This one didn’t frighten him. Yes, he was big, he was sadistic and when he smiled, a rotten stench emanated from his broken teeth and red gums. But he didn’t know what he was doing.
Punching a man in the abdomen hurt. Smacking his face hard enough to whip his head round hurt. Thumping him on the chin so his lower jaw clanked into his upper jaw, the blow reverberating his skull, that hurt too. But it didn’t scare him. And that’s what they needed to do to get him to tell them what he knew.
The one who actually scared Atius was the young priestess. If he hadn’t been in so much pain, starving and thirsty, he might have found her alluring. Intellectually, he knew her oval face and high cheekbones and supercilious expression would have attracted him greatly in other circumstances. But when she took one of the smallest knives he had ever seen, and stroked it along his lower eyelid, or up the inside of his thigh, his bowels tried to loosen, and once, to his shame, he even let out some piss which trickled warmly down his legs and puddled on the ground.
But he was lucky. Their German captors had quickly worked out which of their two captives was the important one, and the priestess had largely left Atius alone, abandoning him to the attentions of the large warrior who kept him softened up.
It was Eustachys who was having the really hard time.
Atius had come round after the battle to find himself bound hand and foot, gagged, blindfolded and slung over the back of a horse. Consciousness returned only gradually and for a long moment he had no recollection of how he had got there. Slowly, the memory of the battle had returned, then the miserable recollection of the deaths of his team, Drustan, Memnon, Scaurus, one after the other. Then the giant chieftain, he couldn’t remember his name, confronting him. But after that there was nothing. He had no idea how he had survived.
The horse had stopped and he had been dumped from its back. With hands tied he wasn’t able to cushion his fall, and he thought for an instant that the impact had dislocated his shoulder. His blindfold had been removed, and he had been hauled to his feet, and found he was in a large settlement with mainly wooden roundhouses and one large stone building. A crowd of barbarians had gathered round to stare; men, women and children.
He then discovered that Eustachys had also survived the battle. He too was thrown from the horse, and Atius watched him blinking as he adjusted to the light as his blindfold was also removed. He had cuts and bruises around his face and arms, but seemed to have taken no major injuries. He had focused on Atius, and they had given each other nods and grim smiles as each discovered they were not the sole survivor.
Then they had been led to the stone building and separated. Atius had been taken to a small room where he had been tied to the wall, and where he had been, by and large, ever since. He didn’t know exactly where Eustachys was, just that he was far enough away that they couldn’t talk, but near enough that Atius could clearly hear his screams.
Atius looked at the man before him steadily. He was of typical Germanic build, tall, well-muscled, and he was still in his youth. The first time they had met, he had been introduced by the little priestess as Friduric, a cousin of Aldric and Hunfrid, and she had made it clear how delighted he was to be looking after him.
For the beatings, his wrists were tied and hoisted into the air by a rope slung over a roof beam. It made breathing hard after a time, which was almost as uncomfortable as the punches and kicks. He had no idea how long they lasted, usually until Friduric had worked up a sweat and had had enough. Then they would leave him to heal for two or three days, before working him over again. Since Friduric didn’t speak a word of Greek or Latin, if the object of the exercise was to obtain information, it was entirely pointless.
Of course, that wasn’t the reason Friduric beat him. It was pure and simple revenge for the deaths of his cousins. But he was clearly not allowed to take it too far. He was not to inflict any injuries that could be fatal or permanently disabling.
Early in his captivity, Wigbrand had come to see him. Then, and at every subsequent visit, the Chatti chief had treated him with respect. His Latin was accented but fluent, making conversation easy.
Atius’ initial tactic had been to refuse to engage with his captor, and Wigbrand had taken his silence with equanimity, shrugging and leaving him alone. The beatings had started soon after, but when Wigbrand returned he showed no anger or even resentment. Atius was provided with enough stale bread and water to stay alive, but when Wigbrand visited he brought beer and meat. He always consumed it thankfully, intent on keeping up his strength as best he could.
In the first days of his captivity, his thoughts were constantly on escape. He tested his ropes, he scraped at the iron wall fastenings, he tried to slip his hands through the bindings or untie the knots. He had been in worse situations before, he told himself, and things had always turned out for the best.
