Caracalla watched the scene unfold below him. He was seated astride his favourite horse, Bucephalus. Beside him sat Macrinus, who stared in fascination at the slaughter, and Festus, who looked uncomfortable.
Caracalla felt only triumph. His advisors and spies were vague about the origins of these Alamanni, but Caracalla knew his history. He knew that, regardless of how they felt towards Rome at that moment in time, that attitude would change, and they would turn on the Empire, just like so many German nations, and nations at other borders, had done in the past.
When his spies had told him that the Alamanni were growing in strength and number, he had known he must destroy them. There were other tribes in Germania that were more overtly hostile, like the Chatti, and some, Oclatinius for example, had counselled that he should accept the Alamanni offer of alliance in order to destroy those other tribes first. But others, such as Festus and Macrinus, had aligned with his fears of leaving an enemy at his back when campaigning deep in Germania. Arminius, the architect of the disaster in the Teutoburg forest, had left a long legacy, and the fear of betrayal from German so-called allies ran deep. Better to be the betrayer than the betrayed.
So he had hatched this plan with the help of Festus, Macrinus, and a reluctant Oclatinius. And now he watched it unfold to perfection. The flower of Alamanni youth was being hacked down before his eyes, their sap draining into the earth. He knew that this was not their entire manpower, he could not hope for that, but it was a fatal blow. They would not be able to resist the legions after today.
Two legionaries approached, dragging an unresisting captive between them. They threw him to the floor at Caracalla’s feet. When the man looked up, Caracalla recognised the bloodied features of Chnodomar. The chief’s face was streaked with dirt and tears. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, and from one ear. He was trembling violently.
‘Why?’ he cried out plaintively.
Caracalla shrugged. ‘You were a threat.’
‘You promised. We trusted you.’
‘A promise to your kind is meaningless. There is no dishonour in breaking your oath when it is given to a barbarian. And I know that for all your words of peace and friendship, you will fall on us like wild dogs when our back is turned. Your Arminius taught us that.’
‘Not our Arminius. He was Cherusci. Not Alamanni.’
‘You’re all Germans, all barbarians.’
‘You’re evil. You will be cursed, by your gods and mine.’
Caracalla looked out over the slaughter, his face displaying a satisfied half-smile.
‘Take a look, Chnodomar, at your people. They are broken. They will never trouble Rome again.’
Chnodomar turned. There was no resistance now. Just attempts to flee, pleas for mercy, and murder of the wounded and those attempting to surrender.
‘I am looking, great Emperor. And I see a people foully wronged. Who will rise again, and make Rome pay for this treachery.’
‘Maybe. But not for a generation or more.’
‘We are not all you see before you now. There are still many of our tribe in our homes and farms.’
‘A trivial problem, now we have crushed the majority of your warriors.’
‘Maybe. But when you descend on our homes and our families, our men will die with honour. When you die, whether it is tomorrow or three score years from now, you will die as a man hated, your name cursed forever.’
This struck home. Reputation was all, to Caracalla. He was the Emperor of Rome. The conqueror of Caledonia. Soon to be conqueror of Germania and Parthia. The new Alexander.
He turned to Macrinus.
‘Kill him.’
Macrinus dismounted smoothly, drew his sword and thrust it through Chnodomar’s neck, skewering him from front to back. Chnodomar’s hands flew to the blade, clutched it with eyes and mouth wide, then he toppled over sideways.
Caracalla returned to surveying the carnage, but his pleasure at the day’s events was tarnished. He wheeled his horse, and accompanied by Festus, Macrinus and his guards, he rode for Colonia.
Silus picked his way through the bodies. There were so many, many dead, and the enormity of his task nearly overwhelmed him. But he had to do this. For Odo. For Ada. For Ima.
He saw a man with a broken spear protruding from his back, who was about Boda’s build. He turned him over, and let out his breath. The sightless eyes staring back at him did not belong to Odo’s father. He let the body flop back.
Most of the fighting was finished. The legionaries had broken formation now, and had started the grisly business of executing the survivors. Centurions were organising teams of soldiers to bring prisoners forward in groups, pushing them to their knees, then efficiently dispatching them with a thrust downwards between collarbone and neck. Some went meekly to their deaths, some cursing and struggling, but the end was the same for all.
