Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (16 page)

Magnus then smiled in a way neither Valens nor any of the old Norseman’s friends had seen in years. “I feel as if she brings out the best in me. Just being around her has been a soothing comfort. I admit, I will be sorry to leave her when I return to Britannia.”

“Piss on that!” Valens scoffed. “Take her with you.”

“To Britannia?” Magnus asked incredulously.

“Sure, why not? She seems to be rather smitten with you. There isn’t anything keeping her here. Honestly, if Svetlana had not fallen in love with this place, I would pack up and relocate someplace warmer, well within the empire’s borders. The Northlands are beautiful, but the winters are too bloody cold for my liking.”

“I think I understand why my grandfather left all those years ago,” Magnus remarked. “It may have been nothing more than a change of scenery. He was a powerful warlord in these lands, yet he left to become an auxilia trooper in the Roman army. And as much as he talked about the ‘old country’, he never did return.”

“Well, I certainly think Ana could deal with a ‘change of scenery’,” Valens persisted.

“There’s still a war going on,” Magnus reminded him. “The lands of the Silures and Ordovices are savage and unforgiving. You remember how hard those bastards fought. Try fighting them on their ground with nothing but forests and rocky hills. I’d hate to take Ana to Britannia only to wind up dead a few months later.”

“Just give it some thought. I know your time in the legions grows short, whether Caratacus guts you or you finally decide to take your damn pension and be done with it.”

Valens decided to let the matter lie, and returned to their previous topic of conversation. “You know, with Messalina dead, I wonder how long until the emperor’s inner circle and leading members of the senate try compelling him to marry again.”

“Yes, it will be interesting to see who the next consort to the empire will be.”

“Make way! Stand aside for the emperor!”

Claudius reclined in his covered litter, fidgeting nervously. In the near eight years since becoming Caesar, Claudius had never gotten used to being accompanied by a full century of praetorian guardsmen everywhere he went. He found forcibly making their way through the streets, using their shields to shove onlookers aside, rather undignified. He had spoken once to his praetorian prefect, Lucius Geta, yet the next week it took the imperial procession two hours to make the one-mile trek from the palace to the senate house at the Forum. Such was the emperor’s embarrassment at being so grievously late, he relented when Geta emphasized that shouts from his guardsmen alone were simply not enough to get the mob to make way. On this day, however, his nervousness had little to do with heavy-handed guardsmen.

“We’re here, Caesar,” Commander Geta said, his head protruding through the litter curtain.

“Thank you,” Claudius said, accepting the prefect’s hand to help him sit upright. Though he had only recently turned fifty-eight, the Emperor of Rome felt significantly older. The emotional trauma from Messalina’s betrayal still lingered. Besides, he had never been in the best of health. His brother, Germanicus, had been a physical specimen resembling statues of the divine Hercules. Claudius, on the other hand, had been born both feeble and partially crippled. That he had lived to middle age, becoming ruler over the greatest empire the world had ever seen, was proof the gods had a rather eccentric sense of humour.

A section of guardsmen lined either side of the walkway leading to the home of Aelia Paetina. The rest of the century cordoned off the street, keeping curious onlookers at bay. A horn blower took a deep breath, ready to announce the emperor’s arrival. Claudius placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. There would be no fanfare for this visit.

Aelia Paetina

Aelia strode towards the house foyer at the sound of the echoing knock. As her maidservant opened the door, Aelia was more than a little surprised to see her former husband, whom she had rarely spoken to over the past seventeen years. The last time they saw each other had amounted to little more than a formal greeting during the wedding of their daughter, Antonia, to Faustus Sulla. This had been, in no small measure, due to Messalina’s jealously and closely guarded control over the emperor.

“An honour that you grace my house, Caesar,” she said, bowing low.

“Please, Aelia, there is n…no need for formalities between us.”

“Isn’t there?” Aelia asked.

She and Claudius walked into the garden.

The emperor ordered his guardsmen to remain outside, giving him and his former wife some privacy. He followed her, taking a seat on a stone bench near the centre fountain.

“I have missed you,” Claudius said, with a sad smile.

