by E. Knight
Calvus saluted and chivvied the men along; Felix, Agricola noted, was limping toward the trees, trying to look as though he was not. Agricola nudged his black gelding toward the lad. “Everything all right, Legionary Felix?”
Felix squared himself up. “Just a bit footsore, sir,” he said. “It’s once you stop walking that the blisters hurt—they numb up once you get going.”
“Carry on,” Agricola said, swinging himself out of the saddle as Optio Naso approached Felix.
“You namby cunt, Felix,” he said. “If I ever hear you whining to an officer again, I’ll ram this pole so far up your arse you’ll be sneezing fucking woodchips.”
“Yes, sir,” Felix offered.
“You have to put a knife through the blisters,” Naso advised with sadistic glee. “It’ll hurt like a bastard when you do it and worse when you get moving again. But your feet’ll leather up in no time, boy. See to it—and no, I’m not going to hold your hand and wipe away your tears. Go on.” Felix made off, and Naso swung a kick at his rump, which sent Felix trotting forward a few paces. The lad looked over his shoulder with a grin and trotted into the woods.
Despite their lowly status in the legion, Agricola found the men of the Tenth to be professional in their work, setting a perimeter, posting guards, and getting down to the business of serious sleep with minimal fuss. He sat apart from the rest, spreading his scarlet cloak on the ground, hoping that sleep would come. As he did so, Roscius wandered over.
“You all right?” he asked.
Agricola looked up at him. “I . . .”
“I know you’re sorry.” Roscius squatted down. “But like I said, we don’t—and never will—know the truth of it.”
“I know the truth of one thing, Roscius,” Agricola replied. “I’m a hypocrite. A liar. I read and I talk, I judge others because I’m educated. I espouse Seneca and the words of the Greeks that talk of living well and true. But what you said in jest is true—I’m ruled by my . . . passions.”
“Your cock.” Roscius was mild. “You’re ruled by your cock. And most men your age are.”
“Perhaps. But it’s not just that, Roscius. There are any number of women I could have bedded. But for me, it was not about that. It was about bedding other men’s women. That was the thrill. I am ashamed, Roscius.”
“There’s nothing you can do about what happened—or, in fact, what Postumus did or didn’t do.”
“Maybe not.” Agricola was resolute. “But I can stop playing lip service and start living as I . . . espouse . . . a man should.”
Roscius regarded him for long moments. Agricola expected to be chided, mocked, or for the big man to crack a joke at his words. But he did not. “It is a youthful failing to be unable to control one's impulses,” he said.
Agricola arched an eyebrow. “Seneca?”
This time Roscius did laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Here’s another: one should count each day a separate life. All of us make mistakes, Agricola. That’s what being an adult is all about. Being a man is bearing them, learning from them, and moving on. As you said you would. All right?”
Agricola’s smile was wan. “I’ll do better.”
“You couldn’t do much worse. Now—get your head down. Get some rest.”
They pushed on, Roscius taking them on a detour to Glevum for a rest stop five days into the march. It was a new town, populated largely by veteran legionaries and their families. It was something that Agricola admired in his people, this willingness to tolerate another people’s gods. It was no skin off a Roman nose to allow the local deity his ancient place of honor. Most of the men headed straight for the taverns, flexing muscles for the admiration of the local girls and the hostile glares of their fathers, who, not too many years before, had been doing the same thing.
Before Lavinia Postumia, Agricola knew well that he would have secured himself a tumble for tonight.
Before.
Instead, he found a tavern—run by an ex-legionary and crowded now with men of the Tenth, including Felix, who was getting smashed out of his mind, encouraged by his mates, who were telling him it was an “initiation.” He nursed a cup of overpriced wine—clearly, the proprietor was not above fleecing his former brothers-in-arms, who had ready cash and raging thirsts after five days on the road. Roscius joined him, wincing at the taste of the stuff.
“He’s got a fucking nerve,” the big man observed. “My piss tastes better than this,” he added, putting the cup down and refilling it from Agricola’s jug.
“But not enough to stop you from swilling mine down.” He smiled.
