Hyperborea veteran of ro.., p.6
Hyperborea (Veteran of Rome Book 4), page 6
"No," Marcus interrupted, shaking his head as he turned to look down at the floor, "the last part, the bit about him wanting to be buried on the battlefield where he fought Queen Boudicca, that is new. That was not in the first will."
"Marcus is right," Falco nodded, "I remember it too. He must have added the last part into the new will and forgotten to tell me about it."
"So nothing really changes," Petrus said from the doorway.
"It changes everything," Marcus snapped, raising his voice. He lifted his head, turning to stare at his family and there was a sudden fierce, smouldering shame in his eyes.
"It changes everything," he repeated, lowering his voice, "It is a son's duty to ensure that his father is properly buried, that all the funeral rites are correctly observed. If this is not done, my father's spirit will not be able to find its way to the afterlife. This was my task and I failed. Without a proper burial, Corbulo's spirit is doomed to wander this world in eternal unhappiness."
Across from him Efa muttered a hasty prayer and beside her Kyna raised her hand to her mouth.
"But you never had a body to bury," Dylis cried out, "We erected a memorial stone to him. We honoured him even though we did not have his body. That woman, that druid who murdered him, she took it with her. How can you do your duty when you never had his mortal remains in the first place? It's not fair."
Marcus sighed and gently shook his head.
"It doesn't matter," he replied wearily, "You heard his will. His final wish is to be buried beside his comrades on the battlefield, where he fought against Boudicca. As his son, it is my responsibility to ensure his final wish is carried out. I cannot just ignore that."
An awkward silence descended on the room.
"I too will be buried on the field where we fought the Barbarian Queen," an unsteady, stumbling voice said from the doorway and, as he spoke all eyes turned to stare at Quintus. The old man had raised his head and was staring blankly at the far wall and some spittle was making its way down his chin.
"Marcus is right," Efa said abruptly, her voice suddenly strong and filled with purpose. "Corbulo's will is clear. We need to honour his final wish. I will not rest knowing that we have failed to carry out his final wish, nor will I allow his spirit to wonder this world in unhappiness."
"But what can we do?" Dylis blurted out as a flush appeared in her cheeks, "We have no idea what that druid did with his body. It's an impossible task. Fourteen years have passed. How will we ever know what she did with the body?"
Once again the room fell silent. Then at last Marcus stirred and turned to look at his family and, as he did so, it seemed as if some invisible burden had suddenly fallen from his shoulders.
"It is a matter of honour," he said quietly, "For too long I have carried this shame of not having been able to give my father a proper burial. For too long I have hidden behind the impossibility of the task. But today that shame ends. Nothing is impossible, not when you truly put your mind to it. So I shall try and find out what happened to his body. I will retrieve his mortal remains and I will bury them on the battlefield just like he wants, so that his spirit will find peace, for all eternity. As his son, I will do this."
"How?" Dylis cried, "This is madness. Where do you start? You are going to get into trouble if you head north. I don't want to lose you too..."
"Dylis!" Efa's interrupted sharply in an angry voice, "Be silent! Marcus is right. Something needs to be done. In this house we honour the spirits of our ancestors. We remember them and we love them. Death does not change that, nor are we afraid of doing what is right, even if the task seems impossible."
"Marcus should go," Kyna nodded as she took a deep breath, "He should at least try to find out what happened to Corbulo's body, even if he does not find it. He has a duty. Fergus will have that same duty one day. A father must set an example. He must be the man he was raised to be."
Efa took a step towards Marcus and ran her fingers lightly across his chest as she muttered something under her breath. "It is settled then," she said in a louder voice, "Maybe the news that Falco has brought us is another challenge, sent by the immortals to test us."
For a moment Efa was silent, as a little sad and wise smile appeared on her lips.
"Maybe the gods are wiser than we think," she muttered at last, "They have given you a new purpose Marcus. If you had stayed here on the farm, you would quickly have grown bored and you would make an exceedingly bad farmer. No, maybe this journey is for the best. Maybe this is what the gods wish for you. I have no doubt that you will succeed."
Marcus said nothing as he glanced at Kyna and then at Dylis. Then as Falco handed him the scroll containing his father's will he lifted his head.
