They rode into Colonia just as the sun was setting. They deposited their horses with the office of the cursus publicus, and went to find a tavern for the night. Oclatinius knew his way around the Roman colony well, and Silus figured he shouldn’t be surprised. In his time in the Arcani, he had likely travelled the length and breadth of the Empire.
Nor should he have been surprised when, as he sat with Oclatinius eating bread and lamb stew and drinking German beer, Festus appeared and drew up a chair.
Oclatinius didn’t even look up, just finished his mouthful, then took a long drink from his cup of beer. Festus waited wordlessly, examining his fingernails, and picking some dirt out from underneath one.
Silus looked from one to the other, then shook his head, sat back and waited.
Eventually, Oclatinius looked up and nodded.
‘Festus.’
‘Oclatinius.’
‘Silus.’
‘Festus.’
That seemed to deal with the pleasantries. Festus turned his gaze on Silus, and regarded him appraisingly.
‘You put a lot of faith in this one, don’t you?’
‘I would say he has never let me down,’ said Oclatinius, ‘but that wouldn’t be strictly true. On the other hand, he is resourceful and skilled. And in this particular case, motivated. He is our best chance to get out of this mess.’
‘Well, he has certainly caused me a headache or two.’
‘You bring those on yourself, Festus. Frequently. You should keep a supply of willow bark on you at all times.’
Festus made a sour face. Silus regarded him steadily. He did not trust this man, and couldn’t understand why Oclatinius had made no move against him. Palace politics was not his field, though, and he decided just to accept the situation, at least for now.
‘So is now the time you tell me what I am really getting myself into? What was Atius’ mission? How will I find him?’
Oclatinius gestured to Festus and raised his eyebrows. Festus reached over and pulled a chunk of bread from Silus’ loaf, and chewed it slowly before speaking.
‘The Emperor wishes for a great victory over the Germans. Although he led the army in Caledonia, and everyone who was there knows that the praise should be his, it is seen in Rome as his father’s expedition and his father’s victory. Germania will be his alone.’
Silus nodded and continued eating, moving his food out of Festus’ reach. Festus frowned, and reached for Oclatinius’ loaf. Oclatinius caught his wrist, and gently replaced it on the table.
‘Maybe you would like to order your own?’ suggested Oclatinius.
Festus let out a huff and flicked his fingers at a slave. ‘Another bowl of this muck, and some bread, and a cup of your finest wine, for which I have few expectations.’
The slave bowed and hurried off.
‘Well. The situation in Germania is similar to that in Caledonia, with the tribal rivalries. Taking on individual tribes is relatively straightforward. It’s when they unite that they become a problem. And right now, they are showing some signs of unification. Have you heard of the Alamanni?’
Silus shrugged. He found it better to feign complete ignorance when having a topic explained to him. It gave the other person a sense of superiority, often false-placed, which he could use to his advantage at a later date. Though he could never smuggle that sort of ploy past Oclatinius.
‘The Alamanni are a confederation of tribes, like your Caledonians and Maeatae.’
Not my Caledonians and Maeatae, thought Silus bitterly, but he supposed that to Festus, Britannia was just one big island.
‘We aren’t entirely sure where they came from. Some say they came from the Hermunderi, some that they are mainly descended from the Iuthungi, youths of various tribes like the Marcomanni who were crushed by Marcus Aurelius nearly fifty years ago. Regardless, they are the biggest threat in the area. But interestingly they are not the most hostile. They are actually quite romanised in some ways. Some of them live in Roman-style stone houses and use Roman tools. Some of their women even dress in Roman fashions.
‘The Chatti, further east and north, are more of a threat. They are an older tribe, and took part in the massacre of Varus’ legions.’
Silus shivered and made a sign of good luck subtly in his lap. Every man who served in the legions knew about the Varian disaster in the Teutoburg forest, and Germania was still thought of as a land of ill omen and doom, despite the successful wars against German tribes since that fateful day.
‘Beyond them, further north again, are other tribes like the Chauci and Saxons. Were they all to unite, and someone could direct them, they could pour through our defences into Gaul, and unchecked into Rome. They are a much bigger danger to the Empire than the Caledonian tribesmen, who were only a threat to Britannia. If Britannia was ravaged, so what? If Rome was sacked, well…’
He let the words trail off, obviously believing his point was made. Silus personally would rather see Rome destroyed than his people back home, but it wasn’t a choice he would have to make. He listened, outwardly polite, to gain what information he could that might be of use to his mission, but actually he felt like punching this smug spymaster on the nose. He sipped his beer and waited.