“You’re rich. You can afford it.”
“So can you.”
“I’m making sure you’re on the straight and narrow.” Roscius tipped it back. “Now then,” he said. “We’re at something of a crossroads. We can take boats up the River Sabrina right into Cambria. Or we can go the whole way on foot.”
“I hate boats,” Agricola said. “But that aside, it doesn’t seem like much of a choice.”
“Ordinarily, no,” Roscius said. “But it’s risky. If we happen on a pissed-off war band, they’ll take potshots at us all the way downriver—we’ll be for it, and we won’t be able to hit back. They can track us until we’re all dead or we’re forced to come to shore. And then we’re all dead anyway because fighting amphibious is a fool’s errand.”
“Caesar managed when he invaded this place.”
“I’m not Caesar. And neither are you. Your thoughts, Tribune?”
Agricola looked up at the ceiling, calculating. “We’ve come about a hundred miles,” he said, “with another two-twenty-five to go. Another ten days on the road? I say we take the boats—the likelihood is that Paulinus has the war bands on the run—they’ll be going inland and not closer to our territory.”
“Eager to start your new tenure,” Roscius mocked.
“Eager to get my arse out of the saddle.”
“You call it.”
“You’re senior tribune.”
“I’m deferring to your book-learned generalship. Make the decision, Agricola.”
Agricola knew that Roscius already had in mind what he wanted to do. And he knew that the older man was giving him the decision to make as a lesson in leadership. He frowned, drawing the map of Britannia in his head. “It’ll be dangerous sooner or later,” he said. “The land between Viroconium and Deva runs right along the border—unless we push east, which’ll take us out of our way. So the river gets us there faster—same risk at the end of the day, Roscius.”
“The Sabrina it is, then.”
“What was your call?” Agricola had to know if he’d made the right choice.
“Doesn’t matter,” Roscius drained his cup and helped himself to another. “Decision’s been made. That’s the thing about commanding, Agricola—you need to make the call and go with it. If you’re right—glory to your name. If you’re wrong—you usually wind up dead.”
“There’s such a thing as changing your mind,” Agricola muttered.
“When you have the luxury.” Roscius nodded sagely. “Be flexible, my friend. Always flexible. But in this, we needed to make a choice, and it’s been made. If we wind up dead at the bottom of the Sabrina, know that I’m holding you fully . . .”
He trailed off, realizing that his joke was a little close to the bone, but Agricola waved it away. As Roscius had just illustrated, men made choices. He had made bad ones in the past and had to live with the consequences. But that did not mean that Roscius or anyone else had to treat him as though he were made of glass. “If you wind up dead, I’ll drink to the fattest shade in Hades,” he said, toasting his friend.
“I’m not fat,” Roscius huffed. “I’m built—”
“Like a fucking gladiator, I know. A fat gladiator.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“In your dreams, Roscius. In your dreams.”
Roscius laughed, and Agricola smiled in response, but even he knew that it
did not reach his eyes. He would try, he decided, to be a better man.
The Sabrina was slow flowing and brackish, a dirty slash on a beautiful backdrop. The Tenth had secured ten barges from an ex-patriot Greek whose eyes came alive with avarice when he realized he could claim his costs back from the army—with interest, of course. Agricola had been in charge of the negotiations and frankly could not be bothered to haggle—it wasn’t his money, after all, though Roscius had taken a dim view when he’d seen the receipt.
The men rowed the barges north toward Cambria, giving Agricola as much time as he wanted to admire the countryside and brood on his own sins. Roscius was right—there was nothing he could about it; but he could try to live the life he so espoused. That, he realized, would be easier thought than actioned. But others had done it—were doing it. Men like Seneca—men of principle.
“I’ve never seen grass like this,” Felix observed to no one in particular. “It’s really green.”
“All grass is green, you dozy cunt.” This from his optio, Naso.
“Yeah, but not this green,” Felix pressed on. “It’s proper lush.”
“You a fucking poet now, Felix?”
“No, sir, I was just saying . . .”