“Have you?” Aelia asked. Adding somewhat pragmatically, “You are Emperor of Rome and have not been my husband for seventeen years.”

“Well…I never wanted to divorce you,” the emperor said, hanging his head in shame.

“I know.” The painful and terrifying memories of that time still haunted Aelia.

Her brother, Sejanus, had once been the most powerful man in Rome. When he betrayed Tiberius, the emperor’s vengeance was swift and without a shred of mercy. Even Sejanus’ underage children were killed, his daughter savagely raped first. The only reason Aelia had been allowed to live was because it was Claudius who had warned Tiberius of Sejanus’ treason. He had still been forced to divorce her, with the emperor stating emphatically that no one from that treasonous line would remain a member of the imperial house. Both Claudius and Aelia had been relieved that Tiberius seemed to forget their daughter, Antonia, was Sejanus’ niece.

“But you did not come to reminisce about our harrowing past,” Aelia said. Shuddering, she tried to force those terrible memories from her mind. Her intuition told her the truth. She looked at him, tilting her head slightly to one side. “With Messalina gone, you need a new consort.”

“So my advisors keep telling me. Of course, each has his own candidate in mind. Pallas was rather forceful, stating that for the good of the empire, I need an empress who could serve as a partner in my labours. He told me an emperor needs a helper, not a lover. He s…s…said Messalina was all the proof anyone needed that the heart lies.”

“He’s right you know,” Aelia concurred. “His words may have been harsh, but they ring of the truth.” She paused and pursed her lips. “But he does not think I would be a suitable consort.”

“He does not.” Claudius shook his head, which involuntarily twitched. “Narcissus thinks you would, though I believe he is mostly looking after my personal welfare.”

“He is both loyal and a good friend.”

“I was raised in the imperial household. I have survived the reigns of Augustus, my uncle, Tiberius, and my tragically disturbed nephew, Caligula. Behind the grandeur, it is a very cruel world. My grandmother, Livia, has been the only woman both strong and clever enough to survive as Empress Consort of the Empire. To hold any position of prominence within the imperial house, one must be cold, calculated, and at times cruel. You are none of these, my dear. I would fear greatly for your well-being were we to re-marry.”

Aelia was not surprised by any of this. Even as an outsider, she had seen how vicious life at the imperial court could be. And as her brother and his family had learned, it could be deadly.

“Who will you marry?” she asked.

Claudius fidgeted with his hands, he resolve wavering momentarily. “There is someone,” he said at last. “She is both shrewd and intelligent, though her heart amounts to little. She is as selfish and heartless as she is brilliant.”

“And do you think it wise to share your life with such a person?”

“It is not for me but for Rome,” Claudius insisted. “But there’s more, something neither of us has any control over, and Pallas assures me will not matter in the end. Narcissus thinks it will prove disastrous, however. The lady in question is my niece, Julia Agrippina.”

The winter solstice had come to the Norse lands, and Valens arranged for a Roman-style Saturnalia celebration at their villa. Magnus was fascinated to see that, despite the vast differences between cultures, many of the local traditions bore a striking resemblance to that of the Romans. Trees were decorated with bronze and silver ornaments, many commemorating the rebirth of the sun. Houses were decorated with greenery both inside and out. And given that Saturnalia celebrations often devolved into a drunken orgy, the indigenous nobles invited to Valens’ and Svetlana’s were only too happy to take part in the festivities. During this time, Magnus and Ana at last shared her bed. For the old centurion, this was the first time he’d felt a woman’s touch since Achillia’s death.

The Norsewoman lay with her head on his chest, arm wrapped around him. Magnus was surprised he was not assailed by feelings of wrongdoing or of having betrayed Achillia’s memory. Such had been his fear. He had sometimes wondered if he would ever lie with a woman again.

Her eyes still closed, Ana seemed to sense his doubts. “Do you still love her?”

He confessed, “There is a part of me that always will. I have been haunted by the ghosts left in the wake of that terrible war; and not just Achillia, but all my friends who died a terrible death during my years in the legions. The ghosts of the past can never be forgotten. It is time I learned how to live with them.”

Chapter XIII: Winter’s Cold Embrace

Rome

January 49 A.D.