‘Well. The point of all this is that Atius was conducting a man of mine, a fellow called Eustachys, on a diplomatic mission into Chatti territory. And in order for this mission to succeed, Eustachys had to be privy to some of the Emperor’s strategic plans.’
Silus couldn’t resist now. ‘He went into enemy territory with Caracalla’s military secrets in his head? Why didn’t you just carve them into a big tablet and send them by courier to their chief?’
Festus’ face darkened. ‘You know nothing about politics and diplomacy and strategy. I judged it a risk worth taking, for the considerable rewards.’
‘And with hindsight?’
Festus got to his feet, hands on the table, leaning forward so his face was up against Silus’ own.
‘Listen, lad. Oclatinius here might like you, but I don’t. Continue to take that tone with me, and you will find yourself swigging hemlock in your next beer.’
‘Sit down, Festus,’ said Oclatinius calmly. ‘I think we are all agreed that with hindsight, it was pretty stupid, whatever your justification at the time. But Silus is here to solve the little predicament you have put us in. We are all pulling in the same direction.’
Festus glared at Silus a little longer, then sat back down. The slave carrying his food and beer arrived at that moment, but Festus yelled at him. ‘Take this muck away.’ The slave retreated rapidly.
‘Festus, do please continue,’ said Oclatinius.
Festus took a breath and visibly calmed himself. ‘All you really need to know is that Atius led a small expedition into Chatti territory to escort Eustachys on his mission. That expedition was ambushed, and two of their number were captured. Those captives may know secrets that it is vital do not fall into the hands of the Germans. You are to rescue those two men, or if that is not possible, kill them.’
Silus clenched his teeth. Oclatinius had already revealed this to him. He wasn’t about to let on that he had no intention of killing his best friend. He lived with enough guilt already.
‘Where do I find them?’
‘That, we don’t know.’
‘Um. I have heard Germania Magna is quite a big place. Have I been misinformed?’
‘You don’t have to scour every pes quadratus. We know where their meeting was supposed to take place, so we can assume they were en route there, maybe even at the meeting point, when they were captured.’
‘Fine, where was the meeting point?’
‘Kalkriese.’ Oclatinius and Festus exchanged sombre glances.
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’ asked Silus.
‘It’s in the Teutoburg forest,’ said Oclatinius in a low voice.
‘The Teutoburg… the place where…?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why the fuck did you choose to meet there?’
‘It wasn’t my choice,’ said Festus defensively. ‘The man they were meeting, a Chatti nobleman called Erhard, picked it. I suspect he thought it would intimidate Eustachys, give him an upper hand in the meeting. Maybe he even believed it had magic power, that it could influence the fates in his favour.’
‘If ever a mission was ill-omened… Was this Eustachys left-handed, and did he break a mirror before he left?’
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Silus, it doesn’t suit you.’
‘Regardless,’ said Silus. ‘I don’t know my way to this Kal… Kalkriese.’
‘You will have a guide to show you the way. An Alamanni.’
‘Fine. And a hand-picked squad of elite speculatores?’
‘No,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Just the two of you.’
Silus’ heart sank.
‘You’re sending me into the heart of Germania with just a guide? When Atius and a team of hardened soldiers were killed or captured to a man?’
‘It’s a different task,’ said Oclatinius. ‘You aren’t escorting a civilian on a diplomatic mission. You need to move quickly, unseen, get in and get out, with or without… whoever is still alive.’
Silus shook his head. ‘Fine, fine. I just hope this guide you have allocated me is one tough bastard.’
Oclatinius and Festus exchanged a look.
Caracalla sighed and tugged on his beard. The evening banquet had been tedious from start to finish. The decurions, the local officials who ran the Colonia, had taken every opportunity to harangue him about their terrible lot in life. He had no sympathy. These were men from the masses of the humiliores, plebeians, without rank and social standing, who had been accepted into the nobility purely because they had the cash to be able to fund the public works that the city needed now. So it was galling to hear them complain about the cost, how building stadia and repairing roads and putting on games was already near bankrupting them, and now half the Roman army had come to their city it would be ruin.
He listened with half an ear to their pleadings, while his focus was on the woman on his right. Julia Domna at least appeared to be paying attention to the whining provincials, and made promises on his behalf which he had no intention of keeping. Still, it didn’t hurt to keep them pacified. Passive rebellion by the likes of these men could lead to funds being withheld for any reason or excuse they could find, and this expedition was already putting a strain on the treasury.
