“How many?”
The dark eyes of centurion Victor Iorus peered into the distance. His gaze seemed vacant, but the darkness of the night hid his face from the contubernium of legionaries who had gathered with him at the top of the hill overlooking the valley. He had asked that question almost absently: there was no tension on his face. Then suddenly, he seemed to come back to himself.
“What are you looking at? I asked you a question!”
He turned to the very young beneficiarius who had dropped like a sack into the natural ditch they had chosen as an improvised shelter.
“Why are you here?” asked the soldier. “It wasn’t necessary.”
He didn’t look more than eighteen and his elongated face with angular features and aquiline nose betrayed his Germanic origins even more than the harsh Suebian accent which at times was noticeable when he spoke Latin in the barracks.
His insistence seemed to irritate the centurion. “What else was I supposed to do?” he replied with a shrug. “And in any case, those are matters which do not concern you.”
Victor Iorus came from the Hispanic province. His legion had been added at the last moment to Gaius Julius Caesar’s expedition to Gaul. The news had taken him by surprise while he was on leave and his wife was about to give birth after a difficult and painful pregnancy. He had wished her a hasty farewell, promising that he would return as soon as possible to see the child. His fingers spasmodically clenched the worn shred of parchment upon which he had written her name for the last time.
“So? How many?”
“Three hundred. Perhaps even more. From their accents, they all seem to be Carnutes.”
Iorus scrutinised the face of his interlocutor.
“What did you say your name was, lad?”
“Marcus Lucretius, sir.”
“Well, Marcus Lucretius. You go back to your observation point and then you tell me exactly what kind of armour they are wearing and what weapons they carry.”
“Swords, axes and spears. They also carry small round wooden shields. I saw some helmets but no armour. Many of them are bare-chested, in fact.”
Iorus ran a hand over his chin as though to measure the length of the beard that framed a face with full cheekbones which were reddened with tension. He nodded as he reflected on the report he had just received.
“Good work, Lucretius. But don’t fool yourself. Around here, a good memory and a memorable name are not enough to rise through the ranks,” he said, pointing to the other legionaries. “Phalerae are earned on the field.”
Marcus Lucretius had joined the army as a reliquiuus and, despite his young age, was enjoying a dazzling military career. Gossip attributed the merit for this to the high-ranking friendships of his family but his superiors acknowledged his marked predisposition to discipline. Thanks to his father, a tin and alum trader, he had roamed northern Europe throughout his childhood and had learned to speak, read and write numerous dialects, being able to rely on a prodigious memory and an uncommon gift for learning. He was determined to silence that gossip, and to prove at any cost that his position was not simply the result of endorsement, and that was why he had volunteered for that night expedition.
He did not reply to the centurion’s words but merely looked around him, avoiding meeting the man’s gaze. The carpet of reddish leaves which covered the hillside, in testimony to the autumn that had recently begun, glowed rust-coloured in the moonlight.
Iorus folded the tattered parchment he had been twisting in his hands and slipped it between his tunic and his armour then shook his head to chase away the nightmares. They had been with him every moment since the day he had recognised the shadow of the end of the world in the eyes of the military courier, but he had to try his best to ignore them because his men would not understand.
Some of the legionaries were kneeling and others were lying on their shields, which were carefully concealed in their leather sheaths. Although it was not a particularly cold night, they all wore hooded sagums, partly to prevent the gleam of their armour from betraying their presence. For the same reason, their helmets had been wrapped in sacks and hidden in the bushes. They had been observing the movements inside a settlement that overlooked the eastern bank of the Liger river since dusk. Controlled by the Carnute tribe, it was a makeshift village of the kind that the Celts often used to assemble in a few days near a mine or a watercourse to exploit its resources to the point of exhaustion before packing their bags and returning to the safety of their fortified oppidum. The perimeter was surrounded by a palisade of modest height around which the inhabitants had not even bothered to dig a ditch. From the observation point of the Roman soldiers, the terraced surface of the village revealed itself to be dotted with sunken dwellings with tent-like coverings, with stone reinforcements visible here and there.
A few days earlier, a speculatores unit had reported to the commanders of the Roman troops near Samarobriva unusual movements of men and horses south of Belgian Gaul, where the winds of rebellion against Rome were stronger than ever. The winter quarters closest to the area concerned were those that housed the legion in which Iorus served. Two cohorts had left the fortress and camped a few miles from the region’s busiest waterway. The centurion had been charged with taking a group of trusted men and taking a look around without attracting too much attention. By an ironic twist of fate, his orders had been delivered to him by the same military courier who had brought him the news of his wife’s death. It was like watching a drama whose tragic conclusion you already know because you are its protagonist.
“I’d give half my pay to know they have in mind,” the centurion said softly. From the ditch, they could only see part of the village below. Some of the exits were hidden by buildings and the darkness made everything confusing.
