Silus slept fitfully. There was a cold draught, and though he pulled his blanket tight around him, he still shivered. He thought ruefully that he had made warmer bivouacs in the forests of Caledonia than this barrack room.
Every time he closed his eyes and started to drift off to sleep, he dreamed of Velua and Sergia, as he always did. The dreams had two main themes. In the first, he was aware they were in some unknown peril, and he was trying to get to them before something terrible happened, but he was wading through mud or trying to climb an endless ladder, and they always remained out of his reach. They’d look back at him with reproach in their eyes. In the second, he returned home to his hut with a sense of foreboding, only to throw open the door and find Sergia and Velua playing with Sergia’s rag doll or fussing over Issa. The sensation of finding them safe was always overwhelming, and they would laugh at him and call him silly as he gathered them up in his arms, crying in relief.
It was this latter dream that he was in the midst of when a loud cock crow woke him fully. The sensation of well-being and happiness lasted for a dozen heartbeats before realisation and reality came crashing down. He jerked upright, gasping for breath, pulse racing, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He pushed his fingers hard against his closed eyes, the external pressure somehow relieving the internal one that was building. He swung his legs out of the bed, stood, and took a deep drink of water. He would never be happy again, he knew that. How could happiness even be possible?
His eyes drifted to his knife, the real iron one sitting on the table where he had left it, not the wooden blade he had used on Oclatinius the night before. He picked it up, testing the edge against his thumb. He placed the point against his heart, blade angled so it would pass easily between his ribs, and gave it an experimental push. The skin indented, parted, so a dribble of blood flowed down his chest.
It would be so easy. And who would care? Not the shades of his wife and daughter, nor the lemures of his father and mother. Not Atius, not Oclatinius. The only one who would give a shit would be the slave who had to clean up his lifeblood.
And Maglorix. He would care. Because he would be laughing himself sick if the news ever reached him.
Silus opened his fingers and let the knife fall to the ground. Then, slowly, he dressed himself in full uniform, washed his face in a bowl of water and walked to the latrines. He sat, emptying bowels and bladder in silence. Some of his fellow latrine users, auxiliaries and legionaries alike, tried to engage him in conversation, but he ignored them, and they speculated among themselves on what was wrong with the moody bastard. He used the sponge stick, cleaned it in the flowing water beneath the seat, adjusted his dress, and reported to Oclatinius.
The old veteran didn’t look up when Silus entered his office. He was reading a report engraved into wooden leaves, occasionally making a note with a stylus onto a wax tablet. Silus stood silently at attention.
Eventually, Oclatinius put his work down, pushed his chair back, and looked steadily at Silus. Then he passed him some parchment scrolls.
‘These are for Prefect Menenius. Take a horse from the stables, say you are acting under my orders, and make sure you are in Voltanio within six days. Now get out.’ He returned to his administrative work.
‘My mother was the niece of a Maeatae chieftain.’
Oclatinius looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing.
‘You know of my father. A very skilled spy. Trained by the Brigantes. His family had been badly treated in the past by Brigantian nobles, while Rome had treated them well, so the loyalty to Rome had been passed down through generations.’
Silus paused.
‘Go on,’ said Oclatinius, voice neutral.
‘He was an accomplished liar. He pretended to be a Brigantian rebel, fleeing from Rome, and the tribe took him in. He gave them bits of information about Rome that they found helpful, even took part in raids against Roman soldiers. Killed more than one. The end result was that he gained their trust so thoroughly that the Chief let him bed his niece, a young woman called Donella. As you know, the Maeatae share their best women among the most powerful men, but for the important few months, my mother lay only with my father.
‘Then one day, he was discovered engraving reports with the tip of his knife onto bark.’
‘Careless,’ tutted Oclatinius. ‘The Maeatae are illiterate. They wouldn’t have been able to read what he had written, but they would have known he wouldn’t have been writing to anyone in Caledonia. And eventually they would have been able to find someone who could read his words.’
‘He admitted he had become complacent,’ agreed Silus. ‘I think he had found the whole thing too easy. Or maybe he had found out my mother was pregnant, and consciously or subconsciously he wanted an excuse to leave. He never said whether he knew my mother was expecting me before he fled.’
‘So your mother found herself pregnant by a Roman spy? And they let her live?’
‘It was a close thing, but her cousin Ardra, the Chief’s daughter, would not let them touch her, and the Chief was fond of his daughter in a pretty unbarbarian way. My mother raised me as one of them. I learned their ways; I learned their tongue; I was a son of the Maeatae.
‘Then my mother died.’
Silus scrutinised Oclatinius’ expression, but the veteran didn’t twitch a muscle.
Silus looked down. ‘I would have had a brother fathered by one of the Chief’s best warriors. But he and my mother died in childbirth. And suddenly, I was alone, motherless, son of a Roman spy. I was old enough to realise my precarious position even through the devastation of my loss. I saw people talking, then throwing me sidelong glances. I heard shouted arguments between Ardra and her father and brothers. My childhood friends were pulled away from me when I tried to play with them.’
‘And yet you are alive,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Ardra?’
Silus nodded. ‘She came to me in my mother’s roundhouse where I was being tended by my mother’s Votadini slave, Glenna, and told me without honey-coating it that the council had voted to drown me at noon the next day. I was too old to be abandoned in the wilds because I might survive, so they were going to have to execute me to get rid of me. Ardra had begged and pleaded and threatened to no avail.
‘But she was brave and headstrong and she had loved my mother, and loved me. So she fled the tribe with me in the middle of the night, taking Glenna with us, who likely would have been killed for letting me escape.’
