Enemies of the Empire

by Rosemary Rowe

  Marcus’s manner did not thaw. ‘So? Are you about to tell me that they caught the thieves, discovered where their hide-out is, and were riding frantically to tell us so?’

  A little pause. ‘I fear not, Excellence. But—’

  ‘As I suspected. No success at all. And all this at the expense of much indignity and one rider wounded, I observe. Well, what have you to say that is of such importance?’

  The optio kept his face impassive. ‘Merely, Excellence, that it appears they met a messenger – a man in imperial uniform – who told them that you had been attacked and ordered them to come to your assistance instantly. That is why they came at such a pace and with their weapons drawn. If I had not recognised the leading man, and managed to shout the password of the day and order him to stop, I believe there might have been a dreadful outcome here. They were all ready to attack our group on sight.’

  Marcus looked shaken. He is not a patient man, but he is not wilfully unjust and his manner changed abruptly as he said, ‘You think it was a plot, to set our men against each other? And you averted it? I see.’ He frowned. ‘But who could have sent that message? And who was the messenger?’ He looked at me as if I could conjure the answer from the trees. ‘Libertus?’

  I did my best, and spelt out the obvious. ‘I think it was clearly one of the rebels, Excellence, dressed in the uniform of the Isca messenger they caught the other day. I knew there was a danger that they would try something like that – I didn’t expect it to be quite so soon, or to be the victim of the ploy ourselves.’

  ‘I’d come to that conclusion too.’ Marcus turned towards the optio. ‘Did they not challenge him? Require the password, or something of the kind?’

  He shook his head. ‘It seems not, Excellence. Unfortunately they are not the mansio’s men, and they assumed that he was one of ours. Let the leader tell you for himself.’

  He signalled to the leading horseman, who approached, though he was clearly terrified. He told his story but had nothing much to add. They had chased the horse-thieves, but found nobody. After a fruitless scramble they gave up the chase and were working their way back towards the place where we had left the vehicles when they were accosted by a Roman messenger, who told them that there had been an ambush further down the road and ordered them to ride down in support. ‘We knew that there were rebels in the area, after that problem at the farm, so we set off at once. He had a seal, and uniform and everything,’ the hapless rider finished breathlessly. ‘We didn’t question his authority.’

  ‘You did not stop to ask the password?’ Marcus growled.

  ‘We thought you were in danger, Excellence. In any case, he was not from our command. The password is not necessarily the same.’

  Marcus harrumphed, but he was clearly mollified by this. ‘Very well. In the circumstances I can see that you’re not totally to blame. The rebels set a trap and you fell into it. We always knew they were a ruthless group – it appears they are a cunning one as well.’

  ‘And, with respect, Excellence,’ I put in nervously, ‘we also know that they are still at large, and in the area. It would be prudent not to linger here, perhaps? It makes us an easy target for attack. I think we should be safer on the move, especially now that we have at least some of our mounted outriders again.’

  Marcus nodded. ‘You may be right, old friend,’ he conceded, with an alacrity which indicated how alarmed he was. ‘See to it, optio.’

  ‘At once, Excellence,’ and he bustled off, happily bristling with responsibility. He was soon back again, however. ‘With your permission, Excellence?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘One of our riders has been hurt, and though it is possible for him to ride, he will delay our progress. However, he is fit enough to march, and he can be supported if necessary. Permission to give his mount to Regulus?’

  Marcus looked momentarily vexed, then nodded briefly. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Then we are ready to proceed.’

  We took our places at the centre of the group, with the wounded horseman in the rank behind, where Regulus had been. There was the usual parting ritual – ‘Are you prepared for battle or for death?’ ‘We are!’ – and we were on our way.

  It was comforting to have the outriders again, and we marched in silence, as before. In fact we moved so quickly that for me, at least, conversation would have been impossible. My heart pumped and my old legs ached with keeping up, and even Marcus, who exercises regularly at the baths, was beginning to look flushed and out of breath. The foot soldiers, however, marched as though we were on a gentle stroll.