“By the sound of it, it would appear that they are arguing,” replied the beneficiarius. “And those who came from outside haven’t dismounted. The old men of the village have all gathered behind the main gate while the women and children have holed up inside the houses.”
“That sounds like an intimidation.” Iorus raised his head and peered down. “But I can barely see anything from here.”
“Shall I go back and have another look?”
The centurion glanced at Lucretius. The rise where they were stationed sloped slowly down towards the valley. The rocky ridges between the trees would make ideal lookout points, but would also increase the risk of being discovered.
“All right, but I’m coming with you.” The beneficiarius gave him a questioning look. “I’m not in the mood for sitting here thinking. Let’s go.”
*
The men on horseback gave excited instructions and a mule loaded with torches appeared among them.
“What use are more torches?” asked Lucretius when they arrived at the new observation point. “The fires are all lit and there isn’t a breath of wind.”
“This business is starting to worry me.”
The centurion clenched his fist and raised it to his lips. “A lot of chieftains have always hated the idea of a protectorate and all they need is some sign of discontent to come out into the open. They probably feel able to force the hand of those who prefer submission to the authority of Rome.”
“They certainly look confident. Until a few weeks ago it would have been unthinkable to imagine this kind of thing happening within the range of action of a Roman castrum.”
“Consent for the rebels is growing by the day and our clientes are increasingly isolated. These provocations are becoming frequent.”
“Provocations?” replied Lucretius. “Are you sure these barbarians won’t resort to something more than provocations? If the atmosphere remains as tense as this, things could end badly tonight.”
“And that is precisely our problem. There are a lot of rebels, they are well armed, and if they want to, they could wipe out the village in an instant. They are just waiting for an excuse.”
“And we can’t stay just stand here and enjoy the show, can we?”
“Of course not. But there are too few of us to allow us to do much about it. Don’t make me pessimistic. Perhaps the beer they’ve been swigging wasn’t so strong after all and they’ll soon realise that deep down they’re all brothers and head off to bed.”
The confrontation between the men on horseback and the leaders of the village was long and tense. They talked over one another and their gestures became more and more threatening until one of the men on horseback suddenly began getting very agitated. He shouted something and several of his companions went over to the mule and started taking the torches.
The beneficiarius looked down and grimaced.
“You spoke too soon. I don’t know the dialect of these people very well but I would be willing to wager that that animal on horseback has just ordered his men to set fire to the village.”
“I barely speak Latin, lad,” said the centurion, spitting on the floor, “but I had guessed something similar myself.”
Lucretius climbed a little further up the rocky ridge, thanking the gods that he had decided to wear boots instead of caligae. The Liger River, which bordered the village boundaries on one side, looked like a python with ashy skin coiling around its prey. Suddenly the beneficiarius saw a glimmer, like a spark in the middle of the water. After a few moments, others followed that soon turned into an ever longer strip of light.
More torches, more horsemen. This time they were coming from the side of the water.
“They were making all that noise to draw everyone’s attention to the village gates while the others surrounded the rest of them,” the beneficiarius commented. “At this point there must be at least five hundred horsemen.”
“Too many for a handful of legionaries,” replied the centurion, beginning to descend from the ridge. At that moment the flames began to rise from the roof of the stables and the first cries rose from the perimeter of the settlement. “Someone has to get back to camp. As soon as possible”.
“I’ll stay here to keep an eye on the situation.” Lucretius adjusted his hood to better camouflage himself.
“All right, but don’t do anything foolish. I don’t need a hero, I need a lookout with a sharp eye.”
*
Iorus returned to the embankment and looked at his men. “I need a volunteer who knows how to ride.” A few hands were raised and the centurion’s choice fell on a young man with fair skin and a face covered in freckles. “Take my horse and tell the legatus what’s happening here. If things go as I imagine, you should return with reinforcements by, say, tertia vigilia.” The legionary rummaged in a bag in search of his helmet then disappeared into the bushes. The prolonged whinny of a horse moments later told the centurion that he had left.
The other legionaries returned to the ditch and dozens of helpless eyes watched the flames and heard the increasingly terrified shouts.
“There can’t be more than thirty men in that village who know how to use a sword,” said Iorus, dropping down among the other soldiers, “I doubt they’ll be able to hold out for an hour, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
In the meantime, the smoke had risen to the tops of the palisade and was now flowing out of the village like a dark wave. What a few moments before had been a peaceful peasant settlement was now being consumed by flame and ash.
With burning cloaks, two men emerged running from the hellish scene. They still held the axes they had used to try and defend their homes and turned continually to look behind them.
“They told me that the Gauls were heroes,” said one of the legionaries with a smirk.