Other teams of soldiers were checking bodies, just like Silus, except with a different purpose. Any flickers of life, they extinguished with sword or spear. Silus found himself hurrying, desperately trying to find Boda and Ewald before the execution squads got to them.
Two legionaries approached him menacingly, swords drawn, and Silus realised that they must be thinking that anyone who wasn’t in armour must be a barbarian.
‘Stand down,’ he said, in his best command voice. ‘I’m Gaius Sergius Silus, centurion of the Arcani.’
They looked him up and down doubtfully. Silus put a hand on the knife at his belt and took a step forward.
‘Do I have to say it twice?’ he growled. ‘Fuck off.’
The men backed away, and Silus resumed his search. He was near to giving up hope when he saw a familiar face.
Familiar, but dead. Boda, father to his friend, and to his last lover, who had invited him into his house and treated him as a treasured guest, lay with eyes wide open, blood coming from a gash in his head that looked like it had been made with a shield edge, and another wound in his chest, the finishing blow. Silus knelt beside him, and bowed his head.
Then he saw movement from a nearby body, a dozen yards away. Just the slightest motion of an arm. A young boy, sprawled on his front, his face sideways, facing Silus, eyes closed.
Ewald. And he was alive. Just.
But others had seen the movement too. Three legionaries who had been stripping some jewellery from a dead chief noticed, and approached. One drew his sword.
Silus leapt to his feet, cried out, ran forward. The legionary ignored him and thrust downwards.
Silus barreled into him, knocking him sideways in a two-arm tackle around his torso. The other legionaries stared in surprise for a moment, and Silus rolled to his feet as the downed man gasped breath into his winded lungs.
The two standing legionaries closed shoulder to shoulder, swords in hands.
Silus put a warning hand up. ‘Gaius Sergius Silus of the Arcani.’
They paused, doubtful as their comrades had been.
‘Why did you attack Sextus?’ said one.
Sextus was sitting up, looking offended.
‘I need this one alive,’ Silus said, gesturing to Ewald, who was stirring weakly.
‘Why?’ asked the same legionary.
In two swift steps, Silus was inside the surprised legionary’s guard, with his blade at his throat.
‘Did you not hear me the first time?’ hissed Silus. ‘I am Arcani. There should be no further questions.’
‘We meant no insult, sir,’ said the other legionary. ‘We’ll leave you be.’
Silus stepped back, nodded, then said, ‘No. Help me. This boy is an informant. I need to get him back into German territory. Help me get him to the river.’
The legionaries looked at each other in annoyance, no doubt thinking about all the loot they would be missing out on. But they had seen Silus move, and had no wish to get on the wrong side of an Arcanus. They muttered reluctant acquiescence.
Silus bent over Ewald. The boy had a deep wound in his outer thigh, and a bruise on his head. He was semi-conscious, and when Silus lifted him upright, he began to moan incoherently. He gave him some water, and Ewald sipped, coughed and sipped again.
‘Get your shield under him, come on.’
They wiggled the curved shield beneath Ewald, and two of them hoisted him up. His legs and arms dangled over the sides, but it was better than throwing him over a shoulder. As they headed towards the river, they got sideways looks from the various legionaries patrolling and prowling around the battlefield. A centurion challenged them, and the legionaries looked to Silus to reply.
‘Business of the Arcani,’ said Silus. ‘Nothing to do with you, centurion. Carry on.’
The centurion watched them pass suspiciously, but said nothing more.
The carrion crows had already begun to settle. Where there were unmoving corpses, and no legionaries nearby, they started their grisly work. First they went for the softest parts, the bits of the body that required little effort. The eyeballs. The tongue. Only then would they start on the tougher parts, the meat and gristle.
Silus watched as one bird dipped its head into the eye socket of a young slave girl, caught up in the slaughter. It pulled back, a slimy string of goo dangling from its beak. A larger bird came over to challenge for the morsel, and they fought and squawked at each other briefly, before the smaller bird flapped away, looking for uncontested food. There was plenty to go around.
