Traitor Page 2

  ‘Drop your shields,’ Paulus told the men who were now forming around him. ‘Armour too. Keep your helmets on and bring a javelin. Standard-bearer, are you coming?’

  That question was because I had not moved to strip my armour. ‘I should stay with the eagle.’

  Paulus nodded, as though I knew my duty well, but then he smiled. ‘It’ll be safe enough with the rest of the cohort. Come on, our men are dying.’

  There was no heat in his words. They were simple fact, yet they burned me all the same. I had turned my back on killing, but could I also turn it on my comrades?

  No.

  And so I was running with Paulus and his forty men. He led us up one slope, into trees, and shrubs. Already my lungs were heaving. Paulus was the oldest man in the group, but he set a savage pace. He was a hound with blood in its nostrils.

  ‘Down here, men!’

  I could no longer see the fight but the sound of it still carried to us. We were on the top of a high crag. The water of the river was far below us. There was no way to be sure of its depth.

  Paulus jumped anyway.

  He disappeared from sight, then surfaced two heartbeats later.

  ‘Come!’ he shouted, and his men followed with glee. They were smiling. Some were laughing.

  I was one of the last to jump. I did not fear for my own life, but I did for anyone who would challenge me. I didn’t want to kill, but was I ready to lie down and die?

  I jumped. Took a breath. Hit the water hard. It was warm, but this was no friendly embrace. I came up coughing, choking, and swimming. Hands of comrades reached down to pull me up the bank.

  ‘Come on, standard-bearer!’ A young soldier was grinning. ‘Let’s kill the bastards!’

  Paulus took a javelin from one of his men. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  And then he was leading his hungry troop towards the ford, and the high ground of the archers.

  Paulus crested the ridge. An arrow zipped by his head. They’d been ready for us, and one of our men dropped to the floor with a shaft quivering in his face.

  ‘Kill them!’ Paulus roared. He threw his javelin. I heard a scream.

  And then I was running with the rest of them. My teeth were gritted. My sword was sheathed. I heard a wet slap and a grunt of air as another soldier was hit. I knelt beside him. There was an arrow in his heart, and no life in his eyes.

  ‘Kill them!’ Paulus demanded. ‘Kill them all!’

  But I could not. I would not. Instead I moved between the dead and the dying.

  A rebel with a gushing leg wound – he would be dead in moments.

  A Roman with a hole in his guts – he might last for days.

  There was fear in the eyes of some, acceptance in the gaze of others.

  ‘Standard-bearer!’ one man gasped. ‘Will you wait with me while I die?’

  He was older than me. A true veteran. He had seen and given enough death to know that he could not survive his wound. Ropes of intestine pushed out of the gash in his stomach. He panted, and bit down against the pain. That I was with him gave him comfort. Not because I was a fellow man, but because I was a symbol of our legion. A symbol of Rome.

  I could see that he wanted to speak. He wanted to die well.

  But the pain was too great.

  I held his hand. He gripped it with brutal force.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I told him, because I was not the hero he thought I was.

  His breaths became short, shallow and rapid.

  By the time he’d died, the ford had been cleared. It had become just another skirmish in a war without end.

  Chapter 3

  The legion spilled me out in Siscia, a town on the confluence of two deep rivers. In the distance there were mountains, but here there were plains wide enough to encamp an army. Many legions had gathered. Auxiliary units, too. They were all visitors – the army that Tiberius had intended for war against a king in the north, but that he must now turn against his own subjects. Before Rome’s borders could be expanded, dissent within the Empire must be crushed.

  After seeing to Gallus and my horse, I left camp and went deep into the town. I heard the clanging of iron and steel. It almost sounded like war, but the noise was just a blacksmith doing battle with his forge. I stopped, and looked at the sparks. The man felt my eyes.

  ‘Help you, sir?’ His Latin was poor. He believed this was why I did not reply. He asked again. He did not know what I was thinking. What I was plotting. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered in the local dialect. ‘You can help me.’