Behind the peasants two horsemen suddenly appeared, swinging their swords over their heads. From the attitude and gait of the horses it was clear that they wanted to play with their prey. One of them caught up with the nearest fugitive and brought the flat side of his sword down on his head. The stunned man dropped his axe and fell to his knees. The other horseman rode over him, his mount’s hooves smashing his face into the dust. The second farmer tried to defend his companion by waving the improvised weapon in his hands, but an arrow from inside the village hit him in the neck, much to the dismay of the horsemen, who cursed at the invisible archer like children whose toy has been stolen. They set about the other man on the ground, who soon ceased moving completely.
“How long will we have to wait here doing nothing?” asked a legionary angrily. His nearest comrade put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from getting up.
“They are too many of them for us, I tell you,” explained Iorus, “and I have no intention of playing the hero with the hides of my men. Keep your anger for when it is needed.” He grasped the hilt of his dagger and squeezed it hard to release the tension. He knew the reinforcements would arrive, but probably not in time to rescue the civilian population. And his legionaries knew it too, because they were all watching the same scene.
A gust of wind opened up a breach in the cloud that had enveloped the village: a woman with a child in her arms tried to escape the flames that had invaded her home by jumping from one of the openings the fire had spared. Her burden was heavy, though, and being barely able to drag herself forward, the woman attracted the attention of one of the attackers who was amusing himself with what remained of a gutted corpse. The woman saw him and tried to move faster, but the soldier caught up with her and pushed her to the ground; she hugged the baby desperately, trying to shield him, but the child had begun to cry with fear.
The Gaul circled her, prodding at her with the tip of his sword, then spat on the floor several times and started shouting something in his dialect so loudly that some words even reached the ears of the Romans.
“What’s he saying?” asked the centurion. The soldiers remained silent. “If that kid wasn’t just sat there like a pigeon on a rock, we’d know,” he commented as he glanced at the lookout beneficiarius. In the light of the latest developments of the assault, his position had become dangerous. Anyone else would have turned back but Lucretius remained there, protected by the rock and his dark sagum, with his eyes on the village. “By the gods, never let it be said that he has no guts. If he reached out, he could practically touch them.”
Suddenly the Gaul swung his sword at the woman, striking her in her side. The recipient of the blow was meant to be the child, but the mother, with a movement dictated by instinct, managed to protect it. Unfortunately, the gesture was pointless. The Gaul approached and struck again. The child’s head lolled backwards and the woman began to scream. A soldier on horseback galloped up, brandishing a double-edged axe that gleamed in the moonlight like the tip of a silver banner. There was the sound of a sword striking something, and then silence returned. From his post, Lucretius nodded. He asked to be able to advance further. He had spotted another higher rock and he wanted to reach it.
“Forget it,” Iorus said, making a negative gesture with his hand. “You two go and get him back before he does something silly. And leave your swords here – you lot make more noise when you walk than the vestals of Juno during the matronalia.”
Two legionaries unfastened their belts and set off towards the beneficiarius’ location. At that moment a squad of horsemen approached the woman’s corpse to examine the remains. They prodded the child’s body with the tips of their spears, accompanying their gestures with loud laughter. Then, with his hand and the tip of his spear, one of them made a wide gesture that took in the brushland around them. The others nodded and then all set off in the direction of Marcus Lucretius’s hideout.
*
When the two legionaries arrived at the rocky ridge where Lucretius had hidden himself, the beneficiarius motioned to them to keep low.
“They’re coming this way. I don’t think they’ve seen us, but if they keep poking around, sooner or later they will.”
“So what do we do?” one of the new arrivals asked.
“We get out of here, what do you think?”
“I realise that,” replied the legionary, “but which way?”
Lucretius observed the movements of the horsemen. They were approaching slowly and the path that could have taken him back to his companions’ hideout was directly in their field of vision.
“If we take the path they’ll discover us, but above all, they’ll discover the ditch where the others are hidden.”
“So?”
He could hear the growing nervousness in the voice of one of the legionaries.
The horsemen were now just a few steps from the ridge. It was necessary to decide quickly.
The beneficiarius took a deep breath. “Come with me,” he said, and emerged from cover to set along the only escape route available. The one that led to the village.
Using the shadow cast by the palisades as a guide, the three Roman soldiers moved away from the ridge. A few moments later the Gallic horsemen were there, circling the rock and examining the path that led up to the rise. Fortunately, they noticed nothing to cause them to continue along it – not even the footprints of their shoes that Lucretius could see from where he was now hiding. The night could be an excellent ally at times.
The Gauls exchanged a few words. One of them wanted to continue up the path, while the others preferred to return to plunder the village. In the end this second hypothesis prevailed and the patrol returned to the plain, passing once again by the ridge. This time, however, the darkness failed to hide the shred of cloth that a ledge of rock had torn from the sagum of one of the soldiers who accompanied Lucretius.