His father had amassed a fortune in Rome’s coffers, but Caracalla was doing a good job of working his way through it. It wasn’t his fault. The bribes and donatives he had had to pay to keep the Praetorians and others loyal had been phenomenal. To be fair, his father’s dying words to him and his brother had been to command them to live with each other in harmony, enrich the soldiers and damn the rest. He wondered if his father would be happy with two out of three.
As always when he thought of his brother, his mood soured even more. He took a big slurp from his wine goblet, and stood abruptly. The decurion, a stooped, skinny man with a bald pate rimmed with straggly white hair, who was discussing the pressure on the city’s sewage system, stopped mid-sentence.
‘I’m tired,’ said Caracalla. ‘I will retire now.’
The guests all hurried to stand and bow, but he had already turned away and was striding through the door. One of his bodyguards hurried after him, and he snapped an order for more wine to be brought to his bedchamber. The bodyguard dispatched a slave on the urgent mission, and Caracalla entered his bedchamber.
A slave girl was smoothing his blankets, and she yelped involuntarily when he threw the door open, then put her hand over her mouth in shame and fear.
‘Get out,’ he snapped. Then, as the girl rushed out, he yelled after her, ‘And tell the Empress I wish to see her.’
He closed the door on his bodyguard, and sat on the edge of the bed. He leant forward and put his head in his hands, and he was still in that position when the door opened, and Domna’s gentle voice reached him.
‘You asked to see me, Augustus?’
Caracalla sighed. ‘In here, I am not your Emperor.’
Domna cast her eyes down. ‘You are always my Emperor, Augustus.’
‘Come and sit with me.’
‘As you command.’
Domna walked over, tall and elegant, and Caracalla let his eyes wander from her feet to her face, still shapely despite her increasing years. She sat beside him, her hands in her lap, looking straight ahead. Caracalla gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the anger. Just over a year since he had killed her son, his half-brother. And she knew it was self-defence. She was there. When was she going to get over it?
‘Lie down,’ he said.
‘Yes, Augustus.’
Obediently, his stepmother kicked off her shoes and lay on her back on his soft bed. He lay beside her, stroked the hair out of her eyes, and kissed her cheeks, her nose, her lips. She made no response, just stared unblinking at the ceiling. He put a hand on her breast, squeezed gently, and she flinched a little. Then he reached a hand up the inside of her thigh, stroking, probing.
He smiled when his fingers came away wet. She might be showing no outward sign of interest, but her body said otherwise, he thought. They had shared love together so many times, before Geta’s death, and it had been so wonderful. But she had been distant ever since. In public she was a proper and responsible Empress, diligent in carrying out her duties, an ever-solid advisor in councils. But in private, she was as cold as a dead turbot, and though never outright defiant, she made it clear that there was an unfordable river between them.
Yet now, was he finally making some progress against the flow? He willed himself to slow down, to be gentle. He heard her breathing deepen, saw her chest moving faster, could see the throb of a pulse in her neck. He felt himself hardening, and he pulled her dress up around her waist and rolled between her legs. He looked down at her, and for the first time in more than a year saw something other than reproach in her eyes. He held himself in his hand, fumbled for her, penetrated her. Her eyes flew open and she gasped.
Suddenly an image of his brother was superimposed on her. He had never before appreciated how alike they were. But the picture before him now was of that last moment of his brother’s life. With Caracalla’s sword penetrating his chest. His eyes wide open. Gasping, trying to speak, blood pouring from his mouth.
Caracalla’s erection shrivelled like a punctured pig’s bladder. Domna, who was gripping his back and moving against him, noticed the change and was still, looking into his face questioningly. Caracalla squeezed his eyes shut, tried to continue, but the image was still there behind his eyelids, his brother’s bloodied, agonised face.
He let out a cry and rolled off her.
‘Antoninus?’ Even in his distress he noticed that she used his real name. ‘Antoninus, what’s wrong?’
He sat up, pulling a blanket from the bed to cover his shame.
‘Get out,’ he whispered.
Domna put a hand on his shoulder, the most loving touch he had received from her since… since that time. He took hold of it and thrust it away from him, stood, taking a step away from her.
‘Get out!’ he yelled pointing at the door. ‘Get out!’
Domna jumped to her feet, hurriedly rearranging her stola, and swept out of the door, choking back a sob. As she disappeared from view, the bodyguard poked his head round.
‘Augustus. Are you well?’
‘You get out, too,’ he roared, but as the bodyguard hastily retreated, he snapped out, ‘Wait!’
The bodyguard reappeared. ‘Augustus?’ He was unsuccessfully attempting to disguise the tremor in his voice.
‘That slave girl, the one who was making the bed when I came in. What was her name? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Just send her to me.’