"I will not be going alone," he said, "I will be taking Cunomoltus with me. If he truly is my half-brother, as he claims, then I will know it by the journey's end."
Chapter Nine – Fergus - January 104 – The North
“Search the village, I want every house searched,” the centurion bellowed at the hundred and sixty legionaries of his battle group. The Roman soldiers, clutching their spears and large oval shields, their boots crunching through the snow, were spread out in a loosely spaced, crescent line and were advancing at a steady walk towards the small cluster of round houses, nestling in the valley beside the mountain stream. Inside the village, Fergus could see the Brigantian inhabitants rushing around in panic. Their alarmed cries rent the peaceful morning as mothers snatched up their babies and hastily ushered their children into the small miserable-looking, thatched, round houses, whilst their men folk rushed to arm themselves.
Tensely Fergus tightened his grip on his pilum and shield as he closed in on the village. The four months of basic training had only finished a couple of weeks ago and already his instructors had decided he was ready for active duty and that was fine with him. He was ready. This was it then, his first engagement in the service of the XX Legion, the legion to which his grandfather Corbulo had once belonged. Fergus steadied his breathing as he felt his heart thumping away. He could not remember his grandfather of course, he’d been too young, but growing up on the island of Vectis, he’d spent his youth listening to Quintus’ war stories and the adventures he and Corbulo had been involved in and it had shaped his ambition. There had been just one reason he’d decided to join his grandfather’s old regiment and that was to be like his grandfather, Corbulo, a soldier of the legions.
He was well built for his eighteen years and recently the first ginger smattering of a beard had started to appear on his chin. His legionary helmet with the wide cheek- guards and rimmed neck-guard, covered his shortly cut, red hair but could not hide the black eye that had not yet fully healed. Carefully Fergus glanced sideways at Furius, his decanus, corporal, who was in charge of the eight-man tent group to which Fergus had been assigned and who had given him the black eye. The man was a couple of years older than himself and a more experienced soldier, who relished using his authority to violently bully his own men. It had been an unlucky day when Furius had been placed in charge of his eight-man squad, Fergus thought.
Some of the villagers had gathered around their leader, a tall man with a wise, weather beaten face and clad in a black woollen cloak but they did not offer any resistance as the Romans entered the village. Fergus glanced at the hostile and frightened faces of the Britons as the legionaries began to fan out amongst the round houses. The Brigantes with their wild, untrimmed beards were armed with spears, axes and swords but the quality of their weapons looked poor and their clothing, neck-torcs and metal arm bracelets were of simpler and more savage design than the tribal communities Fergus had known in the south.
“We are looking for the fugitive Ariovrargus and his war band,” Titus the centurion shouted in the Briton language, as he and his men approached the group of villagers. “Has anyone here seen this man or given him shelter or supplies?”
The centurion’s question was met with a wall of silence from the Brigantes. Impatiently the Centurion slapped his vine staff against his thigh and glared at the villagers.
“You know the punishment for harbouring and aiding fugitives from Roman justice,” he roared, “If any man here knows of Ariovrargus’s whereabouts it is his duty to report this to the Roman authorities. He is a wanted man and an enemy of Rome. Failure to do so is punishable by death. Now for the last time, has anyone seen or heard anything of this man?”
The villagers remained silent and with an annoyed shake of his head Titus, the veteran officer in command of the battle group turned to the legionaries standing behind him.
“Take a few of the women,” he growled in Latin, “separate them and interrogate them, but don’t kill them or harm them. I want to know everything there is to know and I want it done without having to fight the whole village. There is to be no repeat of what happened in the last settlement, understood.”
“Fergus!” Furius shouted, “Stop dawdling and search that hut over there.”
Quickly Fergus turned and hastened across the snowy ground towards the small thatched round house to which his decanus was pointing and, as he did so, he caught the disapproving angry glare on Furius’s face. “You’re a prick, you’re a prick, you’re a prick,” Fergus thought as he hurried past Furius. The decanus had given him the black eye because Fergus had been the only man in his squad who’d dared stand up to the bullying that was being meted out.