The young beneficiarius had only a few moments to decide. He grabbed a branch with both hands. “They will come towards us now. I will lead them towards the village and you will return to the hideout to warn the centurion that they might have discovered us. He will know what to do.” One of the legionaries was about to protest, but the crack of the branch snapping made him change his mind. The Gauls were approaching.
*
Lucretius made his way along a narrow path towards the village. He avoided the main entrances and hid in the curtain of smoke that rose more densely near the stables. When he was a few yards from the first houses, he saw a horseman who was talking with a footsoldier. Judging from his garb, he must be a big man in that gang of bare-chested headsplitters. He wore a brown woollen robe held around his waist by a rope belt and a fringed cloak attached at the shoulder with an iron fibula. His right hand grasped tightly the hilt of a sword which rested in an iron sheath, while his left held a modestly sized wooden shield and a pair of spears. His thick reddish beard and the long disorderly hair that fell over his face hid most of his features. His blue eyes moved feverishly as the man on foot pointed to a spot in the bushes. The crackling of the flames, the screams and the cries of the other soldiers intent on massacring the defenceless population made it impossible to hear what the two men were saying.
Lucretius looked around him. As he tried to make his way through the smoke, he wondered where the scout who had found the shred of the sagum had gone. Suddenly he saw that he was about to join the two soldiers who were guarding one of the entrances to the village. If he managed to talk to them he would spread the alarm and Iorus would find himself with an entire army on his heels, so he calculated the distance that separated him from the Celt and the distance that separated his target from his companions. He must reach him first, stop him and prevent the others from witnessing the scene – but a it would take a miracle.
“Mars,” he whispered, taking a deep breath, “if you get me out of this, I promise to sacrifice to you the biggest bull you’ve ever seen.”
The divine assistance he had invoked presented itself in the form of a young farmer who suddenly appeared behind the soldiers on guard duty. He struck one of them with his staff, barely scratching him, but his gesture helped to attract the attention of both who, for a moment, turned their backs on their approaching comrade. Lucretius took the opportunity to race over to the Celt. He put one hand over his mouth and with the other gave the man a quick, clinical stab with his dagger at the base of the neck, at the same time dragging him around the corner of a hut. The road was clear.
Lucretius found himself trapped in a dead-end and embracing a corpse, with his nostrils full of the breath of enemy soldiers, acrid and intense and carried in the smoke by the wind.
“Perhaps it’ll take two bulls.”
*
“Where’s the beneficiarius?” Iorus asked the two legionaries who were dragging themselves up the path with a worried look.
The soldiers told the centurion of the Celtic patrol and the diversion Lucretius had created to lead them off the track. “He told us to go back,” one of the legionaries said, “and then he headed for the village. In the end we lost sight of him but he ordered us not to follow him and to come to warn you.”
Iorus nodded. The risk of being discovered was now very high and there was little hope of reinforcements arriving from the camp.
“Keep a sharp lookout. At the slightest movement, get your weapons and gear and scatter yourselves in the bush,” the centurion ordered. “They will find your tracks but in order to chase you, they will have to split up.”
He knelt in front of the bag containing the helmets, found his own and fumbled for a few moments to remove the crest of red feathers, then put it on and pulled up the hood of the sagum up to hide its gleam. He checked his belt and grasped the handle of his sword, testing its blade before putting it back in its sheath, then stood up and headed for the path, turning one last time to look at his men. In the sky the stars had stopped shining, almost completely obscured by the huge mushroom of smoke rising from the village. The few male voices and moans from the village played counterpoint to the numerous female screams. The dance of death was in its final phases, and this only added to the centurion’s worries. Soldiers are like animals – when they finish killing they want to mark their territory, and they can only do that in one way: with systematic rape. In such situations their inhibitions are cancelled out and their senses are sharpened to the maximum. It was, in short, a nightmare.
“Do exactly as I order,” said Iorus. “Understood?”
The legionaries all responded affirmatively but one of them took a step forward. “Where are you going?”
“To get Marcus Lucretius back, obviously. I have no intention of leaving a beneficiarius in the hands of a gang of bumpkins who grunt like wild boars.”
*
“There’s no need to be angry about it. It was just a lovers’ tiff.”
Lucretius smiled stupidly and blinked a couple of times. Jaws clenched, the three Gauls in front of him continued to advance.
The young beneficiarius looked down at the corpse in his arms. The wide-open eyes stared emptily at him as though from behind a translucent veil. The wooden wall, at least a couple of pertica high, that he felt against his back continued to the right and left seemingly without interruption, and the only way out was blocked by three large wildmen, the first wielding a double-headed axe and twisting his wrists so that the blades spun around in a flickering play of iron and light that drew luminescent arcs in the air. The second hid behind a massive rectangular shield painted green and with a silver snake-shaped boss in the centre; in his free hand he held a sword nearly three feet long which was so heavy that the tip was resting on the ground. The third had his arms folded but above his shoulders protruded the hilts of two swords, studded with precious stones. The blades came down to his knees and, judging by the way they glinted, must have been forged of the finest iron.
