Silus sat on the mud floor with his head in his hands and wondered where it had all gone wrong. He had lived rough and risked his life for weeks, successfully completed his given reconnaissance mission, and improvised with considerable bravery and skill to decapitate the enemy’s leadership, figuratively and literally. Yet here he was, water soaking through his breeches, shivering in the cold gloomy cell he had been locked up in all day, listening to one of his cellmates emitting a snore like a two-handed saw felling an oak, while the other sang a repetitive Christian hymn out of tune.
The barred window showed dusk descending outside, and he wondered how long he would be cooped up with these two. The snoring auxiliary, probably Tungrian or Batavian from his build and features, had been thrown into the cell around noon, staggering and stinking of alcohol, and he had been fast asleep ever since. The hymn-singing fellow, tall and lean, his accent suggestive of Celtiberian origins, had arrived about an hour ago, introduced himself as Atius, and then started to pray silently. A fairly recent recruit or transfer, Silus thought, as he didn’t recognise him.
Silus had tried to work out the words of the prayer, as Atius appeared unable to pray without moving his mouth, but Silus wasn’t that accomplished a lip reader, especially in the gloom of the cell, and drew a blank. The hymns that Atius sung were impersonal, generic words of praise and forgiveness. The verse currently being repeated went:
Blessed be the Messiah
Who has given us a hope
That the dead shall rise again.
Silus was of course aware of the cult of the Christos, who his followers called the Messiah – had even met some – but to him it was just another Eastern mystery religion, like the cults of Serapis or Isis. Sometimes Rome tolerated it, other times its followers were persecuted. He seemed to recall some trouble a year or so ago down in Verulanium after a Christian was beheaded for sheltering one of their priests. What was his name? Alvan or Alban or something like that. In any case, the outcry had been such that Geta, the co-Emperor himself, had to intercede and halt the campaign against the followers of Christos.
He sighed and gazed out of the window, cursing the injustice. Surely he wouldn’t be punished badly for what he had done? Couldn’t they recognise the heroism?
The hymn singing stopped abruptly.
‘How you doing?’ said Atius.
‘Um, how do you think?’ replied Silus, gesturing at his surroundings.
‘This? This is just temporary, like everything in life.’
‘Fair enough. So what are you here for?’
‘Oh. I fucked Menenius’ daughter.’
Silus gaped. Atius inspected his fingernails and scraped some dirt out, acting like the conversation had ended.
‘Say that again,’ said Silus.
‘Say what again?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I fucked Menenius’ daughter. Damn, what a lay. Sadly, Menenius didn’t approve.’
‘Menenius’ daughter? You fucked Menenia? Prissy little Menenia, who weaves and sews and whose mouth has never known a sip of wine or a hard cock?’
‘Well, she was called Menenia, but that doesn’t sound like the girl I was with. I tell you, the things she could do with her mouth…’
‘But…’ Silus trailed off. Then he thought of something. ‘But aren’t you followers of Christos supposed to be celibate or something?’
Atius laughed. ‘Screw that. I’m looking forward to my reward in heaven, but I’m not passing up a good time on earth.’
Silus smiled and shook his head.
‘What about you? Why did they throw you in here?’
‘I cut the head off a barbarian chief. Menenius didn’t approve.’
Atius threw his head back and laughed so loud the snoring auxiliary briefly woke up, looked around in confusion, then went back to sleep.
‘Well, that does sound a bit rash. And I have to say, my crime seems to have been a bit more enjoyable in the commission than yours.’
‘Maybe. But there was a certain satisfaction in messing up those barbarians.’
‘No regrets then?’
Silus considered, then shook his head. ‘Nah. What’s the worst that could happen?’
An alarm bell rang out, clear in the dusk air. Silus looked round sharply, and Atius jumped up and ran to the window. He saw soldiers scurrying across the courtyard, struggling to buckle up helmets and belts on the run, rushing to their appointed stations. Atius yelled, shaking the bars and trying to attract somebody’s attention.
‘Hey! Hey, you, what’s happening?’
Most of the preoccupied men ignored him, but Atius finally managed to accost a scared looking youngster. ‘What’s going on, soldier?’
‘The Maeatae,’ he gasped. ‘They’re attacking us!’
He made to run, but Atius reached through the bars and grabbed him by an arm.
‘Where? How many?’