  We were still on the alert for ambushes, of course, but if there were still rebels in the woods they did not trouble us. It occurred to me that we were far too strong a force, and that they would not confront us while we outnumbered them. That was a comfort and I moved more easily, and was even able to enjoy the sombre beauty of the place – autumnal leaves that rustled underfoot and patches of feeble sunlight dappling the massive trees.

  My private soliloquy was interrupted by a commotion in the ranks behind. The wounded horseman had reeled and fallen to the ground. There was a moment’s pause while he was hoisted to his feet and supported by the men on either side, and then the column moved briskly on again. There was no perceptible change in pace at all, though when I glanced behind me I saw that his feet were dragging on the ground and he was being borne along by his companions. They did not even falter in their stride. It was an amazing display of strength and discipline.

  There was still no sign of bandits anywhere. We passed another traveller on the road, a fat man with a donkey cart piled high with skins, who moved into the ditch to let us pass. The presence of this simple, unarmed trader put our fears to shame, and I for one felt rather foolish marching by, protected by a fierce contingent, leaving the man to coax his animal back onto the road, and rearrange the dislodged cargo on his cart.

  A moment later, though, I had forgotten him. We turned the corner and found ourselves back on a familiar stretch of road, near where we had left the transport, and one of the front outriders was galloping back towards us, visibly distressed.

  ‘Optio, sir, and your mightiness!’ It was Regulus, wheeling his borrowed mount beside us and reporting breathlessly. ‘There has been a sort of accident ahead. The horses . . .’ His voice tailed off. ‘Round the corner, sirs. Perhaps you had best come and see for yourselves.’ He cantered off.

  The phalanx surged forward, almost breaking ranks. There was the clearing and the path, and there was the carriage and the carts, but they were not exactly where we’d left them and it was clear at once that something was amiss. For one thing there were signs that there had been a struggle here. Baskets and belongings from the luggage cart were spread about and lying in the road, and the grass around had been trampled and was dark and stained. A body was stretched out on the verge, a red-headed youth in plaid, but there was no other living thing in sight except ourselves. No slaves, no guards, and – appallingly – no horses, even on the carts. The very harness straps and chains had been removed and the vehicles leaned drunken and useless on their shafts.

  ‘There were men here on guard! Where have they gone?’ The optio abandoned all restraint and ran forward, clasping his helmet as he went. After a minute Marcus followed him, and I trailed after them, staring at the scene in disbelief.

  This time there were no questions about who might have been responsible. None of us had any doubt at all. The men who had stolen the horses from the farm had clearly stolen ours. It was also evident that Marcus had been right, and that a cunning mind was working here. Turning our own outriders back on us with false rumours of attack had achieved a double purpose. Not only had it caused them to attempt to ride us down, but it had also prevented them from returning here and helping to protect the transport. I looked up and down the track, but there was no sign of any other guards, alive or dead, only the motionless Silurian on the ground.

  I knelt beside the dying youth and saw, now that I came c
lose to him, that he had taken a spear-point through his ribs. It had broken at the hilt and he was moaning piteously. I raised his head.

  ‘What happened here?’ I whispered, signalling to Regulus to bring a water-skin from the luggage cart. Pouring a few drops of liquid on his tongue was all that I could do. To move the blade would kill him instantly.

  For answer the young Silurian turned his head and looked me in the face. His eyes were glazing over. Then, summoning the last remnants of his strength, he spat at me. ‘That, for all enemies of Karak . . .’ he began, in a voice that cracked and broke, but the effort was too much for him and he slumped back, dead.

  I looked at Regulus, who had witnessed all of this, with a questioning lift of my brows. He had come running over straight away, not stopping to search the luggage cart but unfastening his own small water-bottle from his belt. He shook his head. ‘Karak? Must be some sort of tribal name. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’ He knelt down beside me as he spoke and himself held the water to the Silurian’s lips, but we both knew that it was far too late. He sighed and rocked back on his heels. ‘Now that’s a pity. If he’d lived, even for an hour, we might have got something out of him. As it is, he is no use to us at all.’ He got back to his feet.