But when it was clear that he could not free himself, and when he reflected realistically on his situation – he was deep in Germania, and no friends or allies knew where he was, or even that he was alive – despair set in. He thought about how this would end. Continued torture, until his body weakened and he died? Sacrifice by the priestess to their pagan gods?
That was when he decided to kill himself.
There were few options. Nothing sharp. He had wrapped the rope around his neck, and pulled tight, held it until the room span and darkness closed in.
It turns out that when you pass out from self-strangulation, you stop strangling yourself and you wake up. Actually hanging himself was not an option, since his bonds would not allow him to lift his body off the floor. He tried refusing food. His captors did nothing to force him to eat. When he left the bread untouched, they simply shrugged and took it away. He lasted about two days, before the hunger pangs got the better of him.
At that point, despair gave way to a fatalistic resolve. He would survive, for as long as possible. And he would pray, for release in this world, or for mercy in the next.
He was praying at that instant, his eyes closed, as Friduric pummelled his ribs. The German was grunting with exertion as the rapid blows landed in quick succession. Atius could feel every punch, but at the same time mouthed the words of the prayer that Christos had taught his followers, over and over. ‘Father in heaven, your name be hallowed.’
When Friduric stepped back, breathing hard, Atius slumped in the irons suspending him. Friduric spat in his face, punched him one last time, then stalked out. Two other tribesmen entered the room, took him down and secured him back to the wall.
Once, when they had been transferring him from his attachment to the wall to the rope over the beam, he had tried to take advantage of the moment when he was unsecured to try to fight for his freedom. Although he had taken them by surprise, and knocked one down with a double-handed blow, the other had smacked him in the side of the head with the hilt of his sword, stunning him, and doubling the size of the bruise there. After that, the priestess had come to talk to him. Caressing his skin with her tiny knife, she explained why it would be a bad idea to attempt escape again. Then she had left, and moments later, the screams from Eustachys were renewed.
Atius sat with his back to the wall, breathing through his nose, resisting the urge to prod and poke the bruised areas of his ribs and abdomen. He didn’t think anything was broken this time. More than once, in previous beatings, he had felt a rib crack, and a deep breath or a cough still hurt like hell.
The hours of the day were hard to judge, since although there was a small window in the room the sky was so often grey, he could rarely tell the sun’s position. Visits from Friduric, the priestess, Wigbrand, or even his guards bringing food were irregular, and did nothing to help him work out the time. So the day-night cycle was his only chronological yardstick, and even that was becoming a blur. How many days had he been in captivity now? Thirty? Forty?
It was taking its toll. He had seeping sores around both wrists where the ropes chafed. His entire body was a patchwork of fresh blues and purples mixed with older yellowy-browns. There seemed not to be a single part of him that was not either newly damaged or in the process of healing. And despite the supplement to his diet that Wigbrand brought him, it was not enough, and coupled with the immobility from being chained up all day long, he was wasting. They had even had to retie the ropes as he had become thin enough that they were in danger of slipping off his wrists.
The door to his room – he thought of it as a cell, though he was sure it hadn’t been designed as such – creaked open. It was solid oak, with no lock, but he heard a bar slide into place on the far side whenever he was left alone. That seemed like overkill given how well he was secured, but they were obviously taking no chances.
Wigbrand entered, bearing a clay jug of beer and a plate of chunks of roasted venison. Atius’ mouth instantly started to water, and Wigbrand put the meal before him and stepped back. Atius grabbed a chunk of meat and thrust it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, almost ecstatic at the juices that flooded out as he chewed. Despite the pain from broken and loosened teeth, the meals that Wigbrand brought him were a tiny piece of pleasure he could cling to in this horrific ordeal.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that Wigbrand was waiting patiently for him.
‘How’s your head, Atius?’ he asked.
Atius lifted his hands to touch the tender area.
‘I think you cracked it. But my skull is pretty thick.’
‘The lump has gone, at least.’
During one of their first conversations, Atius had asked why he wasn’t dead. Wigbrand had described how, with Atius at his mercy, on an impulse he had twisted the axe in his hands and smacked the flat of the blade against his temple. Atius had gone out like a snuffed candle.