Silus paused. Why was he giving this prick his life story? Laying open to him the terrors and humiliations of his earliest memories? The easy answer was that working for Oclatinius would give Silus the best chance of having his revenge on Maglorix. Yet in his heart, he wondered if this was his entire motivation. Was he really trying to win sympathy and approval from the old bastard? As he realised where his story was heading, he grudgingly admitted to himself that that was probably true.
‘I’m listening,’ said Oclatinius, his tone still neutral, his features giving nothing away.
Silus took a deep breath. ‘Ardra found my father. I don’t know how. I don’t know what she had to do to reach him, what dangers she faced escaping through her own territory, suddenly hostile to her, and then in Roman Britannia, which was already her enemy. I don’t know what price she paid for my survival.’
That was a lie. He remembered terrified nights shivering in forests and peat bogs. He remembered them being caught by a Selgovian farmer when Ardra was trying to steal a chicken for us to eat, and how he locked Silus in a room for the night, then the next morning let them all go. He remembered how Glenna had a black eye and Ardra walked stiffly, and neither of them spoke or looked at each other for the rest of the day. But he still remembered how sweet the chicken had tasted once Glenna had plucked and eviscerated it and cooked it over a small fire.
And then he remembered reaching the vallum Hadriani, being stunned by its scale, and terrified by the number of people crammed into the towns and villages and forts, while Ardra enquired and begged and pleaded for any information anyone had about Sergius. After a pause, he continued, ‘Spies aren’t always easy to find.’
‘That is a professional prerequisite, I believe.’
‘But eventually, word reached the Frumentarii that a barbarian woman was asking indiscreet questions about one of their best men. We were grabbed off the street, blindfolded, tied up, bundled into a cart, and found ourselves in a cell being questioned forcefully by two big men. One talked kindly to us and gave us food and drink; the other screamed and shouted and threatened to kill us. Classic interrogation, but wasted. We had nothing to hide. Ardra told them the truth. She was bringing Sergius his son.
‘They kept us imprisoned for a nundinae. Then one day, the cell door opened, and a man stood framed in the doorway, and Ardra cried out “Sergius” at the same time Glenna called out “Master”. I looked at my father for the first time. And he looked at me and said, “Oh fuck.”’
Finally, Oclatinius’ reserve broke down. He tipped his head back and roared with laughter.
‘Oh, poor Sergius. Spies in the field never expect their past to come back and haunt them like that. I wonder how many sons and daughters I have left behind in Germania and Parthia.’
Silus pursed his lips, biting back a terse reply. The laughter died down, but Silus still didn’t speak. Oclatinius controlled himself with an effort.
‘And then?’
Silus said nothing.
‘Demons taken your tongue? Or nothing more to add?’
‘What else is there to know?’ said Silus sullenly.
‘Silus, don’t sulk. Tell me what your father did.’
‘He acknowledged me. He took me into his household. His wife had already died, and she had been barren, so I had no brothers or sisters to compete with. Glenna he kept as his personal slave and night-time companion. At first, she hated him, but I think eventually she grew to love him in her own way.’
‘And Ardra?’
‘My father offered to shelter her, though I was never clear whether he planned to keep her as a slave or freewoman. But she wouldn’t consider it. Though she knew she had defied her tribe, she made it clear that she was of the Maeatae and it was to them she would return. She came to my room the first night we stayed with my father, kissed me, and was gone when I woke in the morning.’
‘Did you ever find out what happened to her?’
Silus looked down. ‘I went to look for her when I first became a man and found my old tribe. Ardra’s father was dead, but I learned that when Ardra had returned, her three brothers had whipped her and buried her alive while her father stood and did nothing.
‘What did you do?’
‘Her father’s fate was already in the hands of the gods, but I killed each of her brothers with my own hands.’
Oclatinius nodded sombrely and was quiet for a respectful moment.
‘And did Sergius raise you well?’
Silus shrugged. ‘When he wasn’t away on missions, he beat me regularly. He took me out on hunting trips and pushed me to the limits of my endurance. He taught me to survive, to forage, to hunt and to kill prey, four- and two-legged. I hated him at first, but I came to love him in the end. When his body was returned to me after his last mission, I wept, and I buried him with all the sacrifices and libations I could afford. I vowed to enter the army and serve Rome to the best of my ability to honour his memory.’
Silus fell silent, hoping that Oclatinius had heard enough. Oclatinius clasped his hands together in front of his face, his index fingers extended upwards and backwards, touching lightly against his lips. The silence stretched. Then Oclatinius stood and walked round to stand in front of Silus.
‘Silus, you are an excellent scout. And you have a ruthless streak to you. Not many would have taken the opportunity you did when you killed Maglorix’s father. It may have been stupid in hindsight, but it was brave and it was well executed, pardon the pun.’
He put a hand on his shoulders and pushed him to his knees. Silus was level with the old man’s crotch and for a moment he thought the old bastard was going to make him blow him. Instead, Oclatinius drew out a knife, pricked his thumb until it drew blood. He rubbed the warm, red liquid into Silus’ forehead. Then he placed both hands on Silus’ head and intoned, ‘Diana, triple goddess of the hunt, accept this man Gaius Sergius Silus into the secret order of the Arcani. Let him never breach our trust of confidence, on pain of death and eternal damnation.
‘Gaius Sergius Silus, swear your allegiance to the Emperor and to the order of the Arcani.’
‘I swear my allegiance to the Emperor and the order of the Arcani.’
Oclatinius held the pose for a moment, then walked back around his desk and sat down.
‘Is that it?’ asked Silus.
‘Yep,’ said Oclatinius. ‘I’m not a big one for elaborate ceremony.’
He reached for a wax tablet on the edge of his desk, and threw it to Silus. Silus read it was inscribed with a single name. Nectovelius Filius Vindicis.
