The mood around the council hall was somber. Maglorix sat in his high chair, regarding the elders. Few would meet his eye. There had been no direct challenge to his rule since he had returned to Dùn Mhèad on the back of a wagon, drifting in and out of stupor in his agony. The healers had chanted to the gods and sacrificed numerous animals on his behalf. When his fever would not break, there were even some mutterings about human sacrifice, but Maglorix was conscious enough to forbid it. Eventually, his breathing and his coughing settled as his smoke-damaged lungs healed, the heat in his head cooled with the damp rags and the herbs, and the poultices and preparations soothed his purulent oozing soles.
He could walk now, though the pain was still intense. He exercised regularly with sword and spear, and he had begun to ride once more, his feet dangling loose at the horse’s side. His strength was returning, and soon he would be himself.
He looked over to the man sitting at his right hand.
‘Elders, last night we feasted with Taximagulus here, and for one night we forgot our worries. We shared our meat, our beer and our women with him and each other, the way Caledonians and Maeatae have always done, though the Romans sneer at us for our morals. But today, we discuss war. We discuss our response to the Roman outrages. Do we bend over and let them violate us, like some maiden captured in war and thrown to the soldiers? Or do we stand up to those demons, like real men?’
Some of the elders exchanged nervous glances, until one was pushed forward to reply.
‘Oh Chief,’ said the elder, an innocuous, slender, bent old man with a kind face called Usnach. It would be hard to become angry with Usnach, Malgorix reflected. He had no doubt been selected by his fellows as the least likely to provoke Maglorix into putting a knife in his throat. Tarvos’ skull, long on a spike outside the council hall, had now rotted away sufficiently that it could sit on the back of Maglorix’s high chair, from where it grinned sightlessly at the council.
Usnach cleared his throat and tried again.
‘Oh Chief.’ His voice wobbled with anxiety, engendered both by fear of Maglorix and the unaccustomed role of spokesman for the council – under the tolerant rule of Maglorix’s father, he had been most noted for falling asleep in meetings. ‘There are those among us, not myself you understand, but I have heard murmurings…’
Maglorix regarded him steadily, giving him no assistance. Usnach clutched his walking stick with a tremoring hand, swallowed and continued. ‘Those who say that the Romans are too powerful. That we should avoid confrontation until they get tired of our country and leave.’
‘I see,’ said Maglorix. ‘And who are these men who fear the Romans? Or are you talking of women and little children speaking like cowards?’
‘They s-say that the Romans are too well armoured, too well equipped. There are too many. But that there are not enough riches here, and that when their emperor has had s-sufficient glory, he will get bored and leave.’
Maglorix said nothing, waiting for Usnach to continue. The elder reddened, and looked over to Muddan, the council member seated next to Usnach, who had opposed Maglorix’s rise to Chief. Muddan gave a faint nod, but Maglorix didn’t miss it.
‘He says – I mean – they say that we can never defeat the Romans in open battle, and we should bow to them until they leave.’
Maglorix stood slowly. Pain shot through the soles of his feet, but he didn’t allow the expression on his face to change. Buan, his faithful bodyguard, devastated at his own failure to prevent Maglorix’s capture, took a step forward and offered his hand. Maglorix waved him off. He walked slowly, stiffly, up to Usnach, who quailed back. Maglorix drew a long knife from his belt, and jabbed the point on his thumb. A drop of blood formed, pooled and dropped to the earth floor, soaking into the ground.
‘I would bleed for my people, Usnach. I would die for their right to live free on their own lands. Would you?’
‘Of… course, Chief,’ stuttered Usnach. Maglorix walked around the back of Usnach’s chair, the blade still drawn. He placed a hand on the elder’s shoulder, who flinched like he had been stabbed then started to shake uncontrollably. Then with the speed of a striking wildcat, he thrust the blade out sideways. It skewered Muddan’s neck from side to side. Muddan staggered upright, his mouth opening wide. Blood spurted from the holes on either side of his neck where the vessels had been neatly severed. He tried to speak, but he had no air to make a sound beyond a formless gurgle. Then blood bubbled from his mouth, and he toppled forward, twitching for a moment before lying still, head twisted to one side, eyes open but unseeing.
