Chapter XI

 

 

 

Knowledge of divine things is, for the most part, lost to us by incredulity. – Heraclitus

 

Elegia

 

Malorix continues his exploration of the battlefield in the waning daylight. The great mother has done her work well. Insect and animal, sun, wind, and rain. Each of her children conspiring to erode flesh, leaving behind a skeleton army.

The IX^th died in good order. Unexpected. For by Lucian’s account this was a ramshackle, under strength unit, fit only for police duties and chasing brigands. The bone field tells a different story. Death came straight at them, and they fought and died in their ranks. That kind of fighting—that kind of dying—takes discipline.

Centurions are a special breed. At battle’s end, when the bodies are counted, the dead among the centurions are always twice that of the regular rank and file. Silo’s code name was ‘Ferrata’, iron-like, and his influence is everywhere to be seen. No legion, certainly not the legion Lucian described, could have achieved this orderly encounter with death without leadership. Silo’s cohort of Italian veterans would have shown the way, and held this ground because Silo said it must to be so.

Silo was also an experienced agent. Had he left behind a message it would not be in anything as obvious as a weapon or a piece of kit. Some other way.

Unable to distinguish objects on the ground now in the deepening dusk, Malorix trudges toward the camp that Crethon has established at the base of two scruffy hills on the margin of the battlefield. As he closes the final few hundred feet, his attention is drawn by the figure of Maecius face to face with Lucian. The young Greek gesticulates angrily, throws up his hands and stalks toward the horses. The rest of their party are also returning from their survey of the field. They tally their numbers and set about an inconspicuous fire. A meal is assembled of flatbread, onions, and the remains of some fresh cheese that Maecius acquired from the fort.

They eat in silence, Eumaeus’ tale, a seed that will not die. The Reaper preys on them now, Malorix perhaps most of all. Neglected sacrifice? Victim? Lives taken without question, following his orders. Spirits of the unjustly killed may walk the earth seeking vengeance.

He looks on enviously as Lucian finishes the simple meal with the gusto of one who measures food among life’s great pleasures. His own fragile stomach permits only bread with a little water. Lucian pulls out his bedroll and flops down with a sigh. Satisfied. How, Malorix wonders, does such a man come to be here? A man of letters, more properly at home at some society party or gossiping in a library or a bathhouse than here among these rough companions. Lucian, Malorix decides, is a mystery. A leader who commands from one side of his mouth and mocks with the other.

"You will leave tomorrow?" Malorix says to Lucian as he moves closer to their small fire.

"I have business in Antioch. You and the others will go on."

"You will go and leave us here," Gelanor says bad-temperedly.

"You know the plan, Gelanor." Lucian says. “From here on I would only be a burden.”

Gelanor turns to Malorix. "This place holds no discomfort for you then?" His voice, spoiling for an argument. Lucian raises himself on his elbows. "No need to trouble the others, Gelanor. Bones are bones."

"Perhaps, but we are not all as at ease with them as you seem to be, Lucian," Malorix says, surprised to be taking Gelanor’s part.

"It’s near dark. The sky is overcast," Lucian says, through a yawn. "Soon we won’t be able to see our hands in front of our faces. Besides, as I said, bones are bones."

"Roman and Greek bones." Maecius joins their circle as one seeking comfort or warmth.

"What of it?" Lucian fails to conceal the hint of a sneer. He reaches for three unit insignia they found and rolls them over in his fingers. "We saw a lot of bones today. As a writer I might describe them. As a lawyer, I might plead for them. When playing the rhetorician, I could conjure a vision of passion and anguish. A lament for fallen Roman heroes. I might leave the crowd misty-eyed. Thirsting for revenge against the unspeakable barbarians who cut down the flower of Roman youth in their very prime. As an agent I must count them." He pauses. "As to what they are—they are bones. They cannot bite you, and they will not reassemble themselves and come over the ridge and gawp at us while we sleep."

Face framed in firelight, Maecius looks distinctly uncomfortable as he considers this possibility. Malorix’ eyes fall on Duris sitting at a distance, expressionless. He has taken up a commanding position to assume the first watch. The slaves huddle in their blankets, save Crethon, who soundlessly tends the fire.

"You are without reverence for the dead." Maecius again. "But it is the custom of our people to show respect and convey our dead to the other side with haste. The whole world knows this. To do otherwise is … dangerous."

"I do not dispute it, Maecius." Lucian takes a pull at his wine skin and offers it to Malorix, who declines. Holding the skin on his lap, Lucian settles deeper into his bedroll, surveying the heavens as they are slowly swallowed by gathering overcast.

"Look at us.” Maecius persists. “Here we sit surrounded by the bones of five thousand Greeks, Romans, and only the gods know what other kinds of humanity."

"Four thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven, to be precise."

"Yes," Maecius agrees emphatically. "Soldiers lie scattered about us, without mourners and without proper rites. The words of their peoples to their gods, unsaid."

"You have something on your mind."

Maecius leans closer. "Lucian, the spirits of the dead inhabit this place."

"Ah! I see you have taken the stories of Eumaeus to heart. This Reaper fellow."

"Not only that. But the dead, Lucian, are angry. The men of the IX^th. You heard what Eumaeus said. There were soldiers. They will vent their anger against the living."

"Ghost stories and superstition, Maecius. Have a drink." Lucian offers him the wineskin. Both are but silhouettes now to Malorix, illuminated by occasional flashes of firelight.

Maecius ignores the gesture. "Others saw them Lucian. They saw a standard with a bull. You know what that is."

