Silus felt as tired as a mine slave. Was that the right comparison, he wondered? He was on horseback again, Atius plodding along by his side. The horses were fresh, but his body certainly wasn’t. But then, neither was his mind, nor his spirit. Tired as a mine slave who had lost his family, watched friends die, and had to work on. Maybe that was closer to reality.
They had had precious little rest at Horrea Classis and no time to mourn their losses. After the initial suspicion from the fortress guards, they had been taken to the camp Prefect, who had listened to their story with rising alarm. He had summoned his senior officers into a conference and dispatched a messenger by boat down the coast to Eboracum to warn the Emperor. But by the time the message arrived, and the Emperor had then sent word to his son in the field, it would be too late for Caracalla to do anything about the invasion. It was clear that a message had to be dispatched direct from Horrea Classis by land into the Caledonian interior where Caracalla was laying waste to the undefended land.
And guess which poor fucker got that job, Silus reflected bitterly. The prefect gave him perfectly good reasons why it had to be Silus, of course. No one else had the experience. No one else knew the land as well as he did. He was already acting under Caracalla’s personal command. All completely reasonable.
The complete cunt.
He looked over at Atius. His friend was lost in his thoughts, or maybe just as exhausted as he was. Caracalla’s army would not be hard to find. They had ridden south-west from Horrea Classis, hoping to intersect the trail as far south as possible. They had reached the vallum Antonini, where Caracalla had left a small garrison to start the rebuilding task. The first fort they reached, one to the west of Voltanio, had been similarly sacked and razed to the ground. The auxiliaries freshly arrived there had only made the barest of beginnings – pulling down the timbers that were too charred to be salvageable, putting up temporary gates, collecting the Roman dead for cremation and tossing the dead barbarian warriors into a mass burial pit.
The centurion who had been left in charge had grown pale when they had told him their mission and what they knew of Maglorix’s plans. He had actually asked Silus what his orders were, and Silus had had to gently point out that the centurion was actually superior in rank to him. They had left the poor man in a quandary as to whether to continue to obey his orders and repair the fort, or to retreat in light of the new information. Silus suspected he would continue to follow his orders to the letter, dig in, and be massacred by Maglorix’s invasion like a good little Roman.
They were half a day’s ride north-west of that fort now. Up until now, the countryside had largely been abandoned by the natives. Decades of skirmishes along the border had always made it a dangerous place to be for either side, but the invasions and raids of the last couple of years had devastated crops, herds and dwelling places. Caracalla’s force had scoured the land to supplement their supplies as they marched. A large body of men deep in enemy territory always ran the risk of running out of food, even though each of them would be carrying a decent supply in his backpack. So it was no surprise to find piles of butchered cattle and sheep, the valuable meat expertly stripped from the bones by the legion’s butchers.
Nor was it a surprise when they got further into barbarian territory, into the region more populated by the barbarians who thought themselves far enough away from routine Roman patrols to settle safely, to see a pall of smoke on the horizon. Atius and Silus exchanged grim glances, but said nothing as they rode closer.
The settlement was in an area of flat, well-drained farmland. Fertile land. But everywhere they looked was devastation: herds of cattle and sheep slaughtered and taken for supplies as they had seen elsewhere, but also the crops in the fields, the turnips, barley and oats, had been hacked down and trampled. It was hard to scorch the earth in this cold, marshy land, but the principle was clearly being applied in the best way possible.
The huts were on a low hill, with no palisade. Not a hillfort, just a collection of people who lived together for protection, company and to trade goods and skills with each other and with other villages.
Every single roundhouse had been set ablaze. They continued to smoulder now, though Silus estimated it was maybe a day since the army had passed through. Silus led the way up the gentle slope into the village. The scent of roasted meats and woodsmoke hung in the air. Crows cawed but otherwise the village was silent. No dogs barked, no chickens clucked and there were no howls from fighting cats. There were no sounds of industry or the normal noises of a community. No sawing wood, or hammered iron, no laughter, no arguments. No children playing.
