They approached the old fortress under an overcast starless night sky, accompanied by a light drizzle that somehow made its way past every waterproof barrier to soak the skin. The crumbling fortifications loomed out of the gloom, and the shiver that ran through Silus’ spine had nothing to do with the cold rain.
This structure was very different from the abandoned marching camp they had recently spent the night in. The fortress was vast – fifteen hundred feet along each side. A twenty-foot-wide and six-foot-deep ditch surrounded the five-foot-thick walls which topped a turf rampart. If the Romans had not destroyed the fort themselves, it was hard to imagine an enemy doing so.
When they were close enough to make out details, they paused and took stock. Silus estimated it was not yet midnight, and firelight and song from within the walls told him that the camp was very much awake. The timber gateways that had once hung between two stone towers were long gone, either removed or burnt by the Romans, looted by locals, or decayed. In multiple places, the stone walls were breached, initially pulled down by the Romans to make the fortress useless to the enemy. The destruction had been augmented over time by the elements and by the plundering of the stone at the hands of the locals to use in their domestic building projects.
The ditch was easily deep enough to break the charge of infantry or cavalry, but no real barrier to two men moving slowly, and the remains of the walls provided decent cover for an approach. But unlike with the handful of scouts at the temporary marching camp, the sentries here were numerous and vigilant, pacing out patrol paths with diligence despite the weather.
‘What do you think?’ whispered Atius. ‘Shall we just go in there and take them all out?’
‘Very funny,’ said Silus. ‘Let me think.’
Silus watched the tracks of the patrols, squinted through the drizzle at the defences and the positions of cover, and pursed his lips.
‘There is no way we are going to sneak in there. There are too many of them, and the fires and torches aren’t leaving enough shadows to hide in. Besides, we don’t know where Maglorix is exactly, and if we spend time searching for him, we will definitely be caught. I think we need a more open approach.’
Atius frowned. ‘I don’t think I’m liking the sound of this.’
‘First we need to get some of their clothes. Look how most of them are wearing Gallic cloaks with the hoods pulled up. This may be the first time I have thanked the Gods for the Caledonian weather.’
‘Where do we buy those cloaks then?’
Silus tutted his disapproval. ‘See these two? They are patrolling further out than the others, but still on a set path. We can take them down without raising the alarm and take their clothes. They are about our size.’
‘Hmm, they look a little skinny. Are you sure you can squeeze into their outfits, fatty?’
Silus shook his head. He didn’t carry an ounce of fat on him, but he was bulkier than his Celtiberian friend, who was all sinew and bone. He tried not to show annoyance at Atius’ levity. Although his friend always played the joker, Silus knew that his comments now were to hide his fear. Silus too could feel his heart pounding inside his ribs; the tension that comes before action. But his fear felt muted. Ever since he had lost his family, every sensation had been the same. Food tasted blander, beer tasted insipid, perfumes had no scent. Sometimes he felt he was living in a dream, and that he would suddenly wake up; Velua would be lying next to him and Sergia would be curled at their feet with Issa. But that thinking could get him killed, and then who would avenge his wife and daughter?
They crawled through the rough grass to hide behind two thick tree trunks close to the path the barbarians were patrolling, and waited, hidden from sight. Silus needed to pee. He wondered whether to ignore the sensation or just let it go.
Then they heard the sound of low disgruntled voices accompanying the squelch of feet in the boggy ground. They waited, barely breathing, until the footsteps passed them. Silus gave Atius a nod and they stepped out from cover as one, drawing their knives with the soft sound of polished metal on leather. With perfect co-ordination, they each clamped a hand across their victims’ mouths and sliced their throats. They held tight, making sure the blood jetted away from them, and waited for the convulsive struggles to cease before laying the bodies on the ground.
They undressed the bodies, pulling off the cloaks and breeches, though not without difficulty. Then they took off their own Roman-style attire and, shivering in the cold drizzle, dressed themselves as Maeatae warriors. They possessed no tattoos and their hair was not long and blonde or ginger, but their hooded cloaks hid these details.
They pulled the dead bodies into the undergrowth, pulled some foliage over them and over their packs and clothes and weapons, then grabbed their victims’ spears and walked on as if continuing the patrol. Two Maeatae warriors approached in the other direction.
‘Don’t say a word,’ whispered Silus.
‘I couldn’t if I wanted to.’
