Chapter XXXVIII

 

 

 

It is certain because it is impossible. – Quintus Septimius Tertullianus, Of the Flesh of Christ

 

Cilicia

 

The quarryman grunts in time with the clink of the last few dupondii as Malorix drops them one by one into his palm of sun-dried leather. Moments earlier four of his largest sons cursed and sweated a heavy stone from a mule-drawn sledge to its place atop Silo’s tomb. Lucian idles nearby admiring the inscription.

The tomb lies on an isolated hilltop overlooking the city of Tarsus. To the north forested mountains rise and descend to the plains of Cappadocia. To the south, the blue of the Mediterranean extends in a gentle curve beyond the limits of human sight. Born in Tarsus, in life Afranius Silo had been proud of his native city. Now he has returned to rest here for eternity.

Malorix fingers the torque around his neck. Silo is gone, but the manner of his death has left its mark. Spectre… spirit… dream? It matters little. The thing forced itself upon him, entwined him, and has become an inextricable part of him. Silo’s message delivered. No political exigencies, no vainglorious ambition, no bureaucratic drive for power could gainsay it—the deaths of good men matter. Silo’s death mattered. The lives of a tiny band of legionaries mattered most of all. So today Silo is buried, and part of Rapax, the Emperor’s assassin, lies buried with him.

Malorix was more than a little surprised when Lucian declared he would accompany him on this, Silo’s final pilgrimage. Lucian never even met the man and makes no pretence of his absolute disregard for funerary convention. But the war is in the hands of the generals now. The rhetor seems to be looking for any excuse to escape the tedium of his duties at court, pandering to the fancies of Verus and his circle. Or perhaps it is his obsessive curiosity about Parthia and his desire to learn more about the long months at Stravin, and the fate of Gelanor. Malorix shared what he could on the ride from Antioch, but not all. Some things Lucian does not need to know, others that he will never understand. He spoke mostly of the legionaries with whom he had struggled to survive, who had fought and died. Of Balera and Quirinus and the other survivors who made it back alive.

Lucian’s constant prodding, indeed his fascination with Alanis the warrior priestess is more warmly received. Here is a topic that brings with it a sensation of the purest pleasure. Thinking of her, or better speaking of her, helps reinforce the memory, that he had really known her.

Malorix left her that day on the Parthian plain. His mission demanded it. Her politics were no less demanding. Even with the departure of the Huns, when the danger was past, both he and Alanis were still leaders. Still on view. There had been neither time nor place for them. He gave her his carving of the stag. His tamga. Then he left her.

Dream figures can fade. But speaking her name helps him feel as though he can bridge the enormous distance that lies between them. Perhaps, he fancies, she can even hear him, with her shaman powers, her mysterious branches. Perhaps she knows when he speaks her name.

Malorix joins Lucian before Silo’s stone. They contemplate it in silence for a long time before Lucian speaks. "I am struck by the predictability of a soldier’s epitaph," he says. "Factual, full of abbreviations, a gazette of assignments and legionary affiliations. Beneath it lies everything that was Silo—a helmet, a cuirass, phalarae, and a bundle of desiccated bones baked dry in the wilds of Parthia. Not a word about who Silo was, or why he bothered. You military types seem oddly sparing with the words that really matter."

"The quarryman charges by the letter," Malorix says wryly. He again puts his hand on the torque around his neck. "I need only this to remember."

They make their way slowly down the scruffy slope to where Athroula and the other horses sniff fruitlessly for something choice and green. "You will leave now?" Lucian asks.

"Yes."

"Do you think Silo will leave you in peace?"

"Why should you care?" There is no remonstration in his voice, only an honest and reasonable inquiry. "You don’t believe a word of it anyway."

"No," Lucian agrees, "not a word. But it’s a good story, and I like a good story, and I just might steal some of it. We writers have no scruples.

"I’m just curious as to your view of the matter. Do you really believe in Silo’s wandering spirit, and of the Reaper of the IXth? I’ve spent the better part of my life debunking frauds like Alexander. I would like at least to be able to keep your story in a different category of understanding."

Malorix ponders the gulf that lies between them. It is not that Lucian, with his constant talk of science, philosophy, and logic will not see across to the other side. He simply cannot. To see the other’s view one must be open to the experience of the other. Lucian will never be open, and so will never see. The gap is unbridgeable. Ultimately, that is the difference between people —some are born to belief, some will find it, and some, like Lucian, never will. And then there are those like Malorix. The witnesses.

"I have seen many things in my life," he says. "I stand by what I have seen."

As they climb in to their saddles Malorix works Lucian's question through in his mind again. Is this truly the end? Malorix never saw the outcome of the struggle between the two centurions on the battlefield in Parthia. The legend of the Reaper seems proof enough that the dead can destroy the living. But can the dead defeat the dead? "I hope," he says with finality, "that Silo, or his spirit, achieved what it set out to do."

"Which was what?"

"There are some very rough looking fellows in Armenia joining the ranks of Priscus and his legions. I believe the survivors of the IXth are free now and their Reaper has been defeated."

"As little as that?" Lucian says dismissively. "I have been associated with soldiers all of my life. They are like common fungi. Where one falls, a half dozen more spring up to replace him."

"Imagine not soldiers then, but another. Someone close to you. A courtesan perhaps?"

Lucian’s features contort as he feigns to be struck by an arrow. "You cut deep, my friend. But I suppose I deserve that." He holds out a hand. "Truly, it is enough then."

"Indeed, more than enough."

They shake hands. "Ferox gave you your orders?"

"I return to the Danube, via Rome. But first, I would like to go somewhere where there are people."

"People? That doesn’t sound like you."

"No, it doesn’t."

"And what of your warrior priestess?"

"What of her?"

"Come, Malorix. You’ve been mooning over her since we left Antioch. Duty calls you westward, and this siren, this Alanis, calls you east. Which way will you go?"

Malorix revels once again in the artless warmth of her name. "The gods protect you, Lucian," he says, as he nudges his horse into motion. Looking into the distance, he adds, "I think I’ll go north for a while."

 

* * * * * *

 

 

 

 

Roman Emperors to the End of the Antonine Dynasty

 

Julio-Claudian Dynasty

 

Flavian Dynasty

 

Antonine Dynasty

 

 

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