Wounds of Honour: Empire I

by Anthony Riches

  ‘And the Briton?’

  ‘The first time he saved your life was pure luck, and fortune of the finest quality given the fact we’d have been dead men without his intervention. I’d say Fortuna smiles on you, Marcus Valerius Aquila. The second time, well, that was my own doing. People who plan for the worst have a tendency to survive when it actually happens, so I took steps to make sure that I was using my own dice for the game.’

  He paused for a moment and looked the younger man square in the eye, as if weighing up his state of mind.

  ‘And now, Centurion, there are things you have to know before we leave this place. None of them are pleasant, but then you find yourself in a difficult place with very limited options. You must fully understand your situation before you can decide how to face it.’

  Marcus met his gaze with a level stare.

  ‘I’ve been sent across Oceanus to the very edge of the world on a fool’s errand, ambushed twice in two days by men I do not know intent on my murder, and informed in casual terms of the downfall of my father, previously a respected senator of Rome. I’m not sure you can make that picture very much bleaker, Tiberius Rufius, but if there’s more to tell then I am ready.’

  ‘Bravely put, Valerius Aquila. And you can drop the formalities. My forename is Quintus, and I’d be proud to count you as a close enough friend to use it. Now then, where to start? Legatus Sollemnis received a message from your father twenty days ago, stating that he feared for your family’s safety in the current political climate in Rome. The senator wrote to warn Sollemnis of his decision to have you sent as far away from Rome as possible. He asked Sollemnis to hide you away from his enemies, as a last favour to a friend. This, of course, was no idle request – he was asking his friend to defy the throne and harbour a man who would swiftly be named as a traitor.

  ‘When I met with Sollemnis last evening it was already clear to him that Tigidius Perennis would be his main problem. You’ve probably guessed by now that he’s the son of your praetorian prefect, a man closer to the throne than you may know. What you don’t know is that his appointment as a tribune on the Sixth’s staff was imposed on Sollemnis last year. At the time he took it as a clear signal that Emperor Commodus, or at least the men who stand behind him, intended to be assured of his loyalty. After all, three legions and a dozen auxiliary cohorts is a lot of spears, the biggest single concentration of troops in the entire empire, and that could be an irresistible temptation to a man of the senatorial class with ambition. Sollemnis mistakenly thought that Perennis had simply been appointed to spy on his actions, but since his arrival this new tribune’s actions have gone well beyond simple spying. He’s subverted the Asturian cavalry to do his dirty work, and Sollemnis is convinced that he’s planning to take command of the legion if ever he gets the chance.’

  Marcus raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘A tribune? Unseat an imperial general officer? How likely is that?’

  ‘With the right authority? With a scroll of authority embossed with the correct seals, and with the legion’s most senior officers in no doubt as to their fate if they jumped the wrong way? Easier than you might think, I’d say. When, at the right time, Tigidius Perennis brings out his letter of authority, complete with the imperial seal, half a dozen men find themselves harking back to quiet conversations with the man. Flattery, offers of promotion and veiled threats to loved ones from a clever young man of the highest influence and absolutely no scruples. I’d put good money on Sollemnis finding himself at the wrong end of the spear very quickly in such a situation. He knows that he has very good reason to behave in a manner that provides no opportunity for Perennis to make his move.

  ‘So, the legatus originally thought that it would be relatively simple to send you across to the Twentieth Legion at Deva, under the supervision of their legatus, if he could just keep you from Perennis’s attention. The Twentieth’s man owes him a favour or two, apparently. A second messenger arrived, two days ago, an urgent dispatch from Rome, and carried by a courier I’ve met a few times before. Once I got a few drinks into him he was happy enough to discuss the stories he’d heard around the palace before he left. Your father had been arrested for the crime of conspiracy against the throne, and was ... questioned on your disappearance, but even in extremis refused to give any clue as to your whereabouts. All they could wring out of him, after days of suffering, was that he’d sent you to the ends of the empire, out of their reach. His remains were scattered for the crows, denied the burial rites to avoid there being any rallying point for your family’s supporters. You should be proud of him, Marcus Valerius Aquila; by dying in such ignominy, but with such dignity, he brought great honour to your name. But suspicion obviously fell on your tribune, and he told Commodus’s men everything they wanted to know as soon as they came for him. Hoping to save himself from torture, it seems. Fool. It would have been easier on him if he’d just fallen on his own sword while he had the chance. The elder Perennis was so furious that you slipped from his grasp just as he was ready to move on your family, he had his thugs torture Tribune Scarus to death just trying to prove his story false.