‘Usnach,’ said Maglorix. ‘It can be dangerous being the mouthpiece of cowards and snakes. Tell me, is there anyone else in our council or in our tribe who feels we should bow to the Roman devil?’
Usnach could barely speak, but Maglorix squeezed the old man’s shoulder painfully until he gasped out, ‘N-no, Chief. Muddan was the only one. And he made me…’
Several others of the council were looking openly terrified, and Maglorix knew that Muddan was not the only one muttering discontent. But he felt the point had been made. Muddan was childless and not well-liked. There would be no gain from provoking a blood feud with others in the tribe by slaughtering half the council.
Maglorix returned to his seat, face impassive as stabs of agony shot up his legs. By his side, Taximagulus wore a faint smirk.
‘Members of the council.’ Maglorix looked down at Muddan’s body. ‘Remaining members of the council,’ he corrected himself. ‘It’s true that the Romans are formidable. And that they are hard to defeat in open battle. But we proved last year that with our vastly superior knowledge of our land, our ability to hide and ambush, to harry their supply lines, that we can defeat them. Still, Muddan thought that we should bow down and wait until they leave. Maybe others of you think that this is just a raid, a bigger version of some of their raids on our territory since we stirred them up a moon or so ago. Inconveniences that will pass. Elders, listen to the words of Taximagulus, cousin of Ir who is chief of our allies, the Damnonii. Taximagulus, please, tell the elders what you told me last night.’
Taximagulus rose to his feet, and though his face still wore a cheeky smirk, his demeanour was respectful.
‘Wise elders, I am honoured to be invited to speak at your council. I bring the greetings and friendship of Ir, and of all our tribes. Elders, the Romans are still on our soil. I bring word of the development of their fortress of Horrea Classis, on the coast, where the rivers Uisge Èireann and Tatha meet. From there, their ships can supply their legions indefinitely. Wise council, this is no brief raid by the Romans. No punitive expedition. They are here to stay.’
Murmurs ran around the circle, accompanied by the shaking of balding heads rimmed in tangled white hair and the tugging of grizzled beards.
‘Tell us what you have witnessed in the north, Taximagulus.’
Taximagulus shook his head, and the smirk vanished. ‘We have all known hardship and loss since the Roman invasion last year. I know that you have known battle, loss of supplies, hunger over the winter. But what I have seen…’
Taximagulus tailed off, looking into the distance, staring at nothing. One or two of the elders looked round to see what had attracted his attention. Most understood that he was remembering horrors.
Taximagulus’ voice was thick when he spoke again. ‘The Romans defeated us on the field, but then they discovered they couldn’t find us if we didn’t want to be found. So they turned on our homes. On the defenceless.
‘Elders, they tried to exterminate us. They burnt our crops. Cut down our sacred groves. They raided our villages and killed every single old man, woman and child. If you have seen the population of an entire village murdered… women with legs spread and throats cut, babies with brains bashed out against trees, old men clubbed to death with hands clasped for mercy…’
Taximagulus stopped, and the council hall was silent except for the wheezy breathing of old men. Maglorix waited, letting the moment drag out. Then he put a hand on the Damnonian and guided him to be seated.
‘Council,’ said Maglorix, ‘the Romans are going nowhere, unless we make them. Our small tribe alone can do nothing. But if the whole of the Maeatae joins the whole of the Caledonians and we fight wisely, we can chase the Romans out of the north of this island, and who knows, maybe even the subdued tribes of northern Britannia will rediscover their courage. Together, we may end Roman rule on the whole island of Britannia!’
The council, so cowed just moments before, broke into cheers, the body of Muddan forgotten as it cooled on the chamber floor.
‘Taximagulus, can we rely on the support of the Damnonii?’
‘I cannot speak for all, Chief. But I know my cousin Ir was dismayed by the murder of your father, and of your near execution at the hands of the demons. When the council of the chieftains meets, he will be calling for a resumption of the war.’
‘As will I.’
Taximagulus reached out his hand, and Maglorix grasped it firmly.
‘The Romans will regret the moment they set foot on our lands.’
Maglorix waved towards Muddan.
‘Buan,’ Maglorix said, and the bodyguard was before him in an instant, ‘you know what to do with my enemies. Head on a spike till he rots. Then he can join young Tarvos here to adorn my furniture.’
