Maglorix stared at the bowl of soup in his hands. There was no meat, just some leaves and roots. It tasted of muddy water. The smoke from a cooking fire reached his nose. From somewhere behind him, a baby cried incessantly. No one made any attempt to succour it. It would die soon. Most of the young mothers’ milk had dried up, and malnourished babies were beginning to fade. A wave of dysentery had swept through several families when a dead deer had been discovered and consumed. The flesh had been so rotten that even roasting it on a spit had not saved them from the illness that everyone knew accompanied eating decayed flesh.
Winter wasn’t far. The leaves were turning. The sun did not reach as high into the sky any more. There was a chill in the air at dusk and dawn. He pulled his hooded cloak tighter around himself. He always seemed to feel cold these days, no matter with what strength the sun shone.
There was no food. The Romans had burnt their stocks of grain, slaughtered their cattle, ploughed up their crops, and burnt their homes. The countryside had been scoured of game and forest fruits. Now people were eating grass and roots, and even broken twigs. Anything to fill the painful emptiness of their bellies. Few in Caledonia would survive to see the spring thaw.
How had it come to this? Was it all his fault? Had he been full of righteous anger and pride, so determined to make the Romans pay for their outrages that it had cost his people everything? Maybe it went back even further, to when Maglorix had been a boy and his people under his father had raided freely and frequently into the Roman province, stealing gold, cattle and slaves.
Or had the gods turned against them, sending Severus and Caracalla and their armies, letting them loose in their lands? Doing to the peoples of Caledonia what the peoples of Caledonia had done to the Romans, but on a much vaster scale?
‘I curse you,’ said Maglorix, out loud, his voice quiet but firm. ‘Each and every god who has turned their back on me and my people. The hag, I curse you. The Aos-sídhe, I curse you. Esus, Teutates, Taranis, you abandoned me and your people. I curse you all.’
A few people turned to look at him. Lon the druid made a sour face. But none spoke up, and they all turned back to whatever it was they were doing to keep their mind off the hunger pangs. Some whittled sticks. A local elder sharpened his sword on a whetstone, a weapon it was unlikely he had wielded in anger for many years. Mothers held infants against them. No children played; they had no energy. No chickens clucked, no dogs barked, no cattle lowed. They were long gone.
He turned back to stare into his bowl. He didn’t feel hungry, despite the length of time that had passed since he had consumed a proper meal. All he felt in his guts was a dull sickness.
Silus. That traitor to his countrymen. British, yet fighting for the Romans. If there was one man on whom he could lay the blame for everything, it was him. If he hadn’t murdered his father, provoking him into rash actions in the name of revenge, they might have avoided this and made peace with the enemy. He clenched his jaw, gripping the bowl tight. Then sighed.
He could not summon the energy for anger. He took a sip from his bowl and swallowed with difficulty. Then he let the bowl slip from his fingers. It hit the floor, cracked, tipped. The watery broth pooled on the ground.
A murmur reached him, not loud – no energy for real interest or fear, just an acknowledgment of something happening. He looked up.
Two men, armed, fit, well fed and healthy, were striding into the village.
One spoke, in a loud clear voice, Brittonic, but tinged with a Roman accent.
‘Where is Maglorix?’
Approaching Dùn Mhèad had brought back memories that provoked a flurry of emotions in Silus. This was where it had all started, that scouting mission that now seemed so long ago. When he was a simple explorator, when he had never met Oclatinius or Caracalla, when he still had a family…
They walked through the woods which Silus had previously fled through, carrying Maglorix’s father’s head. This time, he was careless about hiding their presence. He knew they had nothing to fear. Silus pointed out landmarks he recognised to Atius. Here was where he had camped, soaking wet, freezing and scared. Over there was where he had been hiding when he had first encountered Voteporix, Maglorix and Buan. And this was the spot where he had ambushed Voteporix and cut his head off.
Atius nodded in silent acknowledgement of each point of interest. His face was grim. The starvation and devastation of the civilians were affecting him, and his fierce loyalty to the Emperor was conflicting with his religious beliefs.
They strode up the slope to the hill fort. The palisade was gone, pulled down after a previous Roman assault. Some stakes still lay flat, broken or uprooted. Most had been taken for firewood. The civilians who had escaped the slaughter, with nowhere else to go, had returned to their ruined homes, to sit and wait for the approach of winter and death.
Just inside the boundary where the palisade had been, a young girl was sitting cross-legged, staring up at them. She had likely seen no more than six summers. Her red hair was long and straggly, with leaves and small twigs entwined. Her face was dirty, but there were no tear streaks through the grime. She must have finished all her crying. She looked up at them, eyes wide above hollow cheeks. Is this how I meet my end? she seemed to Silus to be thinking, with no fear, just a dim curiosity.
Silus turned his face from her, walked purposefully past her and into the settlement. A murmur of mild interest and concern went around the subdued Maeatae.
‘Where is Maglorix?’ he said in loud clear Brittonic Celtic.
A few more heads turned in his direction, but no one spoke. Then a large, bald-headed warrior, wearing a tattered tunic and bearing recently healed scars on arms and face, slowly, painfully stood. Silus recognised Buan and knew that Maglorix wouldn’t be far. The chief’s guard and friend limped towards them, spear held forwards, the tip trembling with the effort of presenting it.
Atius took two swift steps forward, brushed the outstretched spear aside with the outside of his arm, and thrust his dagger into Buan’s belly. The huge barbarian gripped the hilt, pulling it from Atius’ hands, and rolled forwards to lay still.
