Words in the air, not arrows – the words of Rome, spoken by Lucius. Not the pass words that the Legion called for, but the brawling, quarrelling, loving words of a brother in arms, until one of the Legionaries, a dark-skinned, heavy-set man, seemed to recognise him. Lucius’s name was spoken, hesitantly at first, then like a chant or a prayer, taken up by one man after another. For they too must have left their dead in the river, lost friends beyond it, hoped for an impossible moment such as this, to see their dead live once more.
Swept into the arms of his people, saluted by some, clasped close by others. Those warriors of Rome, the blank-faced killers, seeming as men for a moment. Until they had finished greeting their lost companion, and looked upon the prize Lucius had brought with him. Kai, Tomyris, and Arite.
A quiet, then, as the Romans came forward. Slow steps, their hands slack at their sides, moving like sleepwalkers. Kai thought to see their faces marked with greed or envy, for he had heard it was the making of a soldier’s fortune to sell such a bounty in flesh. Or for them to be swearing bloody vengeance, come to revenge themselves upon the barbarians from over the water. He had been prepared for anything but this still, dull quiet.
Lucius was speaking – hesitant and stammering, calling them back, trying to remember what it was to command. But the Romans did not listen.
And Kai felt the fear rising further and further into madness, for this was a face of Rome he had not seen before. Not the watchers of the border, those who killed with weary, empty efficiency. This was the Rome that Bahadur had spoken of, the Rome without mercy.
The red crests and cloaks, the short, murderous swords, the gold eagles high above them. That maddening terror swept over him once more, every mark of Rome like a cut into his mind. Voices calling to him, but he could not hear them. The world tipping up, turning to grey, and then to black.
26
‘Lucius Artorius Castus.’ A smile across the Legate’s face as he spoke, as though he looked upon a prize bull, a horse of his that had raced well in the games. ‘Welcome back.’
Half a beat of the heart for Lucius to remember that it was his name being spoken. To hear his full name, spoken by a Roman, was to hear the words of a dream, a voice from another world. It was only when the Legate’s smile twitched impatiently that he remembered to answer.
‘Thank you, sir. I serve the Emperor.’
The Legate, Caius Cassius Volesenus, inclined his head in response – perhaps a silent reminder of who else Lucius was sworn to serve. For all about them in the Legate’s tent were the trappings of glory and power. The red-trimmed senator’s toga, folded neatly but placed openly on top of a locked chest. A Crown of Valour prominently displayed, earned many decades past for storming a barbarian palisade on the banks of the Rhenus. A new slave, a Sarmatian child trembling as he held the wine and waited for commands in a language he could not understand. For Lucius – standing at attention in borrowed armour, his hair quickly and roughly cropped back – it was difficult not to feel more a beggar than a returning hero.
The last time they had spoken was when Lucius had volunteered to lead the raid across the river. A brief audience, where Caius had sat and fidgeted, ill at ease with the paternal duty demanded of him. For that was what was expected, when you sent a soldier to die. And now once more, Caius greeted him with a smile and the offer of wine. A greyhaired man growing a little stout about the waist, his beard cut in mimicry of the Emperor. Not the worst of commanders – one of those idiot sons of a senator who would throw away a Legion on a whim, or a bitter drunkard who, considering himself underpromoted and overlooked, would soak himself in wine while his Legion rotted beneath him. But even so, he was a man who was seeking to forget what it was to be a soldier.
‘Well,’ said Caius, ‘it seems it is the season for dead men to rise from their graves.’
‘Sir?’
‘Of course, you have not heard.’ Caius drained his wine, and held it out for the slave to refill. ‘The Emperor came close to death. An old sickness returning, his doctors said. Some fool even sent the messengers out when they thought his breathing ceased. But he yet lives, thank the gods, and so now we are sending riders all across the Empire, trying to convince them of that. A fine mess. There will be trouble from it, mark my words. Someone in the provinces will make a fool of himself, trying for the purple.’
No answer to be made to that, and so Lucius kept his silence.
‘But you,’ Caius said, ‘bring good fortune. A fine omen. The men will be pleased.’
‘Thank you, sir. I did not think that I was so well regarded, sir.’
‘You are not,’ the Legate said flatly. ‘One would think you had gone out of your way not to befriend the other officers. Or earn the fear of your men. But a man come back from across the water is a fortunate thing.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘We thought you lost long ago,’ said Caius. ‘Few of the cavalry we sent over the river came back to us. Those damn Sarmatian horses…’ He shook his head. ‘How did you get away, and with prisoners in your company?’
‘The Sarmatians fell to fighting one another, sir. The ones I brought in thought their chances better on this side of the water, and came to trade me for their lives.’
‘Naive creatures, aren’t they? And the Sarmatian you brought with you, I hear he is sick? I’ll have his throat cut and body burned if he carries the plague.’
‘No plague, sir. The fear of Rome. You know how it is with these barbarians.’
‘Well, you seem well enough.’ The Legate tried another smile that did not seem to fit his face. ‘They didn’t cut anything off, did they?’
‘No, sir.’ Lucius hesitated. ‘They thought me of too much value to harm.’
‘Be glad you are on the Danubius and not the Rhenus. The Germanic tribes do terrible things to their prisoners. But you have returned just in time to go to war again. The way of the Legion, eh?’
‘It is to be war then, sir?’
Caius waved a meaty hand in the air. ‘A prisoner came back over the river, gave some story that their people would surrender. But our scouts tell another story. They’re gathering again, and so we go to destroy them, once and for all. The Legion needs a war, it shall do them good.’
‘Yes, sir. For the glory of Rome.’
‘For the glory of Rome,’ Caius said, nodding absently. ‘I am sure that a few days of light duties will be sufficient for your recovery. There might be a little trouble with your replacement stepping down. Flavius, you know him? Ambitious man, and he shall hold your return against you. But nothing that you cannot contend with, I am certain.’ He looked down to the wax tablets on the table beside him – messages, reports, all the business of the Legion about to go to war. ‘Is there anything else you wish to say?’
‘Yes, sir. I was hoping to speak with the Emperor, sir.’
Stillness in the tent. The wind against the calfskin, the soft scratch of the slave shifting uncertainly from one foot to another. And on the Legate’s face, that particular, doubtful expression of a man who has grown unused to surprise.
‘The other centurions were lying, it seems,’ he said at last. ‘You do have a sense of humour.’
‘I am afraid not, sir. What I have seen amongst the barbarians, the Emperor will want to hear it. Sir.’
The smile fell away then. ‘You can give your message to me, centurion,’ said Caius. ‘I will relay it, if it is worthy of his attention.’