The bodyguard hurried off to do as he was bid, and Caracalla sat on the edge of the bed. The slave girl didn’t look anything like Geta. Wouldn’t carry grief and sadness in her eyes, the way Domna did.
The girl appeared at the door, her face pale, legs shaking delicately. He looked at her carefully, and saw fear, but no accusation. Then his eyes trailed over her body, her wide hips, her delicate bust, and he felt himself harden once more. He beckoned her to him.
There was a loud crack, and the beam beneath Atius split in two. It caved inwards and he fell through with a crash. The arrow followed him down, faster than his fall, but no longer aiming for the centre of his chest. Instead it hit the top of his collarbone and ricocheted off into the barn.
He landed heavily on his back, all the air leaving him in a whoosh. He tried to suck air to cry out at the shock and the pain in his shoulder, but couldn’t seem to draw breath. Memnon and Eustachys were leaning over him, peering down. He breathed in hard, coughed, then breathed again, more easily. Memnon put out a hand and Atius took it to pull himself up into a sitting position. He prodded his ribs, wiggled his toes, then winced as he felt his clavicle. Nothing seemed to be broken, though his fingers came away from his shoulder sticky and red.
With Memnon’s help, he got to his feet.
‘Did I get them all?’ he said, voice strained.
‘Most,’ said Eustachys. ‘There were two lodged in the walls. Memnon reached them by leaning out of the windows. They almost got him, but he is unhurt.’
Atius nodded and looked around. Scaurus and Drustan were watching him anxiously, while keeping half an eye on the windows for signs of attack.
‘What are they doing?’ Atius asked.
Drustan peered out for as long as he dared, then ducked back.
‘All still at the moment.’
There was little sound now from outside the barn. The warrior wounded by Scaurus’ arrow was silent, either belatedly discovering stoicism, taken away by his comrades or dead.
‘Aldric,’ said Atius. The German guide had his knife drawn, but had been keeping out of the way, in a corner of the barn. ‘Who are these people? What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Aldric gruffly.
‘Well, what is their tribe? You can tell from their accent?’
‘Just a few words, shouted in Latin. It’s not much to go on.’
‘Guess.’
‘I would say Alamanni. You are in their territory, after all.’
‘And their motivation? Just to kill trespassers?’
‘Probably. It is their land.’
Atius looked across at Eustachys, who wore a sceptical expression.
‘What does it matter?’ asked Scaurus. ‘Those barbarian bastards are trying to kill us. So we kill them.’
‘I was just seeing if there was any way we could talk our way out of this,’ said Atius, not concealing his irritation. ‘We are trapped and outnumbered.’
‘You can’t negotiate with this sort,’ said Scaurus. ‘Barbarians. Foreigners.’ He gave a meaningful look at Aldric, who bristled but didn’t otherwise react.
Atius looked at Eustachys, and wished again that Silus was here. He was much better at taking command in these perilous situations, where clear thinking was required.
Eustachys said, ‘He might be right, unfortunately. I don’t know if they are definitely Alamanni, but there are certainly elements of that confederation whose enmity to Rome is unshakeable. They would have no desire to let us go.’
‘So we have to fight our way out,’ said Atius. ‘We are in a tricky spot though, men. We are surrounded and outmanned, and we can’t see them to shoot at. Thoughts?’
‘We can’t stay here,’ said Scaurus. ‘They will burn us out, or starve us out. No one knows where we are, and we have no hope of rescue. We need to break out.’
‘We can’t break out in the dark,’ said Drustan. ‘They will pick us off easily.’
‘They are both right,’ said Memnon. ‘Let’s wait until light and then make an escape.’
Atius looked around them doubtfully. There were no good options. In the barn, they had some protection, but it was illusory. It was no fortified legion marching camp, with palisade and ditch. It was a flimsy animal shelter that felt like it could be blown away by a strong breeze.
They all looked at Atius for answers, and he had none, but he knew enough about command to know when to bullshit.
‘Very well. We keep watch until light. Then we break out. Eustachys, can we expect any aid when we reach our destination?’
‘Maybe,’ said Eustachys. ‘I can’t guarantee it.’
‘Then we keep going,’ said Atius. ‘How fast can we get there, Aldric?’
‘If we keep up a good pace, we can easily be there before nightfall. But if we have to fight every step of the way? I don’t know.’
‘Good. Listen, everyone. We are tough. We are experienced. We are fighters. We will not surrender to barbarians. We can get through this. But if we don’t, we will die fighting. For Rome!’
‘For Rome!’ yelled Scaurus, thrusting his sword into the air.
‘For Rome!’ yelled the other legionaries, and Eustachys joined in enthusiastically, waving his sword around his head.
