A shooting, excruciating pain in his leg brought him round, screaming hoarsely. He tried to sit up, but a heavy weight was pinning his chest down, and he couldn’t move his arms and legs. His eyes flew wide open, and he found himself staring into Atius’ grimacing face.
‘Graaaagh,’ he roared as he felt a wrenching in his thigh. ‘Atius, what the… aaargh.’
Then there was a slipping, tearing feeling, and the pain changed in character to an agonising throb, his whole leg pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He felt firm pressure on his thigh, something being poked into a hole that shouldn’t be there. Atius’ face grew dim…
When he woke again, he was on his back in a cart, jolting painfully as the wheels hit potholes. His upper thigh was a steady, powerful ache, but below that he could feel nothing. He propped himself up onto one elbow and looked down at himself in a sudden panic. A feeling of relief flooded over him as he saw he still had both legs. He gripped his lower leg and was pleased that he could feel the pressure. The tight bandage around his wound must be restricting the blood supply to his lower leg, partially but not completely numbing it.
He looked to the soldier lying by his side. He was missing an arm, the stump wrapped in a carmine bandage. His muddy, stubbled face was blank, staring into the middle distance. Contemplating his future begging on the streets of Eboracum no doubt. He turned to his other side. The soldier had his midriff firmly wrapped in layers of stained cloth. He was pale, eyes closed, his breathing shallow. A gut wound, Silus surmised. He wondered why they were bothering to treat him. It would have been kinder to let him die on the battlefield than suffer the slow, agonising death that inevitably awaited him.
‘Back with us, Silus?’ came a voice from the front of the cart.
Silus looked over his shoulder to see Atius, seated by the driver, grinning down at him.
‘Can’t I ever be rid of you?’
Atius’ smile broadened. ‘Nope. Unfortunately for us both, we’re stuck with each other, friend.’ Atius clapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Time for a piss stop.’
The driver reined in the mules pulling the cart, and Atius hopped into the back to help Silus down. The one-armed man manoeuvred himself down. The gut-wounded soldier didn’t stir.
Atius passed Silus a crutch. Silus waved it away, put his weight on his injured leg, and promptly collapsed. Atius grabbed him and held him upright, then reoffered the crutch. Silus took it grudgingly and positioned it under his shoulder. He limped a few yards from the cart, and fiddled around to prepare himself to urinate.
‘Need any help there? Want me to hold something?’
‘Fuck off, Atius. We aren’t that good friends.’
Silus managed, sighing as he produced a strong stream. He shook, put himself away, then looked at Atius, frowning.
‘Tell me then, friend. How fucked up am I?’
‘Well there’s good news and bad news.’
‘Go on,’ said Silus, guts clenching.
‘The bad news is you are going to live, so I still have to put up with you. The good news is that you are going to be out of action for a couple of months at least. Lots of rest, beer and whores, and no hanging around in enemy territory in the pouring rain, freezing your bits off.’
‘Will I heal fully?’
Atius’ grin faltered. ‘The medicus wouldn’t commit. It’s pretty bad. The muscle in your thigh is quite mashed. He was amazed the spear hadn’t severed the big vessel near there – that would have killed you pretty quick. And of course, a couple of inches higher and we would be worrying about a different body part.’
Silus nodded. Atius was right. It could have been much worse. And now that his job was done, he could rest and recover with an easy mind. Then he frowned. His job was done, wasn’t it?
‘What happened, Atius? After Caracalla arrived?’
‘It was a massacre. The defenders had all but collapsed, but once Caracalla’s cavalry crashed into the barbarians from the rear, they broke and tried to run. The legions slaughtered almost every last one of them.’
‘Almost?’
Atius opened his mouth, hesitated.
Silus lurched forward, grabbed his shoulder.
‘Atius, fucking tell me. Is he dead?’
Silus shook his head. ‘He was seen fleeing the battlefield with his bodyguard, heading back north into the depths of Caledonia.’
Silus grabbed Atius, two fists clutching his tunic, and yelled at him.
‘How could you let him escape?’ he yelled. ‘How could you do it?’ His head dropped. He buried his face in his friend’s shoulder and wept. All the despair and loss, the pain and exhaustion, the misery and suffering he had endured poured out of him in an unstoppable flood. Atius held him, saying nothing, just letting the flood peak, then ebb away. Silus pulled back, breathing heavily, and roughly wiped the tears and snot from his face with his sleeve.
‘It’s not over,’ he said. ‘I will not rest until he is dead.’
‘That’s not your choice,’ said Atius. ‘We are to report to Oclatinius in Eboracum. Then you are to recuperate. After that, maybe—’
‘Fuck maybe. That bastard will not live to breathe the air of the same land as me. I will end him.’
‘Hey,’ the cart driver shouted over at them. ‘Hurry it up there.’
