Traitor Page 4

  ‘I’m sorry about him,’ Jolka apologised when the old man stepped aside to piss.

  ‘Don’t be.’ The truth was that I was enjoying the company, and the distraction.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’ I said to Jaro as he rejoined us on the trail.

  He quickly looked from me to his daughter.

  ‘It’s about prisoners of war,’ I assured him. ‘Roman ones. Do you know where they’d be taken?’

  Jaro chuckled darkly. ‘This isn’t the kind of land that takes prisoners, matey. At least not back in my day.’

  ‘Are there slave markets? Places that they’d be taken?’

  ‘Slave markets on the coast, sure.’ He narrowed his eyes then. ‘You won’t get much for me, son, so do us both a favour and kill me now if that’s what’s on your mind.’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Oh, he knows I’m joking.’

  ‘I was just thinking of a friend of mine,’ I said, ‘called Varo.’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Well, I’d try not to, if I was you. He’s probably dead. Best if he is, to be quite honest.’

  This time, Jolka simply sighed and shook her head.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh, you know, the things you hear.’

  My stomach tightened. ‘What kind of things?’

  There was sadness in his eyes. Pity. ‘We have nothing to do with this, you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The man sucked at a tooth before answering. ‘There’s a Pannonian by the name of Ziva. Word came around that if you can get your hands on a Roman, he pays a good bounty for them.’

  At the thought of an enemy, my hand moved with instinct to a sword that was no longer on my hip.

  ‘No need for that, young man.’ Jaro smiled. ‘We’re walking the road together, are we not?’

  * * *

  That journey came to an end two days later, in the shadow of tall mountains.

  ‘Come with us,’ Jolka tried again. The road had made friends of us.

  ‘He can’t do that, dear,’ Jaro answered sadly. ‘They’ll crucify him if they find him. Get up in the mountains, Corvus. That’s where I’d be if I didn’t have legs of stone.’

  Jaro and his daughter would follow roads to the coast. ‘We’ve got our meeting point,’ the refugee told me again, seeing the worry in my look. ‘Safety in numbers, Corvus. Don’t worry, there’ll be a lot of us, and we’ll be safe when we get closer to the coast. The war’s in the mountains, now.’

  ‘Which is why he should come with us,’ Jolka tried.

  ‘He can’t, darling. There’ll be Roman patrols, and checkpoints. We’ll be all right, but a man his age?’ He smiled at her, then to me. ‘No. No, I’m afraid, no, but I’m glad that our paths crossed. I hope we meet again, young man.’

  I hugged Jolka, then shook Jaro’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Until we meet again, Emperor Augustus.’ I stiffened to attention and threw him a quivering salute.

  Jaro laughed. Jolka smiled.

  I walked into the mountains alone.

  Chapter 7

  I am in a field of bones. Tens of thousands of them. White, and gleaming.

  I walk for hours. Days. I see cliff faces sheer and slick with blood. I walk up, up into the mountains. There are bones, and skulls, and silence.

  Absolute silence.

  At the top of the mountain there is a table.

  At the table there is an old friend. There is a brother.

  ‘Corvus.’ Marcus smiles. ‘Please. Sit.’

  I want to kill him. I want to hug him. Instead, I sit.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he tells me.

  I study his face. It is not the lined mask of the killer in the mountains. It is the shining, open smile of the young man who would have us conquer the world.

  I want to speak.

  I can’t.

  Marcus pours us wine.

  ‘To us,’ he toasts.

  ‘I’m dreaming.’

  He drinks. ‘And what are dreams?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Dreams are messages, brother. Dreams are truth.’

  ‘You said that I was not your brother…’

  ‘I was angry.’

  He is not angry now. I want to be.

  ‘Marcus…’

  ‘I have made mistakes,’ he says, and stands. He is smiling. He is making no apology, and when I try to ask for one I find leather stitches through my lips.

  Marcus speaks instead. ‘You lost her, brother, but don’t you see what you gained? If she had been in your life you never would have come to the legions. You never would have known Brutus, Priscus, Octavius and Varo. Do they mean that little to you? Of course not.’ He is still smiling. ‘Yes, I took Beatha, but I gave you many brothers in return.’

  He sits and looks at me. His eyes are patient. A calm, warm sea. ‘Mothers die in childbirth, do they not? Do we hate the father for what he did to her, or love the child that comes from the mother’s sacrifice? Yes, I played a part, but Beatha made a sacrifice, Corvus. In her death you found meaning. You found brotherhood. Service. Honour.’

  I can’t speak.

  ‘What use were you to the world in Iadar? In the legion, you shaped not only your own life, but the world. I feel like you should give me some thanks, brother.’

  Instead I give him silence. My lips are sewn.

  Marcus shakes his head with sadness. ‘But now look at where we are. You are wasting your lover’s sacrifice, Corvus. Beatha is gone, and because you were thinking of her instead of war, you have lost brothers that you could have saved.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder. Sighs in disappointment. ‘And now you would desert me? Lose me, too? The only brother that you have left?’

  I force myself to speak, feeling the stitches tearing my lips.

  ‘Marcus…’ I mumble. ‘Marcus.’