Empress Julia Agrippina with her son, Nero

The new empress consort was escorted to the altar by her cousin, who acted as the family matron. Narcissus was filled with feelings of revulsion and dread. The bride wore the traditional fire-coloured veil and plain white dress, belted in the middle with a corded rope. The emperor stood with the high priest, smiling more out of relief than any sense of joy. He had asked Narcissus to sign as one of the ten required witnesses. It was repugnant to the freedman. Not only was the new empress a woman he viewed as cruel and villainous, to say nothing of being the not-so-secret lover of Pallas, she was the emperor’s own niece!

At thirty-three years of age, Julia Agrippina was a few years older than Messalina had been. She also had a son, who was three years older than Britannicus. This made Narcissus deeply concerned for the young prince imperial. He glumly accepted that Pallas, once his closest friend, had deceived and politically outmanoeuvred him. Narcissus thought most of the inner council would applaud his recommendation that Claudius marry his former wife, the Lady Aelia, of whom he was still fond, and who would have made a fine consort to the empire. The only other candidate mentioned was Caligula’s former wife, Lollia Paulina. Her terrible reputation as an ostentatious woman with little smarts and extreme vanity, made her recommendation completely ludicrous.

Narcissus now understood why she had been brought forth as a candidate; Pallas had been coercing the other councillors for months, likely soon after Messalina’s execution, plotting to have his lover named Empress of Rome. Every advisor and councillor at the imperial court chided Narcissus for bringing up Aelia as a suitable consort, decrying her as vain and useless. That Claudius had divorced her was also used against her, even though it was under extreme duress. It should have come as little surprise, then, when they all gave their support to Pallas’ choice, Agrippina. Narcissus was repelled at the thought, and warned the emperor that the public would never accept an incestuous union between uncle and niece. However, in the end, Pallas and his supporters won out. And as the priest joined their hands, binding them with the ceremonial cloth, Julia Agrippina became Empress Consort of the Roman Empire. Narcissus, once one of the most influential men at the imperial court, suddenly felt very much alone.

The weeks passed, and January gave way to the Calends of February. The official despatches had reached Britannia, regarding the emperor’s latest marriage. But the Norse lands, beyond the empire’s borders, had been devoid of any contact with the Roman world. It was not until the merchant ship arrived with marble to trade for various metals, which would also return Magnus to Britannia, that news reached them.

Magnus donned his centurion’s armour and made his way down towards the dock. The merchant vessel, now bearing iron and copper, was set to sail for Gesoriacum in Belgica. From there, the centurion would have to make his own way across the channel and back to Britannia. He and Ana walked hand-in-hand accompanied by Valens and Svetlana.

“A pity you could not come here during the summer,” his sister said. “It truly is beautiful here and not so cold!”

“Summer is ‘barbarian thrashing season’,” Valens reminded her. He then embraced his brother-in-law. “Neptune grant you safe passage on your journey. And may Mars and Victoria guide your blade against Caratacus. Just promise me this will be your final campaign.”

“One way or another,” Magnus promised. “Once Caratacus falls, I will leave the emperor’s service for good.”

He turned and kissed Ana on the lips. She fought to remain stoic.

He felt her trembling. “It’s not too late for you to accompany me.”

“In another life, perhaps,” she replied. “Come find me again when you are no longer a soldier of Rome.”

The ship’s captain walked over to them and addressed Magnus. “Centurion, we must depart soon or we will miss the tide.”

Svetlana embraced her brother one last time, and the three of them wished him well on his travels. He followed the captain up the short plank. The ship was much smaller than Hansi’s imperial warship that brought him to the northlands. Even the captain’s cabin was small and cramped. For a few extra coins, he allowed Magnus to store his gear within and sleep in the corner. The centurion didn’t mind. It was far better than freezing at night on the top deck. The ship soon lurched away from the dock. He leaned against the rail, eyes fixed on his family… most of all, Ana. He remained motionless until the ship passed the numerous rock outcroppings that dotted the harbour. He then closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again, he wondered if it had all been a dream.

As they watched the ship slowly disappear on the horizon, Svetlana placed her hands on Ana’s shoulders. “Why did you not tell him?”

