Enemies of the Empire (22 page)

I pulled the young man’s cloak round to cover his face and wordlessly, as if with one accord, we lifted the body between us to the ditch where we had found Promptillius earlier. We buried him in the self-same hole, as sketchily as Regulus’s party had buried the dead slave the morning before – roughly covered by a mound of leaves. Even then, Marcus was not altogether pleased when we got back to the larger party by the carts.

‘Wasting time and ceremony on our enemies,’ he grumbled, ‘when our horses have been taken and only the gods know what has happened to our men. Serve him right if he was left unburied and forced to walk the earth. There were two slaves with the luggage wagon here – to say nothing of a dozen guards. And how are we to get to Isca now?’

I looked forlornly at the carriage we had travelled in. It did look a sorry sight, bereft of horses and pushed off the road to rest lopsidedly against a fallen tree. Pushed there not long ago, it seemed – it was still rocking slightly on its wheels. I stared at it a moment, before the implication struck me. Rocking?

Regulus was still standing at my side, and it was obvious that the same thought had occurred to him. ‘Come on!’ I shouted and we set off at a run. He is a younger, fitter man than I am, and he got there first. He pulled aside the leather curtain and flung back the door. A bundled figure fell out at his feet – naked, gagged and trussed up hand and foot, but even before I saw the slave-brand on his back, I knew that it was one of Marcus’s slaves.

Regulus drew his dagger and slit through the bonds and the strip of coloured fabric that was serving as a gag. The young man rolled over and sat panting in the dust, flexing his wrists and rubbing at the weals.

‘In . . . there . . .’ he muttered weakly, flapping at the open carriage door, but Regulus was already there, pulling a second servant from the seat. He had been stripped and tied up in exactly the same way but, being stronger, he had not stopped struggling – it was that which had evidently caused the movement we had seen. He was bruised and knocked about in a way which his companion had escaped and, perhaps because of his continued efforts to free himself, the ropes had bitten more cruelly into him, but once released he was the first to regain coherent power of speech.

‘Forgive us, master,’ he implored, falling on one knee before Marcus, who had just come up to us, and attempting at the same time to conceal his nakedness. ‘It was a trap. The horseman told the guards that there’d been a raid and you’d been taken captive at the farm. Naturally they hastened to rescue you – but that abandoned us. And then the other group attacked. We did our best, but we were hopelessly overpowered.’ He glanced around. ‘I thought I’d brought down one of them at least but I can’t see him now.’

Marcus interrupted. ‘Enough!’

He looked thunderous and the terrified man at once abased himself, but my patron’s anger was not directed at his slave at all. He gazed into the impenetrable trees and raised his voice. ‘Wait till we catch up with you, you shameless scoundrels, you less-than-curs, you treacherous . . .’ He was so furious that he was almost lost for words. He turned to me, still muttering, ‘These men are not merely enemies of the Empire, they have set out to humiliate and mock. I shall make them wish that they were never born!’

There was no doubt he meant it. It is rare for a high-born Roman to permit himself a personal emotional outburst of that kind. They are expected to exhibit steely self-control while curses and rants are left to the recruits, and there was a slight feeling of embarrassment among the soldiery. Marcus seemed to be aware of this himself, and with almost visible resolve turned his attention to more practical, immediate affairs.

He nodded briskly towards Regulus. ‘Very well. Find my poor slaves something to cover themselves with. Give them at least that dignity. There may be something in the luggage wagon still, if those confounded sons of Dis have not stolen everything. Optio, bring your men up front and rear to act as guards, while we decide what’s to be done. Cavalry mounts are not the slightest use for this, I suppose? They won’t be accustomed to harness.’

‘Absolutely, Excellence,’ the optio said, with such obvious relief that I realised how much he had dreaded having to explain this very point. ‘You are most perceptive. I will send off a group to requisition—’ He broke off as Regulus came up and made salute. ‘Well, cavalryman? I see that you are in a hurry to report. What is the matter?’

Regulus looked stolidly at nothing, and replied, ‘Two matters, optio. First, there is a body in the luggage cart, and second, there are horsemen on the way. I can hear their hoofbeats. As no doubt you can yourself, if you turn your attention that way for a moment.’