‘What’s this?’
‘Your first target.’
Silus frowned. ‘My what?’
‘Memorise the name, erase the tablet, then kill him.’
‘What? Why?’
‘None of your business, soldier. You are an occulta speculator now. An Arcanus. Do as you are told and don’t ask questions.’
‘But… at least tell me how to find him.’
Oclatinius sighed. ‘Fine, but only because you are a rookie. Nectovelius is a Frumentarius who has been feeding us information about the Caledonians. He has been well rewarded, and lives in luxury in Isurium Brigantum. Unfortunately, he has been rewarded twice – by us and the Caledonians.’
‘Greedy,’ said Silus.
‘Stupid,’ said Oclatinius. ‘Find him, find out what he knows, then kill him. And kill his slaves.’
‘His slaves?’
Oclatinius nodded. ‘He is known to keep Caledonian slaves. Who knows what secrets he has passed to them? They need to be silenced so they can’t flee back to Caledonia with important military information.’ Oclatinius looked into Silus’ eyes. ‘Are you having doubts?’
‘I’ve never killed innocents before,’ said Silus.
‘There are no innocents, Silus. When you live as long as I have, and have seen as much as I have, you will understand that.’
Silus hesitated, and Oclatinius picked up the parchments with the messages for Voltanio. He proffered them with one hand, while his other still held the wax tablet with the single name. Silus looked from one hand to the other. He closed his eyes, and images of Sergia and Velua swam behind his eyelids. He opened his eyes again, and snatched the tablet from Oclatinius.
‘I don’t need his head, mind you! He wears a cygnet ring with a wolf emblem on his little finger. Bring me that. Dismissed.’
Oclatinius returned to reading his reports. Silus looked down at the name on the wax tablet, erased it, tossed it down onto Olcatinius’ desk, and turned to leave.
Maglorix clenched his fist tight as the elder from the Epidii tribe droned on. Located in the far west, they had been relatively untouched by last year’s invasion, and yet to hear them you would think that they had been enslaved or slaughtered to a man, woman, child and dog. As he spoke, his Chief beside him nodding in agreement, Maglorix felt his face grow hot and he was on the verge of jumping out of his chair. Taximagulus stood behind the chair of his cousin, Ir, and noticing Maglorix’s temper inscribed on his face, rolled his eyes comically. Maglorix smiled in spite of himself.
‘We have seen the Roman’s depravity, mercilessness and overwhelming might. But the onset of winter brought peace, a peace we so desperately need to recover.’
‘The Romans are preparing for war this spring, regardless of what we wish for,’ yelled Ir. Ir ruled the Damnonii, a tribe affiliated with the Maeatae, the confederation to which Maglorix’s own Venicones also belonged. The conference of chiefs at the Caledonian stronghold overlooking Loch Nis was split between the Maeatae and the Caledonian confederacies. Looking around the circle of tribal chiefs and their top advisors, Maglorix could see the Caledonians were represented by the dominant Caledonii tribe, together with Carnonacae, Caereni, Cateni, Cornovii, Creones, Decantae, Lugi and Smertae, as well as the cowardly bore from the Epidii who was currently speaking. Argentocoxus, broad and bearded with tangled long red hair, led the Caledonians, and he watched the proceedings with narrow eyes and tightly closed lips.
Maglorix’s Venicones dominated the Maeatae confederacy, which was also represented by the Taexali and Damnonii, and Maglorix had been elected Maeatae war chief without opposition or dissent. Their territory was more southerly and easterly than that of the Caledonian tribes, and having suffered more in this current war and in the past than their northern neighbours, they were consequently more bellicose.
The Epidii elder squinted myopically at the Damnonii chief, then said calmly, ‘Then we must sue for peace. If war resumes, the Caledonian and Maeatae peoples will be annihilated.’
An uproar broke out around the circle, the Maeatae calling the Caledonians traitors and the Caledonians jumping to their feet to defend their honour. Fortunately, no arms had been allowed in the long hall, or blood might already have been shed. The ancient high priest who nominally oversaw the council seemed powerless to restore order. Maglorix wondered whether he should intervene, but the Selgovian chief’s voice broke through the clamour.
The Selgovae tribe was one of four stuck between the two great walls built by the Emperors Hadrian and Antoninus, and were consequently under the Roman yoke already. The Romans had been inconstant in their willingness to rule the region between the two walls, the more northerly vallum Antonini having been abandoned about fifty years ago, only a couple of decades after it had been completed. But the Romans had kept a close control over the region, and another tribe that lived between the walls, the Votadini, were Roman allies and had not been invited to this council of war. The other two tribes in the region had sent representatives but not their chiefs: the south-westerly based Novantes and the Brigantes. Their territory spanned both sides of the vallum Hadriani, and so had been conquered and suppressed in the main since soon after the Romans first invaded the island nearly two hundred years previous, but they still had elements outside Roman control and had retained an angry rebellious streak.
‘We have watched the Romans for generations,’ said Sellic, the Selgovian chief, and the council reluctantly quieted down to listen. ‘My great-great-grandfather fought and died during the massacre of Mons Graupius, where he was proud to be part of the Caledonian confederacy led by the gods-blessed Calgacus. My tribe has known crushing defeat at the hands of the Romans, and it has known victories. It has known oppression, and it has known freedom.
‘But we have learned. Sometimes directly under Roman rule, sometimes outside it. We have tested their defences; we have tested the mettle of their soldiers. We have tasted servitude and liberty. We have been enslaved, and we have freed ourselves. We know the Romans. And we know this.
‘They cannot be defeated.’
