It did not matter. All that mattered were the words, the words that he would speak, the bargain he would strike. In silence, he sought to practise those words, time after time finding himself close to finding the right ones, the beautiful speech that might incline a god to mercy. But it was akin to remembering a dream – those rules and images that had once seemed so clear now impossible to recall. The longer he thought, the more the words seemed to slip away from him.
Footsteps drawing close, the hard rhythm of soldiers marching in step, and he knew that there was no more time left to think. Only to trust to a warrior’s instinct, that when the time came he would do what must be done.
The rustle of the tent flap, the Praetorians standing there before him. The other centurions, previously seeming so eager for his company, drew away and busied themselves about their own errands, eyes to the ground. For the Praetorians only came to summon a man to the Emperor, or to his death.
Their captain stood before him, eyes hard beneath the red-crested helm, the Praetorian symbols of wing and lightning upon his armour. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time to go.’
As they moved through the camp, all about him he could see the signs of the Legion readying itself for the march. Out from the stone walls of Aquincum and gathering upon the banks of the Danubius, the camp was alive with a terrible energy, of knowing that their Emperor was close enough to see, almost close enough to touch. Yet still Lucius felt a prisoner – his weapons stripped from him, marched in close order through the camp, feeling the eyes of hateful, envious men upon his skin as he was led to the appointed place at the appointed time.
Soon, the Emperor’s high white tent was looming before him, like a marble monument of Rome carried out to its frontier, and the Praetorian centurion stopped them there, stared wordlessly into Lucius’s face. A silent interrogation, looking for some mark of madness or treachery, the sign of the fanatic or the assassin.
Whatever silent answer Lucius gave, it seemed to satisfy the Praetorian. ‘Walk five paces inside,’ he said. ‘No more, no less. Kneel before him, and stand only if he commands it. Even if you stand, do not look at him. Never look at him. Address him as “Caesar”. Think very, very carefully before saying anything that is not “yes”, or “no”, or “Caesar”. Is that understood?’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Good.’ The rustle of calfskin as the tent flap lifted, the scent of wine and incense flowing from within. And then, in a softer tone, the Praetorian said: ‘Good luck.’ One soldier to another, wishing good fortune before the battle.
Then another voice was speaking from within – speaking of him, calling his name, and it was time to step inside.
The first step was easy, from the cold into a place of warmth and brightness. Too bright, at first – the torchlight sharp against his eyes, the reflected glitter of gold like sunlight upon a polished shield, and so a moment’s pause before the second step. The soldier’s rhythm was gone then, wavering and wandering off the straight, parade-ground line he sought to walk.
At the third, some thick and cloying scent filled his nostrils – some perfume from a distant land, but to him the smell was redolent of the battlefield, and left the taste of death upon his tongue. Simple instinct sent him searching for the source, and his eyes went where they should not have. He saw greying skin, rheum-reddened eyes, a mouth twisted in pain. An old man sat in the golden seat of a god, it seemed at first. And it was only when he saw the purple cloak, the lines of the face so familiar from statue and monument, that he realised he was looking upon the Emperor himself.
Those dull eyes snapped to life then, a mad and brilliant gaze. And Lucius took his fourth step like a man gutted on the battlefield, already bowing forward, hands clutched close to the belly. At the fifth, he sank gratefully to his knees.
No words for a time. Perhaps he was meant to speak first – had he forgotten some simple piece of etiquette? But just as he thought he could bear the silence no longer, he heard the words of the Emperor. A soft voice, speaking with care.
‘It is always good to see a son of Rome come home.’
‘My life is yours, Caesar.’
‘You are like me – a dead man returned to life once more. Let us hope you bring good fortune back across the water with you.’
‘Yes, Caesar.’
A shifting rustle of cloth. ‘The barbarians, they shall not give us much trouble?’
‘They are worthy warriors, Caesar.’ A little intake of breath somewhere close, for it seemed he had spoken something forbidden. ‘But none may stand before Rome,’ Lucius added quickly. ‘It will be a great victory, Caesar.’
‘I am sure it will. And an honour, of sorts, for them. We only destroy our truly great enemies. Perhaps such a monument will not displease them.’
‘It will not, Caesar.’
Again, he knew it to be the wrong answer. The creak of leather as someone close by shifted from foot to foot. Caius perhaps – Lucius knew that he must be there.
The Emperor sounded amused. ‘Strange as it sounds, I almost envy you your time amongst them. In a different time, they would be worth a treatise. But what use is it to study a dying people? They should be forgotten, don’t you think?’
The questions hung in the air, living and deadly, too dangerous to touch. And so Lucius gave no answer.
‘Ovid wrote of them,’ the Emperor said, after a moment’s silence. ‘Briefly, but that shall be enough. No more words of Rome for them.’
‘Yes, Caesar.’
‘As for you, there is little to offer you. There can be no Crown of Valour given for a captured man. But we are grateful to see you return.’ A pause. ‘It is always good to see a son of Rome come home,’ the Emperor said again, seeming unaware of the repetition.
Now, Lucius knew, was the time to stay silent. Soon the Sarmatians would pass into nothingness like a dream. In a year he would bear only scars and memories, and they would fade too, in time.
‘We shall arrange some appropriate reward, I am sure,’ said the Emperor. Again the rustle of purple cloth – some gesture of dismissal, it seemed. For once more he could hear the executioner’s tread of the Praetorians coming forward, coming to take him away.
Always, Lucius had thought himself a brave man. He knew well the steady calm upon the battlefield that washed away all fear, where all that existed was the next action that must be taken – the turning of a sword, the bracing of a shield, half a step taken forward, one word spoken in command. Yet now he knew what a simple thing it was to be a coward, when it was necessary merely to say nothing.
‘If my only request were to speak a little more,’ Lucius said, ‘would you grant it, Caesar?’
The air seemed to grow sharp about him, unseen needles prickling at his skin. And he heard Caius speaking, the Legate’s voice cracking with a tremor of rage. ‘The centurion is tired, Caesar, and has misspoken. Forgive him. He will go now.’
A dry chuckle. ‘Oh, we must always mind the treasury, or so I am told. Words cost less than gold, most of the time, and this may be an uncostly reward. Speak then, centurion. There is little that surprises me now.’ A little hardening of the tone then, as the Emperor said: ‘But I am very curious as to what you will say next.’
Lucius did not answer for a long time. Kneeling before the Emperor, how easy it was to believe in Rome. For a god was power, nothing more, for all that the Christian cultists might whisper otherwise. Here, before him, was power. Nothing mattered other than that.
‘I have been amongst the Sarmatians,’ he said at last. ‘Seen more of them than any other Roman, perhaps. And I think it would be a great pity to destroy them, when we might put them to better use.’