  And as he did I wandered the town. The streets were thick with men and voices. Proud Romans, flame-haired Gauls and broad-chested Germans. Some spoke Latin, but all laughed in their own language. Soldiers from across an empire were gathered here. If they felt hesitation at what was to come, and who they were to fight, then they hid it well. Rather, they slapped each other on the shoulders, grabbed the arses of slave girls, and tried to drink a town dry.

  There were places like this wherever borders met, wherever armies gathered, and men spoke of the great deeds they would soon perform. It was hard to call this place the calm before a storm, as there was nothing calm about the army’s drinking. Better to think of it as a man’s roar for courage before diving deep into an angry sea.

  I returned to the blacksmith. He had what I needed. What Arminius wanted. It was insurance, and I deposited it beneath a loose floorboard in the camp, and thought of what I must do next, because I had come to Siscia for a reason. For a promise.

  And I would keep it.

  * * *

  Before the battle on the mountain, I had received word from the beloved wife of a dearest comrade, Brutus. He had been my first section commander when I joined the legions. I’d had my first taste of war by his side, though it was a taste that left him near crippled, and I had never forgiven myself for not being faster that day. It was Brutus who had always wanted to be the standard-bearer. It was he who should be carrying the eagle now.

  The message I had received from Lulmire, his wife, had been cryptic.

  ‘She said that you must come back with the eagle,’ the dispatch rider had said. Nothing more than that. I assumed that it meant that Brutus was dead.

  Though invalided from service years ago, he had come to the battlefield when half of our legion faced down a rebel force marching on Italia, but it had cost my friend a second wound. He had come to the aid of the eagle, and even held it for a moment before he was cut down in the vicious fighting. I had been trying to pull Brutus from the carnage when I stumbled, and reached out to steady myself. My hand had grasped the eagle. That became my walking stick, and all mistook necessity for gallantry – I had been given a new rank, and Brutus had been given a death sentence. He was over forty years old, and I did not expect him to survive a wound so inviting for the putrefaction that claimed the lives of so many.

  My old comrade was a believer in Rome. A worshipper of the legions. I expected that his dying wish would be that I plant the eagle by his tomb, no matter how briefly. First I needed to know where my friend’s ashes would be buried, and so I pushed deeper into the town, into the poor neighbourhoods where the locals and invalided veterans lived tightly together.

  I found his door, but not my courage – until I heard the words from Lulmire’s lips, there was still hope for him. Brutus could still be alive…

  How he would have loved to have seen this army. This gathering of might and majesty.

  I let out a breath and a rare prayer – not only for my friend, but that the sight of Tiberius’s massive force would be enough to end the war without need for battle. Enough men had died, and now I prepared myself to say my goodbye to another.

  I knocked on the door.

  It opened.

  I should have known that he would be waiting for me.

  * * *

  I stared into a hard face. My hands trembled.

  And then I smiled.

  ‘You’re not dead!’

  ‘I’m
a killer, that’s why.’ Brutus grinned. ‘Killers don’t die so easily.’

  I threw my arms around him. It was meant as an embrace, but we nearly went to the floor.

  ‘Careful!’ my old friend shouted. ‘My balance isn’t what it used to be.’

  I looked down as he rested a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Your leg’s gone…’

  ‘My, Corvus, what powerful skills of observation you have! Have you considered becoming a scout?’

  I stared at the empty space where a thick leg had once been. Brutus had changed a lot since I’d first met him, in body at least. His shoulders had been wide, and muscular. A wound had seen to that. And now his leg.

  ‘You’re running out of body parts.’

  ‘I only need one.’ The veteran winked. ‘Right Lulmire?’

  His young wife was standing in the room’s corner. She was slight and dark haired, born to this region. ‘Yes, you need your arse to speak out of.’

  Brutus bellowed out a laugh. ‘See how good her Latin’s getting? Sit, Corvus. Sit. Lulmire, could you please…?’