  I pulled the young man’s cloak round to cover his face and wordlessly, as if with one accord, we lifted the body between us to the ditch where we had found Promptillius earlier. We buried him in the self-same hole, as sketchily as Regulus’s party had buried the dead slave the morning before – roughly covered by a mound of leaves. Even then, Marcus was not altogether pleased when we got back to the larger party by the carts.

  ‘Wasting time and ceremony on our enemies,’ he grumbled, ‘when our horses have been taken and only the gods know what has happened to our men. Serve him right if he was left unburied and forced to walk the earth. There were two slaves with the luggage wagon here – to say nothing of a dozen guards. And how are we to get to Isca now?’

  I looked forlornly at the carriage we had travelled in. It did look a sorry sight, bereft of horses and pushed off the road to rest lopsidedly against a fallen tree. Pushed there not long ago, it seemed – it was still rocking slightly on its wheels. I stared at it a moment, before the implication struck me. Rocking?

  Regulus was still standing at my side, and it was obvious that the same thought had occurred to him. ‘Come on!’ I shouted and we set off at a run. He is a younger, fitter man than I am, and he got there first. He pulled aside the leather curtain and flung back the door. A bundled figure fell out at his feet – naked, gagged and trussed up hand and foot, but even before I saw the slave-brand on his back, I knew that it was one of Marcus’s slaves.

  Regulus drew his dagger and slit through the bonds and the strip of coloured fabric that was serving as a gag. The young man rolled over and sat panting in the dust, flexing his wrists and rubbing at the weals.

  ‘In . . . there . . .’ he muttered weakly, flapping at the open carriage door, but Regulus was already there, pulling a second servant from the seat. He had been stripped and tied up in exactly the same way but, being stronger, he had not stopped struggling – it was that which had evidently caused the movement we had seen. He was bruised and knocked about in a way which his companion had escaped and, perhaps because of his continued efforts to free himself, the ropes had bitten more cruelly into him, but once released he was the first to regain coherent power of speech.

  ‘Forgive us, master,’ he implored, falling on one knee before Marcus, who had just come up to us, and attempting at the same time to conceal his nakedness. ‘It was a trap. The horseman told the guards that there’d been a raid and you’d been taken captive at the farm. Naturally they hastened to rescue you – but that abandoned us. And then the other group attacked. We did our best, but we were hopelessly overpowered.’ He glanced around. ‘I thought I’d brought down one of them at least but I can’t see him now.’

  Marcus interrupted. ‘Enough!’

  He looked thunderous and the terrified man at once abased himself, but my patron’s anger was not directed at his slave at all. He gazed into the impenetrable trees and raised his voice. ‘Wait till we catch up with you, you shameless scoundrels, you less-than-curs, you treacherous . . .’ He was so furious that he was almost lost for words. He turned to me, still muttering, ‘These men are not merely enemies of the Empire, they have set out to humiliate and mock. I shall make them wish that they were never born!’

  There was no doubt he meant it. It is rare for a high-born Roman to permit himself a personal emotional outburst of that kind. They are expected to exhibit steely self-control while curses and rants are left to the recruits, and there was a slight feeling of embarrassment among the soldiery. Marcus seemed to be aware of this himself, and with almost visible resolve turned his attention to more practical, immediate affairs.

  He nodded briskly towards Regulus. ‘Very well. Find my poor slaves something to cover themselves with. Give them at least that dignity. There may be something in the luggage wagon still, if those confounded sons of Dis have not stolen everything. Optio, bring your men up front and rear to act as guards, while we decide what’s to be done. Cavalry mounts are not the slightest use for this, I suppose? They won’t be accustomed to harness.’

  ‘Absolutely, Excellence,’ the optio said, with such obvious relief that I realised how much he had dreaded having to explain this very point. ‘You are most perceptive. I will send off a group to requisition—’ He broke off as Regulus came up and made salute. ‘Well, cavalryman? I see that you are in a hurry to report. What is the matter?’