  ‘The instructions from Rome were simple enough. As far as Sollemnis was concerned, you were to be detained and returned to the capital at the first opportunity, day or night. A private message for Perennis was delivered by the same courier, and it wasn’t too hard to guess what orders that contained. Once the senior officer at Dark Pool fortress reported you as being on the road to Yew Grove, I was sent south in secret to find you. I was to provide you with whatever protection I could until you reached the city. In the meantime Sollemnis decided to take five cohorts out into the country on a no-warning exercise, to avoid your walking into the fortress before he was ready to receive you. He knew I’d keep you out of trouble until he got back.

  ‘When he arrived back at Yew Grove late last night, Sollemnis had no choice but to “deal with you”, and provide clear evidence of his loyalty to the throne, but he had time to set me to work again, preparing your escape from the death that Titus Tigidius Perennis had planned for you ...’

  Rufius looked at him for a long moment before reaching out a hand, patting his shoulder in a gesture of reassurance that was not mirrored in his troubled eyes.

  ‘Marcus, there comes a moment in every man’s life when he must shoulder the full burden of his fate, accept his own death or, worse, the death of those he loves. This, I regret, is your moment. Read the scroll you were ordered to bring here.’

  Marcus cut away the protective wax seal and opened the box containing his father’s last message, turning the unrolled parchment to the morning’s slowly brightening eastern horizon.

  My son, may the gods have remained with you, you are by now safe in northern Britannia, and far distant from the throne’s vengeance. You are reading this message at the suggestion of the man to whom I have entrusted your fate. By the time you reach Britannia, I expect that Commodus and his supporters will have laid formal charges of treason at our family’s door. I will have been tortured for information as to your whereabouts, then killed without ceremony or hearing. I can only hope that my persecutors will have been kinder with your mother and our other children and relatives, although I doubt it. This emperor brings evil out from under the stones that have long concealed it, and few men display less honour in their deeds than your praetorian prefect, Perennis. Whatever the ugly detail of their ending, our kindred will be taken and killed out of hand, our honour publicly denounced, and our line almost brought to an abrupt full stop. You are almost certainly all that remains of our blood.

  My purpose in bribing your tribune to send you to my friend is a simple one. He will, I am confident, undertake to send you deeper into that harsh and difficult country and hide you among his friends, out of sight of the throne’s hunting dogs. I apologise gravely for not sharing my intention with you, as should have been the case between men. Your sense of honour, so carefully instilled by years of patient teaching, would only have tripped you b
efore you could fly. Our conversation on the night of your sister’s birthday proved to me that you had no comprehension of the fate looming over our proud house. I chose therefore to make your flight one that required no such understanding.

  So now you are in Britannia, if all has gone well. You must think hard now, despite your sorrow, and act with decision and courage. You are the last of our line, the only blood left unspilt from a once distinguished family. Your task now must be to preserve that blood, to hide it from the hunters until the chase is abandoned, perhaps even until the man on the throne has changed. You alone must judge the right time to emerge from hiding, and how much vengeance to seek at that point, depending on your circumstances. Remember, my son, revenge is a morsel best savoured at leisure, rather than hot from the oven, lest you burn your own mouth. In truth, it would be enough for me to know that our blood will be passed on to later generations. For our honour to be restored would be more then I could expect.