Wigbrand seemed to enjoy Atius’ company. He continued to show little interest in why Atius was trespassing in his lands, and talked instead about battles and tactics. They ran through the fight on the road together, the single combat against Hunfrid, the desperate last stand of the Romans against the Chatti. Grudgingly, Atius found himself opening up to the affable chieftain. They praised each other’s strength and prowess, and even gave each other constructive criticism on tactics.
Once they had picked apart their mutual battle, Wigbrand turned his questioning to more general military matters. He had a thirst for knowledge, and while Atius took care to avoid giving away anything he thought might give the Chatti an edge in any war against the Romans, he was quite happy to discuss matters of general knowledge. So they talked about the war against the Caledonians and the Maeatae, of which Atius had first-hand knowledge, and they talked about Caracalla, and they talked about history that Atius had not experienced, but knew well from campfire stories, such as the deeds of Caesar and Agrippa and Trajan. Wigbrand in his turn told him about the infamous battle in the Teutoburg forest – where Varus lost his three legions – from the German point of view.
Today, Wigbrand wanted to talk about Caracalla’s second campaign in Caledonia, the one in which he had been instructed by his father to kill every inhabitant of that country, man, woman and child. Atius told him unflinchingly what he had seen, and saw Wigbrand’s eyes hardening at the massacre of innocents.
‘But this is not honourable,’ he said. ‘Do your chiefs not have honour?’
Atius shrugged. ‘They do what they feel they have to, to protect the Empire and its people. The Caledonians and Maeatae had broken peace treaties more than once. And if they were defeated in battle, but not in their homes, then they would soon be back to fight again. Severus and Caracalla have ensured that the north of Britannia will be safe for a generation.’
‘By killing mothers and infants. Your Christos that you tell me of, would he approve?’
Atius took a slurp from the beer as he suppressed a sudden guilt and sadness. Was it fatigue or captivity that made him feel emotion more keenly?
‘No,’ he said, in a low voice.
‘Then maybe your Christos was an honourable man, after all. I had thought him a coward.’
‘He sacrificed his own life to save the peoples of the world,’ said Atius angrily. ‘That is not the action of a coward.’
Wigbrand held up his hands placatingly. ‘Calm yourself, Atius. I meant no offence. Your god is so different from ours – he is hard to comprehend sometimes.’
Atius glowered at him, and Wigbrand, sensing the mood change, got to his feet.
‘I will leave you now. But I have someone else who wants to meet you. My nephew. I told him about our discussions, and he wants to learn about military matters from you, as I have. Will you see him?’
Atius clearly had no choice in the matter, but he appreciated the courtesy that gave him the illusion of free will.
He nodded. ‘Of course. I think I have time today.’
Wigbrand laughed at the weak attempt at humour and clapped Atius on the shoulder, which like most of his body was bruised and painful. He opened the door.
‘I’ll send him to you this evening,’ said Wigbrand. ‘His name is Erhard.’
Odo struggled in his captors’ arms, babbling in his native Germanic language, yelling and pointing at Silus. An older warrior stepped forward, presumably their leader, and questioned him abruptly. Odo replied quickly, breathlessly, gesturing again to Silus.
The leader seemed satisfied and nodded to his men to let Odo go. Odo rubbed his arms where they had been tightly gripped and stared resentfully at the men who had held him. The leader spoke to Odo again, ending with a harsh command.
Odo nodded and turned to Silus, who had risen cautiously to his feet, the spear tip never wavering from him.
‘His name is Radulf. He wants to know who you are and where you are from.’
‘What else did he say? What’s going on, Odo?’
‘I told him I was your prisoner. That you are a Roman slaver, taking me back to the Empire as a slave.’
‘You did what!’ Silus exclaimed.
‘Don’t overreact, Silus. I’m supposed to be translating for them, nothing more.’
Radulf interrupted angrily. Odo replied then turned back to Silus.
‘He says you are talking too much and wants answers. What should I tell him?’
Silus thought quickly. Odo’s improvised lie wasn’t actually a bad one.
‘Tell him I’m Silus from Britannia and I’m a slave hunter. Tell him I am chasing an absconded Roman slave who had conned his way into the legions to escape his master.’
Odo translated, and the Chatti leader asked another question.
‘Why do you think the escaped slave is out here?’
‘Tell him I’ve tracked him from within the Empire borders, that I believe he was out here a few weeks ago in a small party of men. Tell him I can pay if he takes me to him.’
