The Spear of Crom Page 3

  Three weeks ago, while leading a patrol out from the fort, Casticus had been killed by a British spear, which had sailed out of the forest and impaled him to a tree trunk. Fergus, being second in command and with years of experience in the army, had expected to receive Casticus’s plumed helmet. Instead, Sedullus, a duplicarius from another troop who had joined the cavalry only six months ago, had been chosen to lead Turma X.

  This had nothing to do with ability, experience or talent. Sedullus was the son of a Gaulish chieftain, while Fergus was from Hibernia, which was not even an allied nation of Rome. As their name proclaimed, the Ala Gallorum had an august, almost century-long history, and though it now supposedly welcomed recruits from all over the empire, there was still a strong Gaulish bias when it came to promotion.

  All in all, thought Fergus, things were not working out the way he had planned. It was not just the lack of promotion that galled him. With a derisory grunt he recalled the words of the recruiting centurion from all those years before: Join the Roman cavalry. It’s a life of adventure.

  Beguiled by those stirring words, he had joined the Roman army hoping to see the world and get as far away from Erin – Hibernia as the Romans called it – as possible. He had dreamed of riding around the pyramids in Egypt; visiting the Pharos Lighthouse at Alexandria; traversing the Atlas Mountains.

  Instead, he had ended up posted back to Britannia, somewhere he had never possessed the desire to see. Yet here he was, marching to Dinas Emrys on the way to Yr Wyddfa, where on a good day if he climbed to the top of that highest of mountains he could probably catch a glimpse of his homeland lurking on the other side of the sea to the west.

  It had all been a mistake – a complete waste of time – and the thought of desertion was starting to simmer in his mind. He could slip away from camp during the night. Leave the army behind and move on to something else.

  There were a few problems with that idea, however. Firstly, the penalty for desertion was death. Secondly, the minute he got away from camp he would be in enemy territory, and if the British got their hands on him they would see him as a Roman soldier and kill him. Either way, he’d end up dead. The Romans would beat him to a pulp while the British would give him to the druids, who would gut him alive in a ritual. He did not fancy either option much. Besides, even if he managed to escape both fates, he had nowhere else to go. Home, if he could still call it that, was no longer an option.

  Bringing his thoughts back to Viridovix, Fergus completed the standard Roman prayers. He then decided to add another in the way of his own people, a way that Viridovix’s god might more readily understand. Leaving the altars, Fergus climbed onto the defensive rampart that surrounded the camp. He was far from comfortable with any sort of prayer but he felt compelled to honour his friend’s memory and faith in some way. From his pouch he took Viridovix’s knife and held it in both hands. Closing his eyes, he held the cold iron of the blade to his lips.

  ‘Gods my people swear by…’ he murmured using the standard words. Even though he did not use their names he knew them well enough. One in particular hovered in his mind: Crom Cruach – Crom to bow down to. Crom Dubh – Crom the Black. It was a very long time since he had prayed to that greedy, vengeful god and he had vowed never to do so again, unless it was to spit a curse. As he stood on the rampart, the memory of a terrible Samhain night in Erin years before surfaced in his thoughts.

  Fergus opened his eyes to dispel the memory. ‘Accept this gift and look after Viridovix,’ he said. ‘Remember me to him and ask him to look after me from the other world. Viridovix, I hope the Great One of the Sun took your spirit an hour before Crom knew you were dead.’

  With that, he hurled the knife high in the air. It tumbled end over end in a wide arc, the bright blade flashing rhythmically as the setting sun’s light caught it, until it finally fell with a plop into the river that ran by the camp a short distance from the rampart.

  He was still watching the ripples subside and fade around the spot where the knife had plunged into the water when he heard his name being called.

  It was Sedullus.

  ‘Duplicarius, I’ve been looking all over for you,’ Sedullus said, striding up the rampart towards him. Not as tall as Fergus, his dark hair was cut short, his handsome face oiled and clean-shaven, apart from the wispy traces of hair on his upper lip where he was attempting to grow a long, drooping moustache, a tradition of the cavalry regiment harking back to its Gaulish origins. Though born in Gaul of Gaulish parents, Sedullus was from the aristocracy, now bred into the Roman way of life with only the outward appearances of their people’s traditions. To Fergus, he was just another Roman playing at being a Celt: a pampered rich boy who would not have lasted a day amongst the Cruithni, Fergus’s own people.