  She left for wine. Brutus sat, and I saw his smile slip.

  I had come alone.

  ‘The others?’

  I shook my head. There was no big show of grief. No fight to hold back tears. It felt as though emotion for them had been cut out of me.

  ‘Octavius died saving his men,’ I told him.

  ‘Varo?’

  ‘Missing.’

  We both knew what that meant. Capture. Torture. Death.

  ‘I thought you’d be gone, too,’ I told him honestly. ‘The message. “Come back with the eagle.” I thought you were dead.’

  ‘No, I was alive, you doubter. I just didn’t want the shame of having someone I trained lose an eagle, that was all. Don’t look at me like that, Corvus! I was quite delirious, I imagine. I shouldn’t have doubted you.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  ‘I knew you’d live,’ Brutus said instead. ‘I’ve seen men like you, brother. You’re hard to kill. Harder still to control.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘What have you heard?’

  Brutus shrugged. ‘You know how it is in a camp town. Nothing travels faster than rumours. I hear you’ve been going from fight to fight, and you’re never seen with the legion command.’

  ‘You can’t fight from a campaign tent.’

  I felt Lulmire appear in the doorway, then retreat. There was a presence in the room. An unspoken question. Brutus could see something in me. Here, he was offering me the chance to say what it was.

  ‘You’ve always been there for me, Corvus.’

  The unspoken: let me be there for you.

  But I was a soldier.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He stared.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  And so he let me keep my secrets, and what I thought was my honour.

  ‘All right then, Corvus. Let’s drink some wine, and then…’

  ‘And then?’

  My old friend flashed the smile that I have missed so much. ‘And then how would you like to do your friend one last favour?’

  * * *

  On his crutches, Brutus followed me through the streets and back towards camp.

  ‘I can come back with a cart?’ I offered again.

  ‘Say that one more time and I’ll ram this crutch so far up your arse your tongue will get splinters.’ He said it with laughter, but there was pain behind the eyes. I knew why.

  ‘You still miss it.’

  ‘Of course,’ the veteran admitted. ‘Who wouldn’t want to be marching out with this army?’

  Me. But I said nothing.

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ my friend told me.

  ‘You’ve said that three times already.’

  ‘Well anyway, thank you for doing it.’

  ‘Four.’

  Brutus grinned. He looked like a besotted child. ‘Sorry. I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s my first time since…’

  Old comrades flashed into my mind. ‘Octavius would have a great day with that set-up.’

  But Octavius was dead. They were all dead.

  ‘You haven’t told me about Marcus…’ Brutus ventured.

  ‘Marcus is alive.’

  ‘And he has quite a reputation…’

  ‘We’re almost at the gate,’ I replied quickly, the thought of Marcus burning my chest. ‘Let me do the talking.’

  Camp security had been tightened since the beginning of the rebellion, but those in uniform came and went readily from the camp’s gates. Camp followers, on the other hand, were to be kept outside of the walls, and there was no way of mistaking a one-legged man as a serving soldier. Thankfully it was no hard thing for me to convince the officer of the watch to allow Brutus to enter.

  ‘Perks of knowing the standard-bearer.’ Brutus smiled as we entered beneath the gate. ‘All right lads?’ He beamed at the men standing guard. ‘Gods, they look young. I was on the fort walls when they were in their dad’s balls,’ he giggled to himself.

  ‘You look happy,’ I said, glad for it.

  ‘I’m alive, I have a great woman, and a great friend. Of course I’m happy.’

  We didn’t say much else as we made our way to the centre of the camp. I could see that Brutus was drunk on nostalgia, drinking in the details of the place he had once called home, and the soldiers that he had called brothers. Security grew tighter the further we moved into the camp, but I was known, and my reputation allowed us to pass until we reached the principia – the headquarters building of our legion. Brutus had served in the legion for many years, but he was one of the faceless line soldiers who were unknown to those at the centre and head of five thousand men.