  I only ask, for your grandfather’s sake if not for mine, that you do not despair of this last request. I know that you loved the old man, and would like you to know that your military training and position were mostly at his request, a promise I gave him on his deathbed. Certainly I had no will to resist the last desire of a dying man, as I hope will now be the case with this request I make of you, since I am most certainly doomed.

  I wish you, and the future of our line, the best of luck. May Mercury guide your steps and Mars strengthen your sword-hand.

  Your father, Appius Valerius Aquila

  Marcus looked up from the scroll and stared bleakly at the older man. Rufius took a deep breath before speaking again.

  ‘Sollemnis tells me that your father had the misfortune to be both wealthy and a man of honour and intelligence at a time when both made him a target. No emperor can afford to leave any survivors when he removes a perceived threat to his greatness, for the fear of their becoming a rallying point for discontent. Worse, most guard commanders will tell you that almost anyone can be killed, if the assassin has no concern for his escape once the deed is completed – if he has nothing left to live for. It’s a usual precaution for the emperor to order the death of all males in any family he moves against, an essential task of the praetorians, I’m afraid ... I’m sorry, but your father is almost certainly dead. Did you have any brothers?’

  The younger man nodded, swallowing painfully.

  ‘A younger brother. He’s ... was ... ten ...’

  ‘I’m sorry ... So you see, this is that moment of which I spoke. You are the only surviving male of your family, the last of your bloodline. If you die, your father and grandfather’s line will be snuffed out for ever. But you’re going to have to take a part in your own protection. Neither I nor Dubnus can run around looking after you for the next ten years, and so ...’

  Marcus nodded his understanding, took a deep breath and got to his feet, stooping to pick up the razor-sharp cavalry sword.

  ‘And I certainly won’t knowingly endanger either of you any further. You’ve both already done more than enough. I’ll find some way to escape the pursuit ...’

  Rufius looked up at him with a gentle smile, shaking his head in bemusement.

  ‘Brave enough talk, my lad, but likely to see you dead before dusk tonight. What’s needed now isn’t nobility, but mobility. You need to be somewhere else, as far from here as can be managed. And, much as it pains me to tell you this, you must also become someone else, another man entirely, and take on a name as far removed from the one you’ve used with pride all these years as possible.’

  Dubnus turned to face them across the grove. Marcus met his frank stare with a shrug.

  ‘You’re right. This is your country, not mine. So tell me, where should I go?’

  Rufius exchanged glances with Dubnus, and then continued.

  ‘What I was going to say was that neither Dubnus nor I can be absent from our usual routines for long. I would quickly be missed, and suspicions about my role in all of this will already be high enough, and Dubnus is expected back on duty with his unit on the Wall in a few days. We do, however, have an idea of how we can spirit you away from under your enemies’ noses, and hide you in a place they’d never consider. Your part will be to do everything and anything Dubnus tells you to, from now until he delivers you to your destination. Perhaps you can find a way of repaying him ...’ He lowered his voice. ‘... although I’d advise against offering him money.’

  Marcus nodded slowly, his face still white from the shock of reading his father’s message.

  ‘I will do whatever I have to. I have no choice. My name ...’

  Rufius grimaced.

  ‘It’s never easy to jettison something as close to your identity as the name your father gave you, especially under such circumstances, but you have no choice. You need a simple name, one to let you fade into the background of this bloody story and be lost to view from Rome. Your forename should remain the same, there’s no sense in risking your being caught out in your deception when there’s no need. As for clan and family ...’

  He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then thrust a hand into his bag.

  ‘For a clan name, I suggest this ...’

  Resting on his outstretched palm was a device constructed of four metal spikes heat-welded together, their points bright iron teeth.

  ‘It’s a tribulus. Strew a few thousand of these in front of a cohort and you’ve removed any danger of cavalry or chariot attack. See, no matter how you drop it to the ground, there’s always one nasty little point sticking up to wreck a horse’s hoof, and it’ll make a mess of a blue-nose foot too.’