Lucretius turned to the corpse as if it could hear him. “Forgive me,” he said without ever losing sight of the movements of his three adversaries, “but you never mentioned that you were friends with these apes.”
In the distance, female screams and angry cries could still be heard. The clanging of weapons, on the other hand, seemed to have subsided, signifying that the men of the village were no longer in any condition to pose a threat and that the Gauls were now celebrating with the women.
“If you don’t mind,” the Roman soldier said, shifting from Latin to the local dialect, “we’d like to be on our way.” While he tried to distract his opponents, his eyes flickered feverishly about, exploring the perimeter of the alley.
The barbarian on the left reached for the hilts of the two swords attached to his back and, with a rapid movement accompanied by a sort of roar, he extracted them and held them up in front of the Roman, a signal that also caused the other two to advance.
“I understand,” Lucretius said, shoving the corpse aside, “you’re still not convinced.” He threw back a corner of his sagum and pulled out his dagger. “Let me try to explain myself better.” He weighed in his hand the small shimmering blade that, compared to the weapons flaunted by the adversaries, looked like a needle among knives, “although it won’t be easy.”
The Gauls were now about ten paces away. They moved slowly, certain they had their prey in their hands, and continued to play with the weapons which, despite their size and weight, looked like bramble twigs in their huge hands.
“If only I had my sword and a couple of spears,” Lucretius hissed, gritting his teeth, “you wouldn’t be so bold then.” Slowly, he leaned forward. “That accursed centurion,” he cursed, “if only…”
He only saw the movement of the blade when the double-headed axe had already left the hands of its owner: after having whirled it around several times, the barbarian’s outstretched arm had hurled it like a lance. Lucretius’s eyes widened and he stretched his neck muscles as far as they would go, moving his shoulder only slightly. It was just enough to let the blade fly past at a finger’s width from his ear, severing a lock of his hair. The weapon crashed into the wall behind him and fell noisily to the ground.
“You could have hurt me, you know?” exclaimed the beneficiarius reproachfully. The barbarian seemed annoyed that he had missed his target, and prepared for another attempt. He clasped the other axe with both hands, stood in front of his companions and gave a scream mixed with some unintelligible monosyllables. The others retreated to give him space.
The beneficiarius picked up the fallen axe. “Thanks friend. Now we can talk on an equal footing.” When he tried to lift the weapon, though, an expression of surprise appeared on his face. By Mitra, it weighs a ton,” he said, letting it fall to the ground. “I will never understand why you prefer these things,” he said, as the barbarian rushed at him, “to weapons that are undoubtedly lighter and more reliable.” He spun about and reappeared behind his opponent, who now found himself facing the wall. His surprise was accentuated when the blade of the Roman dagger pierced his side and plunged into his bowels. The barbarian fell to his knees and Lucretius turned to the other two with a grin.
“Who’s next?”
His opponents did wait for him to ask again. The first raised his shield in front of his body and began to advance with small steps while the one who had been playing with the swords stopped so that the blades pointed straight at his target.
A sword struck at him, slashing him at the height of his spleen, the impact sending him crashing against the wall, and the barbarian exulted while the Roman winced with pain. He put his hand to his ribs, breathed deeply a couple of times and then rose slowly. The two Gauls exchanged an incredulous look. With a grimace painted on his face, Lucretius raised his sagum where the enemy had struck. The rings of his lorica hamata chain mail sparkled for a few moments in the dim light. “It’s called armour,” he said, “and it serves to protect you.” The two barbarians remained immobile. “You don’t understand, do you?” he added. “That doesn’t surprise me. That is why we are the conquerors and you the conquered.”
They were the last words he spoke before the two barbarians jumped on him. The Roman soldier found himself on the ground with the weight of two huge men pressing down on his chest. One hand blocked his neck while another gripped the wrist that held the dagger and twisted it. The pop that followed was the sound of the bone being wrenched out of position.
Lucretius screamed in pain but another hand covered his mouth. He felt the cold metal of a blade between his neck and his left shoulder blade. The barbarian pushed down sadistically without cutting in order to make his death even more painful. The man’s dark, liquid eyes looked at him with satisfaction but then, suddenly opened wide and remained immobile, staring at him.
“Don’t tell me,” the Roman coughed, “that you’ve had second thoughts.”
The barbarian who had broken his wrist spun around as the other fell backward. Iorus’s silhouette appeared behind them, in his hand a sword that dripped blood.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked, as he gave the surviving barbarian a kick under his chin. Lucretius acted instinctively and as the man fell onto his back, he retrieved his dagger with his other hand and stuck it in the Gaul’s throat.