Silus swallowed and steeled himself for what was ahead. He had seen everything, he thought; he could harden his heart against anything.
He was wrong.
They rode into the centre of the village and pulled their horses up. They both stared in stunned silence. The colour had drained from Atius’ face, and Silus was sure he looked the same. They didn’t move, didn’t speak, barely breathed.
Every roundhouse was burned and the remains pulled down. Every outbuilding, barn and stable was similarly destroyed. And every inhabitant of the village – man, woman, child, domestic animal – had been killed.
A few feet from where Silus sat on his gently breathing mount, there was the body of a youthful boy with a gaping wound in his neck. Nearby was an old man, with a hole in his skull that showed the grey matter beneath. Not far from him was a young woman, clothing torn, no obvious injuries apart from dark bruises around her neck that were the width of a man’s fingers. Beside her was a small blood-soaked bundle of rags. As Silus watched, he saw the cloth move, twitch. He kicked his mount forward, reached down to move the cloth aside with the tip of his spear. Wrapped in the swaddling was a baby, probably only weeks old. A wide hole in the infant’s abdomen showed the fatal wound. The body twitched again, and for a moment Silus thought that, impossibly, the baby still lived. Then a rat’s head emerged from the wound, covered in gore. Silus flinched back with a cry. The rat stared at Silus for a moment, then scurried off in search of more dead flesh.
They had seen the aftermath of slaughter before, but that had been sanitised by weather and the completed work of the carrion eaters. Bones and long-abandoned dwellings were sobering enough. But this was so fresh it felt like they had participated in the massacre. He looked around further, not needing to explore to see the devastation. A hunting dog impaled on a spear; a litter of piglets crushed and stabbed; a young boy face down in the mud with a sword wound in his back; an old lady hanged from a tree. He turned his back, and saw a young woman, heavily pregnant. The spear that had run her through had been left in place, fixing her to the ground, right through her gravid belly. Not even the unborn child in its mother’s womb. Those were the orders of Severus, and his soldiers had obeyed them to the letter.
He pulled on his reins, kicked his horse’s flanks, and rode out of the village at a gallop, giving the horse its head. It was unsettled by the sights and smells, and took the opportunity to run off its fear.
The savagery, in its scale and ferocity, was worse than Silus had ever imagined. He hated the barbarians for what they had done to his family and his colleagues. He detested Maglorix with all his might. He wished the chief dead and his people defeated.
But.
Was this what he wanted? Was this what vengeance looked like? He tried to picture Sergia and Velua, but their images would not come to mind. If he closed his eyes, he still saw the pregnant woman, womb and foetus impaled, not his own family.
The horse came to a halt, blowing heavily. He sat, and stared into space. Soon, Atius caught up with him.
They sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Then he clenched his jaw, and whispered to himself, ‘For you, my girls. All for you.’ He nodded to Atius, and they kicked their horses into a trot and continued north.
They tried to skirt any further sites of massacre. They were obvious from a long way off, the repeated pattern of slaughtered herds and smoking dwellings. Sometimes, though, the path took them unavoidably past or through the butchery. As they closed the distance to Caracalla’s marauding army, the slaughter became fresher. Fires still burned. Pools of blood were sticky and damp. In one small collection of dwellings, they found a dog dragging itself helplessly around by its front legs. Both hind legs were crushed and broken. As they passed it, Atius bent down and thrust his spear through its chest, his mouth a thin line as he ended the creature’s misery.
They camped overnight in the open countryside, well away from any habitation, not admitting it to each other, but both knowing they were scared to face the ghosts of the freshly dead at night-time. Normally while scouting in barbarian territory, Silus would go to great pains to hole up in a discrete, easily defensible area. But with any enemies – or even merely unfriendly locals – dead or fled, and a mood as dark as the gloomy Caledonian forests, they simply pitched a tent in the open, made a fire, and cooked a tasteless but filling stew.