  With nods to guards and clerks, and a few salutes and quiet words to officers, I led Brutus through the corridors of the legion’s brain, and to a small window that looked out over a courtyard.

  ‘Is he here?’ Brutus spoke quickly.

  I pointed.

  There was a table in the courtyard, around which sat a gaggle of conversing officers. At their head was a man with a narrow jaw and proud chin. His face was somehow grim, yet his posture patient.

  ‘Tiberius…’ Brutus gushed.

  Tiberius. The leader of this army. Heir to Augustus, and favoured son of Rome. ‘He’s visiting each of the camps,’ I told Brutus.

  He was beyond awe. ‘He will be my emperor, one day.’

  And that was as close as Brutus would get to him. The truth of war and armies is that most men never stand within a javelin’s throw of their commander. Words and private audiences are for the lucky, the condemned, or the gallant few. Brutus had suffered for Rome – given a limb for Rome – but that was to be expected. It was his duty, and one that he should be thankful for. In Rome’s eyes, it was Brutus who was in debt to the Empire and his commander. But if he was angry or resentful about that, then Brutus did a poor job of showing it.

  ‘Tiberius…’ he said again.

  Brutus was looking at a near-deity. An ideal. To him, Tiberius was the embodiment of virtue and martial honour. A ruined shoulder and an amputated leg were not enough. I could see that Brutus would give this man his life without question or doubt.

  There were tears in his eyes. When I led him away from the headquarters building, he embraced me.

  ‘Thank you, Corvus.’ He squeezed me. ‘Thank you. I didn’t ever think I could be as proud as when I held an eagle in battle, but… but that was one of the greatest moments of my life.’

  I saw the truth of it in his eyes. Had I ever seen such joy? Such purpose?

  Perhaps I was the one who was wrong. Wrong about everything.

  ‘Corvus, are you all right?’

  My friend’s hand was on my shoulder. Brutus had been a leader to me. A mentor. A father. A brother. A comrade. He had been all these things and more, and now I realised that I had come to Siscia with the hope that he lived, and the hope that I could unburden myself to him. I wanted to tell someone. I wante
d to tell someone everything…

  But Brutus was a servant of Rome. More than that, he was a believer in Rome. A true believer in its laws, its wars, its will, and its right to dominate all the world.

  I could no more explain myself to him than I could to Tiberius.

  ‘Everything is all right,’ I lied. ‘Everything is all right.’

  * * *

  We walked back through the town in silence. I was saddened, he was awed. The journey to the camp had tired him, but on the return, having seen Tiberius, it was as though Brutus had wings, not crutches. And yet…

  Our steps slowed. The sound of our footfall was heavy. Every one echoed through the streets like a drumbeat of the condemned. We both knew what was coming at the end of this journey. A goodbye. A hard one.

  Our pace was a crawl, now.

  We were talking, and yet we were silent. We were saying everything, yet saying nothing at all. The sun was setting in the sky, and on our friendship. Brutus was about to be lost to me as finally as the others were to the mountains.

  We reached his door. It had been a long road.

  I expected he would make a joke. That is the soldier’s way. Instead he chose the path of the mentor, and bid me place my hand in his.

  His grey eyes were slate. They searched mine. My old friend was inviting me to speak, but I had only silence.

  ‘Corvus, you have never lied to me before. Whatever you’re going to do, do it well, and be careful.’

  I saw it then. One last favour, he had said. My emperor, not ours.

  My brother had known me all along.

  I let go of his hand and threw my arms around his shoulders. We stood this way until the sun was gone and the sky was black.

  It is better to say goodbye in darkness.

  Chapter 4

  I was lost in the eyes of the eagle. I was tied to this totem, as was every other man who had fought and died and killed beneath its gaze.

  A part of me had remained with Brutus. The part of me that had thought the legion was the antidote for pain, and loss.