Silus kept his eyes on the ground. The hood pulled up around his face seemed to intensify the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He willed them to walk on, but as they drew level, the other two scouts stopped.
‘Fuck this weather,’ said one, in Brittonic Celtic.
Silus nodded.
‘Got anything to eat?’ asked the other.
Silus thought about the food in his pack. Would it be so Romano-British in flavour that it would give them away? It was irrelevant now anyway. Much as he would like to have given these barbarians something to get them on their way, the food in his pack might as well have been in Eboracum.
‘Not a thing,’ said Silus, keeping his reply brief in case they questioned his accent.
The second barbarian spat on the ground. ‘There is precious little to go around this year. Even for the warriors.’
‘Fucking Romans,’ said the first. ‘They are starving us.’
‘Well, we’ll be in their province soon, eating their grapes and drinking their posh wine and fucking their stuck-up women,’ said the second. ‘Isn’t that right, brother?’ He addressed Atius, and frowned when Atius didn’t reply.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
If they pressed Atius to speak, his lack of Britonnic Celtic would give them away in an instant. They could probably kill both the warriors before they had a chance to react, but they were too close to the encampment to avoid the noise raising the alarm. Silus improvised.
‘The Roman scum cut out his tongue when he was a boy. He was their slave before he was released in a raid.’
The two Maeatae scouts looked at him with pity. ‘Poor bastard. The Romans have a lot to answer for.’
‘We will make them pay, brother,’ said Silus. ‘Gods be with you.’
‘And with you.’
The Maeatae guards walked on, and Silus heaved a sigh of relief.
‘What were they saying?’ breathed Atius.
‘It doesn’t matter. Oh, and don’t say another word. You had your tongue cut out when you were a boy.’
Atius looked at him in confusion, then stuck his tongue out.
‘In the name of all the gods, Atius, be serious for once in your life. We are nearly into the camp. When we are in, keep your head down and your mouth closed. We’ll find out where Maglorix is, kill him and get out.’
‘What could go wrong?’
Silus shot him a dagger glare, but they were now too close to the fortress to continue talking in Latin. They approached the nearest entrance. Two guards leaning on spears barely acknowledged them as they entered. Silus reflected thankfully how the barbarians’ lack of discipline was in such a stark contrast to the Roman mindset. To enter a Roman fortress, a password would have to be given, and a visitor who didn’t know the password would be searched and conveyed to a centurion for questioning about the purpose of their visit and their credentials. The Maeatae may have been residing in a Roman fortress, but any similarity with a Roman camp ended there.
As Silus and Atius entered, they looked around in amazement. They could see the patterns in the dirt marking the locations of the buildings of Pinnata Castra. Barracks, workshops, store rooms, granaries, a hospital, the command house. All straight lines and right angles, orderly, everything in its place and a place for everything.
The Maeatae were sprawled across it as if there had never been anything there. Tents, camp fires, stone blocks torn down from the walls for makeshift seating, all higgledy-piggledy across the site. But despite the lack of organisation, Silus couldn’t help but be impressed by the size of the host gathered. Although spread out much less densely than the legion occupying the fortress would have been, there had to be several thousand warriors there. More than enough to do some serious damage to whichever part of the province of Britannia they wanted to take on. Even to take on a legion, if surprise was on their side. And this was just a part of the Maeatae confederation. Somewhere out there, more Maeatae tribes were gathering, and further north, the far more numerous Caledonians were being stirred into action.
Silus had no doubt that once Caracalla brought the legions north, the Maeatae would shrink from an open fight. The barbarians had been defeated too many times, and had learned their lessons. Caracalla, operating under Severus’ orders, would make sure that the Maeatae regretted their rebellion.
But that wasn’t enough for Silus. Defeat of the Maeatae would not give him the satisfaction he needed to unclench the spasm in his guts that never went away. For that, he needed Maglorix dead. And somewhere in this camp, the demon who had killed his wife and daughter was drinking beer and laughing and planning to make more widows of Roman wives and to slaughter more women and children.
Silus realised his fist and jaw were clenched and he had to will himself to relax to avoid his anger being noticed. Atius put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Silus nodded to his friend to let him know he was under control.