“Well, don’t. Just fucking row and keep your hole shut. If I want your views on things, I’ll beat them out of you. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
Agricola wanted to agree with the young legionary but knew he could not. To speak in the boy’s defense would only cause the mockery of the others in his contubernium for being the officer’s pet and worse, the ire of the optio, who would see the contradiction as a personal affront. Naso, like all optios, had that way about him; it seemed to Agricola that they all swapped their personalities for their hastilae. When they made the centurionate, they became altogether less bitter and twisted.
He scanned the riverbanks, looking for the war bands that Roscius worried were out there, but there was nothing save for the occasional farmstead and an innumerable amount of sheep. If there was one thing Britannia had in abundance, it was sheep, an animal most suited for the hostile winters of the “isle at the edge of the world.” Still, in springtime, it was a beautiful place to be.
They made good progress, the steady work of the legionaries covering far more miles than they would have done on foot and with far less effort. Rowing was hard, true; but lugging armor and kit was much harder in the heat. Even riding for that length of time each day was not pleasant—so Agricola could only imagine what it was like being a foot slogger, and the image wasn’t pleasant. He tried to convince himself that this was all for the lads and that he was a good, considerate offer—not that his arse was paining him after five days of bouncing up and down on the black gelding’s broad back.
He looked forward and saw Roscius, too, was on the lookout for the enemy, but Agricola was sure it was as he had surmised—whatever rebels there were would be either dead or literally running for the hills. Paulinus was an extremely competent general—everyone knew that. And everyone—even the tribesmen—knew that a Roman army could not be defeated.
But for all that, as the river turned west into the lands of the Ordovices, Agricola could not suppress a chill down his spine. It was as though he could feel the change in the air, that they had passed from a land that had been pacified into one that was wild and untamed. He referred to the wax tablet they had taken from Postumus’ office. They were still a good few miles away from the governor’s location by Agricola’s reckoning.
Roscius’ words in the tavern came back to him. If he was wrong, and they were caught in open water by a war band, then they would stand no chance. He cleared his throat. “Naso. Turn into shore—north bank. Let the others know.”
“Sir,” Naso nodded and took a deep breath, at which Agricola braced himself. “Century will row for the north bank to disembark!” His scream was high-pitched and echoed across the river, and Agricola would lay money that every man and sheep within a fifty-mile radius had heard him.
The barges made their ungainly way to shore and, to the amusement of everyone, Centurion Calvus fell into knee-deep water as he tried to leap from boat to land. Sputtering, he was pulled from the drink by one of the men, who was red-faced from trying not to laugh. “Very fucking funny,” Calvus coughed. “You won’t be laughing when you’re polishing the rust from my lorica.”
“Crest as well, Centurion?” the legionary asked. “It looks . . . what’s the word, sir?” He eyed Agricola.
“Less than flamboyant,” Agricola offered. It was true. The once-glorious cross-crest of the centurion’s helmet was now bedraggled and dripping with dirty water. Much like the man himself.
“You’ll see to it all later, then,” Calvus glowered. “Naso?”
“Form the fuck up, you useless pricks!” the optio screamed. “Fucking now, I mean now! Into your contubernia and sharp. Your contubernia, Felix, you idiot! The fucking holiday is over. Now we march. I love marching now that I don’t have to hump a shield and yoke. Just think, boys, one day you could be just like me . . .” He trailed off, daring someone to make a joke about it. They didn’t, and he pressed on: “Yes. Soldier well, work hard, and you too could one day carry the hastile. That is if you don’t get killed in this barbarian shithole.”
“And on that cheery note,” Agricola muttered under his breath.
Calvus eyed the disposition of the men and glanced at Roscius for his approval. The big man shrugged and flicked his eyes to Agricola.
“Sir?” Calvus asked.
“Carry on, Centurion.”
Calvus nodded. “Century will march . . . by the right . . . forward . . . march!”
“What about the boats, sir!” Felix called out as they stamped off.
“Some Cambrian sheep-fucker is going to think he’s won the big one,” Naso said. “Now how many more times am I going to have to tell you, Felix? Shut. Your. Fucking. Hole. You. Dozy. Cunt.”
