Emperor's Spear Read online

  Emperor’s Spear

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Chapter Two Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Chapter Three Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Chapter Four Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Chapter Five Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Chapter Six Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Chapter Seven Martius 213 AD

  Januarius 213 AD

  Martius 213 AD

  Chapter Eight Martius

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Author’s note Herodian on Caracalla

  Dio Cassius on Caracalla Epitome of Book LXXVIII xii–xv

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography and Further Reading

  About the Author

  Also by Alex Gough

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Chapter One

  Martius 213 AD

  On the peaceful island of Lipari, with the gulls keowing loudly as they circled over the waves crashing against the cliffs, a gentle sea breeze washing the villa in clean scents, the sun warming all beneath it benignly, Silus carefully set down his cup of exquisite Falernian and said, ‘Fuck.’

  Oclatinius simply nodded, giving it a moment to sink in.

  Silus had known it was going to be a bad day as soon as he had seen the boat come into view over the horizon. It was a fast liburnian bireme, the type used by the Roman navy as escorts, scouts and pirate hunters. And sometimes as a means of transporting someone important quickly and safely.

  When he had recognised Oclatinius disembarking, he had known for certain it was going to be bad news.

  But not this bad.

  ‘When?’ he asked, eventually.

  ‘A few weeks ago.’

  ‘Weeks! Why wasn’t I told sooner?’

  ‘Germania is a long way away. It was some time before anyone even knew he was in trouble. Then the report had to be relayed to Festus and myself. We had to consult the Emperor. And then I had to come here, all the way to the end of the Italian peninsula, to collect your sorry arse and put it back to work.’

  Silus simmered, understanding, but not happy about it. Atius. You fucking idiot. And with the anger came guilt. He should never have let him leave on his own. He should never have let his friend go back into the field without Silus there to look out for him, protect him.

  But Atius had left, chafing with boredom, while Silus had rested in semi-retirement on this beautiful island, playing at being a surrogate father to Tituria, walking along the cliffs or the beach, even reading sometimes. He had ignored all the supplications and commands to return to duty, and until now, Oclatinius had clearly not felt like pushing the matter.

  And now Oclatinius had come to him with a mission the old man knew he could not turn down. The bastard. He was probably delighted that he had found something to drag Silus back into his network of spies, scouts, informants and assassins.

  The Arcani.

  Silus had known it was too good to last. Since the loss of his family in Britannia, all that time ago, he had been wrestling with intense emotions: grief; anger; desperation; terror. It had all taken its toll.

  After he had reunited the young Avitus with his father, Marcellus, he had been required to accompany them to Numidia, to help him carry out the mission for which he had originally been dispatched from Rome to put down the incipient revolt brewing there. And yet this final mission had been almost anti-climactic. They had sailed in with a vexillation of a thousand legionaries and auxiliaries and five hundred cavalry, drawn from the forces stationed in Egypt such as the II Triana, and had marched straight to the governor’s palace.

  Although they had been considerably delayed on their journey to Numidia by the kidnapping of Marcellus’ son, they still arrived in the province before the governor, Quintus Cornelius Valens, had had time to advance his plans of rebellion to any sufficient degree. Silus had thought the situation could have been more dangerous. After all, Septimius Severus, the current Emperor’s father, had started his rebellion from north Africa.

  But the III Augusta stationed in Numidia had not been sufficiently persuaded at that stage to join Valens in revolt. Maybe they were loyal to Caracalla, who was always popular with the common soldier, or maybe they had not been offered a sufficiently large bribe and were holding out for a better offer. Whatever the case, when Marcellus arrived with his show of force, the III Augusta had put up no resistance, and when he had arrested Valens, they had acknowledged Marcellus as the new governor without hesitation.

  Of course, it had been Silus’ job to execute Valens. Quietly, out of sight. Caracalla hadn’t wanted any knowledge of the disloyalty to get out, in case it encouraged others at this fragile moment in his principate.

  So Silus had strangled him in his cell. Held a tight cord around the man’s neck while he tried to draw in air, while he gripped at the ligature, fingernails gouging bloody streaks into his skin, legs kicking, until after an eternity, his struggles weakened, slowed, stopped.

  Silus had thrown the body to the floor, panting, and felt an irrational anger at the dead man. He didn’t want to feel like this any more, to do this any more. The fear and anger and guilt and anxiety as he forced the life out of another human. He was done.

  And so he had turned his back, and returned to Lipari, where Tituria waited in exile. The young girl, slowly growing up, who hated him as the murderer of her father, and loved him as the man who had saved her life, as the only person left in the world who cared about her.

  It was a complicated relationship, but it had grown over the next few months. Not once did Silus miss the action or the adventure of his time in the Arcani, or even his job as a scout with the auxiliaries in northern Britannia. Although of course he missed his late wife and daughter profoundly, he didn’t particularly miss the land of his birth. He had everything he needed on Lipari.