‘The centurion says around two hundred. He says they are attacking from all sides, and he thinks they are trying to make it look like there are more of them than there really are. He thinks it’s just a raid to rattle us.’
Judging from the boy’s white face, it was working.
‘What’s the Prefect’s plan?’ asked Atius, but the boy wrenched his arm out of Atius’ grip and ran off.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Silus.
‘Maeatean raid. Two hundred strong,’ said Atius. ‘We should be out there fighting.’
‘Two hundred?’
‘It’s not many, is it? To take on a fort. And they must have known we would be forewarned, as you escaped them.’
‘I saw about five hundred gathering at Dùn Mhèad. What are the rest doing? Attacking a different fort?’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. Splitting their forces to attack two well-defended forts instead of concentrating on one is going to lead to a rout. Could they be testing our defences before a bigger attack?’
‘No,’ mused Silus. ‘They need surprise. That has been their tactic since they stopped offering us open battle.’
‘A feint then, to occupy the fort, while the real attack is somewhere else, somewhere more vulnerable.’
Silus went cold and his heart seemed to stop.
‘The vicus,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Atius grimaced. ‘My favourite whore lives in the vicus.’
‘My wife and daughter are there,’ said Silus.
Atius stared at him. ‘Christos! Silus, we need to warn the Prefect.’
Silus ran to the door and started pounding on it.
‘Guard! Guard!’ he yelled. There was no reply.
‘He must have gone to defend the walls,’ said Atius.
Silus kicked at the door in frustration. It was solid oak, and the only outcome was a bruised foot.
‘Stand aside,’ said Atius.
‘It’s too thick. We can’t break it down.’
Atius drew a small piece of metal, bent at the end, from somewhere inside his tunic. He knelt down before the door, slid the hook into the keyhole and fiddled for a brief moment. There was a click, and with one finger Atius pushed the door open.
Silus stared at him in surprise. Atius merely shrugged. There was no time to question him.
‘Go and warn the Prefect,’ said Silus. ‘I’m going to the vicus.’
They emerged into controlled chaos. Although the air was filled with the sound of shouts and screams, of metal on metal where some of the barbarians had made it onto the wall and were fighting the auxiliaries defending there, every soldier seemed to know his place and his duty. Officers shouted commands which were carried out with alacrity, and the men looked nervous but determined.
Atius ran for the nearest centurion, and Silus looked around. The noise of battle seemed to be coming from the direction of each of the eight winds. Having worked out this was merely a feint though, Atius could tell that in many directions the roars of the Maeatae were thinner and less numerous. He picked a point on the wall that seemed quietest and ran towards it, grabbing a spatha from a pile of weapons as he went. He quickly climbed the stone steps to the battlement, joining two auxiliaries who looked surprised to see him armed but unarmoured. They were quickly distracted by a ladder crashing against the wall, and four barbarians ascending rapidly. Silus grabbed the top of the ladder and pushed, but the weight of the four men stopped it from tumbling backwards.
One of the auxiliaries ran to grab a rock from a nearby stockpile, returned and hurled it down onto the head of the lead barbarian. He tumbled sideways soundlessly, but there was no time to fetch another rock as the second barbarian leapt onto the battlement.
The nearest auxiliary engaged him immediately, and as they faced each other, the second auxiliary ran the barbarian through. In doing so, though, he exposed his back to the third barbarian, who leapt onto the battlement and swung his double-edged longsword into the neck of the second auxiliary. The luckless soldier went down, blood spurting from the gaping wound. The other auxiliary roared in anger and threw himself at the barbarian, pushing him backwards along the wall with furious thrusts and jabs with his sword.
This left space for the fourth barbarian to crest the wall. He turned to face Silus, sword before him, and he grinned, revealing a mouth of gaps and black stumps. Silus felt naked without his armour in a one-to-one battle, but he reminded himself that his scouting work was all carried out unarmoured and he had taken down a barbarian chieftain with just his knife and a snare.
The barbarian moved first. He was tall, broad, with wild matted hair full of leaves and twigs, an appearance as far removed from a civilised Roman as was possible. Silus clamped his fear down and countered the barbarians’ heavy two-handed overhead swing, steering the blow to one side with his spatha. The barbarian brought up his sword again, bulging chest and arm muscles straining to bring the heavy weapon back into position. Silus thrust with his lighter spatha, but the barbarian was quick and moved to one side, bringing his sword round in a horizontal arc.