‘Watch you don’t poke your own eye out with that thing,’ muttered Scaurus.
They took up watch positions near the windows and door once more. Atius moved his arm in a circle experimentally, pleased that the injury to his shoulder from the arrow was not restricting his movement to any important extent. Time passed and he watched for the sky in the east to become lighter, but the hue changed with frustrating slowness.
Just as he thought he saw the first signs of orange, Drustan called out.
‘Sir, something’s happening.’
Drustan was keeping watch to the west, where the sky was darker. Atius hurried over to him, keeping his head down.
‘What is it?’
‘Movement. There and there.’
Atius peered, and thought he saw some scurrying figures, flitting around like bats. He took his bow back from Drustan, nocked an arrow, pulled back the drawstring and sighted down the shaft. But the figures were too distant and too dark against the western sky for him to pick a target. He let the string go lax.
‘What are they doing?’ he muttered. They seemed to be running around with no real purpose. As if their sole purpose was to draw his attention.
Oh.
‘Get ready for an attack!’ he cried, just as an axe smashed through the northern wall, which contained neither door nor window. The axe disappeared, then came down again, splintering wood and making a hole through which dim light dribbled in. Atius saw a face peer in through the gap, wild-bearded, straggle-haired.
Memnon thrust his spear right into the middle of the face, and then pulled his weapon back. The barbarian fell backwards, his eyes rolled up into his head, his nose gone, just a deep bloody cavern in its place.
Two more axes smacked into the wall beside the first hole, attempting to enlarge it.
‘Drustan, get over here,’ yelled Atius.
The Briton rushed over, and he and Memnon stabbed with their spears to force the axemen back. An occasional cry came as a thrust found its mark, though it was impossible to tell whether blows were mortal, crippling or trivial.
‘Atius, behind you.’
The cry came from Scaurus, and Atius whirled to see a barbarian halfway through the window that Drustan and he had been guarding moments ago. Before Atius could react, the German was through the window head first, rolling over his shoulder and regaining his feet. He had divested himself of any winter clothing he may have been wearing, and sported only a loincloth. Now he charged with a roar of anger at the nearest target.
Eustachys.
Atius was in motion at the same time as the German, head down, legs pressing against the floor to throw himself forward. But the German was nearer than Atius, and his axe was already descending.
For a civilian, Eustachys was quick on his feet, and handier with the sword than Atius would have believed. The German clearly expected no serious opposition from the unarmoured, rather slight man he had targeted. So when Eustachys neatly sidestepped the descending axe, and thrust his sword through his attacker’s midriff, the German was taken completely off guard. The barbarian stared down at his new hole with amazement, and when Eustachys withdrew the sword, he clamped his hand over the spurt of blood.
Atius ran him through with his gladius, spitting him side to side through his chest, but it was completely redundant. The German was already dying.
An axe slammed into the wall again, and Memnon continued to stab his spear through once more, to repel the invaders.
The flimsy door suddenly flew inwards, rotten planks splintering and dropping off the hinges. A German, so huge he had to bend over almost double, came through, a second close behind.
Scaurus rushed to the defence, stabbing his short sword forward. The giant German batted it aside with his axe, then swung his weapon backhand, upwards. Scaurus ducked, forward and down, and the blade just missed the top of his head, but the shaft smacked into his temple and sent him flying sideways, stunned. The giant barbarian lifted his axe over his head two-handed, ready to bring it down on the prone Scaurus.
Atius lunged forward, and the tip of his sword went through the giant’s larynx and out through the back of his neck, where it lodged in the door post behind him. Atius tried to tug it free, but the second German who had come in behind the giant was confronting him now. Atius turned towards him, weaponless. His new attacker smiled, showing surprisingly fine white teeth, and patted the sword in his hand. Then with the speed of an angry cat, he swung. Atius danced backwards, hitting the back of his head on a low beam, but just avoiding the tip of the blade.
The German was quick, following up the first swing with another, and Atius shimmied to one side, then danced back again, keeping his head lower this time, as the German stabbed forward. Atius looked around. Scaurus was still dazed, attempting to rise but only reaching his hands and knees. Memnon and Drustan continued to fend off the axes trying to chop the north wall down. Aldric was wedged in a corner, dagger held defensively in front of him, but making no effort to join the fight. And Eustachys was struggling with another German attempting to come through the window, brandishing his sword to keep the barbarian at bay.
For now, there were no more Germans trying to come in through the door, or the unguarded window, but Atius doubted that situation would last long. Their numbers were clearly not limitless, but they were much more numerous than Atius’ party. He had to dispose of his opponent quickly. But he was at a disadvantage with no weapon.