  Atius had quickly tracked him down, come to find him to make sure his closest friend was well. He had stayed for some time, tired too, and wrestling with confusion about his faith and his place in the world. Lipari was a wonderful place to sit and think, and Atius had done plenty of that. Ultimately, though, the big Celtiberian was too much a man of action to stay long kicking his heels on a remote island. One day, he had announced that he was rejoining the Arcani. Not that either of them had ever officially left. But he had made up his mind. He was going back to Rome, to report to Oclatinius, to take on whatever was asked of him.

  Silus had begged him to stay. Atius had begged Silus to go with him. They had exchanged angry words, then apologies, then an embrace, and parted ways. Watching his friend sail away had left Silus more lonely than ever. But though he had brooded for days, Tituria’s cheerful and intelligent company, and the affection of Issa, Silus’ little old dog that he had gifted to Tituria, had brought him out of his depression. He had settled into a calm routine, until he found that he was happier than at any time since he had lost his family.

  And now Oclatinius had pr
icked that bubble of contentment, and all the joy and peace it had contained had dissipated into the atmosphere.

  Atius, you complete arse, Silus thought, then immediately felt guilty at the fact that his friend’s plight had engendered pity only for himself. He sighed, picked up his cup of wine, and took a long swallow. It didn’t taste nearly as sweet as it had yesterday.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ he said.

  Januarius 213 AD

  Atius really hated snow. He had grown up in Hispania, with its warm climate, and though he had seen plenty of it in his time serving with the auxiliaries in the north of Britannia, he had never formed any sort of rapprochement with the horrible cold stuff. It made marching difficult, it left tracks that an enemy could follow, it was hard to hide against the stark whiteness, it made your fingers clumsy and your toes burn in agony.

  And here he was, trekking through forest, beyond the borders of Roman Germania, with an ankle-deep layering of powder impeding him. The snow blustered around him, fortunately covering their tracks soon after they were made. His mind wandered off to Silus. He missed his friend, but sitting around doing nothing on that island had seemed like some kind of hell. Right now, though, the memory was heaven.

  He looked back at the men following him. They watched their feet, cursing when they sank too deep, grabbing onto trunks and branches to steady themselves, or haul themselves out of a drift. None looked too pleased to be there, although Memnon, the Aethiopian, seemed to be having the worst of it, born into a country even hotter than Atius’ childhood home.

  They would need to make camp for the night before too long. Travelling like this was fatiguing, and they also had to think about the plummeting temperature when night fell. He looked toward Aldric, their German guide, who was leading them slowly northwards, then heard a cry from behind him, followed by laughter.

  He turned to see the wiry figure of Scaurus flailing around in a deep snowdrift he had fallen head first into. Rather than help him, the other members of his little squad – Toutorix the Gaul, Drustan the Briton and Memnon – all held their sides and guffawed loudly. Scaurus staggered to his feet, spitting and wiping the powder from his eyes and beard. He was coated from head to toe, so he looked like one of the men of snow that the children in the vicus in Britannia used to build in the winter.

  Atius found himself smiling like the others, but a glare from Scaurus made him straighten his face. Atius was much bigger than Scaurus, though not as big as Toutorix, who was almost a giant. Nevertheless, there was something about the tough little Roman that was intimidating, even for a grizzled old veteran like himself. It was something mad about the eyes, a wild look that suggested there was something dangerous within, and he was in a constant struggle to keep it safely caged up.

  Scaurus turned that gaze on each of the squad, whose faces dropped one by one, turning away as if they had found something fascinating on a branch or under their fingernails. Atius dragged his way over to Scaurus, and roughly brushed away the snow from his shoulders and cloak, ignoring the smaller man’s glare.

  Eustachys, the tall, thin Greek who marched directly behind Atius, pulled his cloak tighter around himself. Despite being unarmed, and carrying a much less weighty backpack than the rest of the group, he looked the most miserable of them all.

  ‘Could we continue?’ he asked through chattering teeth.

  Atius gave him a narrow stare, then turned to his men.

  ‘Let’s get moving. I want us to find somewhere suitable to camp in the next hour, before it gets too dark and cold.’

  The squad set off again. Aldric led the way, glancing up through the coniferous canopy, attempting to catch glimpses of the setting sun through the patchy cloud cover to orient himself. He supplemented his navigational aids with inspection of the moss on the tree trunks and the direction of bend of the scrubby undergrowth protruding up through the snow. Atius stepped in the footprints of the guide, making it easier to walk, and the other squad members did the same in single file behind him. He was aware that they weren’t being as cautious as usual, given they were in enemy territory, but sound carried a long way in these cold weather conditions. He was also reassured that they had seen no human footprints in the snow, just those of cloven-hooved animals and birds.