They reached the river, and Silus had the grumbling legionaries walk along the bank until they found a path down the steep ravine to the water. Then they had to find some way to cross, and he sent them scouting up and down to find some form of transport.
Of course, almost everything that floated had been commandeered by the fleeing Alamanni who had made it to the river. But one of the legionaries returned, looking pleased with himself, and pointed out a makeshift raft of half a dozen logs lashed together, stuck a little way out in the flow, on which lay a dead warrior. Presumably he had only got so far before succumbing to his injuries.
Silus got the legionaries to help him wade out into the fast-moving water with Ewald, position him on the raft, and get it free from the rocks it had stuck on. They looked worried that he was going to ask them to help him cross as well, but now he just wanted rid of them. He dismissed them with cursory thanks and instructions to give him a good shove. Gratefully they did as they were told, and even as he floated free into the main stream of the river, they were rushing back to the battlefield, hoping there was still good stuff left that was worth stealing.
The raft swirled in the currents, and Silus found himself pointing forward, then back. The motion made him feel nauseous, and he didn’t attempt to row, content for the river to bear him and Ewald far from the scene of the slaughter.
After they had travelled some distance, he grabbed a long stick that was floating nearby, and used it to fend off rocks, and slowly edge the raft towards the far bank. Eventually, it nudged up against a shallow beach in a river bend, and he was able to drag the raft half out of the water, and then lift Ewald off. Out of the motion of the river, he was better able to assess the boy’s injuries. Nothing that seemed likely to kill him. At least not yet. If infection set in, who knew? He bound the wound in the boy’s leg with a strip of cloth from his tunic, and then lightly tapped his cheeks.
Ewald’s eyes slowly focused on Silus.
‘You.’ He coughed.
‘Can you walk?’
‘Did you… save me?’
Silus supposed so. But it didn’t feel like it. Not when it was his side that had done this in the first place. He put an arm around Ewald’s chest and lifted him to his feet. Though he had to support most of his weight, he was able to get Ewald walking, east, towards the forests.
It was slow going, and they had to stop frequently as Ewald fatigued easily. Silus reflected on the irony that so recently he was helping someone escape in the opposite direction. They didn’t speak. Maybe Ewald was too out of breath, or too traumatised. Whatever, the reason, Silus was grateful for it.
After some time they reached a copse, and Silus guided Ewald into the trees, and into a clearing in the centre.
Half a dozen Alamanni glared at him as he approached. They were slumped in a rough circle, a variety of ages, from one Ewald’s years to one older than Boda. Two bore wounds, and one of them, who was lying recumbent and staring at the sky, looked like he would not last much longer. The others had obviously fled when they saw the first signs of trouble. Maybe they would not be feted as the bravest of their tribes. But they were alive.
None were armed, but there was an air of menace hanging over them, and Silus did not want a fight. He lowered Ewald to the ground and spread his hands in front of him, to show he was holding no weapon and meant no harm. They watched him in silence.
Silus pointed at Ewald. ‘Alamanni. Yours.’
They looked at Ewald but said nothing.
‘Ewald,’ said Silus. ‘Tell them.’
Ewald took a breath and spoke in Germanic. Silus watched their faces as they listened, looking from Ewald to Silus. Their expressions softened from outright hostility to mere glowering suspicion and resentment. The oldest replied to Ewald, and they conversed in their guttural language for a few moments. Then Ewald spoke to Silus.
‘They will take me home,’ he said. ‘They are resting because of the injured one. But they will continue soon.’
Silus nodded, thankful. ‘Tell them not to delay. I don’t know if Caracalla intends to hunt down the survivors, but knowing how he works, it wouldn’t surprise me. He isn’t the sort to squander any advantage.’
‘I will. Silus. You are a Roman. Why did you save me?’
Because of Odo. Because of their sister. Because it was wrong. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything, so he just shrugged, pathetically.
‘Silus. My father. My brother.’
‘I took Odo to safety before it all started,’ he said.
Ewald was not stupid, and immediately noted the obvious omission.
‘Then my father…?’
Silus shook his head.
Ewald looked down, swallowed. He held his tears inside. Maybe that’s what he thought bravery was.