  In stark contrast to Sedullus, Fergus’s tribal origins were more visible. Provided it was kept tidy, braided and out of the way, long hair and moustaches were two of the very few concessions to their own culture the Roman army allowed recruits from the allied Gaulish nations, since, as they were not legionaries, some leeway could be allowed. On either side of his mouth, Fergus’s moustache hung down below his chin. He had been growing it since he was twelve years old. Both his heavily muscled arms were covered from shoulder to wrist in swirling tattoos and his braided hair hung down his back.

  Both men regarded each other with mutual contempt for a few seconds, before Sedullus finally spoke.

  ‘You’re to report to the praetorium. Don’t ask me why, but Tribune Agricola wants to see you.’

  Fergus raised his eyebrows. This was strange news indeed.

  ‘Then I’d better not keep the tribune waiting,’ he said, and made to set off down the rampart. Sedullus caught hold of his arm to stop him.

  ‘Listen here, Duplicarius,’ Sedullus said in a fierce whisper, ‘if Agricola starts asking any questions about what happened this afternoon, just you remember that you disobeyed a direct order today. I haven’t mentioned that to anyone, but just you remember that I always can. So keep whatever opinions you have about the ambush to yourself. Understand?’

  Fergus nodded and pulled his arm free of Sedullus’s grasp. He turned away and smiled to himself. The decurion was obviously scared that the truth would come out. Fergus had said nothing about his superior officer’s ridiculous attempt at leadership that day. Then he remembered that the tribune, Agricola, was not just second in command of the legion but was also in charge of punishments. Had Sedullus somehow dropped him right in it?

  It was with some apprehension that he walked towards headquarters at the centre of the camp.

  4

  Fergus had no need to ask directions to Agricola’s tent. Every Roman army camp, no matter where it was, how permanent it was, or how many men it was designed to accommodate, was always constructed to exactly the same plan.

  First, a huge rectangle shape was marked out and a ditch dug around its periphery. On the inside of the ditch the legionaries erected a rampart topped with a palisade of sharpened wooden stakes. Even at rest, the XIV Legion arrayed itself in battle formation. At the forward end of the camp, the part usually facing the enemy territory, was the praetentura: the area where the elite troops of the legion – the First Cohort and the other strongest cohorts – pitched their tents. The retentura was the rearward part of the camp where the veterans, the rest of the cohorts and the cavalry were quartered. At the exact centre of the camp was the praetorium: headquarters. Here the slaves pitched the tents of the commanding officers, and outside the biggest tent – that belonging to the general – they drove the standards of the cohorts and the legion’s eagle, the holy battle flag of the unit, firmly into the ground.

  This pattern was repeated wherever the army was, anywhere in the world, such that this temporary overnight camp constructed by the XIV Legion conformed to exactly the same design as the permanent legionary fortress in Judea built to house Rome’s soldiers for centuries to come. The only difference was that here in Britain, wooden palisades and leather tents replaced stone walls and brick-built barracks.

  Not quite the only difference, Fergus mused ruefully as he trudged through the mud on that cold, rainy evening. A permanent fort had a bathhouse, where as an officer – even a non-commissioned one like him – he could have relaxed in the heat after the rigours of the day. If there was one thing he missed more than anything, it was the feeling of sinking into warm water.

  Hearing horses’ hooves thumping up behind him on the via praetoria, the road from the main gate to the praetorium, Fergus looked round and was surprised to see a party of Britons approaching. He counted eleven riders: eight were Celtic warriors in full battle dress. The other three, two women and a man, were more regally attired. Local nobility, judging by their gold neck jewellery and expensive woven cloaks. One of the women in particular caught Fergus’s eye. She was stunning and even from a distance her snow-white skin and raven-black hair reminded him of a woman he had once known back home in Hibernia. She sat tall in the saddle, her rich, sumptuous dress and cloak flowing out behind her.