Shouts broke out again, and Maglorix was on his feet, hurling insults along with others from both confederacies. But the Selgovian chief held up his hand and waited patiently for silence.
‘Hear me. They are better armoured, better organised, better trained and, I’m sorry to say, better led. They have control of the seas and can bring in supplies and reinforcements to the east coast at will. I say again, they cannot be defeated. But’ – his sharp voice forestalled further protests – ‘but, they can be made to want to leave.’
Some of the chiefs and their advisors exchanged glances before returning their attention to the Selgovian.
‘The Romans hate it here. The weather last year was worse than usual, and they can’t stand the rain and the cold. They hate marching through our dense woodlands and marshes. Their engineers have had to cut down forests, fill in valleys and build bridges in order to get their armies and supplies into our territory. But when we offer them battle, they annihilate us. Too many times last year, our brave warriors hurled themselves all but naked against the Roman shields and spears, and died in droves.
‘Have we learned nothing? The Romans have shown us time and time again, since even before Mons Graupius, that they are too strong for us in open battle.
‘But we have advantages. When the Romans march in full battle armour, bogged down in marshes, we move lightly without breastplate or helmet, just with spear and shield. When the Romans are lost in our forests, we move freely along secret paths and animal tracks. When the Romans hunt us, we hide underwater in lakes and breathe through reeds.
‘We can let them pass us and ambush them in the rear, then melt away. We can set traps. We can harass their supply lines. We could even raid into their territory and threaten what they hold dear. We can make them pay for every foul onion breath they expire in our air, for every time they take a shit in our sacred homelands, until all they will want is to scamper back home like beaten curs.’
Roars broke out again now, the Maeatae in full approval, and even some of the reluctant Caledonians applauding the rhetoric. Maglorix felt the time was right to hammer the point home, and he waved his hand to be heard. The Selgovian sat, and the high priest indicated that Maglorix should speak.
‘Friends, kindred and neighbours. Last year was a disaster. We had plenty of time to prepare. We knew they were gathering in the north of their province since the year before. We knew the size of their force. We even had spies telling us where they were likely to attack. And they just walked over us.
‘They marched their legions into Caledonia, put a bridge across Abhainn Dubh, and then the gods-cursed Caracalla took two-thirds of their forces like a spear through the heart of our lands, laying down his marching camps on the way, while his father attacked the valley of the middle lands and the fleet sealed off the coast.
‘Granted, we didn’t make it easy for them, but we lacked leadership and organisation. When we offered open battle, our numbers were too small, and we were crushed. When we ambushed and harried, we were ineffectual. We put cattle and sheep in their way to slow them down. We picked off stragglers. We sprang traps on them from the forests and marshes. The Romans took losses but shrugged them off, and Severus was carried on a litter all the way to Uisge Bhiorbhaigh to look north across the sea.
‘The territories of the Venicones and the other tribes of the Maeatae took the worst of their brutality. We returned home to burned villages and burned crops, slaughtered livestock, our wives and children enslaved. To many of you here, the insult was to your honour. To us, the insult was to our lives and the lives of our families.
‘And what did we do? With winter approaching and with the Romans ready to retreat at a time of year when they would have been most vulnerable, we sued for peace. You all know I was at the council last year and I witnessed the terms being agreed, even though my father argued against the peace treaty. But most of you were in favour, saying the Romans had had their revenge for our raids of recent years and they would now leave us alone.’
‘They will,’ yelled a Cornovian. ‘They don’t want our land. They just want us to stop attacking their province.’
Murmurs of agreement ran around the chamber.
‘These people massacred us! Fucked our arses like we were slave-whores. And you Caledonians are lifting your tunics to let them do it again!’
Argentocoxus slowly rose to his feet, and the gathering fell silent. The chief of the Caledonian confederacy was an imposing figure, tall and broad, but lean despite his advancing age. His face was pale, and there was a subtle tremor in his clenched fist.
‘Have a care, Maglorix. We have been enemies more than we have been allies. Don’t push us apart when we need unity more than anything.’
Maglorix opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again and took a deep breath.
‘Chief, I am sorry if my passion and anger led to insult. Please accept my apology.’
Argentocoxus inclined his head in acceptance.
‘But my argument remains.’ Maglorix swept his gaze around the council. ‘You say they don’t want our land. Then tell me: why are they building a legionary fortress at the confluence of the rivers Uisge Èireann and Tatha, with a huge granary for their fleet to bring in supplies for their army? A fortress not of timber and turf, but of stone. One that is meant to last.’
No one spoke. Maglorix stood, back straight, breathing deeply, milking the silence. Each member of the council he looked at either dropped their gaze to the floor or stared back defiantly. But nobody contradicted him.
‘We must vote, friends, for war. For if we don’t unite to throw the invaders from our lands, then our lands will no longer be our own, and we will become just another enslaved people in their Empire.’
He slowly sat back down, and the silence lengthened. The high priest stood arthritically and held up his staff.
‘I call for a vote of the chiefs of the northern tribes. All those in favour of war, raise their hands now.’
Maglorix lifted his hand promptly. The Taexali and Damnonii chiefs exchanged glances and raised their hands. Taximagulus smiled at Maglorix. But when Maglorix looked around the rest of the meeting, he was met by expressionless faces. Argentocoxus regarded Maglorix steadily, motionless. The other Caledonian chieftains looked to him for guidance, taking their cue from him.
The tableau held. Then the high priest spoke in his reedy voice. ‘There is no mandate for war. The terms of the peace treaty that Chief Argentocoxus brokered with the Romans last year remain firm.’
Maglorix stared around him in disbelief. Then he jumped to his feet, and rushed over to where Argentocoxus sat, quiet and sombre. He pointed his finger into the Caledonian chief’s face and roared, ‘You fool. There will be war. And destruction. And death such as you have never imagined. If we do not fight together, we will die separately.’