“Magnus has enough to worry about, fighting Caratacus’ hordes,” Valens said quickly, before Ana could answer.

Ana then placed her hands on Svetlana’s, fighting back tears as the ship disappeared. “There will be a time to tell him, but not yet.”

It would be another three weeks before Centurion Primus Ordo Magnus Flavianus returned to his legion. At Gesoriacum, he was fortunate enough to come upon a cargo ship bearing food and pallets of leather procured for the army in Britannia. The seas were rough, and despite the storms that assailed their vessel, he found his mind was in a land far removed from Britannia.

On the morning they rounded the southwestern peninsula, the skies cleared and the sun shone through. A day later, the ship halted just off the shoreline. The Norseman decided instead of jumping over the side and getting wet, he would ride atop one of the pallets of supplies being hoisted over the side by a large mechanical crane. Legionaries and sailors alike looked on in amusement. The centurion stood on a pile of tunics and blankets, holding onto the support rope that held the cargo net together.

“Welcome back,” said a staff tribune overseeing the offloading of cargo.

Magnus nodded dismissively and made his way into the camp, which had undergone constant improvements to the defences in his absence. It now resembled a semi-permanent fort, complete with watch towers over the gatehouses. As he returned to his tent, he was pleased to see his manservant had kept his kit in immaculate condition. Strapping on his gladius and picking up his vine stick, he decided to seek out General Paulinus or Master Centurion Tyranus. It was Chief Tribune Corbulo he first saw as he stepped into the large principia tent.

“Ah, Centurion Magnus,” the young officer said, by way of greeting. “Glad to see you’ve returned to us.”

“It’s good to be back, sir,” the Norseman acknowledged. “Are Tyranus or the legate around?”

“General Paulinus has not arrived yet. I believe he will be accompanying Governor Scapula on his return in another week or so. The primus pilus is drilling the first cohort on the training stakes today.”

The parade field and training stakes had been established just outside the south entrance of the fort. Magnus chuckled, shaking his head as he heard Tyranus’ booming voice coming from the drill field.

“Shield boss strikes…go! Come on you lazy, fat bastards! Too much gorging and lack of shit details has made you lot soft!”

The entire cohort was gathered by the stakes. There was enough room for two normal-sized centuries to drill at a time, but only a single double-strength First Cohort century could occupy the stakes at a time. Each legionary was kitted up in full armour, wielding a wicker shield and wooden gladius. With each command they switched their stances and forms of attack. Soldiers punched with their shields, stabbed high and low with their gladii, while attacking with short, rapid chops in the vicinity of where arms and legs would be on an opponent. After a few more minutes, Tyranus blew his whistle.  His sweat-soaked legionaries stepped off the field. Every last one of them was red in the face and breathing heavy. Some removed their helmets, running their fingers through wet, matted hair.

“Centurion Furius, the field is yours!”

“Sir!” With a series of sharp commands, Furius’ century swarmed the training stakes.

The primus pilus spotted Magnus. “Well, I’ll be buggered,” he laughed, walking over and extending his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be returning. Hell, I half expected to find your request for discharge waiting for my signature.”

“No, you have me for a little while longer.”

As they clasped hands, Tyranus quickly noticed a change in the Nordic centurion’s demeanour and countenance. “Your leave to the old country did you some good, it seems.”

“You were more right than you knew, sending me away.”

The two walked away from the field. Furius blew his whistle and his legionaries commenced their drills.

“Sure you don’t want to oversee your century’s drills?” Tyranus asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Caelius can handle it,” Magnus replied, shaking his head.

“So who is she?” the master centurion asked, wasting no time.

Magnus grinned broadly.

“A friend of my sister’s, if you can believe it. She lost her husband some time ago and has been in a similar emotional state as I have these past four years. Because of Ana, I plan on leaving the legions as soon as we’ve dealt with Caratacus.”

“You realize that may not happen for some time,” Tyranus cautioned. “For one thing, most of what we know about his return is little more than rumours. For another, none of us knows what he looks like. It’s not like these barbarian kings leave statues of each other like our emperors. And until we can get his army to engage us in a decisive battle, we may never know if we’ve killed or captured him.”