Still, they took it in turns to keep watch, and Atius woke Silus from a dream that he couldn’t quite remember but left him feeling shaken and unsettled. It was four hours till dawn, judging by the position of the constellations of the Great Bear in relation to the Little Bear. Atius was asleep and snoring in moments, leaving Silus to stare into the flames of the fire, the heat on his face contrasting with the chill wind on his neck. Long stretches of time on watch at night were boring and terrifying in equal measures, and although Silus had no real fear of ambush, apart from perhaps a lonely and desperate deserter, he still started and his heart raced whenever he heard the noise of small creatures snuffling in the leaf litter, the snap of a twig broken by a prowling predator, or the unexpectedly loud hoot of an owl.
He watched the horizon lighten with impatience, and as soon as he felt it was fair, he woke Silus. Having his friend conscious again and the dawn slowly breaking helped calm his anxieties, but he was keen for them to be on their way as soon as possible. They packed up camp, ate some hard tack, drank some water and refilled their bottles from a nearby stream, pissed and shat, fed the horses, then mounted up.
After passing uncomfortably close to two more sites of devastation, they found themselves following a trail along a pass between two steep hills that took them straight through a large village. This one was of course in ruins like the others they had seen, but unlike those, this village had life in it. As they drew close, they found a small detachment of half a dozen light cavalry auxiliaries still in residence.
The auxiliaries watched the approaching riders with suspicion, forming into a five-wide rank, spears forward. Their leader, a sesquiplicarius, third in line to the decurion in a cavalry turmae, sat mounted before them, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other held up, palm facing them.
When they were close enough to be heard, Silus hailed the sesquiplicarius.
‘We are auxiliaries on special assignment,’ shouted Silus, ‘carrying a vital message for the Emperor Antoninus.’
‘One of you stay there,’ the sesquiplicarius called back. ‘The other approach with empty hands.’
Silus trotted forward, one hand holding the reins, the other out and well away from his side. When he was six feet away, the sesquiplicarius barked at him.
‘Stop there. State your name and the name of your commanding officer.’
‘My name is Gaius Sergius Silus, formerly under the command of Prefect Menenius of Voltanio.’
‘Formerly?’
‘Menenius is dead, and Voltanio destroyed.’
The sesquiplicarius pursed his lips. ‘I heard that. And what are your orders? Why are you here in barbarian lands in civilian clothing? Are you a spy?’
‘My orders are none of your concern. And I am a member of the Arcani, acting at the direction of Oclatinius Adventus and the Emperor Antoninus himself!’
The auxiliaries muttered among themselves at the mention of Oclatinius, and Silus smiled inwardly. The old bastard invoked terror wherever his name was mentioned, as did the Arcani he commanded.
‘I need to see your orders to let you pass,’ said the sesquiplicarius, less sure of himself now, but trying to save face in front of his men.
‘I have no papers, sesquiplicarius. Are you stupid? Would a spy carry papers that would identify him as a spy when he was in enemy lands?’
‘Of course not. But how do I know you are who you say you are?’
‘Listen. If you let me through, and I am not who I say, then all you have done is let two lightly armed men loose on an army of thousands. But if you don’t let me through, and I am who I say, then you will have done your Emperor immeasurable harm and will have incurred the wrath of Oclatinius.’
The sesquiplicarius’ eyes widened at this thought. Then he nodded.
‘You may pass. I will escort you. Make way, men.’
Silus beckoned to Atius, who trotted forward. They followed the sesquiplicarius through the gap the cavalry men had made and through the village. Although he had expected it, the sight of the bodies – the decapitated and mutilated women, children and old men – strewn around like dolls thrown by a child in a tantrum still turned his stomach. They rode out of the village, leaving the slaughter behind.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Silus.
‘Mopping up,’ said the sesquiplicarius. ‘Our orders were to make sure no one was left alive and nothing of value was left behind. No food, no shelter.’