Buan nodded, drew his sword and without ceremony began to saw off Muddan’s head.
The splash of leather shoes on the cobbled streets of Eboracum became louder as Silus’ mark drew nearer. He tried to calm his breathing and willed his heart to slow so that his grip on his dagger would be firm and without a tremor. The overhang of the gutter above him afforded some protection from the persistent drizzle, but nevertheless he was as cold and wet lurking on this street corner as he ever was out in the field in Caledonia. The main difference was that he was only a short distance from the caldarium of a bathhouse where he could sweat the cold and dirt out of his pores.
The footsteps drew nearer, almost upon him. He pictured his target walking down the street deserted because of the hour, mentally focusing on his exact location from the sound of his tread. As the tips of the man’s toes appeared around the corner, Silus was already in motion. Smoothly he wrapped one hand around the victim’s mouth, jerking the surprised man backwards. In almost the same action, his knife hand was moving, seeking the heart via the liver under the ribs.
But the man was quick. He twisted in Silus’ grip, so swift that the knife merely glanced off the outside of his ribs. With his left hand the man gripped Silus’ right wrist, the one holding the knife, and drove his right elbow back into Silus’ midriff. Air escaped from Silus’ lungs with an ‘oof’ but he hung on to his knife and let the hand around the man’s mouth slip to his shoulder so his arm was tight around his neck. He squeezed with all the strength in his arm, even as his victim elbowed him twice more in the guts and tightened his grip on Silus’ wrist till he thought bones would break. But as the pressure built on the man’s windpipe, he was forced to let go of Silus and grasp the strangling arm. Silus drew his knife back to attempt again to plunge it into his victim’s chest, but suddenly the man, gripping the arm Silus had around his neck with both hands, jerked himself forward and down. Silus flew over the man’s shoulders and landed on his back on the cobbles.
In the time it took Silus to recover his momentarily stunned wits, the man had drawn a knife of his own, and was bringing it down in an overhead thrust towards Silus’ supine form. Silus rolled to one side, the knife slamming into the cobblestones where his chest had been a fraction of a heartbeat before. The knife came up, ready to descend again, but Silus reached out both arms above his head to grasp the man’s ankles, and jerked hard. He crashed down onto his back, and Silus spun, rolled and sat on the man’s upper chest, pinning his arms to his side. He placed his knife against the man’s throat and pressed.
He felt two taps of the man’s hand against his leg, and elation buzzed through him. He rolled to one side, breathing hard, looking up at the starless sky. The man beside him sat up stiffly, rubbing his neck, gasping for air. His voice was hoarse. ‘Fuck me, Silus. That was rough, even with a wooden knife.’
‘Thought you had me for a moment there, Oclatinius.’
‘Thought I had you, too. You’ve definitely learned a trick or two.’
Silus got stiffly to his feet and held a hand out to Oclatinius. The old veteran took it and allowed himself to be hauled upright.
‘So? Am I ready?’ asked Silus.
Oclatinius smiled. He was spattered in mud, the drizzle forming mucky rivulets down the creases of his face.
‘You’ve been ready since I met you.’
‘What? Then what the fuck has all this shit been about?’
‘Just honing an already sharp knife. You want to work for Caracalla, you need to be the best.’
Silus looked at him in dismay. ‘All the marches with rocks on my back, all the gymnasium exercises with stone weights, all the boxing fights and practice bouts with wooden swords and knives, the trap-setting and hiding and ambushing, I didn’t need any of it?’
Oclatinius’ hand shot out, the old man’s reflexes still sharp as a striking viper, and gripped Silus’ neck, taking him by surprise.
‘You listen to me, boy. When you are hiding from a barbarian army or being chased through the mountains by naked madmen, you will want to get down on your knees and suck my cock in gratitude for the skills I have given you.’
Silus grasped Oclatinius’ wrist and tried to prise it away. For a moment, Oclatinius held tight. Then he let his hand drop away. Silus rubbed his throat, his face sour. ‘You’re a prick, Oclatinius.’
‘Maybe. But a prick that might have just given you the skills that will save your life.’
‘Fine, fine. So, what now?’
‘Now, boy, we get some beer.’