Atius helped Silus back into the cart. He sat, staring out at the road disappearing in the distance, his mind whirling.
By his side, the gut-wounded soldier had stopped breathing.
‘I’ll say when you are fit for duty, soldier,’ said Oclatinius calmly.
‘Sir, my leg is healed. The medicus said so himself.’ Two months had passed since the injury in the battle of Cilurnum.
‘Healed as good as it will get maybe. As good as before?’ Oclatinius shook his head.
‘Sir, I can walk ten miles with a fully loaded backpack. I can run a hundred yards in fifteen heartbeats. What more do you want of me?’
‘What I want, soldier, is for you to obey orders.’
‘Sir, I am sitting here on my arse while Caracalla leads the army around Caledonia, slaughtering every barbarian he meets, man, woman or child. The enemy are utterly defeated. And yet Maglorix, the one who has done us the most damage, remains alive, laughing at us.’
‘I’m sure he isn’t laughing, Silus.’
‘Please, sir. Let me go and find him. Being confined to Eboracum is driving me insane.’
‘Your friend Atius seems to be enjoying himself.’
Silus grimaced. ‘Anywhere there is beer, gambling and fighting, he is happy. Besides, he is getting on rather well with Menenia.’
‘I’ve noticed. Listen, it’s out of my hands. I can’t send you on some insane mission into the depths of enemy territory to chase a beaten cur who has had his teeth pulled. You will have more important work in the near future, mark my words.’
Silus considered asking about this important work, but decided Oclatinius was probably just trying to distract him.
‘I’ll appeal to the Emperor.’
Oclatinius barked a humourless laugh.
‘Please, Silus. You’re not thinking straight. Even if Severus would deign to see the likes of you, he is sick right now and is taking very few visitors. Caracalla is away, Papinianus with him. And Geta has no interest in military expeditions. Go back to your quarters. Continue to recover. Get fitter. Wait for Caracalla to return.’
‘Sir—’
‘Dismissed.’
Oclatinius looked down at his paperwork.
‘Sir, please.’
Oclatinius did not look up.
Silus stood before him for a moment, tempted to reach across his desk and shake him. But arrest, trial and maybe execution for assaulting his commanding officer would not help him achieve his goal. He saluted, overly formal, whirled and left.
A month later, Caracalla rode back into Eboracum at the head of his triumphant army. A good proportion of his forces remained in Caledonia, garrisoning forts, repairing defences on both walls, mopping up any areas of resistance in the conquered regions, and devastating any settlements they found. Nevertheless, it was an impressive display of manpower that marched behind their Augustus back into the city that the Imperial family had chosen as their temporary capital.
Severus received his returning son, who was mounted on a fine black stallion, as a conquering hero inside the gates of the city, and lauded him to the cheering soldiers and civilians that had come to see the spectacle. Caracalla basked in the glow of the praise, sneaking glances at Domna who was mounted on Severus’ right side. Geta, mounted to Severus’ left, glowered, unable to disguise his resentment at his elder brother’s success. Caracalla ignored him. This moment was his.
‘Thank you, father,’ said Caracalla, facing the old Emperor’s throne. ‘Your praise is welcome. And it is a blessing to see you looking better.’
Severus inclined his head. ‘I do indeed feel much better. My gout still troubles me, but my chest is much eased. I have been sacrificing dutifully to Serapis, and the lord of the sun and of healing has seen fit to restore my health. I therefore thank you for your duty, and inform you that I am ready to retake my position as commander of the legions.’
Geta leaned forward, a smirk spreading across his face.
Caracalla’s mouth dropped open. ‘Father, the legions are mine.’
Severus frowned. ‘My son, the legions are Rome’s. And while we are co-Emperors, I am senior by length of service and age. And I am your paterfamilias.’
‘But your health. Your gout—’
‘I have been borne on campaign in a litter before. I can do so again. This is not a matter for debate. Now, let us return to the palace.’
Severus wheeled his horse, turning his back on his armed son. The crowd collectively held its breath, knowing the rumours that abounded about the apparent attempt on the old Emperor’s life by his son at the Caledonian surrender the year before. But Caracalla simply bowed his head and followed in his father’s wake.
‘Damn him,’ raged Caracalla, pacing the bedchamber. ‘Damn him to Hades. He can’t do this. He isn’t strong enough. The army won’t respect him. Why can’t he retire gracefully? His dignitas, his auctoritas, they are so strong, but they will be hugely diminished if he persists in this plan.’
‘He is a proud man,’ said Julia Domna placatingly. She sat on the silk sheets, knees tucked up and to one side, leaning forward as she watched her furious lover and stepson with concern. ‘You know this. He has been strong his entire life, and he has taken everything he wanted, whenever he wanted. Including the Empire. Including me.’
Caracalla grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me about the old man pawing at you.’
