Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer (5 page)

“And how is my mother?”

“She’s dead. She crossed over a year ago.”

“Give her my regards, when you see her.”

“What? You should be worried about the kind of
regards your brother is going to show you. He’ll welcome you with a campfire –
and then cook you on it,” the brigand replied, letting out a laugh.

They all now looked at each other and laughed.
It was the distraction that the professional soldiers had been waiting for. In
one swift, smooth movement
Teucer
gripped the brigand
by the throat in one hand and plucked an arrow from the quiver on his back with
the other – and plunged it into his enemy’s right eye. The blood curdling
scream cut through the air, as all matter of creatures retreated further into
the woods, frightened by the unnatural noise. Reacting at the same time – and
with the same swiftness -
Oppius
pulled out his
dagger and threw it into the barrel-chest of the youth who still had an arrow
nooked
upon his bow. Shortly afterwards he was attacked by the
other brigand to his right.
Oppius
caught his
knife-hand though as he was about to slash – and slammed his forearm into his
opponent’s face, crunching and crushing the cartilage in his nose.
Oppius
then twisted his hand back so the brigand
relinquished his dagger to him. The blood gushing from his face soon ran into
that coming from his throat, as the centurion sliced open his neck.
Oppius
looked up to check where the remaining brigand was,
readying himself to fend him off – but all he could see was a figure racing
through the forest. The wood was too dense for
Teucer
to take him down with a shot from his bow.

“How far is the nearest village?”
Oppius
asked, concerned that the remaining brigand could
quickly raise a larger force.

“Far enough, but we should get moving,” the
Briton replied, seemingly unmoved by the news about his mother and older
brother.

13.

Evening fell.

Caesar finally dismissed his legates and
high-ranking centurions. On his own, he sighed and buried his head in his
hands, his elbows resting upon a make-shift map unfurled upon the table. He
closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Not even
Servilia
was this exhausting, he joked to himself. The encampment was fortified though
and supplies sufficient, for now. Yet a prospective shortage of food and the
absence of his cavalry meant that he could not make further inroads into
Britain and satisfy his ambitions. He sighed again and screwed up his face in
disdain as he thought of how he would have to court and win over some of the
local tribal chieftains. It should have been that they needed to court and win
him over. Perhaps he should make an example of one of the tribes – and the rest
might fall into line. Yet such an action could
galvanise
them against him. Yet they already seemed to have allied themselves against
him. Original intelligence had suggested that factional in-fighting would
prevent a grand alliance. Was it the case that the Roman agent on these shores
was not just recruiting soldiers for Gaul, but conspiring with the tribes here
to defeat him?

Caesar briefly turned his thoughts to his new
centurion and wondered how he was progressing. He had fought well in the
shallows upon the beach; Caesar envisioned that he would fare equally well upon
being thrown in at the deep end. One of the legates had approached him that
day, saying that one of
Oppius
’ comrades, one
Roscius
, said that he would be willing to be sent out to
help the centurion with his mission. Caesar admired the centurion for the
loyalty and friendship he had inspired but he refused the request. At the very
least he hoped that
Oppius
would be able to kill the
traitor. Joseph had asked him the other evening that if the centurion returned
and said that he had completed his mission and murdered the agent how would he
know if he was telling the truth?

“Soldiers are honest souls Joseph - it’s a
politician who you need to distrust when he promises you something.”

Caesar next turned his attention to some of
the correspondence on his table. Letters from Brutus, Pompey and
Balbus
all needed responding to. Yet the first letters he
replied to were that of Julia, his daughter, and
Octavius
,
his young nephew. He smiled upon reading Julia’s letter when she mentioned
overhearing Cicero at a party.

“Do you know any man, even if he has
concentrated on the art of oratory to the exclusion of all else, who can speak
better than Caesar?
Or anyone who makes so many witty
remarks?
Or whose vocabulary is so varied and yet so exact?”

He smiled, partly because Cicero was the sole
person who Caesar would have said the above in relation to as well. Although he
did not always share his politics, Caesar was constant in his admiration for
the former consul. He thought of how he would try to introduce
Octavius
to the great writer and statesman when he was next
in Rome.
 

Caesar heard someone approach and he wiped the
expression of fatigue off his face, as if he were wiping away a film of sweat.
As it was Joseph however who entered Caesar soon wore tiredness – and warmth –
in his features. He could not help but yawn though.

“You should get some sleep,” the old Jewish
servant remarked, in a spirit of both fussiness and concern.

“I’ve got too much on my mind. I’m finding it
difficult to sleep.”

“Perhaps I could make boring you to sleep part
of my official duties.”

“And how would you go about fulfilling such a
duty?”

“Hmm, I could either recite some of Cato’s
speeches – or tell you about the most interesting dish British cuisine has to
offer.”
 

14.

The coals upon the brazier burned as intensely
as the heated look in the chieftain’s eyes.
Caradog
flared his nostrils and stared at the breathless pock-marked youth who had just
delivered the news, that not only had three of his warriors been slain but that
his brother had returned.
Had he come back to take his
revenge?
Caradog
creased his brow in thought –
and worry. If
Adiminus
had returned to take his
revenge however, why was he travelling in the opposite direction to his
village?
Caradog
angrily dismissed his attendants –
and even the woman he intended to take tonight. She could have the pleasure of
his company and
favour
another time.