The lack of organisation in the encampment, although working in their favour when it came to infiltration, was against them now when it came to finding Maglorix. In a Roman fortress, the camp prefect or praetor would be housed in the praetorium, the headquarters building situated in the middle of the central region of the camp, the principia. But here there was no indication where the Chief might be. Some of the tents were bigger than others, presumably belonging to nobles and their retinues, but no single tent stood out.
Silus indicated a nearby campfire with several warriors warming themselves. The two Romans seated themselves on a large vacant stone block, put their hands out to soak up the warmth of the fire, and listened to the conversation.
A broad warrior with a thick red beard and a flattened misshapen nose was talking in loud slurred words, emphasising his points by gesticulating with his clay mug, sloshing beer over the sides.
‘And I tell you again, Kian, the Votadini are cowards and traitors, and will never turn against the Romans.’
‘You are wrong, Gebann,’ said Kian, an older warrior, balding on top but with long grey hair straggling down his neck. ‘When the Votadini sees which way the wind is blowing, they will join us. They may be cowards, but they will fear loss of territory when the Romans are driven out. If they don’t join the confederation of the tribes, the Caledonians and Maeatae will turn against them and enslave them for their cowardice.’
Gebann threw his hands in the air, all but emptying his mug. ‘They have balls of butter and spines of soup. They were a proud race once, but no more.’ Gebann gestured at Atius. ‘You, what say you?’
Atius saw that he was being addressed, and looked helplessly at Silus.
‘Well?’ demanded Gebann. ‘Someone cut your tongue out?’
‘Actually yes,’ said Silus. ‘The Romans.’
Gebann narrowed his eyes, not sure if he was the butt of a joke. But Atius’ expression was suitably mournful and Silus looked suitably serious. After looking from Atius to Silus and back, Gebann said, ‘Well, may the gods strike down those she-pigs that did you such wrong. You then, the tongueless one’s companion. What do you think of the Votadini?’
‘I think when we are finished with the Romans, it will be their turn next,’ said Silus.
‘You see,’ exclaimed Gebann, backhanding Kian. ‘This man knows what he is talking about.’
Kian cocked his head on one side, and stroked his beard as he regarded Silus.
‘I can’t place your accent, brother. Which is your name and your tribe?’
Oclatinius had taught Silus that a lie was most believable when it was as close to the truth as possible. Then again, he wasn’t sure how famous his father’s exploits were. Should he mention his Brigantian parentage?
‘I am Syagris,’ he said, using the name of one of his childhood playmates who had died of a wasting disease. ‘I was born into the Damnonii, but my father was a Brigantian traveller.’
Kian turned to another of the warriors who had been staring into the fire, largely oblivious to the argument going on around him.
‘Sittan, you are of the Damnonii. Do you know this man, who calls himself Syagris?’
Sittan shrugged. ‘No. Still. It’s a common enough name. And we are a far-flung tribe. Why would I know him?’
‘Stop being so suspicious, Kian. He is sitting in the middle of a Maeatae war gathering, speaking our language and warming himself at our fire. What? Do you think he is a Roman spy?’ Gebann laughed uproariously at the idea. Silus smiled while fighting down the bile rising in his throat.
Kian hesitated then handed Silus and Atius a chunk of lamb they had been roasting on the fire. ‘Apologies, brothers. I am greyer in the mane than most of these youngsters, and suspicion comes more easily as you age. Please, eat with us.’
Silus and Atius accepted and ate gratefully, Atius covering his mouth with his hand to disguise the presence of a tongue. The meat was hot and juicy, and much preferable to their travelling rations.
‘Have you travelled far to get here?’ asked Gebann.
‘Many days,’ said Silus. ‘But we heard of the great Maglorix and how he is uniting the Maeatae. We wanted to join him in the fight against the invaders.’
The warriors around the fire nodded agreement.
‘He is a great man, for certain,’ said Kian. ‘His father was a strong man, but after Voteporix’s cowardly murder, Maglorix has become far more than the old man ever was.’
‘I need to see him and pledge him my spear. Where is his tent?’
Kian gestured to the middle of the fortress. ‘The big red one with two bodyguards on the door. You can’t miss it. But I doubt he will be taking visitors. He is said to be spending time alone with the gods tonight.’
‘Maybe he will see me. My uncle’s cousin once hunted with the Venicones and became a friend of Maglorix. He bade me pass his greetings.’
Kian spat into the fire, the spittle turning to steam with a transient hiss. ‘I doubt it, but it’s not up to me to stop you from trying.’