Argentocoxus did not flinch at the tirade, holding up a hand when his allies stepped forward to restrain Maglorix.
‘You are the fool, Maglorix. You are turning your mission of revenge for your father’s death into a conflagration that will engulf all of Caledonia. The vote is for peace. This council is now at an end.’
Taximagulus moved beside Maglorix and put a restraining hand on his chest, pressing firmly so Maglorix was forced to take a step back and away from the confrontation. Maglorix let himself be led towards the doorway. But on the threshold, he spat into the hall, drawing gasps from the gathered nobles.
‘There will be war,’ he said again, and then allowed Taximagulus to lead him away.
Nectovelius Filius Vindicis. The name was engraved in Silus’ mind. He suspected it always would be, never worn away by the weathering of time. He was unlikely to forget his first assassination.
He made immediate progress in tracking his target down. Seated in a barber shop, as the barber snipped away at his beard and chattered inanely, Silus reflected that usually when a barber asked how he would like his hair cut, he replied with the old joke, ‘In silence.’ Today, though, the barber’s jabber was just what he needed.
‘So you don’t live in Isurium Brigantum, sir?’
‘No, I’m an auxiliary. I was carrying a message from Voltanio on the vallum Antonini. I need to head back soon, but I made good time getting here, so I thought they will never know if I spend a day or two in the bathhouses and whorehouses before I set off.’
‘Very true, sir. Make the most of what Isurium has to offer before you go back to the frontier. A few of my customers have told me about a slave called Veneria who works at the brothel with the sign of Pan, down by the river Isura. Apparently, she can suck you off while doing a handstand. And another called Fortunata who works out of the sign of the flying phallus on the main street and will take it up the arse if you tip her extra and use plenty of olive oil.’
Silus grimaced inwardly. He couldn’t imagine being interested in another woman ever again. But his new job involved playing a role, so he forced a grin.
‘Sounds good. I might pay them both a visit. And where is the best place for beer?’
‘Ah, you’re a beer man, not wine. Good. I always think wine is a drink for southern pansies and posh nobs. Give me a strong, bitter ale any day. You should check out the Eagle tavern. Lots of veterans hang out there. It will be right up your alley. Oh, sorry sir.’
Silus winced as the barber nicked his cheek with the tip of the scissors and then dabbed at the wound with a dirty blood-stained towel.
‘Talking of veterans, an old friend of mine lives in Isurium Brigantum. Nectovelius Filius Vindicis. Do you know him?’
‘Indeed I do, sir. Regular customer of mine. How do you know him?’
It seemed that Oclatinius had deliberately made his job harder by giving only sparse details about Nectovelius, so Silus kept it vague.
‘From the army.’
‘Of course. Nectovelius told me he is a veteran of the legions.’
‘And what does he do since he retired?’
‘Oh, he is a merchant, sir. Often away on business trips, but he is very well to do, so must make a good success of it.’
‘Good for Nectovelius. Nice to hear him doing well for himself. Where might I find him?’
‘Well, he was boasting to me that he had bought himself a new home. A nice town house, atrium, triclinium, the lot. Next door to the Crow’s Foot tavern.’
‘Sounds nice. I might pay him a visit.’ Silus suddenly realised that he had no idea what Nectovelius looked like. ‘Tell me, does he still have that beard?’
‘Nectovelius had a beard? I never knew that. Always clean shaven as long as I have known him. Very smooth skin, so I guess he likes to show it off. It’s a shame though. I imagine he could grow a big bush, knowing how thick and curly his head of hair is.’
‘It was a sight to see,’ agreed Silus.
‘I think I’m done, sir,’ said the barber, brushing the beard hair from Silus’ shoulders. ‘Are you sure I can’t press you to have a haircut?’
‘Maybe when the weather improves. It’s keeping me nicely warm for now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Silus paid a denarius with a sestertius tip and bid the barber a good day. It was late afternoon and the town was bustling. Silus noted how oblivious the townspeople seemed to be to the war that had been raging just a few days ride to the north. They were all busy going about their daily business: buying market vegetables and bread, taking their clothing to the fullers, visiting the bathhouse, and eating hot snacks from street side stalls.
Silus asked the way to the Crow’s Foot from a one-legged beggar sheltering in a temple doorway, and tipped him a couple of copper asses. He followed the grateful cripple’s directions and seated himself at a table on the street under the canopy of the tavern. He ordered a beer and a hunk of cheese from the serving slave, and settled down to watch.
The beer was heavily watered and tasted flat, but he didn’t object – he wasn’t drinking for pleasure but for disguise. The cheese was too hard, but he wasn’t hungry anyway. His stomach felt tight, and despite the noise from the street – the coppersmiths and potters and fullers crying for customers, the laden carts and donkeys, the children playing ball games and the adults yelling at them for getting in the way – he could sense his blood pulsing in his ears and forehead. He took a deep breath to settle himself, inhaling notes of fish sauce, dog shit and charcoal burners.
He was on his second beer when he saw a slave leave Nectovelius’ house. He considered. Should he keep watching for his target before he made his move? If he didn’t confirm that Nectovelius was in residence before he entered the house, he risked tipping him off. At the moment, he believed that Nectovelius had no idea of the danger he was in. If he became alarmed, he would be harder to surprise and might even flee.
Yet, how long might Silus have to wait before seeing the man himself? It could be days. Oclatinius hadn’t given him a time limit on his mission, but he was sure that there would be trouble if he wasn’t prompt. He made up his mind, took a last sip of his beer and got to his feet.