  He stands. He seems to tower over me, as though he is of the mountain itself.

  ‘We can carve our own empire within an empire, brother. It’s not too late.’

  Then he is gone.

  But his voice remains. ‘Who are we to stand in the way of destiny?’

  The stitches rip free. Blood gushes from my lips.

  I open my mouth to scream.

  Chapter 8

  I awakened to screams, but they were not my own.

  They were distant, carried through the valleys to the place where I sheltered amongst the peaks. It was dark, but I saw a flame, far off. More screams.

  The dream of Marcus had left me weak. I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but I would not close my eyes and face him again. Not when his words had rung so painful, and so true. By every measure of my life I had failed, and so I watched the fire in the distance.

  There were no more screams.

  Someone’s struggle had ended.

  * * *

  From my vantage point I saw cavalry in the dawn. Small groups. Too far to make out who they were, and who they fought for. Much of the rebel cavalry had been raised and equipped to fight for Rome in her war in the north. At a distance, they’d look like any other auxiliary cavalry unit. Only their standards and shield markings would set them apart, and then only if they had chosen to change them – how many rebel patrols were masquerading as Roman? How many Roman as rebel? Deception is as much a part of war as blood and blades.

  There was mist in the valley. It rose from the rivers. The air was hot. There was no breeze. It would be a warm day. Warm work through the mountains. I considered waiting in my hide behind the rocks for longer, but to what end? I had no water here, and the sun would drain me. I wanted to get to the coast. I was impatient to be with Beatha, and hurried by the ghost of the man who took her.

  I didn’t see any more cavalry as I walked the mountains. I kept away from ridgelines to avoid silhouetting myself. I moved from cover to cover, and there was plenty of it here. I was above the treeline now, where there was only rock. Lots of rock. There were narrow trails, but nothing suitabl
e for the large bodies of horses. Cavalry patrols were the worry only of those in the valleys.

  I made slower progress than I would have done on the roads and tracks that followed the rivers to the coast, but Jaro the old man was right – as a deserter, I was dead if I fell into Roman hands. As a Roman citizen, I faced the same fate should I meet the rebels.

  I looked around me. This country was too beautiful for war. The thin blue air was calm and still. The mountains were sharp, yet patient. Beneath them, vibrant green woodland clung to the hillsides. There were birds on the air. Circling. Watching. Crying. In the valley floor a snaking, shimmering river.

  My plan was to reach Iadar by using the high mountain peaks, and for four days this worked without fault. I tracked along ridgelines. I slept in the rocks. I lived as a god above the world of men. The occasional column of smoke was the only blemish of war that I saw. I seemed to be forever in the company of eagles, however, and I watched great birds wheel in the sky. I ate the food that I had packed, though I had little appetite for the biscuits. I picked berries when I saw them, and the water that I took from the streams was a thing of beauty. I had been hardened to life on the march, but these steep mountains made blisters of the toughest skin, and I rested my feet within the soothing cold of the springs.

  I was surrounded by stunning landscape, but the real beauty of my climbs and descents was that I had to concentrate on every step, and watch for every danger. There was no time to think of my desertion. There was no time to think of Marcus. There was only one foot in front of the other, and then night on a bed of rocks.

  In the few moments before heavy sleep took me I thought of Beatha, and how I would lie next to her again. She was my guiding star, and she was leading me towards the coast, and home. After my fourth day in the mountains, I started to believe that my chosen route would take me all the way to my love without the risk of roads, and the people that travel on them, but war and nature have always laughed at men’s plans. It was not too long before I saw that I had two possible options to continue, and neither involved walking in cover across the mountaintops: I could either descend and ascend the sheer cliff faces, or take the more gentle slope down into the meadows, before climbing again where a new range of peaks began.

  I looked at the sheer faces. One slip would be the end of me. A long death of broken bones would be no less tortuous than the death of a deserter.

  There was a river running through the meadows. The sun was high and beating, and the shimmering waters offered something of a respite.

  I made my decision, but it was some time before I reached the lower ground. I cursed as flashes of pain shot through my skull. The headache was back. Brief moments of agony and then a retreat, but in the wake of the sharp pain there was a dull throb and ache.

  I thought back to Siscia, and the early days of the rebellion. The Pannonians had set fires in the town, and I had fallen hard when a burning building had collapsed in on itself. I had not been right since then. Something in my skull had been shaken loose.

  I was an angry man, back then, desperate for war so that I could lose myself to killing, and forget about the grief of my love. The day of those fires marked the beginning of the loss of my friends. Priscus died in the battle that followed soon after, then Octavius and Varo in the mountains. Marcus…

  I became lost to my thoughts, headache and nostalgia.

  I was halfway across the meadow before the cavalry revealed themselves, and charged.

  Chapter 9

  The cavalrymen came at me from the left. They had hidden themselves in a copse set back against a cliff, and now they came. There were mountains ahead of me, too far to run to. There were mountains behind me, too far to run to. They had waited until I was in the middle of the meadow, surrounded by flowers and uncaring insects, and then they had charged.

  There were a dozen of them, and the rumble of hooves shattered the stillness of day. There was only one other thing I could hear, and so I ran for it.

