by George Green
The soldiers had emptied their packs and stripped off the motley collection of legionary armour and clothing they wore. Added together, there were just about enough pieces of uniform between them for five men and a centurion to look reasonably convincing. At least, they would ‘On a dark night when no one is doing inspections,’ as Severus put it with a sorrowful shake of the head. All of them were missing some piece of equipment, but there was enough to get by. Severus in particular would pass for a centurion unless someone looked too closely, except that he was older than most and he didn’t have a helmet. Age wasn’t really a problem, but no centurion would be seen without his helmet while on a campaign. The plumes were a jealously guarded privilege and it would be strange for him to be seen without one.
Brutus came back into the barn and tossed a bundle to Severus. He caught it and unwrapped a centurion’s helmet, with foil plumes.
‘That poor bastard we saw at supper?’ said Severus.
Brutus nodded. ‘I had to thump someone who was about to run off with it for a souvenir.’
Severus looked at it thoughtfully and then tried it on. It was far too small.
‘I’ll carry it,’ he said. ‘At least I’ve got the thing, I can always say that the chin-strap is broken or something.’
‘Actually, the chin-strap is broken,’ said Brutus.
‘Then that’s decided.’ Severus looked critically at the five men dressed as legionaries and shook his head slowly. ‘The sorriest lot of soldiers I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘It’s just as well it’s raining. Keep your cloaks wrapped around you and hope no one notices that you’re only half dressed.’
The men who didn’t have uniforms would have to swim to safety. Severus insisted on overseeing the preparations, making sure that they smeared themselves thoroughly with the pungent goose-fat that an unwilling cook had given Decius. Each man tied two inflated wineskins to his belt and slung two more under his arms.
‘Wrap your weapons in your cloak and tie it to your back,’ Severus said, moving down the line. ‘It’ll help keep you the right way up. It’s every man for himself on the water. As soon as you hit land, try and regroup, but don’t waste time.’
Serpicus took over. ‘Start walking north. There is a crossing about ten leagues upriver beside a hill shaped like a lion’s head. Head south-east until you hit the road home.’
Severus looked at them with something that might have been affection. ‘We’ll wait for you at the Hinterrhein. Don’t be late. Anyone who drowns will have me to answer to.’
Scipio looked up from spreading a final fist of goose-fat onto his chest. ‘Hell, we’ll get there first, we’ll wait for you.’
Severus looked affronted. ‘Ten sesterces say we beat you by a day.’
‘Ten sesterces for every day we beat you by.’
‘Can I bet too?’ said Brutus.
‘No non-participants,’ said Scipio quickly with a laugh which died in his throat. There was an uncomfortable silence. Those who were leaving looked at those who were staying. They had spent a month constantly in each other’s company and now they were on opposite sides. Several of the men clasped hands with Snake and the Gauls. Scipio reached out his hand to Serpicus.
‘I’m glad we came,’ he said, and inclined his head before walking away. Severus walked slowly around the table and stood in front of Serpicus.
‘I’m sorry for the way things are,’ he said quietly.
A picture of Antonia and the children appeared in Serpicus’ mind. He pushed it aside. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘Everyone understands.’
Severus cleared his throat and spoke up. ‘When you return to Rome, I’ll back up your story. Blaesus won’t have any grounds for thinking you cheated him.’
Serpicus did his best to look positive. ‘I suspect Blaesus won’t be in a mood for listening, but I appreciate the thought.’
Severus looked at Brutus, Galba and Decius, and raised a finger to his forehead in salute. Then he turned to Snake and the two Gauls. ‘You should come with us. When the legions come in over the walls, it won’t be pretty.’
Snake stepped forward and held out his hand. As Severus shook it the Cretan said, ‘Thanks for the thought. Will you please all fuck off now and stop making a sentimental mess out of it?’