‘Please pass on my condolences to your mother and sister. I don’t know if they will believe it, but I am truly sorry. And when you see your brother…’ He trailed off. Odo would never forgive him, not just for the treachery of Silus’ Emperor, but for his own deceit, taking Odo away from danger without giving him the chance to save his father. There was nothing he could say that would make that right.
‘Look after yourself,’ he said, the words sounding weak even in his own ears. He turned, feeling the eyes of Ewald and the other Alamanni burning into the back of his head, and walked back towards the Empire.
Silus stormed into the governor’s palace, past the guards, growling at them when they challenged him that he was on Arcani business, and they could go fuck themselves. It was enough for them to let him pass, but the German bodyguards at the entrance to Caracalla’s headquarters were less impressed by his credentials, and barred his way with crossed spears.
‘Let me pass.’ His voice held all the authority he could muster, but his anger was plain to see, and the Emperor’s personal bodyguard took their jobs seriously. They blocked the doorway impassively.
Silus put his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘This is your only warning,’ he said. ‘Stand aside.’
It was like talking to the wall of Hadrianus. As impassive and impenetrable. But walls were no obstacle to an Arcanus. He began to draw his gladius.
A hand clamped over his wrist, held it fast, the blade only half drawn. He turned and found himself staring into the stern features of Oclatinius.
‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘Take your hand away.’
Oclatinius’ grip was surprisingly firm. Silus took a step backwards, wrenching himself free.
‘Don’t get in my way, old man.’
With speed that amazed Silus and took him completely by surprise, Oclatinius jabbed him with straight fingers beneath the ribs. His breath left him, and he doubled up. Oclatinius stuck two fingers into the angle behind his jaw, under his ear, and Silus was overwhelmed with pain and dizziness.
Oclatinius spoke to the guards in a low, threatening tone.
‘You saw nothing here. Do you understand?’
They nodded, clearly more intimidated by the old man than they were by Silus. Oclatinius grabbed Silus’ upper arm and dragged him away.
When they reached a secluded office, Oclatinius threw Silus at a stool.
‘Sit,’ he barked.
All the fight departed from him. Silus slumped onto the wooden seat.
‘In the name of Mithras, what did you think you were doing?’
Silus had no answer. He had let his feelings overwhelm him, and that alone would earn Oclatinius’ disapprobation. His plan had gone no further than confronting Caracalla and telling him what he thought of him. And then what? The guards tried to cut him down, and he either died, or killed them. Then did he need to kill the Emperor too? Or try to flee? Or wait meekly for his arrest? What would happen to Tituria then?
He put his head in his hands and began to shake. Oclatinius said nothing, and waited for the flood of emotion to subside. After a while, Silus took a deep breath and looked up at Oclatinius.
‘How could you let it happen?’ The anger had gone from his voice now. His tone wasn’t even accusatory. He was genuinely puzzled.
Oclatinius spoke with clear regret. ‘You overestimate my influence. Others have the ear of the Emperor more than I do.’
‘Festus?’
‘For one. And Macrinus. They are not the type of people to tell Caracalla something he doesn’t want to hear.’
‘And you are?’
Oclatinius inclined his head. ‘It is a habit that could serve me badly, if I wasn’t so valuable to him.’
‘So you tried to uphold the honour of Rome, at least.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said Oclatinius. ‘My opposition to this mad plan was not based on honour. It was strategy. The Germans are a tough nut to crack. Many have come unstuck on them in the past, and any victories have been temporary. We had the opportunity to split their forces, use the Alamanni to crush the Chatti and the others in the north and east. Then we could deal with the Alamanni at a later date. Or assimilate them into the Empire, which I have a suspicion might have happened over time if we carried on with trade and friendly relations. Much of Rome’s Empire has been gained by conquest, but also much by peaceable treaties, and inheriting lands bequeathed by chiefs and kings. The tragedy of today is that it was all so… unnecessary.’
‘Then why did he do it?’
‘Caracalla has a keen eye for an advantage, however it is gained. He defeated a powerful force with the potential to be a formidable enemy, with almost no loss.’
‘And has earned their perpetual hatred.’
Oclatinius inclined his head in agreement.
‘So. What now?’
‘Now,’ said Oclatinius. ‘It is war.’