The slave was a young boy, just old enough to have some fluff on his face, but not old enough to be shaving it. As he walked, his shoulders were slumped, and he kicked at chickens and dogs that got under his feet. He seemed unhappy with his errand, and Silus thought about himself at that age, shivering and half-dead with cold on one of his father’s hunting or fishing trips, or being sent across country to deliver messages or fetch goods his father wanted. Slave the boy may be, but he had it easy.
Silus took up an ataxic, drunken gait as he followed the boy. Once he had got well out of sight of the house, he sped up, and at the entrance to a quiet side alley he grabbed the boy from behind and pivoted him against a wall just off the main street. Few noticed, and those that did threw sidelong looks and hurried on, not wanting to get involved.
‘I’ve just got a few copper coins,’ gasped the boy. ‘I was only sent out for bread. Please don’t take them, or I will be beaten when I return empty-handed.’
That was the worst he was worried about? A beating?
‘Is your master at home?’
The boy looked confused. ‘What? Why?’
Silus pressed his forearm up against the boy’s throat, choking him momentarily, then releasing the pressure. ‘Answer me.’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Which room was he in when you left?’
‘The garden room.’
‘How many others in the house?’
‘Three.’
‘Who? Where?’
‘The porter, in the vestibule. The cook, in the kitchen. The steward in the tablinum.’
That was as much useful information as Silus could extract quickly from the boy, without taking him to a dark soundproof room and using something sharp. He considered, what next?
The boy was snivelling, tears streaming and snot running from his nose down his upper lip.
‘Please, sir, let me go. I won’t say anything.’
Silus wasn’t particularly bothered about being identified after the act. He was on official business after all, although he imagined that Oclatinius would prefer it if it wasn’t made too obvious that this was an Imperial assassination. But if he let the boy go now, he might raise the alarm before Silus was finished, and if he was going to dispatch four with a minimum of fuss and tumult, then he needed time. Surely this young lad was not one of the slaves privy to Nectovelius’ scheming though, and did not need to be killed.
‘Turn round,’ he hissed.
‘Please, sir,’ begged the boy, even as he complied.
Silus reached down for a loose cobblestone. He weighed it in his hand, then brought it hard against the back of the boy’s skull. He went down like a bull being stunned at sacrifice. Silus looked at where the boy lay flaccid and frowned. He had meant to knock him out cold, but the pool of blood rapidly spreading out around the boy’s head and the lack of breath showed Silus that the blow had been harder than he had intended. He cursed, tossed the stone aside, and dragged the dead slave deeper into the shadows of the alley, covering the body with some discarded wheat sacks.
He checked himself for blood spatters, then emerged back onto the main street with a purposeful stride which attracted no attention. He made straight for the front door of Nectovelius’ house. On either side of the doorway was a shop facing the street: one selling cutlery and metal tools; the other a pharmacist with a variety of multi-coloured, multi-scented herbs, powders and potions on display in little glass jars and clay pots. Both shop owners called for his attention, but he avoided eye contact and knocked firmly on the stout wooden door.
Silus felt as if eyes were boring into him from all sides as he stood in the street, exposed and vulnerable. The door creaked open, and a tall, muscular man with long red hair stood in the gap.
‘What do you want?’ he said in an unmistakable Caledonian accent.
Silus let his blade slip down his sleeve into his hand. His other hand reached up to the porter’s shoulder in a friendly open gesture.
‘Just here to see my old mate, Necto,’ said Silus, and as the porter looked at the hand on his shoulder with narrowing eyes, Silus plunged the blade into his throat, pushing him backwards and kicking the door closed behind him. The porter’s eyes rolled up into his head and he scrabbled at Silus, weakly and ineffectually.
Silus supported him as the strength left his legs, and waited until the soft gurgling had stopped before putting the heavy wooden bar in place across the door. Then he moved quietly down the narrow vestibule into the atrium.
He quickly took his bearings. No two townhouses were identical, varying with the original owner’s preferences, the architect’s stylistic whims, and the available space, but they often adhered to a standard format. The doors to either side of the atrium would lead to bedrooms, and the door at the far end was almost always the tablinum. The peristylium would be at the back of the house, furthest away from the street. As for the kitchen, well, he would have to follow his nose.
The mosaic floor of the atrium was composed of concentric squares made up of varied abstract geometric designs, with the centre an eight-pointed star. He wondered briefly whether the sign had any mystical meaning for Nectovelius, and whether he was about to raise the ire of some deity or powerful demon. Without a carved phallus to hand, he cupped his genitals to ward off evil, simultaneously laughing at his own superstition and feeling reassured.
He wore soft leather sandals with no nails in the soles, so he was able to slip silently around the impluvium and up to the door of the tablinum, which was slightly ajar. He heard the clink of coins being counted from within. The story of a merchant was a good one, Silus reflected. Long absences and surprising riches could be explained away easily.
Silus intended to ease the door open gently to see if he could surprise the steward, but as he pushed, the unoiled hinge let out a squeal. Silus threw the door open and took two strides across the room to the desk, from behind which the elderly steward was starting to rise in surprise. Silus hurdled the desk, placing one hand across the old man’s mouth, muffling the incipient cry for help and plunged the dagger precisely between the eighth and ninth ribs on the left of his chest. He felt the throb of the heartbeat transmit into the handle before the blood spurted out from around the blade.
Only the steward’s eyes could express his shock and terror as he stared at Silus before slumping to the ground. Silus stepped back but was too slow to avoid the blood lapping around his sandals. He cursed. Sloppy. Still, he was nearly done. It shouldn’t matter now.
