Arrows of Fury e-2

by Anthony Riches

  The old man looked around to his fellows, holding his hands out in apparent exasperation.

  ‘Now they will litter our territory with their soldiers in the way that they already control your tribe’s land. We will live under their control, no longer trusted to run our own affairs but instead jealously watched, and herded like the cattle we will become.’

  The old king was pushing harder than Calgus had expected, encouraged by the knowledge that he had more than enough supporters around the grove to give Calgus’s bodyguards a decent fight, and made bold by the combination of his anger and apparent security. Calgus took a deep breath and started again.

  ‘They used to control our land, but not any more, King Brennus. You may recall that we burned out every fort on Selgovae ground in the first two days of our war with these usurpers. The Selgovae are newly freed from their oppressive presence on our land, and we will not lightly fall back under their domination. The prizes that we took in battle with the Romans will draw the northern tribes back to us. They are the symbols of an empire grown newly vulnerable. They tell us that the legions can be defeated, that we can be free again, they tell us that…’

  The Votadini king laughed at him in shockingly open defiance, stiffening Calgus’s posture with astonished anger.

  ‘They tell us that we got lucky, Calgus. They tell us that you turned a Roman against his own, to lead a legion on to ground that made them helpless against our attack. We cannot expect such fortune again, if indeed I should call it fortune. We may have defeated a legion, but before the end of that day we were running like frightened children with two more legions on our heels, and their bloody cavalry. I lost a son to their spears, a son I will never see again thanks to this adventure of yours. A son whose head will have been taken by their soldiers to decorate some barrack or other…’

  His nephew Martos, a scar-faced warrior with a fearsome reputation in battle, stared at Calgus from behind his uncle’s chair with a look of thinly veiled anger, a half-dozen of his men at his back. Brennus sat back in the chair, his eyes locked on Calgus’s, and with a flash of insight the Selgovae king knew that the challenge was coming. He strolled easily across the ground between them, looming over the old man and bending to speak quietly into his face. Martos and his men stiffened, ready to air their blades if Calgus as much as touched their leader.

  ‘Got a new champion, have you, old man? Could it be your sister’s boy that’s stood behind you, perhaps? Or will you do this the old-fashioned way and turn your men loose on mine, see who prevails, eh?’

  Brennus looked him straight in the face, no sign of fear in his eyes.

  ‘There will be no challenge if you agree to make peace with the Romans. They have two full legions on our soil even now, they dominate the land around their destroyed forts on the north road as they start to rebuild them, and yet you claim to have broken their grip on us for ever. If we seek to offer them resistance those legions will roll over us and grind us into the ground we stand on.’ He shook his head at Calgus, then turned to the men behind him. ‘This rebellion is over! We’re back in the iron fist, but this time there’ll be no Roman tribute payment to soften the indignity of our lost sovereignty. The best we can hope for is to trade those cursed spoils of battle, and humble promises of peace and good behaviour, for some measure of normality. Until we do their legions will trample our land and people under foot, forever seeking revenge for their wounded pride.’

  Calgus turned away, affecting to consider the suggestion. It was more than a suggestion, of course, more like an order from the leaders of the other tribes arrayed behind the old man, and an assured death sentence for him. If the tribes negotiated with Rome he knew that nothing less than his own head, alongside that of the Roman legatus currently sat in a jar of cedar oil in his tent, would satisfy their lust for revenge. Not unless they could take him alive, of course, for a lengthy humiliation and eventual ritual execution. He turned back to face the implacable faces with a slow secret smile.

  ‘So, it’s to be peace at the price of my head. If that’s how you all want it, I suppose I have little choice. And I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that my sacrifice won’t be the only one you have to make.’

  He stood and waited, watching a glimmer of understanding dawn on the old man’s face while the others around him frowned their incomprehension.

  ‘You have hostages?’

  Calgus shook his head sadly.