  Regulus looked stolidly at nothing, and replied, ‘Two matters, optio. First, there is a body in the luggage cart, and second, there are horsemen on the way. I can hear their hoofbeats. As no doubt you can yourself, if you turn your attention that way for a moment.’

  We listened, the optio with a look of acute concentration on his face. Sure enough, I could detect it too, now that it had been pointed out to me: a faint, rhythmic thudding noise, right on the edge of audibility. I saw Marcus stiffen as he caught the sound.

  Regulus went on reporting, in his official monotone, ‘Coming this way through the trees, not moving very fast – scarcely more than walking pace, by the sound of it. There must be quite a little group of them, but they’re not even attempting to be quiet. Certainly not threatening another charge or a surprise attack. Probably just travellers or our own men coming back.’

  I was impressed, for the second time that day, by how much information an experienced horseman could derive simply from a set of distant sounds. To the optio, however, such skill was clearly commonplace. He listened for an instant more, then nodded briefly. ‘I believe you’re right. Well, we will soon discover who they are, though it will be some moments before they reach us here. We are prepared to meet them, whoever they might be. We have sentries watching, and mounted men in place. In the meantime, what is this about a body in the cart? Surely we put it there ourselves? The slave belonging to His Excellence?’

  Regulus shook his head. ‘I fear not, optio. That is still there, if course, but it is not the corpse I was referring to. This is – at least it looks like – the Isca messenger who disappeared the other day. It seems to be the right sort of age and build, as muscular and tanned as you’d expect, and the hands are hard as if from using reins – but of course, I can’t be absolutely sure.’

  Marcus gave a nod of understanding. ‘You didn’t personally know the messenger, I suppose?’

  Regulus kept his eyes unfocused on some distant spot over my patron’s shoulder. ‘I crave your pardon, Excellence. But in fact I knew him very well. We have ridden out together many times. As I say, I think that’s who it is. Only, without a head, it’s difficult to swear to anything.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  It took a moment for the meaning of this to register with us, and then, as the full horror of the implication struck, we all went running to the cart. Even some of the foot soldiers clustered
round with ghoulish curiosity as Marcus gave the word and the cover of the luggage wagon was lifted back across the wooden framework that supported it.

  What was revealed inside was not a pretty sight. Promptillius’s body still lay, as it had been disinterred, wrapped in what used to be my toga, and that was bad enough. But at his feet was propped another corpse, and that was horrible.

  It had been forced into a sort of kneeling posture, and wedged so that the torso was bent forward and the arms outstretched in a ghastly parody of the lament. What made the posture even more obscene was not only that the head had been crudely hewn off at the neck, but that the rest of the body had been stuffed, with deliberate mockery, into a garment that was far too small for it. A pair of hairy buttocks greeted us, under the hem of a short crimson tunic with a gold-embroidered edge – the uniform of Marcus’s household slaves. Obviously this one was too small to be any use to them, and they had chosen to mock us in this way.

  I had stood back to let my patron pass ahead of me, and now I heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Dear Mercury and all the gods! Wait till the Emperor Commodus learns of this. It is a studied insult to all Roman power.’

  And an insult to Marcus in particular, I thought, though of course he didn’t mention that. To a patrician Roman magistrate, such as my patron, loss of dignity is almost worse than death. Here, it was outright dangerous, because it undermined his status with the troops. There were already knowing titters in the watching crowd – as the rebels had no doubt intended there should be.

  I wondered again at the sharp intelligence which was behind all this. What kind of man had dared to do these things? Someone who was capable of lightning thought: fearless, certainly, and almost contemptuous of Rome, since he visited such indignities on an imperial messenger, stole horses from under the noses of armed troops, and set out to mock and alienate a man of Marcus’s influence. I could see how such a person would inspire his men – a bold and reckless leader, harrying what he saw as an occupying power.