Dark red footprints trailed him to the kitchen, from where the scents of roasting pork meat and baking bread were wafting. The sounds of hammering reached him. Tenderising? It left him in no doubt where the kitchen was though: the first door off the peristylium, behind the triclinium. The door was wide open – cooking and baking was hot work even in the northern British springtime. Silus palmed his blade and walked boldly into the kitchen as if he was bringing an instruction to the cook.
The cook, middle-aged and plump, another Caledonian by her appearance, was not stupid. She quickly took in the stranger’s appearance, noticing the fine blood spatters across his face and the incarnadine footprints. She was holding a meat tenderiser, a vicious-looking hammer with short spikes protruding from one side of the head, and immediately rushed at Silus.
The first swing would have caved in his skull if he hadn’t recovered quickly enough to duck. Instead it thumped into the wall, knocking chunks of plaster out of the centre of a rural fresco. Silus dodged sideways as the hammer came back again, smashing an amphora of olive oil, which flowed across the kitchen floor.
Silus brandished his knife, but it was little defence against the heavy lump of iron, and instead he had to sway out of reach a third time as the hammer came back. This time though, he was able to return a thrust. The cook tried to throw herself backwards, but she lost her footing on the oil-slick floor. Her feet flew out from under her, and with her prodigious weight behind her fall, she cracked her head against the granite work surface. She lay still, legs and arms splayed, the tenderiser falling from her grip.
Silus knelt and checked for a pulse in her flabby neck. It was still there and strong. He looked down at the red-haired woman, wondering at her story. Another Caledonian, he was sure, and maybe one enslaved as an adult. Her martial prowess with a kitchen implement certainly spoke of one who had been raised among warrior tribes, not in domestic servitude.
‘Gitta?’ came a voice from the peristylium. ‘Have you broken something? Struan? Get out here and find out what she is up to.’
Silus sighed and reluctantly cut the cook’s throat. Then he emerged from the kitchen into the peristylium to come face to face with Nectovelius.
Nectovelius, son of Vindicus, was clearly of strong native stock, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. But he had let himself run to fat as he had aged, so his jowls drooped and his belly sagged over the belt of his tunic. He still had a full head of curly hair, shot through with grey as if he had been seasoned with salt, and his clean-shaven face was smooth and free from pocks, so Silus had no doubt that this was his target.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Nectovelius in alarm, taking a step backward. He was holding a glass of dark wine in one hand and a handful of nuts in the other.
‘Nectovelius Filius Vindicis?’
‘I asked who you are. And what the fuck are you doing in my house?’
Silus held the knife up. ‘Are you Nectovelius Filius Vindicis?’
‘Yes, yes. What do you want?’
‘I was sent by Oclatinius.’
The glass tumbled to the ground and smashed into a thousand fragments, but Nectovelius didn’t take his wide eyes off Silus.
‘No.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘I haven’t… I didn’t…’
Silus shook his head. ‘There is nothing you can say to me. I’m not your judge or your jury.’
‘Then you are my…’ Nectovelius couldn’t finish the sentence. Then suddenly he cried out ‘Struan! Acco!’
Silus waited patiently. Understanding slowly dawned on Nectovelius’ face.
‘You killed them all?’
‘Orders,’ said Silus simply, and took a step forward.
‘Help! Help! Murder!’ yelled Nectovelius at the top of his voice. Silus wasn’t perturbed. The peristylium was the furthest part of the house from the street, purposefully situated away from the noise of the hustle and bustle of town life. But that worked two ways, and sounds from within the villa would be inaudible to passers-by. Maybe someone in a neighbouring garden would hear and raise the alarm, but Silus would be long gone by then. He took another step forward.
Nectovelius dropped to his knees.
‘Please. I have money. Name your price. Take it all.’
‘My price can’t be counted in coins,’ said Silus. He noticed a pool of ammoniacal yellow liquid trickle down the inside of Nectovelius’ thighs.
‘I beg you.’
Silus wondered if he should say something. Should there be some profound words? Maybe he should have considered this before getting to this point. Prepare to meet your doom? I carry out the will of the Emperor?
Instead, he stepped forward and plunged his dagger down into the space between the man’s collarbone and neck. When Nectovelius had stopped twitching, he reached down and cut the ring off the smallest finger. He turned it over in his hand. A wolf’s head. Silus slipped the ring onto his own little finger.
How was he supposed to feel right now? This was different from when he had killed Maglorix’s father. That was in battle, in enemy territory. As more blood splashed onto his clothes and feet and skin, he simply felt like a murderer. That he had done what he had done because he had been commanded did not lessen the cold bilious feeling rising in his throat.
Then he thought of Sergia and Velua. Just ashes now in their funerary urns. A small stone stele, as elaborate as he could afford, paid for with all his savings and the help of the funeral club which he had contributed to, along with his comrades, on the assumption that the money would be for his own burial expenses, not his family’s.
The words on the stele, as many as he could fit on, were in the standard form.
To the sacred spirits of the dead,
Velua of the Otadini tribe, wife of G. Sergius Silus, murdered by barbarians aged thirty-two years,
And Sergia, daughter of G. Sergius Silus, murdered by barbarians aged five years,
This stone was dedicated by their husband and father, G. Sergius Silus, who will avenge their deaths.
His tears had soaked the earth more thoroughly than the wine and milk libations he had poured on their graves.
True, Nectovelius had not killed Sergia and Velua with his own hands. But he had been complicit with the enemy. A traitor to his own people. Who knew if the information he had passed hadn’t aided or enabled the raid and massacre that Maglorix had led? And more practically, if Silus was to achieve the vengeance he had sworn over his dead family’s gravestone, to have a hope of being able to confront Maglorix and bring him to justice, he needed to gain the trust and aid of Oclatinius.