‘Let us go to pay our respects then,’ said Silus to Atius. Atius didn’t understand a word, but a slight nod from Silus as he stood indicated it was time for them to leave.
‘Good hunting on the battlefields, brothers,’ said Gebann.
‘And to you,’ said Silus, and they took their leave.
Few paid them much attention as they walked between the clusters of warriors, over piles of supplies – grain, beer, tallow for torches, piles of wood for the carpenters to make spears and arrows – and in one secluded area they had to pass by a warrior rutting with a whore-slave tied to the back of a cart. As they passed her, the girl, her features suggesting Romano-British origin, turned her head and locked her gaze on Silus. For a moment he stared into her dead eyes as she was rocked aggressively backwards and forwards by the barbarian using her, and images of Maglorix preparing to violate his wife flooded through him. He took a step forward.
Atius took his elbow and tried to guide his friend away. Silus looked back, and saw the girl was now staring into the middle distance, expressionless. He gritted his teeth, and turned to face forwards, trying to concentrate on what was before him, to focus on the mission.
He couldn’t do it. Before Atius could intervene, Silus had taken two strides forwards, gripped the busy warrior’s head and twisted sharply. There was a crack as the neck snapped, and the warrior slid to the ground.
‘For Christos’ sake, Silus,’ said Atius. ‘What are you doing?’
‘If things had turned out differently during Maglorix’s first assault on Voltanio, that could have been Velua. Or even Sergia.’
Atius shook his head, grabbed the dead warrior’s ankles and pulled him into the shadows. Silus cut the slave girl’s bonds. ‘Get out of here.’
She made no move, didn’t even attempt to cover herself up. He wondered how much abuse she had endured in her young life. He picked up the cloak that the warrior had discarded nearby, and covered her with it. She looked at him, eyes unblinking.
‘I’m sorry I can’t do more. Flee from here if you can.’
Atius returned and tugged at Silus, and they continued towards Maglorix’s tent. When Silus looked back, the girl was sitting up and looking around her like she had just woken from a bizarre dream.
Maglorix’s red tent was now visible, maybe fifty yards away, standing higher than those surrounding it. They worked their way towards it and Silus felt his gut clench as they neared their target.
Something in the corner of his eye nudged his subconscious. He turned to see what had distracted him. At first the scene seemed innocuous enough: a warrior with his breeches pulled halfway down, his hairy white backside shining at Silus in the firelight, urinating against a post.
But Silus could make out something tied to the post. Someone. He took a couple more steps forward, so he could get a better line of sight. A man on his knees, tied by his wrists to a stake, grey hair and beard long and matted, his face swollen with fresh blue bruises and older yellowing ones. His chin was resting on his chest, and he made no protest as the urine splashed onto him.
Silus squinted. Something familiar about those features. Atius stopped in confusion as Silus walked slowly towards the captive.
The warrior shook the last drops away, pulled up his breeches, and as he turned, he saw Silus staring.
‘Hey,’ said the warrior. ‘Whatever you do to him, don’t kill him. Maglorix would go berserk. He has plans for this one.’
He walked off, and Silus at last had an unimpeded view of the miserable wretch. There could be no doubt. It was Menenius.
Caracalla groaned, staring up into the half-closed eyes of his stepmother as she rode him. Her hand was behind her fondling him, and he groaned again, trying not to finish, knowing this would be the last time for a long time.
Julia sank down deep onto him and let out a long wail, and it pushed him over the edge. She fell forward, and they clutched each other as they rode their peaks, then stayed embraced as they breathed hard, both sheened in sweat.
Caracalla rolled onto his back and stared at the painted ceiling, an extension of the wall frescoes. The whole room had been painted to create a panoramic view of a beautiful Roman garden with artistic topiary and ornamental bushes, small creatures hiding behind greenery, and blue sky overhead, with white clouds and Italian birds. It made Caracalla feel homesick, and he thought about the campaign ahead in this dreary country. Even though it was heading for summer, and the sun occasionally made an appearance at this time of year, it was still winter compared to the glorious heat of May in the villa of Hadrianus in Tibur.
‘I remember the day you married my father. How old was I? Fourteen? You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I watched the ceremony in awe, proud that father had caught someone as powerful and stunning as you, and seething with jealousy too.’
‘You sound like a certain tragic hero.’
