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The hour was late in Aquincum. Here and there upon the walls of the fort one could see a sentry half asleep, the head nodding and rising, nodding and rising, as regular as the turning of a water wheel. But though most of the Romans slumbered, the Emperor did not. And neither did the Sarmatian that he spoke with, the one picked out from the prisoners.
The barbarian wore the Roman garb now, at the Emperor’s insistence. One might have mistaken him, at a distance, for some friend or consort, if it were not for the glint of iron at his ankles, the long braided hair and the tattoos upon his cheeks.
Slaves entered, bearing wine, and the barbarian held up his cup eagerly, spilling the red liquid with a trembling hand. When first he was brought to these chambers, he had refused to drink. They always did, the Emperor found. They feared poison or some spell cast over the wine. Or they refused from pride, wanting no luxury or charity from their captors. But always, at last, they broke. He could see the sadness come over them – the blankness in the eyes like dusty glass beads. The knowledge that they would never be free again. And so, if that was to be their life, and the only pleasure left to them the call of the wine, then why not drink?
On previous nights, they had spoken of many things. The Emperor asked no secrets of war of him, no questions of numbers or generals or strategy, for no matter how deep into the cups the barbarian fell, always he remained guarded, and what he thought of as secrets he would not give out (though, as the Emperor well knew, torture made all men speak eventually). But of the world of the plains, the life of horse and spear, the old songs and stories of heroes and gods and monsters – of these things, the barbarian might speak. And as the Sarmatian told of the life that he had lost, he did not seem to notice the Emperor’s lips were moving, silently repeating the words to himself. And later, when the barbarian was taken away or had fallen into a deep drunken stupor, the Emperor would scratch the words onto wax. Like a sculptor carving at marble, one patient stroke of the chisel at a time, until at last his vision of the Sarmatians was complete.
On that night, the fires were burning low, the air thick with the stink of wine, when at last the Emperor asked this question: ‘What would you have me do with your people?’
The barbarian’s head, lolling from the lateness of the hour and the weight of the wine, snapped upwards. For he could feel the danger, the way that the man who is watched by the wolf can feel the animal’s eyes upon his neck, even if he cannot see it amidst the trees.
The Emperor put his cup of wine down. He leaned forward, and steepled his hands together. ‘Once I have defeated them – and I shall, you must believe that – what is to be the fate of your people?’
The Sarmatian was silent for a time. Then: ‘Why ask me?’
‘Why not you? You are as good as any to decide. You are intelligent – for a barbarian at least. Old enough to know your people, and to know yourself.’ A dry chuckle. ‘I would not ask a young man such a thing. For they know nothing at all.’
‘Let them go free,’ the barbarian said at once, though he might as well have asked the Emperor to pluck the moon from the sky.
‘That I cannot allow. They have shamed Rome. I shall have barbarians raiding on every border, and half of my provinces in open rebellion. You have come once too many times over the Danubius. It shall not happen again.’
‘Then what are the choices?’
The Emperor thought for a time. Then he spoke, his tone as simple and matter-of-fact as a tutor describing a principle of grammar. ‘There are two that I see. One is that I shall put them all in chains, to serve Rome.’
‘Warriors?’
‘No. A few shall be gladiators. But I will not have your cavalry left roaming to cause trouble. They shall be field slaves, house slaves. Catamites. Whores.’ The Emperor reached out his cup, and a slave filled it at once. ‘Or I shall wipe them out,’ he said, offhand, as he took another sip of wine. ‘Every last one.’
‘You could not do it.’ There was fire now in the way the barbarian spoke, enough to make the guards take half a step forward from where they stood at the entrance, their spears dropping down. The Emperor, with an irritable, fatherly gesture, waved them back.
‘I am an old man now,’ he said. ‘I have no wish to spend my last years here, chasing your people across the plains until the last one is piled on a corpse fire. But I shall do it. We have done it before, at Carthage. We shall do it again, if we must.’
Still, there was defiance etched into the barbarian’s face. The Emperor felt a little admiration, and perhaps pity. Like children these people were, they knew so little of the world. ‘You doubt me? A shame, that you do not understand what Rome is, even though you have fought us for so long. You have told me that your people value your honour above all else?’
The barbarian nodded slowly.
‘My people do as well, in our own way. But for us, honour and power are one and the same thing.’
‘You cannot do it.’
A little smile on the lips of the Emperor. ‘They have all said that. “We, our people, we are different.” But they never are.’
The Emperor stood – a little unsteady, a hand upon the desk to give himself the strength to rise.
‘I am going to show you something that none of your people know,’ he said. ‘A secret, of sorts. It will be only my words and a few scratches on a map, no more proof than that. But I shall speak the words, and you shall know them to be true.’
With the soft clink of chains the barbarian rose, shaking from the wine and with fear. And with slow and trembling steps, he came forward to receive that secret.
From the entrance of the tent, the Praetorian guards watched. Hand-picked veterans, they had long served as the Emperor’s bodyguard, and they had seen such scenes many times before. The Emperor was speaking softly now – too soft for the words to travel to where the Praetorians stood at first. The finger pointing again and again to different places on the map, placing a gold coin down as some kind of trophy or token, tracing a grand outline that encircled many nations. One of the guards listened closer, and thought that he could hear the words. And it was not words, but numbers being spoken. The counting of thousands, and thousands, and thousands.
Just numbers, but the guards could see the barbarian shivering at them. Then bowing lower and lower, until at last he sank before that desk, as a fearful, pious man might lay himself before the altar of the god he had angered, to beg forgiveness or await a judgement.
Once again, the Emperor spoke, loud enough for all to hear clearly. A question, but spoken with the tone of a command.
‘So, tell me. What shall I do?’
There was no other noise for a long time. The snuffling, weeping of the barbarian, the soft whisper of brazier and torch, the mutter of the wind.
At last, the barbarian raised his head. And he gave his answer.
Part 2
THE TWICE DEAD MAN
12
Once more, the circle and the dream. The smothering darkness, and a nameless terror wrapped about the heart.