“Sooner or later you are going to have to learn to use even the enemy’s weapons or you’ll be in trouble,” the centurion commented adjusting the hood of his sagum on his forehead.
“How long were you intending to wait before you intervened?” asked the beneficiarius, getting slowly to his feet. “Were you enjoying the show? Look at the state I’m in. And I think I’ve got a broken wrist too.”
“You’re still a recruit,” said the centurion, turning to peer down the alley. “I wanted to see how you would handle it.”
Lucretius wiped the enemy blood from his tunic.
“Alone against three giants who were twice my size? And what was your impression, centurion?”
“My impression is that you complain too much, lad,” Iorus declared. “And now stay behind me.”
The two soldiers advanced through the darkness, proceeding along the palisades. Their shadows merged with those of the few huts left standing while the smoke began to thin. The Gauls had completed the bulk of the work, because there were no longer any human voices to be heard, only bellowing and neighing.
“How did you find me?” asked the beneficiarius.
Iorus nodded towards a corpse which was lying the corner of the street. “I asked around.”
They arrived at the end of the road and found themselves in a clearing dominated by a granite stele completely covered with engravings and decorations. Before their eyes was a terrifying sight. The few fortunate villagers who had died fighting had been dragged into what must have been the religious centre of the settlement and lain one on top of another like sacks of grain. The others had been impaled and arranged in parallel rows – but to judge by the condition of the bodies, their executioners had experimented upon them with truly imaginative tortures before granting their victims death.
Busy plundering the corpses of bracelets, necklaces and rings, the Gauls did not notice the two Romans as they slipped behind them.
“By the gods,” whispered Iorus, “look what they’ve done…”
“Neither more nor less than we do,” was the beneficiarius’s laconic response. “With the only difference being that they did it to their brothers.”
“That’s no small difference,” replied the officer, “but I’m in no mood for a debate. We have to get out of here.”
“If only we knew how.”
“I thought ahead,” said the centurion, inviting his companion to follow him, “I marked the way.” With a wave of his hand he pointed to the long trail of corpses that vanished among the huts.
“Ingenious,” Lucretius agreed, as he fell to his knees with exhaustion. “Though they might not agree.”
Soldiers on horseback suddenly appeared from the sides of the street. At a quick glance there must have been at least fifty of them, and they didn’t look particularly happy with the treatment the centurion had meted out to their companions.
“Maybe we should change route,” said Iorus.
“Very wise,” replied Lucretius approvingly, turning around. “Though perhaps slightly too late.”
From behind came another group of horsemen as numerous as the one in front of them.
Iorus clenched his fists. “Give me one reason to not regret having come to save you.”
Lucretius stood up. “Our two main escape routes are blocked,” he said, looking around them, “but if you look through what used to be a window to your right, you’ll see that on the other side there is the forest. This,” he added as the Gallic riders began to advance in formation,” means that if we allow them to come to meet us a little more and then throw ourselves through it, they won’t have time to come after us but will have to go all the way around.”
“Unless there is someone waiting for us on the other side,” the centurion pointed out.
“Unfortunately, I am no sibyl.”
“That is fortunate. You would make a truly hideous one.”
The two Romans grasped their swords and stood back to back.
“Try to look convincing,” said Iorus, “you must insult them enough to make them angry. They are animals, and if we anger them they will charge us, and if they charge us they won’t be able to stop in time when we slip out of their way.”
“Don’t worry,” the beneficiarus replied, “despite my young age, I have frequented the finest taverns in the Republic.”
Iorus began to shout a series of insults at the horsemen in front of him. The distance between them was still considerable, but if they decided to charge they would cover it in a matter of moments. The centurion continued to bellow and wave his sword, but in response the barbarians only burst out laughing.
“Why are they laughing? Are they mocking us?”
“They’re mocking you – you’re insulting them in Latin. You could stand here shouting at them until dawn without getting a rise out of them.” The beneficiarius assumed a challenging position. “Watch how it’s done.”
He shouted four words – but they were enough to illuminate the faces of their enemies with rage.
The horsemen behind them spurred their horses into a gallop and began to spit blasphemies while they swung their swords above their heads, drawing invisible circles in the air. Those in front of them imitated their comrades.
“What language was that?” asked Iorus, pulling down his hood. “It sounded like you had a toad in your throat.”
“I used one of their most common dialects.”
“And what did you say to infuriate them like that?”
“Nothing special.” Following the example of his officer, he pulled down his hood to see better. “I just said that in recent times I have known all their sisters. In their language the verb ‘to know’ has several different meanings, and I used the most convincing of them.”
“Get ready,” said Iorus, “on my signal we jump. And may the gods help us.”
