clearly not believing a word of it. He looked at the wax tablet. “This doesn’t even look like the prefect’s handwriting.”

  “Let’s just say that the prefect was tired and emotional when those were issued,” Agricola put in, rewarded by an appreciative glance over the shoulder from Roscius.

  Calvus grunted. “I see.”

  “The lads have eaten?” Roscius asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Then round them up, get them kitted and ready to march. A night on the road will do them a world of good. It’s all experience, Calvus.”

  “And of course, you’ll countersign these orders, sir.” Calvus didn’t move. “I’m sure everything’s in order, but you have to admit, it’s a bit irregular. I want to make sure that my lads aren’t in the shit because someone fucked up. If you take my meaning, sir.”

  Roscius looked as though he was about to erupt; before he could do so, Agricola interceded. “I’ll countersign, Centurion,” he said. “Now. Get your men ready.” He could not, he decided, let Roscius take any blame for this. The responsibility for the predicament was his and his alone.

  The Tenth of the Tenth marched out with no fanfare, drawing only a few amused looks from men who were on their way back from duties and not about to embark on what looked like—given the cadence that Roscius was setting—a forced march. He led the eighty-man column on a bay mare while Agricola brought up the rear on a black gelding. The beast's flanks had the white, chalky marks of spear scars, and he had the air of a mount who would not be hurried.

  The men were muttering at the prospect of a night march, and a fast one at that, but their complaints were silenced by a round of particularly vile cursing from Calvus and his optio, a weasel-faced sadist called Naso, who waded in with his hastile—his staff of office, which was both ceremonial badge and offensive weapon. Agricola couldn’t blame the legionaries. Usually, each eight-man contubernium would have a mule and cart assigned to it to carry kit and non-military essentials; as it was, they’d be sleeping under the stars and humping their own gear. The scutum—the curved legionary’s shield—was a heavy item and caused the most complaint. Each man had rigged a strap to the shield’s inner handle and looped it over his right shoulder to take some of the weight. It was the only way it could be carried for any length of time on the march. Water, food, spare leather thonging (the most used item in any man’s kit), and other essentials were carried on a furca—a yoke—resting on the right shoulder, gripped in the same hand as his javelin.

  “Stop your complaining,” Calvus bellowed as they pounded down the road. Agricola noted that he’d chosen a moment when no one was actually griping to say this. “It’s just like training—you soft bastards need it.”

  “I need my bed and my right hand, Centurion,” a wag from the ranks called out.

  “Wanking yourself off is all your right hand is good for,” Calvus observed. “It’s useless with a sword in it, that’s for sure.” If the wag had a response, it was drowned out by a chorus of mockery from his mates.

  Agricola envied their easy humor; on any other day, he would have smiled indulgently and thought himself above it all.

  But not today.

  As they marched on, the fast pace eating up the miles between the cen
tury and the fort, Agricola found himself wrapped in gloom as thick and as heavy as any spring fog. By his own actions, he had caused the death of a man’s wife because he could not resist bedding her. Had she begged for her life? Pleaded with Postumus as he killed her? Begged him for mercy as the light faded from her eyes? The shame of what he had caused was all but unbearable and weighed upon him like the manacles of a quarry slave.

  He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if Postumus had woken up and ordered the cavalry to pursue them in a fit of drunken vengeance, but there was nothing save for the smudge on the horizon that was the town of Isca. Agricola squeezed his eyes shut, a shiver going down his spine despite the temperate spring evening. Guilt, he realized. Guilt that nothing could assuage. He wanted to scream, imagining that by doing so he could absolve himself, shout out the shame, call on the goddess Clementia for forgiveness. But nothing he could do would change what he had done.

  The march continued as the sun finally capitulated, giving the land over to semidarkness; the springtime days were lengthening—even at after sundown, it was never truly dark, the sky having a strange pinkish-orange glow that was far brighter than any moon.

  The soldiers pressed on, and Agricola—like them all—allowed himself to become hypnotized by the sound of the march: the tramp of the soldiers’ feet on the ground, the rhythmic thunk-scratch of armor on shields, the squeaking and clattering of the lorica segmentata they all wore, the labored breathing of the men as they did what Roman soldiers always did—march till they were told to quit.

  The night was half-gone when Roscius called a halt; the century had made good progress, and they were now far from Isca in the heart of the countryside. By day, it was a beautiful land—now that winter was done, at least—all rolling hills, tilled farmland, and thick woods. By night, it had a mystical quality that, at any other time, would have spoken to the poet in Agricola’s soul.

  “We’ll camp off the road,” Roscius told Calvus. “Get the lads into the woods and bedded down. Double-watch, Calvus.”