We listened, the optio with a look of acute concentration on his face. Sure enough, I could detect it too, now that it had been pointed out to me: a faint, rhythmic thudding noise, right on the edge of audibility. I saw Marcus stiffen as he caught the sound.

Regulus went on reporting, in his official monotone, ‘Coming this way through the trees, not moving very fast – scarcely more than walking pace, by the sound of it. There must be quite a little group of them, but they’re not even attempting to be quiet. Certainly not threatening another charge or a surprise attack. Probably just travellers or our own men coming back.’

I was impressed, for the second time that day, by how much information an experienced horseman could derive simply from a set of distant sounds. To the optio, however, such skill was clearly commonplace. He listened for an instant more, then nodded briefly. ‘I believe you’re right. Well, we will soon discover who they are, though it will be some moments before they reach us here. We are prepared to meet them, whoever they might be. We have sentries watching, and mounted men in place. In the meantime, what is this about a body in the cart? Surely we put it there ourselves? The slave belonging to His Excellence?’

Regulus shook his head. ‘I fear not, optio. That is still there, if course, but it is not the corpse I was referring to. This is – at least it looks like – the Isca messenger who disappeared the other day. It seems to be the right sort of age and build, as muscular and tanned as you’d expect, and the hands are hard as if from using reins – but of course, I can’t be absolutely sure.’

Marcus gave a nod of understanding. ‘You didn’t personally know the messenger, I suppose?’

Regulus kept his eyes unfocused on some distant spot over my patron’s shoulder. ‘I crave your pardon, Excellence. But in fact I knew him very well. We have ridden out together many times. As I say, I think that’s who it is. Only, without a head, it’s difficult to swear to anything.’

It took a moment for the meaning of this to register with us, and then, as the full horror of the implication struck, we all went running to the cart. Even some of the foot soldiers clustered round with ghoulish curiosity as Marcus gave the word and the cover of the luggage wagon was lifted back across the wooden framework that supported it.

What was revealed inside was not a pretty sight. Promptillius’s body still lay, as it had been disinterred, wrapped in what used to be my toga, and that was bad enough. But at his feet was propped another corpse, and that was horrible.

It had been forced into a sort of kneeling posture, and wedged so that the torso was bent forward and the arms outstretched in a ghastly parody of the lament. What made the posture even more obscene was not only that the head had been crudely hewn off at the neck, but that the rest of the body had been stuffed, with deliberate mockery, into a garment that was far too small for it. A pair of hairy buttocks greeted us, under the hem of a short crimson tunic with a gold-embroidered edge – the uniform of Marcus’s household slaves. Obviously this one was too small to be any use to them, and they had chosen to mock us in this way.

I had stood back to let my patron pass ahead of me, and now I heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Dear Mercury and all the gods! Wait till the Emperor Commodus learns of this. It is a studied insult to all Roman power.’

And an insult to Marcus in particular, I thought, though of course he didn’t mention that. To a patrician Roman magistrate, such as my patron, loss of dignity is almost worse than death. Here, it was outright dangerous, because it undermined his status with the troops. There were already knowing titters in the watching crowd – as the rebels had no doubt intended there should be.

I wondered again at the sharp intelligence which was behind all this. What kind of man had dared to do these things? Someone who was capable of lightning thought: fearless, certainly, and almost contemptuous of Rome, since he visited such indignities on an imperial messenger, stole horses from under the noses of armed troops, and set out to mock and alienate a man of Marcus’s influence. I could see how such a person would inspire his men – a bold and reckless leader, harrying what he saw as an occupying power.

Yet there were things about his actions that I didn’t understand. Why had he ordered poor Promptillius killed, yet deliberately spared two other slaves today? It couldn’t be for fear of witnesses, as I had thought at first – Marcus’s servants were quite able to describe the men they’d seen.

Regulus, behind me, had a question too. ‘Poor fellow. Why did they cut his head off? Just for spite? It wasn’t done to kill him. He was dead already, that’s obvious from the wound. You can see that it has hardly bled at all.’

The optio said stiffly, ‘I imagine it is intended to make a point to us – to show what they can do. The rebels have tried this sort of thing before.’

Marcus frowned. ‘This whole gruesome scene is an atrocity. Well, it won’t succeed! Don’t look so troubled and upset, Libertus. Do you seriously doubt we’ll catch these rogues?’