There was a brief flurry of leave-taking, a call from Scipio of ‘Everyone meets in the Four Cats by the Forum a year from today, last one there buys the drinks,’ and then the men filed out of the barn and split into their two groups. A soaked and rain-chilled group of German warriors were still standing sullenly outside. Balant had warned them sternly off their original intention of hanging all of their guests from convenient branches, but they weren’t happy about it. Most of them had gone back to look at the Roman fires from the wall, but a fair few had remained and appointed themselves as guards to ensure that their guests left without further trouble or delay. It was very dark and the rain made any sort of farewell difficult. Scipio shouted ‘The Four Cats, don’t forget!’ again and then his men set off towards the river. Serpicus reckoned it was as good a way of parting as any.
He went with Severus and his five motley legionaries to the gate. They made sure that there were no lights shining behind them to reveal any movement, and then started to walk quietly towards the Roman fires.
A short time later, they were talking to a thoroughly miserable group of legionaries huddled beside a picket fire. The plan was working. The dawn was so dark, the hour so late and the weather so miserable that they got within ten steps of the fire before the shivering guards even noticed them. The legionaries jumped to attention at the sight of an inspecting centurion with an escort coming from the gloom, and were visibly relieved to escape the barnacling they knew they deserved. Severus made a few army jokes about the foul weather and the Germans’ unattractively webbed feet which were received with enthusiasm, and the guards were beginning to wonder if all officers were really bastards by the time he saluted and set off towards the Roman tents.
Severus marched straight into the centre of the camp and indicated that they should form, a circle around him. Guards were visible nearby but were watching from under what shelter they could find. Severus would not be overheard, and there was no reason for suspicion.
‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘Now we split up and get out of here nice and easy. The guards on the far side of the camp won’t be expecting trouble. Take a spade with you and walk out like you know where you’re going. Anybody queries you, you’ve got bad guts from this foul bloody German food and you’re going to dig a big bloody hole for yourself and they are welcome to bloody well come and watch. Anybody queries that, the normal latrines are flooded and if he doesn’t believe you he should go and look for himself but you aren’t stopping. All right?’ He turned slowly and looked up the hill where they had camped on the morning of their arrival. ‘Soon as you get out of sight, double-time up the hill. We meet at the top, beside the stone with the carved lines. We wait for an hour and then we go. Anyone not there by then is on his own and will have to catch us up at the Hinterrhein. Any questions?’
There were none. Severus turned to Serpicus. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll be coming with us?’
Serpicus smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ll take a look around, see if I can find anything out.’
‘Good luck then. I’m sorry it has to be like this.’
‘It’s the only way. Don’t worry.’
Severus smiled. ‘The Four Cats, then?’
Serpicus touched a finger to his forehead in salute. ‘The Four Cats.’
Severus and the others walked silently away.
Serpicus looked around, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was on his own in the centre of the Roman camp. His cloak hid the fact that he was not wearing uniform, but if he was challenged it would not take long to find out who he was. He moved into shadow and circled around the centre of the camp. It was raining hard and there were few guards doing more than trying to keep dry. That made it easier to move around, but it also ma
de him look suspicious as no one would be out in such weather without having to be. He moved quietly from shadow to shadow, stopping each time to listen and watch for guards, until he found a tent that was deserted. There were eight legionary packs with bedrolls in two neat rows, and spare equipment piled symmetrically next to each. He helped himself to an extra cloak to help his disguise. Poking around the tent he found a long Persian knife, which he put in his belt and then went out again. He headed back towards the centre of the camp, stopping to listen for a short while outside each tent, hoping to find out something useful.
Some time later he was cold and wet through and had listened beside what seemed like every tent in the camp without learning anything about the plan of attack on Gelbheim. He knew what the legionaries had had for supper, and learned the names of three brothels in Rome he’d never heard of and made a note of them for Brutus, but no plan.
Serpicus moved quietly towards a large tent with a canopy over the entrance. Two legionaries were standing on guard under the shelter. Canopies and guards meant officers. He slipped quietly behind the tent and crouched down to listen. There were subdued voices inside. He listened for a little time without being able to make out a thing.
As he stood up there was a soft sound behind him. He whirled round. A shapeless shadow moved nearby. He raised a hand instinctively to defend himself, then one of Vulcan’s anvils fell out of heaven and landed on his head.
