Silence, then. What was there to say? For it was a centurion’s place to beat his men into order, to lead them from the front, to die as an example to others. It was not his place to think and speak, any more than a hunting hound would be asked for counsel.
The Emperor spoke again: ‘What use is that?’
‘They are the finest heavy horse in the world. The only cavalry who can break a Legion. They can make Rome more powerful than ever before.’
‘And yet they have chosen to fight us, not surrender. I have offered them peace once already.’
‘They wish for a war, Caesar. Grant them one against your enemies, and they shall fight for you.’
‘You say so? You think so. Look at me, centurion.’
The old stories of myth, of looking upon the forbidden, of men turned to stone, dragged to the Underworld, immolated by a jealous god for looking at what they should not. But death to disobey the command of the Emperor, and so Lucius lifted his head and looked once more upon a god.
‘You admire them, don’t you?’ the Emperor said flatly.
‘Caesar, I—’
‘There is no need to lie.’ And the Emperor looked about himself irritably, at all the courtiers he was surrounded by. Something fell away from him then – the weary tyrant and conqueror was gone for a moment, and Lucius caught a glimpse of who he might have been had he not been chosen for the purple. Some bright-eyed scholar collecting stories of distant lands, noting ritual and practice, devising philosophies and writing epigrams.
‘Do you admire them?’ the Emperor said.
‘I do, Caesar.’
‘A failing in you, centurion. A corruption of the Roman spirit.’ A pause. ‘But tell me why, nonetheless.’
‘Bravery, Caesar. They would rather die than be defeated.’
‘Rabid dogs are brave, too. I would not spare them. And I hope that you do not doubt the courage of the Legion.’
‘It is something different with the Sarmatians,’ Lucius said. ‘A kind of thinking bravery… forgive me, Caesar, I do not have the words.’
‘A thinking bravery, is it? You believe it easier to be brave and not to think?’
‘I do, Caesar.’
‘So do I.’
Quiet, then. A Tribune gave a hesitant laugh, quickly stifled behind his hand when no others joined him. For most of the others seemed frightened, watching the Emperor. Only Caius kept his eyes on Lucius, his face blotched purple with rage.
‘I will not spare them for being brave,’ the Emperor said. ‘That might earn them a place in my writings. But it is not a reason to keep them alive.’ And there was a relief amongst those gathered as he spoke, for it seemed they would have their war. There could be comfort in butchery, if it were familiar enough.
‘Yes, Caesar,’ Lucius said.
A smile upon the Emperor’s face. ‘But perhaps they may be of use, as you say. And perhaps you may be of use, as well. For word came this morning, from Egypt.’ A sound, then – the rapping of fingers upon a wax tablet. And once more, the stillness in the air. ‘Gaius Avidius has rebelled in Egypt, and proclaimed himself Emperor.’
The air ringing with sound – men crying out their loyalty, calling for vengeance, sounding curses to the gods. The Emperor raised his hand, and just as swiftly there was silence once more.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is true. A single false report of my death goes to the west, and already the jackals think to pick at my corpse. If we had barbarians alone to fight against, that would be enough. So you will make one more offer to them, centurion. To bend the knee and enter my service at once. To fight against the enemies of Rome. Or we shall destroy them utterly.’
‘Yes, Caesar. I will not fail you.’
‘Perhaps you will.’
A heavy sigh, and Lucius saw that he was there once more – the tyrant, conqueror, killer. Rome’s butcher. That was what a life spent wearing the purple had done to him, a life spent on the border, fighting a war without end.
‘You spoke of bravery,’ said the Emperor. ‘I would like to admire your bravery, in saying what you have done. I would like to, but I cannot. It wearies me, and I do not like to be wearied.’ A hard stare then, at Caius, the Legate. ‘Surprise and reckless chances are for younger men.’
‘Yes, Caesar.’
And the Emperor seemed to age before him – the skin almost translucent, the lips grey, the head lolling loosely. As frightening a thing as Lucius had ever seen, but the others must have seen it many times before, for they gave no sign of alarm. Perhaps it was this that had almost killed the Emperor – not sickness or poison, but the weight of one murderous decision after another. Perhaps there was a limit to the taking and the sparing of lives, before the gods grew jealous and gave a warning of their own.
The Emperor leaned back, closed his eyes, gave the slightest gesture of the hand. The audience was over.
Five steps out of the tent, each one lighter than the one before it. Lucius half expected to step into the air at the last, as the Praetorians gathered about him once more. A firm hand placed against the back of his neck, perhaps in case he were tempted to look like a hero escaping the Underworld, or a man who seeks to undo what he has done.
No more honours or glory for him. Only the worst of postings, rotten cohorts to command until he was spitted on some barbarian’s spear, far away from Rome. All that he had fought for undone to save the barbarians across the water.
But perhaps it was finally true that he understood the Sarmatians – that reckless courage they had, to wager everything they had with no care for the future.
And the joy of them, too. That joy of one who has gambled so, and won.
When first Kai woke, he thought himself amongst the dead.
Still and silent figures around him on the ground. The smell of rot, the grey flesh. Darkness, too, and for a moment the choking feeling of being buried alive. Then someone moved close by – the restless stirring of one gripped with fever. Another man rolled over, slowly and with great effort, and when Kai saw the cast of the skin, the particular hollowness of the eyes, the lolling tongue, he understood where he was. He was not amongst the dead, but the dying. A tent filled with sickened men.
All but one. For a man sat on the ground beside him, cross-legged, head nodding with sleep. Hair plastered to the scalp with old sweat, the skin about the eyes dark and heavy, but these were the signs of weariness, not sickness. A little light upon the golden hair of the beard, sword-calloused palms turned towards Kai. And a smile upon the man’s lips, when he saw that Kai was awake.
‘Lucius,’ said Kai, and the Roman nodded. Then: ‘Water,’ the word cracking and breaking even as he said it.
A skin of water opened and passed, the sweet clear taste of it flowing down his throat. And when Kai handed it back, he was surprised to find that his hand was steady.
‘Where are we?’ Kai asked.
‘Not far from the Danubius. The Danu, as you call it.’
‘You have spoken to the Emperor?’
‘I have.’
‘You have done it, then?’
‘We have done it,’ Lucius answered.
‘And you have suffered for it?’
‘No more than I am willing to suffer.’ A shrug of the shoulders. ‘But yes, I did. Or rather, I shall.’
‘We go back now?’
‘We do, as soon as we can. You are well enough to travel?’
‘I am.’ But it was a hollow voice that Kai spoke with – no strength to speak of the shame that gnawed at him, and no strength to hide it, either.
Another man might have mocked or goaded him. Or ignored the pain, or picked at Kai with words until he had all of the wrong answers. But Lucius simply waited. Hands clasped together, eyes soft. The posture of a man willing to wait forever and still receive no answer. A strength in stillness, that willingness to wait for the world to change.