‘It’s nothing you don’t know, Antoninus. I had a son with the man. How do you think Geta was produced?’
‘I don’t want to think about it. Nor of that weakling of a half-brother of mine.’
‘Come here.’ Domna patted the bed invitingly. ‘Let me take your mind off everything.’
Caracalla continued to pace.
‘So now we all sit around on our backsides, with the job nearly done. And if we don’t finish it, it will be as if we were never here. They are like weeds these barbarians. Chop them down, and they grow back stronger. We need to uproot them so they are finished for generations to come.’
‘Your father will lead the army, like he did last year. He may be infirm of body, but not of mind. The army will respect that.’
‘So why aren’t we marching out? We have been back a fortnight and there is no sign he is readying for war. We have defeated the Maeatae and their Caledonian allies, but Caledonia is full of unconquered tribes to the north and west who will rebel if given a moment’s breathing space. We have seen their treachery already.’
Domna grabbed his wrist as he strode past the bed and pulled him off balance to lie beside her. Before he could protest, she pushed him onto his back and kissed him hard on the lips. He was tense for a moment, his hand on her chest between her breasts, pushing. Then he relaxed into the kiss, arms enveloping.
She held the kiss a long moment, her mouth and tongue moving against his, then her lips sliding to his ear. She whispered, no more than a breath.
‘Make love to me, Antoninus.’ He moved his bearded face to her neck, and she tilted her head to the side to give him access. One hand grasped her breast, feeling the nipple hard in his palm. But his father’s disapproving face swam before him, and he felt his nascent erection wilt. He rolled onto his back.
‘Oh, to be Oedipus for a day.’
‘You’re halfway there.’ She giggled, a light laugh that made his stomach lurch, and traced a fingertip through his hairy chest, showing no judgement or disappointment at his failure.
‘Don’t say that. You aren’t my mother. You know what I am referring to. But I do love the old bastard. I wish him no harm, despite what people say.’
‘He is an old man. You have seen and heard the omens. Patience. Soon everything will be yours. Including me.’
‘Is that so? I thought I had to share everything with your son. Including your affections, albeit of a different nature.’
‘Geta is my only son, and I love him unconditionally. But he is not a leader like you. At least not yet. He is young and impetuous, and his father hasn’t trained him in the arts of war, like he did with you. Yes, you must share power with him, for that is your father’s wish, and you must also share my affections, for what mother does not love her son? But you will be first. In everything.’
Her hand stroked over his belly, lower, lightly teasing his manhood, smiling as it hardened at her touch. She gripped it and pulled him on top of her, guiding him inside her. He groaned as she enveloped him, and for a while, all his frustrations were forgotten.
‘I’m sitting here on my arse, Oclatinius, while that reptile sits somewhere safe in the depths of Caledonia, laughing at us.’
‘I heard the same words from another recently, Augustus, and I will say to you what I said to him: I doubt very much that he is laughing.’
Caracalla stood and began to pace, his light breakfast of the finest Italian olives, shelled pistachio nuts and cold water lying untouched on the table.
‘Maybe not laughing. But not being strangled to death in the arena for my revenge and the entertainment of the masses either.’
‘No, Augustus,’ acknowledged Oclatinius.
Caracalla grabbed some nuts, chewed angrily, then took a deep swig from his cup to wash them down.
‘Who was this other, anyway?’
‘Augustus?’
‘The one that said Maglorix was laughing at us.’
‘That was Gaius Sergius Silus, Augustus.’
Caracalla frowned. ‘Him? Why does this man keep crossing my path?’
‘Maybe because you have a mutual obsession with Maglorix. Or maybe because he is the most talented of the Arcani.’
Caracalla turned abruptly.
‘Summon him.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
Oclatinius poked his head out of the door and snapped a command to one of the Praetorians on guard duty.
Silus stood, back straight as a pilum, teeth clenched to stop them chattering, knees pressed together so the tremble in his legs wouldn’t be obvious. He didn’t think he would ever get used to being in the presence of one of the co-Emperors – arguably the Augustus that the army looked up to the most.
Caracalla looked him up and down.
‘You’ve had an eventful year.’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘You’ve assassinated a barbarian chief, provoked a war, survived an assault on the vallum Antonini, lost your family, joined the Arcani and assassinated a Caledonian spy, been captured by the Maeatae, escaped, warned me of the barbarian confederacy plan to invade Britannia province, then taken a leading part in the defence of the vallum Hadriani to delay the raid long enough for my forces to annihilate the enemy, during which you were badly wounded.’
Silus looked at his caligae. When he put it like that, it had been quite a year. He wondered how he would have coped with the loss of his family if his duty and his lust for revenge had not driven him to such lengths.
‘Yes, Augustus. That’s a fair summary.’