He tried to manoeuvre himself round to where the giant was impaled against the door frame, but the German warrior was no idiot, and kept himself between Atius and his weapon. The German feinted, slashed, probed. Atius found himself backing away to the east wall. Something prodded into his back. An arrow shaft was sticking out, a previous volley that had missed the window and penetrated halfway through the wall. He reached behind him, eyes fixed on the tip of the blade before him, and tugged.
The German lunged at him, just as the arrow came loose in his hands. Atius jerked forward, twisting desperately as his momentum carried him towards the blade. Grasping the arrow shaft just behind the head, he stabbed it like a dagger into the side of the barbarian’s neck. Bright red blood spurted from the entry wound, and the German grabbed at the arrow with both hands, his sword dropping to the floor. He attempted to withdraw the barbed shaft, trying to look at it from the corner of his eyes. Then he slumped to his knees and pitched onto his face.
Atius snatched up the German’s sword from the floor and looked around. The attack seemed to be receding. No more barbarians came through the window or door. Memnon and Drustan had repelled the axemen, though the northern wall had huge rents in it. Eustachys had sliced open the belly of his opponent, who was on his knees, soggy, bloody ropes of guts cradled in his arms like a horrific baby. As Atius watched, Eustachys stepped forward and thrust his sword down beside the man’s collarbone into his chest, the killing stroke of a gladiator. He yanked out his blood-soaked blade and wiped it on the barbarian’s tunic.
For a moment there was only the sound of heavy breathing as Atius’ men recovered from the exertion of battle. Then Scaurus struggled to his feet.
‘Now I’m really fucking angry,’ he said.
‘And how is…’ Caracalla twisted his finger around in the air, eyes screwed up as he tried to recall her name. ‘…Tituria?’
‘She is very well in health, Augustus,’ said Silus. ‘Though lonely in her exile.’
Silus stood before Caracalla’s throne in his temporary headquarters in the Governor of Germania Inferior’s residence. To his right sat Domna, slim, regal, solemn. Silus could feel a distance between them, in stark contrast to the closeness he knew they had previously enjoyed. Furthermore, Domna looked everywhere around the room but at him. He understood. Silus had been present at her son’s death, some called it murder, at her stepson/lover’s hands. He knew from his own personal loss how difficult it could be to be reminded of tragedy.
‘Paying for the sins of her father, sadly,’ said Caracalla.
‘Yes, Augustus, quite rightly so,’ said Silus. ‘But I did wonder, with her father and his conspiracy gone, whether the time had come to reconsider…’
‘There are always conspiracies,’ Caracalla cut in. ‘But that isn’t why I ordered you here.’
The messenger from the palace staff had found Silus in his lodgings that morning, still sleeping off a couple of ales and some stodgy stew. He had given no reason for Caracalla’s summons, and Silus had remained in suspense.
Oclatinius had met him at the gates of the governor’s palace and talked to him in a low, urgent voice, out of the hearing of the Imperial bodyguards, Praetorians, and assorted spies and informants that always hung around the court.
‘Remember, he knows nothing of the true nature of your mission. Festus told him that we had arrived in Colonia and that I was sending you into Germania Magna to complete some important reconnaissance work. He didn’t want the Emperor finding out you were in the city through some other means, and raising his suspicions. But it is imperative he doesn’t find out about Atius and Eustachys.’
‘You’re going to get me executed, lying to the Emperor.’
‘Festus will kill you if you betray him,’ Oclatinius had said. ‘So make it convincing.’
‘Why does he want to see me, anyway?’
‘I have no idea. Maybe he just wants to greet an old friend.’
Now, Silus stood before the most powerful man in the world, and fought against an urge to flee, while his heart pounded in his chest.
‘Remind me,’ said Caracalla. ‘What exactly is your mission among the barbarians?’
Shit. Time to improvise.
‘I am to scout enemy troop numbers and locations, Augustus.’
‘A man of your talents, for a simple reconnaissance mission?’
‘I was told it was a particularly dangerous mission, Augustus.’
‘Which tribes? Whereabouts?’
‘The Chatti,’ said Silus, dredging his memory of the conversation before he started drinking the previous night.
‘And where exactly?’
Kal-something?
‘I have a guide who will take me to the right area, Augustus.’
‘Will you be gone long?’
‘I hope not, Augustus, though I’m not sure the exact length of time I will be in barbarian lands.’
Caracalla nodded, his mild curiosity seemingly satisfied.