The
jewellery
-laden
chieftain poured himself a large measure of wine. His mind was filled with a
hundred thoughts, breeding like rats. He could not ultimately find out his
brother’s intentions until he encountered him. He could not ultimately live in
peace until his brother was dead. First the Romans arrived, unsettling the
region – and now his brother had returned to cause him personal disquiet. Yet
were the two things related?
Caradog
recalled how one
of his archers had reported seeing his brother fighting alongside the Romans on
the beach. The chieftain had laughed at the idea at the time, but now it made
sense. Should
Adiminus
now be serving in the Roman
army – and rather than being a deserter
Caradog
judged that he was gathering intelligence for the enemy - then he would need to
make his way back to their camp upon the south coast. His plan of action would
be to send a small force to pursue his brother, but
Caradog
would also lead a small force of his own to lie in wait for him when he
returned to camp. He believed he knew the route his brother would take. Wine
stained his teeth as he grinned, wolfishly, thinking of how
Adiminus
always fancied himself as an archer and trapper.
Caradog
would now show his brother that he was superior to him in both of those trades.

15.

Midday.

Oppius
waited just inside the tree line at the edge of the settlement,
sharpening his knife, as
Teucer
returned from his
reconnaissance mission.

“He’s here. He’s pouring lies into their ears
and drinks down their throat in that large hut closest to us. The three
picts
are with him. They’ve been drinking, but they can
hold their drink as well as hold their own fighting anyone. They’re
well armed
, carrying shields as well as swords and axes. I
overheard which settlement they’ll be heading to next – and they’ll be heading
along the track leading this way into the forest.”

“We’ll lie in wait for them here. We shouldn’t
allow them to get into the forest, as our bows will be redundant there. At the
same time we should wait until they’re away from the hut. We don’t want his new
recruits entering the fray. Do you see that tree stump by the track? We’ll hit
them there. There’s no cover. We’ll both take out one of the bodyguards with
our bows. The third will prove more difficult as his shield will be up. I’ll
race over to take him out at close quarters whilst you wing the agent, to
prevent him escaping. Shoot him in the
arse
or leg.”

“Are you looking to capture, rather than kill,
him then? And bring him back with us?” the archer asked, his tone laced with a
warning at how difficult the task could prove.

“Yes. Those are our orders.
To
quote one of
Fabius
’ poems, ours not to reason why,
ours but to do and die.
What’s that though?”
Oppius
asked
,
nodding his head towards an item
Teucer
had brought back with him, wrapped in cloth.

“A present,” the Briton replied, handing over
the bundle.

The centurion unfolded the cloth and held up
the
gladius
, the polished steel glinting as brightly
as the soldier’s aspect.

“Someone was selling it as a spoil of war. I
thought you might like it.”

“It’s the gift that keeps on giving,”
Oppius
remarked.

The two men did not have long to wait before
the
picts
, forming a triangle around the agent,
appeared.
Teucer
had not been exaggerating about the
size and strange fearsomeness of the northern Britons. They all seemed as large
and powerful as
Roscius
. All were crowned with shaggy
locks of long red hair.
Oppius
thought they might be
brothers, such was their similar appearance. Although
Teucer
had remarked how incest was as popular as drinking in some parts of the
country. In contrast to the
picts
surrounding him the
agent was slight, spindly. He was dressed like a barbarian but pick off that
scab and
Oppius
would
recognise
the kind of haughty Roman who could tax both your patience and income. The
centurion recalled Caesar’s comment the other evening, how he distrusted men
with a lean and hungry look. It seems he was right in this instance. The agent
carried a dagger, but had the look of a politician rather than soldier. He was
more likely to stab himself with the weapon, rather than anyone else,
Oppius
fancied.

Both men took a breath and
nooked
an arrow.

“You take out the one in front of the agent.
I’ll deal with the one on his left,” the centurion ordered, his tone devoid of
emotion. Soldiers killed people. Lucius
Oppius
was a
soldier. Therefore Lucius
Oppius
killed people. The
syllogism appeared as straight and true to the centurion as
Teucer’s
aim.
  

16.

Teucer
breathed out in time to the sound of the arrow sighing as it left
his bow. The arrowhead pierced through the
pict’s
long red beard and into his throat – his life
extinguished in a half-formed gurgle. The intake of breath from his cousin was
taken in both shock and pain as
Oppius
’ arrow buried
itself easily and deeply into his stomach. This time a scream and then groan
did cause the air to shudder. Mourning his comrades not however the third
bodyguard raised his large shield up in a defensive position and ordered the
agent to stand behind him. The agent barely heard the Briton though as he raced
away in the opposite direction to the attack. He caught the sight and sound of
an arrow whistle past him as
Teucer
tried to shoot
him in the leg and bring him down.

Oppius
covered the ground between the tree line and his enemy quickly,
drawing his
gladius
as he did so. The remaining
pict
unsheathed a large Roman
cavalry sword, a
spartha
, in reply – another spoil of
war. The centurion took in his opponent. He was equal, if not superior, in size
and strength to the Roman. As the barbarian snarled he noticed that there were
plenty of gaps where teeth once resided. Few Britons seemed to have good teeth.
His nose was as crooked as a Roman tax collector. A long red welt of a scar, in
the shape of a lightning bolt, ran across his chest.