It was well past the time when the taverns threw the last of their customers out on the street to stagger home, collapse in a back alley, or be mugged and left for dead. But Oclatinius had his mind set on a drink, and Silus felt he could do with something to quench his thirst and steady his nerves. They came upon a doorway just off the main street, with the sign of a blue boar painted on the wall.
‘This will do,’ said Oclatinius.
‘It doesn’t look very open,’ said Silus.
Oclatinius smashed the door open with one hard kick.
‘It is now.’
He walked in, casting a glance at the splintered doorjamb, muttering about shoddy workmanship, and walked into the tavern. It was small, one of dozens in the city that catered to a handful of people at a time, serving beer, wine and basic food.
‘Service,’ yelled Oclatinius at the top of his voice. Moments later, an elderly man entered the room from a back door, holding a candlestick with a stinking sputtering tallow candle which threw a little light.
The room held half a dozen tables, with dirty cups and plates on most. Oclatinius wrinkled his nose. ‘Your slaves deserve a good beating, leaving the place like this.’
‘Who… who are you? What do you want?’ stuttered the old man.
‘Just a drink.’
‘I’ve sent a slave to call the night watch.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Oclatinius, taking a seat and putting his feet up on the table, kicking the dirty crockery to the floor. ‘Place like this, you probably have one slave, likely too young or feeble to be safe out at night. Besides, do you think the night watch would rouse themselves for you? A scummy little tavern keeper?’
‘I don’t have much money,’ said the tavern keeper. ‘I had a big shipment of good quality beer. It used up all my funds.’
‘Perfect,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Get your slave up and get them to bring us both a beer. And a pie. Silus, sit.’
Silus sat next to Oclatinius, shaking his head, bemused.
A young slave boy, no more than twelve years old, underfed and with a black eye, peered around the side of the back door. He had blonde hair and freckles, and Silus figured him for a Caledonian captive, which was confirmed by his accent when he spoke.
‘Master, what’s happening?’
‘Get these men a beer and a meat pie,’ said the tavern keeper.
‘No piss, mind you,’ said Oclatinius.
The tavern keeper sighed. ‘From the new shipment, boy.’
The slave was efficient despite being bleary-eyed, and soon returned with two cups of frothy beer and two small crusty pies. When he had deposited them on the table, Oclatinius waved him away.
‘How much do we owe you?’ he asked.
‘Owe?’ asked the tavern keeper, eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Oclatinius testily. ‘For the food and drink. What do you think we are, bandits or robbers?’
‘No, sirs, of course not. Two copper asses, please, sirs.’
‘And for the door?’
‘Sir?’
‘How much to repair the door?’
The tavern keeper looked bewildered, but said tentatively, ‘One sestertius?’
‘Take a silver denarius for the food and the door,’ said Oclatinius, ‘and make sure you get it repaired properly this time. A good stout oak bar inside, and reinforced hinges. A door like yours, you might as well have a curtain. Anyone could walk in. You are lucky it happened to be us.’
Oclatinius flipped him a denarius, and the tavern keeper fumbled it, and had to drop to his knees to retrieve it from the grimy floor.
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Now leave us until we call for more beer. My friend here and I have some drinking, eating and talking to do.’
The tavern keeper retreated, bowing obsequiously as he left.
Silus picked up his beer and took a deep drink. The tavern keeper hadn’t lied – it was decent quality. Not the best he had tasted, but certainly passable, and good to quench the thirst he had worked up with his exertions. It had a bitter taste, flavoured with mugwort, unless he missed his guess. Oclatinius took a deep draught too, wiped his mouth and sat back. He looked at Silus, a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘What?’ said Silus, his tone a little aggressive.
‘I think you won’t be half bad at this, you know.’
‘Well, thank you very much. I’ve been doing fine on my scouting missions before I ever saw your ugly old face.’
‘“Ugly old face, sir,” to you, boy,’ said Oclatinius, with a flinty stare.
Silus dropped his gaze. He didn’t know whether he liked or hated this old veteran, but he certainly respected him.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Forget it. Tonight, call me whatever you like.’
‘Yes, sir, you old cocksucker.’
Oclatinius grinned.