To calculate the distances, the centurion took as a reference point the horsemen who carried the torches. He stared almost mesmerised at the movement of the flames tracing strange Arabesque patterns in the air. On the other side Lucretius shrugged. “If we wait much longer I’ll have their hooves in my teeth.”
The centurion took a deep breath and nudged his companion. “Now!” he shouted, throwing himself sideways.
The Gauls were taken completely by surprise, and found themselves suddenly charging towards one another. With crashing hooves and loud calls to their steeds, they managed to stop before impact, raising a huge cloud of dust that for a few moments covered the Romans’ escape. When the dense cloud of earth and ash cleared, the two soldiers were already inside the house.
“Hurry up or we’ll have them on us again,” said the centurion, jumping over the remains of scorched furniture. He stepped through another opening, dodging stones and corpses until his leg muscles hurt, then raced through a hole that had once been a door and quickly scanned the exterior. Nothing seemed to be moving in the expanse of dark flat grass that preceded the thick bush.
“Everything seems quiet for the moment. Do you feel up to running?”
“Yes,” said the beneficiarius, breathing loudly. “But what then? Do you think they won’t be able to find us in the woods?”
“They probably will, but they won’t be able to charge us, and we’re lighter than they are. Let’s go.” But then he stopped. “What was that?”
“What was what? I didn’t hear anything.” The beneficiarius gave him a shove. “Come on, let’s go.”
“You might have better eyesight than me, but I definitely have better ears than you. I heard something.”
A cry. Prolonged and shrill. Both men heard it this time.
“There! Do you hear it now?” asked the centurion.
“Yes. Given what has happened around here in the last few hours, the most probable hypothesis is that it is someone who is dying. And another probable hypothesis is that we’ll be following them if we stand here debating.”
“That’s not the voice of a man nor the moan of a woman. It sounds more like a…”
“A cow? A sheep? A sow? Do you really want to die for some animal you would quite happily eat?”
The cry sounded again.
“It’s not an animal. It sounds more like… a child.”
Lucretius followed the centurion’s gaze. Iorus approached a pile of rubble that was topped with a beam from a collapsed roof. He looked past the obstacle and froze.
“Gods,” he murmured, peering at something beyond the debris. The body of a woman lay between the wall and the beam, a bloody umbilical cord emerging from her ruptured belly. He followed its coils through the stones and rubble until he came to a little boy sitting cross-legged. The umbilical cord concluded between his hands, which were slightly raised and held with their palms facing upwards. Iorus met his gaze. Two big eyes, as green as emeralds and swollen with tears, framed by a disheveled head of hair sticky with organic liquids.
“Don’t cry,” the centurion said to him in a calm voice. “Don’t cry”.
“He isn’t crying,” the beneficiarius pointed out, “he is praying in his language.” He pointed to the fetus the child had in his hands. “For that.”
The centurion moved a little closer to the boy. The tiny corpse that lay on his small hands was fully formed and its head, covered with black down, hung to one side. One eye was hidden while the other was closed. It seemed to be asleep.
“The mother must have been right about to give birth when she was killed,” the beneficiarius said. “And being unable to take the satisfaction of raping her, they killed her.”
The centurion listened in silence, then after a moment said to the child, “We’ll take you away now.”
“What?” Lucretius barked. “Don’t get any stupid ideas in your head.” The sound of stones moving clearly indicated that their pursuers were approaching. “Hurry. You can’t help him.”
Iorus knelt down until his eyes were level with those of the boy. He reached out and, very slowly, made to take the fetus. The child’s fingers tightened around the lifeless body and his eyelids narrowed to slits.
“I don’t want to hurt you, “the centurion murmured, “but you can’t do anything for them now.”
I couldn’t do anything either. I was far away, I wasn’t with her when it happened. I should have been there, but I wasn’t. I should have comforted her, kept her warm for the last time, but I didn’t. Because I was fighting for Rome. Because I’m here.
“Can you hear me? I’m here, with you. And I’ll take you away from this place. Can you hear me?”
“It’s pointless,” said Lucretius, casting worried looks around them. “He doesn’t understand you, you’re just scaring him even more.”
The centurion did not withdraw his hand but brought it closer to the child’s. The child seemed to notice for the first time that he was looking at a person. His eyes took in those dirty, calloused soldier’s fingers then continued up, following the grooves of the muscles in his arms and, after rising up the chest, the leather-padded shoulder straps and a long grey cloak with hints of blue, they stopped on Iorus’s face and, in particular, on his lips, which were pale with fatigue.
It was a thorough examination, but it only took a few moments. The boy’s fingers opened and they let the soldier take possession of the small corpse. It was then that the centurion noticed the deep cut in the child’s side.
“If we don’t take him away, he’ll die,” he said softly. “They wounded him, perhaps while they were tearing apart his mother. It looks deep and he is losing a lot of blood. He probably knows that he is going to die, but he doesn’t care, “the Roman officer whispered in amazement,” because he prefers to pray.”