Silus ducked under the blow, and this time was able to connect with a slash across the barbarian’s chest. The wound was nowhere near mortal, but Silus saw that the next swing of the heavy sword was slower, the barbarian gritting his teeth against the pain. Silus stepped back, letting the sword pass him, then stepped forward quickly, thrusting his spatha into the barbarian’s abdomen.
The barbarian doubled forward, gripping the blade where it penetrated him. Silus stuck out a foot, and pushed him away into the courtyard below, where the body nearly flattened a rushing auxiliary. Silus looked over to the other auxiliary on the battlement near him. The soldier had just administered the final blow to the barbarian who had killed his friend. Silus grabbed the top of the ladder and descended.
‘Hey! Where are you going?’ yelled the auxiliary, but Silus ignored him, and jumped the last few steps down to the ground.
There were no more barbarians in this area, but through the gloom maybe fifty yards away, Silus saw a man on a horse directing a small party of barbarians to attack. Silus quickly and silently covered the distance between them. The barbarian warriors had their full attention directed towards the fort, and as soon as the foot soldiers started to ascend their ladders, Silus loomed up out of the dark beside their leader’s horse. The barbarian turned in surprise, but had no time to even yell as Silus grabbed him and pulled him to the floor. He hit the ground with a crack that suggested a broken limb, but Silus was in no mood for mercy. He moved behind the barbarian, put an arm around his neck, and strangled him until his legs stopped kicking. Then he mounted the horse, turned its head, and rode hard for the vicus.
Maglorix, seated on his wiry native pony, listened with satisfaction to the sounds of battle coming from about a mile away. He had committed enough troops to keep the fort occupied, leaving his real target, the vicus at the bottom of the hill, completely undefended. Three hundred men stood behind him, and he felt a shiver of pleasure and anticipation. He was their leader now, no longer disputed, and they would do his bidding to avenge the death of his father. And that would just be the start. Once the tribe had tasted victory, others would heed his war cry, and they would gather an army powerful enough to throw the brutal invader out of their lands forever.
He could sense his men getting restless. They too were eager for battle, to start the rampage and destruction. But he wanted to make sure the Romans were fully committed to the battle at their fort, so there would be no interference with what was about to ensue. This wasn’t to be just a quick raid, to grab some chickens and a pretty girl or two and flee into the wilderness. This was going to be a slaughter, revenge for all the atrocities and indignities heaped upon their people. He wanted the men to enjoy every moment.
He waited a little longer, until he judged he could hold them back no longer. Then he turned his pony to face his men and raised his sword high in the air.
‘For my father. And for every Maeatae who has been murdered, raped, stolen from and humiliated. Revenge yourselves now. No mercy! No survivors!’
The answering roar hit him like a powerful wave, and he soaked up all the energy. He wheeled his pony back so it was facing downhill, kicked it in the flank, and charged.
The wind rushed through his long wavy hair, and he felt an exhilaration more powerful than anything he had ever felt before. More intense than the first time he had deflowered a virgin, more exciting than the first time he had killed a man. These were his men. This was his battle. This was his moment.
They hit the vicus at a run. The streets between the huts and buildings were quiet, just pigs and chickens foraging or sleeping, and a few older children playing with a ball. Chained up dogs leapt to their feet, and a cacophony of barking added to the yells from the tribesmen. Doors opened, and in most cases rapidly slammed shut again. Some terrified mothers and fathers rushed out to grab their children, who were already bolting for home. Most made it before the Maeatae arrived, but it would make no difference in the end.
A fleeing child, a boy of no more than ten years, ran towards his screaming mother. Maglorix rode him down, thrusting a spear through the boy’s back before his mother’s eyes. He wheeled sharply, dismounted and drew his sword. The mother had reached her dead son now, and had covered his body with her own, wailing. Maglorix stepped forward and with one huge swing of his hefty blade swiped her head from her shoulders.
He looked round to see his men running riot in the small settlement. Some went straight for the temples and warehouses, seeking gold and lootable goods. Others went for the huts, looking for women. Here and there were pockets of resistance. Some men fought furiously with knives, swords or agricultural tools to protect their families, while others begged for mercy on their knees until they were cut down. Maglorix saw a huge blacksmith wielding his hammer. One warrior lay dead at his feet, skull crushed, and as Maglorix watched, the hammer swatted another’s spear away like it was a twig, then swung back and caved in the second warrior’s chest. Maglorix frowned and approached the blacksmith with his sword held loose in his hands.