  I didn’t look back. Didn’t think twice. I ran, and jumped, and landed in the water of the river. It was fast and wide. I let the current take me as I tried to swim for the far bank. I felt it catch me again as I reached the middle. Too late I saw the rocks. The rapids. I was hit in the side. Once. Twice. Again and again. I swore and cursed until I was belched out again into open water. I mistimed my breath and got water instead. I choked, kicked, and flailed my arms.

  They hit dirt.

  I gripped handfuls of grass on the bank. The water was too deep to get footing. Instead I tried to pull myself up, hand over hand.

  The grass tore away.

  I looked back across the river. The cavalrymen were not in the water, but seeking a place to cross. I let myself be carried further by the current, but I knew I had to get out. At some point they would find a safe ford for their horses.

  I grabbed a tree root that had been exposed by the river. It held my weight. I pulled up, exposing my torso. I expected javelins, but none came.

  My tunic was heavy and clung to me as I ran, coughing up the last of the water.

  The thunder of hooves, again. I turned. More cavalry, but on this side of the bank – the first riders hadn’t crossed because they hadn’t needed to: their friends would finish the job. I could hear them whooping. This was great sport.

  I ran, expecting at any moment to see a spear point burst from my chest. They were shouting to each other in a language I did not understand.

  ‘Tickle his arse!’ One then called in Latin.

  They fight for Rome.

  As I felt the breath of their horses on my neck, my last hope was that they would kill me quickly.

  Beatha…

  A command was shouted, and the horses pulled up.

  Suddenly the rolling thunder was gone. I twisted to look and lost my footing, falling into the lush grass of the meadow.

  I looked up. The sun was high, the silhouette of a rider within its glare.

  He slid from his saddle and offered me his hand.

  Arminius…

  Chapter 10

  I sat naked beside a fire lit to dry my tunic and roast our dinner. Arminius, German prince, was our cook. His men sat apart from us as he skewered a half dozen fat pigeons onto javelins, and set them over the flames.

  I had not said much to him, and he had said little of substance. He’d talked plenty about the joy of cooking, though.

  ‘Don’t you have slaves for that?’ I finally uttered.

  ‘A good leader should be a slave to his men.’ The handsome prince winked. He was tall, blond, and had the strong frame of his people. ‘If they will die for me, then I can cook for them.’

  ‘The world doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, leaning close to inspect the spitted birds. ‘That is a shame, don’t you think?’

  He looked towards the river, then. We were close to its banks.

  ‘You swim well,’ he teased. I said nothing back. ‘Do you like fish stew?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Romans think they know how to make fish stew. They don’t. I like stew. It’s a good winter food. We get real winter in Germania, Corvus, not the kind you had growing up along the coast here.’

  His tone gave me an answer.

  ‘You knew I was going home…’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You set a trap for me.’

  ‘I did.’ He looked at the cooking birds, and turned them over the heat. ‘If you know what is in a man’s heart then it is an easy thing to lead his head into a noose.’

  I said nothing. The truth was that I was glad to see Arminius the man, but worried to see the prince and soldier. Not because I was a deserter – Arminius and I had long since spoken seditious words, which was punishable by death in itself – but because I knew he wanted me to be a part of this war.

  ‘I don’t want to fight.’

  He ignored that. ‘All of Siscia is talking about you,’ he told me instead. ‘Some say you’re a deserter. Most think that you were kidnappe
d by rebels. Murdered, they say.’

  ‘Huh,’ I grunted, ‘I wonder who started that rumour.’

  He didn’t deny it.

  ‘So what am I, Arminius? What do you say?’

  ‘To myself?’ He grinned. ‘That you are a complicated man, Corvus. To others, I say nothing. I don’t get asked my opinion on such things. Yes, I am noble, but I am a noble German. I am tolerated – liked, even – so long as I do Rome’s bidding, but they see me as a hound. A noble hound, and no more.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘It is to my advantage, though. The commanders of this region, and the army, they expect me to act like a bloodthirsty barbarian, and so I play up to that part. I tell them that my men need long-range patrols, to burn and kill. I tell them what they want to hear, and in return I am left to do much as I please. There will be battle lines and orders at some point, but only if the rebels are fools. They can’t stand against the might of the legions. They need to fight in the mountains, and as long as they do that, I have freedom to fight in my own way.’

  I saw something had changed in him. A decision had been made.

  ‘What are you planning?’

  He smiled, but there was sadness in it. ‘A lot of men’s deaths,’ he told me honestly. ‘But they will save many more.’

  He turned the meat.

  ‘And you want my help?’

  ‘You are of this land, are you not?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then your fight is here.’ But his was not. ‘People should put their own homes in order, my friend. How often do we look beyond our own borders not only as tribes, but as people? What use is the soldier who spends his time worrying about his adversary instead of training himself? What use is the politician who dreams of distant conquest when his own city runs with filth? Armies march for treasure, and distraction. Look at this region. Rome could have garrisoned and built this place up for generations, but they are drunk on conquest. They overstretched, and now there is this rebellion.’

  ‘Where else are they overstretched, Arminius?’