  As she neared him, Fergus saw that although young, the woman was not in the first flush of youth. A few tell-tale crow’s-feet lines crept from the sides of her eyes, but it was those eyes that were the most striking part of her. The colour of green ice in a mountain stream, they surveyed everything around her with a cold, scornful – almost mocking – gaze.

  Glowering out from under a fringe of dark curly hair, the man riding beside her was younger than she. His clothes also spoke of wealth and status. From the surly, sour expression he regarded the camp around him, he looked far from happy at being there. Riding behind them, the second woman’s clothes were of good quality, but less rich-looking. Fergus surmised that she was some form of attendant or lady-in-waiting to the blac
k-haired beauty. He transferred his gaze to the warriors who rode with them. They each carried the finest equipment and all their shields bore the same swirling Celtic pattern.

  Fergus stiffened at the sight of them. He knew they posed no danger or they would not have got through the main gate alive, but their appearance reminded him of old enemies. Like himself, they were tall and fair-skinned, their hair long, curly and blond. They had the look of Iberians, or worse, Laigin: warriors from Hibernia. Years before, he had faced many men like them in battle.

  The group cantered past and went ahead of him to the headquarters tents of the praetorium, where they were stopped by the general’s bodyguards. Fergus watched as the regal lady and her male companion dismounted and were ushered into the tent of the Tribune Agricola, leaving the warriors and female servant milling around outside. By the time Fergus arrived at the tent, the warriors and the general’s bodyguards were eyeing each other with equal suspicion and bristling with mutual challenge.

  ‘Duplicarius Fergus MacAmergin,’ Fergus announced himself to the commander of the bodyguards. ‘I have been ordered to see the tribune.’

  The commander narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down, but Fergus took no offence. He knew it was the man’s job to be suspicious of everyone. After a few moments, apparently satisfied, the commander produced from the pouch on his belt a thinly cut sliver of wood that had been folded in half.

  ‘You’re to take this to the aquilifer,’ he said. ‘The tribune cannot see you now. He is meeting the Queen Finnabair.’

  Fergus frowned. Finnabair was a Hibernian name. Perhaps the warriors with her were indeed Laigin men. He shot a narrow-eyed glance in their direction as he took the folded note, feeling the wood slightly rough against his fingers. In the northern provinces of the empire papyrus was scarce and orders, record keeping, letter writing and general note taking were all written in ink on these little slivers of birch, alder or oak, which were then folded in two for confidentiality. He wondered what message he now carried, but knew better than to look while the commander’s gaze was on him.

  Fergus headed off towards the tent of the aquilifer, the legion’s standard bearer. Lucius Marius Faustus was a grizzled old warrior. He had been in the army for twenty years and risen through the ranks from legionary to optio, then transferred to signifer and finally had ended up as the highest-ranking duplicarius in the legion. The aquilifer carried the eagle, the legion’s standard and symbol of its pride and honour. Almost equally important, he also looked after the men’s finances. Even on campaign there was much work to do. Expenses had to be paid, wages calculated, fines imposed, and thus Fergus found Faustus in his tent sifting through the mound of documents that were gathered on his table.

  A guttering oil lamp provided some light in the dismal British evening, and for warmth Faustus had wrapped himself in the wolfskin that was part of his uniform. The aquilifer ran his hand through his thinning, close-cropped grey hair and sighed at the amount of work piled up in front of him.

  Fergus coughed to announce his presence.

  Faustus looked up and saw standing before him the tall cavalry trooper. He raised an eyebrow by way of questioning Fergus’s reason for being there.

  ‘Salve,’ Fergus raised his right hand and saluted. ‘I’ve been told to give you this,’ he said, passing the wooden note to the legionary standard bearer.