The blacksmith snarled. ‘Murderer.’
‘Your people, too,’ said Maglorix, in his broken, heavily accented Latin.
The blacksmith lifted his hammer over his shoulder and swept it round, faster than Maglorix would have believed possible considering its weight. But still it was a slow weapon, and Maglorix could step out of its reach easily. The blacksmith stepped forward, swinging again and again, but Maglorix simply dodged each blow, grinning at his opponent’s frustration.
Soon, even the blacksmith’s great strength could not keep it up. One tired attack gave Maglorix the opening he needed. He stepped in and whipped his sword across the blacksmith’s abdomen, the sharp blade neatly opening him. The blacksmith looked down in horror as his intestines tumbled out, made a clumsy attempt to grab the slippery tubes, then crumpled to the floor.
Maglorix paid no more attention to the dying man. He saw men breaking down the doors of huts or, in some of the less sturdy dwellings, just shoulder-barging through the wall. The raping had started, and though Maglorix did not approve of his men being distracted before the battle was over, he made no move to impose discipline. The last of the resistance was petering out.
He strode to the nearest hut and kicked the door open. Cowering inside were an old lady and presumably her daughter. He grabbed the young woman by the hair, pulled her head back, and held the blade to her throat.
‘The Roman spy,’ said Maglorix in faltering, heavily accented Latin. ‘The soldier. Which his home? Where his woman?’
The woman was panting in terror, eyes wide. The old lady started babbling, ‘No, please, take me instead.’
He drew the blade gently across the skin, so incarnadine liquid trickled down the white skin. The young woman let out a shriek.
‘The soldier,’ he said firmly. ‘The one that spies. Which home?’
‘Mother,’ pleaded the young woman. The old woman showed confusion amongst her terror.
‘I don’t know who… Do you mean Silus?’
So he has a name. Silus. ‘Show me.’
He dragged the young woman to the door, blade still at her neck, and the mother followed, wringing her hands, tears streaming down her face. She lifted her hand and pointed to an unprepossessing hut at the end of the main street. ‘Silus’ hut,’ she said. ‘Please let my daughter go.’
Maglorix sliced the blade deep into the young woman’s neck and thrust her aside, already walking purposefully towards Silus’ hut, while behind him the woman bled out in gurgling gasps, her mother holding her, screaming as she was drenched in her daughter’s blood.
Two of his warriors were approaching the Roman spy’s hut, making to break it open. He ordered them to stop, and they reluctantly complied. Some of the buildings were on fire now as the Maeatae threw lit torches onto thatch. Maglorix grabbed a torch from a passing warrior and tossed it onto the roof, then stood back to watch with a satisfied grin.
The dry thatch caught like tinder and in moments the entire roof was alight and beginning to collapse in on itself. Flames licked down the wooden beams, and thick smoke filled the hut. The door flew open, and a woman and a young girl staggered out, hands over stinging eyes, coughing and retching. The girl clutched a small dog in her arms.
‘Hold them,’ Maglorix ordered his men, and the warriors grabbed the woman and girl, thrusting them to their knees before him. The little dog fell to the floor. She immediately jumped up, yapping at Maglorix, darting forward to attempt to bite his ankles. Maglorix lashed out at her, cursing as the little bitch jumped out of the way, then sunk her teeth into his toes. He kicked hard, and the tiny dog flew through the air, hit a timber with a crunch, and fell to the ground limp.
Maglorix stepped forward, looming over the mother and daughter. The woman tried a defiant expression, but it was thin as a leaf, and he tore through it with a backhand across her face, leaving her sobbing and clutching her daughter.
‘You are Roman spy’s woman. Yes?’
She looked up at him, blinking through the tears.
‘Silus. Roman spy. Your man?’
She said nothing, so he waved his sword in the direction of the little girl.
‘Yes, yes,’ she cried. ‘Please, don’t hurt her.’
‘Your man. Silus. He kill my father.’
The look that passed over her was a mix of horror and resignation. She knew. Silus must have boasted about it. Maybe even showed her his father’s noble head.
‘Your man kill my family. Now I have revenge.’