* * *
Serpicus knew that he was dreaming. In his dream he was sitting unconscious in a chair, and a flaming torch was being held just under his nose, as if the smoke would revive him. He could smell the flames, feel the heat, hear it crackling as it burned him. He opened his eyes.
He was sitting in a chair.
His hands and legs were tied.
His face was on fire.
For a moment he couldn’t feel the landslide of pain he knew must be hurtling his way. And then it came, like a mountain collapsing on him. He threw his head back with a gasp and hit something soft behind him. There was a guttural gasp of pain.
‘Ah, good,’ said a familiar voice. ‘He’s awake at last.’
‘Give me that fucking torch for a moment and I’ll shove it into your face, see how long you stay asleep,’ Serpicus hissed, shaking his head to relieve the pain. And then he knew who had spoken to him.
‘He’s broken my nose!’ said a different voice from behind him, one he didn’t recognize. By the harsh slurred accent, a soldier from the Tiber’s east side, the worst part of the worst slums of Rome.
‘Well,’ said the familiar voice languidly. ‘I suggest you hit him somewhere that won’t stop him talking, check he is still firmly tied up, and then go and get someone to fix your face.’
There was a sound suspiciously like a chuckle of amusement. A fist like a toppling key-stone slammed deep into Serpicus’ stomach twice in quick succession, then, as he arched forward with pain, smashed down onto the back of his neck, spilling pain across his shoulders and a blinding light into his temples. Serpicus bent over, choking and gasping for air.
The soldier with the broken nose put ropes around Serpicus’ hands to hold them even more firmly to the arms of the chair, cursing softly as the blood streamed down off his chin.
‘So, Cato,’ Serpicus said, still breathing hard. His face was agony. He fought to ignore it. ‘I see you still do your own racking and branding. I gather most people in your position get their servants to do it for them.’ He couldn’t quite get his mouth under control, the sibilants were sending out spit every time he tried one. ‘Good to know that the old Roman virtue of self-reliance is still alive in you, at least where torture is concerned.’
The philosophers say that when a man knows the hour of his death, it makes him free. That wasn’t why Serpicus insulted Cato. Serpicus insulted him because the man was a lying two-faced bastard who had roasted half Serpicus’ face off, and insulting him took his mind a little off the pain.
Cato held the torch to one side so that he could look closely at his prisoner. ‘Oh, I normally do get someone else to do it,’ he said casually. ‘So tedious. The noise, the mess, you know. But in your case I’m delighted to make an exception.’
His voice was urbane, emotionless, inhuman as the rain falling on the canvas above them. Serpicus tried to prevent a shiver running across his body. Hearing it was like touching a dead man’s face.
‘Why did you go to all this trouble?’ Serpicus asked. ‘There are three legions outside Gelbheim. Drenthe is probably going to die anyway.’
Cato smiled. ‘She’s the key,’ he said. ‘Not only is she the leader of Gelbheim but she’s holding the Treveri together. Kill her first and the revolt falls apart. As long as she lives there is a chance the other tribes may rise to help her.’ He looked at a fingernail. ‘Of course, as you say, she’s going to die soon anyway.’
The soldier finished tying Serpicus’ ankles to the chair-legs, then leant forward and spat a mouthful of blood into his face. He was close enough for Serpicus to smell the stale sweat on his clothes.
‘Enough.’
Another voice.
The soldier stood to startled attention facing the entrance, then, dismissed, walked quickly from the tent. A tall figure came from behind Cato, took the torch from his hand and placed it in a holder. Near enough to bring back into use again very quickly, but a bit further away. The light showed Serpicus who the man was. Serpicus tried not to think about what his own face must look like, and nodded to him.
‘Marcus,’ he said. ‘You here for the show too?’
Marcus folded his arms. ‘No. I came to make sure that it was really you. Cato will perform the interrogation.’
‘I’m flattered.’ Every time Serpicus spoke he could feel the skin of his lips stiffening and cracking, and blood flowing slowly from them.