The reply came via Odo. ‘How do you know he isn’t one of these?’ he said, indicating the fresh graves.
‘Tell him I just know.’
Radulf looked thoughtful for a moment, then spoke and Odo translated.
‘The problems of a Roman slaver are no concern of mine. And as you were enslaving a German, you will now find out what it is like to be enslaved yourself.’
Two warriors approached him and forced his hands behind his back, where they tied his wrists tightly. Silus didn’t resist. At least they hadn’t killed him outright.
Radulf spoke to Odo again, and Odo replied. Then he walked over to Silus and spat in his face. Silus stared at the young scout in shock as the spittle ran down his cheek.
Odo pointed a shaking finger at him, and spoke in a voice so loud as to be almost shouting.
‘Listen, Roman. I’m putting on a good show for these Chatti barbarians so go along with it.’
Silus’ mouth opened, then he shut it again, trying to regain his composure, to play the role Odo had given him.
‘They are going to let me go,’ he said, moving even closer, voice tremulous with feigned anger. ‘I’m sorry this happened. I’ll do what I can. Now, this is going to hurt.’
‘What…’ began Silus, his words abruptly cut off as Odo kneed him hard in the groin. Silus doubled over and fell to the floor in a tightly curled ball, his bound hands not even able to clutch the injured region. The pain from an impact in the balls was unlike any other, radiating through his body in nauseating waves, and making him retch. He could hear the harsh sounds of barbarian laughter as he groaned helplessly.
Odo, you bastard, he thought. You’ll pay for that. He looked up and saw the smiling barbarian leader clapping him on the back. Odo smiled back, waved to the other Germans, made an obscene gesture towards Silus and then walked away, back down the path they had come from.
Silus looked at Radulf, unable to communicate a word with him, and felt suddenly very alone.
Erhard showed some family resemblance to his uncle. Something about the widely spaced eyes, the shape of the nose. There could be no doubt they were related. He looked Atius steadily up and down, frowning at the bruises.
Atius stared back, thinking before coming to a decision.
‘Give me back my legions,’ he said.
Erhard stiffened, looked behind him to make sure the door was closed. Then he returned his gaze to Atius, more thoughtful this time.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘For your suffering.’
Atius did not reply. He felt a sudden surge of hatred for this man that surprised him. He tried to pin down the cause, and realised it was twofold. Firstly, he would never have been in this situation if he hadn’t had to track into the depths of this barbarian wilderness in search of this man. And secondly, he disliked the fact that he was betraying his uncle, which in turn made Atius realise how much he had come to respect the chief. Neither reason was rational, he knew, but he still glowered at the young Chatti noble.
Erhard cocked his head on one side, obviously unsure of how to deal with this fearfully battered prisoner.
‘What have you told them?’ he asked eventually.
‘Nothing. What do you think of me?’
In fact, Atius knew that if the young priestess had spent serious time with him, he would have told her anything she wanted to know.
Erhard looked into his eyes, gauging the truth of his words. He seemed satisfied and nodded.
‘It took you a long time to come and see me,’ said Atius sullenly.
‘I’m sorry for that, too. But my uncle sent me away to the north, to meet the Chaucii and discuss our alliances. I have only just returned.’
Atius frowned. ‘Were you here when we arrived? Would you have been at the meeting point to see Eustachys?’
Erhard looked sheepish. ‘Truthfully, no. My uncle sent me away before that, and would not heed my protests.’
Atius’ anger rose anew. ‘All this way. All this suffering and death. And it would have been for nothing, because you weren’t even here, by the Christos?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Erhard. ‘There are guards outside the door, and who knows walking past the window.’
Atius simmered down, looking up at Erhard through narrowed, disapproving eyes.
‘I don’t suppose you can get me out of here?’ asked Atius, more in hope than expectation.
Erhard shook his head. ‘Not a chance. The guards would not obey me over my uncle.’
Atius picked up the resentment in his voice, a little indication of the motivation behind his betrayal.
‘Have you seen Eustachys?’
‘I asked. My uncle said that there was no point, he is in no condition to see visitors.’
‘I hear him,’ said Atius. ‘Sometimes for hours at a time. I can’t block the sound out.’
‘And yet he has not given me away,’ said Erhard.