‘I thank you for undertaking this hazardous mission for your Emperor and your Empire. Be careful. As soon as you return, I want you to report to me. I believe I may have a task for you, by then.’
‘Yes, Augustus. May I ask what sort of task?’
Caracalla looked around him. Besides Domna and himself, there were only two bodyguards in the room, by the door. Nevertheless, Caracalla just gave a half smile and put a finger to his lips.
‘There are always conspiracies, Silus. Fortuna be with you. You may leave.’
When the sun was fully risen, Atius ventured outside. The Germans had gone, taking their dead and injured with them. The only signs that there had been any disturbance were some patches of blood near the barn and a bit further out where their arrows had hit home.
Atius wasn’t foolish enough to believe they were gone for good. They had wounded the barbarians’ pride, as well as their bodies. He knew they would be back, and probably in greater force. This was their territory after all, where reinforcements could be easily found.
He probed himself cautiously for injuries. His collarbone was sore, the skin over it lacerated where the arrow had bounded off. His back too, where he had fallen through the roof. And his right arm screamed when he moved it, the desperate effort of fighting off his enemies leaving the sinews and muscles strained. He moved it in a tentative circle, trying to stretch away the tension.
Then he went back into the barn, where five anxious faces stared at him, waiting for news.
‘They’re gone. Get ready to move. We leave as soon as possible.’
The men didn’t need to be told twice. In moments, beds were rolled up, packs were packed, scabbards strapped on. Atius cast an eye over the squad. Apart from a growing swelling on the side of Scaurus’ head, they seemed to have come off lightly. He just had to hope they could get to their destination swiftly, without being caught in the open by the Germans.
‘Let’s go.’
He led the way out of the barn, his men behind him, and waited for Aldric to orient himself. The guide set off without a word, and after a moment’s pause, Atius gave the command to move out, and he followed the Bructeri tribesman. There was a thin layer of ice over muddy puddles which cracked and crunched as they stepped on them, and if they were unlucky shot icy water up the inside of their legs. But at least they weren’t wading through snowdrifts now.
Soon they left the scene of the skirmish behind and were once more deep in dark, menacing forest. Atius hated that he was so lost, so completely in the hands of their foreign guide. Eustachys at his side seemed to share his sense of unease, though no words passed between them, just unhappy glances. But Aldric gave him no cause for suspicion, and when he came to call a break in a small clearing, around noon, he felt they had made good progress, in what he thought was roughly the right direction.
They sat in a small circle, breaking out water flasks and hard biscuits and refreshing themselves efficiently. Aldric announced he was going to scout on ahead, and Atius nodded agreement. He watched the long-haired German pull his cloak tight about him and head roughly east. As he disappeared into the trees, Atius wondered again what motivated their scout. Blind loyalty to his chief just didn’t seem enough. He thought too about the barbarian attack on the barn. Was it random? It was a large party to just be hunting, or patrolling this deep in their own territory. And if it wasn’t random, how had they tracked them in all that snow?
He wished once again that Silus was there, that he could talk it through with his wily friend. But he wasn’t. Atius was the one in charge. Frowning, he got stiffly to his feet.
‘Are we off already?’ asked Scaurus, not a little irritably.
‘Not yet,’ said Atius. ‘Wait here.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just wait here, I said,’ Atius snapped.
‘Yes, sir!’ Scaurus gave a sarcastic salute and went back to chewing on his biscuit.
Atius followed Aldric’s tracks to the east. They weren’t as clear as fresh tracks in snow would have been, but there were enough cracked puddles and muddy footprints to make it easy for Atius to follow. The trail continued east for a short way, then looped south. Atius wasn’t sure why Aldric would need to head in that direction. He was supposed to be scouting their way ahead.
The path continued south just far enough to be out of sight and sound of the Roman soldiers’ break spot, then headed back west. This wasn’t right. Atius put his hand on the hilt of his sword and loosened it in the scabbard so he could draw it quickly if needed. He followed the tracks due west, moving swiftly but quietly. The trail now looped back north, until it intersected with their previous path.
And there Atius found Aldric, tying a piece of cloth around a low branch. It was dyed a bright red, standing out clearly against the greens and browns of the trees, the mulch and mud of the forest floor and the snow clinging to boughs and trunks. Beside it, an arrow indicating their direction of travel, had been carved into the trunk.
Atius approached quietly, to within six feet, with Aldric oblivious to his presence. Then he trod on an iced puddle, and just the slightest weight on it made it crack noisily.
Aldric whirled, and his eyes widened and his face paled as he saw Atius. His mouth worked as he searched for words, reasons, excuses.
‘I was just… I thought I saw.’