Caracalla frowned. ‘You are not my mother. You are not Jocasta, and I am not Oedipus. We aren’t even Agrippina and Nero.’
‘Maybe Phaedra and Hippolytus?’
‘No!’ said Caracalla vehemently. ‘Hippolytus rejected Phaedra. I would never do that.’
Julia smiled, then her brow furrowed. ‘Society would still condemn us. And if your father ever found out…’
‘Father was an Alexander in his time, but now he is a weak old man. He should have died at his peak like Alexander, not decayed like this. I can’t believe you still let him touch you.’
‘He is my husband, and I love him,’ said Julia reprovingly. ‘But don’t be jealous. It is rare that we share the bed to do anything but sleep these days.’
Caracalla let out a growl, but said nothing. Julia leaned over to him, and kissed him on the forehead.
‘He is failing, Antoninus. Let the gods have their way with him, and don’t interfere with their plans. For me?’
Caracalla nodded. ‘He is my father and I love him too, but sometimes I…’ He sighed. ‘For you, my love.’
Julia stroked the wiry curls of hair on Caracalla’s muscular chest.
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘Who can say? I don’t anticipate it being a hard fight, but the land is so vast and desolate that pinning them down to a battle can be demoralising and time consuming.’
‘You will return, won’t you?’
Caracalla pulled Julia to him and kissed her deeply, arms encircling and trapping her. Then he released her, and stood, pulling on his tunic and sitting on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. When he was dressed, he kissed her, his eyes drifting over her naked body hungrily one last time.
‘How could I not return to you?’
Julia smiled, but he could easily see the worry she tried to hide. He ran his fingertips over her cheek.
‘A Roman Emperor has never been killed in battle,’ he said, hoping his tone was reassuring.
‘But Roman generals have. Like Marcellus. Or Varus. What if this Maglorix character is playing the part of Arminius, luring you into a massive trap?’
Her eyes were wide, breathing quickening.
‘Calm yourself, Augusta,’ said Caracalla, holding both her shoulders in a firm grip. ‘Think of your dignitas and gravitas. Besides, Arminius was pretending to be a friend to the Romans. Maglorix makes no such pretence.’
Julia took a deep breath in, let it out slowly through pursed lips so the wind whistled past her teeth, then nodded.
‘I’m sorry, Antoninus. It’s just… I know I will lose Septimius soon. I can’t lose you too.’
‘Father is an ox. He will go on for ever.’
‘You know that isn’t true. You see his health declining. And look at the omens. That dream he had about his deification. The statue that fell over in Horrea Classis during his victory celebration games. The time he tried to make a sacrifice on his return to Eboracum and all the victims were black-furred or -feathered, and when he refused to sacrifice them, they followed him to the palace.’
‘Omens and superstitions are for the weak-minded.’
‘Antoninus, you are talking to the daughter of the high priest of Elagabal. You disrespect my father and your own. Remember, Septimius travelled to Emesa because of a horoscope that foretold he would meet his wife there, and he found me.’
Caracalla opened his mouth to argue about coincidence and self-fulfilling prophecy, but saw the iron glint in Julia’s eyes and thought better of it. It surprised him how deeply rooted her beliefs were, even more so as she was such a learned student and patron of philosophy and the arts. But she was far from alone, and she was right: his own father was a slave to the seers and prophets and astrologers. Even himself, though sceptical that everything they were asked to believe could be true, because of occasional bouts of illness, made sure he paid a healthy respect to Serapis, the eastern god of healing and fertility, and to Aesculapius, the god of medicine. He had no desire to die young and ignominiously from a simple fever, like his hero, Alexander. He put his arms around her and kissed her hard, and he felt her relax.
‘I will come back to you, my love,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Make sure you do, or I will be very cross,’ she whispered back.
Caracalla sat astride his immaculately groomed chalk-white mount, back straight, armour gleaming. Behind him was an enormous force drawn from the Rhine and Danube armies, and the legions based in Britannia – the Legio II Augusta, the Legio VI Victrix and the Legio XX Valeria Victrix, as well as a vast number of auxiliaries. They were similarly scrubbed and polished to within an inch of their lives, and the soldiers’ predominantly young faces shone with enthusiasm and excitement. Facing Caracalla and seated on a temporary throne was Severus. He looked tired, slumped, his chest rising and falling deeper than it should. His face spasmed intermittently with pain from his gouty legs. Still, his stare was hard, uncompromising.
