Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer (4 page)

“I was all for volunteering you to join us but
Caesar repeated that less is more. He said that we needed to be a blade, which
cut through the land, rather than a hammer, trying to bludgeon our way to
success.”

“Caesar is a bastard for ordering you to go on
such a mission,”
Roscius
replied, whilst also
silently offering him thanks for providing the unit with a veritable banquet of
food, to be washed down with plenty of wine.

“Caesar is Caesar,”
Oppius
responded, shrugging his shoulders.

Within the hour however, after several cups of
wine, the four men were toasting their commander – and raising their cups also
to
Oppius
and
Teucer
.
Roscius
joked to the Briton if he could have his
gladius
if he didn’t come back, rather than inherit his bad
luck.
Fabius
alone was quiet during the drinking
session and banter.
Oppius
took him aside later that
evening and said “to not to start mourning me yet lad,” offering him a smile
and the last quail’s egg.
Oppius
also took
Roscius
aside however and asked him to keep an eye on the
youth - and make him practice his archery - until he returned. The Roman
handshake the two friends gave each was firmer than usual that night.
 

10.

Oppius
adjusted his trousers again in the muggy heat, feeling ill at ease
in his
woollen
barbarian clothes. Trousers were
unnatural he considered. The skirt of a tunic felt more natural, manly. The
centurion also felt uncomfortable wearing bits of barbarian
jewellery
.
A man was not supposed to jangle as he walked along. He missed the feeling of
his
gladius
hanging from his belt too. He was duly
armed with a dagger and bow however.

“You look like a Briton,”
Fabius
had remarked, whilst nodding in approval earlier that morning.

“I look like a complete c-”

“Convincing mercenary,”
Teucer
remarked, cutting
Oppius
off.

Teucer
naturally looked and felt more comfortable as he walked alongside
his friend – and he permitted himself an ironic smile that morning when he
changed into the garb of his native land.

Thankfully it had stopped raining. The two men
walked, trying their best not to march, through a half-formed track in a wood
and came out to look upon a lush valley. Lucius had to admit that Britain was
an attractive and fertile land – or “a sometimes green and pleasant land,”
Teucer
said.

“This is Kent. The garden of Britain,” the
archer remarked, not without a little pride, as he gazed across the valley.

“You’re still clearly fond of this land.”

“It’s my home, for better or for worse.”

“Why did you leave?”

“It’s a long story.”

“It’s a long walk.”

Teucer
, whose real name was
Adiminus
, was born
into relative privilege in his tribe, being the youngest son of the region’s
chieftain.

“I was not the hardiest of children and my
father took little notice of me, preferring to spend his energies on my elder
brother,
Caradog
. They often hunted together. I was
either too young or ill to join them. My mother doted upon her eldest son too.
He was athletic and charismatic, although personally I grew to find him dull
and often cruel. I was largely left to grow up by myself, although I possessed
a curious mind and I would often spend time with visiting traders and
craftsmen. Once I developed physically I also went off on my own and
practised
my archery. The harder you
practise
the luckier you get. Shortly after I came of age my father had a hunting
accident, which left him crippled and bed-ridden. I began to spend a lot of
time with him. Partly I felt sorry for my father and partly he grew to enjoy my
company. He often asked me about the foreign ideas and stories that I had
picked up from people who had visited the tribe over the years. I expressed to
him how I wanted to one day leave the village and venture further afield,
beyond Britain and Gaul even. He who knows only of the village knows nothing of
the village, I somewhat conceitedly remarked to him. Trade and exchange, in the
form of goods, skills and culture should be encouraged, I argued. Ideas should
have sex with one another, to create new ideas. I dare say I sometimes bored
myself with my zeal but my father I think was influenced by my arguments. He
confided that he wanted me to succeed him as chieftain. “
Don’t
be the chieftain I was,” he confessed one time to me...
Recognising
how close father and I had become – and seeing that my father was perhaps
positioning me to succeed him – my brother became envious and resentful towards
me. I suspect that
Caradog
hated me even more because
I was neither envious nor resentful of him at this time... My father died and
Caradog
accused me of poisoning him. His death was sudden
and suspicious; there was no real evidence against me though. Yet my brother
swiftly poisoned the tribe’s minds against me and I was banished. My mother and
a number of the tribal elders interceded to stop my being condemned to death...
I think about it nigh on every day, whether my brother planned to have my
father killed and to implicate me – but at the end of each day I’m no closer to
discovering the truth.”

“Do you want revenge?”
Oppius
asked, thinking as much about his own father’s death as
Teucer’s
.
He would sharpen, rather than bait, his sword if ever he encountered the man
who had murdered him. And then challenge him in single combat.

“I would much rather just have my father
back,” the archer replied, with a gentle but mournful expression on his face.

11.

The embers of dusk glowed akin to the embers
of the ensuing camp fire that evening.
Teucer
trapped
and cooked a couple of rabbits. Over supper the Briton schooled the Roman in a
few choice words and phrases in his language that might get him out of trouble.
Oppius
would be attacked and executed instantly if he
revealed himself to be a Roman, even if he pretended to be a deserter. In terms
of deserting
Oppius
remarked how he would not blame
Teucer
if he had thoughts of deserting and returning
home.