The round house was small, with a thatched roof, and its walls were made of tightly woven wicker wood. Fergus flung aside the heavy woollen blanket that covered the doorway into the Brigantian home and lowered his spear as he ducked inside. In the gloom he could make out a circular room. Animal skins were strewn across the earthen floor and the place stank like the latrines he’d had to clean at the legionary base at Deva. From somewhere in the gloom he heard a pig squeal and, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he caught sight of a woman cowering against the far wall, shielding two young children with her arms. She stared at him with frightened eyes as Fergus took a step forwards and lowered his shield to the ground.
Awkwardly Fergus glanced around him, unsure about what to do. The home was poor and there were few possessions, just a metal cooking pot on top of a circle of blackened stones and a dead fire, a few earthenware pots, a hunting bow and quiver and a fresh sheep’s skin hanging out to dry from a hook in the roof. The pig, which seemed to share the house with its human occupants, was rooting in the ground. He took a hesitant step towards the woman but, as he did so, a loud commotion suddenly erupted from outside the hut. Fergus raised his shield and hastily turned to the exit, blinking as he emerged into the daylight outside. In the village the legionaries were shouting to each other in excited voices and, as Fergus came round the side of the round house, he saw a figure scurrying and limping up the steep bare mountain side. A group of legionaries were closing in on him from three sides. At last, seeing his way of escape cut off the man came to a halt and cried out something Fergus did not catch.
“What’s going on?” Fergus called out to one of the new legionary recruits.
The soldier, slightly older than Fergus, gestured at the cornered man on the mountain slope.
“They’ve caught one of Ariovrargus’s men. Arsehole made a run for it.”
Excited, Fergus turned to stare at the figure. The legionaries were approaching him warily and suddenly Fergus noticed the sword in the man’s hand. So this was the enemy they had been sent to hunt down. Would he fight? When they had been preparing to leave the camp at Deva and his company centurion had first briefed them on the mission, Fergus had relished the challenge of finding and capturing Ariovrargus and his fugitive war band, for Ariovrargus was famous throughout the province of Britannia. He and his men had been the only Brigantian war band who had refused to make peace with Rome when, starving, decimated and demoralised, the northern rebellion of Brigantian and Caledonian tribes had collapsed some fourteen years ago. Despite their hopeless situation, Ariovrargus and his men had continued the rebellion, harassing and attacking Roman interests across the vast wild mountains of the north. But now, as he stared at the lonely figure trapped on the hillside the enemy looked surprisingly ordinary, Fergus thought.
***
It was dark and the Roman battle group had made their camp in a forest. Amongst the pine trees and bare, snow covered ground, the men huddled around their small camp-fires, which provided some welcome warmth from the rapidly falling temperature. There had been no time to prepare any defences and the ground had been too hard for the men to erect a palisade. The pause was only for a few hours anyway for Titus, their commanding officer, had made it clear he wished to reach the legionary base at Deva as soon as possible. Standing beside a large oak in the centre of the camp, Fergus stamped his feet on the ground as he tried to keep warm. A coarse army cloak was wrapped around his shoulders and in his hand he clutched his spear. The fugitive, whom the legionaries had captured on the mountain was sitting on the ground, his back resting against the oak, his ankles and wrists securely fastened together with iron slavers chains. The man had his eyes closed and seemed to be asleep and down the side of his shin, his tunic was stained with dried blood.
Wearily Fergus touched his bruised eye. The task of guarding the prisoner had been given to Furius’ squad and of course the decanus had given him the shittiest watch. Close by, Furius and the rest of the squad were sleeping, curled up around the small crackling fire, wrapped in their grey army blankets with their shields and weapons within easy reach. A blackened and well used metal cooking pot stood to one side. Bored, Fergus yawned and kicked at a clump of snow. Then he turned to stare at his sleeping companions. Vittius, Aledus and Catinius were alright. They were about his age and they had all come through basic training together and had been accepted into the legion as newly trained Munifex, privates, like himself. The three older men however were Furius’ friends and for most of the time they pretended that he did not exist. Fergus sighed. Aledus came from Londinium and Vittius and Catinius were both from Gaul and worshipped Mithras, but none of them had come to his aid when he’d stood up to Furius’ bullying and had been punched in the face for his efforts.