Silus nodded his understanding, mixed emotions churning inside.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Silus.
‘Valentius.’
Silus took in his long, light hair, his broad build and his height, which Silus could tell was lofty even though he was on horseback.
‘Are you a Gaul?’
Valentius shook his head. ‘I’m from Galatia. My ancestors were Celts who lived in Asia Minor before the Romans.’
‘So you are cousin to the people of this country. How do you feel about what you have to do here?’
Valentius gave him a look as if he was mad. ‘These people aren’t my cousins. My land has been part of the Roman Empire for centuries, and my loyalty is to Rome. These barbarians hate civilisation and make war on law and culture. They don’t read or write. They fuck each other’s wives, sacrifice babies to their evil gods, and enslave and torture Roman women for fun. They are vermin, and they need to be exterminated, like you would if your house was infested with rats.’
Silus bit his lip, unsure how to respond. The Maeatae and Caledonians were his cousins, closer than the distant relationship that Valentius’ ancestors had with the Celtic inhabitants of Caledonia. He shared blood with these people. Was it his upbringing that meant that he was not vermin? If the circumstances of his childhood had been different, would it have been him and his family being exterminated by the Romans? And yet, these barbarians had killed his own precious daughter and wife.
Atius was obviously having his own doubts as well.
‘Do the women and children deserve to die as well?’
Valentius rolled his eyes. ‘Obviously. You don’t wipe out an infestation just by killing the adult males. Or the women will turn the young into adults and they will breed new pests, and before you know it, we will be back in the same situation. Besides, they had their chance for peace. They chose war and have to live with the consequences of that.’ He looked at Atius and Silus suspiciously. ‘What’s wrong with you two? Are you really Romans? You sound like you secretly love these scum.’
‘No!’ said Silus, louder than he intended. ‘These maggots killed my family. I hate them.’ He paused, looked away. ‘It’s just… so much death.’
‘This is war. It’s not about sneaking around, bumping off unsuspecting victims in the dark, like you lot do. This is in your face – bloody, dirty, scary, painful. This is real soldier work.’
Silus thought back to the dead villagers, and wondered how much real soldier work it had taken to butcher them. But he said nothing, and they rode on at a brisk trot.
They passed through three more sites of massacres, two villages and a small hill fort, before they reached Caracalla’s army. The repeated sights of dead Caledonians with livid faces and bloodied throats and torsos, the devastating wounds, the piteous tableaux of dead parents frozen in the act of trying to protect dead children, eventually had a numbing effect on Silus, and he rode on with eyes set straight ahead.
By the time they reached the sentries of Caracalla’s marching camp, it was late in the day. He was tired, saddle sore, and his eyes and throat stung from the repeated exposure to the smoke of burning settlements. Valentius gave the sentries the password, vouched for Atius and Silus, and escorted them into the camp. He took them first to his commanding officer, a grumpy decurion, who in turn took them to the co-prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Aemilianus Papinianus.
Papinianus, thin-faced and narrow-eyed with a dark Syrian complexion, looked at the two travel-grimed spies down his beaked nose. But his demeanour changed rapidly from disdain to alarm as Silus related his message, and he sent a centurion to request an urgent audience with Caracalla. While they waited for the reply, Silus and Atius were given meat and water, and they rested on stools outside the legate’s quarters, backsides and inner thighs burning from the long rapid ride.
Camp life buzzed around them. The Roman marching camp, a tradition and tactic in use for centuries, was a place that was never still. Romans in enemy territory would not rest unless surrounded by fortifications, and so after every day’s marching they constructed a fortification consisting of a ditch, an earth rampart, and a fence on top. Every legion carried with it the tools and supplies needed to make the fortresses, and as the legionaries assigned to construction swiftly raised the camp, the rest stood guard in case of ambush.