Silus’ woman bowed her head, pulling her daughter’s face into her shoulders, and her shoulders heaved with sobs. Maglorix gestured to one of his men, who ripped the little girl from her embrace. Both started screaming, and the little girl didn’t stop even when Maglorix pointed the tip of his sword at her eyes. He threw his sword down, grabbed the girl, lifted her up and threw her onto the ground. She fell hard, her head crashing into a rock with a sickening crunch. Blood poured through her long hair and soaked into the ground. The child was still.
The woman stared in disbelief, mouth hanging open. Then she threw herself at Maglorix and dragged her sharp nails down his face, just missing his eye, gouging away skin and leaving three bloody stripes down his cheek. He hit her hard with his fist in her temple, and she crumpled, half-stunned. He stepped forward and ripped her tunic in half, exposing her breasts and midriff. She tried to struggle, but he ordered his men to hold her down. Then he lowered his breeches.
Silus saw the glow in the distance and his heart fell. He had hoped against hope to be proved wrong. He clung to the horse’s neck as it pounded along the military road that ran south of the wall. The ‘wall’ was actually a turf fortification built on stone foundations with a deep ditch on the northern side, unlike the stone-built wall to the south constructed in the reign of the Emperor Hadrian. As such, it made a decent defensive position, but was easily negotiated in an unopposed crossing, and Silus knew it would have given the Maeatae little trouble while the Romans were being distracted with the feint at the fort. The road, always quiet at night, was now deserted.
Silus had little skill as a rider, but desperation kept him in his seat. As he neared the vicus, he encountered the first fleeing fugitives – a young, unarmed, terrified looking man running away as fast she could, then a mother clutching a baby, stumbling along the cobbled road, tears streaming. He wanted to stop to ask them what was happening, the number of the attackers, their direction, but he could lose no time, and besides, he wasn’t sure he was able to stop the horse’s headlong gallop.
He crested the hill before the vicus and gaped at the destruction before him. Almost every building was ablaze, and as he got nearer, he could see the damage and the slaughter, the dead bodies, the raping and murdering warriors.
In the full grip of horror and fury, he charged the horse down the hill towards his own hut. He saw his wife and daughter, saw Maglorix throw Sergia to the ground where she lay still, saw the warriors hold Velua down as Maglorix dropped his breeches.
At the last moment, the sound of hoofbeats broke through the cacophony of screams, yells and crackling flames, and Maglorix looked round in surprise. Silus threw himself from the horse and landed on the barbarian chief. Both of them went down, but Silus was more prepared. He rolled and quickly regained his feet, drawing his sword in the same motion. Without a pause, he lunged at Maglorix, sword outstretched.
One of the warriors holding Velua reacted quicker than the other, drawing his own sword in time to parry Silus’ thrust. Silus gritted his teeth in frustration as his blow went wide of the stunned Maglorix. The warrior swung at Silus, who jumped backwards then thrust hard. The blade penetrated the warrior’s throat and buried itself in his neck. His eyes rolled up into his head and he let out a gurgle, gripping the blade in both hands. Then he fell sideways, keeping a firm grip on Silus’ sword and ripping it from his hands.
Maglorix got himself into a seated position, hastily pulled up his breeches and searched for his sword in the flickering light of the burning buildings. The remaining warrior hesitated, unsure whether to attack Silus or to continue to restrain his wife. Velua made his mind up for him, sinking her teeth into his forearm, making him howl. He backhanded her hard on the chin, her jaw clacking as it thudded closed and she slumped backwards, moaning incoherently.
Silus wrenched his sword free from the dead warrior, and hesitated as he chose his target, the unarmed Maglorix or the Maeatean who was now clamping his hands around Velua’s throat.
There was no choice.
Silus thrust his sword through the warrior strangling his wife, skewering him from back to front. It was enough time for Maglorix to recover. He regained his feet and with a roar gripped Silus in a bear hug from behind, hoisting him into the air and tossing him to the ground.
Silus broke his fall as best he could with outstretched arms, but still fell hard, the breath whooshing out of his lungs. He pushed himself to his feet, and he and Maglorix confronted each other in mutual loathing.
Other warriors had reached them by now, the dramatic arrival of Silus on horseback and the subsequent fight dragging them reluctantly from the fun they were having. Two drew swords and moved towards Silus, but Maglorix motioned them back.
Silus clenched his fists, watching the barbarian’s eyes, willing himself not to look at his naked wife or his daughter’s unmoving body.
‘My father,’ said Maglorix, his voice a growl.
‘My daughter,’ said Silus, the words catching in his throat.