  Marcus picked up the vicious device.

  ‘It’s bent.’

  Rufius nodded, taking the tribulus and wrapping his fist around it.

  ‘My own modification. See, a small change to the spikes’ angles makes it the perfect close-combat weapon if you lose your sword.’

  A single spike protruded from between his fingers, two more poked out from either side of his fist, while the last stuck straight out from his palm.

  ‘However I choose to punch a man with this I’ll always have a nice length of iron in front of my fist. This one’s yours, I’ve got another one in my bag, and you never know when you might find that little toy your only weapon. So, for your clan name I suggest “Tribulus”. Seems quite appropriate, given the way you keep fighting back no matter which way up fate throws you. As for a family name ...’

  The distant crow cawed again, its harsh call cutting through the crisp morning air. Marcus lifted his head, looking out across the bleak landscape laid out below them.

  ‘There’s your answer – “Corvus” – it will serve to remind me how my father was mistreated even after his death. And it’s as good as any other name if I have to abandon the one my ancestors have used with pride since the expulsion of the ancient kings from the city ...’

  Rufius put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re not abandoning anything, just burying it here for a while, along with everything else that can betray you to your pursuers. Work the new name through your mind until you consider yourself as Marcus Tribulus Corvus. If the right gods smile on you, you’ll be safe at the Hill in a matter of days, and once there you’ll have to be comfortable with your new identity.’

  ‘The Hill? Where’s that?’

  Rufius’s face creased in a rueful grin.

  ‘Where’s the Hill? At the end of the world, that’s where. Dubnus, it’s time for you both to leave ...’

  The Briton pondered for a moment. To their west rose the Pennine mountains, still snow-capped with retreating winter, a bleak killing field with little cover if the inevitable searching cavalry patrols came upon them. A long climb would take them to the peaks, another day’s march would drop them back on to the lowlands on the far side. There they would find safer ground, another legion’s territory, although he knew that the ripples from the slaughter he’d inflicted on the Roman’s pursuers would still spread
wide. Taking the fugitive to the north, on the other hand, would take them off the road, but into the forests, dangerous beyond belief for a pair of men, one in the hated armour of Rome, the other very much an unknown quantity. Even if the cavalry sword in his grip was edged with blackened dried blood.

  ‘I will take him over the mountains to the west.’

  Rufius nodded agreement.

  ‘And I need to be back about my business, away from the pair of you, at least for now.’

  He embraced Marcus briefly, stepping back to appraise the younger man one last time.

  ‘Farewell, then, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, we’ll meet again in the north, Mars willing. My horse is safe in the woods below, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  He nodded to Marcus, clasped hands with Dubnus and started back down the slope. The Briton turned to face Marcus, unwrapping a bundle that Rufius had left behind.

  ‘Clothes and boots, as worn by my people. Rufius bought them for you in Yew Grove. Let’s hope they fit. Also, a blanket, and a nice heavy hooded cape to keep you dry in the rain.’

  Fit they did, although they were a rude surprise to Marcus after the quality of his own clothing, rough material and ill-made boots that chafed his feet before he’d even started walking. They buried his tunic, cloak and boots to prevent their discovery, wrapping his gold cloak pin and the message from his father in their folds, and marked their position with a small pile of rocks. Dubnus strapped the cavalry sword to his right hip.

  ‘Better I throw it to you if it comes to a fight. What would a roughly dressed peasant like you be doing with such a fine weapon? You can have it back when we reach the Hill.’

  He wiped mud across the younger man’s face to complete the transformation, standing back to admire his handiwork.

  ‘You’ll pass. Your hands are too soft, you need to get some dirt under your nails, and your hair is too short, but we’ll cut it even shorter once we’ve got the time, make it look military. You’re a tribesman now, my nephew in fact, and I’m taking you to join my cohort at the Hill ... Cocidius forgive me. Anyone talks to us, you keep your mouth closed, your head down and you let me do the talking. Very well, let’s march.’