  Faustus opened the note and read it. He rolled his eyes. ‘More documentation,’ he said. ‘You know, people think the Roman army is the most efficient war machine in the world. It’s not. It’s the most efficient bureaucracy in the world. If we spent half as much time fighting as we do keeping our records up to date, the entire world would be under our command and we wouldn’t be stuck in this gods-forsaken land at the arse end of the world. You’ve been misbehaving, I see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fergus was confused.

  ‘Gradus deiectio. You’ve been demoted,’ Faustus replied flatly. ‘You are moving from your present pay grade of duplicarius to that of sesquiplicarius.’

  Fergus’s mouth opened but he was rendered speechless. That meant his double standard pay was being reduced to basic pay and a half.

  Before he could ask why, Faustus added, ‘On the positive side, you’ve been granted a temporary command position – praepositus – you’ll be in charge of a numeres special operations group made up of the remnants of the X Turma, Ala Gallorum.’

  ‘A numeres? A punishment troop?’ Fergus said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Please: a special operations team,’ Faustus said. ‘It says here that you are being punished for recklessly leading the troopers under your command into an ambush.’

  ‘A suicide troop you mean. Numeres do all the dangerous work no one else wants,’ the Hibernian said, gritting his teeth. ‘I don’t believe it! And anyway, I didn’t lead those men into an ambush. Our decurion ordered us to charge. It was just bad luck that I was first into that clearing in the woods.’

  ‘Well I have it here in the tribune’s own writing,’ Faustus said with a wan smile. ‘You should count yourself lucky all you got was a pay cut. The tribune could have sentenced you to a beating.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ Fergus said.

  Faustus snorted. ‘That’s what they all say, son. That’s what they all say.’

  Fergus ripped his knife out of its sheath and stabbed it into the aquilifer’s portable writing desk. ‘You can take your damned army and shove it up your emperor’s arse!’

  ‘Put that weapon away, trooper, or you will find it shoved up your own arse!’

  Faustus got to his feet, his own ire raised. He was a full head taller than the stocky Roman standard bearer, but nevertheless Faustus’s dark eyes glittered with reproach and defiant challenge.

  ‘Now you listen to me, son,’ he said, stabbing a forefinger at Fergus. ‘You curb that Gaulish temper and take your punishment like a man. I’ve fought all over this world in the name of Rome and that emperor you’re so quick to disrespect, and I won’t have it. Good friends of mine died in his service, and over the years the army has been good to me. Just you remember that before you go criticising the emperor or his damned army!’

  ‘One of my best friends died today in the service of your emperor and I doubt Nero gives a shit. Do you?’ Fergus said, meeting the smaller man’s gaze.

  Both men glared at each other for several seconds. Then Faustus smiled ruefully.

  ‘No he probably doesn’t.’ He sighed. ‘But what did you expect when you joined the army, trooper? Hugs and kisses?’

  Despite his anger, Fergus could not help giving a bitter laugh and the tension between them subsided.

  ‘I’m not a Gaul,’ he said when his mirth had passed.

  ‘What?’ Faustus said.

  ‘You told me to curb my Gaulish temper. I’m a Hibernian.’

  Faustus raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘A Hibernian? They still sacrifice their children over there, don’t they?’

  A flicker of anger streaked across Fergus’s face, followed by a spasm of guilt. Suddenly averting his eyes, he mumbled, ‘Just the firstborn. It’s a religious thing.’

  ‘The Carthaginians were the same.’ Faustus shook his head. ‘Savages. We sorted that out when we finally conquered and civilised them.’

  ‘We don’t all do it,’ Fergus said, adding flatly, ‘only some tribes. Not all of us are slaves of the druids.’

  ‘What’s a Hibernian doing in the army of Rome?’ the aquilifer said. ‘You’re not even from an allied nation. How did you get in?’

  Fergus shrugged. ‘I joined up in Gaul. I suppose to a Roman recruiting centurion we Celtae all look the same.’

  ‘He’s right. You do. But what I mean is why, not how?’ Faustus said. ‘Did you fancy a life of adventure or something? Join the cavalry to see the world, meet new people and then kill them. Was that it?’

  Fergus smiled. ‘Something like that.’ Then he said, with conviction, ‘No. More than just that. I want to be a citizen.’