  ‘Brennus, Brennus, what do you take me for? Of course I’ve taken hostages. Since you’re all culpable for our defeat, you can all pay the price for our surrender. If you betray me, you betray your closest family members.’ He pointed at each man in turn. ‘Your sons will never reach manhood. Your wife will never warm your bed again. Your daughters will never run to their father’s arms again. And, to be quite clear, they will all leave this life in slow, hard ways. I’ve sent the right men to make sure of that.’ He spread his arms wide, encompassing the gathering with a feral grin. ‘So, if you want to take my head for your would-be Roman friends, go ahead.’

  He waited ten long seconds for anyone to move. ‘I thought not.’ He stepped close to the seated elder, a grim scowl replacing the smile. ‘In that case, let’s get back to business as usual, shall we? And in case any of you are tempted to put a sword in my back, I’ll warn you that if the men holding your family members don’t receive messages from me as expected, then you’ll be killing your loved ones just as if you’d put the knife to them yourselves.’

  Brennus stared up at him with a look of horrified distaste.

  ‘Do you expect to rule us in this way for ever, Calgus?’

  ‘For ever, Brennus? Of course not! But I will keep you under control for long enough that we can finish the job we started. The Romans may have twenty thousand angry troops in the field, but they’re on unfamiliar ground in a land filled with hostile tribes, and the legions from the south and west can’t stay up here for ever. The first sniff of trouble in their own areas and the governor will have them away down the road to their fortresses, leaving the Sixth Legion and the auxiliaries to hold the line. I’ll have them bottled up behind their wall by the end of the summer, and then we’ll see if your people still want peace on Roman terms. I’ll chop our invaders up piece by piece, I’ll make them rue their desire to expand into our lands, and I will send them away with their tails between their legs. And you, Brennus, all of you fools, you should worry less about for ever and more about the next few days.’

  Marcus was still discussing the next day’s march to Arab Town with his friends when the prefect’s orderly delivered a polite request for the centurion to join Prefect Scaurus and the first spear in his residence. He went back to his quarter, changed into a clean tunic and hurried up the hill just as the evening’s quiet gloom was finally surrendering to night, and the torches were being lit along the fort’s streets. Inside the building he was conducted to the prefect’s private rooms, where he was surprised to find Scaurus sitting opposite Frontinius, a sword unsheathed in his lap. At the room’s far end stood a foot-high statue, surrounded by a ring of small candles. It was a representation of a man in the act of stabbing a bull to death, his left hand pulling back the animal’s head while the other wielded the knife buried in its throat. The first spear nodded to the chair set facing the two men.

  ‘Take a seat, Centurion.’

  He sat down with a questioning glance to both of the men, already pretty much sure of the reason for the summons. The prefect nodded a greeting, tapping the sword’s blade.

  ‘Forgive the impolite nature of this meeting, Marcus Valerius Aquila, but given the circumstances I decided that not to take the precaution would be foolhardy.’

  Marcus nodded his understanding, keeping his eyes fixed on the prefect’s.

  ‘You’ll know why I’ve asked you to join us…?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘You’ve uncovered my secret, Prefect, and you want to talk to me before you decide what to do with me.’

&nb
sp; The senior officer raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re assuming that I haven’t already made that decision.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I am. If you’d already decided to have me arrested I would have found myself at the point of a sword without warning, my hands bound, and then thrown into the punishment cells for safe keeping. And if you’d already decided to ignore my situation I probably wouldn’t even be here, you’d be agreeing with the first spear the best way to keep me out of trouble. As it is you have a sword ready to use, which implies either mistrust of my potential actions or a lack of confidence in your own abilities. Or both.’

  Scaurus laughed, flashing a glance at Frontinius.

  ‘Confident even in the face of execution, Valerius Aquila?’

  ‘I’ve lived with the prospect of an unjust death, like the one visited on my father, my mother, my brother, my sisters, my uncle and my cousins, for several months now. It’s hard to stay scared for that long, Prefect.’

  He closed his mouth and waited for the prefect to speak. Scaurus looked into his eyes for a moment, then shrugged slightly and continued.