He chose to stay by his dead.
“Don’t worry,” was the beneficiarius’ angry response. “We’re going to die too.”
Iorus turned around and the soldier stepped back to allow him to see what was happening outside. The Gauls on horseback had come around the palisade and placed themselves between the two Romans and their only path to safety.
Iorus turned back to the child. “I’d never have allowed my men to do anything like this,” the centurion muttered as he picked him up.
“Good for you, but I doubt you’re going to have much time to brag about it,” the beneficiarius replied.
At that moment a stone hissed through the air and one of the Gaul horsemen dropped from his saddle and fell to the ground without a sound. His companions looked in all directions to see where the threat came from. Excited orders were heard and they rapidly dispersed.
“What’s going on?” asked Iorus. The boy lay unconscious in his arms, having abandoned all his reluctance. The wound had taken away his last strength.
“See for yourself,” said the beneficiarius, pointing to the horsemen who were scouring the bushland around the village.
Iorus frowned. “Maybe our men are trying to distract them so we can escape. I told them not to try – I told them to escape, by the gods.”
“And instead of appreciating the gesture, you complain? If it’s as you say, we must hurry,” said the beneficiarius, retracing his steps. “But not this way.”
“All right,” the centurion agreed, “but he comes with us.” The centurion shifted the boy’s weight on his shoulder. The injured child did not object but a grimace of pain appeared on his face. Lucretius laid a hand on his forehead – it was burning like an ember taken from the hearth. He whispered some words in the Celtic language which sweetly accompanied the child into a half-sleep.
“You have a future, beneficiarius,” Iorus told him, “I will remember you should they throw you out of the army someday.”
Lucretius ignored him and dragged himself away from the hut. “I only did it to avoid his moans attracting attention.”
“This way,” said Iorus, following a path that snaked away and then disappeared along the outer palisade of the village. At the end of the path they found themselves in a quiet area from which they could just see the embankment from where they had set off. The path that went up the hill was within reach. They went up it at a run, while trying to keep an eye on the Gauls playing hide-and-seek with the shadows behind them.
When they reached the top, the legionaries hidden in the ditch welcomed them with smiles and pats on the back. Iorus counted several dozen. They hadn’t moved from there since he left them, so it couldn’t have been his men who had distracted the pursuers. He exchanged a glance with Lucretius and realised that the lad was thinking the same thing. There could only be one answer to that question, and it found confirmation when they turned to look towards the village.
Two squadrons of cavalry emerged from the bush and met at the centre of the valley, placing themselves between the legionaries on foot and the local horsemen and at the same time a shower of spears spread like a huge mantle over the heads of the Celts. By some trick of the light favoured by the nocturnal dimness, the mosaic of triangular iron points seemed to remain suspended for a few moments before their weight tilted the spears earthwards and they fell upon their targets like a swooping eagle. Even before the deadly weapons struck their victims, the insignia of a centuria had appeared on the battlefield accompanied by the harsh sound of a trumpet.
“How I love that sound,” roared Iorus.
The Celtic horsemen, who were certainly not trained to carry out an orderly charge, were seized with panic in the face of the situation which now faced them. Some of them lost their balance while others yanked at their reins to avoid bumping into their comrades. The auxiliary cavalry opened up like the surface of the flat sea prompted by the keel of a ship and carried out an elegant pincer manoeuvre, meaning the Celtic army now found itself having to face a triple attack from the auxiliary cavalry on the sides and from the light infantry in the centre.
It was all too much for those who had imagined spending the night raping women and killing children. The clan chieftain pulled at his reins and his horse reared up on its hind legs. He raised the hand that held his sword so that all his men could see it and then opened his fist, letting the blade fall to the ground to be swallowed up by dust and night. Surrounded, the marauders surrendered without a fight.
Iorus’s men rejoiced. After having ascertained that the hostilities had ended, the centurion hurried over to the ditch, where the boy was still lying on his side with his eyes closed. He had not regained consciousness since he had taken him away from the village. He had lost so much blood.
“A healer, quickly!” he shouted. “Prepare a litter!” He picked up the boy and handed him to a slave. “I won’t let you die,” he whispered to himself as some of the men began to build a stretcher of braided branches. He felt the presence of Lucretius by his side.
The beneficiarius appeared perplexed. “Why do you want to save his life? Many have died this night, some even younger than him.”
“I know,” answered Iorus sincerely, “but too many people are dying without me being able to do anything to prevent it.”
The beneficiarius pursed his puzzled lips: he could not understand.
Iorus pulled his sagum over his shoulder to protect himself from the cold and collapsed, exhausted, to the ground while his eyes wandered far into space and time towards a city and a house where no one was waiting for him.