‘So where did you learn your shit? As I said, you were decent before I took hold of you. You had skills you don’t learn humping it around with the legionaries.’
Silus took a sip of beer, then said simply, ‘My father.’
‘Go on,’ said Oclatinius.
Silus pursed his lips, and was silent for a moment. ‘Fine. My father was a Frumentarius.’
Now Oclatinius raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Maybe we met each other, back in the day. What was his name?’
‘Gnaeus Sergius Silus, but he went by the name of Sergius.’
‘Sergius. Sergius,’ said Oclatinius, searching his memory. ‘Not Sergius the barbarian fucker?’
Silus’ jaw clenched, but he regarded him steadily. ‘My mother was Maeatae.’
In other company, the silence that followed would have been uncomfortable. But Oclatinius looked anything but uncomfortable as he sat back and took a drink, his stare probing Silus as if he was looking all the way into his heart.
Silus blinked first, looking down at his hands and worrying out a suddenly irritating piece of dirt from beneath his fingernails.
When Silus didn’t expand any further, Oclatinius let out a belch and said, ‘You know a few years ago, I was procurator of this shitty island.’
Silus did know that. Procurator was an important post with responsibility for the province’s financial affairs, such as collecting taxes and rents and managing the mines. At one point, Oclatinius was second only to the governor in terms of power within the province, and his rise to that position was the talk of the legions. Everyone knew Oclatinius had started as a raw legionary and worked his way up slowly through the ranks. If he could do it, every soldier reasoned, why couldn’t they? But Oclatinius was an exception, almost unique in his ascendancy from his humble background.
‘The Emperor has had his sights set on this place for at least seven years, if not more. And Severus is a clever man. He learns from his mistakes.’
‘Mistakes?’
‘Yes. Maybe it isn’t sensible to discuss the mistakes of an Emperor, but fuck it, even if that terrified tavern keeper had the temerity to be listening to our conversation, I don’t think he will be running off to the palace to report it. Anyway, mistakes. When Severus invaded Parthia, he captured the city of Ctesiphon. An amazing feat. It’s even recorded on his arch in the forum in Rome. The trouble is, once he had taken it, he had no idea how to hold it. He knew nothing about the countryside. He didn’t know where the Parthian king, Vologaesus, had retreated to, and he didn’t even know where he could obtain supplies to keep his army provisioned. Such a waste of a magnificent victory and of all the soldiers’ lives that were lost to achieve it.
‘So when he set his sights on Caledonia, he knew he wanted more intelligence about the region, so his victories could be obtained more easily and his gains secured. And so he sent me.’
‘I’ve heard so many stories about you. You were a legionary, then a centurion, then a camp-commander, then joined the Speculatores and became a public executioner, then a centurion in the Frumentarii.’
‘I’m an old man,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I’ve been around. But at your age, I was still a legionary. Even for a man with my skills, it can take a long time to overcome a poor background. Your mother was a Maeatean. So what? I see some of myself in you. You could go places. Besides, your heritage could come in handy for some of the missions I have in mind for you.’
Missions? Despite his weariness and the beer warming him, Silus’ heart accelerated. At last, he was going to be used to strike back at those barbarian bastards.
‘Tell me about your mother,’ said Oclatinius.
Silus blinked at the sudden shift in the direction of the conversation.
‘No,’ said Silus, glaring at his superior.
‘Fine. The whole thing is off. You will set off in the morning for your fort on the wall, and you will return to your life as an auxiliary.’
Silus’ jaw dropped open.
‘What?’ he managed to gasp. All the work of the past weeks, all his hate and anger channelled into his training to be a dagger in the heart of the man who slaughtered his family, for nothing? Without this, how would he have vengeance? How could he even go on?
Oclatinius leaned forward. ‘Silus. You are going to take on secret and dangerous missions for the Augusti, and you will be privy to important information. Yet now, I find out that your father was Sergius the barbarian fucker, and that your mother was a Maeatean. If you want my trust, you had better tell me your past.’
Silus shook his head. ‘I can’t…’
Oclatinius stood, his chair scraping backwards across the stone floor.
‘Report to me in the morning. There are some messages I need conveyed to your commander at Voltanio. Goodnight, Silus.’ He marched out through the broken door, leaving Silus to stare at his back in disbelief.