Now it was dusk, the perimeter was complete, and the tents were being pitched – accommodation for legionaries and cavalry, stables, quarter master’s tent, headquarters. Silus watched as four senior centurions presented themselves to the legate and were each given a small wooden tablet on which was inscribed the new camp password for the night. These would be passed to other officers in turn until the password was known by all who needed it. Guards patrolled the streets between the rows of tents, looking for signs of trouble, internal or external. Sitting in front of other tents, legionaries polished armour and sharpened swords, made fires to cook stews, and ate from small wooden bowls using spoons.
Almost everything the soldiers needed to survive they had carried here on their backs, although pack animals and carts helped transport some of the bulkier supplies. Silus reflected on the enormous contrast between the perfect planning and execution of the Roman encampment compared to the chaotic and haphazard approach to camping that the barbarians employed. This, as much as anything else, showed Silus clearly the complete futility of the Maeatae rebellion. The power of Rome was projected from that far off capital of the Empire all the way into Caledonia, and was surely invincible to any full-blown assault.
That, of course, was the biggest headache that the Romans faced. The previous year, the Maeatae and Caledonians had avoided a head-on confrontation, and harried and ambushed instead, inflicting serious losses which, while never enough to make a Roman defeat likely, were sufficient to mean that victory was bought dearly.
And now there was this new change of tactic by Maglorix, with the provocation followed by a major assault into the depth of the Roman province of Britannia while the army was chasing its tail in the middle of Caledonia. Again, there was no chance of a barbarian victory in the end. But in the short term, what damage could be done, how much death could be dealt to his comrades in the army, to the Roman civilians and native peoples of Britannia, and even to the Emperor Severus and his family?
Silus was still finishing his joint of lamb when Papinianus’ centurion returned and saluted.
‘The Emperor wishes to see you immediately, legate. You are to bring the arcanus and his friend with you.’
Papinianus sprung to his feet, snapped his fingers to indicate Silus and Atius should follow, and marched the short distance from his own tent to the Praetorium where Caracalla was headquartered. The Praetorians who guarded the entrance to Caracalla’s tent immediately escorted them inside.
The bearded co-Emperor was standing behind a trestle table, examining some drawings inscribed on a wax tablet. A military tribune, a primus pilus and two other centurions stood with him, discussing their route for the next day’s march.
‘Augustus,’ said Papinianus saluting, and Silus and Atius did likewise.
Caracalla looked up. ‘Papinianus, thank you for attending so promptly.’ He looked Silus and Atius up and down, and wrinkled his nose at their odour. ‘You haven’t been offered a chance to clean up, I take it?’
‘We judged the message was too urgent for such niceties,’ said Papinianus, sounding a little aggrieved.
‘Indeed,’ said Caracalla. ‘So let’s hear it from the horse’s mouth. You have been busy I hear, Silus. There will be time later for you to relate all your adventures. Now, tell me what I need to know.’
Silus took a deep breath, then spoke, brisk and economic. That he was addressing the co-Emperor should have awed him, part of him realised, but he was too weary and soul-sick to care right now.
‘We located Maglorix, Augustus. Our intention was to kill him. Unfortunately, we were captured. Maglorix intended to sacrifice us to his gods. The tripartite death, the offering was called, I believe.’
‘Tripartite? There were three of you?’
‘Yes,’ said Silus. ‘We found Menenius was being held prisoner as well.’
‘Menenius? He lives?’
Silus shook his head. ‘He gave his life so that we could escape, Augustus.’
‘Ah,’ said Caracalla. ‘He was a good man.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘Continue.’
‘Maglorix did not believe we would escape, and I think he wanted to humiliate me as much as possible before my death. So he told me his plan. He provoked you with the initial attack on the vallum Antonini, then waited for you to respond by sending your forces north to deal with him. He has gathered a large force and will bypass you. He is marching south. To Eboracum.’
Caracalla’s aides, the tribune and centurions, gasped.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, Augustus. He mentioned the Emperor’s palace.’
‘He thinks he will defeat us by cutting the head off the snake, Augustus,’ said Papinianus.