  He shouldn’t even be here, he reflected with irritation. This mission was supposed to have been led by an experienced member of the speculatores. But the stupid arse had broken a leg during an unofficial horse race, and was laid up for at least two months. That is, if it set straight enough for him to ever walk again. Atius had some sympathy for the poor fellow. It was the sort of foolish piece of showing off he might have done himself until recently. But he had become a more serious, responsible person since his time in Alexandria, and his meetings with the Christian leader Origen. At least, he thought so. It was still all rather confusing.

  Regardless of fault, he had been summoned by Oclatinius what seemed like an age ago but had in fact only been a week, and told he was being seconded to work with Festus. This had jarred on so many levels. He liked working for Oclatinius and trusted Festus as far as he could spit a German. Also, this new mission meant pulling him off what he had been working on with Oclatinius, namely the intelligence surrounding Caracalla’s expedition to Germania. Long before Caracalla had marched from Rome, Atius and Oclatinius had been in the border province, gathering information and making plans. And finally, although Atius knew he didn’t have Silus’ cunning and wits, he liked to think he had proven himself enough over the last couple of years to have earned his recent promotion to centurion, and to have his opinions and advice taken seriously. Yet this current mission seemed like a backward step, not worthy of one of the Arcani, but easily undertaken by one of the speculatores or exploratores.

  Oclatinius, though, had impressed on Atius the importance of the task. He was to set off with a guide and a small detachment of hand-picked soldiers, to escort Eustachys on an important and highly secret diplomatic mission into Germania Magna, beyond the borders of the Roman provinces. The details of the mission given to Atius were vague, but he knew he had to escort this diplomat who worked for Festus to a rendezvous where he could meet an important nobleman of the Chatti tribe. What he would do in this meeting, Atius could only speculate, but he suspected it would involve attempting to initiate some backstabbing and betrayal within the German confederations. There was always some disenchanted noble with a grudge that could be persuaded to turn traitor.

  But before that could take place, Atius had to get this deskbound civilian deep into German territory. And they had to fight through the landscape and the elements, while staying safe from the hostile locals, to get there.

  They trudged on predominantly in silence for the next hour, single file behind Aldric, until Atius judged the light was falling to a level that made it sensible to stop for the night. There was no point ploughing on in the gloom, and having someone break an ankle. Although the mission was important, he hadn’t been told it was urgent. It was paramount to arrive safely rather than quickly.

  They found a small clearing. Although the snow covered most of the signs of human activity, some tree stumps protruded through the white, rough-hewn with an axe, for fuel or building materials. No new twiglets were sprouting, suggesting that they had been cut down within the last few months. But there was no evidence that any locals were still working in the area. Toutorix and Drustan scouted a perimeter around the clearing, and returned to give the all clear. With that, they set their packs down and began to set up camp.

  They weren’t a legion on the march. There would be no trenches, no palissade. Instead, they trampled down a circle in the snow and laid out their two-man tents in a circle. Memnon found some stones to make a small round hearth, and Scaurus and Aldric gathered some kindling and branches. Eustachys sat on his pack, blowing into his hands and cursing under his breath.

  It went against Atius’ training and experience to light a fire when sneaking through enemy territory, but he judged that the
risk of dying from the cold overnight outweighed the risk of being caught in this desolate and endless forest. Once the fire was lit, a large cooking pot was produced, and Drustan melted some snow in it, then added some dried meat and vegetables. Soon the smell of a decent stew was drifting around the camp, making their mouths water and their stomachs cramp with hunger.

  When it was ready, they scooped the stew into their bronze pots and ate hungrily, consuming it as hot as they could without scalding their mouths. Atius took first watch, like a good leader, setting an example, though his belly threatened to rebel. Marching in the cold seemed to provoke a hunger you just didn’t feel in warmer weather.

  When the others had eaten, Toutorix relieved him, and he sat next to Eustachys, sighing at the twin pleasures of taking the weight off his feet and basking in the warmth of the fire on his face. He filled his bowl and ate, wriggling his toes to try to relieve the needle stabs that accompanied the returning blood flow.

  For a while they sat in silence, regaining strength and heat as the darkness fell. The only sounds were the wind rustling the branches of the trees, the crackle of the fire, and the crunch of Toutorix’s footsteps as he patrolled in a circle around them.

  ‘Stew was good,’ said Atius.

  ‘Very good,’ said Memnon, voice deep and husky.

  ‘Yes,’ said Aldric.

  ‘Good enough for Jupiter Optimus Maximus,’ said Scaurus.

  They all turned to look at Eustachys, who was staring at the fire, his hands pressed between his knees, shivering. He looked up.

  ‘Too thin,’ he said, and looked back down again.

  Drustan frowned at this slight on his cooking, and the others looked offended on his behalf, but Eustachys ignored them, lost in his own misery.

  ‘What a job,’ said Scaurus bitterly. ‘Babysitting a puny Greek flower.’