To Severus’ right was Domna, her face now set in an expression of benign passivity. To his left stood Geta, tight-lipped, jaw clenched. Caracalla could imagine the resentment seething inside him, seeing his elder brother at the head of a mighty army, marching off to glory on the field of battle. It gave him a warm glow of satisfaction deep inside, and he shot Geta a broad grin that he realised must appear incredibly smug. Geta tilted his head in acknowledgement, returning a superficial smile, while his eyes spoke of red-hot coals and sharp knives.
Severus spoke, his voice hoarse and weak. It would not carry beyond the front line, but Caracalla knew that the message would be passed with a reducing level of accuracy back through the ranks. The speech was short and reprised the one he had given in his private chambers.
‘The barbarians have broken faith with us. They have torn up the peace treaties we made with them in good faith last year. They have attacked and slaughtered our men, our women and our children. They will know the consequences of their actions. As Agamemnon said, let us not spare a single one. Not a man left alive, not a woman, not a child, not even the unborn in its mother’s womb. The barbarians will rue the day they raised weapons against the power of Rome.’
Led by the centurions and optiones, the soldiers roared their approval and clashed their swords on their shields.
‘Father,’ said Caracalla, ‘we will not let you down. We will take your fire and your righteous anger to the oath breakers of the north. They will never again challenge your power, nor the power of Rome.’
The soldiers roared again, the volume resonating throughout him like his body had become a drum that the men were beating. He luxuriated in the feeling, then held up his sword for silence.
‘Men. We go to war.’ He wheeled his horse, and with Caracalla at its head, the bulk of the Roman army in Britannia began its march for the north.
Atius’ eyes widened as, a few moments after Silus, he recognised their camp commander. He took a step forward, but Silus put a strong arm around his shoulder and steered him away.
‘Silus,’ Atius protested. ‘What are you doing? That’s Menenius!’
‘Keep your voice down. You aren’t supposed to be able to speak, let alone speak Latin.’
‘But…’
‘Listen, we have a mission: Maglorix dead. That’s it. No side-tracking.’
‘Silus, be serious. He was our commanding officer. Look at him. He is being tortured. Humiliated. We can’t leave him like this.’
‘We can and we will. He would be the first man to tell us to do our duty.’
‘You just risked the mission for a whore you have never even met!’
‘That was no risk. It was in a quiet area – no one could see – and I didn’t try to smuggle her out past five thousand armed warriors. Menenius is in a public space, in full view. We can’t get to him; let alone get him out. That’s all there is to it.’
A couple of warriors sitting outside a small tent nearby looked over at them curiously, and Silus became aware that he was raising his voice. He grabbed Atius’ elbow and pulled him away, out of earshot of any warriors.
‘Atius, look at these barbarians around us. Thousands of them. All here because Maglorix summoned them. Last year they were beaten, humiliated, suing for peace. Now they have a new confidence. And that’s because they have a new leader. If we can stop Maglorix, this whole alliance may fall apart. And if we don’t, then just think about what destruction will be rained down on the province of Britannia. Think of our brothers in arms who will fall to barbarian spears, of the civilian families in the vici, of the women and children.’ He gripped Atius’ arm tightly and pulled him so their faces were inches apart. ‘Like my family, Atius.’
Atius pulled away angrily. ‘You’re letting your personal feelings affect your judgement. We were never told that we couldn’t perform a rescue if the situation arose, just that Maglorix was our primary mission.’
‘Our only mission. Let me remind you, I am in charge here. Oclatinius was very clear about that.’
‘Well, fuck you, sir! What are you going to do about it? Want to start a fight with me here in the middle of an enemy camp? I’m not leaving our commander to Christos alone knows what kind of miserable fate.’
They glared at each other, totally at odds, completely needing each other. But Silus saw that there would be no swaying his friend. He took a deep breath.
‘The chances of us getting him out of here with any of us alive are tiny.’
‘I know. I’m fine with that.’
‘And Maglorix is still our main mission?’
‘Of course.’
Silus looked at his feet. ‘We need a new plan.’
‘We had an old one?’ Atius grinned and Silus smiled in spite of himself.
‘Fuck you. Right, this is how it will go. I’ll create some sort of diversion. When you hear it, get to Menenius and free him. Then he is on his own. You meet me at Maglorix’s tent, we take out the guards, kill Maglorix and then run for our fucking lives.’