‘Yes. And soon your woman. While you watch.’
Silus searched for something to say, some piece of bravado, but nothing came. Could this really be the end? He couldn’t deny it, even as part of him screamed that it must be a nightmare, that soon he would wake up. Sergia dead. Velua raped and murdered next. Then his turn. Unarmed amid a host of barbarians whose chief he had murdered and desecrated. His legs trembled and his bowels tried to loosen.
No! This is not how it would end. Velua would see him go down, fighting for her.
With a howl, he hurled himself at Maglorix. Bigger though the barbarian was, the suddenness and rage caught him by surprise, and he toppled over backwards as Silus tackled him around the chest. Silus landed on him and immediately started raining down blows, punching the barbarian leader in the side of the face, rocking his head from side to side. Blood welled from cuts that opened beneath Silus’ fists, a tooth came loose, and Maglorix had to grip Silus tight just to stop the onslaught. He rolled, trying to get on top. But Silus kept the momentum going so they turned full circle, leaving Silus once more uppermost. Maglorix was clearly the stronger, and probably the more experienced in one-to-one sword play, but Silus had learned to fight dirty, growing up with a father who was generous with his fists, and in the barracks, and on his scouting missions.
Silus pinned Maglorix’s arms with his knees, and pummelled his face. The barbarian’s nose crunched, blood and snot splashing over his cheeks and beard. Maglorix roared and heaved, attempting to throw Silus off. The first time, Silus kept his seat, clinging tight while still punching with all his strength.
But ultimately the barbarian was too big and too strong. He bucked again, then rolled and Silus was tipped sideways, sent sprawling into the dirt face down.
Before Silus could rise, Maglorix was on his back, pinning him. He grabbed Silus’ hair, pulled his head up and then slammed it into the ground. If it had been rocks beneath him, the force would have killed him outright. As it was, the damp earth was still firm enough to stun him. Tiny dancing lights flashed in Silus’ vision, and blackness crawled inwards from the edge of his field of view. He clung onto consciousness determinedly.
Maglorix slid an arm beneath his throat and applied pressure. Silus’ chest heaved as he tried to suck wind through his occluded airway. But the effects of the strangulation made him black out before he could asphyxiate.
He came around again moments later, gasping for air, head spinning, the acrid stench of smoke in the air, and the heat of his burning home scorching one side of his face. He rolled onto his hands and knees, coughed hard like a dog being sick, then looked up.
He might as well never have come. It was as if he had never arrived.
Two more warriors held the naked, half-conscious Velua down. Maglorix was once more sliding down his breeches. He turned to Silus, allowing full view of the erection with which he was about to violate his wife. Silus held up a hand in supplication.
‘Please,’ he gasped, voice hoarse. ‘Don’t.’
Maglorix spat on Silus, and the glob of saliva hit him in the eye where it mingled with his tears. Silus wiped the back of his hand across his eyes to clear his blurred vision. Maglorix knelt between Velua’s legs, using his knees to pry her thighs apart. She shook her head and struggled weakly.
The blare of a trumpet cut through the cacophony around them. Maglorix paused, looking round in confusion. A younger warrior came running over.
‘What is it?’ snapped Maglorix.
The young warrior gasped for breath. ‘Romans. Hundreds of them.’
‘Holy hag. How did they get here so quickly? How did they know?’
For a moment hope soared in Silus’ heart.
‘How far?’ asked Maglorix.
‘They will be on us in moments. Horses, with foot soldiers close behind.’
Maglorix looked at Velua, appearing torn. Then he pulled up his breeches. Relief flooded over Silus.
‘Your knife,’ said Maglorix, holding out his hand.
The warrior slapped the handle of his dagger into Maglorix’s palm. Without a word, he plunged it into Velua’s heart. She gasped, tried to sit up, eyes wide in shock. The she fell back, shuddered, and was still.
Silus stared, mouth open. The world disappeared around him, his focus narrowed to his wife’s blank, pallid face. There was no pain, not yet, just sheer disbelief. How was this possible? He crawled on his hands and knees to Velua, clutched her, tried to sit her up. His falling tears splashed into the pool of her blood.
‘No, Velua, my love. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
Maglorix let out a throaty laugh. Silus looked up at him in abject misery, which provoked even more hilarity from Maglorix and his men. Deep inside, Silus knew he should be raging, screaming, furiously attacking the barbarian with his nails and teeth and anything he could use to hurt him. But he couldn’t move. He just watched as the slayer of his wife licked the blood off the blade, and then with a broad grin, stepped towards Silus.