  ‘Like you, I was born and raised in Rome. Unlike you, although I am the son of an old and respected line, I was not born to a wealthy family. Our clan fell on hard times during the Year of the Four Emperors. My ancestor was unlucky enough to back the wrong man a hundred years ago, and the Emperor Vespasian made him pay for it with enough severity that for a while it was touch and go as to whether the family name would survive at all. We’ve managed to rub along well enough since then, but we’ve never been sufficiently well connected to amount to very much beyond the usual imperial service, a rather shabby existence for a family that can trace its line almost seven hundred years, back to the overthrow of the last king of the city. My mother died in childbirth, and my father was killed serving on the German frontier when I was young, and so I found myself living with my uncle’s family, essentially a burden to them and, if not resented, hardly welcomed with open arms. It was inevitable that I would seek a means of escape from their charity, and I found it in the patronage of a man of great power.’

  He paused, a half-smile playing on his lips as he surveyed the listening men.

  ‘And now you’re wondering in just what way I prostituted myself to make that connection. Exactly what was it I had to offer an older man that would make him take me into his house and treat me like a son? What did I give him in return for the status and favour that he bestowed on me?’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’ve lived with the sideways glances and innuendos for half of my life now, but in point of fact my benefactor simply took a chance on me. He plucked me from a life destined to disappoint everyone involved, not least me, and he raised my face to see the heights to which I might climb. He did this because he saw something in my wildness that he believed was worth his time and effort to bring to fruition. He looked into the eyes of a disaffected youth and saw a warrior waiting to be released.’

  He stood, raising the sword to point at the complex statue standing amid its ring of tiny bright flames.

  ‘He made one small change to my life, almost insignificant compared to what you’ve been through, Valerius Aquila, but just as deep in its impact as the traumas you’ve endured. He brought me to the worship of the god Mithras, the Unconquered Sun, the soldier’s true god, and in doing so he gave me the purpose I was lacking. I won’t bore you with the changes that my service to Mithras has wrought on my life, but I will tell you this — his decision to take the chance that I could be rehabilitated led me to the path I still follow, a life of service to Mithras and the warrior code followed by my sponsor and his brothers. Men who became, through my service to the god, my brothers too.’

  He stared at the statue for a long moment before continuing.

  ‘Don’t underestimate Mithras, either of you. I have been in more than one tight situation, with weaker men around me reduced to little better than panic, including some that were appointed to lead their fellow men into battle, and my faith in him has kept my sword hand steady, and ready to exploit the opportunities that he always provides.’

  He turned, pointing the sword’s long blade directly at Marcus.

  ‘I can see in you the same restless purpose that I felt fifteen years ago, and which my sponsor chose to harness in the service of our god. You can do great things, Valerius Aquila, or you can continue with your current path and eventually be discovered and put to death alongside those you have come to regard as your brothers. Every day that you remain here is another toss of the coin, another chance for the emperor’s head to land face down and destroy everything you hold dear. I have a choice for you to make, between service to a noble god in the pursuit of the soldier’s ideal and hanging on here until the day that your hiding place is discovered.’

  He paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow at the younger man.

  ‘You offer to… protect me, Prefect?’

  The prefect smiled, his teeth a white flash in the gloom.

  ‘I offer you rather more than that, Valerius Aquila. I offer you friendship, a kind of kinship if you like. I can never replace your family, but I can give you something to which you can belong without forever endangering it simply by your presence.’

  ‘And as the price for this bargain you will take me from this place and these people?’

  ‘When the time is right, you will leave here.’

  Marcus frowned slightly.

  ‘There is a lady…’

  Scaurus nodded.

  ‘I know. First Spear Frontinius enlightened me on that subject. And when the time is right she can accompany you to wherever you travel, if she will. Mithras wants your service, for you to live the life of a warrior, not for you to cut yourself off from the world. There is room in your life for both your god and your woman.’

  Marcus nodded slowly, his face creased in thought.

  ‘It is a generous offer, Prefect Scaurus, although I still wonder exactly how you can protect me from the empire’s hunters.’