Caracalla banged the table with his fist. ‘He will find a hydra,’ he said emphatically. ‘Where is Maglorix now? Is he already on the march?’
‘He was camped at Pinata Castra, Augustus.’
‘Really?’ said Caracalla. ‘Another insult. Did he say when he would depart?’
‘He just said a few days. I would guess he was waiting for more men to arrive. Maybe the Caledonians.’
‘That makes sense. Even against the small garrisons left behind on the walls and in Eboracum, he will need great numbers to overcome the defences.’
‘I don’t think it will take much to get through the walls, Augustus,’ said Papinianus. ‘The defences are not yet repaired. But I agree Eboracum will be a tougher nut to crack.’
‘So we march for Eboracum?’ asked Papinianus. ‘Or Pinata Castra?’
Caracalla frowned, his brow crinkling. ‘If we catch them at Pinata Castra, we can fight them on enemy territory and save the garrisons on the vallum Antonini and vallum Hadriani. But if we arrive there too late, we will have lost time. They will be able to move quickly; they know the land, and they are lightly armoured and have many horses. We might not reach them before they get to Eboracum.’
‘They will want to skirt Horrea Classis, so they are not seen or challenged by the forces there. They will travel inland, heading directly south,’ said Papinianus. ‘We should march south-east to intercept them at the vallum Antonini.’
‘What you say has wisdom, Papinianus,’ said Caracalla.
‘Shall I give the order to prepare to march back towards Eboracum at first light?’
‘No,’ said Caracalla.
‘Augustus?’ said Papinianus, surprised.
‘We march to Pinata Castra. It gives us our best chance of saving the garrisons manning the walls.’
‘You gamble with the lives of your father and brother, Augustus,’ said Papinianus, voice low.
‘War is a gamble,’ said Caracalla. ‘Now leave me, all of you. I want some time to think.’
‘Augustus.’ Papinianus, the officers, and Silus and Atius saluted and turned to leave.
‘Silus.’ Caracalla’s voice was firm. ‘Stay.’
Silus looked at Atius, who shrugged, and across to Papinianus, who was frowning.
‘Of course, Augustus,’ said Silus, and stood at attention while the others filed out.
When they were alone, Caracalla gestured to a foldable wooden chair with a leather seat.
‘Help yourself to wine, then sit.’
A small flagon of wine and an empty cup lay on the desk, so Silus poured himself a generous measure and sat where he was directed. For a while, Caracalla said nothing, pacing the tent and stroking his curly beard. Silus sipped his wine nervously, not tasting it, wondering what he was doing here.
Eventually, Caracalla settled himself into a chair opposite Silus. He took a small sip from his own wine, then looked at Silus curiously.
‘What drives you, Silus?’
‘I… don’t understand, Augustus.’
‘What makes you get up in the morning, go out into enemy lands, risk your life?’
Silus took a moment to formulate his words. These were deep questions, and ones that he asked himself all the time. With his family dead, what was the point of anything? It always came back to one thing.
‘Revenge.’
Caracalla nodded and looked down into his wine, swirling it, seeming to look for inspiration or prognostication in the small vortex.
‘It’s good to have a purpose. I wonder, what is mine?’
‘Augustus?’ Silus wasn’t sure if it was a rhetorical question.
‘My father is old and sick. One day he will no longer be here. Then my brother and I will be co-Emperors. Is my purpose to keep the Empire safe and intact? To expand its borders and increase its glory? Or is my purpose solely to augment my own dignitas and auctoritas?’
Silus kept his mouth closed. He suspected that his opinion was not strictly necessary.
‘It’s nearly twenty years since my father became Emperor. He didn’t need to. Rome had an Emperor already.’ Caracalla looked up at Silus. ‘Do you know what happened that year? Two decades ago and a thousand miles away?’
‘A little, Augustus.’