‘Of course not, Excellence,’ I murmured. In fact my worried look was caused by something else. I was remembering that oak tree we had seen. Of course there were only harmless statues there, but it proved a point. In this part of the province the old religion was not dead. And if Nyros and his family kept up such a shrine, how much more likely that families which still resisted Rome would maintain the old rites in their purest form – human offerings, blood-sacrifice and all? The whole forest was full of ancient trees.

Somewhere in the area, I was prepared to bet – somewhere far removed from any path, and where only initiates would go – there was a proper old-fashioned Druid grove, its oak trees daubed with blood, where the head of the unfortunate messenger was even now dangling as a gruesome tribute to the gods. And if that was the case, I thought, probably the hide-out of the rebels was not far away. Divine protection is a useful thing.

However, it was not easy to explain all this to Marcus without offending him. If he realised that I’d recognised the signs of forbidden practices and failed to mention them before, I could bring trouble down on more than Nyros and his household. My own deliberate silence contravened the law. I phrased my answer very carefully.

‘It is possible, Excellence, that these rebels stick to ancient tribal ways and the head has been taken as a Druid sacrifice . . .’ I began, but my concerns were needless. My patron was paying no attention to my words.

He had whirled round to stare at the little knot of horseman on the path who even now were straggling into view, with a rank of marching soldiers at their heels.

My heart lurched for a moment, fearing that these were rebels, but the next glance reassured me. Those were Roman uniforms, and more than that, some of the soldiers had faces I knew. Two of the horsemen I recognised at once as the mounted guards that we had set to watch the carts and carriage, the others were clearly the cavalry the optio had detached from the detail set to chase the rebels through the farm, and sent back the way we had come. All the horsemen seemed to be in total disarray and looked almost comically perplexed. Marching behind them, with an attempt at discipline, were the foot soldiers we had left to guard the carts and the pigs.

The optio was already striding down the path towards the group and starting to harangue one of the mounted guards. The man slid down to stand beside his horse, and there was a brief exchange – a subdued but forceful one, in which the name of Jupiter was several times invoked. Even from where I was standing, that much was audible.

Marcus went down to meet them, and at his approach the optio swung round and raised his voice. ‘Exactly the same strategy as the rebels used before,’ he said. ‘Just as your servants said. A man who claimed to be an army messenger – complete with military uniform and seal – came here and told the guards on duty that we’d been attacked, and that they were to leave the carriages and come.’ He looked at Marcus with a gesture of despair. ‘They were directed down the other path, where they met our fellows guarding Subulcus’s pigs.’

Marcus scowled. ‘Let the fellow tell me for himself.’ He signalled to the horseman, who took up the tale.

‘Your indulgence, Excellence. We did not intend to leave the carts like that – but if you were in danger, what were we to do? We were just discussing where to go from there – whether the rest of the foot guards should give up the pigs and march in our support – when all this other cavalry turned up, riding hell for leather from the other way. They’d been hoping to ambush horse-thieves from the farm, they said, but they hadn’t managed to catch anyone. Of course, we thought the thieves had set on you. But then the swineherd came back to his pigs. He told us that he’d seen you to the farm – you were quite safe and had started back to the carts. We realised then it was a false alarm – a trick. We had been drawn away from here deliberately.’

He looked at Marcus and the optio for some sign of understanding, but my patron was tapping his baton on his thigh, his face white and set like the mask of fury at the theatre.

The horseman flung himself at Marcus’s feet. ‘Your pardon, Excellence.’ He gestured at the scene in front of him, and fell down on his knees. ‘It wasn’t our intention to desert our posts, and leave your horses unattended for the thieves to take.’

Marcus frowned. ‘So I should hope, since you were specifically detailed to look after them. We shall deal with you when we get back to camp. And as for your tactics, optio, I am not impressed. It seems that the rebels have achieved a great success. Not only did they seize the messenger’s animal and four horses from the escort yesterday, they now have Nyros’s and mine as well. They have outwitted you at every point. Look what happened at the farm. It now appears that you sent out two sets of mounted men to try to trap the horse-thieves between them, but both of your pursuit groups were deflected by a trick while the bandits slipped unhampered through the gap, no doubt laughing at me up their sleeves. And then they pulled the same trick here and got away again. That’s what you’re telling me, I understand?’