‘Silus, most soldiers would feel they had earned an honourable discharge with a hefty pension for all their good work. You have done more in a few months than most will ever do in a lifetime. Yet despite all this, you are still unsatisfied?’
‘Yes, Augustus.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because the man who killed my family still lives.’
Caracalla nodded. ‘The same fact causes me grief as well. I would like to be out there, hunting for him right now. Oclatinius has a network of Frumentarii, Exploratores, Speculatores, and Caledonian and Maeatae spies looking for him. We think we know where he is. But my father has me cooped up here, waiting for him to gather his strength and wits to lead the army out again.’
Oclatinius shot Caracalla a warning look for his unguarded words, but Caracalla was unrepentant.
‘But Oclatinius here has a large degree of autonomy in his actions. I like it that way. It may be that Oclatinius will give you a mission to go into enemy territory once more to find and kill Maglorix and end his threat to the province forever.’
Oclatinius nodded. ‘That is a definite possibility.’
Hope rose in Silus’ heart. He looked from the Emperor to the spymaster, trying to read their expressions.
‘This would be an unofficial mission. We are taking no action against the barbarians until my father is ready to march. If you returned, successful or unsuccessful, I cannot guarantee what your reception would be like.’
‘When do I leave?’
Caracalla laughed and turned to Oclatinius.
‘I can see why you have a soft spot for this one.’
‘With respect, Augustus, I do not have a soft spot for him. But he is a useful asset, whether it is skill or luck.’
‘Talk to Oclatinius, soldier, find out the latest intelligence, then go and kill that piece of shit.’
‘With the greatest pleasure, Augustus.’
The old man looked up at them through watery, glaucomatous eyes, toothless gums working wordlessly. Atius grabbed him by the sparse hair at the back of his scalp, lifted him up, and punched him in the face again. The Caledonian elder fell backwards, his head thumping into the damp earth, and his eyes rolled up. Blood and snot dribbled from his nose, and his breathing was wet and bubbly.
Silus sighed. ‘And now we question him?’
Atius looked abashed. ‘He was pissing me off.’
‘Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know where Maglorix is.’
‘Bollocks. I could see the look in his eyes. He was lying to us. I don’t see what he has to gain though. Why doesn’t he give up the bastard who brought all this down on them?’
Silus looked down at the old man. His ribs were prominent, arms and legs thin as javelins. Silus and Atius were getting used to seeing that look.
When Silus had told Atius about his mission, his friend had gone straight to Oclatinius and demanded to be allowed to join him. Oclatinius had agreed, amused at Atius’ insistence at looking after his friend. He had provided them with all the information he had about Maglorix’s movements and whereabouts. His network of spies, scouts and traitors had tracked the Maeatae chief’s flight north and west from the vallum Hadriani, through the territory of the Votadini, who were allied with Rome, to the Selgovae, where he had sought sanctuary. Their chief, Sellic, knowing the war was a lost cause, had refused Maglorix shelter and sent him on his way, dispatching messengers to Rome to inform them of their enemy’s flight, although he at least did him the small favour of not taking him prisoner to hand him over to the Romans.
From there, Maglorix had fled through the territory of the Damnonii and up the west coast to the Caledonii, where Argentocoxus, Chief of the Caledonian confederacy, had escorted him from his territories at the point of a spear. Finally, the grand alliance split into factions which were already fighting among themselves, Maglorix had retreated to his home, the only place where he could find any sort of welcome.
Silus and Atius had travelled a much more direct route, knowing roughly where Maglorix had ended up. Their journey had been quick. Once they left Britannia province, although the roads and tracks became less reliable and they had to make their way through forests and marshes, they rode without fear of attack. The Maeatae and Caledonians were well and truly broken, the cream of their warriors slaughtered at the vallum Hadriani, their people massacred, and their crops, livestock and stores destroyed. With winter coming, they were already starving. As they travelled, they heard stories, rumours, and solid leads about Maglorix’s location. And as they narrowed their search, Silus began to believe he knew where his enemy was.
Atius dragged the old man to a nearby puddle and dunked his face into the cold muddy water. He came round, spluttering. Atius threw him onto his back, and the man propped himself on his elbow and spat.
‘Let’s try again,’ said Atius. ‘Silus, ask him once more.’
Silus sighed. ‘Where is Maglorix?’ he said in Brittonic.
The man shook his head. Atius drew his knife, and the man’s eyes grew wide. He shuffled backwards as Atius advanced.
‘Tell me, old man. Is Maglorix in Dùn Mhèad?’
The man stared at him, and his mouth fell open.
Atius looked at Silus suspiciously. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I asked him if Maglorix was in Dùn Mhèad.’
‘Well, it looks like the answer is yes. How did you know?’
Silus looked at his friend, and thought back to a time when he was a simple auxiliary scout and his family was still alive.
‘Because that is where it all began.’