A hammering at the front door broke his reverie, and he looked round sharply. Faint shouts came from beyond the thick door, yelling for Nectovelius, worried enquiries for his wellbeing. Silus cursed. Someone must have found the slave boy already and recognised him as one of Nectovelius’ familia. That the murder was to be discovered was of no matter to Silus. People would speculate as to the reason, but they would see that this was no robbery, and that Nectovelius had no doubt upset someone high up with some duplicity and been punished for it. Nevertheless, it would do Silus no good, nor the mysterious reputation of the Arcani, if he was caught. He could even be executed before Oclatinius was able to use his influence to have him released.
An axe crashed against the door, and wood splintered as the head was pulled out before descending once again.
The townhouse had only one entrance and exit, and no windows facing onto the street, for security. At first this had seemed like a boon to Silus – once he was inside, there would have been no way for Nectovelius to escape. Now he felt like a fox in a trap.
Silus’ father had once killed a fox with a single arrow. An elderly, skinny animal that had been sneaking around stealing chickens at night. Looking over the still warm body with his son, Sergius had pointed out the missing foot on one of the forelegs.
‘That’s where he chewed his own foot off to escape a snare. It saved his life, though he had to resort to stealing to eat afterwards, like a crippled veteran from the army. Still, that’s guts right there, boy. That’s the animal instinct to survive.’
Sergius looked around him desperately as the axe descended again. No way out to the front. An enclosed garden, with ten-foot walls and scant handholds, surrounded by a roofed colonnade. But the garden had some furnishings and decorations: a statue of a half-naked nymph, a water trough, and two wooden benches.
Hastily he dragged the benches to the edge of the overhanging roof, throwing one on top of the other. He vaulted onto the uppermost bench, put his hands out to retain his balance as the two pieces of furniture unnaturally mounted one atop the other wobbled dangerously. Then he leapt, grabbing the edge of the overhanging roof. A tile came loose in his right hand and smashed on the cobbled path beneath, but he gripped tight with his left and managed to get his right hand up to hold the wooden beam that had been revealed beneath the lost tile.
He had seen acrobats perform amazing stunts with their own body strength, pulling themselves up poles with only their arms, hanging from ropes with arms stretched at right angles to their bodies. Silus was no weakling, but he was no acrobat. Neither his grip nor his upper body strength was enough to simply haul himself onto the roof.
The sound of the door crashing down after one last axe blow reached his ears, and he realised that he was simply dangling from the roof of the garden colonnade like a crucified criminal. Desperately, he started to swing from side to side, until his momentum allowed him to hook his heel onto the edge of the roof.
‘Stop!’ came a voice from below.
Two auxiliaries burst into the peristylium, one bearing an axe, the other with his sword drawn. Silus clawed at the roof, scrabbling up the tiles. Behind him, one of the auxiliaries sprinted across the garden, leapt onto the piled benches and grabbed Silus’ foot. Silus kicked out hard, catching the auxiliary in the face. The soldier held on tight, and Silus felt himself sliding back down the roof. The shouts of more auxiliaries entering the peristylium reached him, and he lashed out again desperately. The soldier’s grip slid from Silus’ ankle to his sandal. The leather straps stretched, then snapped, and the soldier plummeted backwards with a yelp. Silus thanked the gods for cheap leatherwork, and scrambled back up onto the roof.
He looked down into the peristylium at half a dozen soldiers. One appeared to be taking command, organising the others to pile up more furniture to make a stairway to the roof. Silus turned and worked his way up to the apex of the roof, dislodging tiles as he went. The roof was a flimsy construction, and at one point he put his foot straight through, grunting in pain as jagged tile edges scraped bloody grooves in his shin.
At the top, Silus looked around him. He was some way from the street. Other houses backed onto this one, and directly behind it was another, smaller peristylium. He slid down the tiled canopy into this garden, landed with a painful bump, and then sprinted into the house. Past the kitchen, through the corridor by the tablinum and into the atrium where a middle-aged man and a young slave were kissing on a bench.
The slave looked up, but by the time she had drawn breath, Silus was past, and the scream echoed down the vestibule behind him. The porter turned in surprise, not expecting to guard against a threat from within. The front door was ajar, and Silus shouldered him aside and burst out onto the street.
More shouts came from within the townhouse – the more athletic soldiers had obviously followed him over the roof and into the garden. More soldiers were charging down the street towards him as well. Fuck! Oclatinius would be shaking his head at this mess.
Silus sprinted through the crowded street, hurdling dogs and pigs and shoving aside slow-moving slaves laden with shopping. His foot caught on the outstretched leg of a one-armed beggar, who cursed him to the local gods and to the Christos.
A narrow alleyway appeared on his right, and he cut down it, then jogged again behind two houses. He was breathing hard now, heart racing. He probably had the endurance to outrun these soldiers, but he didn’t have the local knowledge. He selected a flimsy looking doorway of a small, run-down house and kicked it open. An elderly man was squatting over a chamber pot, while a cat purred around his ankles.
Silus looked around and saw a ragged but clean hooded tunic lying on one side, and some scuffed leather sandals. He sloughed his bloodied clothing and dragged the tunic over his head, while shoving his feet into the sandals. The old man watched him wordlessly, mouth hanging open.
‘Thanks, grandfather,’ said Silus and rushed back out.
The sounds of pursuit were coming nearer, although they had clearly lost his exact path, judging by the questioning shouts. Silus rounded another two corners, and found himself back on the main street. He slowed his pace and his breathing, pretending to browse a jewellery store.
Hob-nailed boots clashed against the cobbles as half a dozen auxiliaries charged past him.
Silus took a long deep breath, and then headed slowly along the road out of Isurium Brigantum, fingering the new ring he wore.