“I do not want the garden of Britain to serve
as your grave.”

“The legion is my home now. This mission may
not be such a lost cause too. If there’s one thing a recruiting officer will do
- it’s make
himself
available for a couple of
mercenaries looking for employment,” the Briton replied, his tone conveying
twice the confidence that he felt inside.

The two men set off early the next morning and
soon came to a large settlement. From the intelligence provided by Caesar,
Teucer
thought it was a good a place as any to locate the
Roman agent.
Oppius
was far from overwhelmed by the
village of
Gowdhust
. The houses were rickety, at
best. Hope and prayers, far more than building materials and architectural
skills, kept most of the dwellings upright. Wild-eyed children scampered about,
ankle deep in mud and grime. The entire settlement smelled like a sewer,
Oppius
thought to himself, scrunching up his face in
disgust upon first being assaulted by the stench.

The only cheer emanated from the hut which
housed and served alcohol.

“Well if I were recruiting for the army I’d
head for the nearest place which served alcohol. If you wait here, I’ll see if
I can find some answers,”
Teucer
remarked and headed
off to the hut where a bunch of Britons were either roaring with laughter or
asleep in a corner.
Oppius
tried not to look
conspicuous whilst wearing a scowl upon his face, to help dissuade anyone from
approaching him. The unwelcoming expression was little different to the one he
normally wore. The inhabitants of the settlement seemed little interested in
the stranger however. They had seen plenty of mercenaries in their time and
raised not their pale, drawn faces to the large archer as they walked by him.

Thankfully
Teucer
returned relatively quickly. He bought a couple of lose-tongued barbarians a
drink (although Caesar did not furnish the centurion with a cohort for the
mission, he did furnish him with plenty of gold) and then came back after
downing his drink.

“The bad news is it seems we missed our quarry
by a day or so. But the good news is I know where he’s heading.”

“The worst news is that the agent is
travelling with a bodyguard of three
picts
,” the
Briton remarked as the two men walked toward the next major settlement.

“
Picts
?”
Oppius
replied, only half concentrating
on his friend as he shook his head in disapproval again at the quality of the
road that they were travelling on. Numerous wagon tracks scarred the ground and
the path seemed to meander more than the Tiber. Britain would not be built in a
day, but Rome would build it up, the centurion thought to
himself
.

“They’re from the north. They’ve got a
language, dress sense and cuisine all of their own – which you’d want them to
keep for themselves. With their red hair, pale skin and rasping war cry they’ll
be some of the scariest foes you’ve ever encountered. And their women are even
scarier. Indeed
this trio are
probably down from their
home to get away from their wives,”
Teucer
expressed,
half in jest. “But these
picts
could prove
formidable. They fight hard and dirty. Think of this agent as being protected
by
Roscius
, times three. Caesar and Rome would do
well not to poke the hornet’s nest of the tribes in the far north.”

 
Oppius
and
Teucer
had little time
to worry about barbarians from the north however, as they were soon attacked by
local brigands.

12.

Rain began to spit down again from a slate
coloured
sky. Leaves rustled and then bracken snapped.

They appeared quickly, in two pairs, from
either side of the dense woodland that the road ran through. All four of the
young men had their bows drawn.
Oppius
briefly
thought to himself if the youths had camouflaged themselves, or it they were
naturally grimy and feral. Both
Oppius
and
Teucer
knew that they were at a disadvantage and resisted
reaching for their weapons.

The apparent leader of the brigands stepped
forward and occupied the middle of the road. The youth had a sinewy body,
harelip and sadistic aspect, which shone as brightly as the dagger he held up,
after slinging his bow back over his shoulder.

“This here is our road – and you need to pay a
toll.”

Teucer
fancied that he would gladly have paid the toll if he thought that
it would have gone to the upkeep of the road.

Oppius
assessed the situation. The youths would be easy to best, just as
soon as they lowered their bows. With three of them still training their bows
on the two of them it was likely that at least one of them would not escape
falling to the brigands. Already the centurion noticed how their arms were
tiring though, whilst also grinning inanely as they thought about what they
would spend their booty on. They would also soon switch to holding their
daggers too as greed overtook them and they searched their victims for any
valuables they possessed. The two brigands to his right, nearest to him, looked
strong but unskilled. He would allow
Teucer
to deal
with their leader in front of him and the pock-marked barbarian to his left.

“Let’s not fuck about. What have you got on
you?”

Both soldiers, thinking the same thing, merely
raised their arms – willing to be searched – rather than retrieved their
valuables themselves. The lead brigand paused however, just as he was about to
search
Teucer
.

“Do I know you?” he asked, squinting
suspiciously at the archer.

“Doubtful. I probably would have killed you if
we had met before.”

“No, I do know you. You’re
Adiminus
.
This, lads, is the brother of our chieftain.
Caradog
should reward us if we bring him back with us,” the youth remarked, his harelip
curling even more, in a smirk.

“How is my brother?”

“He’s doing a lot better than you, by the
looks of it,” he replied, with a snigger. His companions grinned at his joke
too. Two of them slung their bows over their shoulders and removed their
hunting knives.