‘Don’t be. He started all this. He should be allowed to finish it.’ Marcus smiled at Serpicus’ expression and turned away. He walked to the far side of the tent and sat in the shadows near the entrance.
‘You know that in time you will tell me anything that I want to know,’ Cato said, settling himself against the edge of a table like a schoolmaster. ‘The only issue you have to decide is how much pain you wish to endure before you tell it to me. As you’re going to tell me anyhow soon, wouldn’t you rather spare yourself the pain?’
‘Depends,’ Serpicus said.
‘On what?’
‘What you tell me.’
‘That’s unhelpful,’ Cato said reproachfully, ‘but I don’t mind sharing. Especially seeing as we’ve already shared so much.’ He paused and smiled amiably. ‘You don’t know yet just how often we’ve shared things, do you?’
Serpicus said nothing. Cato came around and spoke into his face. His breath smelt of goat’s cheese and black olives.
‘Remember when the steward came to the arena stables to invite you to dinner at the Palace of the Partner?’ He waited. Serpicus said nothing, but he could see that Cato knew he remembered. ‘Remember how you and your barbarian friends tied that pompous old fool Calcas up in knots?’ Cato grinned and his voice rose slightly. He was enjoying himself. He paused, waiting to announce the surprise. ‘I was there.’
Serpicus didn’t know what Cato was going to say but he knew that he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Now Serpicus’ mind raced. He had known everyone who had been there that day, except Calcas the messenger and his slave, and one or two of the chariot drivers although they had all been at least faintly familiar…
The slave.
Something must have flickered in Serpicus’ eyes. ‘Ah. I see you do remember me, I am flattered.’ Cato smiled and clapped his hands like an actor when a witness praises a performance long past. He leant forward, watching Serpicus’ eyes. ‘And that long conversation with the Partner’s uncle the next day, I was there too. When you spoke with Blaesus, I saw everything, heard every word you said.’ He must have thought Serpicus’ expression changed. ‘Yes. It’s true.
Though you wouldn’t have seen me, so you couldn’t be expected to remember that occasion.’
Serpicus remembered. There had been shadows moving in the corners of the room. He’d assumed that powerful men are never alone.
Cato went on. ‘I have to confess, when I met all of you again that day on the pier at Genoa, I did wonder if my faith in my disguise was justified, if I might have been over-confident. I wondered as you approached if changing my stance and growing my beard would be enough.’ He smiled. ‘Then in moments I saw that it was. Very gratifying, I have to say.’ He stood in front of his prisoner. He was preening himself like an ageing courtesan.
‘Yes, how you fooled us, a bunch of drunks in the dark, with your brilliant disguises,’ Serpicus said. Speaking helped him ignore the pain. ‘Disguises aren’t all that clever. Wrap an arsehole in silk, it’ll still look like all the other arseholes around it.’
Cato hesitated a moment. Serpicus wasn’t surprised, he didn’t really know what that remark meant either, but hoped Cato would take it as an insult anyway. Cato stroked his chin for a moment, and then with all his strength he smashed the back of his hand against Serpicus’ cheek. The burnt side of his face. A heavy signet ring on Cato’s middle finger ripped a gobbet of scorched flesh from Serpicus’ cheek-bone, sending an iron lance of pain across his temples. It took everything Serpicus had not to howl like a whipped dog. Perhaps, he reflected as the pain ebbed slightly and he fought for breath, insulting Cato while roasted and tied up wasn’t the best idea he’d had that day.
Cato inspected his hand thoughtfully, then picked up a cloth napkin and slowly cleaned the blood off the ring without taking his eyes from Serpicus’ face.
‘Of course,’ Cato said, looking at the ceiling, ‘that’s not all that you and I have in common.’
Something snapped inside Serpicus. ‘We have absolutely nothing in common,’ he said. Cato’s eyes opened wide.
‘Oh, but we do,’ he said. He leant forward and put his hands on Serpicus’ bound forearms. ‘After all, apart from anything else, we have shared loved ones. I got to know your lovely family really quite well in the regrettably short time that it took you to organize and undertake this trip.’