‘Genius,’ said Atius, and as usual Silus couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic.
‘Well, I haven’t exactly had much time for preparation. Now go. And remember: no tongue!’
‘Damn, I hope I don’t meet any hot girls.’
‘Fuck off.’
Silus left him in the shadows and wandered back into the main encampment. He saw Maglorix’s tent, large, red, two bored-looking bodyguards at the entrance, just as described. He looked around him for inspiration. What could cause a big enough distraction? He supposed he could set fire to something, but it would be hard to get the flame to take in this drizzle, and the tents were far enough apart that it was unlikely the fire would spread. A couple of buckets of water and some cursing would be the extent of the disturbance.
Nearby, a group of warriors were sitting around a campfire, throwing knucklebones. The gambling didn’t seem good-natured. They were playing for items of jewellery – iron torcs, amber necklaces and even some gold rings. Silus noticed with interest that the markings of dye on their faces were quite distinct from each other, and he realised that these were men of different tribes. He couldn’t recall which tribe was which – it had been many years since he had belonged among these men – but that probably didn’t matter for what he suddenly had in mind.
He sat down with them, watching the rolls of the bones, seeing the valuables change hands back and forth, sampling the mood. These were fighting men, united by their hatred of Romans, but with all the grievances and prejudices that neighbours always bore for each other. Whether it was the man next door whose grandfather had stolen your grandfather’s pig, or the next village who had stolen your winter stores when they had failed to save enough themselves, or whether it was the next tribe with whom you had had border disputes for centuries, it was human nature to hate those who were close but separate, even more than those a long distance away, no matter how strange their fashions and mores.
One man with a Taexali accent swore loudly as his Veniconian opponent threw a winning roll. Silus wasn’t entirely sure of the rules – he had been too young to participate when he had belonged to the Damnonii – but it seemed similar to the knucklebones games beloved of Roman gamblers throughout the empire. The Veniconian raised his hands in triumph, and the other Veniconians around the fire cheered, while the Taexali and Damnonii looked disgruntled.
Silus leaned into the Taexali gambler and whispered in his ear. ‘Those bones look weighted to me.’
The Veniconian reached down to pick up his prize, a dagger with an ornately jewelled handle, but as he did so, the Taexali reached out and clamped his hand on top of his opponent’s. The Veniconian looked up in surprise. ‘What are you doing, brother?’
‘I want to see those bones,’ said the Taexali in a low, threatening voice.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Afraid to show me, brother?’ He snarled the last word.
‘Are you calling me a cheat?’ challenged the Veniconian, his voice rising in shocked anger. ‘Are you questioning my honour?’
‘There will be no question if you show me those bones and I can check they roll true.’
‘You do not challenge the honour of a Veniconian warrior lightly,’ said another Veniconian. ‘You might need to back up your words with a sharp edge or a hard point.’
‘You do not cheat a Taexali without risking much,’ said another Taexali.
‘I am no cheat,’ yelled the Veniconian, grabbing at the prize knife. As quick as a striking snake, the Taexali stabbed his own knife into the top of the Veniconian’s hand. Small bones crunched and blood spurted around the blade, and the Veniconian screamed in outrage and pain. The other Veniconian who had spoken roared and threw himself at the Taexali warrior. In a few heartbeats, all the warriors around the fire were brawling.
Silus slipped away as the commotion drew attention. Warriors from nearby groups came over, perhaps intending to break up the brawl, but actually getting drawn into it. The fight spread faster than a forest fire. Silus stood close to Maglorix’s tent, watching for an opportunity. The two bodyguards looked at each other nervously but didn’t move. Silus cursed. He couldn’t take them both on without warning Maglorix. Damn Atius and his nobility. Together they could have silenced the guards, entered the tent unseen, killed Maglorix and been away while the fight outside still raged. He looked around him for inspiration, but he couldn’t imagine a bigger distraction than what was already happening.
Then Maglorix stuck his head out of the tent. Silus stared at the man he hated more than he thought was possible, then shrank back even further into the shadows. Maglorix didn’t turn towards Silus though. He took one look at the fight, and said to his bodyguards, ‘Go and break some heads.’
The two bodyguards were huge, even by Maeatae standards. They grasped their spears first and waded into the fight, thrusting left and right with the spears’ butts anywhere someone didn’t obey their commands for order quickly enough. Warriors went down stunned, or maybe dead. Slowly, order began to be restored.