‘What is that on the tree?’ asked Atius, voice even.
‘I don’t know, I just found it here. Something the locals put there to mark a boundary maybe?’
‘I just watched you tie it there.’
Aldric took a step forward, extending an empty hand in a gesture of… friendship? Supplication? Atius looked at in suspicion, almost taken in by the distraction. Then Aldric’s other hand whipped forward, pulling his knife from his belt and lunging at Atius.
His surprise assault might have borne fruit if it was aimed at someone without Atius’ training and experience. An ordinary legionary or auxiliary, used only to marching long distances with a heavy pack, and occasionally standing in line beside his comrade, behind his shield, stabbing at anyone who approached. A man such as that might have the knife in his guts before he could respond.
But Atius was an Arcanus. He had seen the attack in Aldric’s eyes before he had even moved. A tightening around the corners. A widening of the pupils. So he was already in motion as the knife flashed out, and the weapon harmlessly split the air where Atius had been just before he dodged sideways.
Aldric cursed, momentarily off balance. He recovered quickly, but it was enough time for Atius to draw his gladius and hold it out defensively.
Aldric could see he was outmatched. He was up against a real fighter, with a weapon with superior reach. His eyes darted from side to side. Was he looking for escape, or help? For a moment, Atius worried that the guide’s barbarian friends were about to spring from behind the trees.
But no, Aldric was alone.
Yet despite the hopelessness of his position, the guide went on the attack.
He was no beginner. He ducked and weaved around Atius’ sword play, darting in to lunge with his blade, forcing Atius to parry and leap backwards. For a brief moment, the fury and desperation of Aldric’s attack dominated the fight, Atius on the defensive at every swipe and lunge.
But it couldn’t last, and from the wild look in Aldric’s eyes, Atius realised he knew it. He obviously wanted to die in battle, for glory, or to take his secrets to his grave.
Atius wasn’t prepared to grant his wish.
At the next thrust, Atius twisted his body in a half turn to the right, letting the dagger glide harmlessly past. The attack brought Aldric close, and Atius thrust his elbow up into the German’s face. Bone and gristle crunched, blood spurted, and Aldric cried out in surprise. He fell backwards, but Atius grabbed the extended arm with both hands, and brought it down against his knee, cracking it like you would snap a dry branch for the fire.
Aldric screamed, the knife falling from his hand, and dropped to his knees, cradling his shattered elbow. Atius watched for a moment, then stepped forward and kicked him full in the face, snapping his head up, so he toppled over, sprawling on his back. Atius dropped onto his chest, his knees either side, pinning Aldric down as he writhed and mewled. He grabbed the collar of his cloak and pulled him up, so his face was just a couple of inches away from Aldric’s. The German stared back, defiance crowding out the pain.
‘Toutorix,’ Atius growled. ‘Your fault, right?’
Aldric spat a blood-filled gob into Atius’ face. Atius didn’t so much as flinch. He just smacked Aldric across the face, and though his hand was open, the force snapped his head sideways.
‘Let’s try again,’ said Atius, as he took another grip. His voice was low and harsh, a slight tremor giving away the effort he needed to keep himself under control. ‘How long have you been helping your friends track us?’
‘Go fuck yourself, you Roman cunnus.’
This time, Atius slammed him down into the earth, knocking the wind out of him. Then he stood, and began to kick the prostrate guide. Aldric curled up, trying to defend his broken arm, but Atius laid into his upper back and kidneys with his heavy boots, the punishment methodical and well-aimed, not in the least frenzied.
Atius paused for breath, then rolled Aldric onto his back once more.
‘Last time. Who has been following us? For how long? Why are they trying to kill us?’
Aldric coughed, a paroxysm that sprayed droplets of blood over Atius’ face and chest. Atius turned his face away to avoid the spray.
In that moment, Aldric reached out with his good hand, and grasped the knife from the ground where it had fallen. Atius had no time to curse his carelessness, just the briefest moment to react. As the knife arced around, he threw himself sideways, off Aldric, rolling across the muddy ground, coming to a crouch, ready to react.
But the blow was never intended for him. As Atius righted himself, he stared at the German, disbelieving.
Aldric had plunged the knife into the side of his own neck, all the way to the hilt, so the tip emerged from the other side in a gout of blood. Open-mouthed, Atius stared into the German’s hate-filled eyes, and watched the awareness fade from them as a dark red puddle spread all around.
Atius slowly, painfully, stood upright and looked down at the erstwhile guide. Slowly, a realisation crept across him of how truly disastrous their situation was.
‘Christos,’ he whispered into the silent forest. ‘We’re fucked.’