Another figure came towards them, waving his hands. High shaven forehead, long white hair, pointed nose. He no longer wore the flamboyant cloak and gaudy jewellery and he had become thinner, but it was easy to recognise Lon the druid.
‘Curse you, Romans,’ he hissed. ‘Cailleach Bhéara, the hag, I call on you. Let these evil men never know peace.’
‘Druid, you had some plans for us, as I recall.’
‘The hag will make your eyeballs rot. She will make your testicles fill with pus and burst. She will make your cock—’
Atius drew his sword and in one smooth motion swept it horizontally. Lon fell to his knees, clutching his throat, blood spurting between his fingers. Atius watched dispassionately as he collapsed to one side.
Silus looked around. The barbarian people, all hope long ago leeched out of them, just watched.
‘Maglorix!’ roared Silus. ‘Come and face us. Don’t make us hunt you down like a scared weasel.’
For a moment, all was still. Then a figure in a hooded cloak looked up. He made no move to stand, but he gripped his hood at either side of his face, and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled it back.
Silus let out a breath. Atius made to approach him, but Silus put a restraining hand on his chest.
‘Wait here.’
‘The man is a snake. Do not trust him.’
‘Not any more,’ said Silus. ‘His poison has been milked out. His fangs pulled. Look at him. He’s done.’
Silus approached him, his hands empty, arms swinging loose. He reached Maglorix, and looked down at him. Maybe it was his seated posture, but he no longer seemed to Silus to be as tall as he once was. Maglorix’s long, curly red hair, magnificent when Silus had first met the Veniconian prince and smashed his hilt down upon his head, was now matted, the locks twisted into tangles of leaf and grit. His finely-toned body had atrophied. The tattoos on his chest had become distorted as the skin had loosened when his pectoral muscles had shrunk.
But it was his eyes that captured Silus’ gaze. They were empty, with no spark of fear or anger, capitulation or defiance. They just regarded Silus with no more interest than that of an old man sitting in his doorway watching the world go by as he waited to die.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Then Silus spoke.
‘I’m sorry.’
Maglorix’s eyes narrowed slightly. He tilted his head questioningly.
Silus gestured around him. ‘All this. Your people. Your father.’
Maglorix shook his head. ‘You are victorious. You are a true warrior. But the gods, yours and mine, decreed we must fight on opposite sides. Together, we could have been truly formidable.’
Silus nodded. ‘You are a true warrior, too. You defied Rome, though you must have known deep down that it was hopeless.’
‘Hope is too highly valued.’ His voice sounded so pitiful that for a moment Silus wondered if, despite everything, he would shirk from what needed to be done. But Velua and Sergia dictated his actions.
‘Stand up,’ said Silus.
Maglorix took a breath, then let it out slowly. He put his hands on his knees, and levered himself upright. Silus looked around. Nearby were the Maeatae chief’s spear and shield. He fetched them and handed them to Maglorix.
Maglorix slid his wrist through the shield straps. He grasped the shaft of the spear at the balance-point, about one third of the way back from the iron tip, and hefted it speculatively. Then he turned face on to Silus and let the shield and spear hang loose at his sides.
‘Nooo!’ The cry came from Buan. Still alive, he had drawn the dagger from his abdomen, and his arm was pulled back to hurl it at Silus. Silus turned, completely exposed.
Atius was there in a flash. He kicked the knife away from Buan’s weak hand, then whirled and thrust his sword down through the barbarian’s heart. He held it in place until the bodyguard had stopped convulsing, then withdrew it and wiped it on Buan’s tunic.
Silus turned back to Maglorix. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even reacted to the death of his most trusted friend.
They locked eyes and Silus saw profound sadness and acceptance.
Maglorix inclined his head.
Silus took one step forward, drawing his dagger as he did so. He put an arm around Maglorix’s shoulders.
Silus slid his dagger between Maglorix’s ribs, halfway down his chest, just to the left of his sternum.
Heart blood blossomed around the wound. A widening of Maglorix’s eyes was his only reaction. Then his legs became weak. He dropped his spear and shield and clutched at Silus for support. Silus gently lowered him to the ground. He lay by his side for the brief moments it took for life to leave him.
Then he lowered his head onto his enemy’s chest and wept out his grief, his loss, and his emptiness.
The saddle bag thumped rhythmically against the flank of Atius’ horse as they rode south, its solid load making a dull sound. Atius had insisted on taking Maglorix’s head as proof of the success of their mission. Silus refused to carry the burden.
Atius seemed perplexed by Silus’ reaction to his victory. In truth, Silus didn’t understand it himself. He had pictured the moment so many times in his fantasies and dreams. The day when he finally had his revenge on the man who had taken everything from him. So why did it feel so hollow?
Maybe because nothing had changed. He still had nothing. In fact, he had less than before. At least then he had had a goal. Now what?
They would return to Eboracum. There they may be treated as heroes for slaying the barbarian chief who had caused so much damage. Or they may be treated as deserters and stoned to death by their comrades.
He didn’t much care either way.
He looked over to Atius, who was whistling cheerfully, no doubt looking forward to being reunited with Menenia. For a moment he felt a surge of pleasure at the thought of seeing little Issa again. But then it was gone. Even his beloved little dog could not soothe the pain in his core.
Ahead of them lay days of riding through settlements of the starving, the diseased, the dying. He would harden his heart to their plight.
Atius leaned across and gripped his shoulder in a show of support. Silus gave him a half smile. Maybe the Augustus and the master of the Arcani would find a role for him, to give his life some meaning. Maybe.
He fixed his gaze on the path ahead and rode towards whatever it was Fortuna had ordained for him.