"On the contrary, I don’t know what that is. Everyone from Trapezus to Zeugma knows that the bull is the standard of the IX^th. They saw exactly what I would expect a bunch of Cappadocian rustics to see. What was surprising was that they didn’t see old Severianus himself, with his gladius sticking out of his backside where he fell on it!

"Duris has the watch now, Maecius. Take comfort. They'll not get past his vigilant gaze. You can sleep until your turn. Rest now. Good night," he says with finality.

Maecius pokes furiously at the fire. "You malign the spirits of the dead! You mock the gods!"

"I do not. I do not fear that which does not exist."

Malorix fixes his gaze on the Syrian, "You are certain of this?"

"Yes," Lucian says, with palpable exasperation. "Now go to sleep."

Maecius will not be deterred. "It is the custom of all peoples to mourn the dead and to treat them with respect." He says these last words rather overloud as if to convince the surrounding spirits of his own high regard.

With Lucian’s face away from the firelight Malorix can but sense his eyes in their habitual heavenward posture. "Firstly, it’s gone dark. We should not be up, tripping about. Secondly, when the danger has passed, the garrison at Satala will come here to collect the departed and give them a proper burial."

"Yet we are here now, Lucian."

Lucian sits up abruptly. "Evidently, I will not be permitted to sleep until we’ve had an entire Socratic dialogue on the matter." Malorix hears him gargle and spit like a leading actor preparing to deliver the final speech. Another long drink.

"Indeed Maecius, it is as you say a custom in which all peoples engage. It is custom and habit. They mourn for the dead, they mourn for their loved ones, but in truth they have not one whit of knowledge about death. What is it? They know not. They have no idea as to whether the matter is unpleasant and worth the bother of grieving or delightful and an improvement over their previous circumstances.

"You suppose, because you’ve been told, that there is a god named Hades who has been granted sovereignty over the dead. This deity takes them into close custody, and allows no one to return—oh, except for a few important personages who have extremely good reasons for doing so. The well connected sometimes get a reprieve, but before they leave they have to drink from the river of Oblivion to forget what they’ve seen. We get this information from some impeccable sources—Theseus, Odysseus, Alcestis, and a number of other highly respectable and trustworthy witnesses, who evidently visited and left but overlooked this mandatory yet thirst-quenching diversion."

Malorix suppresses a smile.

"You get across the river, I’m reliably informed, by offering money to a ferryman named Charon. So thoroughly have people accepted this notion that when a loved one dies, they immediately put a coin into the deceased’s mouth to pay the old fraud for passage. This is understandable since, although it is Charon’s job to get them over to the other side, Hades is quite clearly a mean old bastard who won’t pay a decent wage. They do not stop for moment to consider what sort of coinage is customary and current legal tender in the underworld. Indeed it has escaped them that, all things considered, it would be far better not to pay the fare so their loved ones could not get across and thence could be escorted back to life." Lucian pauses for breath. "Am I getting through to you at all?"

"You presume too much Lucian." A pleading note. "You mock the gods, and you endanger us all. People the world over take this matter very seriously!"

"My dear, my dear, the Greek burns, the Parthian buries, the Indian encases in glass, the Scythian eats. They are all cattle."

"They don’t." Malorix counters.

"What?"

"The Scythians. They bury in great earthen mounds."

Lucian hesitates. "We will accept the witness of this copper-plated Scythian."

"They only eat enemies." Malorix adds.

"Now the Egyptian salts and preserves them like herring," Lucian resumes his monologue. "He keeps the mummies at home to share his table and uses them as security in his business dealings. What of it? It’s a banquet of superstition. Like father like son, like mother like daughter. They have no evidence, just habits, time worn, and supported by custom and law. Just habits, Maecius. Bad habits."

Hearing no further challenges, Lucian reclines definitively onto his bedroll. Maecius draws closer to the fire, making himself very small. After a time, he turns to Malorix. "You are not a Greek, or a Syrian. What do you believe?"

Malorix leans back, hands clasped behind his head and marvels at the shrouded sky. Had it ever been so dark? And what does he believe? He believes the forest is alive, and that the trees carry messages delivered by the wind. He believes every living creature is locked in the same struggle for life, against other agents of life and death. As for the gods—Targitai has always been.

Feeling the need to move Malorix stands, slaps his hands against his leggings to shake off the dust of the day and walks carefully in the blackness toward the horses. He returns moments later holding his long Dacian sword. Solemnly he passes the blade through the fire three times reciting the words "By the will of Targitai we are protected." He turns to Maecius. The flickering of the fire is reflected in his eyes as he raised the sword over his head. Maecius gasps as Malorix thrusts the sword deeply into the sandy soil next to the boy. It stands resolute, a cross awaiting a crucifixion.

"My father was wise," he says quietly. "He believed our people are protected by our father the bounteous sky, by our mother the earth, and by fire, the product of their union. Others of his generation were killed or sold into slavery, but he was protected. Sleep near his sword and you may sleep without fear."

Malorix unrolls his blanket. Maecius stares alternately at the fire and the sword and finally mumbling crossly, "You presume too much, Lucian."

Malorix stretches himself out in imitation of sleep, gazing at the flickering of the dying fire reflected in the long steel blade. As the fire ebbs to embers the deep silence is broken only by the occasional moan of the wind.

"Gentlemen," Lucian’s voice penetrates the darkness, "I am, among other things, a lawyer by profession. Please accept my assurance that in a word, four words to be precise, you have no case."