Fergus turned away from the fire and peered into the forest. The Roman camp fires were burning low and the night was quiet. But he had done the right thing in standing up for himself he thought. Corbulo would have done the same. He was sure of it. During basic training he’d never given his instructors reason for complaint. He had never fallen behind on the brutal route marches, or during the swimming and daily routine of physical exercises or the weapons training. He had done everything they had asked him to do and he had done it well. Some of his fellow recruits had quickly dropped out, unable to cope with the harsh unrelenting training routine and Fergus had been glad they did, for as his instructors had repeated again and again, once in the legion, a legionary must be able to completely trust the man standing beside him. And sometimes when he’d lain in his barracks bunk at night, he’d thought about how it would be if he and Corbulo had stood together in the line, facing the enemy. What a day that would have been.
His watch dragged on and after a while Fergus noticed that it had begun to snow. Slowly the snowflakes came drifting down through the branches of the trees covering the ground in a fresh layer of snow. For a while he stared at the flakes, watching them tumble into oblivion on the ground. Then he turned sharply to look at the prisoner. The man had his eyes closed and he seemed to be asleep. He wasn’t going anywhere in those chains. Fergus raised his hand to his mouth and blew some hot air onto his fingers. With a bit of luck they would be back in Deva within two days and he would be able to visit the Lucky Legionary tavern again. The Lucky was a popular and favourite tavern for many of the soldiers based at Deva but Fergus had a special reason to want to visit. The inn owner’s daughter was called Galena and she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. A little colour shot into Fergus’s cheeks as he wondered what she would be like without any clothes on.
Fergus was just about to kick Vittius awake and tell him that his watch had started, when a sudden cry rang out from the edge of the camp. Startled, Fergus spun round in the direction from which the noise had come. For a moment all was silent as he squinted at the trees. Then the night erupted with shouts and cries of panic and alarm. Fergus raised his shield and his eyes widened in horror as three horsemen came thundering towards him, swerving and weaving expertly through the forest. The riders were clutching burning torches and they were heading straight towards him.
“What’s the fuck,” Fergus cried out, stumbling backwards. There was no time to see whether his comrades were awake. Instinctively he raised his large oval shield and lowered his spear. Then the riders were upon him. A large black horse reared up in front of him and he caught a glimpse of its rider. The man was clad in a white cloak, his head covered by a hood and he was clutching a spear. From the corner of his eye, Fergus caught movement to his left and instinctively he ducked as an axe came whistling through the air, narrowly missing him before embedding itself into a tree. Another horseman appeared from the gloom, as around the camp fire, Fergus’ comrades were shouting, stumbling to their feet and reaching for their weapons in a mix of confusion and horror.
Fergus stood rooted to the ground, unable to move. As he stared at the horsemen milling around in the snow, one of Furius’ friends staggered backwards and collapsed onto the ground with an axe sticking out of his back. The man dropped his sword, opened his mouth and screamed, spitting blood onto the fine white snow.
Close by, someone else was shouting and Fergus heard the rattle and chink of chains. Wide-eyed he whipped round to see that the prisoner was wide awake and on his feet and stumbling towards the horsemen and as he saw the man shuffling towards the riders, with his arm stretched out to them, Fergus suddenly understood what was happening. The riders had come to rescue their comrade. With a savage roar, Fergus lowered his head like a bull and charged forwards, his shield covering his body and his spear aimed at the prisoner. The force of his charge sent his spear straight through the man’s back and out through his chest and, as they collided, both of them tumbled to the ground in a confused mass of legs and arms. Fergus lost his grip on his shield and hit the solid rock hard earth with a painful thud. At his side the impaled prisoner lay moaning and groaning on the ground with Fergus’s spear sticking from his back, as the snow around him started to turn dark red. A horse whinnied and a pair of hooves slammed into the ground inches from Fergus’s head. Terrified he rolled away and onto his back and stared up at the horseman looming high above him. The man was staring at the prisoner on the ground, his mouth twisting and working on a furious and silent curse. Shaking, Fergus reached for his Gladius, short sword, but before he could draw it from its scabbard the horsemen were crying out to each other and were streaming away into the wood, leaving behind the screams of the wounded and the shouts of the shocked and enraged legionaries.