As the men marched, Agricola approached Roscius. “He seems to use the word ‘cunt’ a lot,” he observed.
“I think it’s part of the oath they take as optios,” Roscius quipped. He sobered then. “You’re all right?” He looked at Agricola from under his brows.
“Yes,” Agricola said. “Yes. I’m fine.” He was not sure if he meant it or not.
“You better be.” Roscius was serious. “We’re on our own, and we’re over the line. We need to stay calm. And alert.”
“Got it.”
“Good.” There was no more time for talking. Roscius trotted after the men to take his place at the front of the order of march. For his part, Agricola brought up the rear.
As was his habit, Roscius set a fast pace and, after the relative comfort of the saddle and the boat, Agricola was feeling it. However, he kept his mind and his eyes focused on the surroundings, not on his protesting calves and feet. The scenery—so wonderful in Britannia—now took on a sinister aspect. The rolling hills, lush and green, could be concealing men who desperately wanted to kill them. He shivered again and pushed the thought aside: Paulinus had the Cambrians on the run. His report had said as much.
They traveled a good ten miles before the sun began to turn orange, and Agricola felt like he wanted to weep with weariness when Roscius called a welcome halt. The men pounded up the nearest hill to make camp, Roscius ordering a ditch and rampart to be constructed, an order that made him no friends amongst the rankers. As they set to work with their shovels, Agricola spied a billowing stain on the horizon.
“Smoke,” he said to Roscius, nudging the bigger man.
Roscius peered into the distance. “Yes,” he agreed. “We’ll pass right by it tomorrow.”
“Shouldn’t we send a detachment to see what it’s about?”
“No. I’m not sending men out into the field at night. Not here. Whatever it is, there’s nothing we can do about it now.”
Agricola dreamed.
He dreamed of Lavinia Postumia and her mu
ted sighs of passion. And her screams for mercy as, in the landscape of Morpheus, Postumus killed her in many varied ways. By the sword. By strangulation. By beating her to death. And all the while, he, Gnaeus Julius Agricola, stood by and watched. Even in the dream, his own conscience screamed at him: You don’t even know how she died. And she died because of you. The fault is yours. The blame. Yours. Her death. Yours to bear. He cried out against the judgment of his conscience, but nothing could stop the images . . .
If the scenes of his murder-by-proxy were different, the screams were always there. Loud. Incessant. Agonized. Guttural. The sound of iron on iron . . .
Agricola’s eyes snapped open to the cries of dying men. “Shit!” he cried, his voice shrill in the rising chaos.
“They’re over the ditch,” someone called out. It was the last thing he would ever say as his words eddied off into a scream.
Agricola lurched to his feet, eyes casting around frantically for his sword—much like the vast majority of the Tenth. He looked to the defenses and saw bobbing torches as the huge wild-haired outlines of the Cambrians streamed into the camp like wine into a cup. He saw his weapon and grabbed it, hauling it from the scabbard and rushing toward where the fighting seemed to be thickest.
“Form up!” Calvus was shouting at the top of his lungs. “Two lines, back to back, one to five, six to ten!”
The men—well drilled—were doing as they were told. Some had elected to sleep in their gear, some—like himself—had not, and he guessed were sorely regretting it now. At least, he thought, they had shields.
There was nothing he could do to assist Calvus, so he rushed to the rampart, aiming to help out there. Men swarmed around him; in the dark it was hard to tell who was who.
A huge shape loomed up at him, wild hair and wide eyes, all teeth and stinking of beer. The tribesman swung an axe at his head, and it was only by instinct that Agricola managed to duck, feeling the wind on the back of his neck as the sharp iron whizzed by. Training took over then, and he plunged his gladius into the man’s exposed side. He was unarmored, and the weapon went in with ease, sinking deep into the Cambrian’s vitals. Hot, stinking blood burst free, soaking Agricola’s arm from hand to elbow. He tried to drag the sword out, but he’d struck too hard, and it was stuck in the tribesman’s body as he writhed and screamed. Agricola twisted his wrist, and the barbarian’s legs went from under him. As he fell, the impetus forced the sword free.