  Scaurus smiled tightly.

  ‘So do I, given your apparent talent for drawing attention to yourself. In time you will come to better understand both the forces hunting you and those arraigned behind me, but for the time being it will be enough for you simply to trust me. So, your decision?’

  Marcus thought for a long moment, staring into the room’s shadows.

  ‘I will do as you bid, Prefect. I will follow you as you command, and I will serve your god to the best of my ability.’

  Scaurus nodded decisively.

  ‘Good. Perhaps in this way we’ll be able to keep you from the throne’s hunting dogs, and avoid the danger of your friends and comrades being taken down alongside you. Quite how we are to keep you out of public scrutiny in the meantime is a different question altogether.’

  2

  The first arrow missed its target by less than a foot, hissing unheard past the heads of the rearmost rank’s soldiers. Of the other four arrows, fired a second later, one flew cleanly past the astonished faces of four soldiers near the back of the century’s column, another fell short owing to a weak bowstring, and the last two found targets among the marching soldiers. The first flicked off the metal boss of a shield slung over its owner’s shoulder in the marching position, ricocheting into the throat of one of the soldiers in the following rank, while the other hit a man three ranks farther up the marching column in the calf. He stumbled out of the line of march, hopping a couple of paces before falling to one knee. The century’s chosen man, marching in his usual place at the column’s rear, pointed at the treeline with his brass-knobbed pole and shouted a warning to his centurion.

  ‘Archers!’

  Julius reacted immediately, drawing his sword and pointing it at the trees.

  ‘Buckets and boards! Get your bloody guard up!’

  He turned to the leading century, gesturing urgently for Dubnus to take his men around to the right through the trees that ran almost to the side of the road as the forest’s edge curved aro
und from the barbarian archers’ position.

  ‘Dubnus, hook right! Get into the bastards!’

  Another flight of missiles arced across the space between the forest and the road, hammering into shields hurriedly swung from their carrying positions to face the unexpected threat. Julius bellowed again, ignoring the arrows flicking past him.

  ‘Fifth century, face the threat! Get ready to attack. The Ninth will attack into the trees to our right! At the march, advance!’

  The troops obeyed the order without thought, their obedience drummed into them over long years of drill and practice fighting and reinforced by the shouts and pushes of their chosen man and his watch officer. The 5th Century advanced to their left into the scrub between road and forest, their shields raised against the continual harassing rain of arrows from the trees a hundred paces away, while the 9th Century to their right advanced briskly into the forest to their front in broken order, hunting through the trees for the rebel archers. Marcus, who had been marching alongside Dubnus, snatched a spear from the man closest to him and sprinted ahead of the advancing soldiers, outpacing even the fastest of them as he weaved around the massive oaks at a dead run, bursting through the scrubby bushes that dotted the gloomy forest floor.

  The half-dozen Brigantian archers took fright in the face of the 5th Century’s advance across the open ground in front of them, their attack only ever intended to harass the auxiliary soldiers rather than bring them to open battle, turning in their retreat to loose one last volley at the advancing Romans. As they turned back to run for the shelter of the deeper forest, Marcus, now a good twenty paces ahead of Dubnus and his men and still running hard, drew back his spear arm and fixed his gaze on the rearmost of the barbarians, slowing his run to a trot, and drawing back the spear until its razor-sharp iron head was level with his ear. He hurled the weapon with a power and artistry that made light of his sprint through the trees, his arm extended to follow the missile’s trajectory to its target. Caught in the act of turning to run from the vengeful soldiers, the archer had only a split second’s realisation, a fleeting glimpse of the weapon’s blurred flight, before the spear arced down out of the trees and spitted him cleanly through the thigh. He toppled to the forest floor, his mouth gaping in a howl of agony as Marcus covered the remaining distance to stand over him with his sword drawn, watching the remaining tribesmen vanish into the forest’s gloom as he sheathed the weapon. Julius and Dubnus joined him, his hands on his hips as he stared down at the fallen barbarian, apparently breathing normally in spite of his exertions.