Atius nodded. ‘There is clearly more to him than meets the eye.’
‘Maybe rather less since Romilda started spending time with him.’
‘The priestess?’
‘She holds that position in the tribe. As well as taking on other roles for my uncle.’
‘She scares me,’ admitted Atius.
‘She scares me too,’ said Erhard. ‘She has powers. Once, a man accidentally splashed dirt on her robe, and she cursed him. He was dead the next day. No marks on his body. Just found in his bed.’ He made a sign with his fingers which Atius presumed was to ward off evil.
Atius wasn’t sure if he believed in her supernatural powers, although he wasn’t prepared to rule out their truth. But he knew for sure he was scared of her abilities with that little knife.
‘Eustachys was the man with the message, wasn’t he?’ asked Erhard. ‘And yet you knew the code phrase that Festus gave me all that time ago when I was in Colonia.’
‘Eustachys passed it on to me. He thought we might not both survive to meet you, and had come to trust me.’
‘So, what is it?’
Atius hesitated.
‘Well?’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you.’
‘What!’
‘I don’t know what you will do with the information.’
Erhard stared at him open-mouthed for a moment.
‘You will give me the message, or…’
‘Or what? Look at me. How could you possibly make my situation worse?’
Erhard took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, balling and unballing his fists.
‘So, what will it take to convince you?’
‘Tell me why you are willing to betray your uncle and your tribe.’
Erhard turned away, and for a moment Atius thought he would storm out. He could see his shoulders moving up and down as the young noble took deep breaths to control himself. Then he turned back to Atius.
‘Wigbrand killed my father.’
Atius raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected that. He had instinctively taken the side of the likeable chief against his backstabbing nephew, regardless of Rome’s interests, and it took him a moment to adjust to the new information.
‘An accident? Single combat?’
‘In his sleep.’
Wigbrand. All your talk about honour.
‘He murdered him?’
‘To take his position, yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My older sister witnessed it.’
‘And you did nothing?’
‘I was four years old.’
‘Oh.’
They were both quiet for a moment.
‘Well? Is it enough?’
Atius sighed. ‘It’s enough.’
‘So, speak.’
Atius rubbed his sore wrists gingerly.
‘Eustachys was sent here to encourage you to rebel against your uncle. You spent time in Colonia Agrippinensis, right? You are more pro-Roman than most Chatti?’
‘I think Arminius was more pro-Roman than most Chatti,’ observed Erhard. ‘But yes, I saw the merits of closer ties to Rome. Both culturally and militarily. My uncle is typical of how you Romans view us, as barbarians. No appreciation of verse or rhetoric or art.’
‘He certainly shows an interest in the Roman military.’
‘Of course. War is in his blood and bones. He is no fool, and is willing to learn whatever he can to increase his success in battle, whether it is against the Romans or other German tribes. But he has not seen the other benefits Rome can bring, unlike myself. Nor has he seen in person how foolish it is to defy the might of Rome. I think he fancies himself as a new Arminius. If he can unite the tribes, and bring the Alamanni into an alliance, then I believe he will launch a full invasion. And he will be defeated, to the great cost of all of Germania.’
‘Can he bring the Alamanni to his way of thinking? I hear they are close to Rome.’
‘I don’t know. He can be very persuasive.’
Atius thought about their regular meetings, the feelings of attachment and even affection he was developing for Wigbrand. Was the canny chief just manipulating him? Was Atius actually giving away more than he should? Educating the warleader in the military ways of Rome, to his advantage?
‘That’s why Festus wants a pro-Roman Chatti leader in place. You.’ Or at least a civil war to distract them, Atius thought.
Erhard looked conflicted. Atius could see the temptation there, the desire to both avenge his father and snatch the power. But he could also see the doubts.
‘There are many among the tribe who respected my father and owed him their spear. But Wigbrand is powerful, and his position is secure. And if he can bring the Alamanni to him, with all the men they can raise, he would be unassailable.’
‘You’re right,’ said Atius. ‘Which is why Festus wanted Eustachys to tell you what Caracalla has planned. And when I tell you, you will realise why I wanted to be sure I could trust you.’
Erhard’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’
So Atius told Erhard what Eustachys had confided to him. And as he spoke, he saw the already pale German turn as white as snow.