Then the ground started to tremble, and the thunder of a squadron of cavalry filled the air. Maglorix looked up in annoyance, his face darkening as he saw the charging horses in the distance, but closing rapidly. The other warriors looked to their chief in alarm. Maglorix hesitated, then turned to his men.
‘We have done what we set out to do. The Romans will remember to fear us now. Time to go home. Move.’
The other warriors needed no further command, disappearing off the main street and scattering. Still Maglorix hesitated, gauging the distance of the approaching relief force against the time it would take him to kill Silus. Then he stiffened his shoulders.
‘This not over, Roman,’ he said. ‘My revenge not finished.’ Then he sheathed his blade and ran towards his mount, which had been waiting for him patiently.
Suddenly Silus leapt into motion. He chased after the barbarian chief, and just as Maglorix vaulted onto his horse, Silus grabbed his leg and pulled. Maglorix tumbled to the ground, cursing. Silus gripped him hard, and Maglorix kicked at him then reached round to pummel him with clenched fists. Silus didn’t retaliate, just held tight, riding out the blows, his eyes squeezed shut. His strength started to fade, his head spun with the blows, and he felt his grip loosen.
Abruptly, Maglorix stopped fighting. Silus opened his eyes cautiously, and saw that they were surrounded by Roman auxiliary cavalry, swords pointing menacingly at Maglorix. He let the barbarian go, and sank back to the ground.
A centurion walked his horse over, and Silus looked up to see Geganius looking down, face grim. He turned to his men to bark orders.
‘Decurion Artorius. Put this barbarian in chains, and have four men take him back to the fort. Then take your turma and chase the rest down. No quarter.’
The decurion saluted. Four men roughly grasped Maglorix and led him away while he looked back at Silus, hatred burning in his eyes. Then the decurion dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks. It leapt forward and his men followed. They were still outnumbered by the barbarians, but the Maeatae were now scattering as individuals, making easy targets for the mounted auxiliaries. The barbarians were rapidly fleeing into the countryside though, and the Romans would be able to catch only a few before they had completely disappeared.
Geganius slid off his horse, landing lightly despite his bulk, and knelt beside Silus. He put a hand on Silus’ shoulder and for a moment stayed silent. Silus opened his mouth to speak but no words emerged.
Presently the foot soldiers arrived. Geganius organised them into parties to douse the fires, attend to the wounded and gather the dead. He remained by Silus throughout, and Silus sat with his wife and daughter, shaking uncontrollably.
Atius approached, ashen-faced.
‘Silus, I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I tried. I found Geganius, and he went straight to Menenius. Geganius persuaded Menenius to release enough men to relieve the village. Menenius wanted to prioritise the defence of the fort, but Geganius insisted.’
‘We got here as quickly as we could,’ said Geganius. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t…’ His voice trailed off, and he glanced at the bodies, then quickly looked away.
Atius crouched by Silus, removed his cloak, a hooded ankle length garment called a caracallus, and draped it around him. Atius and Geganius looked at each other helplessly. Geganius shook his head in despair. Atius closed his eyes and intoned a prayer.
‘Lord Christos, holy Maria, please take these children into your care. Bless them, absolve them of all your sins, and let them sit with you in paradise forever more.’
Silus tensed while Atius spoke, but said nothing. Atius finished, and Geganius nodded.
‘It’s time to let go, soldier.’
Silus clutched his family tighter. Geganius took him by the wrist and tried to pull him away. Silus resisted, and Geganius let go, looking helplessly at Atius.
Silus felt pressure against his leg, light, but insistent. He looked down, and saw Issa pressing her nose against him. The fur on her back was singed, her lower jaw was jutting at an unnatural angle, and her front leg also looked broken. She pushed at him again. Numbly, Silus reached for her, picked her up and cradled her in his arms. She whimpered and tried to lick his face.
Atius helped Silus to his feet, and between them, Atius and Geganius led Silus to a horse. They helped him mount. He kept Issa clutched against his chest.
‘We will take care of them,’ said Geganius softly. ‘And that barbarian cunnus will be executed in the most painful way possible. Atius, take him back to the fort.’
Atius took hold of the reins, and led Silus slowly away.