‘After the much-loved Marcus Aurelius came his much-less-loved son, Commodus. After him came Pertinax, but he was assassinated by the Praetorian Guard, who then auctioned the Empire to the highest bidder. It was bought by a Senator called Didius Julianus. But my father’s troops declared him Emperor too. Why did he accept? Personal glory or duty to the Empire? Of course, he always claims it was duty, a sacrifice he was forced to accept. But I have never really known his heart.’
‘Could it not be both, Augustus? Maybe he could see that he would be a better Emperor than that Julianus, and by becoming Emperor, he would enhance both the Empire and his own good name.’
‘Maybe. A follower of Christos once told me that Christos had said you cannot serve two masters. I had him executed of course, since he felt he could not serve me as well as his god.’
Silus thought of Atius’ beliefs, and his too-often-open mouth, and hoped that his friend had the sense never to say something that stupid to someone important.
‘But I understand the principle. Can I serve two masters? The Empire and my own glory?’
‘If you are Emperor, Augustus, then your own glory and the glory of your Empire are one and the same.’
‘Not if I have to share the glory with another!’ said Caracalla, his voice suddenly harsh.
Silus closed his mouth, eyes cast down.
‘I don’t trust Papinianus. He is my father’s man, through and through. I cannot talk like this to him.’
‘Why confide in me, then, Augustus?’
‘You have served me well, Silus. But besides that, who would ever believe you if you relayed this conversation to anyone? And you know I would have you strangled instantly if you did.’
Silus bowed his head, clenching his buttocks so he didn’t loosen his bowels.
‘My brother is weak. He is cossetted by his mother. He has no military experience. He doesn’t have the iron in him to wear the purple. And yet, when father is gone, I have to share the power with him. It doesn’t sit well with me, Silus. And I’m not sure it is good for Rome.’
Caracalla stopped speaking. Silus was unsure whether he should just sit quietly. Feeling more uncomfortable as the silence stretched, he asked, ‘Why are you considering all this now, Augustus?’
Caracalla sighed. ‘Because right now we are at one of those crossroads that we reach on life’s road sometimes. It is in my power to save my brother, and my father too. It is also in my power to leave them to their fate. If Maglorix’s army descends on Eboracum, my father and brother may die in the slaughter, and I would be sole ruler.’
Silus swallowed, shocked, not daring to speak.
‘So, where is my duty, Silus? Which master should I serve? My own glory, or Rome’s?’
Silus said nothing. His heart pounded. His face burned hot. He wished nothing more than to be out of this place, safe with his comrades.
Caracalla sighed. ‘Leave me with my thoughts, Silus. I hope the revenge you seek brings you peace. I wish I knew where to look for peace for myself.’
Silus stood, bowed deeply, and left as fast as he thought was dignified.
Silus and Atius spent the night in Valentius’ tent. Atius pressed Silus for details of his cosy chat with Caracalla, but Silus thought of Atius’ big mouth, and he could feel the garrotte around his neck. He told Atius that Caracalla wanted some extra military details, and though his friend looked at Silus like he thought he was lying, Atius did not press him further.
Despite his unease, Silus slept soundly, and was woken at dawn by the sound of trumpets summoning the men to ready themselves to march. Valentius was already up and about, but he poked his head back in the tent to check on his guests.
‘Get moving, you two,’ he said. ‘We leave in half an hour.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Silus.
‘You should know,’ said Valentius. ‘We are marching on your intelligence to Pinnata Castra. We are going to catch the barbarians in the field. No more of these ambushes, the kidnap and torture of stragglers, the raids on supply lines. This time, we are going to make them fight.’
He ducked back out of the tent.
Silus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Caracalla had put Rome before himself.
Atius looked at Silus through bleary sleep-encrusted eyes.
‘So the army marches to war? What are we supposed to do? We don’t have any further orders, and our commanding officer is a couple of hundred miles away.’
‘Well, I was an Explorator before I was inducted into the Arcani. I guess we report to the commander of the Exploratores.’
They quickly dressed and armed themselves, bow and quiver, short dagger and a gladius. Silus then went looking for orders.