Silus stared at Maglorix’s tent. The entrance was unguarded. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then strode purposefully towards the tent.
He expected a hand on his shoulder or a spear in his back with each step he took, but he reached the tent flap with no challenge. His distraction had worked well. He pulled back the tent flap and slipped inside.
A small log fire illuminated the inside of the tent, the smoke disappearing up through a central hole in the roof. The air was warm, and thick with the scents of smoke and sweat. After sending his guards off, Maglorix had returned to the business at hand, which was two naked slaves, one who looked Caledonian, while the other looked Romano-British, maybe Brigantian. He was naked too, lying on his front and enjoying them massaging his muscles. Silus could see the scars on his lower legs from the flames that had so nearly delivered justice.
Silus drew his knife. The slaves turned to him wide-eyed and drew breath, but Silus pointed his blade at them and put his fingers to his lips, and the girls were astute and composed enough not to scream. He took two steps forward, and touched his knife to the side of Maglorix’s neck.
Maglorix froze. He started to turn his head, but Silus dug the knife in deeper.
‘Silence,’ hissed Silus. ‘You girls, stand where I can see you and don’t make a sound.’
The two girls moved away from Maglorix, covering their nakedness as best they could. Silus had eyes only for the barbarian chief.
‘May I sit up?’ asked Maglorix. ‘It’s hard to talk when I’m face down.’
‘We have nothing to discuss, you savage. I am here to kill you.’
‘You don’t even want to tell me who you are and why you want to kill me? Have the satisfaction of goading me first? I’m guessing you are a Roman spy, though you speak Brittonic well.’
‘You should know why I’m here.’
‘To stop the uprising? It’s unstoppable. If I fall, they will rally around another leader.’
‘Damaging the uprising is just a bonus. This is about justice for my family.’
Now Maglorix did turn. The knife dug in, penetrated the skin so red pooled trickled from the point, but the chief kept turning his head until he was looking into Silus’ eyes. His expression showed more resignation than surprise. He knew that he could not bargain for his life with someone whose wife and daughter he had killed.
‘Get it over with.’
Silus’ heart thumped in his chest, and his wind caught in his throat. This moment that he had dreamed of, that he had had denied to him in Eboracum, that he had worked so hard to bring about was finally here. Yet he hesitated. What would happen next? Not the difficulty of escape, but his very being. When he had destroyed his nemesis, expunged his hate, what would remain of him? He feared the answer.
But his life, his well-being, was unimportant. He needed to appease the lemures of Velua and Sergia before all else. He took a breath and gripped the knife tight.
The tent entrance flew open and one of the bodyguards burst in. Silus turned automatically. The burly warrior – Silus recognised him as Buan, who he had first met at the start of all this mess – held a struggling Atius in an armlock.
‘Chief, we caught a spy attempting to free the Roman officer.’
Silus hesitated for only a heartbeat, but it was too long. Maglorix twisted sideways and grabbed Silus’s wrist, heaving the blade away from his neck.
Silus was uppermost, and used his superior position to his advantage. He rolled on top of Maglorix and leaned all his weight on the downward pointing blade. With gritted teeth and straining muscles, Maglorix fought to keep the point out of his chest. But the knife continued to press down, inexorable as a boulder gathering speed as it rolled down a mountainside. Maglorix’s eyes widened and he cried out in desperation.
A spear butt to the side of Silus’ head sent him sprawling across the floor. Blackness seeped into his peripheral vision, and small bright lights danced before him. He pulled himself to his hands and knees, still somehow clutching the knife. The tent was rotating around him like it was attached to a chariot wheel. He got himself upright, only to receive another blow from the spear butt into his midriff. He doubled up, vomiting, desperately tightening his fingers around his weapon. But the spear cracked down on his knuckles, and his grip flew open, the knife falling to the floor.
He stood, swaying like a boxer who had taken one punch too many. Maglorix appeared before him. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Maglorix punched him hard in the jaw. Silus dropped and Maglorix laid into him, roaring in rage as he kicked him hard in ribs and kidneys, until he was exhausted, and Silus was a sack of tenderised flesh and bruised bones.
‘Take them both away,’ Silus heard Maglorix say, ‘And guard them well. Tomorrow you can all witness their fate.’